Now, when to mark their beacon-forms

The seaman turns his gaze,

It quails, as roof, and spire, and dome

Flash in the sun's bright rays.

On those wild hills a thousand homes
Are rear'd in proud array,
And argosies float safely o'er

That lone and isle-gemm'd bay.

Those shadowy mounds, so long untrod,
By countless feet are press'd;
And hosts of loved ones meekly sleep
Below their teeming breast.

A world's unnumber'd voices float

Within their narrow bound: Love's gentle tone, and traffic's hum,

And music's thrilling sound.
There Liberty first found a tongue

Beneath New England's sky,
And there her earliest martyrs stood,
And nerved themselves to die.
And long upon these ancient hills,
By glory's light enshrined,
May rise the dwellings of the free,
The city of the mind.

LOVE AND FAME.

GIVE me the boon of love!

I ask no more for fame;
Far better one unpurchased heart
Than glory's proudest name.
Why wake a fever in the blood,

Or damp the spirit now,

To gain a wreath whose leaves shall wave Above a wither'd brow?

Give me the boon of love!

Ambition's meed is vain; Dearer affection's earnest smile Than honour's richest train. I'd rather lean upon a breast Responsive to my own, Than sit pavilion'd gorgeously Upon a kingly throne.

Like the Chaldean sage,

Fame's worshippers adore

The brilliant orbs that scatter light
O'er heaven's azure floor;

But, in their very heart enshrined,
The votaries of love

Keep o'er the holy flame, which once

Illumed the courts above.
Give me the boon of love!

Renown is but a breath,
Whose loudest echo ever floats
From out the halls of death.
A loving eye beguiles me more
Than fame's emblazon'd seal,
And one sweet note of tenderness
Than triumph's wildest peal.
Give me the boon of love!

The path of fame is drear,
And glory's arch doth ever span
A hill-side cold and sere.

THE quarry whence thy form majestic sprung
Has peopled earth with grace,

Heroes and gods that elder bards have sung,
A bright and peerless race ;-

But from its sleeping veins ne'er rose before
A shape of loftier name

Than his, who Glory's wreath with meekness wore,
The noblest son of Fame.

Sheathed is the sword that Passion never stain'd; His gaze around is cast,

As if the joys of Freedom, newly-gain'd,

Before his vision pass'd;

As if a nation's shout of love and pride

With music fill'd the air,

And his calm soul was lifted on the tide
Of deep and grateful prayer;

As if the crystal mirror of his life
To fancy sweetly came,

With scenes of patient toil and noble strife,
Undimm'd by doubt or shame;

As if the lofty purpose of his soul
Expression would betray-

The high resolve Ambition to control,
And thrust her crown away!

O, it was well in marble firm and white
To carve our hero's form,

Whose angel guidance was our strength in fight,
Our star amid the storm!

Whose matchless truth has made his name divine, And human freedom sure,

His country great, his tomb earth's dearest shrine,
While man and time endure!

And it is well to place his image there,
Beneath the dome he blest;

Let meaner spirits who its councils share,
Revere that silent guest!

Let us go up with high and sacred love
To look on his pure brow,
And as, with solemn grace, he points above,
Renew the patriot's vow!

THE author of "Velasco" is a native of Gloucester, a town on the sea-coast of Massachusetts, and was born on the twenty-seventh of September, 1816. His father, a respectable merchant, of the same name, is still living, and resides in Boston. The subject of this sketch was educated in the schools of that city and the neighbourhood, where he lived until his removal to New York, in 1837. His carliest metrical compositions were printed in "The Collegian," a monthly miscellany edited by several of the students of Harvard College, of the junior and senior classes of 1830. One of his contributions to that work, entitled "Twilight Sketches," exhibits the grace of style, ease of versification, and variety of description, which are characteristic of his more recent effusions. It was a sketch of the Summer Gardens of St. Petersburg, and was written during a visit to that capital in the spring of 1828.

Mr. SARGENT's reputation rests principally on his dramas, for he has not published any collection of his miscellaneous poems. His first appearance as a dramatic author was in the winter of 1836, when his "Bride of Genoa" was brought out at the Tremont Theatre, in Boston. This was a five-act play, founded on incidents in the career of ANTONIO MONTALDO, a plebeian, who at the age of twentytwo, made himself doge of Genoa, in 1693, and who is described in the history of the times as a man of "forgiving temper," but daring and ambitious, with a genius adequate to the accomplishment of vast designs. In the delineation of his hero, the author has followed the historical record, though the other characters and incidents of the drama are entirely fictitious. It was successfully

performed in Boston, and since in many of the first theatres of the country. His next production was of a much higher order, and as a specimen of dramatic art, has received warm commendation from the most competent judges. It was the tragedy of "Velasco," first performed at Boston, in November, 1837, Miss ELLEN TREE in the character of IZIDORA, and subsequently at the principal theatres in New York, Philadelphia, Washington, and New Orleans. It was published in New York in 1839. The general action of the piece," says the author in his preface, "is derived from incidents in the career of RODRIGO DIAZ, the Cid, whose achievements constitute so considerable a portion of the historical and romantic literature of Spain." The subject had been variously treated by French and Spanish dramatists, among others, by CORNEILLE, but Mr. SARGENT was the first to introduce it successfully upon the English stage. It is a chaste and elegant performance, and probably has not been surpassed by any similar work by so youthful an author. It was written before Mr. SARGENT was twenty-one years of age.

The minor poems of Mr. SARGENT have appeared at various times in the monthly miscellanies and other periodicals. The selections which I have made convey a not inaccurate idea of their style. The quatorzains written during a voyage to Cuba in the spring of 1835, appear to be the most carefully finished, though in other respects they are not, perhaps, superior to several of his other compositions. He has written several interesting prose works, which have been published anonymously. Like his poems, they are distinguished for elegance of thought and diction.

RECORDS OF A SUMMER-VOYAGE TO

CUBA.

I. THE DEPARTURE.

AGAIN thy winds are pealing in mine ear!
Again thy waves are flashing in my sight!
Thy memory-haunting tones again I hear,
As through the spray our vessel wings her flight!
On thy cerulean breast, now swelling high,
Again, thou broad Atlantic, am I cast!
Six years, with noiseless tread, have glided by,
Since, an adventurous boy, I hail'd thee last,
The sea-birds o'er me wheel, as if to greet
An old companion; on my naked brow
The sparkling foam-drops not unkindly beat; [now
Flows through my hair the freshening breeze-and
The horizon's ring enclasps me; and I stand
Gazing where fades from view, cloud-like, my father-
land!

IL-THE GALE.

The night came down in terror. Through the air

Mountains of clouds, with lurid summits, roll'd ;
The lightning kindling with its vivid glare
Their outlines, as they rose, heap'd fold on fold,
The wind, in fitful sughs, swept o'er the sea;
And then a sudden lull, gentle as sleep,
Soft as an infant's breathing, seem'd to be
Lain, like enchantment, on the throbbing deep.
But, false the calm! for soon the strengthen'd
gale

Burst, in one loud explosion, far and wide,
Drowning the thunder's voice! With every sail
Close-reef'd, our groaning ship heel'd on her side;
The torn waves comb'd the deck; while o'er the
mast

The meteors of the storm a ghastly radiance cast!

III. MORNING AFTER THE GALE.

Bravely our trim ship rode the tempest through; And, when the exhausted gale had ceased to rave, How broke the day-star on the gazer's view! How flush'd the orient every crested wave! The sun threw down his shield of golden light In fierce defiance on the ocean's bed; Whereat, the clouds betook themselves to flight, Like routed hosts, with banners soil'd and red. The sky was soon all brilliance, east and west; All traces of the gale had pass'd awayThe chiming billows, by the breeze caress'd, Toss'd lightly from their heads the feathery spray. Ah! thus may Hope's auspicious star again Rise o'er the troubled soul where gloom and grief have been!

IV. TO A LAND-BIRD.

Thou wanderer from green fields and leafy nooks!
Where blooms the flower and toils the honey-bee;
Where odorous blossoms drift along the brooks,
And woods and hills are very fair to see-
Why hast thou left thy native bough to roam,
With drooping wing, far o'er the briny billow?
Thou canst not, like the osprey, cleave the foam,
Nor, like the petrel, make the wave thy pillow.
Thou'rt like those fine-toned spirits, gentle bird,
Which, from some better land, to this rude life
Seem borne-they struggle, mid the common herd,
With powers unfitted for the selfish strife!
Haply, at length, some zephyr wafts them back
To their own home of peace, across the world's
dull track.

V. A THOUGHT OF THE PAST.

I woke from slumber at the dead of night,
Stirr'd by a dream which was too sweet to last-
A dream of boyhood's season of delight;
It flash'd along the dim shapes of the past!
And, as I mused upon its strange appeal,
Thrilling my heart with feelings undefined,
Old memories, bursting from time's icy seal,
Rush'd, like sun-stricken fountains, on my mind.
Scenes, among which was cast my early home,
My favourite haunts, the shores, the ancient woods,
Where, with my schoolmates, I was wont to roam,
Green, sloping lawns, majestic solitudes-
All rose before me, till, by thought beguiled,
Freely I could have wept, as if once more a child.

VI. TROPICAL WEATHER.

We are afloat upon the tropic sea!
Here summer holdeth a perpetual reign:
How flash the waters in their bounding glee!
The sky's soft purple is without a stain! [blowing,
Full in our wake the smooth, warm trade-winds
To their unvarying goal still faithful run;
And as we steer, with sails before them flowing,
Nearer the zenith daily climbs the sun.
The startled flying-fish around us skim,
Gloss'd, like the hummingbird, with rainbow dyes;
And, as they dip into the water's brim,
Swift in pursuit the preying dolphin hies.
All, all is fair; and, gazing round, we feel
The south's soft languor gently o'er our senses steal.

VII.A CALM.

O! for one draught of cooling northern air! That it might pour its freshness on me now; That it might kiss my cheek and cleave my hair, And part its currents round my fever'd brow! Ocean, and sky, and earth! a blistering calm Spread over all! how weary wears the day! O, lift the wave, and bend the distant palm, Breeze! wheresoe'er thy lagging pinions stray, Triumphant burst upon the level deep, Rock the fix'd hull and swell the clinging sail ! Arouse the opal clouds that o'er us sleep, Sound thy shrill whistle! we will bid thee hail! Though wrapt in all the storm-clouds of the north, Yet from thy home of ice, come forth, O, breeze, come forth!

VIII-A WISH.

That I were in some forest's green retreat, Beneath a towering arch of proud old elms; Where a clear streamlet gurgled at my feetIts wavelets glittering in their tiny helms! Thick clustering vines, in many a rich festoon, From the high, rustling branches should depend; Weaving a net, through which the sultry noon Might stoop in vain its fiery beams to send. There, prostrate on some rock's gray sloping side, Upon whose tinted moss the dew yet lay, Would I catch glimpses of the clouds that ride Athwart the sky-and dream the hours away; While through the alleys of the sunless wood The fanning breeze might steal, with wild-flowers' breath imbued.

IX.-TROPICAL NIGHT.

But, O! the night!--the cool, luxurious night,
Which closes round us when the day grows dim,
And the sun sinks from his meridian height
Behind the ocean's occidental rim!
Clouds, in thin streaks of purple, green, and red,
Lattice his parting glory, and absorb
The last bright emanations that are shed
In wide profusion, from his failing orb.
And now the moon, her lids unclosing, deigns
To smile serenely on the charmed sea,
That shines as if inlaid with lightning-chains,
From which it hardly struggled to be free.
Swan-like, with motion unperceived, we glide,
Touch'd by the downy breeze, and favour'd by the tide.

X. THE PLANET JUPITER.

Ever, at night, have I look'd first for thee, O'er all thy astral sisterhood supreme! Ever, at night, have I look'd up to see The diamond lustre of thy quivering beam; Shining sometimes through pillowy clouds serene, As they part from thee, like a loosen'd scroll; Sometimes unveil'd, in all thy native sheen, When no pale vapours underneath thee roll. Bright planet! that art but a single ray From our Creator's throne, illume my soul! Thy influence shed upon my doubtful way Through life's dark vista to the immortal goalGleam but as now upon my dying eyes [shall rise. And hope, from earth to thee, from thee to heaven,

XITO EGERIA.

Leagues of blue ocean are between us spread;
And I cannot behold thee save in dreams!
I may not hear thy voice, nor list thy tread,
Nor see the light that ever round thee gleams.
Fairest and best! mid summer joys, ah, say,
Dost thou e'er think of one who thinks of thee-
The Atlantic-wanderer, who, day by day,
Looks for thine image in the deep, deep sea?
Long months, and years, perchance, will pass away,
Ere he shall gaze into thy face again;

He cannot know what rocks and quicksands may
Await him, on the future's shipless main;
But, thank'd be memory! there are treasures still,
Which the triumphant mind holds subject to its will.

XII. CUBA.

What sounds arouse me from my slumbers light? "Land ho! all hands ahoy!”—I'm on the deck. "Tis early dawn. The day-star yet is bright. A few white vapoury bars the zenith fleck. And lo! along the horizon, bold and high, The purple hills of Cuba! hail, all hail! Isle of undying verdure, with thy sky Of purest azure! Welcome, odorous gale! O! scene of life and joy! thou art array'd In hues of unimagined lovelinessSing louder, brave old mariner! and aid My swelling heart its rapture to express; For from enchanted memory never more [shore! Shall fade this dawn sublime, this bright, celestial

THE DAYS THAT ARE PAST.

WE will not deplore them, the days that are past;
The gloom of misfortune is over them cast;
They are lengthen'd by sorrow and sullied by care;
Their griefs were too many, their joys were too rare;
Yet, now that their shadows are on us no more,
Let us welcome the prospect that brightens before!
We have cherish'd fair hopes, we have plotted
brave schemes,

We have lived till we find them illusive as dreams; Wealth has melted like snow that is grasp'd in the hand,

And the steps we have climb'd have departed like sand;

Yet shall we despond while of health unbereft,
And honour, bright honour, and freedom are left?
O! shall we despond, while the pages of time
Yet open before us their records sublime! [gold,
While, ennobled by treasures more precious than
We can walk with the martyrs and heroes of old;
While humanity whispers such truths in the ear,
As it softens the heart like sweet music to hear?
O! shall we despond while, with visions still free,
We can gaze on the sky, and the earth, and the sea;
While the sunshine can waken a burst of delight,
And the stars are a joy and a glory by night:
While each harmony, running through nature, can
raise

In our spirits the impulse of gladness and praise?
O! let us no longer then vainly lament
Over scenes that are faded and days that are spent:

But, by faith unforsaken, unawed by mischance, On hope's waving banner still fix'd be our glance; And, should fortune prove cruel and false to the last, Let us look to the future and not to the past!

THE MARTYR OF THE ARENA. HONOUR'D be the hero evermore,

Who at mercy's call has nobly died!
Echoed be his name from shore to shore,
With immortal chronicles allied!
Verdant be the turf upon his dust,

Bright the sky above, and soft the air!
In the grove set up his marble bust,
And with garlands crown it, fresh and fair.
In melodious numbers, that shall live
With the music of the rolling spheres,
Let the minstrel's inspiration give

His eulogium to the future years!
Not the victor in his country's cause,
Not the chief who leaves a people free,
Not the framer of a nation's laws

Shall deserve a greater fame than he!
Hast thou heard, in Rome's declining day,
How a youth, by Christian zeal impell'd,
Swept the sanguinary games away,

Which the Coliseum once beheld? Fill'd with gazing thousands were the tiers, With the city's chivalry and pride, When two gladiators, with their spears, Forward sprang from the arena's side. Rang the dome with plaudits loud and long, As, with shields advanced, the athletes stood— Was there no one in that eager throng

To denounce the spectacle of blood?
Aye, TELEMACHUS, with swelling frame,

Saw the inhuman sport renew'd once more:
Few among the crowd could tell his name-
For a cross was all the badge he wore!
Yet, with brow elate and godlike mien,

Stepp'd he forth upon the circling sand;
And, while all were wondering at the scene,
Check'd the encounter with a daring hand.
Romans!" cried he-"Let this reeking sod
Never more with human blood be stain'd!
Let no image of the living God

66

In unhallow'd combat be profaned! Ah! too long has this colossal dome

Fail'd to sink and hide your brutal shows! Here I call upon assembled Rome

Now to swear, they shall forever close!" Parted thus, the combatants, with joy,

Mid the tumult, found the means to fly; In the arena stood the undaunted boy,

And, with looks adoring, gazed on high.
Peal'd the shout of wrath on every side;

Every hand was eager to assail!
"Slay him! slay!" a hundred voices cried,
Wild with fury-but he did not quail!
Hears he, as entranced he looks above,

Strains celestial, that the menace drown?
Sees he angels, with their eyes of love,

Beckoning to him, with a martyr's crown? Fiercer swell'd the people's frantic shout! Launch'd against him flew the stones like rain!

Death and terror circled him about

But he stood and perish'd-not in vain! Not in vain the youthful martyr fell!

Then and there he crush'd a bloody creed! And his high example shall impel

Future heroes to as great a deed! Stony answers yet remain for those

Who would question and precede the time! In their season, may they meet their foes, Like TELEMACHUS, with front sublime!

SUMMER IN THE HEART.

THE cold blast at the casement beats,
The window-panes are white,

The snow whirls through the empty streets-
It is a dreary night!

Sit down, old friend! the wine-cups wait;
Fill to o'erflowing! fill!

Though Winter howleth at the gate,

In our hearts 'tis summer still!

For we full many summer joys

And greenwood sports have shared, When, free and ever-roving boys,

The rocks, the streams we dared! And, as I look upon thy face

Back, back o'er years of ill, My heart flies to that happy place, Where it is summer still!

Yes, though, like sere leaves on the ground,

Our early hopes are strown,

And cherish'd flowers lie dead around,
And singing birds are flown,—

The verdure is not faded quite,

Not mute all tones that thrill; For, seeing, hearing thee to-night,

In my heart 'tis summer still! Fill up the olden times come back!

With light and life once more

We scan the future's sunny track,

From youth's enchanted shore!
The lost return. Through fields of bloom
We wander at our will;

Gone is the winter's angry gloom-
In our hearts 'tis summer still!

THE FUGITIVE FROM LOVE.

Is there but a single theme
For the youthful poet's dream?
Is there but a single wire
To the youthful poet's lyre?
Earth below and heaven above-
Can he sing of naught but love?

Nay! the battle's dust I see!
God of war! I follow thee!
And, in martial numbers, raise
Worthy peans to thy praise.
Ah! she meets me on the field-
If I fly not, I must yield.
Jolly patron of the grape!
To thy arms I will escape!

Quick, the rosy nectar bring;
"Io BACCHE" I will sing.
Ha! Confusion! every sip
But reminds me of her lip.
PALLAS! give me wisdom's page,
And awake my lyric rage;
Love is fleeting; love is vain;
I will try a nobler strain.
O, perplexity! my books
But reflect her haunting looks!
JUPITER! on thee I cry!
Take me and my lyre on high!
Lo! the stars beneath me gleam!
Here, O, poet! is a theme.
Madness! She has come above!
Every chord is whispering "Love!"

THE NIGHT-STORM AT SEA. 'Tis a dreary thing to he Tossing on the wide, wide sea, When the sun has set in clouds,

And the wind sighs through the shrouds,
With a voice and with a tone

Like a living creature's moan!
Look! how wildly swells the surge
Round the black horizon's verge!
See the giant billows rise

From the ocean to the skies!
While the sea-bird wheels his flight

O'er their streaming crests of white.
List! the wind is wakening fast!
All the sky is overcast!
Lurid vapours, hurrying, trail
In the pathway of the gale,

As it strikes us with a shock
That might rend the deep-set rock!
Falls the strain'd and shiver'd mast!
Spars are scatter'd by the blast!
And the sails are split asunder,
As a cloud is rent by thunder;
And the struggling vessel shakes,
As the wild sea o'er her breaks.

Ah! what sudden light is this,
Blazing o'er the dark abyss?
Lo! the full moon rears her form
Mid the cloud-rifts of the storm,
And, athwart the troubled air,
Shines, like hope upon despair!
Every leaping billow gleams
With the lustre of her beams,
And lifts high its fiery plume
Through the midnight's parting gloom:
While its scatter'd flakes of gold
O'er the sinking deck are roll'd.

Father! low on bended knee,
Humbled, weak, we turn to thee!
Spare us, mid the fearful fight
Of the raging winds to-night!
Guide us o'er the threatening wave:
Save us!-thou alone canst save!