Tho' the hoarse thunders roar-lightnings blaze out around-
Angry waves leap up to smite the black sky;

Yet our true noble bark safely shall onward bound,
Thunder and lightning and tempest defy.

Oft have I witness'd, in coral-gem'd dresses

The water-nymphs rise from their crystalline caves,
Shaking the sparkling drops off from their tresses,
And dancing in merry rings over the waves.

I love to look out and see the wild hurricane,
Riding his tempest-horse, bound o'er the sea;

Dash 'neath the mountain wave-onward then leap again,
Roaring and shrieking,-'tis beauty to me.

Light is my heart as sunny rays glancing
Over the waters in beauty and joy;
Thus may I ever live, whistling and dancing,
And singing 'Huzza! for the young sailor-boy.'

VOL. II.

'Twas thus, a sea-bird, o'er the waves of time
I flew restraining thought to present hour.
Years past;-all seasons found me on the deep,
'Till I was king upon my floating throne.
But oh how sadly chang'd, the sea-the clouds-
The winds; for fancy wearied in its sport
Was fall'n asleep,-experienc'd truth had seiz'd
The pen and drawn dark lines effacing all
The beauty. Joy's bright bubble, flung by sport
Upon the stream of life and iris'd o'er
With thousand lovely hues, had burst, behind
No rainbow leaving. Blacken'd clouds of woe
Obscur'd the sailor-boy's declining sun;
'Till storm on storm his sailless bark unhelm'd,
And dashed it stranded on the rocks of death.

* And next I chose

To be a poet. Suddenly the fire

Of faney wrapt this world, remod❜ling it.
All nature seem'd alive! Ten thousand tongues
Were bursting on my ear in choral song.
Imagination woke and caught her harp
To revel with the songsters. All was joy!
The earth was written o'er in characters
Of love by all save me unseen. Within
This world I saw another fill'd with fays,
Most perfect in their forms and beautiful,
Like particles of light. The evening sky
Seem'd busied o'er with starry sentinels
Treading their nightly rounds and keeping guard
O'er man, while sleep with perfum'd wing had flown
Below to draw the veil of silence o'er

A slumbering world. Creative power was mine!

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All things I rul'd at will. Mount upon mount
I piled; then calling from his northern home
The giant-storm, would bid him lash the sea
To madness, that its waves might dash high up
The mighty pile, while I would lave my brow
Amid the sparkling foam. "Tween earth and heaven
The frowning precipice I'd hang,—then grasp
A thunder-bolt and hurl it 'gainst the rock

To hear it groan. The noon I wrapt in night,
And strew'd the summer fields with snow. I'd seize
An ocean wave, then chase the lightning's steed
From cloud to cloud 'till I had conquer'd it.
Or I would dip my pen in truth and sketch
The secrets of the soul, until my lines

Were living things; or else of life I'd sing,

With words that fell like rills from mountain heights,
Dancing merrily down their sides. Of love

I sung, and woman snatch'd the song yet warm
To warble such a strain, that eye and lip
And cheek with beauty glow'd; despair itself
Would smile, while poverty, disease and woe,
Forgetting all their pains, the chorus join'd.
And yet but stop! The muse forbids to tell
The sorrows of my soul: suffice it thus;
My cup was deeply drugg'd with misery ;—
I knew it not 'till I the nectar quaff'd

That sparkled temptingly around the brim;—
Deceitful cup! below the poison lay.
Imagination color'd life. My dream
Was past; unreal, unsubstantial all,
Eluding every grasp. But this the worst ;-
Ingratitude upon the brows of men

Was deeply stampt, nor cover'd o'er with smiles;

For I, the noblest one of earth, a king

Amid his slaves, disdain'd was forc'd to bend

A beggar's knee for bread.

The angel spoke!

My power of change was gone. Oh Truth, how hard
It is to mine thy gems from time's deep quarry,
Or find thy pearls beneath the restless waves
Of life. Man never lays his childish thoughts
Aside, from boyhood to old age the chase
Is still the same. The future hours, ere yet
Compell'd by time they one by one uprise
From shapeless mass to form the present day,
Like phantoms shadowy and formless flit
Before the mind and woo its love. Whate'er
The heart desires they bid it cull from out
Their endless stores. The soul rejoicing makes
Its choice and springs to grasp the prize;-the sun
Of truth darts forth its rays, and man awakes
To find 'tis all a dream.

251

CONSPIRACY DOCUMENTS.

No. II.

"Oh Trim, Trim! would to heaven thou hadst a better historian!-would thy historian had a better pair of breeches! Oh, ye critics! will nothing melt you?"

"Black spirits and white,
Red spirits and gray,
Mingle, mingle, mingle,
You that mingle may."

Tristram Shandy.

Macbeth.

READER, hast ever had a piece of thine own published in the Yale Magazine? By thine own' I mean such an one that, go the whole college over, and thou wouldst scarcely find one willing to bear the honors of its authorship. Hast ever had such a piece enshrined within these pages? No? Then, dear sir, let me assure thee upon the honor of a gentleman, thou hast never known what it is to share in true glory.

Neither doubt, I pray thee, my ability to thus strongly qualify this assertion of mine. An' I be no gentleman, I pray heaven I may forthwith be disposed of as-may best suit providence. 'Tis true, 1 sport no two inches of sole leather for the establishment of any such claim, as also for the elevation of my corporeal parts in general, and discomfiture of pedal extremities in particular, and moreover I cannot, or at least others will not, close an eye to the melancholy fact, that my habiliments are of a most execrably coarse texture, though as yet, thank heaven, disfigured by no villainous patchesall this, alas, is but too true, yet still, kind reader, strange as it may appear, still I am wont to solace my weary honors with an idea of my gentility. And too, I entreat of thee, stay not now to cavil at and dispute my claims, but for once suffer a poor author to cherish one of his few ideas, unmolested and in peace. Poor fellow! he has a hard time of it, even at the easiest-take not then, I pray thee, from his small store.

Imagine for a moment, thyself in his place-fearful chasms existing in thy once gay beaver, the shelterer of thy intellect from many a wintry blast-thy raiment fast losing its glossy brightness, and thy only boots yawning at intervals-imagine moreover, sundry small suspicious looking papers lying at full length upon thy table, which, ever and anon, as thou turnest that way, impertinently remind thee that thou art

as also that thou art indebted to Mrs. Laundress,

For the washing of one shirt and bosom, (alternately,) for the past 12 weeks; said interesting papers, perfect in all respects, as thou, after some half dozen critical inspections, instigated by the forlorn hope of discovering an overcharge, canst well testify, and wanting only "the magic of a name"-imagine thyself thus unhappily situated, let it be a blustering wintry night, and as the last scoop-full of coal that thou couldst borrow in thine entry, blazes up, and diffuses for a short-ah! but too short a time, a genial warmth throughout thy damp and chilly room, extend thy limbs to their utmost length, and, while a yawn of languor and delight comes straggling forth, imagine thyself a gentleman, and tell me then, would not the malisons roll thick and fast from off thy tongue, on him who should, in pity of thy ignorance, undertake to weaken thy faith on this point? Of a verity it seemeth so to me. Thou wouldst feel an inward loathing towards such an unseasonable stickler for the truth-a feeling that would prompt thee at once to eject him from the pale of thy acquaintance, and leave him to lose himself in his own fancied superiority. But pass we on.

Here, dear reader, suffer me to insert a word or two as regards these lucubrations of mine. "Digressions are the sunshine-they are the life, the soul of reading," says one, whom I will insult no one by naming. Now, if thou canst not subscribe to this, or if thou expectest me to maintain either a uniform motion or one yclept rectilinear, I would inform thee, that thou and I must soon part company, for thou wilt see me ever and anon diverging from my path, impelled by nothing save my own wayward fancy, which not even a dread of thy displeasure, nor an exceedingly slight acquaintance with Conics, that universal disciplinarian, has as yet been able to restrain within proper bounds. Be not offended at these vagaries of mine, but condescend to keep me company, as I amble thus slowly along. But "to return," as Davy Crockett would say, "to the hole whence I went in."

Hast ever, unbeknown to thy friends, had a piece of thine published in the Yale Literary Magazine, and hast ever mingled with a knot of thy fellow students who were engaged in discussing its merits, and establishing its genealogy? Oh, I could tell thee of many a sage remark concerning these documents of mine, made by many a sage character, who at the time, poor fellow, little dreamt the author was within winking distance of him, and chuckling over him, thus ensnared by his own imprudence. Could I but place before thee, the look of importance with which they are usually ushered in, I could throw thee into almost convulsions of laughter by retailing in thine ear, some of the shrewd remarks uttered in my presence. A certain would-be genius, speaking the other day of the Magazine in general, with infinite gravity observed to me, that "he

1

thought it was well enough for us to have one established here-it served as a kind of safety-valve, to let off the bilge water afloat in College!" Now I didn't knock the fellow down-perhaps I couldn't -but no matter for particulars-I didn't, but on the contrary, suffered him to walk away as safe and as wise as he came.

"Of all the cants which are canted in this canting world, though the cant of hypocrisy may be the worst, the cant of criticism is the most tormenting," so I say. I hold that a man is entitled to write just what, and how he pleases,-Edinburgh reviewers and college critics to the contrary notwithstanding. If, under the head of "Conspiracy Documents," I choose to have ten pages of prolegomena and only two of documents, what is that to thee, grumbling reader? Thank heaven for what thou hast, and be contented. Perhaps I have no very exalted opinion of their literary merits, or perhaps perhaps but deuce take it all, it's no business of thine what my reasons are already have I remonstrated with thee on the impropriety of thus intruding thyself where thou art not wanted, and I now insist upon, and claim as a right, the privilege of driving this goose-quill of mine, whenever, wherever and howsoever I please, which right I am resolved to maintain-if convenient-against all gainsayers at the point of the pen.

And now, reader, that I have made this valorous snap amongst those common enemies of all mankind, the critics, and caused, as I suppose, infinite trepidation to seize hold of them, I will now close my murderous jaws, and we will jog on together in harmony once more. How has it fared with thee since last we parted? The storms of winter have bidden us farewell, while April showers-degenerate sons of a noble branch-have just trodden on their heels, and now are we well nigh past the pleasant month of May. Oh, I could launch forth into many a praise of this beauteous month, but-but, reader, those rascally critics are at their sheep's-eye glances again, and so I'll e'en gang soberly on in my way.

If, since we last met, a change has "come o'er the spirit of thy dream," heaven grant that it may have corresponded with nature's change. Alas, for me! The breezes that have stolen in at my casement, have borne away with them, I fear me much, more imprecations than songs of joy. In simple truth, the hours have dragged heavily along.

I know not under whom, or agreeably to whose system, our secretary was initiated into the rudiments of chirography, but whoever he may have been, I really can think of no reward so befitting his success, as that he be doomed to spend a short eternity in deciphering his pupil's manuscripts. All the torments that have been heaped on Prometheus, Tantalus, Sisyphus, and a host of others, were but trifles compared with this.

If, reader, thou hast ever corresponded with a friend, who sometimes extends a single word throughout a whole line, while the suc