IT IS GREAT FOR OUR COUNTRY TO DIE. ! IT is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending: Bright is the wreath of our fame; Glory awaits us for aye Gicy, at never is dim, shining on with light never ending Glory that never shall fade, never, O! never away. O! it is sweet for our country to die--how softly reposes Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love. Wet by a mother's warm tears; they crown him with garlands of roses, Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he triumphs above. Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for country hath perish'd: HEBE awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with her smile; There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherish'd; Gods love the young, who ascend pure from the funeral pile. Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river; Not to the isles of the bless'd, over the blue, rolling sea; But on Olympian heights, shall dwell the devoted forever; There shall assemble the good, there the wise, valiant, and free. I feel it-though the flesh is weak, I feel And soar on wings of lightning, like the famed Helmless and oarless, when the light has fled, The spirit, whose strong influence can free The drowsy soul, that slumbers in the dead Cold night of mortal darkness; from the bed Of sloth he rouses at her sacred call, And, kindling in the blaze around him shed, Rends with strong effort sin's debasing thrall, And gives to GoD his strength, his heart, his mind, his all. Our home is not on earth; although we sleep, How awful is that hour, when conscience stings The hoary wretch, who, on his death-bed hears, Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings, In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years And, screaming like a vulture in his ears, Tells, one by one, his thoughts and deeds of shaine How wild the fury of his soul careers! His swart eye flashes with intensest flame, And like the torture's rack the wrestling of hit frame. HOME. My place is in the quiet vale, The chosen haunt of simple thought; I seek not Fortune's flattering gale, I better love the peaceful lot. I leave the world of noise and show, I ask, in life's unruffled flow, I have an ocean in the sky. Fancy can charm and feeling bless With sweeter hours than fashion knows There is no calmer quietness Than home around the bosom throws. SAMUEL G. GOODRICH. [Born 1796, Died 1860.] SAMUEL GRISWOLD GOODRICH is a native of Ridgefield, on the western border of Connecticut, and was born about the year 1796. His father was a respectable clergyman, distinguished for his simplicity of character, strong common sense, and eloquence. Our author was educated in the common schools of his native town, and soon after he was twenty-one years old, engaged in the business of publishing, in Hartford, where he resided for several years. In 1824, being in ill health, he visited Europe, and travelled over England, France, Germany, and Holland, devoting his attention particularly to the institutions for education; and on his return, having determined to attempt an improvement in books for the young, established himself in Boston, and commenced the trade of authorship. Since that time he has produced from twenty to thirty volumes, under the signature of "Peter Parley," which have passed through a great number of editions in this country and in England, and been translated into several foreign languages. Of some of these works more than fifty thousand copies are circulated annually. In 1824 Mr. GOODRICH commenced "The Token," an annuary, of which he was the editor for fourteen years. In this series he published most of the poems of which he known to be the author. They were all written while he was actively engaged in business. His "Fireside Education" was composed in sixty days, while he was discharging his duties as a member of the Massachusetts Senate, and superintending his publishing establishment; and his numerous other prose works were produced with equal rapidity. In 1837 he published "The Outcast, and Other Poems;" in 1841 Sketches from a Student's Window," and in 1852 an edition of his "Poems" with pictorial illustrations. Under President FILLMORE's administration Mr. GOODRICH was American consul for Paris, and he now (in the autumn of 1855) resides in New York. Mr. GOODRICH has been a liberal patron of American authors and artists; and it is questionable whether any other person has done as much to improve the style of the book manufacture, or to promote the arts of engraving. It is believed that he has put in circulation more than two millions of volumes of his own productions; all of which inculcate pure morality, and cheerful views of life. His style is simple and unaffected; the flow of his verse melodious; and his subjects generally such as he is capable of treating most successfully. BIRTHNIGHT OF THE HUMMING-BIRDS. I. ILL tell you a fairy tale that's newHow the merry elves o'er the ocean flew, From the Emerald isle to this far-off shore, As they were wont in the days of yoreAnd play'd their pranks one moonlit night, Where the zephyrs alone could see the sight. II. Ere the old world yet had found the new, The fairies oft in their frolics flew, To the fragrant isles of the CarribeeBright bosom-gems of a golden sea. Too dark was the film of the Indian's eye, These gossamer sprites to suspect or spy,So they danced raid the spicy groves unseen, And gay were their gambolings, I ween; Fr the fairies, like other discreet little elves, Are freest and fondest when all by themselves. No thought had they that in after time The muse would echo their deeds in rhyme; So, gayly dofling light stocking and shoe, They tripp'd o'er the meadow all dappled in dew. I could teli, if I would, some right merry tales Of unslipper'd fairies that danced in the vales But the lovers of scandal I leave in the lurchAnd, besides, these elves don't belong to the church. If they danced-be it known-'twas not in the clime Of your MATHERS and HOOKERS, where laughter was crime; Where sentinel virtue kept guard o'er the lip, Though witchcraft stole into the heart by a slip! O, no! 't was the land of the fruit and the flowerWhere summer and spring both dwelt in one bower Where one hung the citron, all ripe from the bough, And the other with blossoms encircled its browWhere the mountains embosom'd rich tissues of gold, And the rivers o'er rubies and emeralds roll'd. wretch! But I learn by the legends of breezes and brooks "Tis as true as the fairy tales told in the books. Or listen'd to mermaids that sang from the cave; Each seeming to think that the earth and the sea Not yet had those vessels from Palos been here, For they were to hold a revel that night, IV. Away sped the maskers like arrows of light, To gather their gear for the revel bright. To the dazzling peaks of far-off Peru, In emulous speed some sportive flewAnd deep in the mine, or mid glaciers on high, For ruby and sapphire searched heedful and sly. For diamonds rare that gleam in the bed Of Brazilian streams, some merrily sped, While others for topaz and emerald stray, Mid the cradle cliffs of the Paraguay. As these are gathering the rarest of gems, Others are plucking the rarest of stems. They range wild dells where the zephyr alone To the blushing blossoms before was known; Through forests they fly, whose branches are hung By creeping plants, with fair flowerets strungWhere temples of nature with arches of bloom, Are lit by the moonlight, and faint with perfume. They stray where the mangrove and clematis twine, Where azalia and laurel in rivalry shine; Where, tall as the oak, the passion-tree glows, And jasmine is blent with rhodora and rose. O'er blooming savannas and meadows of light, Mid regions of summer they sweep in their flight, And gathering the fairest they speed to their bower, Each one with his favourite brilliant or flower. V. The hour is come, and the fairies are seen Was the rose, or the ruby, or emerald now; VI. Of all that did chance, 't were a long tale to tell, Of the dresses and waltzes, and who was the belle; But each were so happy, and all were so fair, That night stole away and the dawn caught them there! Such a scampering never before was seen THE RIVER. O, TELL me, pretty river! "My birthplace was the mountain, "One morn I ran away, "And then, mid meadowy banks, "But these bright scenes are o'er, And darkly flows my wave I hear the ocean's roar, And there must be my grave!" THE LEAF. It came with spring's soft sun and showers, But its companions pass'd away, And slumber'd in the ocean's breast. gone Thus life begins-its morning hours, Bright as the birth-day of the flowers; Thus passes like the leaves away, As wither'd and as lost as they. Beneath the parent roof we meet In joyous groups, and gayly greet The golden beams of love and light, That kindle to the youthful sight. But soon we part, and one by one, Like leaves and flowers, the group is One gentle spirit seeks the tomb, His brow yet fresh with childhood's bloom. Another treads the paths of fame, And barters peace to win a name. Another still tempts fortune's wave, And seeking wealth, secures a grave. The last grasps yet the brittle threadThough friends are gone and joy is dead, Still dares the dark and fretful tide, And clutches at its power and pride, Till suddenly the waters sever, And, like the leaf, he sinks forever. LAKE SUPERIOR. "FATHER OF LAKES!" thy waters bend Boundless and deep, the forests weave Their twilight shade thy borders o'er, And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave Their rugged forms along thy shore. Pale Silence, mid thy hollow caves, Or startled Echo, o'er thy waves, Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods The spell of stillness reigning there. The thunder-riven oak, that flings The gnarl'd and braided boughs, that show The very echoes round this shore Have caught a strange and gibbering tone Wave of the wilderness, adieu! And fill these awful solitudes! God is thy theme. Ye sounding cavez Whisper of Him, whose mighty plan Deems as a bubble all your waves! THE SPORTIVE SYLPHS. THE sportive sylphs that course the air, Unseen on wings that twilight weaves, Around the opening rose repair, And breathe sweet incense o'er its leaves. With sparkling cups of bubbles made, They gather gems with sunbeams bright, To grace their own fair queen of flowers Thus, thus adorned, the speaking rose Becames a token fit to tell Of things that words can ne'er disclose, Then, take my flower, and let its leaves ISAAC CLASON. [Born about 1796. Died, 1830.] ISAAC CLASON wrote the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Cuntos of Don Juan-a continuation of the poem of Lord BYRON-published in 1825. I have not been able to learn many particulars of his biography. He was born in the city of New York, where his father was a distinguished merchant, and graduated at Columbia College in 1813. inherited a considerable fortune, but in the pursuit of pleasure he spent it all, and much besides, received from his relatives. He was in turn a gay roué in London and Paris, a writer for the public journals, an actor in the theatres, and a private NAPOLEON.* He I love no land so well as that of France- NAPOLEON BONAPARTE! thy name shall live Till time's last echo shall have ceased to sound; And if eternity's confines can give To space reverberation, round and round The spheres of heaven, the long, deep cry of "Vive NAPOLEON!" in thunders shall rebound; The lightning's flash shall blaze thy name on high, Monarch of earth now meteor of the sky! What though on St. Helena's rocky shore Thy head be pillow'd, and thy form entomb'd, Perhaps that son, the child thou didst adore, Fired with a father's fame, may yet be doom'd hom the Seventeenth Canto of Don Juan. tutor. A mystery hangs over his closing years It has been stated that he was found dead in an obscure lodging-house in London, under circumstances that led to a belief that he committed suicide, about the year 1830. Besides his continuation of Don Juan, he wrote but little poetry. The two cantos which he left under that title, have much of the spirit and feeling, in thought and diction, which characterize the work of BYRON. He was a man of attractive manners and brilliant conversation. His fate is an unfavourable commentary on his character. To crush the bigot BOURBON, and restore Thy mouldering ashes ere they be consumed; Now sunk in slavery and shame again; No more earth trembles at thy dreaded name; Of Prussia, and which almost threw in fits Great FREDERICK WILLIAM; he who, at the board, Took all the Prussian uniform to bits; FREDERICK, the king of regimental tailors, AS HUDSON LOWE, the very prince of jailors. Farewell, NAPOLEON! Couldst thou have died The coward scorpion's death, afraid, ashamed To meet adversity's advancing tide, The weak had praised thee, but the wise had blamed; But no! though torn from country, child, and bride With spirit unsubdued, with soul untamed Great in misfortune, as in glory high, Thou daredst to live through life's worst agonv. Pity, for thee, shall weep her fountains dry, Mercy, for thee, shall bankrupt all her store; Valour shall pluck a garland from on high, And Honour twine the wreath thy temples c'er |