There is a small, low cape-there, where the moon Breaks o'er the shatter'd and now shapeless stone; The waters, as a rude but fitting boon, Weeds and small shells have, like a garland, thrown Upon it, and the wind's and wave's low moan, And sighing grass, and cricket's plaint, are heard To steal upon the stillness, like a tone Remember'd. Here, by human foot unstirr'd, Its seed the thistle sheds, and builds the ocean-bird. Lurks the foul toad, the lizard basks secure Within the sepulchre of him whose name Had scatter'd navies like the whirlwind. Sure, If aught ambition's fiery wing may tame, "Tis here; the web the spider weaves where Fame Planted her proud but sunken shaft, should be To it a fetter, still it springs the same, Glory's fool-worshipper! here bend thy knee! l'he tomb thine altar-stone, thine idol Mockery: A small, gray elf, all sprinkled o'er with dust Of crumbling catacomb, and mouldering shred Of banner and embroider'd pall, and rust Of arms, time-worn monuments, that shed A canker'd gleam on dim escutcheons, where The groping antiquary pores to spy A what? a name-perchance ne'er graven there; At whom the urchin, with his mimic eye, Sits peering through a skull, and laughs continually. THE MOUNTAIN-GIRL. THE clouds, that upward curling from Melt into air: gone are the showers, All hearts are by the spirit that Breathes in the sunshine stirr'd; A thing all lightness, life, and glee; With glossy ringlet, brow that is At once both dark and bright; She stops, looks up-what does she see? Jpon a balcony: High, leaning from a window forth, Nor flower, nor lady fair she sees— That mountain-girl-but dumb That flower to her is as a tone Of some forgotten song, One of a slumbering thousand, struck She sees beside the mountain-brook, And toppling crag, a vine-thatch'd shed, The rivulet, the olive shade, The grassy plot, the flock; That springs beneath the rock. Sister and mate, they may not from Her dreaming eye depart; And one, the source of gentler fears, And hence her eye is dim, her cheek THE FALL OF THE OAK. A GLORIOUS tree is the old gray oak: He has stood for a thousand years, Has stood and frown'd On the trees around, He has stood like a tower As from plates of mail, From his own limbs shaken, rattle; He has toss'd them about, and shorn the tops The autumn sun looks kindly down, And sprinkles the horn Of the owl at morn, As she hies to the old oak tree. Not a leaf is stirr'd; Not a sound is heard But the thump of the thresher's flail, Or the distant cry Of the hound on the fox's trail. The forester he has whistling plunged Wh his axe, in the deep wood's gloom, That shrouds the hill, Where few and chill The sunbeams struggling come: His brawny arm he has bared, and laid His axe at the root of the tree, The gray old oak, And, with lusty stroke, He wields it merrily:- With lusty stroke,- And the old gray oak, Through the folds of his gorgeous vest She will come but to find him gone from where Like a cloud that peals as it melts to air, Though the spring in the bloom and the frost in golċ On the stormy wave He shall float, and brave Shall spread his white wings to the wind, As he thunder'd when On the high and st my steep. TO A YOUNG MOTHER. WHAT things of thee may yield a semblance meet, They once have bloom'd, a fragrance leave behind, And suns continue to light up the air, When set; and music from the broken shrine Breathes, it is said, around whose altar-stone His flower the votary has ceased to twine : Types of the beauty that, when youth is gone, Beams from the soul whose brightness mocks decline. SPRING. Now Heaven seems one bright, rejoicing eye, Puts forth, as does thy cheek, a lovelier dye, And each new morning some new songster brings. And, hark! the brooks their rocky prisons break, And echo calls on echo to awake, Like nymph to nymph. The air is rife with wings, Rustling through wood or dripping over lake. Herb, bud, and bird return-but not to me With song or beauty, since they bring not thee. NOBILITY. Go, then, to heroes, sages if allied, Go! trace the scroll, but not with eye of pride, Where Truth depicts their glories as they shone, And leaves a blank where should have been you own. Mark the pure beam on yon dark wave impress'd So shines the star on that degenerate breastEach twinkling orb,that burns with borrow'd fires,— So ye reflect the glory of your sires. JAMES G. BROOKS. [Bort 1801 Died, 1841.] THE late JAMES GORDON BROOKS was born at Red Hook, near the city of New York, on the third day of September, 1801. His father was an officer in the revolutionary army, and, after the achievement of our independence, a member of the national House of Representatives. Our author was educated at Union College, in Schenectady, and was graduated in 1819. In the following year he commenced studying the law with Mr. Justice EMOTT, of Poughkeepsie; but, though be devoted six or seven years to the acquisition of legal knowledge, he never sought admission to the bar. In 1823, he removed to New York, where he was for several years an editor of the Morning Courier, one of the most able and influential journals in this country. Mr. BROOKS began to write for the press in 1917. Two years afterward he adopted the signature of "Florio," by which his contributions to the periodicals were from that time known. In 1828, he was married. His wife, under the signature of Norna," had been for several years a etry after the appearance of this work. In 1830 or 1831, he removed to Winchester. in Virginia, where, for four or five years, he edited a political and literary gazette. He returned to the state of New York, in 1838, and established himself in Albany, where he remained until the 20th day of February, 1841, when he died. The poems of Mr. BROOKS are spirited and smoothly versified, but diffuse and carelessly written. He was imaginative, and composed with remarkable ease and rapidity; but was too indifferent in regard to his reputation ever to rewrite or revise his productions. GREECE-1832. LAND of the brave! where lie inurn'd And blazed upon the battle's fray: Land of the Muse! within thy bowers And every stream that flow'd along, Shall glory gild thy clime no more? Where proudly it hath swept before? Hath not remembrance then a charm To break the fetters and the chain, To bid thy children nerve the arm, And strike for freedom once again? No! coward souls, the light which shone On Leuctra's war-empurpled day, The light which beam'd on Marathon Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play; And thou art but a shadow now, Where sleeps the spirit, that of old How fatal was the despot's doom ?— The bold three hundred-where are they, Who died on battle's gory breast? Tyrants have trampled on the clay Where death hath hush'd them into rest. Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill A glory shines of ages fled; Which sheds a faint and feeble ray, Greece! yet awake thee from thy tranca, In vain, in vain the hero calls- In ruin, Freedom's battle-shroud : Such deeds as glorified their sires; Their valour's but a meteor's glare, Which gleams a moment, and expires. Lost land! where Genius made his reign, Of ignorance hath brooded long, The sons of science and of song. Thy sun hath set-the evening storm And spread its pall upon the sky! And freedom never more shall cease To pour her mournful requiem O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece! TO THE DYING YEAR. THOt desolate and dying year! Emblem of transitory man, Whose wearisome and wild career, Like thine, is bounded to a span; It seems but as a little day Since nature smiled upon thy birth, And Spring came forth in fair array, To dance upon the joyous earth. Sad alteration! now how lone, How verdureless is nature's breast, Thou desolate and dying year! As beauty stretch'd upon the bier, In death's clay-cold and dark caress; There's loveliness in thy decay, Which breathes, which lingers on thee still, Like memory's mild and cheering ray Beaming upon the night of ill. Yet, yet the radiance is not gone, Which shed a richness o'er the scene, Which smiled upon the golden dawn, When skies were brilliant and serene; O! still a melancholy smile Geams upon Nature's aspect fair, To charm the eye a little while, Ere ruin spreads his mantle there! Thou desolate and dying year! Since time entwined thy vernal wreath, How often love hath shed the tear, And knelt beside the bed of death; How many hearts, that lightly sprung When joy was blooming but to die, Their finest chords by death unstrung, Have yielded life's expiring sigh, And, pillow'd low beneath the clay, Have ceased to melt, to breathe, to burt The proud, the gentle, and the gay, Gather'd unto the mouldering urn; While freshly flow'd the frequent tear For love bereft, affection fled: For all that were our blessings here, The loved, the lost, the sainted dead! Thou desolate and dying year' The musing spirit finds in thee Lessons, impressive and serene, Of deep and stern morality; Thou teachest how the germ of youth, Which blooms in being's dawning day, Planted by nature, rear'd by truth, Withers, like thee, in dark decay. Promise of youth' fair as the form Of Heaven's benign and golden bow, With the empyreal fire of heaven. Whose origin is from on high, Throws o'er thy morn a ray of fire, From the pure fountains of the sky; That ray which glows and brightens stili Unchanged, eternal and divine; Where seraphs own its holy thrill, And bow before its gleaming shrine. Unto the expanded grave of time. Time! Time in thy triumphal flight, How all life's phantoms fleet away; Thy smile of hope, and young delight, Fame's meteor-beam, and Fancy's ray They fade; and on the heaving tide, Rolling its stormy waves afar, Are borne the wreck of human pride, The broken wreck of Fortune's war. There, in disorder, dark and wild, Are seen the fabrics once so high; Which mortal vanity had piled As emblems of eternity! And deem'd the stately piles, whose forms Frown'd in their majesty sublime, Would stand unshaken by the storms That gather'd round the brow of Time. Thou desolate and dying year! Earth's brightest pleasures fade like thine; Like evening shadows disappear, And leave the spirit to repine. The stream of life, that used to pour Its fresh and sparkling waters on. While Fate stood watching on the shore. And number'd all the moments goneWhere hath the morning splendour flown, Which danced upon the crystal stream. Where are the joys to childhood known, When life was an enchanted dream? Enveloped in the starless night Which destiny hath overspread; Enroll'd upon that trackless flight Where the death-wing of time hath sped! ! thus hath life its even-tide It withers like the yellow leaf: Which heralds man unto the tomb! TO THE AUTUMN LEAF. THOU faded leaf! it seems to be But as of yesterday, When thou didst flourish on the tree On field, on flower, and spray; It promised fair; how changed the scene So fares it with life's early spring; Her fond, delusive lay: Then the young, fervent heart beats high With bright, unceasing play; Is beauty in her morning pride, And hope illumes its placid tide: When hope and bliss have died! And valour's laurel wreath must fade; Must lose the freshness, and the bloom On which the beam of glory play'd; The banner waving o'er the crowd, And warning tone in thy dec THE LAST SONG. STRIKE the wild harp yet once again! Be hush'd in death for evermore. Creative fancy, be thou still; And mute as the death-moulder'd tongue, Which plays its pensive strings along! And they shall sound no more for aye: The hours of youth and song have pass' Have gone, with all their witchery; Lost lyre! these numbers are thy last. JOY AND SORROW. Joy kneels, at morning's rosy prime, Hath laid the leaf and blossoms low; |