J. O. ROCKWELL [Born, 1907. Died, 1931.] JAMES OCIS ROCKWELL was born in Lebanon, an agricultural town in Connecticut, in 1807. At an early age he was apprenticed to a printer, in Utica, and in his sixteenth year he began to write verses for the newspapers. Two years afterward he went to New York, and subsequently to Boston, in each of which cities he laboured as a journeyman compositor. He had now acquired consideraole reputation by his poetical writings, and was engaged as associate editor of the "Statesman,” an old and influential journal published in Boston, with which, I believe, he continued until 1829, when he became the conductor of the Providence Patriot," with which he was connected at the time of his death. He was poor, and in his youth he had been left nearly to his own direction. He chose to learn the business of printing, because he thought it would afford him opportunities to improve his mind; and his education was acquired by diligent study during the leisure hours of his apprenticeship. When he removed to Providence, it became necessary for him to take an active part in the discussion of political questions. He felt but little interest in public affairs, and shrank instinctively from the strife of partisanship; but it seemed the only avenue to competence and reputation, and he embarked in it with apparent ardour. Journalism, in the hands of able and honourable men, is the noblest of callings; in the hands of the ignorant and mercenary, it is among the meanest. There are at all times connected with the press, persons of the baser sort, who derive their support and chief enjoyment from ministering to the worst passions; and by some of this class ROCKWELL'S private character was assailed, and he was taunted with his obscure parentage, defective education, and former vocation, as if to have elevated his position in society, by perseverance and the force of mind, were a ground of accusation. He had too little energy in his nature to regard such assaults with the indifference they merited; and complained in some of his letters that they "robbed him of rest and of all pleasure." With constantly increasing reputation, however, he continued his editorial labours until the summer of 1831, when. at the early age of twenty-four years, he was suddenly called to a better world. He felt unwell, one morning, and, in a brief paragraph, apologized for the apparent neglect of his gazette. The next number of it wore the sign of mourning for his death. A friend of ROCKWELL'S, in a notice of him published in the "Southern Literary Messenger," mentions as the inmediate cause of his death, that he "was troubled at the thought of some obliga Reverend CHARLES W. EVEREST, of Meriden Con necticut. tion which, from not receiving money ther, duc u him, he was unable to meet, and shrank from the prospect of a debtor's prison." That it was in some way a result of his extreme sensitiveness, was generally believed among his friends at the time. WHITTIER, who was then editor of the "New England Weekly Review," soon after wrote the following lines to his memory: "The turf is smooth above him! and this rair No vigil with the dead. Well-it is meet Smote down in wantonness. But we may trust "Nor died he unlamented! To his grave The specimens of ROCKWELL's poetry which have fallen under my notice show him to have possessed considerable fancy and deep feeling His imagery is not always well chosen, and his ver sification is sometimes defective; but his thoughts are often original, and the general effect of his pieces is striking. His later poems are his best, and probably he would have produced works of much merit had he lived to a maturer age. THE SUM OF LIFE. SEARCHER of gold, whose days and nights And strugglest in the foam; 2 come and view this land of graves, Death's northern sea of frozen waves, And mark thee out thy home. Lover of woman, whose sad heart Wastes like a fountain in the sun, Come to the land of graves; for here Here slumber forms as fair as those Lover of fame, whose foolish thought Steals onward o'er the wave of time, The spirit-mansion desolate, The absent soul in fear; Bring home thy thoughts and come with me, And see where all thy pride must be: Searcher of fame, look here! And, warrior, thou with snowy plume, Shall hold thee and thy glories all: ΤΟ ΑΝΝ. THOU wert as a lake that lieth In a bright and sunny way; I was as a bird that flieth O'er it on a pleasant day; When I look'd upon thy features Presence then some feeling lent; But thou knowest, most false of creatures, With a kiss my vow was greeted, But I saw that kiss repeated That thy heart should not be changed; I could blame thee for awaking Thoughts the world will but deride; Calling out, and then forsaking Flowers the winter wind will chide; Guiling to the midway ocean Barks that tremble by the shore But I hush the sad emotion, And will punish thee no more. THE LOST AT SEA. WIFE, who in thy deep devotion Hope no more-his course is done. Dream not, when upon thy pillow, That he slumbers by thy side; For his corse beneath the billow Heaveth with the restless tide. Children, who, as sweet flowers growing. For your father lost and gone? When the sun look'd on the water, Where the giant current roll'd, And the silent sunbeams slanted, Wavering through the crystal deep, Till their wonted splendours haunted Those shut eyelids in their sleep. Sands, like crumbled silver gleaming, Sparkled through his raven hair; But the sleep that knows no dreaming Bound him in its silence there. So we left him; and to tell thee That thy heart-blood wildly flows, That thy cheek's clear hue is faded, Are the fruits of these new woes. Children, whose meek eyes, inquiring THE DEATH-BED OF BEAUTY. SHE sleeps in beauty, like the dying rose Or like herself,-she will be dead to-morrow. How still she sleeps! The young and sinless girl! And the faint breath upon her red lips trembles! Waving, almost in death, the raven curl That floats around her; and she most resembles The fall of night upon the ocean foam, Wherefrom the sun-light hath not yet departed; And where the winds are faint. She stealeth home, Unsullied girl! an angel broken-hearted! O, bitter world! that hadst so cold an eye And her heart-strings were frozen here and riven, And now she lies in ruins-look and weep! How lightly leans her cheek upon the pillow! And how the bloom of her fair face doth keep Changed, like a stricken dolphin on the billow. TO THE ICE-MOUNTAIN. GRAVE of waters gone to rest! Wandering on the trackless plain, Sailing mid the angry storm, Ploughing ocean's oozy floor, Piling to the clouds thy form! Wandering monument of rain, Prison'd by the sullen north! Is it that thou comest forth? Shall unchain and gladden thee! Roamer in the hidden path, 'Neath the green and clouded wave! Trampling in thy reckless wrath, On the lost, but cherish'd brave; Parting love's death-link'd embraceCrushing beauty's skeletonTell us what the hidden race With our mourned lost have done! Floating isle, which in the sun Art an icy coronal; Wend thee to the southern main; Warm skies wait to welcome thee! Mingle with the wave again! THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. WHEN the summer sun was in the west, Its crimson radiance fell, Some on the blue and changeful sea, And some in the prisoner's cell. And then his eye with a smile would bean, And the blood would leave his brain, And the verdure of his soul return., Like sere grass after rain! But when the tempest wreathed and strea A mantle o'er the sun, He gather'd back his woes again, And brooded thereupon; And thus he lived, till Time one day TO A WAVE. LIST! thou child of wind and sea, Wave! now on the golden sands, Thou hast leap'd on high to pilfer? Was telling of a floating prison, Which, when tempests swept along, And the mighty winds were risen, Founder'd in the ocean's grasp. While the brave and fair were dying, Wave! didst mark a white hand clasp In thy folds, as thou wert flying? Hast thou seen the hallow'd rock Where the pride of kings reposes, Crown'd with many a misty lock, Wreathed with sapphire, green, and rose Or with joyous, playful leap, Hast thou been a tribute flinging, Up that bold and jutty steep, Pearls upon the south wind stringing? Faded Wave! a joy to thee, Now thy flight and toil are over! O, may my departure be Calm as thine, thou ocean-rover! When this soul's last pain or mirth On the shore of time is driven, Be its lot like thine on earth, To be lost away in heaven' MICAH P. FLINT. [Born about 1807. Died 1830.] MICAH P FLINT, a son of the Reverend TIMOTHY FLINT, the well-known author of "Francis Berrian," was born in Lunenburg, Massachusetts; at an early age accompanied his father to the valley of the Mississippi; studied the law, and was admitted to the bar at Alexandria; and had hopes of a successful professional career, when arrested by the inness which ended in his early death. He published in Boston, in 1826, "The Hunter, and other Poems," which are described in the preface as the productions of a very young man, and results of lonely meditations in the southwestern | forests, during intervals of professional studies "The Hunter" is a narrative, in three cantos, of "adventures in the pathless woods." The situa tions and incidents are poetical, but the work is, upon the whole, feebly executed. "Sorotaphian," an argument for urn-burial, subsequently reprinted with some improvements in "The Western Monthly Magazine," lines "On Passing the Grave of My Sister," and several other poems, illustrated the growth of the author's mind, and justified the sanguine hopes of his father that he would "become the pride of his family." ON PASSING THE GRAVE OF MY SISTER. ON yonder shore, on yonder shore, Now verdant with the depths of shade, There is a little infant laid. And summer's forests o'er her wave; Around the little stranger's grave, In sounds that seems like sorrow's own, In all their solemn cadence sweep, How we whose hearts had hailed her birth, Ere three autumnal suns had set, Consign'd her to her mother earth! We heap'd the soft mould on her breast; And parting tears, like rain-drops, fell Upon her lonely place of rest. For all unheard, on yonder shore, There is no stone with graven lie, To tell of love and virtue blent In one almost too good to die. We needed no such useless trace To point us to her resting-place. She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone; But midst the tears of April showers, The genius of the wild hath strown His germs of fruits, his fairest flowers, And cast his robes of vernal bloom In guardian fondness o'er her tomb. She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone; Yet yearly is her grave-turf dress'd, And still the summer vines are thrown, In annual wreaths across her breast, And still the sighing autumn grieves, And strews the hallow'd spot with leaves. AFTER A STORM. THERE was a milder azure spread Around the distant mountain's head; And every hue of that fair bow, Whose beauteous arch had risen there And melted into ambient air. Were heard exulting at its birth. |