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APRIL.

"A violet by a mossy stone,
Half-hidden from the eye,

Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.'

WORDSWORTH.

I HAVE fourd violets. April hath come on,
And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain
Falls in the beaded drops of summer-time.
You may hear birds at morning, and at eve
The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls,
Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in
His beautiful, bright neck; and, from the hills,
A murmur like the hoarseness of the sea,
'Tells the release of waters. and the earth
Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves
Are lifted by the grass; and so I know
That Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heard
The dropping of the velvet foot of Spring.
Take of my violets! I found them where
The liquid south stole o'er them, on a bank
That lean'd to running water. There's to me
A daintiness about these early flowers,
That touches me like poetry. They blow
With such a simple loveliness among
The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out
Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts
Whose beatings are too gentle for the world.
I love to go in the capricious days
Of April and hunt violets, when the rain
Is in the blue cups trembling, and they nod
So gracefully to the kisses of the wind.
It may be deem'd too idle, but the young
Read nature like the manuscript of Heaven,
And call the flowers its poetry. Go out!
Ye spirits of habitual unrest,

And read it, when the "fever of the world"
Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if life
Hath yet one spring unpoison'd, it will be
Like a beguiling music to its flow,
And you will no more wonder that I love
To hunt for violets in the April-time.

THE ANNOYER.

LOVE knoweth every form of air,
And every shape of earth,
And comes, unbidden, everywhere,
Like thought's mysterious birth.
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky
Are written with Love's words,
And you hear his voice unceasingly,
Like song, in the time of birds.

He peeps into the warrior's heart

From the tip of a stooping plume,

And the serried spears, and the many men, May not deny him room.

He'll come to his tent in the weary night,

And be busy in his dream,

And he'll float to his eye in morning light, Like a fav on a silver beam.

He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,

And rides on the echo back,
And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf,

And flits in his woodland track.

The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river The cloud, and the open sky,

He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver,
Like the light of your very eye.

The fisher hangs over the leaning boat,
And ponders the silver sea,

For Love is under the surface hid,

And a spell of thought has he
He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet,
And speaks in the ripple low,
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line,
And the hook hangs bare below.

He blurs the print of the scholar's book,
And intrudes in the maiden's prayer,
And profanes the cell of the holy man
In the shape of a lady fair.

In the darkest night, and the bright daylight,
In earth, and sea, and sky,
In every home of human thought
Will Love be lurking nigh.

TO A FACE BELOVED.

THE music of the waken'd lyre

Dies not upon the quivering strings, Nor burns alone the minstrel's fire

Upon the lip that trembling sings; Nor shines the moon in heaven unseen, Nor shuts the flower its fragrant cells, Nor sleeps the fountain's wealth, I ween, Forever in its sparry wells;

The spells of the enchanter lie

[eye

Not on his own lone heart, his own rapt ear and

I look upon a face as fair

As ever made a lip of heaven

Falter amid its music-prayer!

The first-lit star of summer even

Springs not so softly on the eye,

Nor grows, with watching, half so bright, Nor, mid its sisters of the sky,

So seems of heaven the dearest light;
Men murmur where that face is seen-

My youth's angelic dream was of that look and mien
Yet, though we deem the stars are blest,
And envy, in our grief, the flower
That bears but sweetness in its breast,

And fear'd the enchanter for his power,
And love the minstrel for his spell
He winds out of his lyre so well;
The stars are almoners of light,
The lyrist of melodious air,

The fountain of its waters bright,

And every thing most sweet and fair
Of that by which it charms the ear,
The eye of him that passes near;
A lamp is lit in woman's eye

That souls, else lost on earth, remember angels by.

THEODORE S. FAY.

[Born, 1807.]

THE author of "Dreams and Reveries," " Norman Leslie," and "The Countess Ida," was born in the city of New York on the tenth of February, 1807. His father was a lawyer of unusual professional and literary abilities, which were honorably displayed in an earnest and persistent advocacy of the abolition of imprisonment for debt, in numerous contributions to the public jourzals under the signature of "Howard." After his death, in 1825, Mr. FAY continued the study of the law with Mr. SYLVANUS MILLER, and was admitted to the bar in 1829. He acquired his earliest distinction as a writer by completing a series of papers entitled "The Little Genius," commenced by his father, in the "New York Mirror," of which he became one of the editors. In 1833 he was married, and soon after went to Europe, where he has nearly ever since resided. He was appointed secretary of the United States legation at the court of Berlin in 1837, and in 1853 became

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the first resident minister from this country in Switzerland. An account of his essays and novels may be found in " The Prose Writers of America." In poetry he has published, besides a considerable number of fugitive pieces," Ulric, or the Voices," of which nineteen cantos appeared in one volume in 1851, and an additional canto in The Knickerbocker Gallery," in 1855. The scene of the poem is laid in Germany during the great reformation in the fifteenth century. The hero, Ulric Von Rosenberg, a young rittmaster, or captain of cavalry, is converted to the doctrines of Luther, and makes a public profession of his faith, after which he is exposed to extraordinary temptations, to struggles between conscience and inclination, which Mr. FAY describes as " supernatural solicitings," and "voices," from heaven and hell. The work has not been very popular. Mr. FAY is more successful in prose fiction.

MY NATIVE LAND.

COLUMBIA, was thy continent stretch'd wild,
In later ages, the huge seas above?
And art thou Nature's youngest, fairest child,
Most favoured by thy gentle mother's love?
Where now we stand, did ocean monsters rove,
Tumbling uncouth, in those dim, vanished years,
When through the Red Sea PHARAOH's thousands
drove,

When struggling JOSEPH dropp'd fraternal tears, When GoD came down from heaven, and mortal men were seers?

Or, have thy forests waved, thy rivers run,
Elysian solitudes, untrod by man,
Silent and lonely, since, around the sun,
Her ever-wheeling circle earth began?
Thy unseen flowers did here the breezes fan,
With wasted perfume ever on them flung?
And o'er thy showers neglected rainbows span,
When ALEXANDER fought, when HOMER sung,
And the old populous world with thundering battle
rung?

Yet, what to me, or when, or how thy birth,-
No musty tomes are here to tell of thee;
None know, if cast when nature first the earth
Shaped round, and clothed with grass, and flower,

and tree,

Or whether since, by changes, silently,
Of sand, and shell, and wave, thy wonders grew;
Or if, before man's little memory,

Some shock stupendous rent the globe in two,
And thee, a fragment, far in western oceans threw.

I know but that I love thee. On my heart,
Like a dear friend's are stamp'd thy features now;
Though there the Roman or the Grecian art
Hath lent, to deck thy plain and mountain brow,
No broken temples, fain at length to bow,
Moss-grown and crumbling, with the weight of
time.

Not these o'er thee their mystic splendours throw,
Themes eloquent for pencil or for rhyme,
As many a soul can tell that pours its thoughts
sublime,

But thou art sternly artless, wildly free.

We worship thee for beauties all thine own: Like damsel, young and sweet, and sure to be Admired, but only for herself alone.

With richer foliage ne'er was land o'ergrown, No mightier rivers run, nor mountains rise, Nor ever lakes with lovelier graces shone, Nor wealthier harvests waved in human eyes, Nor lay more liquid stars along more heavenly skies.

I dream of thee, fairest of fairy streams, Sweet Hudson! Float we on thy summer

breast:

Who views thy enchanted windings ever deems Thy banks, of mortal shores the loveliest! Hail to thy shelving slopes, with verdure dress'd, Bright break thy waves the varied beach upon; Soft rise thy hills, by amorous clouds caress'd: Clear flow thy waters, laughing in the sunWould through such peaceful scenes, my life migh gently run!

And, lo! the Catskills print the distant sky,
And o'er their airy tops the faint clouds driven,
So softly blending, that the cheated eye
Forgets or which is earth, or which is heaven,—
Sometimes, like thunder-clouds, they shade the

even,

Till, as you nearer draw, each wooded height
Puts off the azure hues by distance given:
And slowly break upon the enamour'd sight,
Ravine, crag, field, and wood, in colours true and
bright.

Mount to the cloud-kissed summit. Far below
Spreads the vast champaign like a shoreless sea.
Mark yonder narrow streamlet feebly flow,
Like idle brook that creeps ingloriously;
Can that the lovely, lordly Hudson be,
Stealing by town and mountain? Who beholds,
At break of day this scene, when, silently,
Its inap of field, wood, hamlet, is unrolled,
While, in the east, the sun uprears his locks of
gold,

Till earth receive him never can forget.

Even when returned amid the city's roar,
The fairy vision haunts his memory yet,
As in the sailor's fancy shines the shore.
Imagination cons the moment o'er,
When first discover'd, awe-struck and amazed,
Scarce loftier JOVE-whom men and gods adore-
On the extended earth beneath him gazed,
Temple, and tower, and town, by human insect
raised.

Blow, scented gale, the snowy canvass swell,
And flow, thou silver, eddying current on.
Grieve we to bid each lovely point farewell,
That, ere its graces half are seen, is gone.
By woody bluff we steal, by leaning lawn,
By palace, village, cot, a sweet surprise,
At every turn the vision breaks upon;
Till to our wondering and uplifted eyes

The Highland rocks and hills in solemn grandeur

rise.

Nor clouds in heaven, nor billows in the deep, More graceful shapes did ever heave or roll, Vor came such pictures to a painter's sleep, Nor beamed such visions on a poet's soul! The pent-up flood, impatient of control, In ages past here broke its granite bound, Then to the sea in broad meanders stole, While ponderous ruins strew'd the broken ground, And these gigantic hills forever closed around. And ever-wakeful echo here doth dwell, The nymph of sportive mockery, that still Hides behind every rock, in every dell, And softly glides, unseen, from hill to hill. No sound doth rise but mimic it she will,The sturgeon's splash repeating from the shore, Aping the boy's voice with a voice as shrill, The bird's low warble, and the thunder's roar, Always she watches there, each murmur telling

o'er.

Awake my lyre, with other themes inspired,
Where you bold point repels the crystal tide,
The Briton youth, lamented and admired,
His country's hope, her ornament and pride,
A traitor's death ingloriously died-
On freedom's altar offered, in the sight
Of God, by men who will their act abide,
On the great day, and hold their deed aright—
To stop the breath would quench young freedom's
holy light.

But see! the broadening river deeper flows,
Its tribute floods intent to reach the sea,
While, from the west, the fading sunlight throws
Its softening hues on stream, and field, and tree;
All silent nature bathing, wondrously,

In charms that soothe the heart with sweet desires, And thoughts of friends we ne'er again may see, Till lo! ahead, Manhatta's bristling spires, Above her thousand roofs red with day's dying fires,

May greet the wanderer of Columbia's shore, Proud Venice of the west! no lovelier scene. Of thy vast throngs now faintly comes the roar, Though late like beating ocean surf I ween,— And everywhere thy various barks are seen, Cleaving the limpid floods that round thee flow, Encircled by thy banks of sunny green,― The panting steamer piying to and fro, Or the tall sea-bound ship abroad on wings of

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EDWARD SANFORD.

[Born, 1807.]

EDWARD SANFORD, a son of the late Chancellor SANFORD, is a native of the city of New York. He was graduated at the Union College in 1824, and in the following year became a law student in the office of BENJAMIN F. BUTLER, afterward Attorney-General of the United States. He subsequently practised several years in the courts of

New York, but finally abandoned his profession to conduct the "Standard," an able democratic journal, with which he was connected during the political contest which resulted in the election of Mr. VAN BUREN to the Presidency, after which he was for a time one of the editors of "The Globe," at Washington. He now resides in New York.

ADDRESS TO BLACK HAWK. THERE'S beauty on thy brow, old chief! the high And manly beauty of the Roman mould, And the keen flashing of thy full, dark eye

Speaks of a heart that years have not made cold; Of passions scathed not by the blight of time; Ambition, that survives the battle-rout. The man within thee scorns to play the mime To gaping crowds, that compass thee about. Thou walkest, with thy warriors by thy side, Wrapp'd in fierce hate, and high, unconquer'd pride. Chief of a hundred warriors! dost thou yetVanquish'd and captive-dost thou deem that here The glowing day-star of thy glory set

Dull night has closed upon thy bright career? Old forest-lion, caught and caged at last, Dost pant to roam again thy native wild? To gloat upon the lifeblood flowing fast

Of thy crush'd victims; and to slay the child, To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers, [thers? And kill, old Turk! thy harmless, pale-faced broFor it was cruel, BLACK HAWK, thus to flutter The dove-cotes of the peaceful pioneers, To let thy tribe commit such fierce and utter Slaughter among the folks of the frontiers. Though thine be old, hereditary hate, Begot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, until It had become a madness, 'tis too late

[will

To crush the hordes who have the power and To rob thee of thy hunting-grounds and fountains, And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains. Spite of thy looks of cold indifference, [wonder; There's much thou'st seen that must excite thy Wakes not upon thy quick and startled sense

The cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder? Our big canoes, with white and widespread wings, That sweep the waters as birds sweep the sky; Our steamboats, with their iron lungs, like things Of breathing life, that dash and hurry by? Or, if thou scorn'st the wonders of the ocean, What think'st thou of our railroad locomotion? l'hou'st seen our museums, beheld the dummies That grin in darkness in their coffin cases; What think'st thou of the art of making mummies, So that the worins shrink from their dry embraces?

Thou'st seen the mimic tyrants of the stage

Strutting, in paint and feathers, for an hour; Thou'st heard the bellowing of their tragic rage,

Seen their eyes glisten,and their dark brows lower. Anon, thou'st seen them, when their wrath cool'd down,

Pass in a moment from a king-to clown.

Thou seest these things unmoved! sayst so, old fellow?

Then tell us, have the white man's glowing

daughters

Set thy cold blood in motion? Has't been mellow
By a sly cup or so of our fire-waters?
They are thy people's deadliest poison. They

First make them cowards, and then white men's slaves;

And sloth, and penury, and passion's prey,
And lives of misery, and early graves.
For, by their power, believe me, not a day goes
But kills some Foxes, Sacs, and Winnebagoes

Say, does thy wandering heart stray far away,

To the deep bosom of thy forest-home? The hill-side, where thy young pappooses play, And ask, amid their sports, when thou wilt come? Come not the wailings of thy gentle squaws

For their lost warrior loud upon thine ear, Piercing athwart the thunder of huzzas,

That, yell'd at every corner, meet thee here? The wife who made that shell-deck'd wampum belt, Thy rugged heart must think of her-and melt.

Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breast
Of the caged bird against his prison-bars,
That thou, the crowned warrior of the West,
The victor of a hundred forest-wars,
Shouldst in thy age become a raree-show,
Led, like a walking bear, about the town,
A new-caught monster, who is all the go,

And stared at, gratis, by the gaping clown? Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about, The sport and mockery of the rabble rout? Whence came thy cold philosophy? whence came,

Thou tearless, stern, and uncomplaining one, The power that taught thee thus to veil the flam Of thy fierce passions? Thou despisest fun,

And thy proud spirit scorns the white men's glee, Save thy fierce sport, when at the funeral-pile Of a bound warrior in his agony,

Who meets thy horrid laugh with dying smile. Thy face, in length, reminds one of a Quaker's; Thy dances, too, are solemn as a Shaker's.

Proud scion of a noble stem! thy tree

Is blanch'd, and bare, and sear'd, and leafless I'll not insult its fallen majesty, [now. Nor drive,with careless hand, the ruthless plough Over its roots. Torn from its parent mould,

Rich, warm, and deep, its fresh, free, balmy air, No second verdure quickens in our cold,

New, barren earth; no life sustains it there, But, even though prostrate, 't is a noble thing, Though crownless, powerless, "every inch a king."

Give us thy hand, old nobleman of nature,
Proud ruler of the forest aristocracy;
The best of blood glows in thy every feature,

Thou little siren, when the nymphs of yore

Charm'd with their songs till men forgot to dine. And starved, though music-fed, upon their shore, Their voices breathed no softer lays than thine. They sang but to entice, and thou dost sing As if to lull our senses to repose, That thou mayst use, unharm'd, thy little sting. The very moment we begin to doze; Thou worse than siren, thirsty, fierce blood-sipper Thou living vampire, and thou gallinipper!

Nature is full of music, sweetly sings

The bard, (and thou dost sing most sweetly too,) Through the wide circuit of created things, Thou art the living proof the bard sings true. Nature is full of thee; on every shore,

'Neath the hot sky of Congo's dusky child, From warm Peru to icy Labrador,

The world's free citizen. thou roamest wild. Wherever" mountains rise or oceans roil,"

And thy curl'd lip speaks scorn for our democracy. Thy voice is heard, from “Indus to the Pole.”

Thou wear'st thy titles on that godlike brow;

Let him who doubts them meet thine eagle-eye,

He'll quail beneath its glance, and disavow

All question of thy noble family;

The incarnation of Queen MAB art thou,

"The fairies' midwife;"-thou dost nightly sip, With amorous proboscis bending low, The honey-dew from many a lady's lip

For thou mayst here become, with strict propriety, (Though that they "straight on kisses dream,” 【 A leader in our city good society.

TO A MUSQUITO.

His voice was ever soft, gentle, and low.--King Lear.

THOU Sweet musician, that around my bed

Dost nightly come and wind thy little horn, By what unseen and secret influence led,

Feed'st thou my ear with music till 'tis morn? The wind-harp's tones are not more soft than thine, The hum of falling waters not more sweet: I own, indeed, I own thy song divine,

[meet,

And when next year's warm summer nights we (Till then, farewell!) I promise thee to be A patient listener to thy minstrelsy.

Thou tiny minstrel, who bid thee discourse
Such eloquent music? was 't thy tuneful sire?
Some old musician? or didst take a course

Of lessons from some master of the lyre? Who bid thee twang so sweetly thy small trump? Did NORTON form thy notes so clear and full? Art a phrenologist, and is the bump

Of song developed in thy little skull?
At NIBLO's hast thou been when crowds stood mute,
Drinking the birdlike tones of CUDDY'S flute?

Tell me the burden of thy ceaseless song.
Is it thy evening hymn of grateful prayer,
Or lay of love, thou pipest through the long,
Still night! With song dost drive away dull care?
Art thou a vieux garçon, a gay deceiver,

A wandering blade, roaming in search of sweets, Pledging thy faith to every fond believer,

Who thy advance with halfway shyness meets? Or art o' the softer sex, and sing'st in glee,

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doubt-)

On smiling faces, and on eyes that weep, Thou lightest, and oft with "sympathetic snout" "Ticklest men's noses as they lie asleep; And sometimes dwellest, if I rightly scan, "On the forefinger of an alderman."

Yet thou canst glory in a noble birth.

As rose the sea-born VENUS from the wave, So didst thou rise to life; the teeming earth, The living water and the fresh air gave A portion of their elements to create

Thy little form, though beauty dwells not there So lean and gaunt, that economic fate

Meant thee to feed on music or on air. Our vein's pure juices were not made for thee, Thou living, singing, stinging atomy.

The hues of dying sunset are most fair,

And twilight's tints just fading into night, Most dusky soft, and so thy soft notes are

By far the sweetest when thou takest thy flight The swan's last note is sweetest, so is thine; Sweet are the wind-harp's tones at distance heard "Tis sweet at distance, at the day's decline,

To hear the opening song of evening's bird. But notes of harp or bird at distance float Less sweetly on the ear than thy last note.

The autumn-winds are wailing: 'tis thy dirge; Its leaves are sear, prophetic of thy doom. Soon the cold rain will whelm thee, as the surge Whelms the toss'd mariner in its watery tomb Then soar, and sing thy little life away!

Albeit thy voice is somewhat husky now. 'Tis well to end in music life's last day,

Of one so gleeful and so blithe as thou: For thou wilt soon live through its joyous hours, And pass away with autumn's dying flowers.

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