THE MUSIC-GRINDERS.

THERE are three ways in which men take
One's money from his purse,

And very hard it is to tell

Which of the three is worse;
But all of them are bad enough
To make a body curse.
You're riding out some pleasant day,
And counting up your gains;
A fellow jumps from out a bush

And takes your horse's reins,
Another hints some words about

A bullet in your brains.

It s hard to meet such pressing friends
In such a lonely spot;

It's very hard to lose your cash,
But harder to be shot;

And so you take your wallet out,

Though you would rather not.

Perhaps you're going out to dine,

Some filthy creature begs You'll hear about the cannon-ball That carried off his pegs, And says it is a dreadful thing

For men to lose their legs.

He tells you of his starving wife,
His children to be fed,

Poor, little, lovely innocents,

All clamorous for bread,-
And so you kindly help to put
A bachelor to bed.

You're sitting on your window-seat
Beneath a cloudless moon;

You hear a sound, that seems to wear
The semblance of a tune,

As if a broken fife should strive
To drown a crack'd bassoon.

And nearer, nearer still, the tide

Of music seems to come,

There's something like a human voice,

And something like a drum;

You sit, in speechless agony,

Until your ear is numb.

Puor "Home, sweet home" should seem to be

A very dismal place;

Your "Auld acquaintance," all at once,

Is alter'd in the face;

Their discords sting through BURNS and MOORE,
Like hedgehogs dress'd in lace.

You think they are crusaders, sent
From some infernal clime,
To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,
And dock the tail of Rhyme,
To crack the voice of Melody,

And break the legs of Time.
But, hark! the air again is still,

The music all is ground,
And silence, like a poultice, comes
To heal the blavs of sound;

It cannot be,-it is, it is,--
A hat is going round!

No! Pay the dentist when he leaves
A fracture in your jaw,

And pay the owner of the bear,

That stunn'd you with his paw, And buy the lobster, that has had Your knuckles in his claw;

But if you are a portly man,

Put on your fiercest frown, And talk about a constable

To turn them out of town; Then close your sentence with an oath, And shut the window down!

And if you are a slender man,

Not big enough for that,
Or, if you cannot make a speech,
Because you are a flat,

Go very quietly and drop
A button in the hat!

THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE

DEAREST, a lock is but a ray
Reflected in a certain way;
A word, whatever tone it wear,
Is but a trembling wave of air;
A touch, obedience to a clause
In nature's pure material laws.

The very flowers that bend and meet,
In sweetening others, grow more sweet;
The clouds by day, the stars by night,
Inweave their floating locks of light;
The rainbow, Heaven's own forehead's braid,
Is but the embrace of sun and shade.

How few that love us have we found!
How wide the world that girds them round!
Like mountain-streams we meet and part,

Each living in the other's heart,

Our course unknown, our hope to be

Yet mingled in the distant sea.

But ocean coils and heaves in vain,

Bound in the subtle moonbeam's chain;
And love and hope do but obey
Some cold, capricious planet's ray,
Which lights and leads the tide it charms,
To Death's dark caves and icy arms.

Alas! one narrow line is drawn,
That links our sunset with our dawn;
In mist and shade life's morning rose,
And clouds are round it at its close;
But, ah! no twilight beam ascends
To whisper where that evening ends.
O! in the hour when I shall feel
Those shadows round my senses steal,
When gentle eyes are weeping o'er
The clay that feels their tears no more
Then let thy spirit with me be,
Or some sweet angel, likest thee!

L'INCONNUE.

Is thy name MARY, maiden fair?

Such should, methinks, its music be; The sweetest name that mortals bear,

Were best befitting thee;

And she to whom it once was given, Was half of earth and half of heaven.

I hear thy voice, I see thy smile,

I look upon thy folded hair; Ah while we dream not they beguile, Our hearts are in the snare;

And she, who chains a wild bird's wing Must start not if her captive sing.

So, lady, take the leaf that falls,

To all but thee unseen, unknown; When evening shades thy silent walls, Then read it all alone;

In stillness read, in darkness seal,
Forget, despise, but not reveal!

THE LAST READER.

I SOMETIMES sit beneath a tree,

And read my own sweet songs; Though naught they may to others be, Each humble line prolongs

A tone that might have pass'd away.
But for that scarce-remember'd lay.

I keep them like a lock or leaf,

That some dear girl has given;
Frail record of an hour, as brief

As sunset clouds in heaven,
But spreading purple twilight still
High over memory's shadow'd hill.
They lie upon my pathway bleak,

Those flowers that once ran wild,
As on a father's care-worn cheek

The ringlets of his child;
The golden mingling with the gray,
And stealing half its snows away.
What care I though the dust is spread
Around these yellow leaves,

Or o'er them his sarcastic thread

Oblivion's insect weaves;

Though weeds are tangled on the stream,
It still reflects my morning's beam.
And therefore love I such as smile
On these neglected songs,
Nor deem that flattery's needless wile
My opening bosom wrongs;
For who would trample, at my side,
A few pale buds, my garden's pride?

It may be that my scanty ore

Long years have wash'd away,
And where were golden sands before,
Is naught but common clay;
Still something sparkles in the sun,
For Memory to look back upon.
And when my name no more is heard,
My lyre no more is known,

OLD IRONSIDES.*

Ar, tear her tatter'd ensign down!

Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see

That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle-shout,

And burst the cannon's roar; The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,

Where knelt the vanquish'd foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquer'd knee;
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

O, better that her shatter'd hulk

Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,—
The lightning and the gale!

STANZAS.

STRANGE! that one lightly-whisper'd tone
Is far, far sweeter unto me,
Than all the sounds that kiss the earth,
Or breathe along the sea;

But, lady, when thy voice I greet,
Not heavenly music seems so sweet.
I look upon the fair, blue skies,

And naught but empty air I see;
But when I turn me to thine eyes,
It seemeth unto me

Ten thousand angels spread their wings
Within those little azure rings.

The lily hath the softest leaf

That ever western breeze hath fann'd, But thou shalt have the tender flower, So I may take thy hand; That little hand to me doth yield More joy than all the broider'd field.

O, lady! there be many things

That seem right fair, below, above;
But sure rot one among them all
Is nalf so sweet as love;
Let us not pay our vows alone,
But join two altars both in one.

Written when it was proposed to break up the frigate ** gultation, as unfit for service

THE STEAMBOAT.

SEE how yon flaming herald treads
The ridged and rolling waves,

As, crashing o'er their crested heads,
She bows her surly slaves!
With foam before and fire behind,
She rends the clinging sea,
That flies before the roaring wind,
Beneath her hissing lee.

The morning spray, like sea-born flowers
With heap'd and glistening bells,
Falls round her fast in ringing showers.
With every wave that swells;
And, flaming o'er the midnight deep,
In lurid fringes thrown,
The living gems of ocean sweep

Along her flashing zone.

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel, And smoking torch on high, When winds are loud, and billows reel, She thunders foaming by!

When seas are silent and serene,

With even beam she glides,

The sunshine glimmering through the greer
That skirts her gleaming sides.

Now, like a wild nymph, far apart
She veils her shadowy form,
The beating of her restless heart

Still sounding through the storm;
Now answers, like a courtly dame,
The reddening surges o'er,
With flying scarf of spangled flame
The Pharos of the shore.

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep,

Who trims his narrow'd sail; To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep Her broad breast to the gale, And many a foresail, scoop'd and strain'd, Shall break from yard and stay, Before this smoky wreath has stain'd The rising mist of day.

Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud, I see yon quivering mast;

The black throat of the hunted cloud

Is panting forth the blast!

An hour, and, whirl'd like winnowing chaff
The giant surge shall fling
His tresses o'er yon pennon-staff,

White as the sea-bird's wing!

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep;
Nor wind nor wave shall tire
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap
With floods of living fire;
Sleep on-and when the morning light
Streams o'er the shining bay,

O, think of those for whom the nigh
Shall never wake in day!

BENJAMIN BUSSEY THATCHER was born in Warren, Maine, on the eighth of October, 1809; entered Bowdoin College, two years in advance, at the age of fifteen, and was graduated bachelor of arts, in 1826. He afterward studied the law, but on being admitted to the bar, finding the duties of the profession too arduous for his delicate constitution, devoted himself to literature, and besides writing much and ably for several periodicals, produced two works on the aborigines of this country, "Indian Biography," and "Indian Traits," which had a wide and well-deserved popularity. In 1836 he went to England, where he remained

about two years, writing industriously meanwhile for British and American reviews, and for two ca three journals in Boston and New York as a correspondent. He returned in 1838, still struggling with disease, but with a spirit unbroken, and la. bored with unfaltering assiduity until near th time of his death, which occurred on the fourteenth of July, 1840, when he was in the thirtyfirst year of his age. He left an account of his residence abroad, which has not been published; nor has there been any collection of his numerous reviews, essays, and poems, many of which are creditable to his abilities, taste, and character.

Sing, from these walls of death, unwonted song.

Nay, cease not: I would call

Thus, from the silent hall

Of the unlighted grave, the joys of old:

Beam on me yet once more,

Ye blessed eyes of yore,

Starting life blood through all my being cold.

Ah! cease not; phantoms fair
Fill thick the dungeon's air;

They wave me from its gloom; I fly-I stand
Again upon that spot,

Which ne'er hath been forgot

In all time's tears, my own green, glorious land!

There, on each noon-bright hill,

By fount and flashing rill,

Slowly the faint flocks sought the breezy shade;
There gleamed the sunset's fire,
On the tall tapering spire,

And windows low, along the upland glade.
Sing, sing!-I do not dream-
It is my own blue stream,

One prisoner I saw there, who had been imprisoned 4m his youth, and was said to be occasionally insane in

consequence. He enjoyed no companionship (the keeper

told me) but that of a beautiful tamed bird. Of what name or clime it was, I know not-only that he called it fondly, his dore, and seemed never happy but when it sang o him.-M.S. of a Tour through France.

I see far down where white walls fleck the vale ;I know it by the hedge

Of rose-trees at its edge,

Vaunting their crimson beauty to the gale:
There, there, 'mid clustering leaves,
Glimmer my father's eaves,

And the worn threshold of my youth beneath;-
I know them by the moss,
And the old elms that toss

[wreath.

Their lithe arms up where winds the smoke's gray

Sing, sing! I am not mad

Sing! that the visions glad

May smile that smiled, and speak that spake but now; Sing, sing!-I might have knelt

And prayed; I might have felt

Their breath upon my bosom and my brow.

I might have pressed to this

Cold bosom, in my bliss,

Each long-lost form that ancient hearth beside;
O heaven! I might have heard,
From living lips, one word,

Thou mother of my childhood! and have died.
Nay, nay, 't is sweet to weep,

Ere yet in death I sleep;

It minds me I have been, and am again,-
And the world wakes around

It breaks the madness, bound,
While I have dreamed, these ages on my brain.

ALBERT PIKE was born in Boston, on the twen

ly-ninth day of December, 1809. When he was about four years old, his parents removed to Newbury port. His father, he informs me, "was a journeyman shoemaker, who worked hard, paid his taxes, and gave all his children the benefit of an education." The youth of the poet was passed principally in attending the district-schools at Newburyport, and an academy at Framingham, until he was sixteen years of age, when, after a rigid and triumphant examination, he was admitted to Harvard College. Not being able to pay the expenses of a residence at Cambridge, however, he soon after became an assistant teacher in the grammar-school at Newburyport, and, at the end of a year, its principal. He was induced to resign this office after a short time, and in the winter which followed was the preceptor of an academy at Fairhaven. He returned to Newburyport in the spring, on foot, and for one year taught there a private school. During all this time he had been a diligent student, intending to enter the university, in advance; but in the spring of 1831 he changed his plans, and started on his travels to the west and south.

He went first to Niagara, and then, through Cleveland, Cincinnati, Nashville, and Paducah, much of the way on foot, to Saint Louis. He left that city in August, with a company of forty perBons, among whom were two young men besides himself from Newburyport, for Mexico; and after much fatigue and privation, arrived at Santa Fe on the twenty-eighth of November. Here he remained nearly a year, passing a part of the time as a clerk in a store, and the residue in selling merchandise through the country. Near the close of September, 1832, he left Taos, with a trappingparty; travelled around the sources of Red River to the head waters of the Brazos; separated from the company, with four others, and came into Arkansas.--travelling the last five hundred miles on foot, and reaching Fort Smith, in November, "without a rag of clothing, a dollar in money, or knowing a person in the territory."

Near this place he spent the winter in teaching a few children, and in the following July he went further down the country, and opened a school under more favourable auspices; but after a few weeks, being attacked by a fever, was compelled to abandon it. He had in the mean time written several poems for a newspaper printed at Little Rock, which pleased the editor so much that he sent for him to go there and become his partner. The proposition was gladly accepted, and in October he crossed the Arkansas and landed at Little Rock, paying his last cent for the ferriage of a poor old soldier, who had known his father in New England. Here commenced a new era in the life of PIKE.

From this time his efforts appear to have been crowned with success. The Arkansas Advo cate" was edited by him until the autumn of 1834, when it became his property. Soon after his arrival at his new home he began to devote his leisure to the study of the law, and he was now admitted to the bar. He continued both to write for his paper and to practise in the courts, until the sunmer of 1836, when he sold his printing establishment; and since then he has successfully pursued his profession. He was married at Little Rock, in November, 1834.

About this time he published at Boston a volume of prose sketches and poems, among which are an interesting account of his journeys over the prairies, and some fine poetry, written at Santa Fe and among the mountains and forests of Mexico. In the preface to it, he says: What I have written has been a transcript of my own feelings-too muen so, perhaps, for the purposes of fame. Writing has always been to me a communion with my own soul. These poems were composed in desertion and loneliness, and sometimes in places of fear and danger. My only sources of thought and imagery have been my own mind, and Nature, who has appeared to me generally in desolate guise and utter dreariness, and not unfrequently in sublimity."

His Hymns to the Gods," published afterward, were composed at an carly age, in Fairhaven, and principally while he was surrounded by pupils, in the school-room. They are bold, spirited, scholarly and imaginative, and their diction is appropriate and poetical, though in some instances marred by imperfect and double rhymes. Of his minor pieces, "Spring" and "To the Mockingbird," are the best. I have heard praise bestowed on "Ariel," a poem much longer than these, published in 1835, but as it appeared in a periodical which had but a brief existence, I have not been able to obtain a copy of it. In "Fantasma," in which, I suppose, he intended to shadow forth his own "eventful history," he speaks of one who

"Was young,

And had not known the bent of his own mind,
Until the mighty spell of COLERIDGE woke
Its hidden powers,"

and in some of his poems there is a cast of thought similar to that which pervades many of the works of this poet, though nothing that amounts to imitation. His early struggles, and subsequent wanderings and observations furnished him with the subjects, thoughts, and imagery of many of his pieces, and they therefore leave on the mind an impression of nature and truth.

In 1854 Mr. PIKE printed in Philadelphia a collection of his poems, under the title of "Nuga,' for his friends. It was not published.