THE LAST TILT. Ar twilight, through the shadow, fled An ancient, war-worn knight, Array'd in steel, from head to heel, And on a steed of white; And, in the knight's despite, The horse pursued his flight: For the old man's cheek was pale, And his hands strove at the rein, With the clutch of phrensied pain; And his courser's streaming mane Swept, dishevell'd, on the gale. "Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell Went wailing away over meadow and mere"SEVEN!" Counted aloud by the sentinel clock On the turret of Time; and the regular beat Of his echoing feet Fell, like lead, on the ear As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier. The old knight heard the mystic clock; But each time with feebler force, To arrest the spectral horse In its mad, remorseless course, But, alas! he strove in vain. "Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell Went wailing away over meadow and mere"EIGHT!" Counted aloud by the sentinel clock On the turret of Time; and the regular beat Of his echoing feet Fell, like lead, on the ear As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier. The steed was white, and gaunt, and grim, That burn'd with the lurid, livid glare And the wind, behind, with sighs, While through the ebony gloom, alone, On the warrior-unamazed On the steed whose eyeballs blazed "Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell Went wailing away over meadow and mere"NINE!" Counted aloud by the sentinel clock On the turret of Time; and the regular beat Of his echoing feet Fell, like lead, on the ear As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier. Athwart a swart and shadowy moor While the old man, weak, forlorn, And wan, and travel-worn, Gazed, mad with deathly fear: For he dream'd it was the day, Though the dawn was far away, And he trembled with dismay In the desert, dark and drear! "Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell Went wailing away over meadow and mereTEN!" Counted aloud by the sentinel clock On the turret of Time; and the regular bezt Of his echoing feet Fell, like lead, on the ear As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier. In casque and cuirass, white as snow, A maiden knight, with lance and shield, And a beard of woven gold: With a loud, defiant cry, And a tone of stern command, The ancient knight, with lance in hand, Rush'd, thundering, over the frozen land, And bade him "Stand, or die!" "Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell Went wailing away over meadow and mere"ELEVEN!" Counted aloud by the sentinel clock On the turret of Time; and the regular beat Of his echoing feet Fell, like lead, on the ear As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier. With his ashen lance in rest, Career'd the youthful knight, With a haughty heart, and an eagle eye, Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell Went wailing away over meadow and mere"TWELVE!" Counted aloud by the sentinel clock On the turret of Time; and the regular beat Of his echoing feet Fell, like lead, on the ear As he left the dead Year on his desolate bier! BERENICE. I WOULD that I could lay me at thy feet, The radiant glory of a face Which, even in dreams, adorns the Italian skies Of passionate love-the Astarté of their space! This, in some quiet, column'd chamber, where All day, all day, dear love, would I lie there, By murmurous streams, We'd pause, entranced by Dian's amber light, Her faultless feet in lucid ripples, white Then to some tall old wood, beneath old trees, Fairer than those which jewell'd Grecian leas Treading the feather'd grasses, On, on, along some vernal, verdant plain Our steps should falter, while the linnet's strain And as the gods who ruled all things we saw. Then giving way to mad imaginings Henceforth for earth; that even the rudest things THE LOST PLEIAD. Calmly the purple heavens reposed around her, Once on a day she lay in dreamy slumber; She dream'd; and in her dreams saw bending o'er her A form her fervid fancy deified; What words, what passionate words he breathed, beseeching, Have long been lost in the descending years; Nevertheless, she listen'd to his teaching, Smiling between her tears. And ever since that hour the happy maiden NO MORE. No MORE-no more! What vague, mysterious, Inexplicable terrors in the sound! What soul-disturbing secrecies abound In those sad syllables! and what delirious, Who questions, maddens! what is veil'd in shade, ASTARTE. THY lustre, heavenly star! shines ever on me. I, trembling like Endymion over-bent By dazzling Dian, when with wonderment He saw her crescent light the Latmian lea: And like a Naiad's sailing on the sea, Floats thy fair form before me: the azure air Is all ambrosial with thy hyacinth hair: While round thy lips the moth in airy glee Hovers, and hums in dim and dizzy dreams, Drunken with odorous breath: thy argent eyes (Twin planets swimming through Love's lustrous skies) Are mirror'd in my heart's serenest streams-Such eyes saw SHAKSPERE, flashing bold and bright When queenly Egypt rode the Nile at night. AUGUSTINE J. H. DUGANNE. [Born about 1817.] THE largest work by Mr. DUGANNE which I hardly be stated, is Mr. LowELL'S "Fable fo. have seen is a yellow-covered octavo called, "The Critics." "American Bards," by Mr. GORHAM Mysteries of Three Cities! Boston, New York, A. WORTH, Truth, a New Year's Gift for and Philadelphia! a True History of Men's Scribblers," by Mr. WILLIAM J. SNELLING, and Hearts and Habits!" and on the title-page, which "The Quacks of Helicon," by Mr. L. A WILMER, is here faithfully copied, he is described as the are superior to any others of the second class. author of "The Illegitimate," "Emily Harper," Mr. DUGANNE's "Parnassus in Pillory," cannot "The Pastor," "The Two Clerks," "Secret be regarded as equal to either of these, but it has Guilt," "Fortunes of Pertinax," "etc. etc." He some epigrammatic turns of expression, with is therefore undoubtedly a voluminous writer in occasional critical suggestions, neatly delivered, prose, for it may be inferred that all these pro- which render it very readable. If the works here ductions are in that form; and he has published referred to be compared with that amazing exhiin verse The Iron Harp," "Parnassus in Pil-bition of satiric rage, "The Dunciad," of which lory," and "The Mission of Intellect," besides a most of our attempts in this class are imitations, great number of short pieces, in the newspapers, in a greater or less degree, according to the abiliwhich are collected with the rest in a hand-ties of their respective authors, no surprise will be rome octavo edition of his "Poetical Works." The argument of "Parnassus in Pillory" is thus announced: felt that they have commanded so little attention. Several of them evince as much malice, but all together, except Mr. LOWELL's ingenious performance, do not display as much poetry or wit, as the meanest page of POPE's ill-natured but incomparably polished and pointed attack on his contemporaries. From his "Iron Harp," Mr. DUGANNE seems to belong to "the party of progress," and his favorite poet, it may be guessed, is EBENEZER ELLIOTT. The most creditable illustration of his abilities is probably the following ode on Mr. POWERS's statue of the Greek Slave. ODE TO THE GREEK SLAVE. O GREEK! by more than Moslem fetters thrall'd! Where life is half recall'd, And beauty dwells, created, not enwrought- O chastity of Art! Behold! this maiden shape makes solitude Beneath her soul's immeasurable woe, Her eloquent spirit swoons, And flexile with the delicate glow of youth, She stands, the sweet embodiment of Truth; O Genius! thou canst chain And wake such reverence in the brain, Genius is worship! for its works adore Of hallowed influence, that we who gaze Be thou Evangel of true Art, and preach E. SPENCER MILLER. [Born, 1817.] Mr. E. SPENCER MILLER is a son of the late eminent theologian, the Reverend SAMUEL MILLER, D.D., of Princeton, New Jersey, where he was born on the third day of September, 1817. When nineteen years of age he was graduated at Nassau Hall, in his native town, and having studied the law, and been admitted to the bar, in Philadelphia, chose that city for his residence, and has attained to a distinguished position there in his profession. Mr. MILLER has not hitherto been known to the public as a poet. The only book upon the titlepage of which he has placed his name, is a stout octavo called "A Treatise on the Law of Parti tion, by Writ, in Pennsylvania," published in 1847; but while engaged in researches concerning this most unpoetical subject, in leisure hours his mind was teeming with those beautiful productions which were given to the world in 1849, in a modest an ›nymous volume entitled "Caprices." Among these poems are some that evince an imagination of unusual sensibility and activity, and in all are displayed culture and wise reflection. No one of our poets has made a first appearance in a book of greater promise, and it will be justly regretted if devotion to the law or to any other pursuit prevents its accomplished author from keeping that promise to the lovers of literature. NIAGARA. Ho, SPIRIT! I am with thee now; By summer streams, by land and sea, And dreamed what thou wouldst say to me. In spells of vision I have stood, The hour is mine; the dream is gone; The hour is mine; I feel thy spray; Majestic dirge of strifes and sighs; Forever new, forever old, Forever what all time hath vold. THE WIND. I STIR the pulses of the mind, And, with my passive cheek inclined, I lay my ear along the wind. It fans my face, it fans the tree, I feel it, but I cannot see. Upon my chilly brow it plays, Then, sweeping where the shadows ie, And, in its sorrow, and reproof, Away, the old cathedral bell Away,- with every breath there com .... "THE BLUE-BEARD CHAMBERS OF THE HEART." MOULD upon the ceiling, Mould upon the floor, Windows barred and double barred, Opening nevermore; Spiders in the corners, Spiders on the shelves, Weaving frail and endless webs Back upon themselves; Nor the bat, that clings It will haunt your ear Gather in the dark, Where a breath has brushed away Dust from off a mark; Dust of weary winters, Dust of solemn years, Dust that deepens in the silence, On the shelf and wainscot, Hist! the spectres gather, Break, and group again, Wreathing, writhing, gibbering Round that fearful stain;Blood upon the panels, Blood upon the floor, Blood that baffles wear and washing, Red for evermore. See, they pause and listen, Where the bat that clings, Stirs within the crevices Of the pannelings. See, they pause and listen, How the eager life has struggled, See. they pause and listen, Sighing on the floor, Sighing through the window-bars, Waken not those whispers; Waken not the dust that deepens Deepens in the dark; Blood upon the panels, Blood upon the floor, Blood that baffles wear and washing Red for evermore. THE GLOW-WORM. DEEP within the night, Sombre shadows meet, Off within the dark; Orchard, lane, and wood, Human homes asleep, Precipice and flood, What are they to it, Groping by its ray; God hath given light, Light for all its way, Light to know each step Of the toilsome ground; Wherefore should it pry, Questioning, around? In the night of time, Toiling through the dark, Reason's feeble lamp Giveth out its spark. Uttering unheard,— Pleading from the past, From the years to come Mournful glances cast,― What are they to me, Toiling towards the day; GOD hath given light, Light for all my way. |