HENRY W. PARKER. [Born, 1825.] THE Reverend HENRY W. PARKER is a native of Danby, New York, and was born in 1825. His mother is a niece of the late NOAH WEBSTER, and his father, the Reverend SAMUEL PARKER, of Ithaca, travelled in Oregon, and published in 1837 an account of his tour, a very interesting book, in which the practicability of a railroad through the Rocky Mountains was first suggested. Mr. PARKER passed his early years in Ithaca, a place of singular beauty, at the head of Cayuga Lake, and was graduated at Amherst College in 1843. He subsequently studied divinity, and is now pastor of a Presbyterian church in Brooklyn. VISION OF SHELLEY'S DEATH. THE wind had darkly touched the outer bay, A looming storm shut out the sultry day, And whiter grew the distant billows' play. The nearer calm a single sail beguiled, And at the helm, with features fair and mild, Sat one whom men have called the Eternal Child. A breath-a breeze-the tempest strikes the sail; It fills, it stoops, and, swift and free as frail, It flies a broad-winged arrow from the gale. A precious boat! may angels speed it right! The world, in shell so thin and form so slight, Hath all its hold upon a mind of might. He lay reclined in noonday dreams no more, He gazed no longer at the purple shore, Nor mused on roofing skies, and ocean's floor. The wizard storm invoked a truer dreamHad kindled in his eye its proudest gleam, And given his eagle soul a grander theme. No sign of craven fear his lips reveal; He only feels the joy that heroes feel, When lightnings flash and jarring thunders peal. The boat dipt low; his foot was on the helm; The deck a throne, the storm his genial realm, He dared the powers that nature's king o'erwhelm. The gentle eye that turned from man away, Now flashed in answer to the flashing spray, And glanced in triumph o'er the foaming bay. And as aloft the boat a moment hung, Then down the plunging wave was forward flung, His own wild song, "The Fugitives," he sung: Said he, "And seest thou, and hearest thou?" Cried he, "And fearest thou, and fearest thou? A pilot bold, I trow, should follow now." The sail was torn and trailing in the sea, The water flooded o'er the dipping lee, And clomb the mast in maddest revelry. It righted, with the liquid load, and fast Went down; the mariners afloat were cast, And louder roared and laughed the mocking blast. His wife, to whom he was married in 1852, is the author of a work entitled "Stars of the Western World," and he has himself written much in "The North American Review" and other periodicals, besides a volume of "Poems," published at Auburn, in 1850, and The Story of a Soul," a poen read before the literary societies of Hamilton College, in 1851. Mr. PARKER has a luxuriant fancy, a ready apprehension of the picturesque in nature, a meditative tenderness, and uncommon facility of versification. In some of his pieces there is humor, but this is a quality he does not seem to cherish. A moment, and no trace of man or spar THE DEAD-WATCH. EACH saddened face is gone, and tearful eye Thro' whispering hall, and up the rustling stair. In yonder room the newly deed doth sleep; Begin we thus, my friend, our watch to keep. And now both feed the fire and trim the lamp; Pass cheerly, if we can, the slow-paced hours; For, all without is cold, and drear, and damp, And the wide air with storm and darkness lowers; Pass cheerly, if we may, the live-long night, And chase pale phantoms, paler fear, to flight. We will not talk of death, of pall and knell -Leave that, the mirth of brighter hours to check; But tales of life, love, beauty, let us tell, Or of stern battle, sea, and stormy wreck; Call up the visions gay of other daysOur boyhood's sports and merry youthful ways. Hark to the distant bell!-an hour is gone! Enter yon silent room with footsteps light; Our brief, appointed du y must be done To bathe the face, and stay death's rapid blight: To bare the rigid face, and dip the cloth That hides a mortal, "crushed before the The bathing liquid scents the chilly room; How spectral white are shroud and vailing lace On yonder side-board, in the fearful gloom! SONNETS. SUMMER LIGHTS. NO MORE the tulips hold their torches up, In low obeisance bow their weight of green; The locusts bloom with swarms of snowy bees That make the fragrant branches downward lean Each snow-ball bush with full-blown moons is hung And all around, like red suns setting low, Large peonies shed a burning crimson glow, While, worlds of foliage on the shoulders swung Of Atlantean trunks, the orchards darkly grow. SUMMER'S ESSENCE. A TIDE of song and leaf, of bloom and feather- Whate'er of beauty, mornings clear and tender Delicious fragrance, foliage deep and massy, moth."nfolding roses, silver locust flowers, Take off the muffler from the sleeper's face- A weary angel in sweet slumber caught!- As shadows o'er the field each other chase; And beauty in the brilliant summer flower, And in the liquid eye and luring tone Of radiant Love's and rosy Laughter's hour; But where is beauty, in this blooming world, Like Death upon a maiden's lip impearled! Vail we the dead, and close the open door; Perhaps the spirit, ere it soar above, Would watch its clay alone, and hover o'er The face it once had kindled into love; Commune we hence, oh friend, this wakef 1 night, Of death made lovely by so blest a sight And darkling silences of waters glassy, Soft crescents, loving stars and nightly showers, Rich shades and lemon lights in vistas grassy, And sweetest twitterings through all the hours, And opal clouds that float in slumber bland, And distances that soften into fairy-land. A STREET. By day, soft clouded in a twilight gloom, And sunny spots upon the level floor, SNOW IN THE VILLAGE. NOT thus on street and garden, roof and spire, The snow, for ages, here was yearly spread; It tipt the Indian's plume of bloody red, And melted, hissing, in his council-fire; It gave an impress to the panther's tread, And all the monster feet that filled the wood. But now the snow of whiter towns and faces Has drifted o'er the glorious solitude; And death and silence, like a winter, orood Upon the vanished brute and human races So let oblivion come, till it effaces, Oh weary soul, thy summer's maddest mood, Thus o'er thy woes let silence softly fall, And Winter, with a holy beauty, vail them all JOHN ESTEN COOKE. [Born, 1830.] JOHN ESTEN COOKE, son of JOHN ROGERS and MARIA PENDLETON COOKE, and brother of the author of "Froissart Ballads," was born in Winchester, Frederic county, Virginia, on the third of November, 1830; was taken to Glengary, his father's estate, near that town, and lived there until the destruction of the house by fire, in 1839, when the family removed to Richmond, which has ever since been his home. Having studied the law, in the office of his father, he was admitted to the bar, and continues in the practice of the profession. Mr. COOKE's first work was "Leather Stocking and Silk," which appeared in 1853. It is a story of provincial life in Virginia, as it is represented in the traditions which cluster around Martinsburg. It is remarkable for picturesque grouping and dramatic situations, for simple touches of nature, and gentle pathos. This was followed in 1854 by The Virginia Comedians, or the Old Days of the Old Dominion," in which is presented a carefully studied and finely colored picture of 46 Virginia society just before the revolution. Tha book is thoroughly democratic and American, and abounds with natural delineations of character, brilliant dialogue, and graphic description. In the same year he produced "The Youth of Jefferson," in all respects, perhaps, his best novel. It is founded on some of the statesman's early letters, and is a graceful and romantic drama, the personages of which are distinctly drawn, and in their different ways all interesting. In 1855 he published “Ellie, or the Human Comedy." Mr. COOKE's poems have appeared in the "Literary Messenger" and other southern periodicals The longest and most remarkable of them has but the unexpressive title of "Stanzas," and its subject and style will remind the reader of a noble work of the most popular living poet of England. It is, however, an original performance, simple, natural, and touching, and every verse vindicates its genuineness as ar expression of feeling. His minor pieces are cabinet pictures, executed with taste and skill. EXTRACTS FROM "STANZAS." I. FOR long I thought the dreadful day And then, “Even put your grief in words, "Oh Soul! these are the trials meet The wagons rattling o'er the way The drayman calling to his horseThe auctioneer, with utterance hoarse Cry in yon house of dusky gray — The clash of arméd minds, aloof, Resound through legislative ballsThe indignant echo of the wallsThe nothingness that shakes the root, And, near the bustle of the courts Where law's condottieri wage The fight, with passion, well-paid rage · Below, the ships draw toward the ports. From all I turn with weary heart To that green mountain land of thine, Where tranquil suns unclouded shine, And to the abode where now thou art. III. The deep alarum of the drum Resounds in yonder busy street, The horses move on restless feet, And every urchin cries, "They come!" With which the trumpet blares aloud And brazen-throated horns reply: The incense of the melody Floats upward like a golden cloud. And like the boy's my soul is fired, And half I grasp the empty air, With dreams of lists and ladies fair, As in the days when I aspired. The trumpet dies, a distant roar, The drum becomes a murmuring voice— No more in battle I rejoice, But fall to dreaming as before Of other skies and greener trees, And mountain peaks of purple gloom— And of the dim and shadowy tomb, Where that great spirit rests in peace. IV. The sunset died that tender day, Across the mountains bright and pure, And bathed with golden waves the shore Of evening, and the fringéd spray, And stately ships which glided by, With whitest sails toward the dim Untravelled seas beyond the rim Of peaks that melted in the sky. He sat upon the trellised porch, And still the conversation ranged From olden things all gone or changed, To grand, eternal Truth-a torch That spread around a steady light, And mocked the strength of hostile hands And pointed man to other lands Of hope beyond Thought's farthest flight. That noble forehead, broad and calm, Was flushed with evening's holy ray, Like music in the quiet watch And him who spake those noble words, Though trembling still in all its chords, My heart is calmed, and I believe. So shall I gather strength again To stem the tide of worldly strife, To bear the weariness of life, And feel that all things are not vain. CLOUDS. I KNOW not whither past the crimson zone Play for a moment gayly on their soft And burnished pinions wide: then from aloft Sink down below the horizon and are gone! I know not where they fold their shining wings In very truth; nor what far happy land They come together in- -a radiant band, The brightest, purest, of all earthly things! But well I know that land lies broad and fair Beyond the evening: Oh! that I were there! MAY. HAS the old glory passed Has the old Beauty gone Or knolls of the forest withdrawn, Is the old freshness dead Of the fairy May?— Ah! the sad tear-drops unshed! Ah! the young maidens unwed! Golden locks-cheeks rosy red! Ah! where are they? MEMORIES. THE flush of sunset dies And a mist is in my eyes- How plain is the flowering grass ·· The sunset-flooded door; I hear the river's roar Say clearly "Nevermore." I see the cloud-shadows pass Over my mountain meres; Gone are the rose-bright years: Drowned in a sea of tears. WILLIAM CROSWELL DOANE. [Born, 1832.1 THE Reverend WILLIAM C. DOANE, A.M., serond son of the Right Reverend GEORGE W. DOANE, D.D., LL. D., was born in Boston, in March, 1832; graduated at Burlington College, 1830; ordained deacon, by his father, in March, 1853; and is now assistant minister of St. Mary's Church, Burlington, of which his father is the rector, and adjunct professor of English literature and instructor in Anglo-Saxon, in Burlington College. His poetical productions have been pub lished in "The Missionary," of which he was the editor, and in other newspapers. They are medi tative, graceful, and fanciful, and promise a greal excellence. GREY CLIFF, NEWPOF T.* WHAT strivest thou for, oh thou most mighty ocean, MY FATHER'S FIFTY-THIRD BIRTH-DAY. A YEAR of stir, and storm, and strife, But yet the firm undaunted step My sister's home. And as the tree that feels the gale Through scattered storm-clouds burst,So, when the false world's strife is done And time has passed away, The brightest beam of heaven's own light About thy head shall play! SHELLS. FAR out at sea a tiny boat To lend it tints so fair, Where storied mermaids dwell, And oh, what glorious hues were they Of blue and gold, and red and gray, As violets sweet in loveliest dells, They learned beneath the seas,—— "Pleased they remember their august abodes, And murmur, as the ocean murmurs there." WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR |