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The patriarchs of ages fled-
The prophets of the time to come→
All who one ray of light could shed
Beyond the cradle or the tomb.

And I have task'd my busy brain

To learn what haply none may know, Thy birth, seat, power, thine ample reign O'er the heart's tides that ebb and flow, Throb, languish, whirl, rage, freeze, or glow Like billows of the restless main,

Amid the wrecks of joy and wo By ocean's caves preserved in vain. And oft to shadow forth I strove,

To my mind's eye, some form like thine,
And still my soul, like NOAH's dove,

Return'd, but brought, alas! no sign:
Till, wearying in the mad design,
With fever'd brow and throbbing vein,
I left the cause to thread the mine
Of wonderful effects again!
But now I see thee face to face,

Thou art indeed, a thing divine;
An eye pervading time and space,

And an angelic look are thine, Ready to seize, compare, combine Essence and form-and yet a trace

Of grief and care-a shadowy line Dims thy bright forehead's heavenly grace.

Yet thou must be of heavenly birth,

Where naught is known of grief and pain; Though I perceive, alas! where earth

And earthly things have left their stain: From thine high calling didst thou deign To prove-in folly or in mirth

With daughters of the first-born CAIN, How little HUMAN LOVE is worth?

Ha! dost thou change before mine eyes!
Another form! and yet the same,
But lovelier, and of female guise,
A vision of ethereal flame,

Such as our heart's despair can frame,
Pine for, love, worship, idolize,

Like HERS, who from the sea-foam came, And lives but in the heart, or skies.

SPIRIT OF CHANGE! I know thee too,
I know thee by thine Iris bow,

By thy cheek's ever-shifting hue,

By all that marks thy steps below;

By sighs that burn, and tears that glow

False joys-vain hopes-that mock the heart;
From FANCY's urn these evils flow,
SPIRIT OF LIES! for such thou art!

Saidst thou not once, that all the charms
Of life lay hid in woman's love,
And to be lock'd in Beauty's arms,

Was all men knew of heaven above?
And did I not thy counsels prove,
And all their pleasures, all their pain?
No more! no more my heart they move,
For I, alas! have proved them vain!

Didst thou not then, in evil hour,

Light in my soul ambition's flame? Didst thou not say the joys of power, Unbounded sway, undying fame,

A monarch's love alone should claim? And did I not pursue e'en these?

And are they not, when won, the same?
All VANITY OF VANITIES!

Didst not, to tempt me once again,
Bid new,
deceitful visions rise,
And hint, though won with toil and pain,
"Wisdom's the pleasure of the wise?"
And now, when none beneath the skies
Are wiser held by men than me,

What is the value of the prize?

It too, alas! is VANITY!

Then tell me since I've found on earth
Not one pure stream to slake this thirst,
Which still torments us from our birth,

And in our heart and soul is nursed;
This hopeless wish wherewith we're cursed,
Whence came it, and why was it given?

Thou speak'st not!--Let me know the worst! Thou pointest!-and it is to HEAVEN!

A FAREWELL TO AMERICA.*

FAREWELL! my more than fatherland!

Home of my heart and friends, adieu! Lingering beside some foreign strand, How oft shall I remember you!

How often, o'er the waters blue,
Send back a sigh to those I leave,

The loving and beloved few,
Who grieve for me,-for whom I grieve!
We part!-no matter how we part,

There are some thoughts we utter not,
Deep treasured in our inmost heart,
Never reveal'd, and ne'er forgot!
Why murmur at the common lot?
We part!-I speak not of the pain,—
But when shall I each lovely spot
And each loved face behold again?

It must be months,-it may be years,-
It may-but no!-I will not fill

Fond hearts with gloom,-fond eyes with tears,
Curious to shape uncertain ill."
Though humble,-few and far,-yet, still
Those hearts and eyes are ever dear;

Theirs is the love no time can chill,
The truth no chance or change can sear!
All I have seen, and all I see,

Only endears them more and more; Friends cool, hopes fade, and hours flee, Affection lives when all is o'er! Farewell, my more than native shore! I do not seek or hope to find,

Roam where I will, what I deplore

To leave with them and thee behind!

*Written on board ship Westminster, at sea, off the Highlands of Neversink, June 1, 1835.

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FAINT and sad was the moonbeam's smile,
Sullen the moan of the dying wave;
Hoarse the wind in St. Helen's isle,

As I stood by the side of NAPOLEON's grave.

And is it here that the hero lies,

Whose name has shaken the earth with dread? And is this all that the earth supplies

A stone his pillow-the turf his bed?

Is such the moral of human life?

Are these the limits of glory's reign? Have oceans of blood, and an age of strife, And a thousand battles been all in vain ?

Is nothing left of his victories now

But legions broken-a sword in rustA crown that cumbers a dotard's browA name and a requiem-dust to dust?

Of all the chieftains whose thrones he rear'd, Was there none that kindness or faith could bind? Of all the monarchs whose crowns he spared, Had none one spark of his Roman mind?

Did Prussia cast no repentant glance?

Did Austria shed no remorseful tear,
When England's truth, and thine honour, France,
And thy friendship, Russia, were blasted here?

No holy leagues, like the heathen heaven,
Ungodlike shrunk from the giant's shock;
And glorious TITAN, the unforgiven,

Was doom'd to his vulture, and chains, and rock.

And who were the gods that decreed thy doom?
A German CESAR-a Prussian sage-
The dandy prince of a counting-room-

And a Russian Greck of earth's darkest age.

Men call'd thee Despot, and call'd thee true;

But the laurel was earn'd that bound thy brow; And of all who wore it, alas! how few

Were freer from treason and guilt than thou!

Shame to thee, Gaul, and thy faithless horde! Where was the oath which thy soldiers swore? Fraud still lurks in the gown, but the sword

Was never so false to its trust before.

Where was thy veteran's boast that day,
"The old Guard dies, but it never yields?"
O! for one heart like the brave DESSAIX,
One phalanx like those of thine early fields!

But, no, no, no!-it was Freedom's charm

Gave them the courage of more than men ; You broke the spell that twice nerved each arm, Though you were invincible only then.

Yet St. Jean was a deep, not a deadly blow; One struggle, and France all her faults repairsBut the wild FAYETTE, and the stern CARNOT Are dupes, and ruin thy fate and theirs!

STANZAS.

My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
But ere the shades of evening close,

Is scatter'd on the ground-to die!
Yet on the rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept the waste to see-
But none shall weep a tear for me!
My life is like the autumn leaf

That trembles in the moon's pale ray, Its hold is frail-its date is brief,

Restless and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree, But none shall breathe a sigh for me! My life is like the prints, which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

All trace will vanish from the sand ; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race,

On that lone shore loud moans the sea, But none, alas! shall mourn for me!

TO LORD BYRON.

BYRON! 'tis thine alone, on eagles' pinions,
In solitary strength and grandeur soaring,
To dazzle and delight all eyes; outpouring
The electric blaze on tyrants and their minions;
Earth, sea, and air, and powers and dominions,
Nature, man, time, the universe exploring;
And from the wreck of worlds, thrones, creeds,
opinions,

Thought, beauty, eloquence, and wisdom storing: O! how I love and envy thee thy glory,

To every age and clime alike belonging; Link'd by all tongues with every nation's glory.

Thou TACITUS of song! whose echoes, thronging O'er the Atlantic, fill the mountains hoary And forests with the name my verse is wronging.

TO THE MOCKING-BIRD.

WING'D mimic of the woods! thou motley fool!
Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe?
Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule

Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe:
Wit, sophist, songster, YORICK of thy tribe,
Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school;
To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe,
Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule!

For such thou art by day-but all night long Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain, As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song Like to the melancholy JACQUES complain, Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong, And sighing for thy motley coat again.

JAMES A. HILLHOUSE.

[Born 1789. Died 1841.]

THE author of "Hadad" was descended from an ancient and honourable Irish family, in the county of Derry, and his ancestors emigrated to this country and settled in Connecticut in 1720. A high order of intellect seems to have been their right of inheritance, for in every generation we find their name prominent in the political history of the state. The grandfather of the poet, the Honourable WILLIAM HILLHOUSE, was for more than fifty years employed in the public service, as a representative, as a member of the council, and in other offices of trust and honour. His father, the Honourable JAMES HILLHOUSE, who died in 1833, after filling various offices in his native state, and being for three years a member of the House of Representatives, was in 1794 elected to the Senate of the United States, where for sixteen years he acted a leading part in the politics of the country. His wife, the mother of the subject of this sketch, was the daughter of Colonel MELANCTHON WOOLSEY, of Dosoris, Long Island. She was a woman distinguished alike for mental superiority, and for feminine softness, purity, and delicacy of character. Although educated in retirement, and nearly self-taught, her son was accustomed to say, when time had given value to his opinions, that she possessed the most elegant mind he had ever met with; and much of the nice discrimination, and the finer and more delicate elements of his own character, were an inheritance from her. Among the little occasional pieces which he wrote entirely for the family circle, was one composed on visiting her birth-place, after her death, which I have been permitted* to make public.

"As yonder frith, round green Dosoris roll'd, Reflects the parting glories of the skies,

Or quivering glances, like the paly gold,

When on its breast the midnight moonbeam lies;

"Thus, though bedimm'd by many a changeful year,
The hues of feeling varied in her cheek,
That, brightly flush'd, or glittering with a tear,
Seem'd the rapt poet's, or the seraph's meek.

"I have fulfill'd her charge,-dear scenes, adieu!-
The tender charge to see her natal spot;
My tears have flow'd, while busy Fancy drew
The picture of her childhood's happy lot.
"Would I could paint the ever-varying grace,
The ethereal glow and lustre of her mind,
Which own'd not time, nor bore of age a trace,
Pure as the sunbeam, gentle and refined!"

*I am indebted for the materials for this biography to the poet's intimate friend, the Reverend WILLIAM INGRAHAM KIPP, Rector of St. Paul's Church, in Albany, New York, who kindly consented to write out the character of the poet, as he appeared at home, and as none but his associates could know him, for this work.

Mr. HILLHOUSE was born in New Haven, on the twenty-sixth of September, 1789. The home of such parents, and the society of the intelligent circle they drew about them, (of which President DWIGHT was the most distinguished ornament,) was well calculated to cherish and cultivate his peculiar tastes. In boyhood he was remarkable for great activity and excellence in all manly and athletic sports, and for a peculiarly gentlemanly deportment. At the age of fifteen he entered Yale College, and in 1808 he was graduated, with high reputation as a scholar. From his first junior exhibition, he had been distinguished for the elegance and good taste of his compositions. Upon taking his second degree, he delivered an oration on "The Education of a Poet," so full of beauty, that it was long and widely remembered, and induced an appointment by, the Phi Beta Kappa Society, (not much in the habit of selecting juvenile writers,) to deliver a poem before them at their next anniversary. It was on this occasion that he wrote " The Judgment," which was pronounced before that society at the commencement of 1812.

A more difficult theme, or one requiring loftier powers, could not have been selected. The reflecting mind regards this subject in accordance with some preconceived views. That Mr. HILLHOUSE felt this difficulty, is evident from a remark in his preface, that in selecting this theme, "he exposes his work to criticism on account of its theology, as well as its poetry; and they who think the former objectionable, will not easily be pleased with the latter." Other poets, too, had essayed their powers in describing the events of the Last Day. The public voice, however, has decided, that among all the poems on this great subject, that of Mr. HILLHOUSE stands unequalled. His object was, "to present such a view of the last grand spectacle as seemed the most susceptible of poetical embellishment;" and rarely have we seen grandeur of conception and simplicity of design so admirably united. His representation of the scene is vivid and energetic; while the manner in which he has grouped and contrasted the countless array of characters of every age, displays the highest degree of artistic skill. Each character he summons up appears before us, with historic costume and features faithfully preserved, and we seem to gaze upon him as a reality, and not merely as the bold imagery of the poet.

"For all appear'd

As in their days of earthly pride; the clank Of steel announced the warrior, and the robe Of Tyrian lustre spoke the blood of kings." His description of the last setting of the sun in the west, and the dreamer's farewell to the evening star, as it was fading forever from his sight,

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are passages of beauty which it would be difficult to find surpassed.

About this period Mr. HILLHOUSE passed three years in Boston, preparing to engage in a mercantile life. During the interruption of business which took place in consequence of the last war with England, he employed a season of leisure passed at home, in the composition of several dramatic pieces, of which "Demetria" and "Percy's Masque" best satisfied his own judgment. When peace was restored, he went to New York, and embarked in commerce, to which, though at variance with his tastes, he devoted himself with fidelity and perseverance. In 1819, he visited Europe, and though the months passed there were a season of great anxiety and business occupations, he still found time to see much to enlarge his mind, and accumulated stores of thought for future use. Among other distinguished literary men, from whom while in London he received attentions, was ZACARY MACAULAY, (father of the Hon. T. BABBINGTON MACAULAY,) who subsequently stated to some American gentlemen, that "he considered Mr. HILLHOUSE the most accomplished young man with whom he was acquainted." It was during his stay in England that " Percy's Masque" was revised and published. The subject of this drama is the successful attempt of one of the Percies, the son of Shakspeare's Hotspur, to recover his ancestral home. The era chosen is a happy one for a poet. He is dealing with the events of an age where every thing to us is clothed with a romantic interest, which invests even the most common every-day occurrences of life.

"They carved at the meal

With gloves of steel,

And they drank the red wine through the helmet barr'd." Of this opportunity he fully availed himself, in the picture he has here given us of the days of chivalry. As a mere work of art, "Percy's Masque" is one of the most faultless in the language. If subjected to scrutiny, it will bear the strictest criticism by which compositions of this kind can be tried. We cannot detect the violation of a single rule which should be observed in the construction of a tragedy. When, therefore, it was republished in this country, it at once gave its author an elevated rank as a dramatic poet.

In 1822, Mr. HILLHOUSE was united in marriage to CORNELIA, eldest daughter of ISAAC LAWRENCE, of New York. He shortly afterward returned to his native town, and there, at his beautiful place, called Sachem's Wood, devoted himself to the pursuits of a country gentleman and practical agriculturist. His taste extended also to the arts with which poetry is allied; and in the embellishment of his residence, there was exhibited evidence of the refinement of its accomplished occupant. Here, with the exception of a few months of the winter, generally spent in New York, he passed the remainder of his life. • And never," remarks his friend, the Reverend Mr. KIPP, "has a domestic circle been anywhere gathered, uniting within itself more of grace, and elegance, and intellect. He who formed its centre and its

charm, possessed a character combining most beautifully the high endowments of literary genius, with all that is winning and brilliant in social life. They who knew him best in the sacred relations of his own fireside, will never cease to realize, that in him their circle lost its greatest ornament. All who were accustomed to meet his cordial greeting, to listen to his fervid and eloquent conversation, to be delighted with the wit and vivacity of his playful moments; to witness the grace and elegance of his manners, the chivalric spirit, the indomitable energy and high finish of the whole character, can tell how nobly he united the combined attractions of the poet, the scholar, and the perfect gentleman. Never, indeed, have we met with one who could pour forth more eloquently his treasures, drawn from the whole range of English literature, or bring them to bear more admirably upon the passing occurrences of the day. Every syllable, too, which he uttered, conveyed the idea of a high-souled honour, which we associate more naturally with the days of old romance, than with these selfish, prosaic times. His were indeed high thoughts, seated in a heart of courtesy.'"

"Hadad" was written in 1824, and printed in the following year. This has generally been esteemed HILLHOUSE's masterpiece. As a sacred drama, it is probably unsurpassed. The scene is in Judea, in the days of David; and as the agency of evil spirits is introduced, an opportunity is afforded to bring forward passages of strange sublimity and wildness. For a work like this, HILLHOUSE was peculiarly qualified. A most intimate acquaintance with the Scriptures enabled him to introduce each minute detail in perfect keeping with historical truth, while from the same study he seems also to have imbibed the lofty thoughts, and the majestic style of the ancient Hebrew prophets.

The

In 1840, he collected, and published in two volumes, the works which at that time he was willing to give to the world. In addition to those I have already mentioned, was 66 "Demetria," a domestic tragedy, now first revised and printed, after an interval of twenty-six years since its first composition, and several orations, delivered in New Haven, on public occasions, or before literary societies in other parts of the country. manly eloquence of the latter, is well calculated to add the reputation of an accomplished orator, to that which he already enjoyed as a poet. These volumes contain nearly all that he left us. It is a mistake, however, to suppose that he passed his life merely as a literary man. The early part of it was spent in the anxieties of business, while, through all his days, literature, instead of being his occupation, was merely the solace and delight of his leisure moments.

About this time his friends beheld, with anxiety, the symptoms of failing health. For fifteen months, however, he lingered on, alternately cheering their hearts by the prospect of recovery, and then causing them again to despond, as his weakness increased. In the fall of 1840, he left home

for the last time, to visit his friends in Boston. He returned, apparently benefited by the excursion, and no immediate danger was apprehended until the beginning of the following January. On the second of that month his disorder assumed an alarming form, and the next day was passed in intense agony. On Monday, his pain was alleviated; yet his skilful medical attendants beheld in this but the precursor of death; and it became their duty, on the following morning, to impart to him the news that his hours were few and numbered.

"Of the events of this solemn day, when he beheld the sands of life fast running out, and girded up his strength to meet the King of Terrors," says the writer to whom I have before alluded, "I cannot speak. The loss is still too recent to allow us to withdraw the veil and tell of his dying hours. Yet touching was the scene, as the warm affections of that noble heart gathered in close folds around those he was about to leave, or wandered back in remembrance to the opening of life, and the friends of childhood who had already gone. It was also the Christian's death. The mind which had conceived so vividly the scenes of the judgment, must often have looked forward to that hour, which he now could meet in an humble, trusting faith. And thus the day wore on, until, about eight o'clock in the evening, without a struggle, he fell asleep."

As a poet, he possessed qualities seldom found united: a masculine strength of mind, and a most delicate perception of the beautiful. With an imagination of the loftiest order-with "the vision and the faculty divine" in its fullest exercise, the wanderings of his fancy were chastened and controlled by exquisite taste. The grand

characteristic of his writings is their classical beauty. Every passage is polished to the utmost, yet there is no exuberance, no sacrifice to false and meretricious taste. He threw aside the gaudy and affected brilliancy with which too many set forth their poems, and left his to stand, like the doric column, charming by its simplicity. Writing not for present popularity, or to catch the senseless applause of the multitude, he was willing to commit his works-as Lord Bacon did his memory-" -"to the next ages." And the result is proving how wise were his calculations. The "fit audience," which at first hailed his poems with pleasure, from realizing their worth, has been steadily increasing. The scholar studies them as the productions of a kindred spirit, which had drunk deeply at the fountains of ancient lore, until it had itself been moulded into the same form of stern and antique beauty, which marked the old Athenian dramatists. The intellectual and the gifted claim him as one of their own sacred brotherhood; and all who have a sympathy with genius, and are anxious to hold communion with it as they travel on the worn and beaten path of life, turn with ever renewed delight to his pages. They see the evidences of one, who wrote not be cause he must write, but because he possessed a mind crowded and glowing with images of beauty, and therefore, in the language of poetry, he poured forth its hoarded treasures. Much as we must lament the withdrawal of that bright mind, at an age when it had just ripened into the maturity of its power, and when it seemed ready for greater efforts than it yet had made, we rejoice that the event did not happen until a permanent rank had been gained among the noblest of our poets.

J

1

THE JUDGMENT.

I.

THE rites were past of that auspicious day
When white-robed altars wreath'd with living green
Adorn the temples;-when unnumber'd tongues
Repeat the glorious anthem sung to harps
Of angels while the star o'er Bethlehem stood ;-
When grateful hearts bow low, and deeper joy
Breathes in the Christian than the angel song,
On the great birthday of our Priest and King.
That night, while musing on his wondrous life,
Precepts, and promises to be fulfill'd,

A trance-like sleep fell on me, and a dream
Of dreadful character appall'd my soul.
Wild was the pageant:-face to face with kings,
Heroes, and sages of old note, I stood;
Patriarchs, and prophets, and apostles saw,
And venerable forms, ere round the globe
Shoreless and waste a weltering flood was roll'd,
With angels, compassing the radiant throne
Of MARY'S Son, anew descended, crown'd
With glory terrible, to judge the world.

II.

Methought I journey'd o'er a boundless plain, Unbroke by vale or hill, on all sides stretch'd, Like circling ocean, to the low-brow'd sky; Save in the midst a verdant mount, whose sides Flowers of all hues and fragrant breath adorn'd. Lightly I trod, as on some joyous quest, Beneath the azure vault and early sun; But while my pleased eyes ranged the circuit green, New light shone round; a murmur came, confused, Like many voices and the rush of wings. Upward I gazed, and, 'mid the glittering skies, Begirt by flying myriads, saw a throne Whose thousand splendours blazed upon the earth Refulgent as another sun. Through clouds They came, and vapours colour'd by AURORA, Mingling in swell sublime, voices, and harps, And sounding wings, and hallelujahs sweet. Sudden, a seraph that before them flew, Pausing upon his wide-unfolded plumes, Put to his mouth the likeness of a trump, And toward the four winds four times fiercely

breathed.

Doubling along the arch, the mighty peal

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