And vague-like fears the boy surround,

In the shadow of that tree;

So growing up from the darksome ground,

Like a giant mystery.

His heart beats quick to the squirrel's tread
On the wither'd leaf and dry,
And he lifts not up his awe-struck head
As the eddying wind sweeps by.
And regally the stout oak stood,

In its vigour and its pride;

A monarch own'd in the solemn wood,
With a sceptre spreading wide-
No more in the wintry blast to bow,

Or rock in the summer breeze;
But draped in green, or star-like snow,
Reign king of the forest trees.

And a thousand years it firmly grew,
And a thousand blasts defied;

And, mighty in strength, its broad arms threw
A shadow dense and wide.

It grew where the rocks were bursting out
From the thin and heaving soil—
Where the ocean's roar, and the sailor's shout,
Were mingled in wild turmoil-

Where the far-off sound of the restless deep
Came up with a booming swell;
And the white foam dash'd to the rocky steep,
But it loved the tumult well.

Then its huge limbs creak'd in the midnight air,
And join'd in the rude uproar;

For it loved the storm and the lightning's glare, And the sound of the breaker's roar.

The bleaching bones of the sea-bird's prey
Were heap'd on the rocks below;
And the bald-head eagle, fierce and gray,
Look'd off from its topmost bough.
Where its shadow lay on the quiet wave
The light boat often swung,

And the stout ship, saved from the ocean-grave,
Her cable round it flung.

Change came to the mighty things of earth-
Old empires pass'd away;

Of the generations that had birth,

O Death! where, where were they? Yet fresh and green the brave oak stood,

Nor dream'd it of decay,

Though a thousand times in the autumn wood

Its leaves on the pale earth lay.

A sound comes down in the forest trees,
And echoing from the hill;

It floats far off on the summer breeze,
And the shore resounds it shrill.

Lo! the monarch tree no more shall stand

Like a watch-tower of the main

The strokes fall thick from the woodman's hand,
And its falling shakes the plain.

The stout live oak !-'T was a worthy tree,
And the builder mark'd it out;

And he smiled its angled limbs to see,
As he measured the trunk about.

Already to him was a gallant bark
Careering the rolling deep,
And in sunshine, calm, or tempest dark,
Her way she will proudly keep.

The chisel clicks, and the hammer rings,
And the merry jest goes round;
While he who longest and loudest sings
Is the stoutest workman found.
With jointed rib, and trunnel'd plank
The work goes gayly on,

And light-spoke oaths, when the glass they drank, Are heard till the task is done.

She sits on the rocks, the skeleton ship,
With her oaken ribs all bare,
And the child looks up with parted lip,
As it gathers fuel there-
With brimless hat, the bare-foot boy

Looks round with strange amaze,
And dreams of a sailor's life of joy

Are mingling in that gaze.

With graceful waist and carvings brave
The trim hull waits the sea-
And she proudly stoops to the crested wave,
While round go the cheerings three.
Her prow swells up from the yeasty deep,
Where it plunged in foam and spray :
And the glad waves gathering round her sweep
And buoy her in their play.

Thou wert nobly rear'd, O heart of oak!
In the sound of the ocean roar,
Where the surging wave o'er the rough rock broke,
And bellow'd along the shore-

And how wilt thou in the storm rejoice,

With the wind through spar and shroud, To hear a sound like the forest voice,

When the blast was raging loud!
With snow-white sail, and streamer gay,
She sits like an ocean-sprite,
Careering on in her trackless way,

In sunshine or dark midnight:
Her course is laid with fearless skill,
For brave hearts man the helm;
And the joyous winds her canvass fill--
Shall the wave the stout ship whelm ?
On, on she goes, where the icebergs roll,
Like floating cities by;

Where meteors flash by the northern pole,
And the merry dancers fly;

Where the glittering light is backward flung
From icy tower and dome,

And the frozen shrouds are gayly hung

With gems from the ocean foam.

On the Indian sea was her shadow cast,
As it lay like molten gold,

And her pendant shroud and towering mast
Seem'd twice on the waters told.

The idle canvass slowly swung

As the spicy breeze went by,

And strange, rare music around her rung
From the palm-tree growing nigh.

O, gallant ship, thou didst bear with thee

The gay and the breaking heart,

And weeping eyes look'd out to see

Thy white-spread sails depart.
And when the rattling casement told
Of many a perill'd ship,

The anxious wife her babes would fold,
And pray with trembling lip.

The petrel wheel'd in its stormy flight;
The wind piped shrill and high;
On the topmast sat a pale blue light,

That flicker'd not to the eye:

The black cloud came like a banner down,
And down came the shrieking blast;
The quivering ship on her beams is thrown,
And gone are helm and mast.
Helmless, but on before the gale,

She ploughs the deep-trough'd wave:
A gurgling sound-a frenzied wail-

And the ship hath found a grave. And thus is the fate of the acorn told, That fell from the old oak tree,

And the woodland Fays in the frosty mould Preserved for its destiny.

THE DROWNED MARINER.

A MARINER sat on the shrouds one night,
The wind was piping free;

Now bright, now dimm'd was the moonlight pale,
And the phosphor gleam'd in the wake of the whale,
As it flounder'd in the sea;

The scud was flying athwart the sky,
The gathering winds went whistling by,
And the wave, as it tower'd, then fell in spray,
Look'd an emerald wall in the moonlight ray.
The mariner sway'd and rock'd on the mast,
But the tumult pleased him well:
Down the yawning wave his eye he cast,
And the monsters watch'd as they hurried past,
Or lightly rose and fell,—

For their broad, damp fins were under the tide,
And they lash'd as they pass'd the vessel's side,
And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim,
Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him.
Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes
Like an uncurb'd steed along;

A sheet of flame is the spray she throws,
As her gallant bow the water ploughs,

But the ship is fleet and strong;
The topsail is reef'd, and the sails are furl'd,
And onward she sweeps o'er the watery world,
And dippeth her spars in the surging flood;
But there cometh no chill to the mariner's blood.

Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease,
And holdeth by the shroud;

And as she careens to the crowding breeze,
The gaping deep the mariner sees,

And the surging heareth loud.
Was that a face, looking up at him,
With its pallid cheek, and its cold eyes dim?
Did it beckon him down? Did it call his name?
Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came.

The mariner look'd, and he saw, with dread,
A face he knew too well;

And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead,
And its long hair out on the wave was spread,—
Was there a tale to tell?

The stout ship rock'd with a reeling speed,
And the mariner groan'd, as well he need-
For ever down, as she plunged on her side,
The dead face gleam'd from the briny tide.
Bethink thee, mariner, well of the past:
A voice calls loud for thee:
There's a stifled prayer, the first, the last;
The plunging ship on her beams is cast,—
O, where shall thy burial be?
Bethink thee of oaths, that were lightly spoken;
Bethink thee of vows, that were lightly broken;
Bethink thee of all that is dear to thee,
For thou art alone on the raging sea;
Alone in the dark, alone on the wave,
To buffet the storm alone;

To struggle aghast at thy watery grave,
To struggle, and feel there is none to save!
Gon shield thee, helpless one!

The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past;
The trembling hands on the deep are cast;
The white brow gleams a moment more,
Then slowly sinks,—the struggle is o'er.

Down, down where the storm is hush'd to sleep,
Where the sea its dirge shall swell;
Where the amber-drops for thee shall weep,
And the rose-lipp'd shell its music keep;
There thou shalt slumber well.

The gem and the pearl lie heap'd at thy side;
They fell from the neck of the beautiful bride,
From the strong man's hand, from the maiden's brow,
As they slowly sunk to the wave below.
A peopled home is the ocean-bed;

The mother and child are there:
The fervent youth and the hoary head,
The maid, with her floating locks outspread,
The babe, with its silken hair:
As the water moveth, they lightly sway,
And the tranquil lights on their features play:
And there is each cherish'd and beautiful form,
Away from decay, and away from the storm.

TO THE HUDSON.

O, RIVER! gently as a wayward child

I saw thee mid the moonlight hills at rest,Capricious thing, with thine own beauty wild,

How didst thou still the throbbings of thy breast! Rude headlands were about thee, stooping round, As if amid the hills to hold thy stay; But thou didst hear the far-off ocean sound, Inviting thee from hill and vale away, To mingle thy deep waters with its own; And, at that voice, thy steps did onward glide, Onward from echoing hill and valley lone;

Like thine, O, be my course--nor turn'd aside, While listing to the soundings of a land, That, like the ocean-call, invites me to its strand.

66

NATHANIEL P. WILLIS was born at Portland, in Maine, on the twentieth day of January, 1807. During his childhood his parents removed to Boston; and at the Latin school in that city, and at the Philips Academy in Andover, he pursued his studies until he entered Yale College, in 1823. While he resided at New Haven, as a student, he won a high reputation, for so young an author, by a series of "Scripture Sketches," and a few other brief poems; and it is supposed that the warm and too indiscriminate praises bestowed upon these productions, influenced unfavourably his subsequent progress in the poetic art. He was graduated in 1827, and in the following year he published a Poem delivered before the Society of United Brothers of Brown University," which, as well as his "Sketches," issued soon after he left college, was very favourably noticed in the best periodicals of the time. He also edited "The Token," a wellknown annuary, for 1828; and about the same period published, in several volumes, "The Legendary," and established "The American Monthly Magazine." To this periodical several young writers, who afterward became distinguished, were contributors; but the articles by its editor, constituting a large portion of each number, gave to the work its character, and were of all its contents the most popular. In 1830 it was united to the "New York Mirror," of which Mr. WILLIS became one of the conductors; and he soon after sailed for Europe, to be absent several years.

He travelled over Great Britain, and the most interesting portions of the continent, mixing largely in society, and visiting every thing worthy of his regard as a man of letters, or as an American; and his "First Impressions" were given in his letters to the "Mirror," in which he described, with remarkable spirit and fidelity, and in a style peculiarly graceful and elegant, scenery and incidents, and social life among the polite classes in Europe. His letters were collected and republished in London, under the title of "Pencillings by the Way," and violently attacked in several of the leading periodicals, ostensibly on account of their too great freedom of personal detail. Captain MARRYAT, who was at the time editing a monthly magazine, wrote an article, characteristically gross and malignant, which led to a hostile meeting at Chatham, and Mr. LOCKHART, in the "Quarterly Review," published a "criticism" alike illiberal and unfair. WILLIS perhaps erred in giving to the public dinner-table conversations, and some of his descriptions of manners; but Captain MARRYAT himself is not undeserving of censure on account of the "personalities" in his writings; and for other reasons he could not have been the most suitable person in England to avenge the wrong it was alleged Mr. WILLIS had offered to society. That the author of "Peter's Letters to

Mr.

66

In 1835 Mr. WILLIS was married in England. He soon after published his "Inklings of Adventure," a collection of tales and sketches originally written for a London magazine, under the signature of Philip Slingsby;" and in 1837 he returned to the United States, and retired to his beautiful estate on the Susquehanna, named "Gleninary," in compliment to one of the most admirable wives that ever gladdened a poet's solitude. In the early part of 1839, he became one of the editors of "The Corsair," a literary gazette, and in the autumn of that year went again to London, where, in the following winter, he published his " Loiterings of Travel," in three volumes, and "Two Ways of Dying for a Husband," comprising the plays "Bianca Visconti," and "Tortesa the Usurer." In 1840 appeared the illustrated edition of his poems, and his "Letters from Under a Bridge," and he retired a second time to his seat in western New York, where he now resides. Besides the works already mentioned, he is the author of "American Scenery," and of "Ireland,"--two works illustrated in a splendid manner by BARTLETT,-and of numerous papers in the reviews, magazines, and other periodicals.

The prose and poetry of Mr. WILLIS are alike distinguished for exquisite finish and melody. His language is pure, varied, and rich; his imagination brilliant, and his wit of the finest quality. Many of his descriptions of natural scenery are written pictures; and no other author has represented with equal vivacity and truth the manners of the age. His dramatic poems have been the most successful works of their kind produced in America. They exhibit a deep acquaintance with the common sympathies and passions, and are as remarkable as his other writings for affluence of language and imagery, and descriptive power.

His leading characteristics are essentially different from those of his contemporaries. DANA and BRYANT are the teachers of a high, religious philosophy; HALLECK and HOLMES excel in humour and delicate satire; LONGFELLOW has a fine imagination and is unequalled as an artist; but WILLIS is more than any other the poet of society,familiar with the secret springs of action in social life, and moved himself by the same influences which guide his fellows. His genius is various: Parrhasius," "Spring," "Hagar in the Wilderness," "The Annoyer," and other pieces, present strong contrasts; and they are alike excellent.

66

MELANIE.

I.

I STOOD on yonder rocky brow,

And marvell'd at the Sybil's fane, When I was not what I am now.

My life was then untouch'd of pain;
And, as the breeze that stirr'd my hair,
My spirit freshen'd in the sky,
And all things that were true and fair
Lay closely to my loving eye,
With nothing shadowy between-
I was a boy of seventeen.

Yon wondrous temple crests the rock,
As light upon its giddy base,
As stirless with the torrent's shock,
As pure in its proportion'd grace,
And seems a thing of air, as then,
Afloat above this fairy glen;

But though mine eye will kindle still In looking on the shapes of art,

The link is lost that sent the thrill,
Like lightning, instant to my heart.
And thus may break, before we die,
The electric chain 'twixt soul and eye!
Ten years-like yon bright valley, sown
Alternately with weeds and flowers—
Had swiftly, if not gayly, flown,

And still I loved the rosy hours;
And if there lurk'd within my breast

Some nerve that had been overstrung And quiver'd in my hours of rest,

Like bells by their own echo rung, I was with Hope a masker yet,

And well could hide the look of sadness,
And, if my heart would not forget,

I knew, at least, the trick of gladness,
And when another sang the strain,
I mingled in the old refrain.

"Twere idle to remember now,

Had I the heart, my thwarted schemes.

I bear beneath this alter'd brow

The ashes of a thousand dreams:
Some wrought of wild Ambition's fingers,
Some colour'd of Love's pencil well,
But none of which a shadow lingers,
And none whose story I could tell.
Enough, that when I climb'd again
To Tivoli's romantic steep,
Life had no joy, and scarce a pain,

Whose wells I had not tasted deep;
And from my lips the thirst had pass'd

For every fount save one-the sweetest-and the

last.

The last the last! My friends were dead,
Or false; my mother in her grave;
Above my father's honour'd head

The sea had lock'd its hiding wave;
Ambition had but foil'd my grasp,
And Love had perish'd in my clasp;

The story is told during a walk around the Cascatelles of Tivoli.

And still, I say, I did not slack
My love of life, and hope of pleasure,
But gather'd my affections back;
And, as the miser hugs his treasure,

When plague and ruin bid him flee,
I closer clung to mine-my loved, lost MELANIE!.
The last of the DE BREVERN race,

My sister claim'd no kinsman's care;
And, looking from each other's face,
The eye stole upward unaware-
For there was naught whereon to lean
Each other's heart and heaven between-
Yet that was world enough for me,
And, for a brief, but blessed while,
There seem'd no care for MELANIE,
If she could see her brother smile;
But life, with her, was at the flow,
And every wave went sparkling higher,
While mine was ebbing, fast and low,
From the same shore of vain desire,

And knew I, with prophetic heart,
That we were wearing aye insensibly apart.

11.

We came to Italy. I felt

A yearning for its sunny sky;
My very spirit seem'd to melt

As swept its first warm breezes by.
From lip and cheek a chilling mist,
From life and soul a frozen rime
By every breath seem'd softly kiss'd:
Gon's blessing on its radiant clime!
It was an endless joy to me

To see my sister's new delight;
From Venice, in its golden sea,

To Paestum, in its purple light,
By sweet Val d'Arno's tinted hills,
In Vallombrosa's convent gloom,
Mid Terni's vale of singing rills,

By deathless lairs in solemn Rome,
In gay Palermo's "Golden Shell,"
At Arethusa's hidden well,

We loiter'd like the impassion'd sun,
That slept so lovingly on all,

And made a home of every oneRuin, and fane, and waterfall

And crown'd the dying day with glory, If we had seen, since morn, but one old haunt of

story.

We came, with spring, to Tivoli.

My sister loved its laughing air And merry waters, though, for me, My heart was in another key;

And sometimes I could scarcely bear The mirth of their eternal play,

And, like a child that longs for home, When weary of its holiday,

I sigh'd for melancholy Rome. Perhaps the fancy haunts me still"T was but a boding sense of ill.

It was a morn, of such a day

As might have dawn'd on Eden first, Early in the Italian May.

Vine-leaf and flower had newly burst,

And, on the burden of the air,

The breath of buds came faint and rare;
And, far in the transparent sky,
The small, earth-keeping birds were seen,
Soaring deliriously high;

And through the clefts of newer green
Yon waters dash'd their living pearls ;
And, with a gayer smile and bow,

Troop'd on the merry village-girls;
And, from the Contadina's brow,

The low-slouch'd hat was backward thrown,
With air that scarcely seem'd his own;
And MELANIE, with lips apart,

And clasped hands upon my arm,
Flung open her impassion'd heart,

And bless'd life's mere and breathing charm,
And sang old songs, and gather'd flowers,
And passionately bless'd once more life's thrilling
hours.

In happiness and idleness

We wander'd down yon sunny vale,-
O, mocking eyes! a golden tress

Floats back upon this summer gale

A foot is tripping on the grass!

A laugh rings merry in mine ear!

I see a bounding shadow pass!—

O, GOD! my sister once was here!
Come with me, friend;-we rested yon;
There grew a flower she pluck'd and wore;
She sat upon this mossy stone!

That broken fountain, running o'er
With the same ring, like silver bells;
She listen'd to its babbling flow,
And said, "Perhaps the gossip tells

Some fountain nymph's love-story now!"
And, as her laugh rang clear and wild,
A youth-a painter-pass'd and smiled.
He gave the greeting of the morn

With voice that linger'd in mine ear.
I knew him sad and gentle born

By those two words, so calm and clear.
His frame was slight, his forehead high,
And swept by threads of raven hair;
The fire of thought was in his eye,

And he was pale and marble fair;
And Grecian chisel never caught
The soul in those slight features wrought.
I watch'd his graceful step of pride,
Till hidden by yon leaning tree,

And loved him e'er the echo died:
And so, alas! did MELANIE!

We sat and watch'd the fount a while
In silence, but our thoughts were one;
And then arose, and, with a smile

Of sympathy, we saunter'd on;
And she by sudden fits was gay,
And then her laughter died away;

And, in this changefulness of mood,
Forgotten now those May-day spells,

We turn'd where VARRO's villa stood,
And, gazing on the Cascatelles,

(Whose hurrying waters, wild and white,
Seem'd madden'd as they burst to light,)

I chanced to turn my eyes away,
And, lo! upon a bank alone,
The youthful painter, sleeping, lay!
His pencils on the grass were thrown,
And by his side a sketch was flung,
And near him as I lightly crept,
To see the picture as he slept,
Upon his feet he lightly sprung:
And, gazing with a wild surprise
Upon the face of MELANIE,

He said and dropp'd his earnest eyes— "Forgive me! but I dream'd of thee!"

His sketch, the while, was in my hand, And, for the lines I look'd to traceA torrent by a palace spann'd, Half-classic and half-fairy-landI only found my sister's face!

III.

Our life was changed. Another love
In its lone woof began to twine;
But, ah! the golden thread was wove
Between my sister's heart and mine!
She who had lived for me before-

She who had smiled for me aloneWould live and smile for me no more! The echo to my heart was gone!

It seem'd to me the very skies
Had shone through those averted eyes;

The air had breathed of balm-the flower

Of radiant beauty seem'd to be

But as she loved them, hour by hour,
And murmur'd of that love to me!
O, though it be so heavenly high

The selfishness of earth above,
That, of the watchers in the sky,

He sleeps who guards a brother's loveThough to a sister's present weal

The deep devotion far transcends The utmost that the soul can feel

For even its own higher endsThough next to GoD, and more than heaven For his own sake, he loves her, even"Tis difficult to see another,

A passing stranger of a day,

Who never hath been friend or brother, Pluck with a look her heart away,

To see the fair, unsullied brow, Ne'er kiss'd before without a prayer,

Upon a stranger's bosom now, Who for the boon took little care,

Who is enrich'd, he knows not why; Who suddenly hath found a treasure

Golconda were too poor to buy; And he, perhaps, too cold to measure, (Albeit, in her forgetful dream, The unconscious idol happier seem,) "Tis difficult at once to crush The rebel mourner in the breast,

To press the heart to earth, and hush
Its bitter jealousy to rest,--

And difficult--the eye gets dim-
The lip wants power to smile on him!

I thank sweet MARY Mother now,

Who gave me strength those pangs to hide,