BLOODY BROOK.* By Bloody Brook, at break of day, And many a bright flower flourish'd there: The holy forest, all around, Was hush as summer's sabbath noon, And through its arches breathed no sound But Bloody Brook's low bubbling tune. And, rich with every gallant hue, The old trees stretch their leafy arms, And o'er them all the morning threw A tenderer glow of blushing charms; And varying gold, and softest green, And crimson like the summer rose, And deeper, through the foliage screen, The mellow purple lives and glows. By night-alas, that fearful night! How sinks my heart the tale to tell- Saw blooming there so passing well: For pearly dew-drops stain'd the sod. But, hark! that sound you scarce may hear, Or fell snake, stealing to his lair? With more than wolfish vengeance warm; Ah me, it is the serpent's art Incarnate in the human form! And now 't is still! No sound to wake Yet all so hush'd the gloom profound, Yet hark, again! a merry note Comes pealing up the quiet stream; * September 18th, 1674, Captain LATHROP, with a number of teams and eighty young inen, the flower of Essex county, went to bring a quantity of grain from Deerfield; on their return they stopped to gather grapes at the place afterwards known as Bloody Brook. They were assailed by a body of Indians, amounting to seven or eight hundred, who were lying in wait for their approach. Seventy of their number were slain and afterwards buried in one grave: never had the country seen such a bloody hour. It is said that there was scarcely a family in Essex which did not feel the blow. And nearer still the echoes float The rolling drum, the fife's loud scream! Yet careless was their march, the whileThey deem no danger hovering near, And oft the weary way beguile With sportive laugh and friendly jeer. Pride of their wild, romantic land, In the first flush of manhood's day, It was a bright and gallant band, Which trod that morn the venturous way. Long was the toilsome march, and now They pause along the shelter'd tide, And pluck from many a cluster'd bough The wild fruits by the pathway side. How gay! Alas, that direful yell! So loud, so wild, so shrill, so clear, As if the very fiends of hell, Burst from the wild-wood depths, were here! The flame, the shot, the deadly gasp, The shout, the shriek, the panting breath, The struggle of that fearful clasp, When man meets man for life or death!— All, all were here! No manlier forms Than theirs, the young, the brave, the fair; No bolder hearts life's current warms Than those that pour'd it nobly there! In the dim forest's deep recess, From hope, from friends, from succour far, Fresh from home's smile and dear caress, They stood to dare the unequal war! Ah, gallant few! No generous foe Had met you by that crimson tide; As brave men do and die, they died! But beating hearts, far, far away, Broke, at their story's fearful truth; Wept, years, long years, to hear them tell, The flower of Essex fell! And that sweet, nameless stream, whose flood And flow'd as bright and pure again: To stir the hearts of after years! JONATHAN LAWRENCE. [Born, 1807. Died, 1833.] FEW persons in private life, who have died so young, have been mourned by so many warm friends as was JONATHAN LAWRENCE. Devoted to a profession which engaged nearly all his time, and regardless of literary distinction, his productions would have been known only to his associates, had not a wiser appreciation of their merits withdrawn them from the obscurity to which his own low estimate had consigned them. He was born in New York, in November, 1807, and, after the usual preparatory studies, entered Columbia College, at which he was graduated before he was fifteen years of age. He soon after became a student in the office of Mr. W. SLOSSON, an eminent lawyer, where he gained much regard by the assiduity with which he prosecuted his studies, the premature ripeness of his judgment, and the undeviating purity and honourableness of his life. On being admitted to the bar, he entered into a partnership with Mr. SLOSSON, and daily added confirmation to the promise of his probational career, until he was suddenly called to a better life, in April, 1833. The industry with which he attended to his professional duties did not prevent him from giving considerable attention to general literature; and in moments-to use his own language "Stolen from hours I should have tied he produced many poems and prose sketches of considerable merit. These, with one or two exceptions, were intended not for publication, but as tributes of private friendship, or as contributions to the exercises of a literary society-still in existence-of which he was for several years an active member. After his death, in compliance with a request by this society, his brother made a collection of his writings, of which a very small edition was printed, for private circulation. Their character is essentially meditative. Many of them are devotional, and all are distinguished for the purity of thought which guided the life of the man. THOUGHTS OF A STUDENT. MANY a sad, sweet thought have I, Many a wild and wandering dream, Oft, when the south wind's dancing free And the flowers peep softly out to see The frolic Spring as she wantons by; When the breeze and beam like thieves come in, To steal me away, I deem it sin To slight their voice, and away I'm straying Then can I hear the earth rejoice, That sings of its glad festivity; Many a hue of fancy, when The hues of earth are about to perish; Love hath its thoughts, we cannot keep, The secret transports of the soul; Many a big, proud tear have I, When from my sweet and roaming track, From the green earth and misty sky, And spring, and love, I hurry back; The toilsome day and lonely night, And almost make me gay and bright. Honour and fame that I would win, Though every toil that yet hath been Were doubly borne, and not an hour Were brightly hued by Fancy's power. And, though I sometimes sigh to think Of earth and heaven, and wind and sea, And know that the cup which others drink Shall never be brimm'd by me; That many a joy must be untasted, And many a glorious breeze be wasted, Yet would not, if I dared, repine, That toil, and study, and care are mine. SEA-SONG. OVER the far blue ocean-wave, On the wild winds I flee, Yet every thought of my constant heart For each foaming leap of our gallant ship Had not thy form, through sun and storm, O, the sea-mew's wings are fleet and fast, And lovelier, too, than yon rainbow's hue, Are the daylight dreams and sunny gleams And when moon and stars are asleep on the waves, And the sailor is guiling the long watch-hour When our sail is white in the dark midnight, O, never knew hall such festival LOOK ALOFT. In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow, "Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade. Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye, Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret, "Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set. Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart, And, O! when death comes in his terrors, to cast TO MAY. COME, gentle May! Come with thy robe of flowers, Come with thy sun and sky, thy clouds and showers; Come, and bring forth unto the eye of day, From their imprisoning and mysterious night, The buds of many hues, the children of thy light. Come, wondrous May! For, at the bidding of thy magic wand, In all their green and glorious array Come, vocal May! Come with thy train, that high On some fresh branch pour out their melody; Come, sunny May! Come with thy laughing beam, What time the lazy mist melts on the stream, Or seeks the mountain-top to meet thy ray, Ere yet the dew-drop on thine own soft flower Hath lost its light, or died beneath his power. Come, holy May! When, sunk behind the cold and western hill, His light hath ceased to play on leaf and rill, And twilight's footsteps hasten his decay; Come with thy musings, and my heart shall be Like a pure temple consecrate to thee. Come, beautiful May! Like youth and loveliness, Like her I love; O, come in thy full dress, The drapery of dark winter cast away; Yet, lovely May! The heartless pomp that beckons to betray, And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year, Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear. And let me too, sweet May! Let thy fond votary see, As fade thy beauties, all the vanity Of this world's pomp; then teach, that though decay In his short winter bury beauty's frame, In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway, Another spring shall bloom, eternal and the same. LOUISA J. HALL. [Born about 1807.] as MIRIAM is declaring to PAULUS her determination, they are interrupted by EUPHAS, who suddenly returns to inform his sister that the funeral party had been surprised by a band of Roman soldiers, some slain, and others, among whom was their father, borne to prison. The indignation of EUPHAS is excited by finding PAULUS with MIRIAM, and, by the aid of a body of Christians, armed for the emergency, he seizes him as a hostage, and Or the life of LOUISA J. PARK, now Mrs. HALL, I have been able to learn but few particulars. I believe she was born and educated in Boston, and that she belongs to a highly respectable family. In 1841 she was married to Mr. HALL, a clergyman of Providence, and now resides in that city. Her reputation as an author rests principally on " Miriam," a dramatic poem, published in 1837. The story of "Mirian" is simple, the characters well drawn and sustained, and the incidents hap-goes to the palace of Piso to claim the liberation pily invented, though not always in keeping with the situations and qualities of the actors. THRASENO, a Christian exile from Judea, dwells with his family in Rome. He has two children, EUPHAS, and a daughter of remarkable beauty and a heart and mind in which are blended the highest attributes of her sex and her religion. She is seen and loved by PAULUS, a young nobleman, whose father, Piso, had in his youth served in the armies in Palestine. The passion is mutual, but secret; and having failed to win the Roman to her faith, the Christian maiden resolves to part from him forever. While THRASENO and her brother are attending the funeral of an aged friend, the lovers meet; and of THRASENO. MIRIAM, who had fainted during this scene, on her recovery follows him on his hopeless errand; and we are next introduced to the palace, where the young Christian is urging, on the ground of humanity, the release of his father, in a manner finely contrasted with the contemptuous fierceness of the hardhearted magistrate. The scene which follows, is that in which MIRIAM first meets Piso. The tyrant promises to restore THRASENO to his children, but they receive at their home only his dead body. PAULUS rejects his parent and his religion; and while a dirge is sung over the martyr, the soul of his lamented and suffering daughter ascends to heaven. A SCENE FROM "MIRIAM." EUPHAS AND PISO, IN THE HALL OF A ROMAN PALACE. Euphas. LET me but die First of thy victims Piso. Would that among them- [Miriam glides in. A pause. And, since I saw thee last, my days have been Go back, fair spirit, to thine own dim realms! Piso. The voice that won me first! Miriam. O, man of guilt and wo! Piso. How! Art thou not she? I know that face! I never yet beheld Miriam. Thou art a wretched man! and I do feel And wear not eyes that swim in earth-born tears, LOUISA J. HALL. Piso. Off! off! She touch'd me with her damp, Thy son hath seen me, loved me, and hath won cold hand! But 't was a hand of flesh and blood! Away! Miriam. Why are thine eyes so fix'd and wild? thy lips Convulsed and ghastly white? Thine own dark [sins, Vexing thy soul, have clad me in a form I must be heard, for God hath sent me here. The Gon thou knowest not. Piso. Thou art of earth! I see the rose-tint on thy pallid cheek, Miriam. He hath given me strength, And He hath brought me here before thy face; Piso. Girl! name it not. I deem'd I look'd on one whose bright young face Euphas. MIRIAM! go thou hence. Miriam. Brother! Piso. Ha! is this so? Now, by the gods!-Bar, bar the gates, ye slaves! Miriam. Peace! Name not, with tongue unhallow'd, love like ours. Miriam. I have no other form than this Gon gave; Piso. It is most strange. Is not the air around her full of spells? Give me the son thou hast seduced! Miriam. Piso! A heart too prone to worship noble things, Euphas. Sister! my tears They choke my words-else Miriam. EUPHAS, thou wert wroth When there was little cause; I loved thee more. Were beautiful. The scorn of virtuous youth, Piso. Maid! Hath then my son withstood thy witchery, Alas! that I rejoice to say it. Well thou mayst, for it hath wrought his pardon. Had not these cold and aged eyes themselves Euphas. Tyrant! cease. Wert thou a fiend, such brutal boasts as these Were not for ears like hers! Miriam. I tremble not. He spake of pardon for his guiltless son, Euphas. Let us go hence. Piso ! Piso. Not yet, My haughty boy, for we have much to say Miriam. How! hast thou changed- Miriam. There, through yon western arch! the The mists already tinge her orb with blood. Piso. I do but one thing more I fain would know; for, after this wild night, |