THE family of the author of “Geraldine” is one of the most ancient and respectable in Massachusetts. His ancestors were among the earliest settlers of Boston; and his grandfather, as president of the Council, was for a time acting governor of the state, on the death of the elected chief magistrate. His father, THOMAS DAWES, was for ten years one of the associate judges of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts, and was distinguished among the advocates of the Federal Constitution, in the state convention called for its consideration. He was a sound lawyer, a man of great independence of character, and was distinguished for the brilliancy of his wit, and for many useful qualities.*

RUFUS DAWES was born in Boston, on the twenty-sixth of January, 1803, and was the youngest but one of sixteen children. He entered Harvard College in 1820; but in consequence of class disturbances, and insubordination, of which it was afterward shown he was falsely accused, he was compelled to leave that institution without a degree. This indignity he retaliated by a severe satire on the most prominent members of the faculty-the first poem he ever published. He then entered the office of General WILLIAM SULLIVAN, as a law-student, and was subsequently admitted a member of the Suffolk county bar. He has however never pursued the practice of the legal profession, having been attracted by othepursuits more congenial with his feelings.

| of Chief Justice CRANCH, of Washington. In 1830 he published "The Valley of the Nashaway, and other Poems," some of which had appeared originally in the Cambridge "United States Literary Gazette;" and in 1839, "Athenia of Damas cus," "Geraldine," and his miscellaneous poetical writings. His last work, "Nix's Mate," an historical romance, appeared in the following year.

With Mr. DAWES poetry seems to have been a passion, which is fast subsiding and giving place to a love of philosophy. He has been said to be a disciple of COLERIDGE, but in reality is a devoted follower of SWEDENBORG; and to this influence must be ascribed the air of mysticism which pervades his later productions. He has from time to time edited several legal, literary, and political works, and in the last has shown himself to be an adherent to the principles of the old Federal party. As a poet, his standing is yet unsettled, there being a wide difference of opinion respecting his writings. His versification is generally easy and correct, and in some pieces he exhibits considerable imagination.

In the winter of 1840-41, he delivered a course of lectures in the city of New York, before the American Institute, in which he combated the principles of the French eclectics and the Transcendentalists, contending that their philosophy is only a sublimated natural one, and very far removed from the true system of causes, and genuspirituality.

LANCASTER.

THE Queen of May has bound her virgin brow, And hung with blossoms every fruit-tree bough; The sweet Southwest, among the early flowers, Whispers the coming of delighted hours, While birds within the heaping foliage, sing Their music-welcome to returning Spring.

O, Nature! loveliest in thy green attire— Dear mother of the passion-kindling lyre; Thou who, in early days, upled'st me where The mountains freeze above the summer air; Or luredst my wandering way beside the streams, To watch the bubbles as they mock'd my dreams, Lead me again thy flowery paths among, To sing of native scenes as yet unsung! Dear Lancaster! thy fond remembrance brings Thoughts, like the music of Eolian strings,

* He is classed by Mr. KETTELL among the American poet; and in the Book of "Specimens" published by him are given some passages of his "Law given on ini," published in Boston in 1777.

When the hush'd wind breathes only as it sleeps,
While tearful Love his anxious vigil keeps:-
When press'd with grief, or sated with the show
That Pleasure's pageant offers here below,
Midst scenes of heartless mirth or joyless glee,
How oft my aching heart has turn'd to thee,
And lived again, in memory's sweet recess,
The innocence of youthful happiness!

In lite s dull dream, when want of sordid gain
Clings to our being with its cankering chain,
When lofty thoughts are cramp'd to stoop below
The vile, rank weeds that in their pathway grow,
Who would not turn amidst the darken'd scene,
To memoried spots where sunbeams intervene;
And dwell with fondness on the joyous hours,
When youth built up his pleasure-dome of flowers?
Now, while the music of the feather'd choir
Rings where the sheltering blossoms wake desire,
When dew-eyed Love looks tenderness, and speaks
A silent language with his mantling cheeks;
I hink of those delicious moments past,
Which joyless age shall dream of to the last;

As now, though far removed, the Muse would tell,
Though few may listen, what she loved so well.
Dear hours of childhood, youth's propitious spring,
When Time fann'd only roses with his wing,
When dreams, that mock reality, could move
To yield an endless holiday to Love,
How do ye crowd upon my fever'd brain,
And, in imagination, live again!

Lo! I am with you now, the sloping green,
Of many a sunny hill is freshly seen;
Once more the purple clover bends to meet,
And shower their dew-drops on the pilgrim's feet;
Once more he breathes the fragrance of your fields,
Once more the orchard tree its harvest yields,
Again he hails the morning from your hills,
And drinks the cooling water of your rills,
While, with a heart subdued, he feels the power
Of every humble shrub and modest flower.

O thou who journeyest through that Eden-clime,
Winding thy devious way to cheat the time,
Delightful Nashaway! beside thy stream,
Fain would I paint thy beauties as they gleam.
Eccentric river! poet of the woods!
Where, in thy far secluded solitudes,

The wood-nymphs sport and naiads plash thy wave,
With charms more sweet than ever Fancy gave;
How oft with Mantua's bard, from school let free,
I've conn'd the silver lines that flow like thee,
Couch'd on thy emerald banks, at full length laid,
Where classic elms grew lavish of their shade,
Or indolently listen'd, while the throng
Of idler beings woke their summer song;
Or, with rude angling gear, outwatched the sun,
Comparing mine to deeds by WALTON done,

Far down the silent stream, where arching trees
Bend their green boughs so gently to the breeze,
One live, broad mass of molten crystal lies,
Clasping the mirror'd beauties of the skies!
Look, how the sunshine breaks upon the plains!
So the deep blush their flatter'd glory stains.
Romantic river! on thy quiet breast,
While flash'd the salmon with his lightning crest,
Not long ago, the Indian's thin canoe
Skimm'd lightly as the shadow which it threw;
Not long ago, beside thy banks of green,
The night-fire blazed and spread its dismal sheen.
Thou peaceful valley! when I think how fair
Thy various beauty shines, beyond compare,
I cannot choose but own the Power that gave
Amidst thy woes a helping hand to save,
When o'er thy hills the savage war-whoop came,
And desolation raised its funeral flame!

'Tis night! the stars are kindled in the sky, And hunger wakes the famished she-wolf's cry, While, o'er the crusted snow, the careful tread Betrays the heart whose pulses throb with dread; Yon flickering light, kind beacon of repose! The weary wanderer's homely dwelling shows, Where, by the blazing fire, his bosom's joy Holds to her heart a slumbering infant boy; While every sound her anxious bosom moves, She starts and listens for the one she loves;Hark! was't the night-bird's cry that met her

ear,

Curdling the blood that thickens with cold fear?

66

Again, O God! that voice,-'tis his! 'tis his!" She hears the death-shriek and the arrow's whiz, When, as she turns, she sees the bursting door Roll her dead husband bleeding on the floor.

Loud as the burst of sudden thunder, rose The maddening war-cry of the ambush'd foes; Startling in sleep, the dreamless infant wakes, Like morning's smile when daylight's slumber breaks;

For mercy! spare my child, forbear the blow!" In vain ;-the warm blood crimsons on the snow. O'er the cold earth the captive mother sighs, Her ears still tortured by her infant's cries; She cannot weep, but deep resolve, unmoved, Plots vengeance for the victims so beloved; Lo! by their fire the glutted warriors lie, Locked in the death-sleep of ebriety, When from her bed of snow, whence slumber flew, The frenzied woman rose the deed to do;Firmly beside the senseless men of blood, With vengeful arm, the wretched mother stood; She hears her groaning, dying lord expire, Her woman's heart nerves up with maddening fire, She sees her infant dashed against the tree,— "Tis done!-the red men sleep eternally.

[now,

Such were thy wrongs, sweet Lancaster! but No spot so peaceful and serene as thou; Thy hills and fields in checker'd richness stand, The glory and the beauty of the land.

From calm repose, while glow'd the eastern sky, And the fresh breeze went fraught with fragrance by, Waked by the noisy woodbird, free from care, What joy was mine to drink the morning air! Not all the bliss maturer life can bring, When ripen'd manhood soars with strengthen'd

wing,

Not all the rapture Fancy ever wove,

[grow,

Nor less than that which springs from mutual love,
Could challenge mine, when to the ravish'd sense
The sunrise painted Gon's magnificence!
George-hill, thou pride of Nashaway, for thee,—
Thyself the garden of fertility,-
Nature has hung a picture to the eye,
Where Beauty smiles at sombre Majesty.
The river winding in its course below,
Through fertile fields where yellowing harvests
The bowering elms that so majestic grew,
A green arcade for waves to wander through;
The deep, broad valley, where the new-mown hay
Loads the fresh breezes of the rising day,
And, distant far, Wachusett's towering height,
Blue in the lingering shadows of the night,
Have power to move the sternest heart to love,
That Nature's loveliness could ever move.

Ye who can slumber when the starlight fades, And clouds break purpling through the eastern shades,

Whose care-worn spirits cannot wake at morn,
To lead your buoyant footsteps o'er the lawn,
Can never know what joy the ravish'd sense
Feels in that moment's sacred influence.
I will not ask the meed of fortune's smile,
The flatterer's praise, that masks his heart of guile,
So I can walk beneath the ample sky,
And hear the birds' discordant melody,

And see reviving Spring, and Summer's gloom,
And Autumn bending o'er his icy tomb,
And hoary Winter pile his snowy drifts;
For these to me are Fortune's highest gifts;
And I have found in poor, neglected flowers,
Companionship for many weary hours;

And high above the mountain's crest of snow,
Communed with storm-clouds in their wrath below;
And where the vault of heaven, from some vast
height

Grew black, as fell the shadows of the night,
Where the stars seem to come to you, I've woo'd
The grandeur of the fearful solitude.
From such communion, feelings often rise,
To guard the heart midst life's perplexities,
Lighting a heaven within, whose deep-felt joy
Compensates well for Sorrow's dark alloy.
Then, though the worldly chide, and wealth deny,
And passion conquer where it fain would fly,
Though friends you love betray, while these are left,
The heart can never wholly be bereft.

Hard by yon giant elm, whose branches spread
A rustling robe of leaves above your head;
Where weary travellers, from noonday heat,
Beneath the hospitable shade retreat,
The school-house met the stranger's busy eye,
Who turned to gaze again, he knew not why.
Thrice lovely spot! where, in the classic spring,
My young ambition dipp'd her fever'd wing,
And drank unseen the vision and the fire
That break with quenchless glory from the lyre!
Amidst thy wealth of art, fair Italy!

While Genius warms beneath thy cloudless sky,
As o'er the waking marble's polished mould
The sculptor breathes PYGMALION's prayer of old,
His heart shall send a frequent sigh to rove,
A pilgrim to the birth-place of his love!

And can I e'er forget that hallowed spot,
Whence springs a charm that may not be forgot;
Where, in a grove of elm and sycamore,
The pastor show'd his hospitable door,
And kindness shone so constantly to bless
That sweet abode of peace and happiness?

The oaken bucket-where I stoop'd to drink The crystal water, trembling at the brink, Which through the solid rock in coldness flow'd, While creaked the ponderous lever with its load; The dairy-where so many moments flew, With half the dainties of the soil in view; [care, Where the broad pans spread out the milkmaid's To feed the busy churn that labour'd there; The garden-where such neatness met the eye, A stranger could not pass unheeding by; The orchard-and the yellow-mantled fields, Each in its turn some dear remembrance yields.

Ye who can mingle with the glittering crowd, Where Mammon struts in rival splendour proud; Who pass your days in heartless fashion's round, And bow with hatred, where ye fear to wound; Away! no flatterer's voice, nor coward's sneer, Can find a welcome, or an altar here. But ye who look beyond the common ken, Self-unexalted when ye judge of men, Who, conscious of defects, can hurry by Faults that lay claim upon your charity;

Who feel that thrilling vision of the soul
Which looks through faith beyond an earthly goal,
And will not yet refuse the homely care
Which every being shares, or ought to share;
Approach! the home of Goodness is your own,
And such as ye are worthy, such alone.

When silence hung upon the Sabbath's smile,
And noiseless footsteps paced the sacred aisle,
When hearts united woke the suppliant lay,
And happy faces bless'd the holy day;

O, Nature! could thy worshipper have own'd
Such joy, as then upon his bosom throned;
When feelings, even as the printless snow,
Were harmless, guileless as a child can know ;
Or, if they swerved from right, were pliant still,
To follow Virtue from the path of ill?
No! when the morning 's old, the mist will rise
To cloud the fairest vision of our eyes;
As hopes too brightly formed in rainbow dyes,
A moment charm-then vanish in the skies!

Sweet hour of holy rest, to mortals given,
To paint with love the fairest way to heaven;
When from the sacred book instruction came
With fervid eloquence and kindling flame.
No mystic rites were there; to Con alone
Went up the grateful heart before his throne,
While solemn anthems from the organ pour'd
Thanksgiving to the high and only Lonn.

Lo! where yon cottage whitens through the

green.

The loveliest feature of a matchless scene;
Beneath its shading elm, with pious fear,
An aged mother draws her children near;
While from the Holy Word, with earnest air,
She teaches them the privilege of prayer.
Look! how their infant eyes with rapture speak;
Mark the flush'd lily on the dimpled cheek;
Their hearts are filled with gratitude and love,
Their hopes are center'd in a world above,
Where, in a choir of angels, faith portrays
The loved, departed father of their days.

Beside yon grassless mound, a mourner kneels,
There gush no tears to soothe the pang he feels;
His loved, his lost, lies coffin'd in the sod,
Whose soul has found a dwelling-place with Gon!
Though press'd with anguish, mild religion shows
His aching heart a balm for all its woes;
And hope smiles upward, where his love shall find
A union in eternity of mind!

[seal'd

Turn there your eyes, ye cold, malignant crew, Whose vile ambition dims your reason's view, Ye faithless ones, who preach religion vain, And, childlike, chase the phantoms of your brain; Think not to crush the heart whose truth has Its confidence in heavenly love reveal'd. Let not the atheist deem that Fate decrees The lot of man to misery or ease, While to the contrite spirit faith is given, To find a hope on earth, a rest in heaven. Unrivall'd Nashaway! where the willows throw Their frosted beauty on thy path below, Beneath the verdant drapery of the trees. Luxuriant Fancy woos the sighing breeze. The redbreast singing where the fruit-tree weaves Its silken canopy of mulb'ry leaves;

Enamell'd fields of green, where herding kine
Crop the wet grass, or in the shade recline;
The tapping woodbird, and the minstrel bee,
The squirrel racing on his moss-grown tree,
With clouds of pleasant dreams, demand in vain
Creative thought to give them life again.

I turn where, glancing down, the eye surveys
Art building up the wreck of other days;
For graves of silent tribes upheave the sod,
And Science smiles where savage PHILIP trod;
Where wing'd the poison'd shaft along the skies,
The hammer rings, the noisy shuttle flies;
Impervious forests bow before the blade,
And fields rise up in yellow robes array'd.
No lordly palace nor imperial seat

Grasps the glad soil where freemen plant their feet;

No ruin'd castle here with ivy waves,
To make us blush for ancestry of slaves;
But, lo! unnumber'd dwellings meet the eye,
Where men lie down in native majesty:
The morning birds spring from their leafy bed,
As the stern ploughman quits his happy shed;
His arm is steel'd to toil-his heart to bear
The robe of pain, that mortals always wear;
Though wealth may never come, a plenteous board
Smiles at the pamper'd rich man's joyless hoard;
True, when among his sires, no gilded heir
Shall play the fool, and damn himself to care,
But Industry and Knowledge lead the way,
Where Independence braves the roughest day.
Nurse of my country's infancy, her stay
In youthful trials and in danger's day;
Diffusive Education! 'tis to thee

She owes her mountain-breath of Liberty;
To thee she looks, through time's illusive gloom,
To light her path, and shield her from the tomb;
Beneath thine Egis tyranny shall fail,
Before thy frown the traitor's heart shall quail;
Ambitious foes to liberty may wear

A patriot mask, to compass what they dare,
And sting the thoughtless nation, while they smile
Benignantly and modestly the while;
But thou shalt rend the virtuous-seeming guise,
And guard her from the worst of enemies.
Eternal Power! whose tempted thunder sleeps,
While heaven-eyed Mercy turns away and weeps;
Thou who didst lead our fathers where to send
Their free devotions to their Gon and friend;
Thou who hast swept a wilderness away,
That men may walk in freedom's cloudless day;
Guard well their trust, lest impious faction dare
Unlock the chain that binds our birthright fair;
That private views to public good may yield,
And honest men stand fearless in the field!
Once more I turn to thee, fair Nashaway!
The farewell tribute of my humble lay.;
The time may come, when lofty notes shall bear
Thy peerless beauty to the gladden'd air;
Now to the lyre no daring hand aspires,
And rust grows cankering on its tuneless wires.

Our lays are like the fitful streams that flow
From careless birds, that carol as they go;
Content, beneath the mountain-top to sing,
And only touch Castalia with a wing.

ANNE BOLEYN.

I WEEP while gazing on thy modest face,
Thou pictured history of woman's love!
Joy spreads his burning pinions on thy cheek,
Shaming its whiteness; and thine eyes are full
Of conscious beauty, as they undulate.
Yet all thy beauty, poor, deluded girl!
Served but to light thy ruin.-Is there not,
Kind Heaven! some secret talisman of hearts,
Whereby to find a resting-place for love?
Unhappy maiden! let thy story teach
The beautiful and young, that while their path
Softens with roses,-danger may be there;
That Love may watch the bubbles of the stream,
But never trust his image on the wave.

SUNRISE,

FROM MOUNT WASHINGTON.

THE laughing hours have chased away the night, Plucking the stars out from her diadem :And now the blue-eyed Morn, with modest grace, Looks through her half-drawn curtains in the east, Blushing in smiles and glad as infancy. And see, the foolish Moon, but now so vain Of borrow'd beauty, how she yields her charms, And, pale with envy, steals herself away! The clouds have put their gorgeous livery on, Attendant on, the day-the mountain-tops Have lit their beacons, and the vales below Send up a welcoming;-no song of birds, Warbling to charm the air with melody, Floats on the frosty breeze; yet Nature hath The very soul of music in her looks! The sunshine and the shade of poetry.

I stand upon thy lofty pinnacle, Temple of Nature! and look down with awe On the wide world beneath me, dimly seen; Around me crowd the giant sons of earth, Fixed on their old foundations, unsubdued; Firm as when first rebellion bade them rise Unrifted to the Thunderer-now they seem A family of mountains, clustering round Their hoary patriarch, emulously watching To meet the partial glances of the day. Far in the glowing east the flickering light, Mellow'd by distance, with the blue sky blending Questions the eye with ever-varying forms.

The sun comes up! away the shadows fling From the broad hills-and, hurrying to the west Sport in the sunshine, till they die away.

The many beauteous mountain-streams leap down,
Out-welling from the clouds, and sparkling light
Dances along with their perennial flow.
And there is beauty in yon river's path,
The glad Connecticut! I know her well,
By the white veil she mantles o'er her charnis:
At times, she loiters by a ridge of hills,
Sportfully hiding-then again with glee
Out-rushes from her wild-wood lurking-place,
Far as the eye can bound, the ocean-waves,
And hills and rivers, mountains, lakes and woods,
And all that hold the faculty entranced,

Bathed in a flood of glory, float in air, And sleep in the deep quietude of joy.

There is an awful stillness in this place, A Presence, that forbids to break the spell, Till the heart pour its agony in tears. Bat I must drink the vision while it lasts; For even now the curling vapours rise, Wreathing their cloudy coronals to grace These towering summits-bidding me away;— But often shall my heart turn back again, Thou glorious eminence! and when oppress'd, And aching with the coldness of the world, Find a sweet resting-place and home with thee.

SPIRIT OF BEAUTY.

THE Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light,
And wheels her course in a joyous flight;
I know her track through the balmy air,
By the blossoms that cluster and whiten there;
She leaves the tops of the mountains green,
And gems the valley with crystal sheen.

At morn, I know where she rested at night,
For the roses are gushing with dewy delight;
Then she mounts again, and round her flings
A shower of light from her crimson wings;
Till the spirit is drunk with the music on high,
That silently fills it with ecstasy.

At noon she hies to a cool retreat,
Where bowering elms over waters meet;
She dimples the wave where the green leaves dip,
As it smilingly curls like a maiden's lip,
When her tremulous bosom would hide, in vain,
From her lover, the hope that she loves again.

At eve she hangs o'er the western sky
Dark clouds for a glorious canopy,
And round the skirts of their deepen'd fold
She paints a border of purple and gold,
Where the lingering sunbeams love to stay,
When their god in his glory has passed away.

She hovers around us at twilight hour,
When her presence is felt with the deepest power;
She silvers the landscape, and crowds the stream
With shadows that flit like a fairy dream;
Then wheeling her flight through the gladden'd air,
The Spirit of Beauty is everywhere

LOVE UNCHANGEABLE.

YES! still I love thee:-Time, who sets
His signet on my brow,
And dims my sunken eye, forgets

The heart he could not bow;-Where love, that cannot perish, grows For one, alas! that little knows

How love may sometimes last;
Like sunshine wasting in the skies,
When clouds are overcast.

The dew-drop hanging o'er the rose,
Within its robe of light,

Can never touch a leaf that blows,

Though seeming to the sight;
And yet it still will linger there,
Like hopeless love without despair,—
A snow-drop in the sun!

A moment finely exquisite,
Alas! but only one.

I would not have thy married heart
Think momently of me,-

Nor would I tear the cords apart,

That bind me so to thee;

No! while my thoughts seem pure and mild, Like dew upon the roses wild,

I would not have thee know,

The stream that seems to thee so still,
Has such a tide below!

Enough! that in delicious dreams

I see thee and forget

Enough, that when the morning beams,

I feel my eyelids wet!

Yet, could I hope, when Time shall fall The darkness, for creation's pall,

To meet thee,--and to love,-

I would not shrink from aught below, Nor ask for more above.

EXTRACT FROM "GERALDINE."

I KNOW a spot where poets fain would dwell,
To gather flowers and food for afterthought,
As bees draw honey from the rose's cell,

To hive among the treasures they have wrought;
And there a cottage from a sylvan screen
Sent up its curling smoke amidst the green.

Around that hermit-home of quietude,
The elm trees whisper'd with the summer air,
And nothing ever ventured to intrude,

But happy birds, that caroll'd wildly there,
Or honey-laden harvesters, that flew
Humming away to drink the morning dew.
Around the door the honeysuckle climbed,

And Multa-flora spread her countless roses, And never minstrel sang nor poet rhymed

Romantic scene where happiness reposes, Sweeter to sense than that enchanting dell, | Where home-sick memory fondly loves to dwell Beneath a mountain's brow the cottage stood, Hard by a shelving lake, whose pebbled bed Was skirted by the drapery of a wood,

That hung its festoon foliage over head, Where wild deer came at eve, unharm'd, to drink, While moonlight threw their shadows from the

brink.

The green earth heaved her giant waves around,
Where through the mountain vista one vast
height
[hound
Tower'd heavenward without peer, his forehead
With gorgeous clouds, at times of changeful light.
While far below, the lake, in bridal rest,
Slept with his glorious picture on her breast.