[Born, 1812.]

THIS amiable poet is the son of a Scottish genaleman who, resigning a commission in the British navy, emigrated to New York, where he was married, and resided till his death. He was born in that city on the twelfth of August, 1812; in 1826 began to learn the printing business; in 1833 took charge of Mr. L. JOHNSON's extensive stereotype foundry, in Philadelphia, in which he is now a partner; and

LIFE'S EVENING.

THE Wld to me is growing gray and old;
My friends are dropping one by one away;
Some live in far-off lands—some in the clay
Rest quietly, their mortal moments told.

My sire departed ere his locks were gray;
My mother wept, and soon beside him lay;
My elder kin have long since gone- and I
Am left- -a leaf upon an autumn tree,
Among whose branches chilling breezes steal,
The sure precursors of the winter nigh;

And when my offspring at our altar kneel To worship God, and sing our morning psalm, Their rising stature whispers unto me My life is gently waning to its evening calm.

THE SLEEPING WIFE.

My wife! how calmly sleepest thou!
A perfect peace is on thy brow:
Thine eyes beneath their fringed lid,
Like stars behind a cloud, are hid;
Thy voice is mute, and not a sound
Disturbs the tranquil air around;

I'll watch, and mark each line of grace
That GOD has drawn upon thy face.

My wife! my wife! thy bosom fair,

--

That heaves with breath more pure than air
Which dwells within the scented rose,
Is wrapped in deep and still repose;-
So deep, that I erewhile did start,
And lay my hand upon thy heart,
In sudden fear that stealthy death
Had slyly robbed thee of thy breath.
My wife! my wife! thy face now seems
To show the tenor of thy dreams;
Methinks thy gentle spirit plays
Amid the scenes of earlier days;

Thy thoughts, perchance, now dwell on him
Whom most thou lov'st; or in the dim

And shadowy future strive to pry,

With woman's curious, earnest eye.

Sleep on! sleep on! my dreaming wife!
Thou livest now another life,

With beings fill'd, of fancy's birth;-
I will not call thee back to earth:
Sleep on, until the car of morn
Above the castern hills is borne;
Then thou wilt wake again, and bless
My sight with living loveliness

REMEMBER THE POOR.

REMEMBER the Poor!

It fearfully snoweth,
And bitterly bloweth;
Thou couldst not endure

The tempest's wild power
Through night's dreary hour,
Then pity the poor!
Remember the poor!

The father is lying

In that hovel, dying

With sickness of heart.

No voice cheers his dwelling,
A Saviour's love telling,

Ere life shall depart.
Remember the poor!

The widow is sighing,
The orphans are crying,
Half starving for bread;

In mercy be speedy
To succor the needy,-
Their helper is dead!
Remember the poor!

The baby is sleeping,

Its cheeks wet with weeping,
On its mother's fond breast;

Whose cough, deep and hollow,
Foretells she'll soon follow

Her husband to rest!
Remember the poor!

To him who aid lendeth,
Whatever he spendeth

The LORD will repay;

And sweet thoughts shall cheer nau,
And God's love be near hin.

In his dying day!

493

THE author of the numerous compositions, in prose and verse, which appeared in the journals of the southern states under the signature of Phazma," between the years 1834 and 1844, was born of Irish parentage, in London, in 1812, and when but four years of age was brought to this country, which was his home from that period until he died. He was of a feeble constitution, and in his later years a painful disease interrupted his occupations and induced a melancholy which is illustrated in the humorous sadness of many of his verses. In the hope of relief

he made a journey from New Orleans to Santa Fé, and another, soon after, to the Rocky Moun tains; and failing of any advantage from these, set out to visit some friends in Boston, trusting to the good influences of a voyage by sea; but died in the ship, before reaching Mobile, on the fifteenth of November, 1844, in the thirtythird year of his age. He was several years one of the editors of the New Orleans "Picayune," and was a brother of Mr. J. M. FIELD, of St. Louis, who is as nearly related in genius as by birth.

TO MY SHADOW.

SHADOW, just like the thin regard of men,
Constant and close to friends.while fortune's bright,
You leave me in the dark, but come again
And stick to me as long as there is light!
Yet, Shadow, as good friends have often done,
You've never stepped between me and the sun;
But ready still to back me I have found you-
Although, indeed, you're fond of changing sides;
And, while I never yet could get around you,
Where'er I walk, my Shadow with me glides!
That you should leave me in the dark, is meet
Enough, there being one thing to remark-
Light calls ye forth, yet, lying at my feet,
I'm keeping you forever in the dark!

POOR TOM.

THERE'S a new stone now in the old churchyard,
And a few withered flowers enwreath it;
Alas! for the youth, by the fates ill-starr'd,
Who sleeps in his shroud beneath it:
Poor Tom! poor Tom!

In his early day to be pluck'd away,
While the sunshine of life was o'er him,
And naught but the light of a gladdening ray
Beamed out on the road before him.
Poor Tom!

All the joy that love and affection sheds,

Seemed to fling golden hope around him, And the warmest hearts and the wisest heads Alike to their wishes found him.

Poor Tom! poor Tom!

He is sleeping now 'neath the willow bough,
Where the low-toned winds are creeping,
As if to bewail, so sad a tale,

While the eyes of the night are weeping.
Poor Tom!

Oh, the old churchyard, with its new white stone,
Now I love, though I used to fear it;
And I linger oft mid its tombs alone,
For a strange charm draws me near it.
Poor Tom! poor Tom!

We were early friends-oh, time still tends
All the links of our love to sever!
And alas! time breaks, but never mends,
The chain that it snaps forever!
Poor Tom! poor Tom!

In the old churchyard we have wandered oft,
Lost in gentle and friendly musing;
And his eye was light, and his words were soft,
Soul with soul, as we roved, infusing.

Poor Tom! poor Tom!

And we wonder'd then, if, when we were men,
Aught in life could our fond thoughts smother;
But alas! again-we dreamed not when
Death should tear us from each other.

Poor Tom!

On the very spot where the stone now stands,
We have sat in the shade of the willow,
With a life-warm clasp of each other's hands,
And this breast has been his pillow.
Poor Tom! poor Tom!

Now poor Tom lies cold in the churchyard old,
And his place may be filled by others;
But he still lives here with a firmer bold,
For our souls were twined like brothers.

Poor Tom!

There's a new stone now in the old churchyard,
And a few withered flowers enwreath it;
Alas! for the youth by the fates ill-starr'd,
Who sleeps in his shroud beneath it:
Poor Tom! poor Tom!

In his early day to be plucked away,
While the sunshine of life was o'er him,
And naught but the light of a gladdening ray
Bamed out on the road before him.

Poor Tom!

[Born, 1813.]

THE Reverend CHARLES T. BROOKS was born in Salem, Massachusetts, on the twentieth of June, 1813; graduated at Harvard University in 1832; completed his theological preparation in 1835; and was settled over the Unitarian church in Newport, Rhode Island, of which he has ever since been the pastor, in the beginning of 1837. His first poetical publication was a translation of SCHILLER'S "William Tell," printed anonymously in Providence in 1838. Translations of "Mary Stuart" and "The Maid of Orleans" were made in a year or two after, but remain yet in manuscript. About the date of these last, he commenced versions of JEAN PAUL RICHTER'S "Levana," "Jubel Senior," and "Titan," which have been since completed. In 1842 he published in Boston, in Mr. RIPLEY'S series of “Specimens of Foreign Literature," a volume of Songs and Ballads, from the German," of UнLAND, KORNER, BURGER, and others. In 1845 he

"ALABAMA."†

BRUISED and bleeding, pale and weary,
Onward to the South and West,
Through dark woods and deserts dreary,

By relentless foemen pressed,
Came a tribe where evening, darkling,
Flushed a mighty river's breast;
And they cried, their faint eyes sparkling,
"Alabama! Here we rest!"

By the stern steam-demon hurried,

Far from home and scenes so blest;
By the gloomy care-dogs worried,

Sleepless, houseless, and distressed,
Days and nights beheld me hieing
Like a bird without a nest,
Till I hailed thy waters, crying,

46 Alabama! Here I rest!"
Oh! when life's last sun is blinking
In the pale and darksome West,
And my weary frame is sinking,

With its cares and woes oppressed,
May I, as I drop the burden

From my sick and fainting breast,
Cry, beside the swelling Jordan,
“Alabama! Here I rest!"

Another volume from the German poets in this excellent series is by JOHN S. DWIGHT, a translator of kindred scholarship and genius.

There is a tradition, that a tribe of Indians, defeated and hard pressed by a more powerful foe, reached in their fight a river, where their chief set up a staff and exclaimed, "Alabama" a word meaning, "Here we rest," which fron that time became the river's name.

TO THE MISSISSIPPI.

MAJESTIC stream! along thy banks,
In silent, stately, solemn ranks,
The forests stand, and seem with pride
To gaze upon thy mighty tide;
As when, in olden, classic time,
Beneath a soft, blue, Grecian clime,
Bent o'er the stage, in breathless awe,
Crowds thrilled and trembled, as they saw
Sweep by the pomp of human life,
The sounding flood of passion's strife,
And the great stream of history
Glide on before the musing eye.
There, row on row, the gazers rise;
Above, look down the arching skies;
O'er all those gathered multitudes
Such deep and voiceful silence broods,
Methinks one mighty heart I hear
Beat high with hope, or quake with fear;-
E'en so yon groves and forests seem
Spectators of this rushing stream.
In sweeping, circling ranks they rise,
Beneath the blue, o'erarching skies;
They crowd around and forward lean,
As eager to behold the scene-
To see, proud river! sparkling wide,
The long procession of thy tide,-
To stand and gaze, and feel with thee
All thy unuttered ecstasy.

It seems as if a heart did thrill
Within yon forests, deep and still,
So soft and ghost-like is the sound
That stirs their solitudes profound.

495

OUR COUNTRY-RIGHT OR WRONG."

"OUR country-right or wrong!"—
That were a traitor's song-

Let no true patriot's pen such words indite!
Who loves his native land,

Let him, with heart, voice, hand,

Say, "Country or no country: speed the right!"
"Our country-right or wrong!"-
O Christian men! how long

Shall HE who bled on Calvary plead in vain!
How long, unheeded, call

Where War's gash'd victims fall,

While sisters, widows, orphans, mourn the slain'
Our country-right or wrong!"-
O man of God be strong!

Take God's whole armor for the holy fray
Gird thee with truth; make right
Thy breastplate; in the might

Of GOD stand steadfast in the evil day!
"Our country-right or wrong!"
Each image of the throng

Of ghastly woes that rise upon thy sight,
O let it move thy heart,

Man! man! whoe'er thou art,

To say, "God guide our struggling country right!"

A SABBATH MORNING, AT PETTAQUAMSCUTT.

THE Sabbath breaks-how heavenly clear!
Is it not always Sabbath here?
Such deep contentment seems to brood
O'er hill and meadow, field and flood.
No floating sound of Sabbath-bell
Comes mingling here with Ocean's swell;
No rattling wheels, no trampling feet,
Wend through the paved and narrow street
To the strange scene where sits vain pride
With meek devotion, side by side.
And surely here no temple-bell
Man needs, his quiet thoughts to tell
When he must rest from strife and care,
And own his God in praise and prayer.
For doth not nature's hymn arise,
Morn, noon, and evening, to the skies?
Is not broad Ocean's face-the calm
Of inland woods-a silent psalm?
Ay, come there not from earth and sea
Voices of choral harmony,

That tell the peopled solitude

How great is God,-how wise,-how good
In Ocean's murmuring music swells
A chime as of celestial bells
The birds, at rest or on the wing,
With notes of angel-sweetness sing,
And insect-hum and breeze prolong
The bass of Nature's grateful song,
Is not each day a Sabbath then,
A day of rest for thoughtful men?
No idle Sabbath Nature keeps,
The God of Nature never sleeps;
And in this noontide of the year,

This pensive pause, I seem to hear
God say: "O man! would'st thou be blest.
Contented work is Sabbath rest.”

SUNRISE ON THE SEA-COAST.

It was the holy hour of dawn:
By hands invisible withdrawn,
The curtain of the summer night
Had vanished; and the morning light,
Fresh from its hidden day-springs, threw
Increasing glory up the blue.

Oh sacred balm of summer dawn,
When odors from the new-mown lawn
Blend with the breath of sky and sea;
And, like the prayers of sanctity,
Go up to Him who reigns above,
An incense-offering of love!

Alone upon a rock I stood,
Far out above the ocean-flood,
Whose vast expanse before me lay,
Now silver-white, now leaden-gray,
As o'er its face, alternate, threw
The rays and clouds their varying hue.
I felt a deep, expectant hush
Through nature, as the growing flush
Of the red Orient seemed to tell
The approach of some great spectacle,
O'er which the birds, in heaven's far height,
Hung, as entranced, in mute delight.
But when the Sun, in royal state,
Through his triumphal golden gate,
Came riding forth in majesty
Out from the fleckéd eastern sky,
As comes a conqueror to his tent;
And, up and down the firmament,
The captive clouds of routed night,
Their garments fringed with golden light,
Bending around the azure arch,
Lent glory to the victor's march;
And when he flung his blazing glance
Across the watery expanse,—
Methought, along that rocky coast,
The foaming waves, a crested host,
As on their snowy plumes the beams
Of sunshine fell in dazzling gleams,
Thrilled through their ranks with wild delight,
And clapped their hands to hail the sight,
And sent a mighty shout on high
Of exultation to the sky.

Now all creation seemed to wake; Each little leaf with joy did shake; The trumpet-signal of the breeze Stirred all the ripples of the seas* Each in its gambols and its glee A living creature seemed to be; Like wild young steeds with snowy mane, The white waves skimmed the liquid plain, Glad Ocean, with ten thousand eyes, Proclaimed its joy to earth and skies; From earth and skies a countless throng Of happy creatures swelled the song; Praise to the Conquerer of night! Praise to the King of Life and Light'