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Flooding the skies, bathing the earth,
Giving all lovely things a birth:
All-all was fair to see-

All was sweet to the ear:

But there's beauty more fair to me

That beauty was not here.

I sat in my room alone.
My heart began a tone

Its soothing strains were such
As if a spirit's touch
Were visiting its chords.
Soon it gather'd words,
Pouring forth its feelings,
And its deep revealings:
Thoughts and fancies came
With their brightening flame.
Truths of deepest worth
Sprang embodied forth-
Deep and solemn mysteries,
Spiritual harmonies,

And the faith that conquers time
Strong, and lovely, and sublime.

Then the purposes of life
Stood apart from vulgar strife.
Labour in the path of duty
Gleam'd up like a thing of beauty.
Beauty shone in self-denial,

In the sternest hour of trial

In a meek obedience
To the will of Providence-
In the lofty sympathies
That, forgetting selfish ease,
Prompted acts that sought the good
Of every spirit:-understood

The wants of every human heart,
Eager ever to impart
Blessings to the weary soul

That bath felt the better world's control.

Here is beauty such as ne'er
Met the eye or charm'd the ear.
In the soul's high duties then I felt
That the loftiest beauty ever dwelt.

MY THOUGHTS.

MANY are the thoughts that come to me In my lonely musing;

And they drift so strange and swift,

There's no time for choosing Which to follow, for to leave

Any, seems a losing.

When they come, they come in flocks,

As, on glancing feather, Startled birds rise one by one,

In autumnal weather,

Waking one another up

From the sheltering heather.

Some so merry that I laugh,

Some are grave and serious,
Some so trite, their least approach
Is enough to weary us:
Others flit like midnight ghosts,
Shrouded and mysterious.

There are thoughts that o'er me steal,
Like the day when dawning;
Great thoughts wing'd with melody,
Common utterance scorning,
Moving in an inward tune,

And an inward morning.

Some have dark and drooping wings,
Children all of sorrow;

Some are as gay, as if to-day

Could see no cloudy morrow,

And yet like light and shade they each Must from the other borrow.

One by one they come to me

On their destined mission; One by one I see them fade

With no hopeless vision; For they 've led me on a step To their home Elysian.

THE HOURS.

THE hours are viewless angels,
That still go gliding by,
And bear each minute's record up

TO HIM who sits on high;
And we, who walk among them,
As one by one departs,
See not that they are hovering
Forever round our hearts.

Like summer-bees, that hover
Around the idle flowers,
They gather every act and thought,
Those viewless angel-hours;
The poison or the nectar

The heart's deep flower cups yield,”
A sample still they gather swift
And leave us in the field.

And some flit by on pinions

Of joyous gold and blue,

And some flag on with drooping wings
Of sorrow's darker hue;
But still they steal the record,
And bear it far away;
Their mission-flight by day or night,
No magic power can stay.

And as we spend each minute

That GOD to us bath given, The deeds are known before His throne, The tale is told in heaven. These bee-like hours we see not,

Nor hear their noiseless wings; We only feel, too oft, when flown,

That they have left their stings.

So, teach me, Heavenly Father,
To meet each flying bour,
That as they go they may not show
My heart a poison flower!

So, when death brings its shadows,
The hours that linger last
Shall bear my hopes on angel-wings,
Unfetter'd by the past.

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THOUGHT is deeper than all speech;
Feeling deeper than all thought:
Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.

We are spirits clad in veils :

Man by man was never seen:
All our deep communing fails

To remove the shadowy screen.
Heart to heart was never known:
Mind with mind did never meet:
We are columns left alone,

Of a temple once complete.
Like the stars that gem the sky,
Far apart, though seeming near,
In our light we scatter'd lie;

All is thus but starlight here.
What is social company

But a babbling summer stream?
What our wise philosophy

But the glancing of a dream?

Only when the sun of love

Melts the scatter'd stars of thought,

Only when we live above

What the dim-eyed world hath taught,

Only when our souls are fed

By the fount which gave them birth,
And by inspiration led

Which they never drew from earth;
We, like parted drops of rain,
Swelling till they meet and run,
Shall be all absorbed again,
Melting, flowing into one.

MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI.

OH, still sweet summer days! Oh, moonlight nights,
After so drear a storm how can ye shine!
Oh, smiling world of many-hued delights,
How canst thou 'round our sad hearts still entwine
The accustomed wreaths of pleasure! How, oh Day,
Wakest thou so full of beauty! Twilight deep,
How diest thou so tranquilly away!

And how,oh Night,bring'st thou the sphere of sleep.
For she is gone from us-gone, lost forever-
In the wild billows swallowed up and lost-
Gone, full of love, life, hope, and high endeavor,
Just when we would have welcom'd her the most.
Was it for this-oh, woman, true and pure,
That life thro' shade and light had form'd thy mind
To feel, imagine, reason, and endure-

To soar for truth, to labour for mankind?
Was it for this sad end thou borest thy part
In deeds and words for struggling Italy,—
Devoting thy large mind and larger heart
That Rome in later days might yet be free?
And, from that home driven out by tyranny,
Didst turn to see thy fatherland once more,
Bearing affection's dearest ties with thee-
And as the vessel bore thee to our shore,
And hope rose to fulfilment-on the deck
When friends seem'd almost beckoning unto thee:
Oh, God! the fearful storm-the splitting wreck-
The drowning billows of the dreary sea!

Oh, many a heart was stricken dumb with grief,
We who had known thee here-had met thee there
Where Rome threw golden light on every leaf
Life's volume turned in that enchanted air-
Oh, friend! how we recall the Italian days
Amid the Cæsar's ruined palace halls-
The Coliseum and the frescoed blaze

Of proud St. Peter's dome-the Sistine walls—
The lone Campagna and the village green-
The Vatican-the music and dim light
Of gorgeous temples-statues, pictures, seen
With thee: those sunny days return so bright,
Now thou art gone! Thou hast a fairer world
Than that bright clime. The dreams that fill'd thee
Now find divine completion, and, unfurl'd, [here
Thy spirit wings, find out their own high sphere.
Farewell! thought-gifted, noble-hearted one!
We, who have known thee, know thou art not lost;
The star that set in storms still shines upon
The o'ershadowing cloud, and when we sorrow
[most.
In the blue spaces of God's firmament
Beams out with purer light than we have known,
Above the tempest and the wild lament
Of those who weep the radiance that is flown.

HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN.

[Born, 1813.]

THE TUCKERMAN family is of German origin, and the name is still common in the states of Germany, where, however, it is spelled with a double n. In a history of the country of Braunselweig and Luneberg, by WILLIAM HANEMANN, published in Luneberg in 1827, allusion is made to one of the kindred of the TUCKERMANS in America, PETER TUCKERMAN, who is mentioned as the last abbot of the monastery of Riddagshausen. He was chosen by the chapter in 1621, and at the same time held the appointment of superintendent or court preacher at Wolfenbuttill. By the mother's side, Mr. TUCKERMAN is of Irish descent. The name of his mother's family is KEATING. In MACAULAY's recent history he thus speaks of one of her ancestors, as opposing a military deputy of JAMES II., in his persecution of the Protestant English in Ireland, in 1686: "On all questions which arose in the privy council, TYRCONNEL showed similar violence and partiality. JOHN KEATING, chief-justice of the common pleas, a man distinguished for ability, integrity, and loyalty, represented with great mildness that perfect equality was all that the general could reasonably ask for his own church." Mr. TUCKERMAN is a nephew of the late Rev. Dr. JOSEPH TUCKERMAN, a memoir of whom has recently appeared in England, and who is generally known and honoured as the originator of the "Ministry at Large," an institution of Christian benevolence and eminent utility. His mother was also related to and partly educated with another distinguished Unitarian clergyman, JOSEPH STEVENS BUCKMINSTER, whose memory is yet cherished in Boston by all lovers of genius and character.

Mr. TUCKERMAN was born in Boston, on the twentieth of April, 1813. After preparing for college, the state of his health rendered it necessary for him to relinquish his studies and seek a milder climate. In September, 1833, he sailed from New York for Havre, and after a brief sojourn in Paris, proceeded to Italy, where he remained until the ensuing summer. In the spring after his return he gave the results of his observation to the public, in a volume entitled "The Italian SketchBook," of which a third and considerably augmented edition appeared in New York in 1849. Mr. TUCKERMAN resumed and for a time prosecuted his academical studies, but again experiencing the injurious effects of a sedentary life and continued mental application, he embarked in October, 1837, for the Mediterranean; visited Gibraltar and Malta, uade the tour of Sicily, and after a winter's residence in Palermo, crossed over to the continent.

The winter of 1838 he passed chiefly in Florence and returned to the United States in the course of the ensuing summer. In 1839 he published "Isabel, or Sicily, a Pilgrimage," in which, under the guise of a romance, he gives many interesting descriptions and reflections incident to a tour in Sicily. This work was reprinted in London, in 1846. In 1845 he finished his "Thoughts on the Poets," in which he has discussed the characteristics of the chief masters of modern song. This work has passed through several editions. In 1848 he gave to the press his "Artist Life, or Sketches of eminent American Pain'ers;" in 1849, « Characteristics of Literature, illustrated by the Genius of Distinguished Men;" in 1850, "The Optimist,” and a "Life of Commodore TALBOT;" in 1851, a second series of "Characteristics of Literature;" in 1853 The Diary of a Dreamer," "A Memorial of GREENOUGH," and "Mental Portraits;" and in 1854, "A Month in England." A collection of his "Poems" appeared in 1851, but it embraces only a small proportion of those he had published in the magazines and newspapers.

Mr. TUCKERMAN's poems are in a great variety of measures; they are, for the most part, expressions of graceful and romantic sentiment, but are often fruits of his reflection and illustrations of his taste. The little piece called "Mary" is a delightful echo of emotions as common as culture of mind and refinement of feeling; and among his sonnets are some very pleasing examples of this kind of writing. In these works he has occasionally done injustice to his own fine powers by the carelessness with which he has adopted familiar ideas, images, and forms of expression, from other writers. Considering the nature of the poetic principle, the author of an Essay on American Poetry which appeared in 1841, observes:

"He who looks on Lake George, or sees the sun rise on Mackinaw, or listens to the grand music of a storm. is divested, for a time, of a portion of the alloy of his nature."

The alteration Mr. TUCKERMAN makes in the paraphrase of this in his highly-finished produc tion, The Spirit of Poetry," published three years afterwards, is unquestionably an improvement: "Who that has rocked upon Lake George's tide, When its clear ripples in the moonlight glide... And who Niagara's loveliness has known, The rainbow diadem, the emerald zone, Nor felt thy spell each baser thought control," Hypercritical readers may fancy that the grammatical relations of the last word of the second line here copied demand that it should be written glided, but it will not be denied that the substitution of "Niagara" for "a storm" renders the pas

HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.

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WHAT shade has fallen this loved threshold o'er
Without glad presage never crossed before?
Why through the past does startled memory range,
Then shrink to meet the desolating change?
Hushed is the dwelling, cold the hearthstone now.
Whose glow plays not upon thy manly brow:
For cordial grasp of hands the pleading eye,
For lettered talk the faintly smothered sigh,
For looks intent to solve, respond, or cheer,
Thine wan from pain, ours agonized with fear;
For bland philosophy and genial wit,
Wont round this group instinctively to flit,
Half-uttered prayers, the stillness of dismay
In dread suspense exhaust the winter day.
The keenest pang humanity can feel
Came in that hour of nature's mute appeal,
As waned expression to its last eclipse,
And speech grew palsied on thy frigid lips;
Yet thought and love before the parting sigh,
Converged and flickered in thy glazing eye.
The artist-friend, whose triumph thou believed
Ere fame ordained or genius had achieved,
Crouched by the form, now stilled in death's
embrace,

66

64

Strove with dim eyes thy lineaments to trace.
Yet can it be?" our hearts bewildered cried,
That he, the idol of this home, has died?"
The leaf o'r which in calm delight he hung,
The plaintive rhyme that trembled from his tongue,
The honored effigies so fondly sought,
Of those who conquered in the realm of thought,
His elemen's of life-these all are here,

And more than these-the loved-ones round the
bier.

Two whoso gray hair with daily joy he crowned,
Two who in him fraternal guidance found.

JOHN W. FRANCIS, jr., eldest son of the eminent and venerable JOHN W. FRANCIS, M.D., LL. D. of New York, died on the twentieth of January, 1855, of typhus fever, brought on by extreme devotion to medical studies and attendance upon the poor. He was a youth of rare promise and great accomplishments; and perhaps there was never another occasion when one so young received the tribute of funeral honours from so large and distinguished a assemblage as that which accompanied his remains to St. Tarmas's Church, where appropriate services were conducted in a very impressive manner by Dr. HAWK8, an old persul friend of the family.

from the more immediate vocabulary of common
life, and hence to be preferred on the principles
announced by Mr. WORDSWORTH; but though
those useful industrials who attempt to obliterate
the evidences of age in our seedy habiliments, fre-
quently display in conspicuous letters the verb
"renovate" upon their signboards, it should not be
forgotten that they intend by it a larger promise
than that of simply "mending," as Mr. TUCKER-
MAN seems to suppose.

Of Mr. TUCKERMAN'S character as an essayist, some more particular observations may be found in my "Prose Writers of America." He has resided for several years in the city of New York.

When up the aisle familiar to thy tread,
Moved the long train by white-robed pastors led,
And at the altar, where thou oft hast bowed,
We tearful knelt, and laid thee in thy shroud;
When those deep tones on which with youthful
pride,

For wisdom's banquet thou so well relied,
Breathed the last prayer that mortal rites delay,
In faltering accents o'er thy senseless clay;
The sternest wept, and even worldly men
Felt the poor refuge of ambition then.
The Christmas garlands still with verdure hung,
The temple where thy funeral hymn was sung,
And as it echoed, like a holy spell,

The blest assurance of a short farewell,
A flood of sunshine broke upon our sight,
And wreathed the mourners with supernal light;
In golden mists the peaceful cadence died,
And Nature hailed what Faith has prophesied !
Ah! might Grief nestle in this sacred air,
Shielded from view and unprofaned by care!
How grates the discord of the teeming street,
The rush of steeds, and tramp of busy feet;
How vain the stir, how pitiless the glare,
To those who sorrow's aching badges wear!
Yet even here our brother's worth appears,
To fill with honour his remembered years;
In yonder pile*-the wretch's last retreat,
Where Charity and Science nobly meet,
With steadfast heart, with love-inspired brain,
And patient zeal, he ministered to pain.
Welcome the vistas of the hills and sea,
Whose pure enchantments ever solaced thee,
As from the city's strife our dark array,
Emerged to meet the forest and the bay:
There is a balm in Nature's open face
That over anguish casts a soothing grace;
The winds mourn with us, and the fading day
Serenely whispers-all must pass away;
Each herb and tree with promise are imbued,
Withered to bloom, despoiled to be renewed;
From every knoll a boundless void we see,
So, love bereft, appears the world to thee:
Here where the portals of the East arise,
And falls the earliest greeting from the skies,
Our heavy burden in the earth we lay,
Far heavier that our hearts must bear away!

The New York Hospital.

THE HOLY LAND.

THROUGH the warm noontide, I have roam'd

Where CESAR's palace-ruins lie, And in the Forum's lonely waste

Oft listen'd to the night-wind's sigh. I've traced the moss-lines on the walls That Venice conjured from the sea, And seen the Colosseum's dust

Before the breeze of autumn flee.

Along Pompeii's lava-street,

With curious eye, I've wander'd lone, And mark'd Segesta's temple-floor

With the rank weeds of ages grown.

I've clamber'd Etna's hoary brow,

And sought the wild Campagna's gloom; I've hail'd Geneva's azure tide,

And snatch'd a weed from VIRGIL'S tomb.

Why all unsated yearns my heart

To seek once more a pilgrim shrine?
One other land I would explore-
The sacred fields of Palestine.

Oh, for a glance at those wild hills
That round Jerusalem arise!
And one sweet evening by the lake
That gleams beneath Judea's skies!
How anthem-like the wind must sound
In meadows of the Holy Land—
How musical the ripples break

Upon the Jordan's moonlit strand!
Behold the dew, like angels' tears,

Upon each thorn is gleaming now,
Blest emblems of the crown of love
There woven for the Sufferer's brow.
Who does not sigh to enter Nain,
Or in Capernaum to dwell;
Inhale the breeze from Galilee,

And rest beside Samaria's well?

Who would not stand beneath the spot
Where Bethlehem's star its vigil kept?
List to the plash of Siloa's pool,

And kiss the ground where JESUS wept?

Gethsemane who would not seek,

And pluck a lily by the way? Through Bethany devoutly walk,

And on the mount of Olives pray ?
How dear were one repentant night
Where MARY's tears of love were shed!
How blest, beside the Saviour's tomb,
One hour's communion with the dead!
What solemn joy to stand alone

On Calvary's celestial height!
Or kneel upon the mountain-slope
Once radiant with supernal light!
I cannot throw my staff aside,
Nor wholly quell the hope divine
That one delight awaits me yet-
A pilgrimage to Palestine.

TO AN ELM.

BRAVELY thy old arms fling

Their countless pennons to the fields of air,
And, like a sylvan king,

Their panoply of green still proudly wear.

As some rude tower of old,

Thy massive trunk still rears its rugged form,
With limbs of giant mould,

To battle sternly with the winter storm.

In Nature's mighty fane,

Thou art the noblest arch beneath the sky;
How long the pilgrim train
That with a benison have pass'd thee by!

Lone patriarch of the wood!

Like a true spirit thou dost freely rise,
Of fresh and dauntless mood,
Spreading thy branches to the open skies.

The locust knows thee well,

And when the summer-days his notes prolong, Hid in some leafy cell,

Pours from thy world of green his drowsy song.

Oft, on a morn in spring,

The yellow-bird will seek thy waving spray,
And there securely swing,

To whet his beak, and pour his blithesome lay.

How bursts thy monarch wail, When sleeps the pulse of Nature's buoyant life, And, bared to meet the gale, Wave thy old branches, eager for the strife!

The sunset often weaves

Upon thy crest a wreath of splendour rare,
While the fresh-murmuring leaves

Fill with cool sound the evening's sultry air.

Sacred thy roof of green

To rustic dance, and childhood's gambols free: Gay youth and age serene

Turn with familiar gladness unto thee.

O, hither should we roam,

To hear Truth's herald in the lofty shade;
Beneath thy emerald dome

Might Freedom's champion fitly draw his blade.

With blessings at thy feet,

Falls the worn peasant to his noontide rest;
Thy verdant, calm retreat

Inspires the sad and soothes the troubled breast.

When, at the twilight hour,

Plays through thy tressil crown the sun's last gleam
Under thy ancient bower

The schoolboy comes to sport, the bard to dream
And when the moonbeams fall
Through thy broad canopy upon the gass,
Making a fairy hall,

As o'er the sward the flitting shadows pass

Then lovers haste to thee,

With hearts that tremble like that shifting light
To them, O brave old tree,
Thou art Joy's shrine-a temple of delight!

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