MOONLIGHT AT SACHEM'S WOOD, NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT. Oн, Moon at Sachem's Wood! Whoe'er hath seen Which toward the orient and the setting sun How oft beneath these shades Slow Time had made No chasm between them, since those brighter days, Save that blest change which deepened love doth bring Communion so entire. The elder laid, Just ere the snows of fourscore winters fell, But where is he, Whose filial virtues taught that heart of age A second spring? whose tuneful numbers charmed His listening country's ear? From his fair home, From these loved trees, whence poured the nesting birds Their mellow descant, suddenly he went A lonely journey, to return no more. Yet there were deeper melodies than those Of warblers 'mid the summer boughs, that well Of husband and of sire. They died with him. Words may not tell the silence and the void, Yet well it is to be remembered thus, Poet and friend. Without it, fame were poor, Even though her clarion swelled from pole to pole. Into the loving eye, when life is o'er, That life itself were but a gift abused. Among the ornaments of the beautiful city of Newhaven is the residence bearing the name of Sachem's R Wood. It is situated on an eminence, terminating a broad avenue of stately elms, adorned by pleasant and tasteful habitations. It is a spacious edifice, distinguished by classic elegance, and studiously adapted to internal comfort. It commands an extensive prospect, and is surrounded by a large domain, in whose arrangement the simple and grand features of nature have been carefully preserved. It is characterized by the fine wood in its rear, and the magnificent forest trees by which it is overshadowed, especially by its noble oaks, some of which bear the antiquity of centuries. It was erected by the late James A. Hillhouse, on a portion of his paternal inheritance. Seldom has it been the lot of a poet to dwell in such an abode. He has thus simply described it, and also expressed his attachment to the scenes of his nativity, in the poem entitled "Sachem's Wood." "Here, from this bench, the gazer sees The gentle objects near at hand, The distant, flowing, bold, and grand; I've seen the world, from side to side, Walked in the ways of human pride, Moved in the palaces of kings, And know what wealth to grandeur brings; The spot for me, of all the earth, Is this, the dear one of my birth.” In this mansion the father of the poet, the Hon. James Hillhouse, closed a life of usefulness and piety. He possessed a strong and original mind, an untiring industry, with that uprightness and tenderness of heart which won the confidence of the public, and the love of those with whom he intimately associated. He was the oldest member of the Senate of the United States, when he resigned the seat which he had filled for sixteen years; and when he left the financial management of the School fund, it was found that it had more than doubled its value, while under his superintendence. The city of his residence, whose fair greens and waving trees render it in summer, especially during the leafy month of June, one of the most picturesque spots in New England, owes much to his public spirit and personal labour. The lofty elms planted by his own hand are among his monuments. Age did not impair his mental powers, or chill his purposes of philanthropy. In the language of his son, "None saw his spirit in decay, None saw his vigour ebb away.' In his seventy-ninth year he was removed, as a sentinel from his post, without the warning of a moment, but not unprepared for the transition. His son, James A. Hillhouse, both sustained and brightened the honours of his ancestry. The delicacy and grace which mingled with his masculine force of intellect, seemed an infusion from the mind of his mother, and he was ever proud to acknowledge that deep and sweet influence, which he repaid with the warmest filial love. His native taste for literature was fostered by education, and on the reception of his second decree at Yale College, he pronounced an Oration on the "Education of a Poet," of such finished excellence, as to attract peculiar attention. In it he says, "From the riches of ancient learning, to which he will first be introduced while acquiring the rudiments of a classical education, the poet will derive incalculable benefit. Amid the treasures of antiquity, he will find the productions of many a kindred spirit, and while he listens to their sweetness and majesty, the fire of genius will burn within him. "In the earlier stages of his progress, pains should be taken to reduce their beauties to a level with his comprehension, and as he becomes skilled in antique lore, they should be his chosen companions. His daily and nightly labour should be to comprehend the force of their ideas, and the beauties of their expressions. Every passage distinguished for its elegance should be in his memory, and every image of peculiar felicity familiar to his thoughts. Not to remedy barrenness, or enrich his own productions by purloining from their stores, but because by incessant converse with whatever is great and noble, the soul acquires a correspondent elevation." After speaking of the necessity of an extensive acquaintance with history, the productions of modern genius, and a close observation of the beauties of nature, he thus proceeds: "This connection of the events of history and fiction with the scenery of Nature begets for it an enthusiastic fondness, and enlarges its utility by causing it to excite deeper attention. To a vigorous and highly cultivated imagination the contemplation of nature seems like an intercourse with divinity. The soft luxuriance of a blooming landscape, or the rich and blended tints of an evening sky, fill it with emotions as exquisite as they are inexpressible. And this sensi |