TO SPRING. O THOU delicious Spring! Nursed in the lap of thin and subtle showers, That over grassy walks their greenness fling, Thou lover of young wind, Makes young leaves dance with glee, Even in the teeth of that old, sober hind, Winter unkind, Come to us; for thou art Like the fine love of children, gentle Spring! And thou dost ever bring A tide of gentle but resistless art Red Autumn from the south Contends with thee; alas! what may he show? What are his purple-stain'd and rosy mouth, And browned cheeks, to thy soft feet of snow, And timid, pleasant glow, Giving earth-piercing flowers their primal growth, And greenest youth? Gay Summer conquers thee; And yet he has no beauty such as thine; To the pure glory that with thee doth shine? What may his dull and lifeless minstrelsy Come, sit upon the hills, And bid the waking streams leap down their side, I too will breathe of thy delicious thrills, Alas! bright Spring, not long Shall I enjoy thy pleasant influence; For thou shalt die the summer heat among, Sublimed to vapour in his fire intense, And, gone forever hence, Exist no more: no more to earth belong, So I who sing shall die: LINES WRITTEN ON THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. THE deep, transparent sky is full Of many thousand glittering lights- The dark dominions of the night. Where frost, and ice, and silence reign,While ages roll away, and they unchanged remain. These mountains, piercing the blue sky With their eternal cones of ice; Or rolls the thunder-chariot of eternal Time. And waste as with a living death, The hopes, the feelings, and the fame, to tame. The wind comes rushing swift by me, Pouring its coolness on my brow; Such was I once-as proudly free, And yet, alas! how alter'd now! Yet, while I gaze upon yon plain, These mountains, this eternal sky, The scenes of boyhood come again, And pass before the vacant eye, Still wearing something of their ancient brilliancy. Yet why complain?-for what is wrong, False friends, cold-heartedness, deceit, And life already made too long, To one who walks with bleeding feet Over its paths?--it will but make Death sweeter when it comes at last And though the trampled heart may ache, And calmness gathers there, while life is ebbing fast. Perhaps, when I have pass'd away, Like the sad echo of a dream, There may be some one found to say A word that might like sorrow seem. That I would have-one sadden'd tear, One kindly and regretting thoughtGrant me but that!-and even here, Here, in this lone, unpeopled spot, To breathe away this life of pain, I murmur not. PARK BENJAMIN. [Born, 1809.] THE paternal ancestors of Mr. BENJAMIN came to New England at an early period from Wales. His father, who was a merchant, resided many years at Demerara, in British Guiana, where he acquired a large fortune. There the subject of this notice was born in the year 1809. When he was about three years old, in consequence of a severe illness he was brought to this country, under the care of a faithful female guardian, and here, except during a few brief periods, he has since resided. The improper medical treatment to which he had been subjected in Demerara prevented his complete restoration under the more skilful physicians of New England, and he has been lame from his childhood; but I believe his general health has been uniformly good for many years. While a boy he was sent to an excellent school | in the rural village of Colchester, in Connecticut. At twelve he was removed to New Haven, where he resided three years in his father's family, after which he was sent to a private boarding school near Boston, in which he remained until he entered Harvard College, in 1825. He left this venerable institution before the close of his second academic year, in consequence of a protracted and painful illness, and on his recovery entered Washington College, at Hartford, then under the presidency of the Right Reverend THOMAS C. BROWNELL, now Bishop of Connecticut. He was graduated in 1829, with the highest honours of his class. In 1830, Mr. BENJAMIN entered the Law School at Cambridge, at that time conducted by Mr. Justice STORY and Professor ASHMUN. He pursued his legal studies with much industry for a considerable period at this seminary, but finished the acquirement of his profession at New Haven, under Chief Justice DAGGETT and Professor HITCHCOCK. He was admitted to the Connecticut bar in 1833, and removing soon after to Boston, the residence of his relatives and friends, he was admitted to the courts of Massachusetts, as attorney and counsellor at law and solicitor in chancery. His disposition to devote his time to literature prevented his entering upon the practice of his profession, and on the death of EDWIN BUCKINGHAM, one of its original editors, I believe he became connected with the "New England Magazine." In 1836 that periodical was joined to the "American Monthly Magazine," published in New York, and edited by CHARLES F. HOFFMAN, and Mr. BENJAMIN was soon after induced to go to reside permanently in that city. By unfortunate investments, and the calamities in which so many were involved in that period, he had lost most of his patrimonial property, and the remainder of it he now invested in a publishing establishment; but the commercial distress of the time, by which many of the wealthiest houses were overthrown, prevented the realization of his expectations, and the business was abandoned. He purchased, I believe, near the close of the year 1837, the "American Monthly Magazine," and for about two years conducted it with much ability; but by giving to some of the later numbers of it a political character, its prosperity was destroyed, and he relinquished it to become associated with Mr. HORACE GREELEY in the editorship of the New Yorker," a popular weekly periodical, devoted to literature and politics. In 1840, he and the writer of this sketch established in New York "The New World," a literary gazette of the largest class, of which he is now the sole editor. Its popularity and the ability with which it is conducted may be inferred from the fact that twenty thousand copies are sold of each number. 66 Mr. BENJAMIN's metrical compositions are very numerous. His longest work is a “ Poem on the Meditation of Nature," which, I believe, was delivered on the day of his graduation at Washington College. Its character and style may be inferred from the following invocation: Let us go forth and hold communion sweet Some fleeting moments we may call our own, The city's busy tumult and the sight Some of his sonnets are equal to any in this collection, and many of his other pieces are distinguished for poetical simplicity of thought and elegance of diction. Most of his poems have been written hastily, and they are not without the usual faults of unstudied verse; but they evidence the possession of a fertile fancy and good taste. His keen perception of the ludicrous is shown in the sonnet entitled "Sport," and in some of his other pieces. His tales, sketches, reviews, and other prose writings, are ingenious and spirited, and if collected would form many volumes. GOLD. "Gold is, in its last analysis, the sweat of the poor and Though from the night of the fathomless mine UPON SEEING A PORTRAIT OF A LADY, PAINTED BY GIOVANNI C. THOMPSON. THERE is a sweetness in those upturn'd eyes, As if they saw strange beauty in the air; To the same breeze that lifts that flowing hair. And, O, that lip, and cheek, and forehead fair, Reposing on the canvass !-that bright smile, Casting a mellow radiance over all! Say, didst thou strive, young artist, to beguile The gazer of his reason, and to thrall His every sense in meshes of delightWhen thou, unconscious,mad'st this phantom bright? Sure nothing real lives, which thus can charm the sight! THE STORMY PETREL. THIS is the bird that sweeps o'er the sea- So, mid the contest and toil of life, THE NAUTILUS. THE Nautilus ever loves to glide I could tell her hull with the glance of an eye. raves, And the stout ship reels on the surging waves- And when the moon, of fairy stars the queen, Waves her transparent wand o'er all the scene; I seek the vale, And, while inhaling the moss-rose's breath,— As the far robes of seraphs in the night, I seek the mount, And there, in closest commune with the blue, Thy spiritual glances meet my view. I seek the fount: And thou art my EGERIA, and the glade Encircling it around is holier made. I seek the brook : And, in the silver shout of waters, hear Of lilies floating from the flowery land, A likeness of my early, only love- Over the billow, and the bedded pearls, As well as in the beauty of the sea, Thine image in the loveliness that dwells REST thee, old hunter! the evening cool Will sweetly breathe on thy heated brow, •Thy dogs will lap of the shady pool; Thou art very weary-O, rest thee now! Thou hast wander'd far through mazy woods, Thou hast trodden the bright-plumed birds' retreat, Thou hast broken in on their solitudes, O, give some rest to thy tired feet! Nor a leafy dell unknown to thee; The wind's low murmur, the tempest's roar, Or thy whistle shrill, were heard before. Then rest thee!-thy wife in her cottage-door, Shading her eyes from the sun's keen ray, Peers into the forest beyond the moor, To hail thy coming ere fall of day;But thou art a score of miles from home, And the hues of the kindling autumn leaves Grow brown in the shadow of evening's dome, And swing to the rush of the freshening breeze. Thou must even rest! for thou canst not tread Till yon star in the zenith of midnight glows, And a sapphire light over earth is spread, The place where thy wife and babes repose. Rest thee a while-and then journey on Through the wide forest, and over the moor: Then call to thy dogs, and fire thy gun, And a taper will gleam from thy cottage-door! THE DEPARTED. THE departed! the departed! They visit us in dreams, And they glide above our memories But where the cheerful lights of home In constant lustre burn, The departed, the departed Can never more return! The good, the brave, the beautiful, Or where the hurrying night-winds In the cities of the dead! I look around and feel the awe Is borne upon the breeze. That solemn voice! it mingles with I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy As their remember'd words. I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles I know that they are happy, I AM NOT OLD. I AM not old--though years have cast I am not old--though youth has pass'd For in my heart a fountain flows, I am not old--Time may have set Of fresh, young buds and verdant leaves; Thoughts, sweet as flowers, that once were mine. |