EPES SARGENT. [Born, 1816.] THE author of "Velasco” is a native of Glou- | performed in Boston, and since in many of the cester, a town on the sea-coast of Massachusetts, and was born on the twenty-seventh of September, 1816. His father, a respectable merchant, of the same name, is still living, and resides in Boston. The subject of this sketch was educated in the schools of that city and the neighbourhood, where he lived until his removal to New York, in 1837. His earliest metrical compositions were printed in "The Collegian," a monthly miscellany edited by several of the students of Harvard College, of the junior and senior classes of 1830. One of his contributions to that work, entitled "Twilight Sketches," exhibits the grace of style, ease of versification, and variety of description, which are characteristic of his more recent effusions. It was a sketch of the Summer Gardens of St. Petersburg, and was written during a visit to that capital in the spring of 1828. Mr. SARGENT's reputation rests principally on his dramas, for he has not published any collection of his miscellaneous poems. His first appearance as a dramatic author was in the winter of 1836, when his "Bride of Genoa" was brought out at the Tremont Theatre, in Boston. This was a five-act play, founded on incidents in the career of ANTONIO first theatres of the country. His next production was of a much higher order, and as a specimen of dramatic art, has received warm commendation from the most competent judges. It was the tragedy of "Velasco," first performed at Boston, in November, 1837, Miss ELLEN TREE in the character of IZIDORA, and subsequently at the principal theatres in New York, Philadelphia, Washington, and New Orleans. It was published in New York in 1839. 66 The general action of the piece," says the author in his preface, “is derived from incidents in the career of RODRIGO DIAZ, the Cid, whose achievements constitute so considerable a portion of the historical and romantic literature of Spain." The subject had been variously treated by French and Spanish dramatists, among others, by CORNEILLE, but Mr. SARGENT was the first to introduce it successfully upon the English stage. It is a chaste and elegant performance, and probably has not been surpassed by any similar work by so youthful an author. It was written before Mr. SARGENT was twenty-one years of age. The minor poems of Mr. SARGENT have appeared at various times in the monthly miscellanies and other periodicals. The selections which I have MONTALDO, a plebeian, who at the age of twenty-made convey a not inaccurate idea of their style. two, made himself doge of Genoa, in 1693, and who is described in the history of the times as a man of "forgiving temper," but daring and ambitious, with a genius adequate to the accomplishment of vast designs. In the delineation of his hero, the author has followed the historical record, though the other characters and incidents of the drama are entirely fictitious. It was successfully The quatorzains written during a voyage to Cuba in the spring of 1835, appear to be the most carefully finished, though in other respects they are not, perhaps, superior to several of his other compositions. He has written several interesting prose works, which have been published anonymously. Like his poems, they are distinguished for elegance of thought and diction. RECORDS OF A SUMMER-VOYAGE TO CUBA. I. THE DEPARTURE. AGAIN thy winds are pealing in mine ear! II. THE GALE. The night came down in terror. Through the Burst, in one loud explosion, far and wide, The meteors of the storm a ghastly radiance cast! III. MORNING AFTER THE GALE. Bravely our trim ship rode the tempest through; IV. TO A LAND-BIRD. Thou wanderer from green fields and leafy nooks! Where blooms the flower and toils the honey-bee; Where odorous blossoms drift along the brooks, And woods and hills are very fair to seeWhy hast thou left thy native bough to roam, With drooping wing, far o'er the briny billow? Thou canst not, like the osprey, cleave the foam, Nor, like the petrel, make the wave thy pillow. Thou'rt like those fine-toned spirits, gentle bird, Which, from some better land, to this rude life Seem borne-they struggle, mid the common herd, With powers unfitted for the selfish strife! Haply, at length, some zephyr wafts them back To their own home of peace, across the world's dull track. V.-A THOUGHT OF THE PAST. I woke from slumber at the dead of night, VI. TROPICAL WEATHER. We are afloat upon the tropic sea! VII. A CALM. O! for one draught of cooling northern air! VIII. A WISH. That I were in some forest's green retreat, Beneath a towering arch of proud old elms; Where a clear streamlet gurgled at my feetIts wavelets glittering in their tiny helms! Thick clustering vines, in many a rich festoon, From the high, rustling branches should depend; Weaving a net, through which the sultry noon Might stoop in vain its fiery beams to send. There, prostrate on some rock's gray sloping side, Upon whose tinted moss the dew yet lay, Would I catch glimpses of the clouds that vide Athwart the sky-and dream the hours away; While through the alleys of the sunless wood The fanning breeze might steal, with wild-flowers' breath imbued. IX. TROPICAL NIGHT. But, O! the night!--the cool, luxurious night, X. THE PLANET JUPITER. Ever, at night, have I look'd first for thee, XI. TO EGERIA. Leagues of blue ocean are between us spread; He cannot know what rocks and quicksands may XII. CUBA. What sounds arouse me from my slumbers light? "Land ho! all hands ahoy!”—I'm on the deck. 'Tis early dawn. The day-star yet is bright. A few white vapoury bars the zenith fleck. And lo! along the horizon, bold and high, The purple hills of Cuba! hail, all hail! Isle of undying verdure, with thy sky Of purest azure! Welcome, odorous gale! O! scene of life and joy! thou art array'd In hues of unimagined lovelinessSing louder, brave old mariner! and aid My swelling heart its rapture to express; For from enchanted memory never more [shore! Shall fade this dawn sublime, this bright, celestial THE DAYS THAT ARE PAST. We will not deplore them, the days that are past; We have lived till we find them illusive as dreams; Wealth has melted like snow that is grasp'd in the hand, And the steps we have climb'd have departed like sand; Yet shall we despond while of health unbereft, In our spirits the impulse of gladness and praise? But, by faith unforsaken, unawed by mischance, On hope's waving banner still fix'd be our glance; And, should fortune prove cruel and false to the last, Let us look to the future and not to the past! THE MARTYR OF THE ARENA. HONOUR'D be the hero evermore, Who at mercy's call has nobly died! Bright the sky above, and soft the air! His eulogium to the future years! Shall deserve a greater fame than he! Which the Coliseum once beheld? To denounce the spectacle of blood? Stepp'd he forth upon the circling sand; In unhallow'd combat be profaned! Now to swear, they shall forever close!" And, with looks adoring, gazed on high. Every hand was eager to assail! Strains celestial, that the menace drown? Beckoning to him, with a martyr's crown? Fiercer swell'd the people's frantic shout! Launch'd against him flew the stones like rain! Death and terror circled him about But he stood and perish'd-not in vain! Not in vain the youthful martyr fell! Then and there he crush'd a bloody creed! And his high example shall impel Future heroes to as great a deed! Stony answers yet remain for those Who would question and precede the time! In their season, may they meet their foes, Like TELEMACHUS, with front sublime! SUMMER IN THE HEART. THE cold blast at the casement beats, The window-panes are white, The snow whirls through the empty streets- Sit down, old friend! the wine-cups wait; Though Winter howleth at the gate, In our hearts 'tis summer still! For we full many summer joys And greenwood sports have shared, When, free and ever-roving boys, The rocks, the streams we dared! And, as I look upon thy face Back, back o'er years of ill, My heart flies to that happy place, Where it is summer still! Yes, though, like sere leaves on the ground, Our early hopes are strown, And cherish'd flowers lie dead around, The verdure is not faded quite, Not mute all tones that thrill; For, seeing, hearing thee to-night, In my heart 'tis summer still! Fill up the olden times come back! With light and life once more We scan the future's sunny track, From youth's enchanted shore! Gone is the winter's angry gloom In our hearts 'tis summer still! THE FUGITIVE FROM LOVE. Is there but a single theme Quick, the rosy nectar bring; Io BACCHE" I will sing. Ha! Confusion! every sip But reminds me of her lip. PALLAS! give me wisdom's page, And awake my lyric rage; Love is fleeting; love is vain; I will try a nobler strain. O, perplexity! my books But reflect her haunting looks! JUPITER! on thee I cry! Take me and my lyre on high! Lo! the stars beneath me gleam! Here, O, poet! is a theme. Madness! She has come above! Every chord is whispering "Love!" THE NIGHT-STORM AT SEA. "Tis a dreary thing to be Tossing on the wide, wide sea, When the sun has set in clouds, And the wind sighs through the shrouds, Like a living creature's moan! From the ocean to the skies! As it strikes us with a shock Father! low on bended knee, Yet flash with startling radiance on the sight; Wake they thy glance of scorn, Thou of the folded arms and aspect stern? Thou of the soft, deep tone,* For whose rich music gone, Kindred and tribe full soon may vainly yearn! Wo for the trusting hour! Wo for the bitter stain That from our country's banner may not part! For bitter pains and slow Are his who dieth of the fever'd heart! O, in that spirit-land, Where never yet the oppressor's foot hath pass'd; Whose beauty mocks our dreams, May that high heart have won its rest at last! THE DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS. MOTHER! I bring thy gift; Take from my hand the dreaded boon-I pray, Never to pass away, Since from these lips one word of idle breath What is it that I see From all the pure and settled features gleaming? Reproach! reproach! My dreams are strange and wild. Mother! hadst thou not pity on thy child? Lo! a celestial smile seems softly beaming O, kingly stag, no hand hath brought thee down: Longer upon thy victim's face to look? "T was with a patriot's heart, Where fear usurped no part, Thou camest, a noble offering-and alone! For vain yon army's might, While for thy band the wide plain own'd a tree, And the wild vine's tangled shoots On the gnarl'd oak's mossy roots Wo for thy hapless fate! Wo for thine evil times and lot, brave chief! Thy sadly-closing story, Thy quickly-vanish'd glory, Thy high but hopeless struggle, brave and brief. *OSEOLA was remarkable for a soft and flute-like voice. Alas! at yester morn My heart was light, and to the viol's sound I gayly danced, while crown'd with summer flowers, And all was joy around Not death! O, mother! could I say thee nay? Take it! my heart is sad ;- I dare not touch it, for avenging Heaven And the pale face appals me, cold and still, |