MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR.

YES, the year is growing old,

And his eye is pale and blear'd! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely,―sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling,
Solemnly and slow;

Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,
It is a sound of wo,

A sound of wo!

Through woods and mountain-passes
The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing; Pray for this poor soul,
Pray, pray!

The hooded clouds, like friars,

Tell their beads in drops of rain, And patter their doleful prayers;— But their prayers are all in vain, All in vain!

There he stands, in the foul weather,

The foolish, fond Old Year,

Crown'd with wild flowers and with heather, Like weak, despised LEAR,

A king,-a king!

Then comes the summer-like day,
Bids the old man rejoice!

His joy! his last! O, the old man gray
Loveth her ever-soft voice,
Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith,
And the voice gentle and low

Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,
Pray do not mock me so!

Do not laugh at me!

And now the sweet day is dead;

Cold in his arms it lies,

No stain from its breath is spread
Over the glassy skies,

No mist nor stain!

Then, too, the Old Year dieth,

And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth In the wilderness alone,

Vex not his ghost!

Then comes, with an awful roar, Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador, The wind Euroclydon,

The storm-wind!

Howl! howl! and from the forest
Sweep the red leaves away!
Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,
O soul! could thus decay,
And be swept away!

For there shall come a mightier blast,
There shall be a darker day;
And the stars, from heaven down-cast,
Like red leaves be swept away!
Kyrie Eleyson!
Christe Eleyson!

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat;
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowingOnward through life he goes: Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted-something done, Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of Life

Our fortunes must be wrought, Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.

EXCELSIOR.

THE shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village pass'd
A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Flash'd like a faulchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light

Of household fires gleam warm and bright: Above, the spectral glaciers shone,

And from his lips escaped a groan,

Excelsior!

Try not the pass!" the old man said; "Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior!

"O stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answer'd, with a sigh,
Excelsior!

"Beware the pine tree's wither'd branch!
Beware the awful avalanche !"
This was the peasant's last good-night;
A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint BERNARD
Utter'd the oft-repeated prayer,

A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

There, in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star!
Excelsior!

THE RAINY DAY.

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

MAIDEN! with the meek, brown eyes,
In whose orbs a shadow lies,
Like the dusk in evening skies!

Thou, whose locks outshine the sun,
Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
As the braided streamlets run!

Standing, with reluctant feet,
Where the brook and river meet!
Womanhood and childhood fleet!

Gazing, with a timid glance,
On the brooklet's swift advance,
On the river's broad expanse!
Deep and still, that gliding stream
Beautiful to thee must seem,
As the river of a dream.

Then, why pause with indecision,
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields Elysian?
Seest thou shadows sailing by,*
As the dove, with startled eye,
Sees the falcon's shadow fly?
Hearest thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more,
Deafen'd by the cataract's roar?

O, thou child of many prayers!
Life hath quicksands,-Life hath snares!
Care and age come unawares!
Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.

Childhood is the bough where slumber'd
Birds and blossoms many-number'd ;—
Age, that bough with snows encumber'd.
Gather, then, each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows.

Bear a lily in thy hand;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.

Bear, through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth.

O, that dew, like balm, shall steal
Into wounds, that cannot heal,
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;
And that smile, like sunshine, dart
Into many a sunless heart,
For a smile of God thou art.

THE author of "Guy Rivers," "Southern Passages and Pictures," etc., was born in Charleston, South Carolina, in the spring of 1807. His mother died during his infancy, and his father soon after emigrated to one of the western territories, leaving him under the guardianship of a grandmother, who superintended his early education. When not more than nine or ten years old, he began to write verses; at fifteen he was a contributor to the poetical department of the gazettes printed near his home; and at eighteen he published his first volume, entitled Lyrical and other Poems," which was followed in the next two years by "Early Lays," and "The Vision of Cortez and other Pieces," and in 1830, by "The Tricolor, or Three Days of Blood in Paris." In each of these four volumes there were poetical ideas, and occasionally well-finished verses; but they are worthy of little regard, except as indications of the early tendency of the author's mind.

When twenty-one years old, Mr. SIMMS was admitted to the bar, and began to practise his profession in his native district; but feeling a deep interest in the political questions which then agitated the country, he soon abandoned the courts, and purchased a daily gazette at Charleston, which he edited for several years, with industry, integrity, and ability. It was, however, unsuccessful, and he lost by it all his property, as well as the prospective earnings of several years. His ardour was not lessened by this failure, and, confident of success, he determined to retrieve his fortune by authorship. He had been married at an early age; his wife, as well as his father, was now dead; and no domestic ties binding him to Charleston, he in the spring of 1832 visited for the first time the northern states. After travelling over the most interesting portions of the country, he paused at the rural village of Hingham, in Massachusetts, and there prepared for the press his principal poetical work, "Atalantis, a Story of the Sea," which was published at New York in the following winter. This is an imaginative story, in the dramatic form; its plot is exceedingly simple, but effectively managed, and it contains much beautiful imagery, and fine description. While a vessel glides over a summer sea, LEON, one of the principal characters, and his sister ISABEL, hear a benevolent spirit of the air warning them of the designs of a sea-god to lure them into peril.

Leo. Didst hear the strain it utter'd, ISABEL?
Isa. All, all! It spoke, methought, of peril near,
From rocks and wiles of the ocean: did it not?
Leon. It did, but idly! Here can lurk no rocks;
For, by the chart which now before me lies,

Thy own unpractised eye may well discern
The wide extent of the ocean-shoreless all.

The land, for many a league, to the eastward hangs,
And not a point beside it.

Isa. Wherefore, then,

Should come this voice of warning?

Leon. From the deep:

It hath its demons as the earth and air,
All tributaries to the master-fiend
That sets their springs in motion. This is one,
That, doubting to mislead us, plants this wile,
So to divert our course, that we may strike
The very rocks he fain would warn us from.
Isa. A subtle sprite: and, now I think of it,
Dost thou remember the old story told
By DIAZ ORTIS, the lame mariner,

Of an adventure in the Indian Seas,
Where he made one with JOHN of Portugal,
Touching a woman of the ocean wave,
That swam beside the barque, and sang strange songs
Of riches in the waters; with a speech
So winning on the senses, that the crew
Grew all infected with the melody;
And, but for a good father of the church,
Who made the sign of the cross, and offer'd up
Befitting prayers, which drove the fiend away,
They had been tempted by her cunning voice
To leap into the ocean.

Leon. I do, I do!

And, at the time, I do remember me,

I made much mirth of the extravagant tale,
As a deceit of the reason: the old man
Being in his second childhood, and at fits
Wild, as you know, on other themes than this.

Isa. I never more shall mock at marvellous things, Such strange conceits hath after-time found true, That once were themes for jest. I shall not smile At the most monstrous legend.

Leon. Nor will I:

To any tale of mighty wonderment

I shall bestow my ear, nor wonder more;
And every fancy that my childhood bred,
In vagrant dreams of frolic, I shall look
To have, without rebuke, my sense approve.
Thus, like a little island in the sea,
Girt in by perilous waters, and unknown
To all adventure, may be yon same cloud,
Specking, with fleecy bosom, the blue sky,
Lit by the rising moon. There we may dream,
And find no censure in an after day-
Throng the assembled fairies, perched on beams,
And riding on their way triumphantly.
There gather the coy spirits. Many a fay,
Roving the silver sands of that same isle,
Floating in azure ether, plumes her wing
Of ever-frolicsome fancy, and pursues-
While myriads, like herself, do watch the chase--
Some truant sylph, through the infinitude
Of their uncircumscribed and rich domain.
There sport they through the night, with mimicry
Of strife and battle; striking their tiny shields
And gathering into combat; meeting fierce,
With lip compress'd and spear aloft, and eye
Glaring with fight and desperate circumstance;
Then sudden-in a moment all their wrath
Mellow'd to friendly terms of courtesy-
Throwing aside the dread array, and link'd
Each in his foe's embrace. Then comes the dance,
The grateful route, the wild and musical pomp,

The long procession o'er fantastic realms

Of cloud and moonbeam, through the enamour'd night,
Making it all one revel. Thus the eye,
Breathed on by fancy, with enlarged scope,
Through the protracted and deep hush of night
May note the fairies, coursing the lazy hours

In various changes, and without fatigue.

A fickle race, who tell their time by flowers,
And live on zephyrs, and have stars for lamps,
And night-dews for ambrosia; perch'd on beams,
Speeding through space, even with the scattering light
On which they feed and frolic.

Isa. A sweet dream:

And yet, since this same tale we laugh'd at once,
The story of old ORTIS, is made sooth-
Perchance not all a dream. I would not doubt.
Leon. And yet there may be, dress'd in subtle guise
Of unsuspected art, some gay deceit

Of human conjuration mix'd with this.
Some cunning seaman having natural skill-

As, from the books, we learn may yet be done-
Hath 'yond our vessel's figure pitch'd his voice,
Leading us wantonly.

Isa. It is not so,

Or does my sense deceive?

A perch beyond our barque.

Look there: the wave What dost thou see?

Leon. A marvellous shape, that with the billow curls,

In gambols of the deep, and yet is not

Its wonted burden; for beneath the waves

I mark a gracious form, though nothing clear
Of visage I discern. Again it speaks.

The ship is wrecked, and ATALANTIS, a fairy, wandering along the beach with an attendant, NEA, discovers the inanimate form of LEON clinging to a spar.

But what is here,
Grasping a shaft, and lifelessly stretch'd out?

Nea. One of the creatures of that goodly barque-
Perchance the only one of many men,

That, from their distant homes, went forth in her,
And here have perish'd.

A al. There is life in him

And his heart swells beneath my hand, with pulse
Fitful and faint, returning now, now gone,
That much I fear it may not come again.
How very young he is-how beautiful!
Made, with a matchless sense of what is true,
In manly grace and chisell'd elegance;
And features, rounded in as nice a mould
As our own, NEA. There, his eye unfolds-
Stand away, girl, and let me look on him!
It cannot be, that such a form as this,

So lovely and compelling, ranks below

The creatures of our kingdom. He is one,

That, 'mongst them all, might well defy compare-
Outshining all that shine!

Nea. He looks as well,

In outward seeming, as our own, methinks-
And yet, he may be but a shaped thing,
Wanting in every show of that high sense
Which makes the standard of true excellence.
Atal. O, I am sure there is no want in him-
The spirit must be true, the sense be high,
The soul as far ascending, strong and bright,
As is the form he wears, and they should be
Pleased to inhabit-'t were a fitting home!
Breathe on him, NEA. Fan him with thy wing,
And so arouse him. I would have him speak,
And satisfy my doubt. Stay, yet a while-
Now, while his senses sleep, I'll place my lip
Upon his own-it is so beautiful!

Such lips should give forth music-such a sweet
Should have been got in heaven-the produce there
Of never-blighted gardens.

[Kisses him.

Leon. [starts.] Cling to me

Am I not with thee now, my ISABEL?

[Swoons again. Atal. O, gentle sounds-how sweetly did they fall In broken murmurs, like a melody,

From lips, that waiting long on loving hearts,
Had learn'd to murmur like them. Wake again,
Sweet stranger! If my lips have wrought this spell,
And won thee back to life, though but to sigh,
And sleep again in death, they shall, once more,
Wake and restore thee.

Soon after the appearance of "Atalantis," Mr. SIMMS published, in the "American Quarterly," a review of Mrs. TROLLOPE'S "Domestic Manners of the Americans," which was reprinted, in several editions, in this country and in England; and in 1833 appeared his first romance, "Martin Faber, the Story of a Criminal," parts of which had been printed several years before in a magazine conducted by him in Charleston. In the same year he published "The Book of My Lady," and, in the summer of 1834, "Guy Rivers, a Tale of Georgia." which was followed by "The Yemassee," The Partisan," "Mellichampe," "Pelayo," "Carl Werner, 66 The Damsel of Darien," "The Kinsman," "The History of South Carolina," "The Blind Heart," and numerous sketches, reviews, and misceilanies, in the periodicals. Several other works have been generally attributed to him; though the amount of his acknowledged writings seems to be as great as one man could have produced since he commenced his career as an author. His novels have been very popular, particularly in the southern states, the scenery and history of which, several of them are designed to illustrate. They exhibit con siderable dramatic power, and some of the characters are drawn with great skill.

"

His "Southern Passages and Pictures" appeared in New York, in 1839, and he has since published Florida," in five cantos, and many shorter poems. They are on a great variety of subjects, and in almost every measure. Among them are several very spirited ballads, founded on Indian traditions and on incidents in the war for independence. His style is free and melodious, his fancy fertile and inventive, and his imagery generally well chosen, though its range is limited; but sometimes his rhymes are imperfect, and his meaning not easily understood. He is strongly attached to his country, but his sympathies seem to me to be too local. The rivers, forests, savannas, and institutions of the south, he regards with feelings similar to those with which WHITTIER looks upon the mountains, lakes, and social systems of New England.

Mr. SIMMS is again married, and now resides in the vicinity of Charleston. He is in the meridian of life and energy, and is constantly writing and adding to his reputation. He is retiring in his habits, goes little into society, and keeps aloof from all controversies; finding happiness in the bosom of his family, among his books, and in correspondence and personal intercourse with his literary friends. He is a fine specimen of the true southern gentleman, and combines in himself the hh qualities attributed to that character.

THE SLAIN EAGLE.

THE eye that mark'd thy flight with deadly aim, Had less of warmth and splendour than thine own; The form that did thee wrong could never claim The matchless vigour which thy wing hath shown; Yet art thou in thy pride of flight o'erthrown; And the far hills that echoed back thy scream, As from storm-gathering clouds thou sent'st it down,

Shall see no more thy red-eyed glances stream For their far summits round, with strong and terrible gleam.

Lone and majestic monarch of the cloud! No more I see thee on the tall cliff's brow, When tempests meet, and from their watery shroud Pour their wild torrents on the plains below, Lifting thy fearless wing, still free to go, True in thy aim, undaunted in thy flight, As seeking still, yet scorning, every foeShrieking the while in consciousness of might, To thy own realm of high and undisputed light.

Thy thought was not of danger then-thy pride Left thee no fear. Thou hadst gone forth in storms, And thy strong pinions had been bravely tried Against their rush. Vainly their gathering forms Had striven against thy wing. Such conflict warms The nobler spirit; and thy joyful shriek Gave token that the strife itself had charms For the born warrior of the mountain peak, He of the giant brood, sharp fang, and bloody beak.

How didst thou then, in very mirth, spread far Thy pinions' strength!-with freedom that became Audacious license, with the winds at war, Striding the yielding clouds that girt thy frame, And, with a fearless rush that naught could tame, Defying earth-defying all that mars

The flight of other wings of humbler name;
For thee, the storm had impulse, but no bars
To stop thy upward flight, thou pilgrim of the stars!

Morning above the hills, and from the ocean,
Ne'er leap'd abroad into the fetterless blue
With such a free and unrestrained motion,
Nor shook from her ethereal wing the dew
That else had clogg'd her flight and dimm'd her
view,

With such calm effort as 't was thine to wearBending with sunward course erect and true, When winds were piping high and lightnings near, hy day-guide all withdrawn, through fathomless fields of air.

Watching, he saw thy rising wing. In vain, From his superior dwelling, the fierce sun Shot forth his brazen arrows, to restrain The audacious pilgrim, who would gaze upon The secret splendours of his central throne; Proudly, he saw thee to that presence fly, And, Eblis-like, unaided and alone, His dazzling glories seek, his power defy, Raised to thy god's own face, meanwhile, thy rebel eye.

And thence he drew a hope, a hope to soar, Even with a wing like thine. His daring glance Sought, with as bold a vision, to explore The secret of his own deliveranceThe secret of his wing-and to advance To sovereign sway like thine-to rule, to rise Above his race, and nobly to enhance Their empire as his own-to make the skies, The extended earth, far seas, and solemn stars, his prize.

He triumphs-and he perishes like thee!
Scales the sun's heights, and mounts above the
winds,

Breaks down the gloomy barrier, and is free!
The worm receives his winglet: he unbinds
The captive thought, and in its centre finds
New barriers, and a glory in his gaze;

He mocks, as thou, the sun!-but scaly blinds
Grow o'er his vision, till, beneath the daze,
From his proud height he falls, amid the world's

amaze.

And thou, brave bird! thy wing hath pierced the cloud,

The storm had not a battlement for thee; But, with a spirit fetterless and proud, Thou hast soar'd on, majestically free, To worlds, perchance, which men shall never see! Where is thy spirit now? the wing that bore? Thou hast lost wing and all, save liberty! Death only could subdue-and that is o'er: Alas! the very form that slew thee should deplore!

A proud exemplar hath been lost the proud, And he who struck thee from thy fearless flightThy noble loneliness, that left the crowd, To seek, uncurb'd, that singleness of height Which glory aims at with unswerving sightHad learn'd a nobler toil. No longer base With lowliest comrades, he had given his might, His life that had been cast in vilest place— To raise his hopes and homes-to teach and lift

his race.

'Tis he should mourn thy fate, for he hath lost The model of dominion. Not for him The mighty eminence, the gathering host That worships, the high glittering pomps that dim. The bursting homage and the hailing hymn: He dies-he hath no life, that, to a star, Rises from dust and sheds a holy gleam To light the struggling nations from afar. And show, to kindred souls, where fruits of glory

are.