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REVEREND BENJAMIN D. WINSLOW.*

THE LOVER STUDENT.

WITH a burning brow and weary limb,
From the parting glance of day,
The student sits in his study dim,

Till the east with dawn is gray;
But what are those musty tomes to him?
His spirit is far away.

He seeks, in fancy, the hall of light

Where his lady leads the dance, Where the festal bowers are gleaming bright, Lit up by her sunny glance; And he thinks of her the livelong nightShe thinketh of him-perchance!

Yet many a gallant knight is by,

To dwell on each gushing tone,
To drink the smile of that love-lit eye,
Which should beam on him alone;

To woo with the vow, the glance and sigh,
The heart that he claims his own.

The student bends o'er the snowy page,

And he grasps his well-worn pen,
That he may write him a lesson sage,

To read to the sons of men;
But softer lessons his thoughts engage,
And he flings it down again.
The student's orisons must arise
At the vesper's solemn peal,
So he gazeth up to the tranquil skies,
Which no angel forms reveal,
But an earthly seraph's laughing eyes
Mid his whisper'd prayers will steal.

In vain his spirit would now recur
To his little study dim,

In vain the notes of the vesper stir
In the cloister cold and grim;

Through the livelong night he thinks of her-
Doth his lady think of him?

Then up he looks to the clear, cold moon,

But no calm to him she brings; His troubled spirit is out of tune,

And loosen'd its countless strings;
Yet, in the quiet of night's still noon,
To his lady-love he sings:

"Thou in thy bower,
And I in my cell,
Through each festal hour
Divided must dwell;
Yet we're united,

Though forms are apart,
Since love's vows plighted

Have bound us in heart.
"Proud sons of fashion

Now murmur to thee
Accents of passion,

All treason to me;

*The "Sermons and Poetical Remains of the Reverend B. D. WINSLOW," edited by Bishop DOANE, were published in 1811. He died in 1810, in the twenty-fifth year of his age.

Others are gazing

On that glance divine, Others are praising

Are their words like mine?

"Heed not the wooer
With soft vows express'd,
One heart beats truer-
Thou know'st in whose breast.
To him thou hast spoken

Words not lightly told;
His heart would be broken

If thine should grow cold!
"The stars faintly glimmer
And fade into day,
This taper burns dimmer
With vanishing ray;
O, never thus fading,
May fortune grow pale,
With sorrow-clouds shading,
Or plighted faith fail!
"Hush, my wild numbers!
Dawn breaketh above-
Soft be thy slumbers,
Adieu to thee, love!
Sad vigils keeping,

I think upon thee,
And dream of thee sleeping,
My own MELANIE!"

ALEXANDER H. BOGART.*

ANACREONTIC.

THE flying joy through life we seek
For once is ours-the wine we sip
Blushes like beauty's glowing cheek,
To meet our eager lip.

Round with the ringing glass once more!
Friends of my youth and of my heart;
No magic can this hour restore-

Then crown it ere we part.

Ye are my friends, my chosen onesWhose blood would flow with fervour true For me-and free as this wine runs

Would mine, by heaven! for you.
Yet, mark me! When a few short years
Have hurried on their journey fleet,
Not one that now my accents hears
Will know me when we meet.

Though now, perhaps, with proud disdain,
The startling thought ye scarce will brook,
Yet, trust me, we'll be strangers then
In heart as well as look.

Fame's luring voice, and woman's wile,
Will soon break youthful friendship's chain-
But shall that cloud to-night's bright smile?
No-pour the wine again!

ALEXANDER H. BOGART, a man of wit and gen's, was born in 1864, and died in Albany, at the early age of twenty

two.

HUGH PETERS.*

A GOOD-NIGHT TO CONNECTICUT.

THE boat swings from the pebbled shore,
And proudly drives her prow;
The crested waves roll up before:
Yon dark-gray land, I see no more,
How sweet it seemeth now!
Thou dark-gray land, my native land,
Thou land of rock and pine,
I'm speeding from thy golden sand;
But can I wave a farewell hand
To such a shore as thine!

I've gazed upon the golden cloud

Which shades thine emerald sod;

Thy hills, which Freedom's share hath plough'd,
Which nurse a race that have not bow'd

Their knee to aught but GOD;
Thy mountain floods which proudly fling
Their waters to the fall-

Thy birds, which cut with rushing wing
The sky that greets thy coming spring,

And thought thy glories small.

But now ye've shrunk to yon blue line

Between the sky and sea,

I feel, sweet home, that thou art mine,
I feel my bosom cling to thine-

That I am part of thee.

I see thee blended with the wave,
As children see the earth
Close up a sainted mother's grave:
They weep for her they cannot save,
And feel her holy worth.

Thou mountain land-thou land of rock,
I'm proud to call thee free;

Thy sons are of the pilgrim stock,

And nerved like those who stood the shock
At old Thermopylæ.

The laurel wreaths their fathers won,
The children wear them still-
Proud deeds those iron men have done,
They fought and won at Bennington,
And bled at Bunker Hill.
There's grandeur in the lightning stroke
That rives thy mountain ash;
There's glory in thy giant oak,
And rainbow beauty in the smoke
Where crystal waters dash:
There's music in thy winter blast
That sweeps the hollow glen;
Less sturdy sons would shrink aghast
From piercing winds like those thou hast
To nurse thine iron men.

And thou hast gems; ay, living pearls;
And flowers of Eden hue:
Thy loveliest are thy bright-eyed girls,
Of fairy forms and elfin curls,

And smiles like Hermon's dew:

They've hearts like those they're born to wed,

Too proud to nurse a slave;

HUGH PETERS was a native of Connecticut. He was drowned, near Cincinnati, in 1832, aged about thirty years.

They'd scorn to share a monarch's bed,
And sooner lay their angel head
Deep in their humble grave.

And I have left thee, home, alone,
A pilgrim from thy shore;
The wind goes by with hollow moan,
I hear it sigh a warning tone,

"You see your home no more."
I'm cast upon the world's wide sea,
Torn like an ocean weed;
I'm cast away, far, far from thee,
I feel a thing I cannot be,

A bruised and broken reed.
Farewell, my native land, farewell!
That wave has bid thee now-
My heart is bow'd as with a spell.
This rending pang!-would I could tell
What ails my throbbing brow!
One look upon that fading streak

Which bounds yon eastern sky; One tear to cool my burning cheek; And then a word I cannot speak"My native land-Good-bye."

FREDERICK W. THOMAS.*

'TIS SAID THAT ABSENCE CONQUERS LOVE

"Tis said that absence conquers love!

But, O! believe it not;

I've tried, alas! its power to prove,
But thou art not forgot.
Lady, though fate has bid us part,

Yet still thou art as dear,
As fix'd in this devoted heart
As when I clasp'd thee here.
I plunge into the busy crowd,

And smile to hear thy name;
And yet, as if I thought aloud,

They know me still the same.
And when the wine-cup passes round,
I toast some other fair,-
But when I ask my heart the sound,
Thy name is echo'd there.

And when some other name I learn,
And try to whisper love.

Still will my heart to thee return,
Like the returning dove.

In vain! I never can forget,

And would not be forgot;
For I must bear the same regret,
Whate'er may be my lot.

E'en as the wounded bird will seek
Its favourite bower to die,
So, lady, I would hear thee speak,
And yield my parting sigh.
"Tis said that absence conquers love!
But, O, believe it not;

I've tried, alas! its power to prove,

But thou art not forgot.

* Author of "East and West," "Clinton Bradshaw," "The Beechen Tree, a Tale told in Rhyme," etc.

FRANCIS L. HAWKS, D. D.*

THE BLIND BOY.

It was a blessed summer day,

The flowers bloom'd-the air was mildThe little birds pour'd forth their lay, And everything in nature smiled. In pleasant thought I wander'd on Beneath the deep wood's ample shade, Till suddenly I came upon

Two children who had thither stray'd. Just at an aged birch-tree's foot

A little boy and girl reclined; His hand in hers she kindly put,

And then I saw the boy was blind. The children knew not I was near,

The tree conceal'd me from their view; But all they said I well could hear,

And I could see all they might do. "Dear MARY," said the poor blind boy, "That little bird sings very long; Say, do you see him in his joy,

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And is he pretty as his song?"

Yes, EDWARD, yes," replied the maid, "I see the bird on yonder tree."

The poor boy sigh'd, and gently said,
Sister, I wish that I could see.

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"The flowers, you say, are very fair,
And bright green leaves are on the trees,
And pretty birds are singing there-

How beautiful for one who sees!
"Yet I the fragrant flowers can smell,
And I can feel the green leaf's shade,
And I can hear the notes that swell

From those dear birds that GOD has made. "So, sister, GoD to me is kind,

Though sight, alas! he has not given: But tell me, are there any blind

Among the children up in heaven?" "No, dearest EDWARD, there all seeBut why ask me a thing so odd?" "Oh, MARY, He's so good to me,

I thought I'd like to look at GoD."
Ere long Disease his hand had laid

On that dear boy, so meek and mild;
His widow'd mother wept and pray'd
That Gon would spare her sightless child.
He felt her warm tears on his face,

And said "Oh, never weep for me;
I'm going to a bright, bright place,

Where MARY says I Gon shall see.
"And you'll be there, dear MARY, too:

But, mother, when you get up there,
Tell EDWARD, mother, that 't is you-
You know I never saw you here."
He spoke no more, but sweetly smiled,
Until the final blow was given-
When Gon took up the poor bind child,
And open'd first his eyes in heaven!

This brilliant orator and very abie writer is a native of North Carolina, in which state he practised law before he entered into holy orders. His best prose writings are historical criticisms in "The New-York Review."

JOHN SHAW, M. D.*
SONG.

WHO has robb'd the ocean cave,
To tinge thy lips with coral hue?
Who, from India's distant wave,
For thee those pearly treasures drew ?
Who, from yonder orient sky,
Stole the morning of thine eye?
Thousand charms, thy form to deck,
From sea, and earth, and air, are torn;
Roses bloom upon thy cheek,

On thy breath their fragrance borne.
Guard thy bosom from the day,
Lest thy snows should melt away.
But one charm remains behind,
Which mute earth can ne'er impart;
Nor in ocean wilt thou find,
Nor in the circling air, a heart:

Fairest, wouldst thou perfect be,
Take, oh take, that heart from me.

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ROBERT MONTGOMERY BIRD.*

THE WHIPPOORWILL.

SLEEP, sleep! be thine the sleep that throws
Elysium o'er the soul's repose,
Without a dream, save such as wind,
Like midnight angels, through the mind;
While I am watching on the hill,
I, and the wailing whippoorwill.

O whippoorwill, O whippoorwill.
Sleep, sleep! and once again I'll tell
The oft-pronounced, yet vain, farewell:
Such should his word, O maiden, be,
Who lifts the fated eye to thee;
Such should it be, before the chain
That wraps his spirit, binds his brain.

O whippoorwill, O whippoorwill.
Sleep, sleep! the ship has left the shore,
The steed awaits his lord no more;
His lord still madly lingers by
The fatal maid he cannot fly,

And thrids the wood, and climbs the hill,
He and the wailing whippoorwill.

O whippoorwill, O whippoorwill.
Sleep, sleep! the morrow hastens on;
Then shall the wailing slave be gone,
Flitting the hill-top far, for fear
The sounds of joy may reach his ear;
The sounds of joy!-the hollow knell
Peal'd from the mocking chapel-bell.

O whippoorwill, O whippoorwill.

SEBA SMITH.+

THE MOTHER PERISHING IN A SNOW-STORM.‡
THE cold winds swept the mountain's height,
And pathless was the dreary wild,
And mid the cheerless hours of night

A mother wander'd with her child:
As through the drifting snow she press'd,
The babe was sleeping on her breast.
And colder still the winds did blow,

And darker hours of night came on,

And deeper grew the drifting snow:

Her limbs were chill'd, her strength was gone; "O, Gop!" she cried, in accents wild, "If I must perish, save my child!”

She stripp'd her mantle from her breast,
And bared her bosom to the storm,
And round the child she wrapp'd the vest,
And smiled to think her babe was warm.

Dr. BIRD is author of "Calavar, a Romance of Mexico," "The Infidel," "Hawks of Hawk-Hollow," "Nick of the Woods," "Robin Day," "Peter Pilgrim," "Shep+ Author of "Powhattan, a Metrical Romance," &c. He resides in New York.

In the year 1821, a Mrs. BLAKE perished in a snowstorm in the night-time, while travelling over a spur of the Green Mountains, in Vermont. She had an infant with her, which was found alive and well in the morning, being carefully wrapped in the mother's clothing.

With one cold kiss, one tear she shed,
And sunk upon her snowy bed.
At dawn a traveller passed by,

And saw her 'neath a snowy veil;
The frost of death was in her eye,

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale; He moved the robe from off the child, The babe look'd up and sweetly smiled!

JAMES HALL.*

WEDDED LOVE'S FIRST HOME.

"T was far beyond yon mountains, dear,
We plighted vows of love;
The ocean-wave was at our feet,

The autumn sky above;
The pebbly shore was cover'd o'er
With many a varied shell,
And on the billow's curling spray
The sunbeams glittering fell.
The storm has vex'd that billow oft,
And oft that sun has set,
But plighted love remains with us,
In peace and lustre yet.

I wiled thee to a lonely haunt,

That bashful love might speak

Where none could hear what love reveal'd,
Or see the crimson cheek;

The shore was all deserted,

And we wander'd there alone,
And not a human step impress'd
The sand-beach but our own.
Thy footsteps all have vanish'd

From the willow-beaten strand-
The vows we breathed remain with us-
They were not traced in sand.

Far, far we left the sea-girt shore,

Endear'd by childhood's dream,
To seek the humble cot, that smiled
By fair Ohio's stream;

In vain the mountain cliff opposed,
The mountain torrent roar'd,
For love unfurl'd her silken wing,
And o'er each barrier soar'd;
And many a wide domain we pass'd
And many an ample dome,
But none so bless'd, so dear to us,
As wedded love's first home.
Beyond those mountains now are all
That e'er we loved or knew,
The long-remember'd many,
And the dearly-cherish'd few:
The home of her we value,

And the grave of him we mourn,
Are there; and there is all the past
To which the heart can turn;
But dearer scenes surround us here,
And lovelier joys we trace,
For here is wedded love's first home,
Its hallow'd resting-place.

Judge HALL resides in Cincinnati, and is author of "Legends of the West," and several other volumes of prose fiction.

ALFRED B. MEEK.*

THE MOCKING BIRD.

BIRD of the wild and wondrous song,
I hear thy rich and varied voice
Swelling the greenwood depths among,
Till hill and vale the while rejoice.
Spell-bound, entranced, in rapture's chain,
I list to that inspiring strain;
I thread the forest's tangled maze

The thousand choristers to see,
Who mingled thus their voices raise
In that delicious minstrelsy;

I search in vain each pause between-
The choral band is still unseen.

"Tis but the music of a dream

An airy sound that mocks the ear; But hark again! the eagle's scream,

It rose and fell distinct and clear! And list-in yonder hawthorn bush, The red-bird, robin, and the thrush! Lost in amaze I look around,

Nor thrush nor eagle there behold: But still that rich, aerial sound,

Like some forgotten song of old That o'er the heart has held control, Falls sweetly on the ravish'd soul.

And yet, the woods are vocal still,

The air is musical with song; O'er the near stream, above the hill,

The wildering notes are borne along. But whence that gush of rare delight? And what art thou, or bird or sprite? Perch'ed on yon maple's topmost bough, With glancing wings and restless feet, Bird of untiring throat art thou,

Sole songster in this concert sweet! So perfect, full, and rich, each part, It mocks the highest reach of art. Once more, once more, that thrilling strain! Ill-omen'd owl, be mute, be mute! Thy native tones I hear again,

More sweet than harp or lover's lute; Compared with thy impassioned tale, How cold, how tame, the nightingale. Alas! capricious in thy power,

Thy "wood-note wild" again is fled:
The mimic rules the changeful hour,

And all the "soul of song" is dead!
But no-to every borrow'd tone
He lends a sweetness all his own!
On glittering wing, erect and bright,
With arrowy speed he darts aloft,
As though his soul had ta'en its flight,
In that last strain so sad and soft,
And he would call it back to life,
To mingle in the mimic strife!

And ever, to each fitful lay,

His frame in restless motion wheels,

* This poem I find in a literary journal attributed to Mr. ALFRED B. MEEK, of Alabama. That gentleman is distinguished in affairs, and is a glowing prose writer. His fugitive poems frequently adorn the southern miscellanies. 68

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THE FATHER'S DEATH.

As die the embers on the hearth,

And o'er the floor the shadows fall, And creeps the chirping cricket forth, And ticks the deathwatch in the wall, I see a form in yonder chair,

That grows beneath the waning light; There are the wan, sad features--there The pallid brow, and locks of white! My father! when they laid thee down, And heap'd the clay upon thy breast, And left thee sleeping all alone

Upon thy narrow couch of restI know not why, I could not weep,

The soothing drops refused to rollAnd oh, that grief is wild and deep

Which settles tearless on the soul! But when I saw thy vacant chair

Thine idle hat upon the wallThy book-the pencil'd passage where Thine eye had rested last of allThe tree beneath whose friendly shade Thy trembling feet had wander'd forth— The very prints those feet had made,

When last they feebly trod the earthAnd thought, while countless ages fled, Thy vacant seat would vacant stand, Unworn thy hat, thy book unread,

Effaced thy footsteps from the sandAnd widow'd in this cheerless world, The heart that gave its love to theeTorn, like a vine whose tendrils curl'd More closely round the falling tree!— Oh, father! then for her and thee

Gush'd madly forth the scorching tears, And oft, and long, and bitterly,

Those tears have gush'd in later years; For as the world grows cold around, And things take on their real hue, "Tis sad to learn that love is found

Alone above the stars, with you!

*H. R. JACKSON, of Georgia, a captain of volunteers in the Mexican war, has written for the southern literary journals occasional short poems marked by tenderness and grace

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