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Labours of good to man,

Unpublish'd charity-unbroken faith-
Love, that midst grief began,

And grew with years, and falter'd not in death.

Full many a mighty name
Lurks in thy depths, unutter'd, unrevered;
With thee are silent fame,
Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear'd.

Thine, for a space, are they-
Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last;
Thy gates shall yet give way,

Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!

All that of good and fair

Has gone into thy womb, from earliest time,
Shall then come forth, to wear

The glory and the beauty of its prime.

They have not perish'd-no!

Kind words, remember'd voices, once so sweet, Smiles radiant long ago,

And features, the great soul's apparent seat;

All shall come back, each tie

Of pure affection shall be knit again;
Alone shall evil die,

And sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.

And then shall I behold

Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
And her who, still and cold,

Fills the next grave-the beautiful and young.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

THE author of "The Culprit Fay" died in New York, his native city, in 1820, in the 25th year of his age. An edition of his Poems, edited by Halleck, was printed in 1835.

BRONX.

I SAT me down upon a green bank side, Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river, Whose waters seem'd unwillingly to glide,

Like parting friends, who linger while they sever; Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready,

Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy.

Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow
Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes,
Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow,
Or the fine frostwork which young winter
freezes ;

When first his power in infant pastime trying, Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying.

From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling, And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green, Bright ising-stars the little beech was spangling, The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen

Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded, Left on some morn, when light flash'd in their eyes unheeded.

The hum-bird shook his sun-touch'd wings around,
The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat;
The antic squirrel caper'd on the ground

Where lichens made a carpet for his feet; Through the transparent waves the ruddy minkle Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle.

There were dark cedars, with loose, mossy tresses, White-powder'd dog trees, and stiff hollies flaunting

Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses,

Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden Shining beneath dropp'd lids the evening of her wedding.

The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn, Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em, The winding of the merry locust's horn,

The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom:

Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling,

O! 'twas a ravishing spot, form'd for a poet's dwelling.

And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand

Again in the dull world of earthly blindness? Pain'd with the pressure of unfriendly hands, Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness?

Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude,
To prison wandering thought and mar sweet soli-

tude?

Yet I will look upon thy face again,

My own romantic Bronx, and it will be A face more pleasant than the face of men, Thy waves are old companions, I shall see A well-remember'd form in each old tree, And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

DR. PERCIVAL was born in Berlin, Connecticut, in 1795. His poetical writings have appeared in six volumes-the last of which was published in the present year.

CONSUMPTION.

THERE is a sweetness in woman's decay, When the light of beauty is fading away, When the bright enchantment of youth is gone, And the tint that glow'd, and the eye that shone, And darted around its glance of power, And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower That ever in Pæstum's* garden blew,

Or ever was steep'd in fragrant dew,

* Biferique rosaria Pæsti.-Virg.

When all that was bright and fair is fled,
But the loveliness lingering round the dead.

O! there is a sweetness in beauty's close, Like the perfume scenting the wither'd rose; For a nameless charm around her plays,

And her eyes are kindled with hallow'd rays;
And a veil of spotless purity

Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye,
Like a cloud whereon the queen of night
Has pour'd her softest tint of light;

And there is a blending of white and blue,
Where the purple blood is melting through
The snow of her pale and tender cheek;
And there are tones that sweetly speak
Of a spirit who longs for a purer day,
And is ready to wing her flight away.

In the flush of youth, and the spring of feeling,
When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing
Its silent steps through a flowery path,
And all the endearments that pleasure hath
Are pour'd from her full, o'erflowing horn,
When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn,
In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song
The maiden may trip in the dance along,
And think of the passing moment, that lies,
Like a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes,
And yield to the present, that charms around
With all that is lovely in sight and sound;
Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit,
With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit,
And the music that steals to the bosom's core,
And the heart in its fulness flowing o'er
With a few big drops that are soon repress'd,

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