FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

BORN in Guilford, Connecticut, in 1795; wrote, with Drake, the "Croaker Pieces," in 1819; published "Fanny" in 1820, and a collection of miscellaneous poems in 1836.

ON THE DEATH OF J. RODMAN DRAKE.

GREEN be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days!

None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long, where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, whose truth was proven,
Like thine are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth.

And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and wo were thine-

It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow,
But I've in vain essay'd it,
And I feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free;
The grief is fixed too deeply,
That mourns a man like thee.

DEATH IN THE BATTLE-FIELD.

COME to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's when she feels
For the first time her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals

That close the Pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in Consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm,
Come when the heart beats high and warm
With banquet, song, and dance, and wine,
And thou art terrible; the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Come, when his task of fame is wroughtCome with her laurel leaf blood-boughtCome in her crowning hour, and then

Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prisoned men:
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh
To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land wind from woods of palm,
And orange groves and fields of balm,
Blew o'er the Haytien seas.

TWILIGHT.

THERE is an evening twilight of the heart,
When its wild passion waves are lulled to rest,
And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart,
As fades the day-beam in the rosy west.
'Tis with a nameless feeling of regret

We gaze upon them as they melt away,
And fondly would we bid them linger yet,
But Hope is round us with her angel lay,
Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour;
Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early
power.

In youth the cheek was crimson'd with her glow; Her smile was loveliest then, her matin song Was heaven's own music, and the note of woe Was all unheard her sunny bowers among.

Life's little world of bliss was newly born;

We knew not, cared not, it was born to die, Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of morn, With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, And mocked the passing clouds that dimm'd its blue,

Like our own sorrows then-as fleeting and as few.

And manhood felt her sway too,-on the eye,

Half realized, her early dreams burst bright, Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh, Its days of joy, its vigils of delight;

And though at times might lower the thunder storm,

And the red lightnings threaten, still the air Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form, The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. 'Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen,

Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green.

But though less dazzling in her twilight dress, There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now;

That angel smile of tranquil loveliness,

Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow; That smile shall brighten the dim evening star That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart Till the faint light of life is fled afar,

And hush'd the last deep beating of the heart; The meteor-bearer of our parting breath, A moon-beam in the midnight cloud of death.

MAGDALEN.

I.

A SWORD, whose blade has ne'er been wet
With blood, except of freedom's foes;
That hope which, though its sun be set,
Still with a starlight beauty glows;
A heart that worshipp'd in Romance
The Spirit of the buried Time,

And dreams of knight, and steed, and lance,
And ladye-love, and minstrel-rhyme ;
These had been, and I deem'd would be
My joy, whate'er my destiny.

II.

Born in a camp, its watch-fires bright
Alone illumed my cradle-bed;
And I had borne with wild delight
My banner where Bolivar led,

Ere manhood's hue was on my cheek,
Or manhood's pride was on my brow.
Its folds are furl'd-the war-birds beak
Is thirsty on the Andes now;

I long'd, like her, for other skies
Clouded by Glory's sacrifice.

III.

In Greece, the brave heart's Holy Land,

Its soldier-song the bugle sings;

And I had buckled on my brand,

And waited but the sea wind's wings,