MONODY ON THE LATE DANIEL WADS-
WORTH, ESQUIRE.

THOU, of a noble name,
That gave in days of old
Shepherds to Zion's fold,

And chiefs of power and fame,

When Washington in times of peril drew [true-
Forth in their country's cause the valiant and the
Thou, who so many a lonely home didst cheer,
Counting thy wealth a sacred trust-
With shuddering heart the knell we hear
That tells us thou art dust.

Friend! we have let thee fall

Into the grave, and have not gathered all
The wisdom thou didst love to pour
From a full mind's exhaustless store:
Ah, we were slow of heart,
To reap the rapid moments ere their flight-
Or thou, perchance, to us hadst taught the art
Heaven's gifts to use aright-

Amid infirmity and pain

Time's golden sands to save;

With upright heart the truth maintain;
To frown on wiles the life that stain,

Making the soul their slave;

[face.

To joy in all things beautiful, and trace
The slightest smile, or shade, that mantled Nature's

Yes, we were slow of heart, and dreamed
To see thee still at wintry tide,

[beside,

With page of knowledge spread, thy pleasant hearth When to thy clearer sight there gleamed

The beckoning hand, the waiting eye, The smile of welcome through the sky, Of her who was thine angel here below, [to go. And unto whom 't was meet that thou shouldst long

Friend! thou didst give command

To him who dealt thy soul its hallowed bread,
As by thy suffering bed

He took his faithful stand,

Not to pronounce thy praise when thou wert dead:
So, though impulsive promptings came,
Warm o'er his lips like rushing flame,
He struggled and o'ercame.

Even when, in sad array,

From thy lone home, where summer roses twined,
The funeral weepers held their way
Thy sable hearse behind:

When in the holy house, where thou so long
Hadst worshipped with the sabbath throng,
Thy venerated form was laid,

While mournful dirges rose, and solemn prayers were made.

Oh friend! thou didst o'ermaster well

The pride of wealth, and multiply

Good deeds not done for the good word of men,
But for Heaven's judging pen,
And clear, omniscient eye;

And surely where the "just made perfect" dwell,
Earth's voice of highest eulogy

Is like the bubble of the far-off sea

A sigh upon the grave,

[wave.

Scarce moving the frail flowers that o'er its surface

Yet think not, friend revered,

Oblivion o'er thy name shall sweep, While the fair domes that thou hast reared Their faithful witness keep.

The fairy cottage in its robe of flowersThe classic turrets, where the stranger strays Amid the pencil's tints and scrolls of other days, And yon gray tower on Montevideo's crest,

Where, mid Elysian haunts and bowers,
Thou didst rejoice to see all people blest :
These chronicle thy name-

And ah, in many a darkened cot
Thou hast a tear-embalmed fame
That can not be forgot!

But were all dumb beside,

The lyre that thou didst wake, the lone heart thou didst guide,

In early youth, with fostering care-
These may not in cold silence bide:

For were it so, the stones on which we tread
Would find a tongue to chide

Ingratitude so dread!

No-till the fading gleam of memory's fires From the warm altar of the heart expires, Leave thou the much indebted free

To speak what truth inspires, And fondly mourn for thee.

ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY.

Lost ! lost ! lost !

A gem of countless price, Cut from the living rock,

And graved in paradise: Set round with three times eight Large diamonds, clear and bright, And each with sixty smaller ones, All changeful as the light. Lost-where the thoughtless throng In Fashion's mazes wind, Where trilleth Folly's song,

Leaving a sting behind: Yet to my hand 't was given

A golden harp to buy,

Such as the white-robed choir attune To deathless minstrelsy.

Lost ! lost ! lost !

"I feel all search is vain; That gem of countless cost

Can ne'er be mine again:

I offer no reward

For till these heart-strings sever, I know that Heaven-entrusted gift Is reft away for ever.

But when the sea and land

Like burning scroll have fled, I'll see it in His hand

Who judgeth quick and dead, And when of scathe and loss That man can ne'er repair, The dread inquiry meets my soul, What shall it answer there?

FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE.

How beautiful it stands,

Behind its elm tree's screen,
With simple attic cornice crowned,
All graceful and serene!
Most sweet, yet sad, it is

Upon yon scene to gaze,
And list its inborn melody,

The voice of other days:

For there, as many a year
Its varied chart unrolled,
I hid me in those quiet shades,
And called the joys of old;
I called them, and they came

When vernal buds appeared,

Or where the vine clad summer bower
Its temple roof upreared,
Or where the o'erarching grove
Spread forth its copses green,
While eyebright and asclepias reared
Their untrained stalks between;
And the squirrel from the boughs
His broken nuts let fall,
And the merry, merry little birds
Sing at his festival.

Yon old forsaken nests

Returning spring shall cheer,

And thence the unfledged robin breathe
His greeting wild and clear;
And from yon clustering vine,

That wreathes the casement round,
The humming-birds' unresting wing
Send forth a whirring sound;

And where alternate springs
The lilach's purple spire
Fast by its snowy sister's side;
Or where, with wing of fire,
The kingly oriole glancing went

Amid the foliage rare,

Shall many a group of children tread,
But mine will not be there.

Fain would I know what forms

The mastery here shall keep,
What mother in yon nursery fair
Rock her young babes to sleep:
Yet blessings on the hallowed spot,
Though here no more I stray,
And blessings on the stranger babes
Who in those halls shall play.
Heaven bless you, too, my plants,
And every parent bird

That here, among the woven boughs,
Above its young hath stirred.

I kiss your trunks, ye ancient trees,
That often o'er my head
The blossoms of your flowery spring
In fragrant showers have shed.

Thou, too, of changeful mood,

I thank thee, sounding stream.
That blent thine echo with my thought,
Or woke my musing dream.
I kneel upon the verdant turf,
For sure my thanks are due
To moss-cup and to clover leaf,
That gave me draughts of dew.
To each perennial flower,

Old tenants of the spot,
The broad leafed lily of the vale,
And the meek forget-me-not;
To every daisy's dappled brow,
To every violet blue,

Thanks! thanks! may each returning year

Your changeless bloom renew.

Praise to our Father-God,

High praise, in solemn lay,
Alike for what his hand hath given,
And what it takes away:

And to some other loving heart

May all this beauty be

The dear retreat, the Eden home,
That it hath been to me!

101

WIDOW AT HER DAUGHTER'S BRIDAL.

DEAL gently thou, whose hand hath won
The young bird from its nest away,
Where careless, 'neath a vernal sun,

She gayly carolled, day by day;
The haunt is lone, the heart must grieve,
From whence her timid wing doth soar,
They pensive list at hush of eve,

Yet hear her gushing song no more. Deal gently with her; thou art dear, Beyond what vestal lips have told, And, like a lamb from fountains clear, She turns confiding to thy fold; She, round thy sweet domestic bower The wreaths of changeless love shall twine, Watch for thy step at vesper hour,

And blend her holiest prayer with thine.

Deal gently thou, when, far away,

Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove, Nor let thy tender care decay

The soul of woman lives in love: And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear, Unconscious, from her eyelids break,

Be pitiful, and soothe the fear

That man's strong heart may ne'er partake. A mother yields her gem to thee,

On thy true breast to sparkle rare;
She places 'neath thy household tree
The idol of her fondest care:
And by thy trust to be forgiven,

When Judgment wakes in terror wild,
By all thy treasured hopes of heaven,
Deal gently with the widow's child!

KATHERINE AUGUSTA RHODES was born in 1797 at Quincy, in Massachusetts, where her father was a physician. She was remarkable in childhood for a love of reading, and for a justness of taste much beyond her years. She wrote verses at a very early age, and a poem at fifteen, upon the death of her kinsman, Robert Treat Paine, which possessed sufficient merit to be included in the collection of that author's works. In 1819 she was married to Mr. Charles A. Ware, of the Navy, and in the next few years she appeared frequently as a writer of odes for public occasions and as a contributor to literary journals. Among her odes was one addressed to Lafayette and presented to him in the ceremony of his reception in Boston, by her eldest child, then five years old; and another, in honor of Governor De Witt Clinton, which was recited at the great Canal Celebration in New York.

In 1828 Mrs. Ware commenced in Boston the publication of a literary periodical, entitled The Bower of Taste, which was continued several years. She subsequently resided in New York, and in 1839 went to Europe, where she remained until her death, in Paris in 1843.

A few months before she died, Mrs. Ware published, in London, a selection from her writings, under the title of The Power of the Passions and other Poems. The composition from which the volume has its principal title was originally printed in the Knickerbocker Magazine, for April in the same year. This, though the longest, is scarcely the best of her

LOSS OF THE FIRST-BORN.

I SAW a pale young mother bending o'er
Her first-born hope. Its soft blue eyes were closed,
Not in the balmy dream of downy rest:
In Death's embrace the shrouded babe reposed;
It slept the dreamless sleep that wakes no more.
A low sigh struggled in her heaving breast,
But yet she wept not: hers was the deep grief
The heart, in its dark desolation, feels;
Which breathes not in impassioned accents wild,

| productions, but it has passages of considerable strength and boldness, and some felicities of expression. She describes a public dancer, as

Moving as if her element were air,

And music was the echo of her step;

In

and there are many other lines noticable for a picturesque beauty or a fine cadence. other poems, also, are parts which are much superior to their contexts, as if written in moments of inspiration, and added to in laborious leisure: as the following, from The Diamond Island, which refers to a beautiful place in Lake George:

How sweet to stray along thy flowery shore, Where crystals sparkle in the sunny ray; While the red boatman plies his silvery oar

To the wild measure of some rustic lay! and these lines, from an allusion to Athens: Views the broad stadium where the gymnic art Nerved the young arm and energized the heart. or this apostrophe to sculpture, from Musings in St. James's Cemetery :

Sculpture, oh, what a triumph o'er the grave Hath thy proud art! thy powerful hand can save From the destroyer's grasp the noble form, As if the spirit dwelt, still thrilling, warm, In every line and feature of the face, The air majestic, and the simple grace Of flowing robes, which shade, but not conceal, All that the classic chisel would reveal. These inequalities are characteristic of the larger number of Mrs. Ware's poems, but there are in her works some pieces marked by a sustained elegance, and deserving of praise for their fancy and feeling as well as for an artist-like finish.

But slowly the warm pulse of life congeals; A grief which from the world seeks no reliefA mother's sorrow o'er her first-born child. She gazed upon it with a steadfast eye, [thee!" Which seemed to say, "Oh, would I were with As if her every earthly hope were fled With that departed cherub. Even he Her young heart's choice, who breathed a father's Of bitter anguish o'er the unconscious deadFelt not, while weeping by its funeral bier, One pang so deep as hers, who shed no tear.

[sigh

MADNESS.

I'VE seen the wreck of loveliest things: I've wept
O'er youthful Beauty in her snowy shroud,
All cold and pale, as when the moon hath slept
In the white foldings of a wintry cloud.......
I've seen the wreck of glorious things: I've sighed
O'er sculptured temples in prostration laid;
Towers which the blast of ages had defied,
Now mouldering beneath the ivy's shade.
Yet oh! there is a scene of deeper wo,
To which the soul can never be resigned:
"Tis Phrensy's triumph, Reason's overthrow—
The ruined structure of the human mind!
Yes! 'tis a sight of paralyzing dread,

To mark the rolling of the maniac's eye
From which the spark of intellect hath fled-
The laugh convulsive, and the deep-drawn sigh;
To see Ambition, with his moonlight helm,
Armed with the fancied panoply of war,
The mimic sovereign of a powerful realm-
His shield a shadow, and his spear a straw;
To see pale Beauty raise her dewy eyes,

Toss her white arms, and beckon things of air, As if she held communion with the skies, And all she loved and all she sought were there; To list the warring of unearthly sounds, Which wildly rise, like Ocean's distant swell, Or spirits shrieking o'er enchanted grounds, Forth rushing from dark Magic's secret cell. Oh, never, never may such fate be mine! I'd rather dwell in earth's remotest cave, So I my spirit calmly might resign

To Him who Reason's glorious blessing gave.

A NEW YEAR WISH.

TO A CHILD AGED FIVE YEARS.

DEAR One, while bending o'er thy couch of rest, I've looked on thee as thou wert calmly sleeping, And wished-Oh, couldst thou ever be as blest As now, when haply all thy cause of weeping Is for a truant bird, or faded rose !

Though these light griefs call forth the ready tear,
They cast no shadow o'er thy soft repose-
No trace of care or sorrow lingers here.
With rosy check upon the pillow prest,
To me thou seem'st a cherub pure and fair,
With thy sweet smile and gently heaving breast,
And the bright ringlets of thy clustering hair.
What shall I wish thee, little one? Smile on
Thro' childhood's morn-thro' life's gay spring-
For oh, too soon will those bright hours be gone!-
In youth time flies upon a silken wing.
May thy young mind, beneath the bland control
Of education, lasting worth acquire;
May Virtue stamp her signet on thy soul,
Direct thy steps, and every thought inspire!
Thy parents' earliest hope-be it their care
To guide thee through youth's path of shade and
flowers,

And teach thee to avoid false pleasure's snare-
Be thine, to smile upon their evening hours.

MARKS OF TIME.

An infant boy was playing among flowers: Old Time, that unbribed register of hours, Came hobbling on, but smoothed his wrinkled face, To mark the artless joy and blooming grace Of the young cherub, on whose cheek so fair He smiled, and left a rosy dimple there.

Next Boyhood followed, with his shout of glee, Elastic step, and spirit wild and free As the young fawn that scales the mountain height, Or new-fledged eaglet in his sunward flight: Time cast a glance upon the careless boy, Who frolicked onward with a bound of joy. [eye Then Youth came forward: his bright-glancing Seemed a reflection of the cloudless sky! The dawn of passion, in its purest glow, Crimsoned his cheek, and beamed upon his brow, Giving expression to his blooming face, And to his fragile form a manly grace; His voice was harmony, his speech was truthTime lightly laid his hand upon the youth.

Manhood next followed, in the sunny prime
Of life's meridian bloom: all the sublime
And beautiful of nature met his view,
Brightened by Hope, whose radiant pencil drew
The rich perspective of a scene as fair
As that which smiled on Eden's sinless pair;
Love, fame, and glory, with alternate sway,
Thrilled his warm heart, and with electric ray
Illumed his eye; yet still a shade of care,
Like a light cloud that floats in summer air,
Would shed at times a transitory gloom,
But shadowed not one grace of manly bloom.
Time sighed, as on his polished brow he wrought
The first impressive lines of care and thought.
Man in his grave maturity came next:

A bold review of life, from the broad text
Of Nature's ample volume! He had scanned
Her varied page, and a high course had planned;
Humbled ambition, wealth's deceitful smile,
The loss of friends, disease, and mental toil,
Had blanched his cheek and dimmed his ardent eye,
But spared his noble spirit's energy!
God's proudest stamp of intellectual grace
Still shone unclouded on his careworn face!
On his high brow still sate the firm resolve
Of judgment deep, whose issue might involve
A nation's fate. Yet thoughts of milder glow
Would oft, like sunbeams o'er a mount of snow,
Upon his cheek their genial influence cast,
While musing o'er the bright or shadowy past:
Time, as he marked his noblest victim, shed
The frost of years upon his honored head.

Last came, with trembling limbs and bending form,

Like the old oak scathed by the wintry storm,
Man, in the closing stage of human life-
Nigh passed his every scene of peace or strife,
Reason's proud triumph, Passion's wild control,
No more dispute for mastery o'er his soul;
As rest the billows on the sea-beat shore,
The war of rivalry is heard no more;
Faith's steady light alone illumes his eye,
For Time is pointing to Eternity!