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ALBERT G. GREENE.

[Born, 1802.]

MR. GREENE was born in Providence, Rhode Island, on the tenth day of February, 1802. He was educated at Brown University, in that city, at which he was graduated in 1820. He was soon after admitted to the bar, and followed his profession until 1834, when he was elected to an office under the city government, in which he has since

remained. One of his earliest metrical compositions was the familiar piece entitled “Old Grimes," which was written in the year in which he entered the university.

His poems, except one delivered before a literary society, at Providence, were written for periodicals, and have never been published in a collected form.

THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.

O'ER a low couch the setting sun
Had thrown its latest ray,
Where in his last strong agony
A dying warrior lay,
The stern, old Baron RUDIGER,

Whose fame had ne'er been bent
By wasting pain, till time and toil

Its iron strength had spent.

"They come around me here, and say
My days of life are o'er,
That I shall mount my noble steed
And lead my band no more;
They come, and to my beard they dare
To tell me now, that I,

Their own liege lord and master born,-
That I-ha! ha!-must die.

"And what is death? I've dared him oft
Before the Paynim spear,—
Think ye he's entered at my gate,
Has come to seek me here?
I've met him, faced him, scorn'd him,
When the fight was raging hot,—
I'll try his might-I'll brave his power;
Defy, and fear him not.

"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower,-
And fire the culverin,-

Bid each retainer arm with speed,—
Call every vassal in ;

Up with my banner on the wall,-
The banquet board prepare,—
Throw wide the portal of my hall,
And bring my armour there!"

A hundred hands were busy then,—
The banquet forth was spread,-
And rung the heavy oaken floor
With many a martial tread,

While from the rich, dark tracery

Along the vaulted wall,

Lights gleam'd on harness, plume, and spear, O'er the proud, old Gothic hall.

Fast hurrying through the outer gate,
The mail'd retainers pour'd,
On through the portal's frowning arch,
And throng'd around the board.
While at its head, within his dark,

Carved oaken chair of state,
Arm'd cap-a-pie, stern RUDIGER,

With girded falchion, sate.

"Fill every beaker up, my men,

Pour forth the cheering wine;
There's life and strength in every drop,-
Thanksgiving to the vine!

Are ye all there, my vassals true?—
Mine eyes are waxing dim ;-
Fill round, my tried and fearless ones,
Each goblet to the brim.

"Ye're there, but yet I see ye not. Draw forth each trusty sword,— And let me hear your faithful steel Clash once around my board:

I hear it faintly:-Louder yet!What clogs my heavy breath? Up all, and shout for RUDIGER, 'Defiance unto Death!"

Bowl rang to bowl,-steel clang'd to steel,
-And rose a deafening cry
That made the torches flare around,
And shook the flags on high :-
"Ho! cravens, do ye fear him?-
Slaves, traitors! have ye flown?
Ho! cowards, have ye left me
To meet him here alone!

But I defy him :-let him come!"
Down rang the massy cup,
While from its sheath the ready blade
Came flashing halfway up;

And, with the black and heavy plumes
Scarce trembling on his head,
There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair,
Old RUDIGER sat, dead.

And deem'd the stately piles, whose forms
Frown'd in their majesty sublime,
Would stand unshaken by the storms

That gather'd round the brow of Time.

Thou desolate and dying year!

Earth's brightest pleasures fade like thine; Like evening shadows disappear,

And leave the spirit to repine.
The stream of life, that used to pour

Its fresh and sparkling waters on,
While Fate stood watching on the shore,
And number'd all the moments gone-
Where hath the morning splendour flown,
Which danced upon the crystal stream?
Where are the joys to childhood known,
When life was an enchanted dream?
Enveloped in the starless night

Which destiny hath overspread; Enroll'd upon that trackless flight

Where the death-wing of time hath sped!

O! thus hath life its even-tide

Of sorrow, loneliness, and grief;
And thus, divested of its pride,
It withers like the yellow leaf:
O! such is life's autumnal bower,
When plunder'd of its summer bloom;
And such is life's autumnal hour,
Which heralds man unto the tomb!

TO THE AUTUMN LEAF.

THOU faded leaf! it seems to be

But as of yesterday,

When thou didst flourish on the tree
In all the pride of May:
Then t'was the merry hour of spring,
Of nature's fairest blossoming,

On field, on flower, and spray;

It promised fair; how changed the scene
To what is now, from what hath been!
So fares it with life's early spring;
Hope gilds each coming day.
And sweetly doth the syren sing
Her fond, delusive lay:

Then the young, fervent heart beats high,
While passion kindles in the eye,

With bright, unceasing play;
Fair are thy tints, thou genial hour,
Yet transient as the autumn flower.
Thou faded leaf! how like to thee

Is beauty in her morning pride,
When life is but a summer sea,

And hope illumes its placid tide:
Alas! for beauty's autumn hour,
Alas! for beauty's blighted flower,

When hope and bliss have died!
Her pallid brow, her cheek of grief,
Have thy sad hue, thou faded leaf!
Autumnal leaf! thus honour's plume,

And valour's laurel wreath must fade; Must lose the freshness, and the bloom

On which the beam of glory play'd;

The banner waving o'er the crowd,
Far streaming like a silver cloud,
Must sink within the shade,
Where dark oblivion's waters flow
O'er human weal and human wo.
Autumnal leaf! there is a stern

And warning tone in thy decay; Like thee must man to death return

With his frail tenement of clay:
Thy warning is of death and doom,
Of genius blighted in its bloom,
Of joy's beclouded ray;

Life, rapture, hope, ye are as brief
And fleeting as the autumn leaf!

THE LAST SONG.

STRIKE the wild harp yet once again!
Again its lonely numbers pour;
Then let the melancholy strain

Be hush'd in death for evermore.
For evermore, for evermore,

Creative fancy, be thou still; And let oblivious Lethe pour

Upon my lyre its waters chill. Strike the wild harp yet once again! Then be its fitful chords unstrung, Silent as is the grave's domain,

And mute as the death-moulder'd tongue; Let not a thought of memory dwell One moment on its former song; Forgotten, too, be this farewell,

Which plays its pensive strings along!
Strike the wild harp yet once again!

The saddest and the latest lay;
Then break at once its strings in twain,

And they shall sound no more for aye:
And hang it on the cypress tree :

The hours of youth and song have pass'd, Have gone, with all their witchery; Lost lyre! these numbers are thy last.

JOY AND SORROW.

Joy kneels, at morning's rosy prime,
In worship to the rising sun;
But Sorrow loves the calmer time,
When the day-god his course hath run:
When Night is on her shadowy car,
Pale sorrow wakes while Joy doth sleep;
And, guided by the evening star,

She wanders forth to muse and weep.

Joy loves to cull the summer-flower,
And wreathe it round his happy brow;
But when the dark autumnal hour

Hath laid the leaf and blossoms low; When the frail bud hath lost its worth,

And Joy hath dash'd it from his crest, Then Sorrow takes it from the earth, To wither on her wither'd breast.

ALBERT G. GREENE.

[Born, 1802.]

MR. GREENE was born in Providence, Rhode Island, on the tenth day of February, 1802. He was educated at Brown University, in that city, at which he was graduated in 1820. He was soon after admitted to the bar, and followed his profession until 1834, when he was elected to an office under the city government, in which he has since

remained. One of his earliest metrical compositions was the familiar piece entitled "Old Grimes,” which was written in the year in which he entered the university.

His poems, except one delivered before a literary society, at Providence, were written for periodicals, and have never been published in a collected form.

THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.

O'ER a low couch the setting sun
Had thrown its latest ray,
Where in his last strong agony
A dying warrior lay,
The stern, old Baron RUDIGER,

Whose fame had ne'er been bent
By wasting pain, till time and toil

Its iron strength had spent.

"They come around me here, and say
My days of life are o'er,
That I shall mount my noble steed
And lead my band no more;
They come, and to my beard they dare
To tell me now, that I,

Their own liege lord and master born,-
That I-ha! ha!-must die.

"And what is death? I've dared him oft
Before the Paynim spear,—
Think ye he's entered at my gate,
Has come to seek me here?
I've met him, faced him, scorn'd him,
When the fight was raging hot,-
I'll try his might-I'll brave his power;
Defy, and fear him not.

"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower,-
And fire the culverin,-

Bid each retainer arm with speed,—
Call every vassal in;

Up with my banner on the wall,-
The banquet board prepare,—
Throw wide the portal of my hall,
And bring my armour there!"
A hundred hands were busy then,—
The banquet forth was spread,-
And rung the heavy oaken floor
With many a martial tread,
While from the rich, dark tracery

Along the vaulted wall,

Lights gleam'd on harness, plume, and spear, O'er the proud, old Gothic hall.

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TO THE WEATHERCOCK ON OUR STEEPLE.

THE dawn has broke, the morn is up,

Another day begun;

And there thy poised and gilded spear
Is flashing in the sun,

Upon that steep and lofty tower

Where thou thy watch hast kept, A true and faithful sentinel,

While all around thee slept.

For years, upon thee, there has pour'd
The summer's noon-day heat,

And through the long, dark, starless night,
The winter storms have beat;
But yet thy duty has been done,

By day and night the same,

Still thou hast met and faced the storm,
Whichever way it came.

No chilling blast in wrath has swept
Along the distant heaven,

But thou hast watch'd its onward course,
And distant warning given;
And when mid-summer's sultry beams
Oppress all living things,

Thou dost foretell each breeze that comes
With health upon its wings.

How oft I've seen, at early dawn,

Or twilight's quiet hour,
The swallows, in their joyous glee,

Come darting round thy tower,
As if, with thee, to hail the sun
And catch his earliest light,
And offer ye the morn's salute,
Or bid ye both,-good-night.

And when, around thee or above,
No breath of air has stirr'd,

Thou seem'st to watch the circling flight
Of each free, happy bird,

Till, after twittering round thy head
In many a mazy track,
The whole delighted company

Have settled on thy back.

Then, if, perchance, amidst their mirth,
A gentle breeze has sprung,
And, prompt to mark its first approach,
Thy eager form hath swung,
I've thought I almost heard thee say,
As far aloft they flew,-
"Now all away!-here ends our play,
For I have work to do!"

Men slander thee, my honest friend,
And call thee, in their pride,
An emblem of their fickleness,
Thou ever-faithful guide.
Each weak, unstable human mind
A "weathercock" they call;
And thus, unthinkingly, mankind
Abuse thee, one and all.

They have no right to make thy name
A by-word for their deeds :-
They change their friends, their principles,
Their fashions, and their creeds;
Whilst thou hast ne'er, like them, been known
Thus causelessly to range;

But when thou changest sides, canst give
Good reason for the change.

Thou, like some lofty soul, whose course
The thoughtless oft condemn,
Art touch'd by many airs from heaven
Which never breathe on them,-
And moved by many impulses

Which they do never know,

Who, round their earth-bound circles, plod
The dusty paths below.

Through one more dark and cheerless night
Thou well hast kept thy trust,
And now in glory o'er thy head
The morning light has burst.
And unto earth's true watcher, thus,
When his dark hours have pass'd,
Will come "the day-spring from on high,"
To cheer his path at last.

Bright symbol of fidelity,

Still may I think of thee:

And may the lesson thou dost teach
Be never lost on me ;-
But still, in sunshine or in storm,
Whatever task is mine,

May I be faithful to my trust,
As thou hast been to thine.

STANZAS.

O, THINK not that the bosom's light
Must dimly shine, its fire be low,
Because it doth not all invite

To feel its warmth and share its glow.
The altar's strong and steady blaze
On all around may coldly shine,
But only genial warmth conveys

To those who gather near the shrine. Do the dull flint, the rigid steel, Which thou within thy hand mayst hold, Unto thy sight or touch reveal

The hidden power which they enfold? But take those cold, unyielding things,

And beat their edges till you tire,And every atom forth that springs,

Is a bright spark of living fire:
Each particle, so dull and cold

Until the blow that woke it came,
Did still within it slumbering hold
A power to wrap the world in flame.
While thus, in things of sense alone,

Such truths from sense lie still conceal'd,
How can the living heart be known-
Its secret, inmost depths reveal'd?

WILLIAM LEGGETT.

[Born, 1802. Died, 1840.]

THIS distinguished political and miscellaneous writer was born in the city of New York, in the summer of 1802, and was educated at the Georgetown College, in the District of Columbia. In 1822 he entered the navy of the United States as a midshipman; but in consequence of the arbitrary conduct of his commander, Captain JOHN ORDE CREIGHTON, he retired from the service in 1826, after which time he devoted himself mainly to literary pursuits. His first publication was entitled "Leisure Hours at Sea," and was composed of various short poems written while he was in the navy. In 1828 he established, in New York, "The Critic," a weekly literary gazette, which he conducted with much ability for seven or eight months, at the end of which time it was united with the "Mirror," to which he became a regular contributor. In "The Critic" and "The Mirror," he first published "The Rifle," "The Main Truck, or the Leap for Life," "White Hands, or Not Quite in Character," and other stories, afterward embraced in the volumes entitled "Tales by a Country Schoolmaster," and "Sketches of the Sea." These tales and sketches are probably the most spirited and ingenious productions of their kind ever written in this country.

In 1829 Mr. LEGGETT became associated with Mr. BRYANT, in the editorship of the "Evening Post," and on the departure of that gentleman for Europe, in 1834, the entire direction of that able journal was devolved to him. A severe illness, which commenced near the close of the succeeding year, induced him to relinquish his connexion with the "Post;" and on his recovery, in 1836, he commenced "The Plaindealer," a weekly periodical devoted to politics and literature, for which he obtained great reputation by his independent and fearless assertion of doctrines, and the vigorous eloquence and powerful reasoning by which he maintained them. It was discontinued, in consequence of the failure of his publisher, before the close of the year; and his health, after that period, prevented his connexion with any other journal. In 1828 he had been married to Miss ELMIRA WARING, daughter of Mr. JONA. WARING, of New Rochelle; and to that pleasant village he now retired, with his family. He occasionally visited his friends in the city, and a large portion of the democratic party there proposed to nominate him for a seat in Congress; but as he had acted independently of a majority of the party in regard to certain important political questions, his formal nomination was prevented. In April, 1840, he was appointed by Mr. VAN BUREN, then President of the United States, a diplomatic agent* from our

* Soon after the death of Mr. LEGGETT, Mr. JOHN L. STEPHENS, whose "Travels in Central America" have been since published, was appointed his successor as diplomatic agent to that country.

government to the Republic of Guatemala. He was preparing to depart for that country, when he suddenly expired, on the twenty-ninth day of following month, in the thirty-eighth year of his age. A few months after his death, a collection of his political writings, in two large duodecimo volumes, was published, under the direction of his friend, Mr. THEODORE SEDGWICK. Besides the works already mentioned, he wrote much in various periodicals, and was one of the authors of "The Tales of Glauber Spa," published in 1832. In the maturity of his powers, his time and energies were devoted to political writing. His poems are the poorest of his productions, and were written while he was in the naval service, or during his editorship of "The Critic." In addition to his Melodieswhich are generally ingenious and well versifiedhe wrote one or two prize addresses for the theatres, and some other pieces, which have considerable merit.

His death was deeply and generally deplored, especially by the members of the democratic party, who regarded him as one of the ablest champions of their principles. Mr. BRYANT, with whom he was for several years intimately associated, published in the Democratic Review" the following tribute to his character :

"The earth may ring from shore to shore,
With echoes of a glorious name;
But he whose loss our hearts deplore
Has left behind him more than fame.
"For when the death-frost came to lie

Upon that warm and mighty heart,
And quench that bold and friendly eye,
His spirit did not all depart.

"The words of fire that from his pen

Were flung upon the lucid page,
Still move, still shake the hearts of men,
Amid a cold and coward age.

"His love of Truth, too warm-too strong
For Hope or Fear to chain or chill,
His hate of Tyranny and Wrong,

Burn in the breasts he kindled still."

Mr. SEDGWICK, in the preface to his political writings, remarks that "every year was softening his prejudices, and calming his passions; enlarging his charities, and widening the bounds of his liberality. Had a more genial clime invigorated his constitution, and enabled him to return to his labours, a brilliant and honourable future might have been predicted of him. It is not the suggestion of a too fond affection, but the voice of a calm judgment, which declares that, whatever public career he had pursued, he must have raised to his memory an imperishable monument, and that as no name is now dearer to his friends, so few could have been more honourably associated with the history of his country, than that of WILLIAM LEGGETT."

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