JONATHAN HUNTINGTON BRIGHT was born in Salem, Massachusetts, in 1804. At an early age he went to New York, where he resided several years, after which he removed to Albany, and subsequently to Richmond, in Virginia, where he was married. In the autumn of 1836 he sailed for New Orleans, and soon after his arrival in that

city was induced to ascend the Mississippi, to take part in a mercantile interest at Manchester, where he died, very suddenly, in the thirty-third year of his age. He was for several years a writer for the public journals and literary magazines, under the signature of "Viator." His poetry has never been published collectively.

THE VISION OF DEATH.

THE moon was high in the autumn sky,
The stars waned cold and dim,
Where hoarsely the mighty Oregon
Peals his eternal hymn;

And the prairie-grass bent its seedy heads
Far over the river's brim.

An impulse I might not defy,

Constrain'd my footsteps there,

When through the gloom a red eye burn'd
With fix'd and steady glare;
And a huge, misshapen form of mist
Loom'd in the midnight air.

Then out it spake: "My name is Death!"
Thick grew my blood, and chill-
A sense of fear weigh'd down my breath,
And held my pulses still;

And a voice from that unnatural shade
Compell'd me to its will.

"Dig me a grave! dig me a grave!"
The gloomy monster said,

"And make it deep, and long, and wide, And bury me my dead."

A corpse without sheet or shroud, at my feet, And rusted mattock laid.

With trembling hand the tool I spann'd,

"T was wet with blood, and cold,

And from its slimy handle hung
The gray and ropy mould;

And I sought to detach my stiffen'd
But could not loose my hold.

"Now cautiously turn up the sod;

GOD's image once it bore,

grasp,

And time shall be when each small blade

To life He will restore,
And the separate particles shall take
The shape which first they wore."

Deeply my spade the soft earth pierced,
It touch'd the festering dead;
Tier above tier the corpses lay,
As leaves in autumn shed;

The vulture circled, and flapp'd his wings,
And scream'd, above my head.

O, then I sought to rest my brow,
The spade I held, its prop;

"Toil on! toil on!" scream'd the ugly fiend, "My servants never stop!

Toil on toil on! at the judgment-day
Ye'll have a glorious crop!"

Now, wheresoe'er I turn'd my eyes,

'Twas horrible to see

How the grave made bare her secret work,
And disclosed her depths to me;

While the ground beneath me heaved and roll'd
Like the billows of the sea.

The spectre skinn'd his yellow teeth-
"Ye like not this, I trow:

Six thousand years your fellow-man
Has counted me his foe,

And ever when he cursed I laugh'd,
And drew my fatal bow.
"And generations all untold

In this dark spot I've laid-
The forest ruler and the young

And tender Indian maid;
And moulders with their carcasses
Behemoth of the glade.

"Yet here they may no more remain ;
I fain would have this room:
And they must seek another rest,

Of deeper, lonelier gloom;
Long ages since I mark'd this spot
To be the white man's tomb.
"Already his coming steps I hear,
From the east's remotest line,

While over his advancing hosts

The forward banners shine:

And where he builds his cities and towns,
I ever must build mine."

Anon a pale and silvery mist

Was girdled round the moon:

Slowly the dead unclosed their eyes,
On midnight's solemn noon.

"Ha!" mutter'd the mocking sprite, "I fear
We've waken'd them too soon!

"Now marshal all the numerous host

In one concentred band,

And hurry them to the west," said he, "Where ocean meets the land: They shall regard thy bidding voice,

And move at thy command."

Then first I spake-the sullen corpse

Stood on the gloomy sod,

Like the dry bones the prophet raised,
When bidden by his God;

A might company, so vast,
Each on the other trod.

They stalk'd erect as if alive,
Yet not to life allied,

But like the pestilence that walks,
And wasteth at noontide,
Corruption animated, or

The grave personified.

The earth-worm drew his slimy trail
Across the bloodless cheek,

And the carrion bird in hot haste came
To gorge his thirsty beak;
But, scared by the living banquet, fled,
Another prey to seek.

While ever as on their way they moved,
No voice they gave, nor sound,

And before and behind, and about their sides,
Their wither'd arms they bound;

As the beggar clasps his skinny hands

His tatter'd garments round.

On, on we went through the livelong night,
Death and his troop, and I;

We turn'd not aside for forest or stream
Or mountain towering high,

But straight and swift as the hurricane sweeps
Athwart the stormy sky.

Once, once I stopp'd, where something gleam'd,
With a bright and star-like ray,
And I stoop'd to take the diamond up
From the grass in which it lay;
"T was an eye that from its socket fell,
As some wretch toil'd on his way.

At length our army reach'd the verge
Of the far-off western shore;
Death drove them into the sea, and said,
"Ye shall remove no more."
The ocean hymn'd their solemn dirge,
And his waters swept them o'er.

The stars went out, the morning smiled
With rosy tints of light,

The bird began his early hymn,
And plumed his wings for flight:

And the vision of death was broken with
The breaking up of night.

HE WEDDED AGAIN.

ERE death had quite stricken the bloom from her

cheek,

Or worn off the smoothness and gloss of her brow, When our quivering lips her dear name could not speak,

And our hearts vainly strove to God's judgment

to bow;

He estranged himself from us, and cheerfully then
Sought out a new object, and wedded again.
The dust had scarce settled itself on her lyre,
And its soft, melting tones still held captive the ear,
While we look'd for her fingers to glide o'er the wire,

And waited in fancy her sweet voice to hear; He turn'd from her harp and its melody then, Sought out a new minstrel and wedded again. The turf had not yet by a stranger been trod, Nor the pansy a single leaf shed on her grave, The cypress had not taken root in the sod, [gave;

Nor the stone lost the freshness the sculptor first He turn'd from these mournful remembrances then, Wove a new bridal chaplet, and wedded again.

His dwelling to us, O, how lonely and sad! When we thought of the light death had stolen

away,

Of the warm hearts which once in its keeping it had,
And that one was now widow'd and both in decay;
But its deep desolation had fled even then-
He sought a new idol, and wedded again.
But can she be quite blest who presides at his board!
Will no troublesome vision her happy home shade,
Of a future love luring and charming her lord,

When she with our lost one forgotten is laid! She must know he will worship some other star then, Seek out a new love, and be wedded again.

SONG.

SHOULD Sorrow o'er thy brow

Its darken'd shadows fling, And hopes that cheer thee now, Die in their early spring; Should pleasure at its birth

Fade like the hues of even, Turn thou away from earth,— There's rest for thee in heaven!

If ever life shall seem

To thee a toilsome way,
And gladness cease to beam
Upon its clouded day;
If, like the wearied dove,

O'er shoreless ocean driven,
Raise thou thine eye above,-
There's rest for thee in heaven!
But, O! if always flowers
Throughout thy pathway bloom,
And gayly pass the hours,

Undimn'd by earthly gloom;
Still let not every thought
To this poor world be given,
Not always be forgot

Thy better rest in heaven!
When sickness pales thy cheek,
And dims thy lustrous eye,
And pulses low and weak

Tell of a time to die

Sweet hope shall whisper then, "Though thou from earth be riven, There's bliss beyond thy ken,

There's rest for thee in heaven!"

MR. PRENTICE is a native of Preston, in Connecticut, and was educated at Brown University, in Providence, where he was graduated in 1823. He edited for several years, at Hartford, "The New England Weekly Review," in connection, I believe, with JOHN G. WHITTIER; and in 1831

he removed to Louisville, Kentucky, where he has since conducted the "Journal," of that city, one of the most popular gazettes ever published in this country. Nearly all his poems were written while he was in the university. They have never been published collectively.

THE CLOSING YEAR.

'Tis midnight's holy hour—and silence now Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling; 'tis the knell Of the departed year. No funeral train Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest, Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirr'd, As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud, That floats so still and placidly through heaven, The spirits of the seasons seem to stand, [form, Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn And Winter with his aged locks, and breathe In mournful cadences, that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, Gone from the earth forever. "Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time, Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have pass'd away, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts The coffin-lid of hope, and joy, and love, And, bending mournfully above the pale Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has pass'd to nothingness. The year Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course, It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful, And they are not. It laid its pallid hand Upon the strong man, and the haughty form Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. It trod the hall of revelry, where throng'd The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song And reckless shout resounded. It pass'd o'er The battle-plain, where sword and spear and shield Flash'd in the light of midday—and the strength Of serried hosts is shiver'd, and the grass, Green from the soil of carnage, waves above The crush'd and mouldering skeleton. It came And faded like a wreath of mist at eve; Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, It heralded its millions to their home

In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless Time-
Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe-what power
Can stay him in his silent course, or melt
His iron heart to pity? On, still on
He presses, and forever. The proud bird,
The condor of the Andes, that can soar
Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave
The fury of the northern hurricane,
And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home,
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down
To rest upon his mountain-crag,--but Time
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness,
And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind
His rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep
O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast
Of dreaming sorrow; cities rise and sink,
Like bubbles on the water; fiery isles
Spring, blazing, from the ocean, and go back
To their mysterious caverns; mountains rear
To heaven their bald and blacken'd cliffs, and bow
Their tall heads to the plain; new empires rise,
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries,
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche,
Startling the nations; and the very stars,
Yon bright and burning blazonry of GoD,
Glitter a while in their eternal depths,
And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train,
Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away,
To darkle in the trackless void :-yet Time-
Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career,
Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path,
To sit and muse, like other conquerors,
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.

LINES TO A LADY.

LADY, I love, at eventide,
When stars, as now, are on the wave,
To stray in loneliness, and muse

Upon the one dear form that gave
Its sunlight to my boyhood; oft
That same sweet look sinks, still and soft,
Upon my spirit, and appears
As lovely as in by-gone years.

Eve's low, faint wind is breathing now,
With deep and soul-like murmuring,
Through the dark pines; and thy sweet words
Seem borne on its mysterious wing;

And hurry them to the west," said he, "Where ocean meets the land: They shall regard thy bidding voice,

And move at thy command."

Then first I spake-the sullen corpse

Stood on the gloomy sod,

Like the dry bones the prophet raised,
When bidden by his God;

A might company, so vast,
Each on the other trod.
They stalk'd erect as if alive,
Yet not to life allied,

But like the pestilence that walks,
And wasteth at noontide,
Corruption animated, or
The grave personified.

The earth-worm drew his slimy trail
Across the bloodless cheek,

And the carrion bird in hot haste came

To gorge his thirsty beak; But, scared by the living banquet, fled, Another prey to seek.

While ever as on their way they moved,
No voice they gave, nor sound,

And before and behind, and about their sides,
Their wither'd arms they bound;

As the beggar clasps his skinny hands

His tatter'd garments round.

On, on we went through the livelong night,
Death and his troop, and I;

We turn'd not aside for forest or stream
Or mountain towering high,

But straight and swift as the hurricane sweeps
Athwart the stormy sky.

Once, once I stopp'd, where something gleam'd,
With a bright and star-like ray,
And I stoop'd to take the diamond up
From the grass in which it lay;
'Twas an eye that from its socket fell,
As some wretch toil'd on his way.

At length our army reach'd the verge
Of the far-off western shore;
Death drove them into the sea, and said,
66 Ye shall remove no more."
The ocean hymn'd their solemn dirge,
And his waters swept them o'er.

The stars went out, the morning smiled
With rosy tints of light,

The bird began his early hymn,

And plumed his wings for flight:

And the vision of death was broken with
The breaking up of night.

HE WEDDED AGAIN.

ERE death had quite stricken the bloom from her

cheek,

Or worn off the smoothness and gloss of her brow, When our quivering lips her dear name could not

speak,

And our hearts vainly strove to God's judgment

to bow;

He estranged himself from us, and cheerfully then Sought out a new object, and wedded again. The dust had scarce settled itself on her lyre,

And its soft,melting tones still held captive the ear, While we look'd for her fingers to glide o'er the wire,

And waited in fancy her sweet voice to hear; He turn'd from her harp and its melody then, Sought out a new minstrel and wedded again. The turf had not yet by a stranger been trod,

Nor the pansy a single leaf shed on her grave, The cypress had not taken root in the sod, [gave;

Nor the stone lost the freshness the sculptor first He turn'd from these mournful remembrances then, Wove a new bridal chaplet, and wedded again.

His dwelling to us, O, how lonely and sad! When we thought of the light death had stolen

away,

Of the warm hearts which once in its keeping it had,

And that one was now widow'd and both in decay; But its deep desolation had fled even thenHe sought a new idol, and wedded again.

But can she be quite blest who presides at his board! Will no troublesome vision her happy home shade, Of a future love luring and charming her lord,

When she with our lost one forgotten is laid! She must know he will worship some other star then, Seek out a new love, and be wedded again.

SONG.

SHOULD Sorrow o'er thy brow

Its darken'd shadows fling, And hopes that cheer thee now,

Die in their early spring; Should pleasure at its birth

Fade like the hues of even, Turn thou away from earth,There's rest for thee in heaven! If ever life shall seem

To thee a toilsome way,
And gladness cease to beam
Upon its clouded day;
If, like the wearied dove,

O'er shoreless ocean driven, Raise thou thine eye above,There's rest for thee in heaven! But, O! if always flowers Throughout thy pathway bloom, And gayly pass the hours,

Undimn'd by earthly gloom; Still let not every thought

To this poor world be given, Not always be forgot

Thy better rest in heaver Whekness pales thy I