But when the glozing tempter came
With honied words of sin and shame,
She broke her order's sacred bands,
And follow'd him to distant lands.

And there, in that delicious clime
Of song, romance, and flowers,
While guilty love was in its prime,
They dream'd away the hours;
But soon possession's touch of snow
Subdued his passion's fiery glow,
Converting love to scorn and hate,
And he has left her desolate.

And she from Madrid's courtly bowers
A weary way has gone,

To seek in old Palencia's towers
False-hearted ALARCON

His hall is vacant: not a beam

Is from the windows seen to gleam,
Nor sound of life is heard to pour
From balcony or open door.

But lo! where in the cool moonlight,
Her home of former years,
The well-known convent opposite
Its massy structure rears:
And open stands the chapel door,
Saying, with mute language, to the poor,
The heavy-laden, and distrest,
"Come in! and I will give you rest!"

And she has enter'd, and has knelt

Before the blessed shrine,
And stealing o'er her senses felt

An influence divine;

And the false world's corrupt control No more can subjugate her soul, Where thoughts of innocence again With undivided empire reign.

Again she sees her quiet cell,

And the trim garden there;
Again she hears the matin bell,

That summons her to prayer;
Again she joins, in chorus high,
The strain of midnight minstrelsy,
That lifts her with each thrilling tone,
In transport to the eternal throne.

"Ah! who will give me back?" she said,
With hotly-gushing tears,
"The blameless heart, the guiltless head
Of my departed years?
What heavenly power can turn aside
The course of time's unchanging tide,
And make the Penitent again

The Pure one, that she might have been!"

While musing thus, around the dome,
She casts a vacant glance;
She sees, emerging from the gloom,
A graceful form advance.
Proceeding forth with noiseless feet,
From a far chapel's dim retreat,
The figure, clad in nun's array,
Along the pavement took her way.

A lantern in her hand she bore,
The shade upon her face;
And MARGARET vainly scann'd it o'er,
Familiar lines to trace;

Then murmur'd, fearing to intrude,
"She is not of the sisterhood-
Perhaps a novice, who has come,
Since MARGARET left her convent home."

From shrine to shrine with measured pace, The figure went in turn,

And placed the flowers, and trimm'd the dress, And made the tapers burn:

Nor ever rested to look back:

And MARGARET follow'd in her track,
Though far behind: a charm unknown
With secret impulse led her on.

Fair sight it was, I ween, but dread
And strange as well as fair,
To see how as she visited

Each separate altar there,
A wondrous flame around it play'd,
So soft it scarcely broke the shade,
But glow'd with lustre cold and white,
Like fleecy clouds of boreal light.

Save only where around the nun

A warmer blaze it threw;
For there the bright suffusion shone
With tints of various hue;
Pale azure, clear as seraph's eyes,
Mix'd with the rose's blushing dyes,
And gathering to a halo, spread
In rainbow circles round her head.

And every flower her touch beneath
Renew'd its former bloom,
And from its bell of odorous breath,

Sent forth a sweet perfume;
And though no voice the silence stirr'd,
A low, sweet melody was heard,
That fell in tones subdued but clear,
Like heavenly music on the ear

Entranced, in ecstacies of awe,

And joy that none can tell, The Penitent at distance saw

The beauteous miracle; And scarce can trust the evidence That pours in floods through every sense; And thinks, so strange the vision seems, That she is in the land of dreams.

At length, each altar duly dight,
And all her labors o'er,

The wondrous nun resumed the light,
And cross'd the minster floor;
Returning to the chapel shade,
From which her entrance she had made,
Along the aisle where MARGARET stood,
And, passing, brush'd the maiden's hood.

Then she the stranger's mantle caught,
And something she would say,
But on her lips the unutter'd thought
In silence died away,

"What would'st thou with me, gentle one?"
In sweetest tones inquired the nun.
Poor MARGARET still no language found,
But gazed intently on the ground.

"Say, then, who art thou?" At her side
Pursued the form divine,

"My name is MARGARET." She replied,
"It is the same with mine."
"Thy office, maiden!" "Lady dear!
For years I was a sister here;
And by superior order sate

As Portress at the convent gate."

"I too," the nun replied, "as one
Among the sisters wait,

And am to all the convent known,
As Portress at the gate."

Then first, entranced in wild amaze,
Her downcast eyes did MARGARET raise
And fix them earnestly upon
The stranger's face;-it was her own!

Reflected in that glorious nun,
She sees herself appear:
The air, the lineaments, her own,
In form and character:

The dress the same that she has worn;
The keys the same that she has borne;
Herself in person, habit, name,
At once another and the same.

Struck down with speechless ecstasy,
Astonished MARGARET fell:
"Rise!" spake the vision, "I am she,
Whom thou hast served so well;
And when thou forfeitedst thy vows,
To be a perjured traitor's spouse,
And mad'st to me thy parting prayer
For my protecting love and care:

"I heard and granted thy request,
And to conceal thy shame,

I left the mansion of the blest

And took thy humble name,
Thy features, person, office, dress;
And did the duty of thy place,
And daily made report of all
In order to the principal.

"Behold! where still at every shrine
The votive taper stands;

The dress that once thou wor'st is thine,

The keys are in thy hands:
Thy fame is clear, thy trial o'er :
Then, gentle maiden! sin no more!
And think on her, who faithfully
In hours of danger thought on thee!"

A lightning flash!--a thunder peal!-
And parting o'er their heads,
The church's vaulted pinnacle
An ample passage spreads;
And lo! descending angels come

To guard their queen in triumph home,

The while the echoing minster rings
With sweetest notes from heavenly strings.

Then up, on cherub pinions borne,

The Virgin-Mother passed;

And as she rose, on the forlorn

A radiant smile she cast;

And MARGARET saw, with streaming eyes
Of grateful joy, the vision rise,

And watched it till, from earthly view,
It vanished in the depths of blue.

THE YOUNG AMERICAN.

SCION of a mighty stock! Hands of iron,-hearts of oak,— Follow with unflinching tread Where the noble fathers led.

Craft and subtle treachery, Gallant youth! are not for thee: Follow thou in word and deeds Where the God within thee leads.

Honesty with steady eye,

Truth and pure simplicity,
Love that gently winneth hearts,
These shall be thy only arts,-

Prudent in the council train,
Dauntless on the battle plain,
Ready at the country's need
For her glorious cause to bleed.

Where the dews of night distil Upon Vernon's holy hill; Where above it, gleaming far, Freedom lights her guiding star,—

Thither turn the steady eye,
Flashing with a purpose high;
Thither with devotion meet
Often turn the pilgrim feet.

Let thy noble motto be
GOD,-the COUNTRY,-LIBERTY!
Planted on Religion's rock,
Thou shalt stand in every shock.

Laugh at danger far or near;
Spurn at baseness,-spurn at fear;
Still with persevering might,
Speak the truth, and do the right.

So shall peace, a charming guest,
Dove-like in thy bosom rest,
So shall honor's steady blaze
Beam upon thy closing days.

Happy if celestial favor
Smile upon the high endeavor:
Happy if it be thy call
In the holy cause to fall.

SAMUEL GILMAN, D.D. was born in Gloucester, Massachusetts, where his father had been successfully engaged in commerce, until the capture of several vessels in which he was interested, by the French, in 1798, reduced him to bankruptcy, with loss of health perhaps, for he died soon after, leaving a widow with four small children. Among these SAMUEL was the only son, and his mother, determining to educate him in the best manner possible, placed him in the family of the Reverend STEPHEN PEABODY, of Atkinson, New Hampshire, a remarkable character, of whom Dr. GILMAN has given an interesting account in an article in "The Christian Examiner" for 1847, entitled "Reminiscences of a New England Clergyman at the Close of the Last Century." Having been prepared for college by Mr. PEABODY, he entered Harvard in 1807, in the same class with N. L. FROTHINGHAM and EDWARD EVERETT. He was graduated in 1811, and was afterwards, from 1817 to 1819, connected with the college as a tutor; but in the latter year he was married to Miss CAROLINE HowARD, who, as Mrs. GILMAN, has been so creditably distinguished in literature, and removed to Charleston, South Carolina, where he has ever since resided, as pastor of the Unitarian church of that city. Of Dr. GILMAN's earlier writings none received more attention than a series of able papers contributed to the "North American Review," while he was a tutor at Cambridge, on the philosophical

"Lectures" of Dr. THOMAS BROWN. About the same time he translated in a very elegant manner several of the satires of BOILEAU, which he also printed in the "North American Review." After his removal to Charleston he completed his version of BOILEAU, and sent the MS. to Mr. MURRAY, of London, for publication, but by some mischance it was lost, and no efforts have since availed for its recovery. In 1829 he gave to the public his "Memoirs of a New England Village Choir," a little book remarkable for quiet and natural humor, presenting a picture, equally truthful and amusing, of village life in New England in the first quarter of this century. He has more recently published elaborate and thoughtful papers in the reviews, on "The Influence of One National Literature upon Another," "The Writings of EDWARD EV ERETT," and other subjects, besides literary and theological discourses, biographies, essays, and translations, all executed with taste and scholarly finish.

Among the original poems of Dr. GILMAN, the Light," which is reprinted in the second volume of most noticeable are the "History of the Ray of and his "Poem read before the Phi Beta Kappa Mr. KETTELL'S "Specimens of American Poetry," Society" of Harvard College. Some of his minor pieces have been deservedly popular, and may be found in numerous school-books and choice selections of literature.

Her cheek would change, her eye would glisten;
The sigh-the smile-upstole.
Who did not understand and love her,

With meaning thus o'erfraught!
Though silent as the sky above her,
Like that, she kindled thought.

Little she spake; but dear attentions

From her would ceaseless rise;

She checked our wants by kind preventions,
She hush'd the children's cries;
And, twining, she would give her mother
A long and loving kiss-

The same to father, sister, brother,
All round-nor would one miss.

She seldom spake-she speaks no longer;
She sleeps beneath you rose;
'Tis well for us that ties no stronger

Awaken memory's woes:

For oh! our hearts would sure be broken,

Already drained of tears,

If frequent tones, by her outspoken,

Still lingered in our ears.

CHARLES SPRAGUE was born in Boston, on the twenty-sixth day of October, in 1791. His father, who still survives, was one of that celebrated band who, in 1773, resisted taxation by pouring the tea on board several British ships into the sea.

Mr. SPRAGUE was educated in the schools of his native city, which he left at an early period to acquire in a mercantile house a practical knowledge of trade. When he was about twenty-one years of age, he commenced the business of a merchant on his own account, and continued in it, I believe, until he was elected cashier of the Globe Bank, one of the first establishments of its kind in Massachusetts. This office he now holds, and he has from the time he accepted it discharged its duties in a faultless manner, notwithstanding the venerable opinion that a poet must be incapable of successfully transacting practical affairs. In this period he has found leisure to study the works of the greatest authors, and particularly those of the masters of English poetry, with which, probably, very few contemporary writers are more familiar; and to write the admirable poems on which is based his own reputation.

The first productions of Mr. SPRAGUE which attracted much attention, were a series of brilliant prologues, the first of which was written for the Park Theatre, in New York, in 1821. Prize theatrical addresses are proverbially among the most worthless compositions in the poetic form. Their brevity and peculiar character prevents the development in them of original conceptions and striking ideas, and they are usually made up of commonplace thoughts and images, compounded with little skill. Those by Mr. SPRAGUE are certainly among the best of their kind, and some passages in them are conceived in the true spirit of poetry. The following lines are from the one recited at the opening of a theatre in Philadelphia, in 1822. "To grace the stage, the bard's careering mind Seeks other worlds, and leaves his own behind; He lures from air its bright, unprison'd forms, Breaks through the tomb, and Death's dull region storms, O'er ruin'd realms he pours creative day, And slumbering kings his mighty voice obey. From its damp shades the long-laid spirit walks, And round the murderer's bed in vengeance stalks. Poor, maniac Beauty brings her cypress wreath,― Her smile a moonbeam on a blasted heath; Round some cold grave she comes, sweet flowers to strew, And, lost to Heaven, still to love is true.

Hate shuts his soul when dove-eyed Mercy pleads;
Power lifts his axe, and Truth's bold service bleeds;
Remorse drops anguish from his burning eyes,
Feels hell's eternal worm, and, shuddering, dies;
War's trophied minion, too, forsakes the dust,
Grasps his worn shield, and waves his sword of rust,
Springs to the slaughter at the trumpet's call,
Again to conquer, or again to fall."

The ode recited in the Boston theatre, at a pageant in honour of SHAKSPEARE, in 1823, is one

of the most vigorous and beautiful lyrics in the English language. The first poet of the world, the greatness of his genius, the vast variety of his scenes and characters, formed a subject well fitted for the flowing and stately measure chosen by our author, and the universal acquaintance with the writings of the immortal dramatist enables every one to judge of the merits of his composition. Though to some extent but a reproduction of the creations of SHAKSPEARE, it is such a reproduction as none but a man of genius could effect.

The longest of Mr. SPRAGUE's poems is entitled Curiosity." It was delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, at Cambridge, in August, 1829. It is in the heroic measure, and its diction is faultless. The subject was happily chosen, and admitted of a great variety of illustrations. The descriptions of the miser, the novel-reader, and the father led by curiosity to visit foreign lands, are among the finest passages in Mr. SPRAGUE'S writings. "Curiosity" was published in Calcutta a few years ago, as an original work by a British officer, with no other alterations than the omission of a few American names, and the insertion of others in their places, as SCOTT for COOPER, and CHALMERS for CHANNING; and in this form it was reprinted in London, where it was much praised in some of the critical gazettes.

66 The

The poem delivered at the centennial celebration of the settlement of Boston, contains many spirited passages, but it is not equal to "Curiosity" or "The Shakspeare Ode." Its versification is easy and various, but it is not so carefully finished as most of Mr. SPRAGUE'S productions. Winged Worshippers," "Lines on the Death of M. S. C.," "The Family Meeting," "Art," and several other short poems, evidence great skill in the use of language, and show him to be a master of the poetic art. They are all in good taste; they are free from turgidness; and are pervaded by a spirit of good sense, which is unfortunately wanting in much of the verse written in this age.

Mr. SPRAGUE has written, besides his poems, an essay on drunkenness, and an oration, pronounced at Boston on the fiftieth anniversary of the declaration of independence; and I believe he contributed some papers to the "New England Magazine," while it was edited by his friend J. T. BUCKINGHAM. The style of his prose is florid and much less carefully finished than that of his poetry.

He mixes but little in society, and, I have been told, was never thirty miles from his native city. His leisure hours are passed among his books; with the few "old friends, the tried, the true," who travelled with him up the steeps of manhood; or in the quiet of his own fireside. His poems show the strength of his domestic and social affections.