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Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food,
And kindle in thy heart a flame refined;
Pray Heaven with firmness thy whole soul to bind
To this thy purpose-to begin, pursue,
With thoughts all fix'd and feelings purely kind,
Strength to complete, and with delight review,
And grace to give the praise where all is ever due.

No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit
To light on man as from the passing air;
The lamp of genius, though by nature lit,
If not protected, pruned, and fed with care,
Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful glare;
And learning is a plant that spreads and towers
Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare,

That, mid gay thousands, with the suns and
showers

Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers.

Has immortality of name been given
To them that idly worship hills and groves,
And burn sweet incense to the queen of heaven?
Did NEWTON learn from fancy, as it roves,
To measure worlds, and follow where each moves?
Did HOWARD gain renown that shall not cease,
By wanderings wild that nature's pilgrim loves?
Or did PAUL gain heaven's glory and its peace,
By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles of
Greece?

Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would appear
But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim
Thy want of worth; a charge thou couldst not hear
From other lips, without a blush of shame,
Or pride indignant; then be thine the blame,
And make thyself of worth; and thus enlist
The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame;
"Tis infamy to die and not be miss'd,
Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist.

Rouse to some work of high and holy love,
And thou an angel's happiness shalt know,-
Shalt bless the earth while in the world above;
The good begun by thee shall onward flow
In many a branching stream, and wider grow;
The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours,
Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow,
Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers,
And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal

bowers.

SIGHTS AND SOUNDS OF THE NIGHT.

ERE long the clouds were gone, the moon was set;
When deeply blue without a shade of gray,
The sky was fill'd with stars that almost met,
Their points prolong'd and sharpen'd to one ray;
Through their transparent air the milky-way
Seem'd one broad flame of pure resplendent white,
As if some globe on fire, turn'd far astray,
Had cross'd the wide arch with so swift a flight,
That for a moment shone its whole long track of
light.

At length in northern skies, at first but small,
A sheet of light meteorous begun
To spread on either hand, and rise and fall
In waves, that slowly first, then quickly run
Along its edge, set thick but one by one
With spiry beams, that all at once shot high,
Like those through vapours from the setting sun;
Then sidelong as before the wind they fly,
Like streaking rain from clouds that flit along the
sky.

Now all the mountain-tops and gulfs between
Seem'd one dark plain; from forests, caves pro-
found,

And rushing waters far below unseen,
Rose a deep roar in one united sound,
Alike pervading all the air around,
And seeming e'en the azure dome to fill,
And from it through soft ether to resound
In low vibrations, sending a sweet thrill
To every finger's end from rapture deep and still.

LIVE FOR ETERNITY.

A BRIGHT or dark eternity in view,
With all its fix'd, unutterable things,
What madness in the living to pursue,
As their chief portion, with the speed of wings,
The joys that death-beds always turn to stings!
Infatuated man, on earth's smooth waste
To dance along the path that always brings
Quick to an end, from which with tenfold haste
Back would he gladly fly till all should be retraced!

Our life is like the hurrying on the eve
Before we start, on some long journey bound,
When fit preparing to the last we leave,
Then run to every room the dwelling round,
And sigh that nothing needed can be found;
Yet go we must, and soon as day shall break;
We snatch an hour's repose, when loud the sound
For our departure calls; we rise and take
A quick and sad farewell, and go ere well awake.

Rear'd in the sunshine, blasted by the storms
Of changing time, scarce asking why or whence,
Men come and go like vegetable forms,
Though heaven appoints for them a work immense,
Demanding constant thought and zeal intense,
Awaked by hopes and fears that leave no room
For rest to mortals in the dread suspense,
While yet they know not if beyond the tomb
A long, long life of bliss or wo shall be their doom.

What matter whether pain or pleasures fill
The swelling heart one little moment here!
From both alike how vain is every thrill,
While an untried eternity is near!

Think not of rest, fond man, in life's career;
The joys and grief that meet thee, dash aside
Like bubbles, and thy bark right onward steer
Through calm and tempest, till it cross the tide,
Shoot into port in triumph, or serenely glide.

HENRY WARE, JR.

[Born, 1794. Died, 1843.]

HENRY WARE, D. D., a son of HENRY WARE, D. D., and brother of WILLIAM WARE, D. D., author of "Probus," etc., was born in Hingham, Massachusetts, on the seventh of April, 1794; was graduated at Cambridge in 1812; completed his theological studies in 1815; was ordained minister of the Second Congregational Church, in Boston, in 1817; received RALPH WALDO EMERsoy as his colleague, in 1829; for the recovery of his health soon after visited Europe; and on his return, in 1830, resigned his charge and entered

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TO THE URSA MAJOR.

WITH what a stately and majestic step
That glorious constellation of the north
Treads its eternal circle! going forth
Its princely way among the stars in slow
And silent brightness. Mighty one, all hail!
I joy to see thee on thy glowing path
Walk, like some stout and girded giant; stern,
Unwearied, resolute, whose toiling foot
Disdains to loiter on its destined way.

The other tribes forsake their midnight track,
And rest their weary orbs beneath thy wave;
But thou dost never close thy burning eye,
Nor stay thy steadfast step. But on,
still on,
While systems change, and suns retire, and worlds
Slumber and wake, thy ceaseless march proceeds.
The near horizon tempts to rest in vain.
Thou, faithful sentinel, dost never quit
Thy long-appointed watch; but, sleepless still,
Dost guard the fix'd light of the universe,
And bid the north forever know its place.
Ages have witness'd thy devoted trust,
Unchanged, unchanging. When the sons of God
Sent forth that shout of joy which rang through
heaven,

And echo'd from the outer spheres that bound
The illimitable universe, thy voice

Join'd the high chorus; from thy radiant orbs
The glad cry sounded, swelling to His praise,
Who thus had cast another sparkling gem,
Little, but beautiful, amid the crowd
Of splendours that enrich his firmament.
As thou art now, so wast thou then the same.
Ages have roll'd their course, and time grown gray;
The earth has gather'd to her womb again,
And yet again, the myriads that were born
Of her uncounted, unremember'd tribes.
The seas have changed their beds; the eternal hills
Have stoop'd with age; the solid continents
Have left their banks; and man's imperial works-
The toil, pride, strength of kingdoms, which had

flung

Their haughty honours in the face of heaven,
As if immortal-have been swept away:
Shatter'd and mouldering, buried and forgot.
But time has shed no dimness on thy front,
Nor touch'd the firmness of thy tread; youth,
strength,

And beauty still are thine; as clear, as bright,
As when the Almighty Former sent thee forth,
Beautiful offspring of his curious skill,
To watch earth's northern beacon, and proclaim
The eternal chorus of eternal Love.

I wonder as I gaze. That stream of light, Undimm'd, unquench'd-just as I see it nowHas issued from those dazzling points through years That go back far into eternity.

Exhaustless flood! forever spent, renew'd
Forever! Yea, and those refulgent drops,
Which now descend upon my lifted eye,
Left their far fountain twice three years ago.
While those wing'd particles, whose speed outstrips
The flight of thought, were on their way, the earth
Compass'd its tedious circuit round and round,
And, in the extremes of annual change, beheld
Six autumns fade, six springs renew their bloom.
So far from earth those mighty orbs revolve!
So vast the void through which their beams descend!
Yes, glorious lamp of Gop! He may have quench'd
Your ancient flames, and bid eternal night
Rest on your spheres; and yet no tidings reach
This distant planet. Messengers still come
Laden with your far fire, and we may seem
To see your lights still burning; while their blaze
But hides the black wreck of extinguish'd realms,
Where anarchy and darkness long have reign'd.

Yet what is this, which to the astonish'd mind
Seems measureless, and which the baffled thought
Confounds? A span, a point, in those domains
Which the keen eye can traverse.
Seven stars
Dwell in that brilliant cluster, and the sight
Embraces all at once; yet each from each
Recedes as far as each of them from earth.
And every star from every other burns
No less remote. From the profound of heaven,

Untravell'd even in thought, keen, piercing rays
Dart through the void, revealing to the sense
Systems and worlds unnumber'd. Take the glass
And search the skies. The opening skies pour down
Upon your gaze thick showers of sparkling fire;
Stars, crowded, throng'd, in regions so remote,
That their swift beams-the swiftest things that
be-

Have travell'd centuries on their flight to earth.
Earth, sun, and nearer constellations! what
Are ye amid this infinite extent

And multitude of Gon's most infinite works!
And these are suns! vast, central, living fires,
Lords of dependent systems, kings of worlds
That wait as satellites upon their power,
And flourish in their smile. Awake, my soul,
And meditate the wonder! Countless suns
Blaze round thee, leading forth their countless
worlds!

Worlds in whose bosoms living things rejoice,
And drink the bliss of being from the fount
Of all-pervading Love. What mind can know,
What tongue can utter all their multitudes!
Thus numberless in numberless abodes!
Known but to thee, bless'd Father! Thine they are,
Thy children, and thy care; and none o'erlook'd
Of thee! No, not the humblest soul that dwells
Upon the humblest globe, which wheels its course
Amid the giant glories of the sky,

Like the mean mote that dances in the beam
Amongst the mirror'd lamps, which fling
Their wasteful splendour from the palace wall,
None, none escape the kindness of thy care;
All compass'd underneath thy spacious wing,
Each fed and guided by thy powerful hand.

Tell me, ye splendid orbs! as from your throne
Ye mark the rolling provinces that own
Your sway, what beings fill those bright abodes?
How form'd, how gifted? what their powers, their
state,

Their happiness, their wisdom? Do they bear
The stamp of human nature? Or has GoD
Peopled those purer realms with lovelier forms
And more celestial minds? Does Innocence
Still wear her native and untainted bloom?
Or has Sin breathed his deadly blight abroad,
And sow'd corruption in those fairy bowers?
Has War trod o'er them with his foot of fire?
And Slavery forged his chains; and Wrath, and
Hate,

And sordid Selfishness, and cruel Lust

Leagued their base bands to tread out light and truth,
And scatter wo where Heaven had planted joy?
Or are they yet all paradise, unfallen
And uncorrupt? existence one long joy,
Without disease upon the frame, or sin
Upon the heart, or weariness of life;
Hope never quench'd, and age unknown,
And death unfear'd; while fresh and fadeless youth
Glows in the light from Gon's near throne of love?
Open your lips, ye wonderful and fair!
Speak, speak! the mysteries of those living worlds
Unfold! No language? Everlasting light
And everlasting silence? Yet the eye
May read and understand. The hand of GoD

Has written legibly what man may know,
THE GLORY OF THE MAKER. There it shines,
Ineffable, unchangeable; and man,
Bound to the surface of this pigmy globe,
May know and ask no more. In other days,
When death shall give the encumber'd spirit wings,
Its range shall be extended; it shall roam,
Perchance, among those vast, mysterious spheres,
Shall pass from orb to orb, and dwell in each,
Familiar with its children; learn their laws,
And share their state, and study and adore
The infinite varieties of bliss

And beauty, by the hand of Power divine
Lavish'd on all its works. Eternity
Shall thus roll on with ever fresh delight;
No pause of pleasure or improvement; world
On world still opening to the instructed mind
An unexhausted universe, and time
But adding to its glories. While the soul,
Advancing ever to the Source of light
And all perfection, lives, adores, and reigns
In cloudless knowledge, purity, and bliss.

SEASONS OF PRAYER.

To prayer, to prayer;—for the morning breaks,
And earth in her Maker's smile awakes.
His light is on all below and above,
The light of gladness, and life, and love.
O, then, on the breath of this early air,
Send up the incense of grateful prayer.

To prayer;-for the glorious sun is gone,
And the gathering darkness of night comes on.
Like a curtain from Gon's kind hand it flows,
To shade the couch where his children repose.
Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright,
And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of

night.

To prayer;--for the day that Gon has bless'd
Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest.
It speaks of creation's early bloom;
It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb.
Then summon the spirit's exalted powers,
And devote to Heaven the hallow'd hours.

There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes,
For her new-born infant beside her lies.
O, hour of bliss! when the heart o'erflows
With rapture a mother only knows.
Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer;
Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care.

There are smiles and tears in that gathering band,
Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand.
What trying thoughts in her bosom swell,
As the bride bids parents and home farewell!
Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair,
And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer.
Kneel down by the dying sinner's side,
And pray for his soul through Him who died.
Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow-
O, what is earth and its pleasures now!

And what shall assuage his dark despair,
But the penitent cry of humble prayer?
Kneel down at the couch of departing faith,
And hear the last words the believer saith.
He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends;
There is peace in his eye that upward bends;
There is peace in his calm, confiding air;

For his last thoughts are Gon's,his last words prayer.

The voice of prayer at the sable bier!

A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer.
It commends the spirit to Gon who gave;

It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave;
It points to the glory where he shall reign,
Who whisper'd, «Thy brother shall rise again."
The voice of prayer in the world of bliss!
But gladder, purer, than rose from this.
The ransom'd shout to their glorious King,
Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing;
But a sinless and joyous song they raise;
And their voice of prayer is eternal praise.
Awake, awake, and gird up thy strength
To join that holy band at length.
To him who unceasing love displays,
Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise,
To Him thy heart and thy hours be given;
For a life of prayer is the life of heaven.

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In giant masses graced the walls above, And dungeons yawn'd below.

Yet ivy there and moss their garlands wove, Grave, silent chroniclers of time's protracted flow. Bursting on my steadfast gaze,

See, within, a sudden blaze!

So small at first, the zephyr's slightest swell,
That scarcely stirs the pine-tree top,

Nor makes the wither'd leaf to drop,

The feeble fluttering of that flame would quell.
But soon it spread--

Waving, rushing, fierce, and red-

From wall to wall, from tower to tower,
Raging with resistless power;

Till every fervent pillar glow'd,

And every stone seem'd burning coal,
Instinct with living heat, that flow'd

Like streaming radiance from the kindled pole.
Beautiful, fearful, grand,

Silent as death, I saw the fabric stand.

At length a crackling sound began;

From side to side, throughout the pile it ran;
And louder yet and louder grew,

Till now in rattling thunder-peals it grew;
Huge shiver'd fragments from the pillars broke,
Like fiery sparkles from the anvil's stroke.
The shatter'd walls were rent and riven,
And piecemeal driven

Like blazing comets through the troubled sky
"Tis done; what centuries had rear'd,
In quick explosion disappear'd,

Nor even its ruins met my wondering eye.

But in their place

Bright with more than human grace, Robed in more than mortal seeming, Radiant glory in her face,

[ing

And eyes with heaven's own brightness beamRose a fair, majestic form,

As the mild rainbow from the storm.

I mark'd her smile, I knew her eye;

And when, with gesture of command, She waved aloft the cap-crown'd wand, My slumbers fled mid shouts of "

Liberty!"

Read ye the dream? and know ye not

How truly it unlock'd the world of fate! Went not the flame from this illustrious spot, And spreads it not, and burns in every state? And when their old and cumbrous walls, Fill'd with this spirit, glow intense, Vainly they rear'd their impotent defence: The fabric falls!

That fervent energy must spread,

Till despotism's towers be overthrown; And in their stead,

Liberty stands alone!

Hasten the day, just Heaven!

Accomplish thy design;

And let the blessings thou hast freely given,
Freely on all men shine;

Till equal rights be equally enjoy'd

And human power for human good employ'd; Till law, and not the sovereign, rule sustain, And peace and virtue undisputed reign.

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JOHN NEAL.

[Born about 1794.]

MR. NEAL is a native of Portland. In 1815 he | went to Baltimore, and was there associated several years with JOHN PIERPONT in mercantile transactions; but these resulting disastrously, he turned his attention to literature, commencing his career by writing for The Portico," a monthly magazine, a series of critical essays on the works of BYRON. In 1818, he published "Keep Cool," a novel, and in the following year "The Battle of Niagara, Goldau the Maniac Harper, and other Poems, by Jehu O'Cataract,”* and "Otho," a tragedy. He also wrote a large portion of ALLEN'S History of the American Revolution,” which appeared early in 1821. In 1822 he published in Philadelphia a second novel, entitled " Logan," which was reprinted soon after in London. This was followed in 1823 by "Seventy-six," the most popular of his fictions; "Randolph," a story which attracted considerable attention at the time by the notices it contained of the most prominent politicians, authors, and artists then in the country; and "Errata, or the Works of Will Adams."

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Near the close of the last-mentioned year Mr. NEAL went abroad. Soon after his arrival in London he became a contributor to various periodicals, for which he wrote, chiefly under the guise of an Englishman, numerous articles to correct erroneous opinions which prevailed in regard to the social and political condition of the United States. He made his first appearance in Blackwood's Magazine, in "Sketches of the Five American Presidents and the Five Candidates for the Presidency," a paper which was widely republished, and, with others, led to his introduction to many eminent persons, among whom was JEREMY BENTHAM, who continued until his death to be Mr. NEAL'S warm personal friend.

After passing four years in Great Britain and on the continent, in which time appeared his "Brother Jonathan," a novel, Mr. NEAL came back to his

"JEHU O'CATARACT" was a name given to NEAL by the Delphian Club of Baltimore, of which PAUL ALLEN, Gen. WINDER, REV. JOHN PIERPONT, Judge BRECKENRIDGE, NEAL, and other distinguished men, were then members. The second edition of the Battle of Niagara was published in 1819, and for " JEHU ('CATARACT" was substituted the real name of the author.

In this edition of "The Poets and Poetry of America" I have quoted from the "Battle of Niagara" as it appeared with the "last additions and corrections." seen only the first impression of it when this work was originally prepared for the press.

I had

In a note in Blackwood's Magazine, Mr. NEAL says he wrote "Randolph" in thirty-six days, with an interval of about a week between the two volumes, in which he wrote nothing; "Errata" in less than thirty-nine days; and "Seventy-six" in twenty-seven days. During this time he was engaged in professional business.

native city of Portland, where he now resides, Since his return he has published " Rachel Dyer," "Authorship," "The Down Easters," and "Ruth Elder;" edited "The Yankee," a weekly gazette, two years, and contributed largely to other periodicals.

Mr. NEAL's novels contain numerous passages marked by brilliancy of sentiment and expression. and occasional scenes which show that he possesses dramatic ability. They are original; they are writ ten from the impulses of his heart, and are pervaded by the peculiarities of his character; but most of them were produced rapidly and carelessly, and are without unity, aim, or continuous interest.

His poems have the unquestionable stamp of genius. He possesses imagination in a degree of sensibility and energy hardly surpassed in this age. The elements of poetry are poured forth in his verses with a prodigality and power altogether astonishing. But he is deficient in the constructive faculty. He has no just sense of proportion. No one with so rich and abundant materials had ever less skill in using them. Instead of bringing the fancy to adorn the structures of the imagination, he reverses the poetical law, giving to the imagination the secondary office, so that the points illustrated are quite forgotten in the accumulation and splendour of the imagery. The Battle of Niagara," with its rapid and slow, gay and solemn movement, falls on the ear as if it were composed to martial music. It is marred, however, by his customary faults. The isthmus which bounds the beautiful is as narrow as that upon the borders of the sublime, and he crosses both without hesitation. Passages in it would be very fine but for lines or single words which, if the reader were not confident that he had before him the author's own edition, he would think had been thrown in by some burlesquing enemy,

I have heard an anecdote which illustrates the rapidity with which he writes. When he lived in Baltimore, he went one evening to the rooms of PIERPONT, and read to him a poem which he had just completed. The author of " Airs of Palestine" was always a nice critic, and he frankly pointed out the faults of the performance. NEAL promised to revise it, and submit it again on the following morning. At the appointed time he repaired to the apartment of his friend, and read to him a new poem, of three or four hundred lines. He had tried to improve his first, but failing to do so, had chosen a new subject, a new measure, and produced an entirely new work, before retiring to sleep.

In the last edition of his Poems, Mr. NEAL presents some specimens of an intended epic on the conquest of Peru; and he has written many lyrical pieces, not included in his collections, which have been popular.

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