Round the good angels trooping to their posts- It dies away It will not stay So sweet-so fleeting. Yet to me it spake Strange peace of mind I could not find Before that triumph-strain the silence brake. STANZAS. THOUGHT is deeper than all speech; Man by man was never seen: To remove the shadowy screen. Of a temple once complete. All is thus but starlight here. What is social company But a babbling summer stream? What our wise philosophy But the glancing of a dream? Only when the sun of love Melts the scatter'd stars of thought, Only when we live above What the dim-eyed world hath taught, Only when our souls are fed By the fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led Which they never drew from earth; We, like parted drops of rain, Swelling till they meet and run, Shall be all absorbed again, Melting, flowing into one. MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI. OH, still sweet summer days! Oh, moonlight nights, After so drear a storm how can ye shine! Oh, smiling world of many-hued delights, How canst thou 'round our sad hearts still entwine The accustomed wreaths of pleasure! How, oh Day, Wakest thou so full of beauty! Twilight deep, How diest thou so tranquilly away! And how,oh Night,bring'st thou the sphere of sleep. For she is gone from us-gone, lost foreverIn the wild billows swallowed up and lostGone, full of love, life, hope, and high endeavor, Just when we would have welcom'd her the most. Was it for this-oh, woman, true and pure, That life thro' shade and light had form'd thy mind To feel, imagine, reason, and endure To soar for truth, to labour for mankind? Was it for this sad end thou borest thy part In deeds and words for struggling Italy,Devoting thy large mind and larger heart That Rome in later days might yet be free? Oh, many a heart was stricken dumb with grief, [here Of proud St. Peter's dome-the Sistine wallsThe lone Campagna and the village greenThe Vatican-the music and dim light Of gorgeous temples-statues, pictures, seen With thee: those sunny days return so bright, Now thou art gone! Thou hast a fairer world Than that bright clime. The dreams that fill'd thee Now find divine completion, and, unfurl'd, Thy spirit wings, find out their own high sphere. Farewell! thought-gifted, noble-hearted one! We, who have known thee, know thou art not lost; The star that set in storms still shines upon The o'ershadowing cloud, and when we sorrow In the blue spaces of God's firmament Beams out with purer light than we have known, Above the tempest and the wild lament Of those who weep the radiance that is flown. [most, HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN. [Born, 1813.] THE TUCKERMAN family is of German origin, and the name is still common in the states of Germany, where, however, it is spelled with a double n. In a history of the country of Braunselweig and Luneberg, by WILLIAM HANEMANN, published in Luneberg in 1827, allusion is made to one of the kindred of the TUCKERMANS in America, PETER TUCKERMAN, who is mentioned as the last abbot of the monastery of Riddagshausen. He was chosen by the chapter in 1621, and at the same time held the appointment of superintendent or court preacher at Wolfenbuttill. By the mother's side, Mr. TUCKERMAN is of Irish descent. The name of his mother's family is KEATING. In MACAULAY's recent history he thus speaks of one of her ancestors, as opposing a military deputy of JAMES II., in his persecution of the Protestant English in Ireland, in 1686: “On all questions which arose in the privy council, TYRCONNEL showed similar violence and partiality. KEATING, chief-justice of the common pleas, a man distinguished for ability, integrity, and loyalty, represented with great mildness that perfect equality was all that the general could reasonably ask for his own church." Mr. TUCKERMAN is a nephew of the late Rev. Dr. JOSEPH TUCKERMAN, a memoir of whom has recently appeared in England, and who is generally known and honoured as the originator of the "Ministry at Large," an institution of Christian benevolence and eminent utility. His mother was also related to and partly educated with another distinguished Unitarian clergyman, JOSEPH STEVENS BUCKMINSTER, whose memory is yet cherished in Boston by all lovers of genius and character. JOHN Mr. TUCKERMAN was born in Boston, on the twentieth of April, 1813. After preparing for college, the state of his health rendered it necessary for him to relinquish his studies and seek a milder climate. In September, 1833, he sailed from New York for Havre, and after a brief sojourn in Paris, proceeded to Italy, where he remained until the ensuing summer. In the spring after his return he gave the results of his observation to the public, in a volume entitled The Italian SketchBook," of which a third and considerably augmented edition appeared in New York in 1849. Mr. TUCKERMAN resumed and for a time prosecuted his academical studies, but again experiencing the injurious effects of a sedentary life and continued mental application, he embarked in October, 1837, for the Mediterranean; visited Gibraltar and Malta, made the tour of Sicily, and after a winter's residence in Palermo, crossed over to the continent. The winter of 1838 he passed chiefly in Floread. and returned to the United States in the course the ensuing summer. In 1839 he published - Is bel, or Sicily, a Pilgrimage," in which, under de guise of a romance, he gives many interesting descriptions and reflections incident to a tour in Sicily. This work was reprinted in London. 1846. In 1845 he finished his "Thoughts on the Poets," in which he has discussed the characters tics of the chief masters of modern song. This work has passed through several editions. In 184 he gave to the press his " Artist Life, or Sketches, of eminent American Painters;" in 1849, Che racteristics of Literature, illustrated by the Genins of Distinguished Men;" in 1850, "The Optimist." and a "Life of Commodore TALBOT;" in 1851. a second series of "Characteristics of Literature;" in 1853 "The Diary of a Dreamer," "A Memorial of GREENOUGH," and "Mental Portraits;" and in 1854, "A Month in England." A collection of his "Poems" appeared in 1851, but it embraces only a small proportion of those he had published in the magazines and newspapers. Mr. TUCKERMAN's poems are in a great variety of measures; they are, for the most part, expres sions of graceful and romantic sentiment, but are often fruits of his reflection and illustrations of his taste. The little piece called "Mary" is a delight ful echo of emotions as common as culture of mind and refinement of feeling; and among his sonnets are some very pleasing examples of this kind of writing. In these works he has occasionally done injustice to his own fine powers by the carelessness with which he has adopted familiar ideas, images, and forms of expression, from other writers. Considering the nature of the poetic principle, the author of an Essay on American Poetry which ap peared in 1841, observes: "He who looks on Lake George, and sees the sun rise on Mackinaw, or listens to the grand music of a storm. is di vested, for a time, of a portion of the alloy of his nature" The alteration Mr. TUCKERMAN makes in the paraphrase of this in his highly-finished produc tion, "The Spirit of Poetry," published three years afterwards, is unquestionably an improvement: "Who that has rocked upon Lake George's tide, When its clear ripples in the moonlight glide ... And who Niagara's loveliness has known, The rainbow diadem, the emerald zone, Nor felt thy spell each baser thought control.” Hypercritical readers may fancy that the grammatical relations of the last word of the second line here copied demand that it should be written glided, but it will not be denied that the substitu tion of "Niagara" for "a storm" renders the pas sage far more national, since storms may occur "To raise the genius and to mend the heart," "Exalt the mind and renovate the heart." "Exalt" is possibly a better word than "raise," GIOVANNI.* WHAT shade has fallen this loved threshold o'er Strove with dim eyes thy lineaments to trace. Two whose gray hair with daily joy he crowned, * JOHN W. FRANCIS, jr., eldest son of the eminent and venerable JOHN W. FRANCIS, M.D., LL. D. of New York, died on the twentieth of January, 1855, of typhus fever, brought on by extreme devotion to medical studies and attendance upon the poor. He was a youth of rare promise and great accomplishments; and perhaps there was never another occasion when one so young received the tribute of funeral honours from so large and distinguished an assemblage as that which accompanied his remains to St. Thomas's Church, where appropriate services were conducted in a very impressive manner by Dr. HAWKS, an old personal friend of the family. from the more immediate vocabulary of common life, and hence to be preferred on the principles announced by Mr. WORDSWORTH; but though those useful industrials who attempt to obliterate the evidences of age in our seedy habiliments, frequently display in conspicuous letters the verb "renovate" upon their signboards, it should not be forgotten that they intend by it a larger promise than that of simply "mending," as Mr. TUCKERMAN seems to suppose. Of Mr. TUCKERMAN's character as an essayist, some more particular observations may be found in my "Prose Writers of America." He has resided for several years in the city of New York. When up the aisle familiar to thy tread, For wisdom's banquet thou so well relied, The blest assurance of a short farewell, The New York Hospital. THE HOLY LAND. THROUGH the warm noontide, I have roam'd Oft listen'd to the night-wind's sigh. Before the breeze of autumn flee. Along Pompeii's lava-street, With curious eye, I've wander'd lone, With the rank weeds of ages grown. And sought the wild Campagna's gloom; And snatch'd a weed from VIRGIL'S tomb. Why all unsated yearns my heart To seek once more a pilgrim shrine? Oh, for a glance at those wild hills That gleams beneath Judea's skies! Upon the Jordan's moonlit strand! Behold the dew, like angels' tears, Upon each thorn is gleaming now, Who does not sigh to enter Nain, And rest beside Samaria's well? Who would not stand beneath the spot And kiss the ground where JESUS wept? And pluck a lily by the way? And on the mount of Olives pray? One hour's communion with the dead! On Calvary's celestial height! I cannot throw my staff aside, TO AN ELM. BRAVELY thy old arms fling As some rude tower of old, To battle sternly with the winter storm. In Nature's mighty fane, Lone patriarch of the wood! The locust knows thee well, Pours from thy world of green his drowsy song, Oft, on a morn in spring, The yellow-bird will seek thy waving spray, How bursts thy monarch wail, The sunset often weaves Sacred thy roof of green To rustic dance, and childhood's gambols free: O, hither should we roam, With blessings at thy feet, When, at the twilight hour, Under thy ancient bower The schoolboy comes to sport, the bard to dream. As o'er the sward the flitting shadows pass Then lovers haste to thee, With hearts that tremble like that shifting light: TO AN ZE cy of grees st the MARY. WHAT though the name is old and oft repeated, Is a familiar rapture to the eye; And yon bright star we hail, although its looming As starry beams o'er troubled billows stealing, Celestial halos from thy gentle name: AS APHRODITE rose from out the sea. In a far land where I was sad and lone? "YOU CALL US INCONSTANT." To tear the fresh rose from the garland of youth, By the tender appeal of that beauty, beware GREENOUGH'S WASHINGTON. THE quarry whence thy form majestic sprung Heroes and gods that elder bards have sung, But from its sleeping veins ne'er rose before Than his, who Glory's wreath with meekness wore, Sheathed is the sword that Passion never stain'd; His gaze around is cast, As if the joys of Freedom, newly-gain'd, Before his vision pass'd; As if a nation's shout of love and pride And his calm soul was lifted on the tide As if the crystal mirror of his life As if the lofty purpose of his soul Expression would betray- Whose angel guidance was our strength in fight, Whose matchless truth has made his name divine, His country great, his tomb earth's dearest shrine, And it is well to place his image there, Let us go up with high and sacred love And as, with solemn grace, he points above, |