CORNELIUS MATHEWS. THE REFORMER. MAN of the future! on the eager headland standing, Thine eye, the darkness and the billows rough com- Beholds a shore, bright as the heaven itself may be ; And there to spend in boundless peace its happier By passion and the force of earnest thought, Yet, so into the frame of empire wrought, Thou, stout man, canst not thence be sever'd, Seize by its horns the shaggy Past, Full of uncleanness; heave with mountain-cast Thy race to ruin dark and suffering long has hurl'd. Оя, when thou walkest by the river's side, "Good!" It consecrates whate'er it strikes-each blow, That bears the guilty up, and through the night Up to the big-voiced sledge that heaving slow Conducts them gently to the dawning lightThy silent hours shall have as great a birth. THE MASSES. WHEN, wild and high, the uproar swells As if an earthquake's shock Not always open to the light, Roars 'gainst the massy bar, and tears In grandeur towered, or lapsing, beauty-sleek, live Go forth into the fields, Ye denizens of the pent city's mart! Go forth and know the gladness nature yields Leave ye the feverish strife, The jostling, eager, self-devoted throng;- Hark! from each fresh-clad bough, The silvery gleaming rills Lure with soft murmurs from the grassy lea, And the young, wanton breeze, With breath all odorous from her blossomy chase, In voice low whispering 'mong th’embowering trees, Woos you to her embrace. Go--breathe the air of heaven, Seek ye the solemn wood, Sleeping mid willowy banks of emerald dye, Checkering the mirror'd sky- And if within your breast, Hallow'd to nature's touch, one chord remain ; A strange delight shall thrill, A quiet joy brood o'er you like a dove; O, in the calm, still hours, in 1839. It possesses considerable merit, but is not so carefully finished as some of his minor pieces, nor is there any thing strikingly original in its fable or sentiments. His writings are more distinguished for elegance than for vigour. Pass ye the proud fane by, The vaulted aisles, by flaunting folly trod, And, 'neath the temple of the uplifted sky, Go forth and worship God! TO THE AUTUMN FOREST. RESPLENDENT hues are thine! Triumphant beauty-glorious as brief! Burdening with holy love the heart's pure shrine, Till tears afford relief. What though thy depths be hush'd! More eloquent in breathless silence thou, Gone from thy walks the flowers! I love thee in the spring, Earth-crowning forest! when amid thy shades In the hot summer-time, With deep delight thy sombre aisles I roam, But, O, when autumn's hand ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. GONE in the flush of youth! Gone ere thy heart had felt earth's withering care; Ere the stern world had soil'd thy spirit's truth, Or sown dark sorrow there. Fled like a dream away! But yesterday mid life's auroral bloom- Sighs round thy lonely tomb. Fond hearts were beating high, Fond eyes were watching for the loved one gone, And gentle voices, deeming thou wert nigh, Talk'd of thy glad return. They watch'd--not all in vain- Thy form once more the wonted threshold pass'd; But choking sobs, and tears like summer-rain, Welcom'd thee home at last. Friend of my youth, farewell! To thee, we trust, a happier life is given; OUR COUNTRY. OUR country!--'t is a glorious land! With broad arms stretch'd from shore to shore, She hears the dark Atlantic roar; How many a goodly prospect lies Enamell'd with her loveliest dyes. Go sweeping onward, dark and deep, In rich profusion o'er the land, I HEAR THY VOICE, O SPRING! Divinely sweet thy song- But yet, methinks, as near the groves I pass, Low sighs on viewless wings are borne along, Tears gem the springing grass. For where are they, the young, The loved, the beautiful, who, when thy voice, A year agone, along these valleys rung, Did hear thee and rejoice! Thou seek'st for them in vainNo more they'll greet thee in thy joyous round; Calmly they sleep beneath the murmuring main, Or moulder in the ground. Yet peace, my heart--be still! Look upward to yon azure sky and know, To heavenlier music now their bosoms thrill, Where balmier breezes blow. For them hath bloom'd a spring, Whose flowers perennial deck a holier sod, Whose music is the song that seraphs sing, Whose light, the smile of God! I STOOD BESIDE HIS GRAVE. The stars stole trembling into sight, The city's murmur softly fell, And scarce the dewy air was stirr'd, As faintly toll'd the evening-bell. O Death! had then thy summons come, To bid me from this world away,How gladly had I hail'd the doom That stretch'd me by his mouldering clay! And twilight deepen'd into night, And night itself grew wild and drear,For clouds rose darkly on the sight, And winds sigh'd mournful on the ear:And yet I linger'd mid the fern, Though gleam'd no star the eye to bless For, O, 't was agony to turn And leave him to his loneliness! THE author of "Velasco" is a native of Gloucester, a town on the sea-coast of Massachusetts, and was born on the twenty-seventh of September, 1816. His father, a respectable merchant, of the same name, is still living, and resides in Boston. The subject of this sketch was educated in the schools of that city and the neighbourhood, where he lived until his removal to New York, in 1837. His earliest metrical compositions were printed in "The Collegian," a monthly miscellany edited by several of the students of Harvard College, of the junior and senior classes of 1830. One of his contributions to that work, entitled "Twilight Sketches," exhibits the grace of style, ease of versification, and variety of description, which are characteristic of his more recent effusions. It was a sketch of the Summer Gardens of St. Petersburg, and was written during a visit to that capital in the spring of 1828. Mr. SARGENT's reputation rests principally on his dramas, which bear a greater value in the closet than on the stage. His first appearance as a dramatic author was in the winter of 1836, when his "Bride of Genoa" was brought out at the Tremont Theatre, in Boston. This was a five-act play, founded on incidents in the career of ANTONIO MONTALDO, a plebeian, who at the age of twentytwo, made himself doge of Genoa, in 1693, and who is described in the history of the times as a man of "forgiving temper," but daring and ambitious, with a genius adequate to the accomplishment of vast designs. In the delineation of his hero, the author has followed the historical record, though the other characters and incidents of the drama are entirely fictitious. It was successfully performed in Boston, and since in many of the first theatres of the country. His next production was of a much higher order, and as a specimen of dramatic art, has received warm commendation from the most competent judges. It was the tragedy of "Velasco," first performed at Boston, in November, 1837, Miss ELLEN TREE in the character of IZIDORA, and subsequently at the principal theatres in New York, Philadelphia, Washington, and New Orleans. It was published in New York in 1839. "The general action of the piece," says the author in his preface, "is derived from incidents in the career of RODRIGO DIAZ, the Cid, whose achievements constitute so considerable a portion of the historical and romantic literature of Spain." The subject had been variously treated by French and Spanish dramatists, among others, by CORNEILLE, but Mr. SARGENT was the first to introduce it successfully upon the English stage. It is a chaste and elegant performance, and probably has not been surpassed by any similar work by so youthful an author. It was written before Mr. SARGENT was twenty-one years of age. In the beginning of 1847 Mr. SARGENT published in Boston a volume entitled "Songs of the Sea, and other Poems," and a new edition of his plays. The quatorzains written during a voyage to Cuba, in the spring of 1835, appear to be among the most elaborate of his sea pieces, but some of his nautical lyrics are more spirited. Mr. SARGENT has edited "The Modern Acting Drama," and several modern British poets; and recently has done the public an important service by preparing the best series of reading books, for schools, ever published in this country. RECORDS OF A SUMMER-VOYAGE TO CUBA. I. THE DEPARTURE. AGAIN thy winds are pealing in mine ear! Again thy waves are flashing in my sight! Thy memory-haunting tones again I hear, As through the spray our vessel wings her flight! On thy cerulean breast, now swelling high, Again, thou broad Atlantic, am I cast! Six years, with noiseless tread, have glided by, Since, an adventurous boy, I hail'd thee last, The sea-birds o'er me wheel, as if to greet An old companion; on my naked brow The sparkling foam-drops not unkindly beat; [now Flows through my hair the freshening breeze--and The horizon's ring enclasps me; and I stand Gazing where fades from view, cloud-like, my fatherland! II. THE GALE. The night came down in terror. Through the air Mountains of clouds, with lurid summits, roll'd; The lightning kindling with its vivid glare Their outlines, as they rose, heap'd fold on fold, The wind, in fitful sughs, swept o'er the sea; And then a sudden lull, gentle as sleep, Soft as an infant's breathing, seem'd to be Lain, like enchantment, on the throbbing deep. But, false the calm! for soon the strengthen'd gale Burst, in one loud explosion, far and wide, Drowning the thunder's voice! With every sail Close-reef'd, our groaning ship heel'd on her side; The torn waves comb'd the deck; while o'er the mast The meteors of the storm a ghastly radiance cast! EPES SARGENT. III. MORNING AFTER THE GALE. Bravely our trim ship rode the tempest through; Whereat, the clouds betook themselves to flight, IV. TO A LAND-BIRD. Thou wanderer from green fields and leafy nooks! V. A THOUGHT OF THE PAST. I woke from slumber at the dead of night, VI. TROPICAL WEATHER. We are afloat upon the tropic sea! VII. A CALM. O! for one draught of cooling northern air! VIII. A WISH. That I were in some forest's green retreat, Beneath a towering arch of proud old elms; Where a clear streamlet gurgled at my feetIts wavelets glittering in their tiny helms! Thick clustering vines, in many a rich festoon, From the high, rustling branches should depend; Weaving a net, through which the sultry noon Might stoop in vain its fiery beams to send. There, prostrate on some rock's gray sloping side, Upon whose tinted moss the dew yet lay, Would I catch glimpses of the clouds that ride Athwart the sky-and dream the hours away; While through the alleys of the sunless wood The fanning breeze might steal, with wild-flowers' breath imbued. IX. TROPICAL NIGHT. But, O! the night!--the cool, luxurious night, Clouds, in thin streaks of purple, green, and red, X. THE PLANET JUPITER. Ever, at night, have I look'd first for thee, |