Dies the bonfire on the hill;
All is dark and all is still,

Save the starlight, save the breeze
Moaning through the grave-yard trecs;
And the great sea-waves below,
Like the night's pulse, beating slow.

From the brief dream of a bride
She hath wakened, at his side.
With half uttered shriek and start--
Feels she not his beating heart?
And the pressure of his arm,
And his breathing near and warm?
Lightly from the bridal bed
Springs that fair dishevelled head,
And a feeling, new, intense,
Half of shame, half innocence,
Maiden fear and wonder speaks
Through her lips and changing cheeks.
From the oaken mantel glowing
Faintest light the lamp is throwing
On the mirror's antique mould,
High-backed chair, and wainscot old,
And, through faded curtains stealing,
His dark sleeping face revealing.
Listless lies the strong man there,
Silver-streaked his careless hair;
Lips of love have left no trace
On that hard and haughty face;
And that forehead's knitted thought
Love's soft hand hath not unwrought.
"Yet," she sighs, "he loves me well,
More than these calm lips will tell
Stooping to my lowly state,

He hath made me rich and great,
And I bless him, though he be
Hard and stern to all save me!"
While she speaketh, falls the light
O'er her fingers small and white;
Gold and gem, and costly ring
Back the timid lustre fling-
Love's selectest gifts, and rare,
His proud hand had fastened there.
Gratefully she marks the glow
From those tapering lines of snow;
Fondly o'er the sleeper bending
His black hair with golden blending,
In her soft and light caress,
Cheek and lip together press.

Ha! that start of horror!-Why
That wild stare and wilder cry,
Full of terror, full of pain?

Is there madness in her brain?
Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low:
Spare me-spare me-let me go!"

God have mercy!-Icy cold
Spectral hands her own enfold,
Drawing silently from them
Love's fair gifts of gold and gem,
"Waken! save me!" still as death
At her side he slumbereth.

Ring and bracelet all are gone, And that ice-cold hand withdrawn; But she hears a murmur low, Full of sweetness, full of woe, Half a sigh and half a moan: "Fear not! give the dead her own!" Ah!-the dead wife's voice she knows! That cold hand whose pressure froze, Once in warmest life had borne Gem and band her own hath worn

"Wake thee! wake thee!" Lo, his eyes Open with a dull surprise.

In his arms the strong man folds her,
Closer to his breast he holds her;
Trembling limbs his own are meeting,
And he feels her heart's quick beating:
Nay, my dearest, why this fear?"
"Hush!" she saith, "the dead is here!"
"Nay, a dream-an idle dream."
But before the lamp's pale gleam
Tremblingly her hand she raises,—
There no more the diamond blazes,
Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold,—
"Ah!" she sighs, "her hand was cold!"
Broken words of cheer he saith,
But his dark lip quivereth,

And as o'er the past he thinketh,
From his young wife's arms he shrinketh;
Can those soft arms round him lie,
Underneath his dead wife's eye?

She her fair young head can rest
Soothed and child-like on his breast,
And in trustful innocence

Draw new strength and courage thence;
He, the proud man, feels within

But the cowardice of sin!

She can murmur in her thought
Simple prayers her mother taught,
And His blessed angels call,
Whose great love is over all;
He, alone, in prayerless pride,
Meets the dark Past at her side.

One, who living shrank with dread
From his look, or word, or tread,
Unto whom her early grave
Was as freedom to the slave,
Moves him at this midnight hour,
With the dead's unconscious power!

Ah, the dead, the unforgot!
From their solemn homes of thought,
Where the cypress shadows blend
Darkly over foe and friend,
Or in love or sad rebuke,
Back upon the living look.

And the tenderest ones and weakest,

Who their wrongs have borne the meekest,

Lifting from those dark, still places,

Sweet and sad-remembered faces,

O'er the guilty hearts behind
An unwitting triumph find.

A DREAM OF SUMMER.

Bland as the morning breath of June
The southwest breezes play;
And, through its haze, the winter noon
Seems warm as summer's day.
The snow-plumed Angel of the North
Has dropped his icy spear;
Again the mossy earth looks forth,
Again the streams gush clear.
The fox his hill-side cell forsakes,
The muskrat leaves his nook,
The bluebird in the meadow brakes
Is singing with the brook.
"Bear up, oh mother Nature!" cry
Bird, breeze, and streamlet free;
"Our winter voices prophesy

Of summer days to thee!"
So, in those winters of the soul,
By bitter blasts and drear

O'erswept from Memory's frozen pole,

Will sunny days appear.
Reviving Hope and Faith, they show
The soul its living powers,
And how beneath the winter's snow
Lie germs of summer flowers!

The Night is mother of the Day,
The Winter of the Spring,
And ever upon old Decay

The greenest mosses cling.
Behind the cloud the star-light lurks,
Through showers the sunbeams fall;
For God, who loveth all His works,
Has left His Hope with all!

PALESTINE.

Blest land of Judea! thrice hallowed of song,
Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng;
In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea,
On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee.
With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore,
Where pilgrim and prophet have lingered before;
With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod
Made bright by the steps of the angels of God.
Blue sea of the hills!-in my spirit I hear
Thy waters, Genesaret, chime on my ear;
Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down,
And thy spray on the dust of His sandals was thrown.
Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green,
And the desolate hills of the wild Gadarene;
And I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to see
The gleam of thy waters, O dark Galilee!

Hark, a sound in the valley! where swollen and strong,

Thy river, O Kishon, is sweeping along;

Where the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain, And thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain.

There down from his mountains stern Zebulon came,
And Napthali's stag, with his eye-balls of flame,
And the chariots of Jubin rolled harmlessly on,
For the arm of the Lord was Abinoam's son !
There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which
rang

To the song which the beautiful prophetess sang,
When the princes of Issachar stood by her side,
And the shout of a host in its triumph replied.
Lo, Bethlehem's hill-site before me is seen,

With the mountains around, and the valleys between;
There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there
The songs of the angels rose sweet on the air.
And Bethany's palm trees in beauty still threw
Their shadows at noon on the ruins below;
But where are the sisters who hastened to greet
The lowly Redeemer, and sit at His feet?

I tread where the TWELVE in their way-faring trod;
I stand where they stood with the chosen of God-
Where His blessing was heard and His lessons were
taught,

Where the blind were restored and the healing was wrought.

Oh, here with His flock the sad Wanderer cameThese hills He toiled over in grief, are the sameThe founts where He drank by the wayside still flow, And the same airs are blowing which breathed on His brow!

And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet,

But with dust on her forehead, and chains on her

feet;

For the crown of her pride to the mocker hath gone,
And the holy Shechinah is dark where it shone.
But wherefore this dream of the earthly abode
Of Humanity clothed in the brightness of God?
Where my spirit but turned from the outward and
dim,

It could gaze, even now, on the presence of Him!
Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when,
In love and in meekness, He moved among men;
And the voice which breathed peace to the waves of
the sea,

In the hush of my spirit would whisper to me!

And what if my feet may not tread where He stood,
Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood,
Nor my eyes see the cross which He bowed him to
bear,

Nor my knees press Gethsemane's garden of prayer.
Yet loved of the Father, Thy Spirit is near
To the meek, and the lowly, and penitent here;
And the voice of Thy love is the same even now,
As at Bethany's tomb, or on Olivet's brow.

Oh, the outward hath gone!-but in glory ani power,

The SPIRIT Surviveth the things of an hour;
Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame
On the heart's sacred altar is burning the same}

GONE.

Another hand is beckoning us,
Another call is given;

And glows once more with Angel-steps
The path which reaches Heaven.

Our young and gentle friend whose smile
Made brighter summer hours,
Amid the frosts of autumn time
Has left us, with the flowers.

No paling of the cheek of bloom
Forewarned us of decay;

No shadow from the Silent Land
Fell around our sister's way.

The light of her young life went down,
As sinks behind the hill

The glory of a setting star-
Clear, suddenly, and still.

As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed-
Eternal as the sky;

And like the brook's low song, her voice-
A sound which could not die.

And half we deemed she needed not
The changing of her sphere,

To give to Heaven a Shining One,
Who walked an Angel here.

The blessing of her quiet life
Fell on us like the dew;

And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed,
Like fairy blossoms grew.

Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds
Were in her very look;

We read her face, as one who reads
A true and holy book:

The measure of a blessed hymn,

To which our hearts could move;
The breathing of an inward psalm;
A canticle of love.

We miss her in the place of prayer,
And by the hearth-fire's light;
We pause beside her door to hear
Once more her sweet " Good night!"

There seems a shadow on the day,
Her smile no longer cheers;
A dimness on the stars of night,

Like e
e eyes that look through tears.
Alone unto our Father's will

One thought hath reconciled;
That He whose love exceedeth ours
Hath taken home His child.

Fold her, oh Father! in thine arms,
And let her henceforth be
A messenger of love between

Our human hearts and Thee.

Still let her mild rebuking stand
Between us and the wrong,

And her dear memory serve to make
Our faith in Goodness strong.

And, grant that she who, trembling, here
Distrusted all her powers,

May welcome to her holier home
The well beloved of ours.

CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN is the descendant of a family which established itself in the State of New York during its possession by the Dutch. His maternal grandfather, from whom he derived the name of Fenno, was an active politician and writer of the federal party during the administration of Washington. His father, Judge Hoffinan, was an eminent member of the bar of the United States. He pleaded and won his first cause at the age of seventeen, and at twenty-one filled the place previously occupied by his father in the New York Legislature. One of his sons is Ogden Hoffman, who has long maintained a high position as an eloquent pleader.

His father not wishing to coerce him unduly, instead of sending him back, placed him in the charge of a Scottish gentleman in a village of New Jersey. While on a visit home in 1817 an accident occurred, an account of which is given in a paragraph quoted from the New York Gazette in the Evening Post of October 25, from which it appears that "he was sitting on Courtlandt-street Dock, with his legs hanging over the wharf, as the steamboat was coming in, which caught one of his legs and crushed it in a dreadful manner." It was found necessary to amputate the injured limb above the knee. Its place was supplied by a cork substitute, which seemed to form no impediment to the continuance of the out-door life and athletic exercises in which its wearer was a proficient. At the age of fifteen he entered Columbia College, where he was more distinguished in the debating society than in the class. He left College during his junior year, but afterwards received the honorary degree of Master of Arts from the institution. He next studied law with the late Harmanus Bleecker, at Albany, at the age of twenty-one was admitted to the bar, and practised for three years in New York. He then abandoned a professional for a literary life, having already tried his pen in anonymous contributions while a clerk to the Albany newspapers, and while an attorney to the New York American, in the editorship of which he became associated with Mr. Charles King. A series of articles by him, designated by a star, added to the literary reputation of the journal.

In 1833 Mr. Hoffman made a tour to the Prairies for the benefit of his health. He contributed a series of letters, descriptive of its incidents, to the American, which were collected and published in 1834, in a couple of volumes bearing the title A Winter in the West, which obtained a wide popularity in this country and England. His second work, Wild Scenes in the Forest and the Prairie, appeared in 1837. It was followed by the romance of Greyslaer, founded on the celebrated Beauchamp murder case in Kentucky.

The Knickerbocker Magazine was commenced in 1833 under the editorship of Mr. Hoffman. It was conducted by him with spirit, but after the issue of a few numbers passed into the hands of Timothy Flint. He was subsequently connected with the American Monthly Magazine, and was for a while engaged in the editorship of the New York Mirror. His continuous novel of Vanderlyn was published in the former in 1887. His poetical writings, which had long before become widely and favorably known, were first collected in a volume entitled The Vigil of Faith and Other Poems, in 1842. The main story which gave the book a title is an Indian legend of the Adirondach, which we take to be a pure invention of the author, -a poetic conception of a bride slain by the rival of her husband, who watches and guards the life of his foe lest so hated an object should intrude upon the presence of his mistress in the spirit world. It is in the octosyllabic measure, and in a pathetic, eloquent strain.

In 1844 a second poetical volume, including numerous additions, appeared with the title, Borrowed Notes for Home Circulation-suggested by an article which had recently been published in the Foreign Quarterly Review on the Poets and

Poetry of America, which was then attracting considerable attention. A more complete collection of his poems than is contained in either of these volumes appeared in 1845.

During 1846 and 1847 Mr. Hoffman edited for about eighteen months the Literary World. After his retirement he contributed to that journal a series of essays and tales entitled Sketches of Society, which are among his happiest prose efforts. One of these, The Man in the Reservoir, detailing the experiences of an individual who is supposed to have passed a night in that uncomfortable lodging-place of water and granite, became, like the author's somewhat similar narrative of The Man in the Boiler, a favorite with the public. DurThis series was closed in December, 1848.

ing the following year the author was attacked by a mental disorder, which unhappily has permanently interrupted a brilliant and useful literary

career.

The author's fine social qualities are reflected in his writings. A man of taste and scholarship, ingenious in speculation, with a healthy love of outof-door life and objects, he unites the sentiment of the poet and the refinements of the thinker to a keen perception of the humors of the world in action. His conversational powers of a high order; his devoted pursuit of literature; his ardent love of Americanism in art and letters; his acquaintance with authors and artists; a certain personal chivalry of character-are so many elements of the regard in which he is held by his friends, and they may all be found perceptibly imparting vitality to his writings. These, whether in the department of the essay, the critique, the song, the poem, the tale, or novel, are uniformly stamped by a generous nature.

SPARKLING AND BRIGHT.

Sparkling and bright in liquid light,
Does the wine our goblets gleam in,
With hue as red as the rosy bed

Which a bee would choose to dream in.
Then fill to-night with hearts as light,
To loves as guy and fleeting

As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,
And break on the lips while meeting.

Oh! if Mirth might arrest the flight
Of Time through Life's dominions,

We here awhile would now beguile
The grey-beard of his pinions

To drink to-night with hearts as light,
To loves as gay and fleeting

As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,
And break on the lips while meeting.

But since delight can't tempt the wight,
Nor fond regret delay him,

Nor Love himself can hold the elf,
Nor sober Friendship stay him,

We'll drink to-night with hearts as light,
To loves as gay and fleeting

As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,
And break on the lips while meeting.

THE MINT JULEP.

But determined to send round the goblet once more, They sued to the fairer immortals for aid

In composing a draught, which till drinking were o'er,

Should cast every wine ever drank in the shade. Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded her corn,

And the spirit that lives in each amber-hued grain, And which first had its birth from the dew of the morn,

Was taught to steal out in bright dewdrops again Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the board

Were scattered profusely in every one's reach, When called on a tribute to cull from the hoard, Expressed the mild juice of the delicate peach. The liquids were mingled while Venus looked on With glances so fraught with sweet magical

power,

That the honey of Hybla, e'en when they were gone, Has never been missed in the draught from that hour.

Flora then, from her bosom of fragrancy, shook

And with roseate fingers pressed down in the bowl, All dripping and fresh as it came from the brook, The herb whose aroma should flavor the whole. The draft was delicious, and loud the acclaim, Though something seemed wanting for all to bewail;

But Juleps the drink of immortals became,
When Jove himself added a handful of hail.

ROOM, BOYS, ROOM.

There was an old hunter camped down by the rill,
Who fished in this water, and shot on that hill.
The forest for him had no danger nor gloom,
For all that he wanted was plenty of room!
Says he, The world's wide, there is room for us all;
Room enough in the greenwood, if not in the hall.
Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,
For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?"
He wove his own nets, and his shanty was spread
With the skins he had dressed and stretched out over-
head;

Fresh branches of hemlock made fragrant the floor,
For his bed, as he sung when the daylight was o'er,

The world's wide enough, there is room for us all;
Room enough in the greenwood, if not in the hall.
Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,
For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?"
That spring now half choked by the dust of the
road,

Under boughs of old maples once limpidly flowed;
By the rock whence it bubbles his kettle was hung,
Which their sap often filled while the hunter he sung,
"The world's wide enough, there is room for us all;
Room enough in the greenwood, if not in the hall.
Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,
For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?"
And still sung the hunter-when one gloomy day,
He saw in the forest what saddened his lay,-
A heavy wheeled wagon its black rut had made,
Where fair grew the greensward in broad forest
glade-

"The world's wide enough, there is room for us all;
Room enough in the greenwood, if not in the hall.
Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,
For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?"
He whistled to his dog, and says he, " We can't stay;
I must shoulder my rifle, up traps, and away;"
Next day, 'mid those maples the settler's axe rung,
While slowly the hunter trudged off as he sung,

"The world's wide enough, there is room for us all;
Room enough in the green wood, if not in the hall.
Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,
For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?"

RIO BRAVO A MEXICAN LAMENT.*

Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo,

Saw men ever such a sight?
Since the field of Roncesvalles
Sealed the fate of many a knight.
Dark is Palo Alto's story,

Sad Resaca Palma's rout,
On those fatal fields so gory,
Many a gallant life went out.
There our best and bravest lances,

Shivered 'gainst the Northern steel, Left the valiant hearts that couched them 'Neath the Northern charger's heel.

Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo!

Minstrel ne'er knew such a fight,
Since the field of Roncesvalles

Sealed the fate of many a knight.
Rio Bravo, fatal river,

Saw ye not while red with gore,
Torrejon all headless quiver,

A ghastly trunk upon thy shore!
Heard you not the wounded coursers,
Shrieking on your trampled banks,
As the Northern winged artillery
Thundered on our shattered ranks!
There Arista, best and bravest,
There Raguena tried and true,
On the fatal field thou lavest,
Nobly did all men could do.
Vainly there those heroes rally,
Castile on Montezuma's shore,
"Rio Bravo"-" Roncesvalles,"

Ye are names blent evermore.
Weepest thou, lorn lady Inez,

For thy lover mid the slain,
Brave La Vega's trenchant falchion,
Cleft his slayer to the brain.
Brave La Vega who all lonely,
By a host of foes beset,
Yielded up his sabre only,

When his equal there he met.
Other champions not less noted,
Sleep beneath that sullen wave,
Rio Bravo, thou hast floated

An army to an ocean grave.

On they came, those Northern horsemen, On like eagles toward the sun, Followed then the Northern bayonet, And the field was lost and won. Oh! for Orlando's horn to rally, His Paladins on that sad shore, "Rio Bravo"-" Roncesvalles,"

Ye are names blent evermore.

THE MAN IN THE RESERVOIR-A FANTASIE PIECE.

You may see some of the best society in New York on the top of the Distributing Reservoir, any of these fine October mornings. There were two or three carriages in waiting, and half a dozen sena

This originally appeared in the Columbian Magazine, with the following lines of introduction. "Such of the readers of the Columbian as have seen the Vera Cruz Journal containing the original of the Rio Bravo Lament, by the popular Mexican poet, Don Jose Maria Joacquin du Ho Axce de Saltillo, will perhaps not find the following hasty translation unacceptable."

torial-looking mothers with young children, pacing the parapet, as we basked there the other day in the sunshine-now watching the pickerel that glide along the lucid edges of the black pool within, and now looking off upon the scene of rich and wondrous variety that spreads along the two rivers on either side.

"They may talk of Alpheus and Arethusa," murmured an idling sophomore, who had found his way thither during recitation hours, "but the Croton in passing over an arm of the sea at Spuyten-duy vil, and bursting to sight again in this truncated pyra mid, beats it all hollow. By George, too, the bay yonder looks as blue as ever the Egean Sea to Byron's eye, gazing from the Acropolis! But the painted foliage on these crags!-the Greeks must have dreamed of such a vegetable phenomenon in the midst of their greyish olive groves, or they never would have supplied the want of it in their landscape by embroidering their marble temples with gay colors. "Did you see that pike break, ir?

"I did not."

"Zounds his silver fin flashed upon the black Acheron, like a restless soul that hoped yet to mount from the pool."

"The place seems suggestive of fancies to you?” we observed in reply to the rattlepate.

"It is, indeed, for I have done up a good deal of anxious thinking within a circle of a few yards where that fish broke just now."

"A singular place for meditation-the middle of the reservoir!"

"You look incredulous, Sir-but it's a fact. A fellow can never tell, until he is tried, in what situation his most earnest meditations may be concentrated. I am boring you, though?”

"Not at all. But you seem so familiar with the spot, I wish you could tell me why that ladder leading down to the water is lashed against the stonework in yonder corner?"

"That ladder," said the young man, brightening at the question," why the position, perhaps the very existence of that ladder, resulted from my meditations in the reservoir, at which you smiled just now. Shall I tell you all about them?"

"Pray do."

Well, you have seen the notice forbidding any one to fish in the reservoir. Now when I read that warning, the spirit of the thing struck me at once, as inferring nothing more than that one should not sully the temperance potations of our citizens by steeping bait in it, of any kind; but you probably know the common way of taking pike with a slipnoose of delicate wire. I was determined to have a touch at the fellows with this kind of tackle.

I chose a moonlight night; and an hour before the edifice was closed to visitors, I secreted myself within the walls, determined to pass the night on the top. All went as I could wish it. The night proved cloudy, but it was only a variable drift of broken clouds which obscured the moon. I had a walking cane-rod with me which would reach to the margin of the water, and several feet beyond if necessary. To this was attached the wire about fifteen inches in length.

I prowled along the parapet for a considerable time, but not a single fish could I see. The clouds made a flickering light and shade, that wholly foiled my steadfast gaze. I was convinced that should they come up thicker, my whole night's adventure would be thrown away. "Why should I not des cend the sloping wall and get nearer on a level with the fish, for thus alone can I hope to see one?" The question had hardly shaped itself in my mind before I had one leg over the iron railing.