THE BROOK.

A LITTLE blind girl wandering,
While daylight pales beneath the moon,
And with a brook meandering,

To hear its gentle tune.

The little blind girl by the brook,

It told her something-you might guess, To see her smile, to see her look Of listening eagerness. Though blind, a never silent guide

Flow'd with her timid feet along; And down she wander'd by its side To hear the running song.

And sometimes it was soft and low,

A creeping music in the ground;
And then, if something check'd its flow,
A gurgling swell of sound.

And now, upon the other side,

She seeks her mother's cot;

And still the noise shall be her guide,
And lead her to the spot.

For to the blind, so little free

To move about beneath the sun,
Small things like this seem liberty-
Something from darkness won.

But soon she heard a meeting stream,
And on the bank she follow'd still,
It murmur'd on, nor could she tell
It was another rill.

Ah! whither, whither, my little maid?
And wherefore dost thou wander here?
I seek my mother's cot, she said,
And surely it is near.

There is no cot upon this brook,

In yonder mountains dark and drear,
Where sinks the sun, its source it took,
Ah, wherefore art thou here?

Oh! sir, thou art not true nor kind,
It is the brook, I know its sound;
Ah! why would you deceive the blind?
I hear it in the ground.

And on she stepp'd, but grew more sad,
And weary were her tender feet,
The brook's small voice seem'd not so glad,
Its song was not so sweet.

Ah! whither, whither, my little maid?
And wherefore dost thou wander here?
I seek my mother's cot she said,
And surely it is near.

There is no cot upon this brook;
I hear its sound, the maid replied,
With dreamlike and hewilder'd look-
I have not left its side.

O go with me, the darkness nears,
The first pale star begins to gleam;
The maid replied with bursting tears,
It is the stream! It is the stream!

A RIME,

WHICH IS YET REASON, AND TEACHETH, IN A LIGHT
MANNER, A GRAVE MATTER IN THE
LERE OF LOVE.

As Love sat idling beneath a tree,
A Knight rode by on his charger free,
Stalwart and fair and tall was he,

With his plume and his mantle, a sight to see
And proud of his scars, right loftily,

He cried, Young boy, will you go with me?
But Love he pouted and shook his head,
And along fared the Warrior, ill-bested:
Love is not won by chivalry.

Then came a Minstrel bright of blee,
Blue were his eyes as the heavens be,
And sweet as a song-bird's throat sung he,
Of smiles and tears and ladie's eé,
Soft love and glorious chivalry,

Then cried, Sweet boy, will you go with me?
Love wept and smiled, but shook his head,
And along fared the Minstrel ill-bested:
Love is not won by minstrelsy.

Then came a Bookman, wise as three,
Darker a scholar you shall not see
In Jewrie, Rome, or Araby.

But list, fair dames, what I rede to ye,
In love's sweet lere untaught was he,
For when he cried, Come, love, with me,

Tired of the parle he was nodding his head, And along fared the Scholar ill-bested: Love is not won by pedantry.

Then came a Courtier wearing the key
Of council and chambers high privity;
He could dispute yet seem to agree,
And soft as dew was his flatterie.
And with honied voice and low congee
Fair youth, he said, will you honour me?

In courteous wise Love shook his head,
And along fared the Courtier ill-bested:
Love is not wor. by courtesy.

Then came a Miser blinking his cé,
To view the bright boy beneath the tree;
His purse, which hung to his cringing knee,
The ransom held of a king's countreé;
And a handful of jewels and gold showed he,
And cried, Sweet child, will you go with me?

Then loud laugh'd Love as he shook his head,
And along fared the Monger ill-bested:
Love is not won by merchandry.

O then to young Love beneath the tree,
Came one as young and as fair as he,
And as like to him as like can be,
And clapping his little wings for glee,
With nods and smiles and kisses tree,
He whisper'd, Come, Oh come with me:
Love pouted and flouted and shook his head,
But along with that winsome youth he sped
And love wins love, loud shouted he!

MR. DEWEY (whose father was a painter, from Westfield, in Massachusetts) was born in Baltimore, in 1818, and from an early age has resided in Philadelphia, to the journals and literary miscellanies of which city he has been a frequent contributor for several years. His numerous poems

have a natural grace and tenderness which belong to the most genuine expressions of social feeling.

There is no published collection of Mr. DEWEY'S poems, or of his prose writings, which consist of moral essays, reviews, etc.

THE RUSTIC SHRINE.

"Their names were found cut upon a rural bench, overgrown with vines, which proved to be at once Love's shrine and cenotaph."-LEGENDS OF THE RHINE.

A SHADOW of the cypress-bough
Lies on my path to-day;

A melancholy-which in vain
I strive to chase away.
The angel Memory hath flown

To old and cherish'd things,
To bring the light of early years
Around me on her wings:

And where the lovelorn birds complain
Within their green abode,

Between two elms, a rustic seat

Invites her from the road.

There shall she sit, as oft before,

And sigh as oft again,

O'er names engraved, which long have braved
The sunshine and the rain.

And one-it is the dearest name

On Love's unnumber'd shrines

So dear, that even envious Time

Hath guarded it with vines;

And wreathed it with his choicest flowers,
As if the bridal claim,

Which Fate denied unto her brow,
Should still adorn her name!

Ah, well do I remember yet

The day I carved that name!
The rattle of the locusts' drum

Thrills o'er me now the same:
Adown the lane the wayward breeze
Comes with a stealthy pace,
And brings the perfume of the fields

To this deserted place.

Unto her blushing cheek again
It comes the blessed air!
Caressing, like a lover's hand,

The tresses of her hair.

The brook runs laughing at her feet,

O'erhead the wild-bird sings;
The air is fill'd with butterflies,

As though the flowers had wings.

Pale, wither'd rose, bereft and shorn

Of all thy primal glory,
All leafless now, thy piercing thorn
Reveals a sadder story.

It was a dreary winter day;

Too well do I remember! They bore her frozen form away,

And gave her to December! There were no perfumes on the air, No bridal blossoms round her, Save one pale lily in her hair

To tell how pure Death found her. The thistle on the summer air

Hath shed its iris glory, And thrice the willows weeping there Have told the seasons' story,

Since she, who bore the blush of May,

Down toward the dark December Pass'd like the thorn-tree's bloom away, A pale, reluctant ember.

And the dear little wren that crept under the rafter, The earliest to come, and the latest to leave! Oh say, is the hawthorn the hedgerow perfuming Adown the old lane? are the willows still there, Where briery thickets in springtime were blooming, And breathing their life on the odorous air? And runs yet the brook where the violets were weeping,

Where the white lily sat like a swan of the stream, While under the laurel the shepherd-boy sleeping, Saw only the glory of life in his dream! Hath the reaper been there with his sickle relentless, The stern reaper Death in the harvest of life! Hath his foot crush'd the blossoms, till wither'd and scentless

They lay ere the frosts of the autumn were rife? Ah yes, I can hear the sad villagers hymning

A requiem that swells from my heart on my ear, And a gathering shadow of sorrow is dimming Those scenes that must ever arise with a tear.

A BLIGHTED MAY.

CALL not this the month of roses-
There are none to bud and bloom;
Morning light, alas! discloses

But the winter of the tomb.

All that should have deck'd a bridal
Rest upon the bier-how idle!

Dying in their own perfume.
Every bower is now forsaken-

There's no bird to charm the air! From the bough of youth is shaken

Every hope that blossom'd there; And my soul doth now enrobe her In the leaves of sere October

Under branches swaying bare. When the midnight falls beside me,

Like the gloom which in me lies, To the stars my feelings guide me,

Seeking there thy sainted eyes; Stars whose rays seem ever bringing Down the soothing air, the singing Of thy soul in paradise.

Oh that I might stand and listen

To that music ending never, While those tranquil stars should glisten On my life's o'erfrozen river, Standing thus, forever seeming Lost in what the world calls dreaming, Dreaming, love, of thee, forever!

TO AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

On say, does the cottage yet peer from the shadow
Of ancestral elms on the side of the hill ?-
Its doorway of woodbine, that look'd to the meadow,
And welcomed the sun as a guest on the sill;
The April-winged martin, with garrulous laughter,
Is he there where the mosses were thatching the
eave?

THE SHADY SIDE.

I SAT and gazed upon thee, ROSE,
Across the pebbled way,
And thought the very wealth of mirth
Was thine that winter day;
For, while I saw the truant rays

Within thy window glide,
Remember'd beams reflected came
Upon the shady side.

I sat and gazed upon thee, Rose,
And thought the transient beams
Were leaving on thy braided brow
The trace of golden dreams;
Those dreams, which like the ferry-barge
On youth's beguiling tide,

Will leave us when we reach old age,
Upon the shady side.

Ah! yes, methought while thus I gazed
Across the noisy way,

The stream of life between us flow'd
That cheerful winter day;

And that the bark whereon I cross'd
The river's rapid tide,

Had left me in the quietness
Upon the shady side.

Then somewhat of a sorrow, ROSE,
Came crowding on my heart,
Revealing how that current sweeps

The fondest ones apart;

But while you stood to bless me there,
In beauty, like a bride,

I felt my own contentedness,
Though on the shady side.

The crowd and noise divide us, Rose,
But there will come a day
When you, with light and timid feet,
Must cross the busy way;

And when you sit, as I do now,
To happy thoughts allied,
May some bright angel shed her light
Upon the shady side!

Ma. CoxE is the eldest son of the Reverend SAMUEL H. CoxE, D. D., of Brooklyn. He was born in Mendham, in New Jersey, on the tenth day of May, 1818. At ten years of age he was sent to a gymnasium at Pittsfield, in Massachusetts, and he completed his studies preparatory to entering the University of New York, under the private charge of Doctor Busн, author of "The Life of Mohammed," etc. While in the univer

sity he distinguished himself by his devotion to classic learning, and particularly by his acquaintance with the Greek poets. In his freshman year he delivered a poem before one of the undergraduates' societies, on "The Progress of Ambition," and in the same period produced many spirited metrical pieces, some of which appeared in the periodicals of the time. In the autumn of 1837 he published his first volume, "Advent, a Mystery," a poem in the dramatic form, to which was prefixed the following dedication :

FATHER, as he of old who reap'd the field,
The first young sheaves to Him did dedicate
Whose bounty gave whate'er the glebe did yield,
Whose smile the pleasant harvest might create-
So I to thee these numbers consecrate,
Thou who didst lead to Silo's pearly spring;
And if of hours well saved from revels late
And youthful riot, I these fruits do bring,
Accept my early vow, nor frown on what I sing.

This work was followed in the spring of 1838 by "Athwold, a Romaunt ;" and in the summer of the same year were printed the first and second cantos of "Saint Jonathan, the Lay of a Scald." These were intended as introductory to a novel in the stanza of "Don Juan," and four other cantos were afterward written, but wisely destroyed by the author on his becoming a candidate for holy orders, an event not contemplated in his previous studies. He was graduated in July, and on the occasion delivered an eloquent valedictory oration.

From this period his poems assumed a devotional cast, and were usually published in the periodicals of the church. His "Athanasion" was pronounced before the alumni of Washington College, in Connecticut, in the summer of 1840. It is an irregular ode, and contains passages of considerable merit, but its sectarian character will prevent its receiving general applause. The following allusion to Bishop BERKELEY is from this poem:

Or when the eve-star, sinking into day,
Seems empire's planet on its westward way,
Comes, in soft light from antique window's groin,
Thy pure ideal, mitred saint of Cloyne!

Among them "The Blues" and "The Hebrew Muse," in "The American Monthly Magazine."

Taught, from sweet childhood, to revere in thee
Earth's every virtue, writ in poesie,
Nigh did I leap, on CLIO's calmer line,

To see thy story with our own entwine.
On Yale's full walls, no pictured shape to me
Like BERKELEY's seem'd, in priestly dignity,
Such as he stood, fatiguing, year by year,
In our behoof, dull prince and cavalier;
And dauntless still, as erst the Genoese;
Such as he wander'd o'er the Indy seas
To vex'd Bermoothes, witless that he went
Mid isles that beckon'd to a continent.
Such there he seem'd, the pure, the undefiled!
And meet the record! Though, perchance, I smiled
That those, in him, themselves will glorify,
Who reap his fields, but let his doctrine die,
Yet, let him stand: the world will note it well,
And Time shall thank them for the chronicle
By such confess'd, COLUMBUS of new homes
For song, and Science with her thousand tomes.
Yes-pure apostle of our western lore,
Spoke the full heart, that now may breathe it more,
Still in those halls, where none without a sneer
Name the dear title of thy ghostly fear,
Stand up, bold bishop-in thy priestly vest;
Proof that the Church bore letters to the West!

In the autumn of the same year appeared Mr. COXE's "Christian Ballads," a collection of religious poems, of which the greater number had previously been given to the public through the columns of "The Churchman." They are elegant, yet fervent expressions of the author's love for the impressive and venerable customs, ceremonies, and rites of the Protestant Episcopal Church.

man.

While in the university, Mr. CoxE had, besides acquiring the customary intimacy with ancient literature, learned the Italian language; and he now, under Professor NORDHEIMER, devoted two years to the study of the Hebrew and the GerAfter passing some time in the Divinity School at Chelsea, he was admitted to deacon's orders, by the Bishop of New York, on the twenty-eighth of June, 1841. In the following July, on receiving the degree of Master of Arts from the University, he pronounced the closing oration, by appointment of the faculty; and in August he accepted a call to the rectorship of Saint Anne's church, then recently erected by Mr. GOUVERNEUR MORRIS on his family domain of Morrisiana, near New York. He was married on the twenty-first of September, by the bishop of the diocese, to his third cousin, CATHARINE CLEVELAND, eldest daughter of Mr. SIMEON HYDE.

Since this time Mr. CoxE has become Rector of St. Pauls, in Hartford, Connecticut, and has published, besides several works in prose, "Saul, a Mystery," and two or three volumes of miscellaneous poems. He is among the most prolific, and, but for this, would probably be among the best, of our younger writers.

MANHOOD.

BOYHOOD hath gone, or ever I was 'ware: Gone like the birds that have sung out their season, And fly away, but never to return: Gone-like the memory of a fairy vision; Gone-like the stars that have burnt out in heaven: Like flowers that open once a hundred years, And have just folded up their golden petals: Like maidenhood, to one no more a virgin; Like all that's bright, and beautiful, and transient, And yet, in its surpassing loveliness, And quick dispersion into empty nothing, Like its dear self alone, like life, like Boyhood. Now, on the traversed scene I leave for ever, Doth memory cast already her pale look, And through the mellow light of by-gone summers, Gaze, like the bride, that leaveth her home-valley, And like the Patriarch, goes she knows not where. She, with faint heart, upon the bounding hill-top Turns her fair neck, one moment, unbeheld, And through the sun-set, and her tearful eye, Far as her father's dwelling, strains her sight, To bless the roof-tree, and the lawn, and gardens, Where romp her younger sisters, still at home.

I have just waken'd from a darling dream, And fain would sleep once more. I have been roving In a sweet isle, and thither would return. I have just come, methinks, from Fairyland, And yearn to see Mab's kingdom once again, And roam its landscapes with her! Ah, my soul, Thy holiday is over-play-time gone, And a stern Master bids thee to thy task.

How shall I ever go through this rough world!
How find me older every setting sun;
How merge my boyish heart in manliness;
How take my part upon the tricksy stage,
And wear a mask to seem what I am not!
Ah me-but I forgot; the mimicry
Will not be long, ere all that I had feign'd,
Will be so real, that my mask will fall,
And Age act Self, uncostumed for the play.
Now my first step I take, adown the valley,
But ere I reach the foot, my pace must change;
And I toil on, as man has ever done,
Treading the causeway, smooth with endless travel,
Since first the giants of old Time descended,
And Adam leading down our mother Eve,
In ages elder than Antiquity.

This voice, so buoyant, must be all unstrung,
Like harps, that chord by chord grow musicless;
These hands must totter on a smooth-topp'd staff,
That late could whirl the ball-club vigorously:
This eye grow glassy, that can sparkle now,
And on the dear Earth's hues look doatingly:
And these brown locks, which tender hands have
In loving curls about their taper-fingers,
Must silver soon, and bear about such snows,
As freeze away all touch of tenderness.
And then, the end of every human story
Is ever this, whatever its beginning,

[twined

To wear the robes of being-in their rags;
To bear, like the old Tuscan's prisoners,
A corpse still with us, insupportable;
And then to sink in Earth, like dust to dust,

I

go

from strength to strength, from joy to joy;
From being unto being! I will snatch
This germ of comfort from departing youth;
And when the pictured primer's thrown aside,
I'll hoard its early lessons in my heart.
I shall go on through all Eternity;
Thank Gon! I only am an embryo still;
The small beginning of a glorious soul;
An atom that shall fill Immensity;

The bell hath toll'd! my birth-hour is upon me!
The hour that made me child, has made me man,
And bids me put all childish things away.
Keep me from evil, that it may not grieve me!
And grant me, LORD, with this, the Psalmist's prayer,
Remember not the follies of my youth,

But in thy mercy, think upon me, Lord!

OLD CHURCHES.

HAST been where the full-blossom'd bay-tree is blow-
With odours like Eden's around?
[ing
Hast seen where the broad-leaved palmetto is grow-
And wild vines are fringing the ground? [ing,
Hast sat in the shade of catalpas, at noon,

And ate the cool gourds of their clime;
Or slept where magnolias were screening the moon,
And the mocking-bird sung her sweet rhyme?
And didst mark, in thy journey, at dew-dropping
Some ruin peer high o'er thy way,
With rooks wheeling round it, and bushes to weave
A mantle for turrets so gray?

Did ye ask if some lord of the cavalier kind

[eve,

Lived there, when the country was young? And burn'd not the blood of a Christian, to find How there the old prayer-bell had rung? And did ye not glow, when they told ye—the LORD Had dwelt in that thistle-grown pile;

And that bones of old Christians were under its sward,
That once had knelt down in its aisle ?
And had ye no tear-drops your blushes to steep

When ye thought-o'er your country so broad, The bard seeks in vain for a mouldering heap, Save only these churches of GoD!

up,

O ye that shall pass by those ruins agen,
Go kneel in their alleys and pray,
And not till their arches have echoed amen,
Rise and fare on in your way; [more,
Pray Gon that those aisles may be crowded once
Those altars surrounded and spread,
While anthems and prayers are upsent as of yore,
As they take of the wine-cup and bread.
Ay, pray on thy knees, that each old rural fane
They have left to the bat and the mole,
May sound with the loud-pealing organ again,

And the full swelling voice of the soul. [by,
Peradventure, when next thou shalt journey there-
Even-bells shall ring out on the air,
And the dim-lighted windows reveal to thine eye
The snowy-robed pastor at prayer.