THE HEART'S SONG. In the silent midnight watches, List-thy bosom-door! How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh, Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating; "Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth Rise, and let me in! Death comes down with reckless footstep Think you Death will stand a-knocking But thy door is fast! Then 'tis thine to stand-entreating At the gate of heaven beating, Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin, THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND. THE chimes, the chimes of Motherland, That out from fane and ivied tower A thousand years have toll'd; How glorious must their music be As breaks the hallow'd day, And calleth with a seraph's voice A nation up to pray! Those chimes that tell a thousand tales, Sweet tales of olden time! And ring a thousand memories At vesper, and at prime; At bridal and at burial, For cottager and king Those chimes-those glorious Christian chimes, How blessedly they ring! Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland, Outbreaking, as the angels did, For a Redeemer born; How merrily they call afar, To cot and baron's hall, With holly deck'd and mistletoe, The chimes of England, how they peal Where hymn and swelling anthem fill And then, those Easter bells, in spring! And sing the rising of the LORD, I love ye-chimes of Motherland, That England's glory tells; For you, ye Christian bells! For thine thy mother's voice shall be, With English chimes, from Christian spires, The wilderness shall ring. MARCH. MARCH-march-march! Making sounds as they tread, Ho-ho! how they step, Going down to the dead! Every stride, every tramp, Every footfall is nearer; And dimmer each lamp, As darkness grows drearer; But ho! how they march, Making sounds as they tread; Ho-ho! how they step, Going down to the dead! March-march-march! Making sounds as they tread, Ho-ho, how they laugh, Going down to the dead! How they whirl--how they trip, How they smile, how they dally, How blithesome they skip, Going down to the valley; Oh-ho, how they march, Making sounds as they tread; Ho-ho, how they skip, Going down to the dead! March-march-march! Earth groans as they tread! Each carries a skull; Going down to the dead! Every stride-every stamp, Every footfall is bolder; "Tis a skeleton's tramp, With a skull on his shoulder But ho, how he steps With a high-tossing head, That clay-cover'd bone, JAMES T. FIELDS. [Born, 1820.] MR. FIELDS is a native of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, but has long resided in Boston. He is a partner in a well-known publishing and bookselling house in that city. His principal poems are Commerce," read before the Boston Mercanti'e Library Association on its anniversary in 1838, when he was associated as poet with EDWARD EvERETT, who delivered on the occasion one of his most brilliant orations; and The Post of Honour,” read before the same society in 1848, when DANIEL WEBSTER preceded him as orator. For several years he has been an occasional contributor to the magazines, and a few of his poems, as "The Fair Wind," "Yankee Ships," and "Dirge for a Young Girl," have been copied from them into the newspapers of all parts of the Union. The general style of his serious pieces is pure, sweet, thought-ly ful, and harmonious; and though evidently unlabored, they are characterized by much refinement of taste and an intuitive perception of metrical propri-pacity which it is to be hoped the engagements of eties. His lyrics are clear, strong, and bright, in expression, and dashing in movement, and have that charm which comes from a "polished want of polish," in which spontaneous sensibility is allied with instinctive taste. The "Sleighing Song" has a clear, cold, merry sparkle, and a rapidity of met rical motion (the very verse seeming to go on runners), which bring the quick jingle of bells and the moon making diamonds out of snow-flakes, vividly home to the fancy. Perhaps his most character. istic poem, in respect to subtlety of sentiment and delicacy of illustration, is "A Bridal Melody." There is a mystical beauty in it which eludes a careless eye and untuned ear. Besides his serious poems, he has produced some very original mirthful pieces, in which are adroit touches of wit, felicitous hits at current follies, and instances of quaint humour, laughing through prim | and decorous lines, which evince a genius for rera de sociétie. ON A PAIR OF ANTLERS, BROUGHT FROM GERMANY. GIFT, from the land of song and wine- I heard the huntsman's bugle play, Again the crumbling tower appears, With memories of a thousand years; To fill again my charmed ear With echoes of the Rodenstein- Mute emblems now of "auld lang syne," The poems Mr. FIELDS has given us are evidentthe care'ess products of a singularly sensitive and fertile mind-indications rather than exponents of its powers-furnishing evidence of a ca business will not wholly absorb. In 1847 and the following year Mr. FIELDS visited Europe, and soon after his return a collection of his poems was published by Ticknor and Company, of Boston. BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST. WE were crowded in the cabin, To be shatter'd in the blast, Each one busy in his prayers- Just the same as on the land?" A VALENTINE. SHE that is fair, though never vain or proud, More fond of home than fashion's changing crowd; Whose taste refined even female friends admire, Dress'd not for show, but robed in neat attire; She who has learn'd, with mild, forgiving breast, To pardon frailties, hidden or confess'd; True to herself, yet willing to submit, More sway'd by love than ruled by worldly wit; Though young, discreet-though ready, ne'er unBlest with no pedant's, but a woman's mind: [kind, She wins our hearts, toward her our thoughts inSo at her door go leave my Valentine. [cline, ON A BOOK OF SEA-MOSSES, To him who sang of Venice, and reveal'd FROM THE POST OF HONOUR." GLORY. UNCHANGING Power! thy genius still presides O'er vanquish'd fields, and ocean's purpled tides; Sits like a spectre at the soldier's board, Adds Spartan steps to many a broken sword; For thee and thine combining squadrons form To sweep the field with Glory's awful storm; The intrepid warrior shouts thy deathless name, And plucks new valour from thy torch of fame; For him the bell shall wake its loudest song, For him the cannon's thunder echo long, For him a nation weave the unfading crown, And swell the triumph of his sweet renown. SO NELSON watch'd, long ere Trafalgar's days, Thy radiant orb, prophetic Glory, blaze— Saw Victory wait, to weep his bleeding scars, And plant his breast with Honour's burning stars. So the young hero, with expiring breath, Bequeaths fresh courage in the hour of death, Bids his brave comrades hear the inspiring blast, And nail their colours dauntless to the mast; Then dies, like LAWRENCE, trembling on his lip That cry of Honour, "Don't give up the ship!" TRUE HONOUR. The painter's skill life's lincaments may trace, And stamp the impress of a speaking face; The chisel's touch may make that marble warm Which glows with all but breathing manhood's But deeper lines, beyond the sculptor's art, [formAre those which write their impress on the heart. On TALFOURD's page what bright memorials glow Of all that's noblest, gentlest, best below! Thou generous brother, guard of griefs conceal'd, Matured by sorrow, deep but unreveal'd, Let me but claim, for all thy vigils here, The noiseless tribute to a heart sincere. Though Dryburgh's walls still hold their sacred dust, And Stratford's chancel shrines its hallow'd trust, To ELIA's grave the pilgrim shall repair, And hang with love perennial garlands there. And thou, great bard of never-dying name, Thy filial care outshines the poet's faine; For who, that wanders by the dust of GRAY While memory tolls the knell of parting day, But lingers fondly at the hallow'd tomb, That shrouds a parent in its pensive gloom, To bless the son who pour'd that gushing tear, So warm and earnest, at a mother's bier! Wreaths for that line which woman's tribute gave, Last at the cross, and earliest at the grave." Can I forget, a pilgrim o'er the sea, The countless shrines of woman's charity? In thy gay capital, bewildering France, Where Pleasure's shuttle weaves the whirling Beneath the shelter of St. Mary's dome, Where pallid Suffering seeks and finds a home, Methinks I see that sainted sister now Wipe Death's cold dewdrops from an infant's brow; Can I forget that mild, seraphic grace, With heaven-eyed Patience meeting in her face? Ah! sure, if angels leave celestial spheres, We saw an angel dry a mortal's tears. WEBSTER. [dance, Let blooming boys, from stagnant cloisters freed, Sneer at old virtues and the patriot's creed; Forget the lessons taught at Valour's side, And all their country's honest fame deride. All are not such: some glowing blood remains To warm the icy current of our veins— Some from the watch-towers still descry afar The faintest glimmer of an adverse star. When faction storms, when meaner statesmen quail, Full high advanced, our eagle meets the gale! On some great point where Honour takes her stand, The Ehrenbreitstein of our native landSee, in the front, to strike for Freedom's cause, The mail'd defender of her rights and laws! On his great arm behold a nation lean, And parcel empire with the island queen; Great in the council, peerless in debate,` Who follows WEBSTER takes the field too late. Go track the globe, its changing climes explore, From crippled Europe to the Arab's shore; See Albion's lion guard her stormy seas, See Gallia's lilies float on every breeze, Roam through the world, but find no brighter names Than those true honour for Columbia claims. TIE MEMORY OF A FRIEND. Our vanished years! let Memory's muffled bell SLEIGHING-SONG. On swift we go, o'er the fleecy snow, When moonbeams sparkle round; When hoofs keep time to music's chime. As merrily on we bound. On a winter's night, when hearts are light, We loose the rein and sweep the plain, With a laugh and song, we glide along With friends beside, how swift we ride When gale and tempests roar ; But give me the speed of a foaming steed, And I'll ask for the waves no more. FAIR WIND. On, who can tell, that never sail'd Among the glassy seas, How fresh and welcome breaks the morn That ushers in a breeze! "Fair wind! fair wind!" alow, aloft, All hands delight to cry, As, leaping through the parted waves, The good ship makes reply. While fore and aft, all staunch and tight, Will waft him many a league to-night Then welcome to the rushing blast That stirs the waters now- But chain ten thousand fathoms down DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL. Sleepeth one who left, in dying, Yes, they're ever bending o'er her, Forms, that to the cold grave bore her, When the summer moon is shining Friends she loved in tears are twining Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit, Souls like thine with GoD inherit LAST WISHES OF A CHILD. "ALL the hedges are in bloom, And the warm west wind is blowing, Let me leave this stifled room— Let me go where flowers are growing. "Look! my cheek is thin and pale, And my pulse is very low; Ere my sight begins to fail, Mother dear, you'll let me go; "Was not that the robin's song Piping through the casement wide? Ere my beating heart is still. Still the hedges are in bloom, And the warm west wind is blowing; Still we sit in silent gloomO'er her grave the grass is growing. A BRIDAL MELODY. SHE stood, like an angel just wander'd from heaven, When blushing she whisper'd the vow of a bride. We sang an old song, as with garlands we crown'd her, And each left a kiss on her delicate brow; [her, And we pray'd that a blessing might ever surround And the future of life be unclouded as now. WILLIAM WALLACE. [Born, 1819.] MR. WALLACE, the son of an eminent Presbyterian clergyman, who died during his childhood, was born in Lexington, Kentucky, in 1819. He received his general education at the Bloomington and South Hanover colleges in Indiana, and afterward studied the law, in his native city. When about twenty-two years of age, having already acquired considerable reputation in literature, by various contributions to western and southern journals, he came to the Atlantic states, and with the exception of a few months passed in Philadelphia, and a year and a half in Europe, he has since resided in New York, occupied in the practice of his profession and in the pursuits of literature. REST. THE nation hath gone mad with action now. And hungry, pale Ambition, scenting power, For this it pleads with trembling hands, Their dumb, gray lips yet struggling to be free, That harmonies of light yet fall below- In Florida's magnolian bower, power, And where New England's pilgrim-feet were prest, Of Illinois and Indiana,-slumber, in the west! After disporting with the braggart Breeze, The poetical compositions of Mr. WALLACE are numerous, and they are for the most part distinguished for a sensuous richness of style, earnestness of temper, and much freedom of speculation. The longest of them is "Alban," a romance of New York, published in 1848, and intended to illustrate the influence of certain prejudices of society and principles of law upon individual character and destiny. It has passages of fine description and spirited narrative, and some happy touches of satire, but is scarcely successful as a moral poem. author is more at home in the serious and stately rhythm and solemn fancies of such pieces as "To the | Hudson," which are the best measures of his powers. The Millions, a lesson ye can learn from these. Beneath the stars, that nod and start with sleep Fitfully the moon goes nodding through And dreams, forgetting all her queenly ills, So sweet is slumber, would not yet awake; Dreamily move the boys of paradise, Under the stately palms It stirreth softly lest rough motion might So rest! and Rest shall slay your many woes. Is motion godlike? godlike is repose— A mountain-stillness, of majestic might, Of suns, when Day is at his close. Nor deem that quiet must ignoble be. He planted many a budding shoot Whose liberal nature daily, nightly, yields His labour done, the weary god went back To his great house; there he did wile away And cold blue night; and very soon They heard the awful thunderer breathing low and deep. And in the hush that dropp'd adown the spheres, |