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, i
Where briery thickets in springtime were blooming,
And breathing their life on the odorous air?
And runs yet the brook where the violets were weep-
ing,

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!

MR. 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 university 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 porm:

Oft 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 ty-eighth of June, 1841. In the following July, on orders, by the Bishop of New York, on the twenreceiving 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.

ВоYHооD 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, [twined
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,

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,

And hearse for ever from the gaze of men, relics!
What long they thought-now dare to call-our
Glory to him who doth subject the same,
In hope of Immortality!

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 blowWith odours like Eden's around? Fing Hast seen where the broad-leaved palmetto is: STOWAnd 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

Гете,

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!

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 up, and fare on in your way; í 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.

THE HEART'S SONG.

In the silent midnight watches,

List-thy bosom-door!

How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh,
Knocketh evermore!

Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating;
"Tis thy heart of sin:

"Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth Rise, and let me in!

Death comes down with reckless footstep
To the hall and hut:

Think you Death will stand a-knocking
Where the door is shut?
JESUS waiteth-waiteth-waiteth;
But thy door is fast!
Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth:
Death breaks in at last.

Then 't is thine to stand-entreating
Christ to let thee in:

At the gate of heaven beating,
Wailing for thy sin.

Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin,
Hast thou then forgot,
JESUS waited long to know thee,
But he knows thee not!

And then, those Easter bells, in spring!
Those glorious Easter chimes;
How loyally they hail thee round,

Old queen of holy times!
From hill to hill, like sentinels,
Responsively they cry,

And sing the rising of the LORD,
From vale to mountain high.

I love ye-chimes of Motherland,
With all this soul of mine,
And bless the LORD that I am sprung
Of good old English line!
And like a son I sing the lay

That England's glory tells;
For she is lovely to the LORD,

For you, ye Christian bells! And heir of her ancestral fame, And happy in my birth, Thee, too, I love, my forest-land,

The joy of all the earth;

For thine thy mother's voice shall be,

And here where GoD is king,

With English chimes, from Christian spires, The wilderness shall ring.

THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND,

THE chimes, the chimes of Motherland,
Of England green and old,

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,
Upon a Christmas morn,

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,
To keep the festival!

The chimes of England, how they peal
From tower and gothic pile,

Where hymn and swelling anthem fill
The dim cathedral aisle;

Where windows bathe the holy light
On priestly heads that falls,
And stain the florid tracery
And banner-dighted walls!

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,
Going down to the dead!

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 Mercantile 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, thoughtful, and harmonious; and though evidently unlabored, they are characterized by much refinement of taste and an intuitive perception of metrical proprieties. 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

ON A PAIR OF ANTLERS,

BROUGHT FROM GERMANY.

GIFT, from the land of song and wine-
Can I forget the enchanted day,
When first along the glorious Rhine

I heard the huntsman's bugle play,
And mark'd the early star that dwells
Among the cliffs of Drachenfels!
Again the isles of beauty rise;

Again the crumbling tower appears,
That stands, defying stormy skies,

With memories of a thousand years;
And dark old forests wave again,
And shadows crowd the dusky plain.
They brought the gift, that I might hear
The music of the roaring pine-

To fill again my charmed ear

With echoes of the Rodenstein-
With echoes of the silver horn,
Across the wailing waters borne.
Trophies of spoil! henceforth your place
Is in this quiet home of mine;
Farewell the busy, bloody chase,

Mute emblems now of "auld lang syne," When Youth and Hope went hand in hand To roam the dear old German land.

a clear, cold, merry sparkle, and a rapidity of metrical 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 characteristic 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 adrest touches of wit, felicitous hits at current follies, and instances of quaint humour, laughing through prim and decorous lines, which evince a genius for vers de sociétie.

The poems Mr. FIELDS has given us are evidently the careless products of a singularly sensitive and fertile mind-indications rather than exponents of its powers-furnishing evidence of a capacity which it is to be hoped the engagements of 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,
Not a soul would dare to sleep-
It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.
"Tis a fearful thing in winter

To be shatter'd in the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"
So we shudder'd there in silence-
For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,
And the breakers talked with Death.
As thus we sat in darkness,

Each one busy in his prayers"We are lost!" the captain shouted, As he stagger'd down the stairs. But his little daughter whisper'd, As she took his icy hand, "Isn't God upon the ocean,

Just the same as on the land?" Then we kiss'd the little maiden, And we spoke in better cheer, And we anchor'd safe in harbor When the morn was shining clear.