And have left unlearned a river's course,
To trace thine own to thy lonely source.
And now I am old, my pulses go,
Within my breast with a quicker flow,
When I hear thy voice, which seems to tell
What wakes my thoughts, like a magic spell.

Beautiful stream. In a mountain cave
To thee thy being the storm-spirit gave;
And thou hast leaped from thy cradle there
To wander forth in the fragrant air,

And make love to the flowers, which stoop to trace
Their own fair forms in thy glassy face.
With an infant step thou turn'st to glide,
Through the tangled grass, to the mountain side,
And seek'st a glen where nothing is heard,
Save thy own blithe voice and the song of bird;
As if those sweet tones had filled the air,
And lured the spirit of silence there;
And now away, with a quickened tread,
Thou boundest over thy rocky bed,
As if the sunshine glittering bright,
Had filled thy breast with a wild delight:
And now thou rushest down the steep,
Like the startled fawn at a single leap,
Nor stay'st thy course till a blooming flower,
Invites thy steps to her shady bower;
And there thou swell'st to a mimic bay,
Where the speckled trout come forth to play;
Where in childhood's days, my tiny boat
With its kerchief sail, I used to float.
Art thou lingering with that flower to tell
Of her sisters, that live far up in the dell?
For she bends o'er thee, intent to hear
The tale thou givest to her delicate ear.
Thy tale is told and thy course again
Is onward to the grassy plain,
Where the river rolleth to the main.

New-England, here may thy children view
An emblem of themselves most true;

Like the truant brook they are prone to roam,
And leave their own for the stranger's home.
Perchance they go where other skies
With lovelier tints of beauty rise;

To other realms, where the flower-plumed spring,
Broods o'er the earth with a fairer wing;
But they ne'er will meet with hearts more free,
Than those which beat with a pride of thee!

We next select a sentiment prepared seemingly for an album. We perceive a note in the manuscript, pencilled in a delicate character, accompanying the first stanza-" His prayer is answered!" Yes! but not alone does he live in the hearts of devoted sisters: there are many who deplore his doom :

"To live in hearts we leave behind

Is not to die."

I ask of Him on high,

This prayer to give ;

That when I come to die

I thus may live;

When to our God on bended knee

You bow in pure devotion,

Should billows dark

Roll round my bark

On being's stormy ocean,

Remember me.

Friends, when I leave life's darksome dell

No costly marble rear ;

The record of my life to tell

My epitaph is here.

The following article was originally contributed for the Messenger. It will not compare in poetic merit with many of the others, but it is certainly superior to the mass of poems contributed to periodical literature.

Leaves of an evergreen plant, if written upon with a metallic point, retain the impression. The following lines were addressed to a fair cousin of the writer's, on her requesting him to place his name upon a beautiful plant of this genus, which grew among her flowers, and bore the names of those whose friendship she most valued.

TO MY COUSIN.

Permit me Coz, a dream to tell:

'Twas conjured for an hour Around my pillow by the spell Of some strange wizard power. Ambition sat upon a throne

Of gold, and sparkling gem: And brilliantly the halo shone

Around his diadem.

He cast on me a glance of light,

Then raised his shadowy hand,
And lo! upon a towering height
I saw a column stand.

To earth I bowed my forehead then,
My every pulse beat high;
That marble bore the names of men,
Whose fame can never die!

I marked a pathway rough and steep,
Which to the column led,

And though I had but strength to creep,
I turned that path to tread.

Just then a maiden caught my sight,
From all this pomp apart,
Whose eyes so sweetly shone, their light
Seemed incense from the heart.

She sat within a verdant bower,
Bespangled with the dew,
And on the air full many a flower
Its balmy fragrance threw.
Methought she had been sent to bless
The thorny paths of earth,
And teach the flowers that loveliness,
Which with herself had birth.

On me, methought, her glance and smile
In blended radiance fell;
She pointed to a plant the while
Which told her meaning well.

Upon its leaves of changeless green,
Pure Friendship's emblem true-
The names of those she loved were seen-
A chosen, favored few.

With rapture thrilling in my breast,
I joined my humble name;
Ambitious thoughts were lulled to rest;

What cared I then for fame!

We next select the "Stanzas written at Sunset." They are not faultless-but they are touched

of Fancy:

STANZAS WRITTEN AT SUNSET.

Look yonder 'tis a gorgeous sight!

O'er all the West the sun is throwing

A brilliant stream of liquid light;

Whose broken waves, still brightly glowing,
Roll upward, as 'twere blazing brands
Borne through the air by unseen hands,
To light the lamps, which burn on high,
When sunlight leaves the vaulted sky.
May it not be that orb of light,

Now sinking 'neath the horizon,
Is Nature's altar--pure and bright,
Angels are pouring incense on,
Which goeth up like earthly fires,
Amid the music of their lyres ;
To form a halo round the brow
Of Him to whom the seraphs bow?

Oh! I have thought, that those of old,
Who vainly strove by art to change
The baser ores to virgin gold,

First caught the hope, so wildly strange,
While gazing with enraptured eye,
At such an hour-on such a sky!
They might have thought alchemic power
Had wrought the glorious golden shower!
Imbued with crimson, fleecy clouds,

Are through the depths of ether driven,
As if they were enfolding shrouds

Of blessed spirits borne to Heaven.
Oh! it may be they're Angel's wings,
Beaming above the offerings,

Which rise from hearts like perfume thrown
Upon a burning altar-stone.

Who has not felt, at such an hour,

A wave of thoughts gush up and roll,
Like Passion, with resistless power,

Which seemed to break and flood the soul!
With such a feeling, men have bowed
And sung their pæans, long and loud!
Which echoed through the vaulted shrine,
Raised to yon orb, they deemed divine.

Here is another pleasant scene in domestic life. The reader will acknowledge its interest and fidelity:

LEARNING TO COUNT.

When morning breaketh, faint the beam,
Precursor of the burning ray!
In childhood's morn, one golden gleam
Is token of a radiant day.

"Oh hear me !" cries a lisping one,
And proudly tells his little lore,

"I've counted ten! and all alone!

My dear, dear mother learn me more!"

"I'll count the stars all o'er the sky,

Which burn at night so bright and small;
Oh, can't I count them by-and-by,

When, mother, you have learned me all?"
Boy, thou hast crept to Learning's spring,
And does the taste give such delight?
Mother, young genius plumes its wing,

Look heavenward for its future flight!

Our author wrote some wild effusions, which he designed to publish consecutively. He intended

first of the series was "The Captive Flower." It is vigorous in its conception and execution. We will insert it, with the author's own preface, and the reader can judge of its merit :

The stanzas following, are selected from papers found in a portfolio left some years since in a madhouse. From some incoherent sentences written in blotted characters prefacing the lines, it appears that they were intended for the Album of a lady, who forgetful that light is necessary to vegetable being, incarcerated her exotics during the Winter in a cellar where "all was black."

The writer appears to have attempted something like a parody on Byron's Darkness.

THE CAPTIVE FLOWER.

I had a dream: and yet methought

It was not all a dream:
'Mid darkness brooding wide I sought,
But found no cheering beam.

At first there was one flickering ray
Which shot athwart the gloom;
Like ghastly smile on rotting clay,
Within the cold, damp tomb!

Long hours I strove with painful gasp,
To catch one breath of light!
But at my throat a demon's grasp,

Seemed laid with deadly might!

That glimmer fled; I cursed my birth,
I cursed the sun that gave,
For darkness pressed like trodden earth
Upon a live man's grave!

Cold on my limbs as on the dead

A clammy mould there came!
Foul, slimy worms crawled there and fed;
They gnawed my wasting frame!

A fire-fly once came flitting by-
A moment-it was gone:

I saw (and prayed that I might die)
A sister's skeleton!

That was the last! like guilty men,
To black perdition hurled,
No ray of hope was left me then,

For darkness was the world!

We have before spoken of the "Death-bed of Hope." We have the analysis of it as conceived by our author. But it was not completed and though the design was a noble one, and the "sketch" before us reflects great credit upon the mind which designed it, we deem it best not to present it in its unfinished state.

The next article which we give the reader, is entirely unlike the preceding. It is a humorous parody upon Campbell's "Last Man." For drollery of design and grace of execution, it is inimitable among its class of writings:

THE LAST WOMAN.

Vain thoughts will cling to latest breathA truth the wise attest;

"A Ruling Passion Strong in death" Holds empire in the breast.

"I saw a vision in my sleep"-

Thus runs Tom Campbell's rhyme, "Which gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulph of Time."

My spirit too hath swept in flight

The gulph Time's sentries guard; A maid thou saw'st not met my sightThy pardon deathless bard!

The glory of the sun was fled,

All Nature shrunk aghast

And midst whole nations of the dead,
The last man breathed his last!

That maiden stood, the last to die,
With pride upon her lip:
And rouge that hid the tutored sigh,
Was there in fellowship.

A treasured volume open there
Revealed of things to come--
How low a bosom maids could wear
For "evening dress at home."

Her dearest treasures round her strown-

A whalebone vesture here

Pearls, plumes, puffs, patches, things unkown-
Lo! there a broad cashmere.

The last of lap-dogs, hushed in death,
On gauzy night-gowns lay;
Cosmetic powders flung their breath,
From jars in long array.

Vases of odor-curling tongs-
But vain the whole to tell:

Such store to Moslem's heaven belongs-
Such things the Jew, men sell.

An arsenal sure, well stored with charms,
For heart-siege or blockade;

That lone one stood in muslin charms,
With flounce de fleurs arrayed.

Upon a mirror's silver face

She shot an arrowy glance,
Restored a ringlet to its place,

Then eye'd pale Sol askance.
"Ha! Sun, forever Beauty's dread”—
She shook her jewelled hand-
"Ha! now thy fearful power is fled!
See all unveiled I stand!

"The haughty of the earth have bowed;
Ay, Kings have bent the knee,
And all in awe the smitten crowd
Have poured their praise to me.
"But I have wept for wounded pride
As on my shame I thought;
And vainly strove with paste to hide
The mischief thou hast wrought!
"Discrownéd King! no more I flee
With trembling from thy frown:
Strange that a power should ever be
To change the lily, brown.

My noblest conquest now is won-
Would that the dead could see--
Like dying lover, lo! the sun

Gives his last look to me!

"Go, tell the night that robs thy face'
Of charms can nought restore,
'Thou saw'st the last of Fashion's race'-
Go, tell the dress she wore!"

The following appeared in the Religious Souvenir for 1839, and was pronounced, by no mean judge, the best article in the volume. A short

time after the publication of the Souvenir, the Editor visited her unhappy correspondent in the "Insane Retreat." She strove to awaken his ambition, and requested an article for a future volume of the Annual. But his harp was unstrung, and would resound no more upon earth:

TRUST IN HEAVEN.

Gladness within a cottage home!

Gladness upon the breezy main!

Yon gallant bark, that rides the foam,
Is near her native port again.

There's one for days hath watch'd the gale,
From earliest morn to latest even;
Her eye first caught yon snowy sail,
A speck upon the far-off heaven.

And now her many fears are o'er,

Thou wouldst not blame her frantic joy! Her bosom's treasure comes once more! Thy father comes thou cherub-boy!

But speed thee, husband-speed thy bark,
Bethink thee of the setting sun;
And see the clouds are gathering dark;
Now speed thee ere the day is done!

Fierce lightnings flash athwart the sky,
The tempest, in its fearful wrath,
Lifting the billows mountain-high,
Is out upon the seaman's path.
Now heaven be with that plunging bark!
Almighty power alone can keep;
Hark to the rolling thunder! hark!
O! mercy! still the raging deep!

"O, God! O, God! this awful night!”
And she who spoke was ghastly pale-
"O, hush thee, boy!--Can human might--
At hour like this, can aught avail?"
"Yes, He who hears a raven cry,

The raging of the storm can stay;
Our God! our God! to thee on high!
Kneel down, my child, kneel down and pray""

"O, hear us, Father, from above!

He sure will hear thy sinless prayer— Have mercy, Heaven, on him we love! O, grant him thine almighty care!"

*

A fearful crash went up to heaven!

That fated bark was seen no more!
One splintered mast to shore was driven,
Which one alone to safety bore.
Eternal Truth himself hath spoken!
Then, mortal, hold! nor rashly dare
To think His promise can be broken!
Our Heavenly Father heareth prayer!

We stated at first that we should not select our author's articles in the order of merit. We have also disregarded the order of the time of their composition. We shall select but one more, and that one almost the first of his writing-certainly the first of his publication. We think it decidedly one of his best:

THE WINDS. Waves of an ocean viewless yet sublime!

Which finds no strand save starry isles ye lave,

In your cool waters bathed the infant Time-Your chainless surge shall roll above his grave! For of your birth we ask the sacred page;

It lends no answer to our questing tone : Chaos' black realms ye deluged in your rage,

throne!

"God said let there be light!" With sunny glance
The young waves wooed you as ye passed along,
Stretched forth their hand to join you in the dance,
To joyous music from the starry throng!
Oh, blessed hours! Through Eden's blissful grove
In gentlest zephyrs 'mong the flowers ye flew,
Stirred Eve's long tresses as she sang of love,

And brushed her bosom of the pearly dew.

The Sun has laws: The ocean's restless tide
In dread obedience only dares to roll :
No power is swayed to bound your restless pride-
Ye soar on high, fit Emblem of the soul.

Down charnel depths where fated Stars have gone,

Hurled from their place in Heaven, ye grope your way;

Trample in dust the Pleiad's skeleton,

And hold wild revel on the rotting clay.

Kissing the tear-drops from the blushing Spring,
In gentle dalliance joyous on ye linger,
Pluming your pinions from the trembling string,
Yielding rich music 'neath the minstrel's finger!
Oh! I have thought as on my ear ye crept,

Soothing with whispered tale the drooping flowers,
That dreaming Nature murmured, as she slept,

Some cherished memory of her childhood's hours!

Pressing the lip to Silence soft ye tread,

When Love attendant opes the lattice wide; Bathe the hot temples of the sick man's head, And woo sweet Slumber to the sufferer's side! Kind ministers! ye cool the cheek of Care,

The old man's brow--the maniac's tortured brain; Ye pass the prison grate, and wan Despair

Smiles at your touch forgetful of his chain!

How changed! the scarf of empire on your breast,
The thunder fettered to your cloudy ear:

Ye rouse to fury Ocean from his rest,
And hurl the oak with hideous howl afar!
Dread ministers! for now your work is death!
The crash of the proud Ship to ruin driven-
The shriek-the groan-the prayer-the gurgling breath-
Are in your keeping--bear them all to Heaven!

Our limits forbid us to make a further selection. In conclusion we would say, that the reader should remember that we present him with the effusions of a spirit which had but just plumed its wing— which had but just soared into the dazzling regions of fancy. It brought thence rich spoil-but its efforts were but the beginning of its labor. While its eye was delighting in the beautiful and the good of earth, it was called away in sorrow and anguish. We cannot better conclude the sketch of our author's brief life and melancholy death, than by citing the conclusion of an exquisite sketch of his own-" Something about Flowers :"

"How solemnly does every thing around remind man of his fallen estate. The sentence of death hath passed upon all things; and the flower withers in the midst of beauty. Well, there is a better

TRIBUTE

TO THE MEMORY OF RICHARD BACON, JR.

I.

Friend of my soul! while yet I hear
Thy kindly voice's farewell tone-
Thou sleepest with the slumbering year,
And wintry winds above thee moan:
Gone with thy genius' kindling fire-
Thy Manhood's glorious promise vain :
And I must tune my mournful lyre,

To breathe for thee a funeral strain!
II.

Ah! feebly roams my hand along,

O'er trembling chords to sadness strung; For thee, thou child of joyous song,

How can the solemn dirge be sung?Full oft my lyre its note of woe

Hath waked, when griefs my soul would bend: How shall I bid its numbers flow,

For thee, my best, familiar friend!

III.

Thou art not dead! I see thee still!

For Memory wakes her magic power: Again we climb the wooded hill,

Or seek the valley's vine-clad bower: Now by the wild brook's prattling stream, We rove, with careless spirits blestOr watch the day-god's parting gleam Gush from the chambers of the West!

IV.

'Tis Noontide, in the leafy June!

Beneath some tall tree's fragrant shadeWhere soft winds breathe a whispered tune, Our forms along the turf are laid: And there, while griefs and care retire,

And we in peace, alone, reclineThou kindly list'st my simple lyre, And I do joyous list to thine!

V.

The Autumn's pensive days have come : And Death o'er Nature's bloom hath past: Among the funeral woods we roam,

Where leaves are rustling on the blast: And while the breeze goes wailing by,

And trees their leafless branches waveWe muse how Life's bright hopes must die, And Man lie slumbering in the grave!

VI.

Alas! alas! and thou art dead!

The friend so true-beloved so well! While Hope her wildest visions spreadFond Memory! cease thy magic spell! There's gloom along thy mountain's side, And by thy free brook's pebbly shoreThere's sadness in thy Summer's pride, For thou, my friend, will come no more!

VII.

And thou didst die in Manhood's prime,
From home and fond delights away:
While I beneath a distant clime,
Was doomed in loneliness to stray!