Its form is varied, but to all supplied,
In equal shares, however modified.
Blest source of action whose perpetual strife
With sluggish nature, warms us into life;
Thou great first mover, 'tis alone from thee
That life derives its sweet diversity.
Yet hapless he, whose ill-directed pride
With soft seduction draws his steps aside
From life's low vale, where humbler joys invite;
With bold, rash tread, to gain distinction's height.
Him peace forsakes, and endless toils oppose,
A friend's defection, and the spleen of focs.
Black calumny invents her thousand lies,
And sickly envy blasts him if he rise-
He, wretch accursed, tied down to servile rules,
Must think and act no more like other fools:
For him no more that social ease remains
Which sweetens life, and softens all its pains;
Each jealous eye betrays a critic's pen,
To search for faults it spares in other men.
How shall he wish in vain, once more his own,
That hour when free, and to the world unknown,
Its praise he had not, nor could fear its frown."

This is nervous writing, and though the style be gone out of fashion, the world would not lose by its cultivation now.

The following melody, by William Leggett, has the sweetness and the flowthe happy imagery, and more than the purity, of most of Moore's ballads :

"IF yon bright stars, which gem the night,

Be each a blissful dwelling sphere,

Where kindred spirits re-unite

Whom death has torn asunder here;

How sweet it were at once to die,
And leave this blighted orb afar,

Mixt soul and soul to cleave the sky,

And soar away from star to star.

But oh, how dark, how drear and lone,
Would seem the brightest world of bliss,
If wandering through each radiant one
We failed to find the loved of this;

If there no more the ties shall twine'

That death's cold hand alone could sever;
Ah! then these stars in mockery shine,
More hateful as they shine for ever.

It cannot be each hope, each fear,
That lights the eye or clouds the brow,
Proclaims there is a happier sphere

Than this bleak world that holds us now.

There is a voice which sorrow hears,

When heaviest weighs life's galling chain; "Tis Heaven that whispers-Dry thy tears, The pure in heart shall meet again."

There are other pieces by the same writer in this volume, which are of a drier character, and have the pithy turn which strikes one in old Ayton's pieces, and others of that half-epigrammatic school.

The lines which follow have been much admired, and have appeared in a variety of publications, but never, we believe, before under the name of the real author-CLEMENT C. MOORE.

"A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads;
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap-
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,"
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter:
Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick,

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! now, Vixen!

On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Donder and Blixen

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!"-
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys-and St. Nicholas too.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,.
And his clothes were all tarnish'd with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he look'd like a pedlar just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face, and a little round belly

That shook, when he laugh'd, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump; a right jolly old elf;'
And I laugh'd when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And fill'd all the stockings; then turned with a jirk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
'Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

The verses of James Nack, the deaf and dumb poet, are by no means the least pleasing ones in this collection; and we marvel that compositions so interesting have not excited more admiration than has yet been accorded them. The following song by this writer makes no pretension to the elaborate beauties that grave

criticism delights to descant upon; but there is a freedom and joyousness about it, a musical simplicity, that is most happily emblematic of the subject it illustrates,

"SPRING IS COMING.

SPRING is coming, spring is coming,
Birds are chirping, insects humming;
Flowers are peeping from their sleeping,
Streams escaped from winter's keeping,
In delighted freedom rushing,

Dance along in music gushing,
Scenes of late in deadness saddened,
Smile in animation gladdened,
All is beauty, all is mirth,
All is glory upon earth,

Shout we then with Nature's voice,
Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice!

Spring is coming, come, my brother,
Let us rove with one another,
To our well-remembered wild wood,
Flourishing in nature's childhood;
When a thousand flowers are springing,
And a thousand birds are singing;
Where the golden sunbeams quiver,
On the verdure-girdled river;
Let our youth of feeling out,
To the youth of nature shout,
While the waves repeat our voice,

Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice!"

In elegiac pieces, Willis Gaylord Clark is remarkably happy. The cadence and rythm of the following plaintive verses could hardly be improved,

THE FADED ONE.

GONE to the slumber which may know no waking
Till the loud requiem of the world shall swell;
Gone! where no sound thy still repose is breaking,
In a lone mansion through long years to dwell;
Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom
Pour not their music nor their fragrant breath:
A seal is set upon thy budding bosom,

A bond of loneliness--a spell of death!

Yet 'twas but yesterday that all before thee

Shone in the freshness of life's morning hours;
Joy's radiant smile was playing briefly o'er thee,
And thy light feet impressed but vernal flowers.
The restless spirit charmed thy sweet existence,
Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze,
While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance,
And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days.

How have the garlands of thy childhood withered,
And hope's false anthem died upon the air!
Death's cloudy tempests o'er thy way have gathered,
And his stern bolts have burst in fury there.
On thy pale forehead sleeps the shade of even,
Youth's braided wreath lies stained in sprinkled dust,
Yet looking upward in its grief to Heaven,

Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and trust,"

John Inman's verses are characterized by feeling and delicacy, of which the fol lowing stanzas are an unpretending instance.

"ALAS! alas, that poverty's cold hand

Should come to wither young affection's flowers-
Marring the fairy pictures hope has planned
Of love and joy in future happy hours-
Alas, that all the blessings fancy showers
O'er the young heart, should turn to grief and tears,
Poisoning the cup of life through all our after-years!

A moment's pleasure and an age of pain

One hour of sunshine, and the rest all gloom-
And this, oh Love, is what from thee we gain-
Of all who bow before thee, this the doom-
And in thy footsteps, like the dread Zamoom,
Pale sorrow comes, a longer-dwelling guest,

To curse the wasted heart that once by thee was blest,"

Our readers are already familiar with A. B. Street's beautiful and characteristically American verses, of which there is a fine specimen in our present number, Though hailing now from Sullivan County, we believe that Dutchess has the best claim to him, as well as to Brooks and others, whose writings enrich the compilation. The following spirited lyric is quoted, from the popular works of the latter, in the New-York Book,

26 THE BRAVE.

WHERE have the valiant sunk to rest,
When their sands of life were numbered?
On the downy couch? on the gentle breast
Where their youthful visions slumbered?

When the mighty passed the gate of death,
Did love stand by bewailing?

No! but upon war's fiery breath
Their blood-dyed flag was sailing!

Not on the silent feverish bed,

With weeping friends around them,

Were the parting prayers of the valiant said,
When death's dark angel found them.

But in the stern and stormy strife,
In the flush of lofty feeling,

They yielded to honour the boon of life,
Where battle's bolts were pealing;

When the hot war-steed, with crimsoned mane
Trampled on breasts all stained and gory,
Dashed his red hoof on the reeking plain,

And shared in the rider's glory.

Or seek the brave in their ocean grave,
'Neath the dark and restless water;
Seek them beneath the whelming wave,
So oft deep dyed with slaughter.

There sleep the gallant and the proud,
The eagle-eyed and the lion-hearted;
For whom the trump of fame rang loud,
When the body and soul were parted.

Or seek them on fields where the grass grows deep,
Where the vulture and the raven hover;
There the sons of battle in quiet sleep:
And widowed love goes there to weep,
That their bright career is over."

We conclude our quotations with a poem which has been much admired, and which, we think, is rivalled by nothing of the kind in our native literature, unless it be a fine lyric bearing the same title, written by Mr. H. W. Herbert when editor of this magazine, or by Halleck's popular lines to Red Jacket.

(6 ADDRESS TO BLACK HAWK.-BY EDWARD SANFORD.

THERE'S beauty on thy brow, old chief! the high
And manly beauty of the Roman mould,
And the keen flashing of thy full dark eye
Speaks of a heart that years have not made cold;
Of passions scathed not by the blight of time,
Ambition, that survives the battle route.
The man within thee scorns to play the mime
To gaping crowds that compass thee about.
Thou walkest, with thy warriors by thy side,
Wrapped in fierce hate, and high unconquered pride.
Chief of a hundred warriors! dost thou yet-
Vanquished and captive-dost thou deem that here—
The glowing day-star of thy glory set-

Dull night has closed upon thy bright career?

Old forest lion, caught and caged at last,
Dost pant to roam again thy native wild?
To gloat upon the life-blood flowing fast

Of thy crushed victims; and to slay the child,
To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers,

And kill, old Turk! thy harmless pale-faced brothers?
For it was cruel, Black Hawk, thus to flutter
The dove-cotes of the peaceful pioneers,
To let thy tribe commit such fierce, and utter
Slaughter among the folks of the frontiers.
Though thine be old, hereditary hate,

Begot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, until
It had become a madness, 'tis too late

To crush the hordes who have the power, and will,
To rob thee of thy hunting grounds, and fountains,
And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains.
Spite of thy looks of cold indifference,

There's much thou'st seen that must excite thy wonder,
Wakes not upon thy quick and startled sense

The cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder?
Our big canoes, with white and wide-spread wings,
That sweep the waters, as birds sweep the sky;-
Our steamboats, with their iron lungs, like things

Of breathing life, that dash and hurry by ?
Or if thou scorn'st the wonders of the ocean,
What think'st thou of our rail-road locomotion?
Thou'st seen our Museums, beheld the dummies
That grin in darkness in their coffin cases;
What think'st thou of the art of making mummies,
So that the worms shrink from their dry embraces?
Thou'st seen the mimic tyrants of the stage
Strutting, in paint and feathers, for an hour;
Thou'st heard the bellowing of their tragic rage,
Seen their eyes glisten, and their dark brows lower.
Anon, thou'st seen them, when their wrath cool'd down,
Pass in a moment from a king-to clown.