I've never heard a bird or runlet sing So sweetly as he talks. His words are small Upon a peach. Like morning vapor, flies He laughs with happy heartiness; and he His half-closed eyelids twinkles roguishly, Till from their lashes tears start up and run. The drops are bright as diamonds. When they roll Adown his cheek, they seem to be the o'erflowing Of the deep well of love within his soul The human tendernesses of his nature showing. 'Tis pleasant to look on him while he sleeps: His plump and chubby arms, and delicate fingers The half-formed smile that round his red lips creeps; The intellectual glow that faintly lingers Upon his countenance, as if he talks With some bright angel on his nightly walks. We tremble when we think that many a storm May bear a burden sore and wearisome. So he preserve his virtue though he dieAnd to his GOD, his race, his country prove A faithful man, whom praise nor gold can buy, Nor threats of vile, designing men can move We ask no more. We trust that He who leads The footsteps of the feeble lamb will hold This lamb of ours in mercy's pasture-fold, Where every inmate near the loving Shepherd feeds. LIFE'S EVENING. The world to me is growing gray and old, My sire departed ere his locks were gray; And when my offspring at our altar kneel PATIENT CONTINUANCE IN WELL-DOING. Bear the burden of the present- Wrap thy cloak around thy form; All unseen, the Master walketh While his hands uphold and guide. Grief, nor pain, nor any sorrow Holy strivings nerve and strengthen- MRS. ELIZABETH HOWELL. THE following poem, together with several others of great beauty of sentiment, and purity of feeling, was written by a young lady of Philadelphia, a member of the "Society of Friends"-Elizabeth Lloyd, Jr.— the daughter of Isaac Lloyd. She afterwards married our late lamented fellow-townsman, Robert Howell, Esq. It is enough to say in commendation of these lines that they were at first attributed by many journals to Milton himself. MILTON'S PRAYER OF PATIENCE. I am old and blind! Men point at me as smitten by God's frown; Yet am I not cast down. I am weak, yet strong; I murmur not that I no longer see;- All merciful One! When men are farthest, then art thou most near; When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun, Thy chariot I hear. Thy glorious face Is leaning towards me, and its holy light On my bended knee, I recognize Thy purpose, clearly shown; I have nought to fear; This darkness is the shadow of thy wing; Can come no evil thing. Oh! I seem to stand Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been, Wrapped in that radiance from the sinless land Which eye hath never seen. Visions come and go, Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng; From angel lips I seem to hear the flow Of soft and holy song. In a purer clime, My being fills with rapture-waves of thought Roll in upon my spirit-strains sublime Break over me unsought. Give me now my lyre! I feel the stirrings of a gift divine; JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. THIS distinguished poet and essayist, the son of Rev. Charles Lowell, D. D., for nearly fifty years pastor of the West Church, Boston, was born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, on the 22d of February, 1819. He graduated at Harvard College in 1838, and after studying law opened an office in Boston. But he soon found, as did Sir Walter Scott, that the profession was not at all congenial to his tastes and feelings, and not being compelled by necessity to pursue it as a means of living, he returned to his books and trees at his father's residence, Elmwood, near Mount Auburn, determined on making literature his reliance for fame and fortune. "His first start in literature, as a business, ended disastrously. In company with his friend Robert Carter, he established a monthly magazine called 'The Pioneer,' which, owing to the failure of his publishers, did not last longer than the third number; but it was admirably well conducted, and made a decided impression on the literary public, by the elevated tone of its criticisms, and the superiority of its essays compared with the ordinary class of magazine literature. Soon after the failure of 'The Pioneer,' he was married to Miss Maria White, of Watertown, a lady of congenial tastes, and as remarkable for her womanly graces and accomplishments, as for her elevated intellectual qualities." In 1855, Mr. Lowell was appointed Professor of Belles-Lettres in Harvard University, to succeed Prof. Longfellow, and entered upon the duties of his office after spending some months in Europe. Prof. Lowell's publications have been as follows: "A Poem recited at Cambridge," 1839; "A Year's Life," a poem, 1841; "Poems," 1844. This second series contains a Legend of Brittany, Prometheus, Miscellaneous Poems, and Sonnets. "Conversations on Some of the Old Poets," 1845; "Poems," Cambridge, Mass., 1848; "The Vision of Sir Launfal," Boston, 1848; "A Fable for "Homes of American Authors." 2 "A warm and hearty sympathy with humanity is a characteristic of the volume before us. A yearning love for man, and a burning desire to elevate and purify his soul, which, however debased and uncultivated, is yet to our poet never unworthy of regard, are the highest inspirations of his muse. We love him for his own wide love. As a brother does, he comes before us to plead a brother's cause. Let him not sing to deaf or to averted ears."Christian Examiner, March, 1844. Critics," 1548; "The Biglow Papers," 1848. This is a keen and most richly merited political satire upon our wicked Mexican war, and up-a the ascendency which the slave-power has so long maintained in our government.2 "Lowell's prose writings are as remarkable as his poetry; the ceptousness of his illustrations, the richness of his imagery, the easy w of his sentences, the keenness of his wit, and the force and clearness of his reasoning, give to his reviews and essays a fascinating charm that would place him in the front rank of our prose writers, if he did not occupy a similar position among our poets." THE HERITAGE. The rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft, white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, A heritage, it seems to me, The rich man's son inherits cares; The bank may break, the factory buru, The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. "Among the very best of his writings.... They show a deep apprecia tion of the poetical merit of those authors, and a fineness of critical taste quite unusual in the literature of the magazines."-N. Am. Rev., lviii. 283. "The rhymes are as startling and felicitous as any in Hudibras, and the quaint drollery of the illustrations is in admirable keeping with the whole character of the forlorn recruit from Massachusetts."-N. Am. Rev., Ixvii 187. "Homes of American Authors." His reviews and essays have appeared in the North American Review," "Southern Literary Messenger,” "Knickerbocker," "Democratic Review," "Graham's Magazine," Putnam's Magazine," "Boston Miscellany," and "National Anti-Slavery Standard." |