THE LEAF.

Ir came with spring's soft sun and showers,
Mid bursting buds and blushing flowers;
It flourish'd on the same light stem,
It drank the same clear dews with them.
The crimson tints of summer morn,
That gilded one, did each adorn.
The breeze, that whisper'd light and briet
To bud or blossom, kiss'd the leaf;
When o'er the leaf the tempest flew,
The bud and blossom trembled too.

But its companions pass'd away,
And left the leaf to lone decay.
The gentle gales of spring went by,
The fruits and flowers of summer die.
The autumn winds swept o'er the hill,
And winter's breath came cold and chill.
The leaf now yielded to the blast,
And on the rushing stream was cast.
Far, far it glided to the sea,
And whirl'd and eddied wearily,
Till suddenly it sank to rest,

And slumber'd in the ocean's breast.

Thus life begins-its morning hours,
Bright as the birth-day of the flowers;
Thus passes like the leaves away,
As wither'd and as lost as they.
Beneath the parent roof we meet
In joyous groups, and gayly greet
The golden beams of love and light,
That kindle to the youthful sight.
But soon we part, and one by one,
Like leaves and flowers, the group is gone
One gentle spirit seeks the tomb,
His brow yet fresh with childhood's bloom.
Another treads the paths of fame,
And barters peace to win a name.
Another still tempts fortune's wave,
And seeking wealth, secures a grave.
The last grasps yet the brittle thread-
Though friends are gone and joy is dead,
Still dares the dark and fretful tide,
And clutches at its power and pride,
Till suddenly the waters sever,
And, like the leaf, he sinks forever.

LAKE SUPERIOR.

"FATHER OF LAKES!" thy waters bend
Beyond the eagle's utmost view,
When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send
Back to the sky its world of blue.

Boundless and deep, the forests weave

Their twilight shade thy borders o'er, And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave Their rugged forms along thy shore. Pale Silence, mid thy hollow caves,

With listening ear, in sadness broods;

Or startled Echo, o'er thy waves,

Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods.
Nor can the light canoes, that glide
Across thy breast like things of air,
Chase from thy lone and level tide

The spell of stillness reigning there.
Yet round this waste of wood and wave,
Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives,
That, breathing o'er each rock and cave,
To all a wild, strange aspect gives.

The thunder-riven oak, that flings
Its grisly arms athwart the sky,
A sudden, startling image brings
To the lone traveller's kindled eye.

The gnarl'd and braided boughs, that show
Their dim forms in the forest shade,
Like wrestling serpents seem, and throw
Fantastic horrors through the glade.

The very echoes round this shore

Have caught a strange and gibbering tone;
For they have told the war-whoop o'er,
Till the wild chorus is their own.

Wave of the wilderness, adieu!
Adieu, ye rocks, ye wilds and woods!
Roll on, thou element of blue,

And fill these awful solitudes!
Thou hast no tale to tell of man-

God is thy theme. Ye sounding caves Whisper of Him, whose mighty plan Deems as a bubble all your waves!

THE SPORTIVE SYLPHS.

THE sportive sylphs that course the air, Unseen on wings that twilight weaves, Around the opening rose repair,

And breathe sweet incense o'er its leaves.

With sparkling cups of bubbles made,
They catch the ruddy beams of day,
And steal the rainbow's sweetest shade,
Their blushing favourite to array.

They gather gems with sunbeams bright,
From floating clouds and falling showers;
They rob Aurora's locks of light

To grace their own fair queen of flowers.

Thus, thus adorned, the speaking rose Becames a token fit to tell

Of things that words can ne'er disclose, And naught but this reveal so well. Then, take my flower, and let its leaves Beside thy heart be cherish'd near, While that confiding heart receives

The thought it whispers to thine ear.

ISAAC CLASON wrote the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Cantos of Don Juan-a continuation of the poem of Lord BYRON-published in 1825. I have not been able to learn many particulars of his biography. He was born in the city of New York, where his father was a distinguished merchant, and graduated at Columbia College in 1813. He inherited a considerable fortune, but in the pursuit of pleasure he spent it all, and much besides, received from his relatives. He was in turn a gay rcué in London and Paris, a writer for the public journals, an actor in the theatres, and a private

NAPOLEON.*

I love no land so well as that of FranceLand of NAPOLEON and CHARLEMAGNE, Renown'd for valour, women, wit, and dance, For racy Burgundy, and bright Champagne, Whose only word in battle was, Advance;

While that grand genius, who seem'd born to reign, Greater than AMMON's son, who boasted birth From heaven, and spurn'd all sons of earth; Greater than he who wore his buskins high, A VENUS arm'd, impress'd upon his seal; Who smiled at poor CALPHURNIA's prophecy, Nor fear'd the stroke he soon was doom'd to feel; Who on the ides of March breath'd his last sigh, As BRUTUS pluck'd away his "cursed steel," Exclaiming, as he expired, "Et tu, BRUTE," But BRUTUS thought he only did his duty; Greater than he, who, at nine years of age, On Carthage' altar swore eternal hate; Who, with a rancour time could ne'er assuage, With feelings no reverse could moderate, With talents such as few would dare engage,

With hopes that no misfortune could abate, Died like his rival, both with broken hearts,Such was their fate, and such was BONAPARTE'S.

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE! thy name shall live

Till time's last echo shall have ceased to sound; And if eternity's confines can give

To space reverberation, round and round The spheres of heaven, the long, deep cry of "Vive NAPOLEON!" in thunders shall rebound;

The lightning's flash shall blaze thy name on high, Monarch of earth now meteor of the sky!

What though on St. Helena's rocky shore

Thy head be pillow'd, and thy form entomb'd, Perhaps that son, the child thou didst adore, Fired with a father's fame, may yet be doom'd

• From the Seventeenth Canto of Don Juan.

tutor. A mystery hangs over his closing years. It has been stated that he was found dead in an obscure lodging-house in London, under circumstances that led to a belief that he committed suicide, about the year 1830.

Besides his continuation of Don Juan, he wrote but little poetry. The two cantos which he left under that title, have much of the spirit and feeling, in thought and diction, which characterize the work of BrRON. He was a man of attractive manners and brilliant conversation. His fate is an unfavourable commentary on his character.

To crush the bigot BOURBON, and restore

Thy mouldering ashes ere they be consumed;
Perhaps may run the course thyself didst run,
And light the world, as comets light the sun.
"Tis better thou art gone: 't were sad to see,
Beneath an "imbecile's impotent reign,"
Thine own unvanquish'd legions doom'd to be
Cursed instruments of vengeance on poor Spain,
That land, so glorious once in chivalry,

Now sunk in slavery and shame again;
To see the imperial guard, thy dauntless band,
Made tools for such a wretch as FERDINAND.
Farewell, NAPOLEON! thine hour is past;

No more earth trembles at thy dreaded name;
But France, unhappy France, shall long contrast
Thy deeds with those of worthless D'ÀNGOULEME.
Ye gods! how long shall slavery's thraldom last?
Will France alone remain forever tame?
Say, will no WALLACE, will no WASHINGTON
Scourge from thy soil the infamous BOURBON?
Is Freedom dead? Is NERO's reign restored?
Frenchmen! remember Jena, Austerlitz:
The first, which made thy emperor the lord

Of Prussia, and which almost threw in fits Great FREDERICK WILLIAM; he who, at the board, Took all the Prussian uniform to bits; FREDERICK, the king of regimental tailors, AS HUDSON LOWE, the very prince of jailors. Farewell, NAPOLEON! couldst thou have died The coward scorpion's death, afraid, ashamed To meet adversity's advancing tide,

The weak had praised thee, but the wise had

blamed;

But no! though torn from country, child, and bride
With spirit unsubdued, with soul untamed
Great in misfortune, as in glory high,
Thou daredst to live through life's worst agony.
Pity, for thee, shall weep her fountains dry,
Mercy, for thee, shall bankrupt all her store;
Valour shall pluck a garland from on high,
And Honour twine the wreath thy temples o'er;

Beauty shall beckon to thee from the sky,

And smiling seraphs open wide heaven's door; Around thy head the brightest stars shall meet, And rolling suns play sportive at thy feet. Farewell, NAPOLEON! a long farewell,

A stranger's tongue, alas! must hymn thy worth; No craven Gaul dares wake his harp to tell,

Or sound in song the spot that gave thee birth. No more thy name, that, with its magic spell, Aroused the slumbering nations of the earth, Echoes around thy land; 't is past—at length France sinks beneath the sway of CHARLES the Tenth.

JEALOUSY.

HE who has seen the red-fork'd lightnings flash From out some black and tempest-gather'd cloud, And heard the thunder's simultaneous crash,

Bursting in peals, terrifically loud;

He who has mark'd the madden'd ocean dash
(Robed in its snow-white foam as in a shroud)
Its giant billows on the groaning shore,
While death seem'd echo'd in the deafening roar;
He who has seen the wild tornado sweep

(Its path destruction, and its progress death) The silent bosom of the smiling deep

With the black besom of its boisterc us breath, Waking to strife the slumbering waves, that leap In battling surges from their beds beneath, Yawning and swelling from their liquid caves, Like buried giants from their restless graves:He who has gazed on sights and scenes like these, Hath look'd on nature in her maddest mood; But nature's warfare passes by degrees,

The thunder's voice is hush'd, however rude, The dying winds unclasp the raging seas,

The scowling sky throws back her cloud-capt
hood,

The infant lightnings to their cradles creep,
And the gaunt earthquake rocks herself to sleep.
But there are storms, whose lightnings never glare,
Tempests, whose thunders never cease to roll-
The storms of love, when madden'd to despair,
The furious tempests of the jealous soul.
That kamsin of the heart, which few can bear,

Which owns no limit, and which knows no goal, Whose blast leaves joy a tomb, and hope a speck, Reason a blank, and happiness a wreck.

EARLY LOVE.

THE fond caress of beauty, O, that glow!
The first warm glow that mantles round the heart
Of boyhood! when all's new-the first dear vow
He ever breathed-the tear-drops that first start,
Pure from the unpractised eye-the overflow

Of waken'd passions, that but now impart
A hope, a wish, a feeling yet unfelt,

hat mould to madness, or in mildness melt.

Ignobly thus to yield to raptures past;

To call my buried feelings from their shrouds, O'er which the deep funereal pall was castLike brightest skies entomb'd in darkest clouds No matter, these, the latest and the last

That rise, like spectres of the past, in crowds; The ebullitions of a heart not lost,

But weary, wandering, worn, and tempest-toss'd.

"Tis vain, and worse than vain, to think on joys Which, like the hour that's gone, return no more; Bubbles of folly, blown by wanton boys

Billows that swell, to burst upon the shorePlaythings of passion, manhood's gilded toys, (Deceitful as the shell that seems to roar, But proves the mimic mockery of the surge:) They sink in sorrow's sea, and ne'er emerge.

ALL IS VANITY.

I've compass'd every pleasure, Caught every joy before its bead could pass; I've loved without restriction, without measureI've sipp'd enjoyment from each sparkling glassI've known what 't is, too, to "repent at leisure”

I've sat at meeting, and I've served at mass:-And having roved through half the world's insanities, Cry, with the Preacher--Vanity of vanities!

What constitutes man's chief enjoyment here?
What forms his greatest antidote to sorrow?

Is 't wealth? Wealth can at last but gild his bier,
Or buy the pall that poverty must borrow.
Is 't love? Alas, love's cradled in a tear;

It smiles to-day, and weeps again to-morrow; Mere child of passion, that beguiles in youth, And flies from age, as falsehood flies from truth.

Is 't glory? Pause beneath St. Helen's willow,

Whose weeping branches wave above the spot. Ask him, whose head now rests upon its pillow, Its last, low pillow, there to rest, and rot. Is't fame? Ask her, who floats upon the billow, Untomb'd, uncoffin'd, and perchance forgot; The lovely, lovesick Lesbian, frail as fair, Victim of love, and emblem of despair.

Is 't honour? Go, ask him whose ashes sleep Within the crypt of Paul's stupendous dome, Whose name once thunder'd victory o'er the deep, Far as his country's navies proudly roam; Above whose grave no patriot Dane shall weep,

No Frank deplore the hour he found a homeA home, whence valour's voice from conquest's car No more shall rouse the lord-of Trafalgur.

DURING the present century many persons in this country, whose early productions gave promise of brilliant achievements in maturity, have died young. It has been said that the history of American genius might be written in a series of obituaries of youthful authors. Were DRAKE, SANDS, GRIFFIN, ROCKWELL, WILCOX, PINKNEY, CLARKE, the DAVIDSONS, and BRAINARD now alive, there would be no scarcity of American writers, nor would any of them have passed the ordinary meridian of existence. What they have left us must be regarded as the first-fruits of minds whose full powers were to the last undeveloped, and which were never tasked to their full capacity.

JOHN GARDNER CALKINS BRAINARD was a son of the Honourable J. G. BRAINARD, one of the Justices of the Supreme Court of Connecticut. He was born at New London, in that State, on the twenty-first day of October, 1796. After finishing his preparatory studies, which were pursued under the direction of an elder brother, he entered Yale College, in 1811, being then in the fifteenth year of his age. At this immature period, before the mind is fully awake to the nature and importance of moral and intellectual discipline, severe application to study is unusual.

BRAIN

ARD's books were neglected for communion with his own thoughts and "thick-coming fancies," or for the society of his fellows. His college carcer was marked by nothing peculiar: he was distinguished for the fine powers he evinced whenever he chose to exert them, for the uniform modesty of his deportment, the kindness which characterized his intercourse with those about him, and a remarkable degree of sensitiveness, which caused him to shrink from every harsh collision, and to court retirement. On leaving college, in 1815, he commenced the study of law, in his native place, and on his admission to the bar, he removed to the city of Middletown, intending to practise there his profession. His success was less than he anticipated; perhaps because of his too great modesty an unfortunate quality in lawyers—or, it may be, in consequence of his indolence and convivial propensities. One of his biographers remarks that his friends were always welcome, save when they came as clients.

Wearied with the vexations and dry formalities of his profession, he relinquished it in the winter of 1822, to undertake the editorship of the Connecticut Mirror, a weekly political and literary gazette, published in Hartford. But here he found as little to please him as in the business he had deserted. He was too indolent to prepare every week articles of a serious, argumentative character, and gave in their place, graceful or humorous paragraphs, and the occasional pieces of verse on which rests his reputation as a poct. These, at the time, were republished in many periodicals,

and much praised. In the departments of poetry and criticism, the Mirror acquired a high reputation; but in others, while under his direction, it hardly rose to mediocrity.*

His first volume of poetry,† containing his contributions to the Mirror, and some other pieces, was published early in 1825. It was favourably received by the public, and its success induced his friends to urge him to undertake the composition of a larger and more important work than he had yet attempted. His constitutional lassitude and aversion to high and continued effort deterred him from beginning the task, until 1827, when his health began to wane, and it was no longer in his power. He then relinquished the editorship of the Mirror, and sought for restoring quiet, and the gentle ministrations of affection, the home of his childhood. His illness soon assumed the character of consumption, and he saw that he had but a brief time to live. A few weeks were passed on the eastern shore of Long Island, in the hope of deriving benefit from a change of air; but nothing could arrest the progress of the fatal malady; and he returned to New London, to prepare for the

The editor of the last edition of his works, of which I have received a copy since the above was written, and while this volume is passing through the press, speaks as follows of his editorial career :-" We are assured by competent testimony, that laboured and able political arti cles were withheld from publication, owing to causes over which he had little control. It is not, perhaps, necessary to detail the facts, but they certainly go far to exculpate him from the charge of levity, or weakness, in conducting the editorial department of his paper. Prudential considerations were suffered to have sway, at the expense of his reputation for political tact and foresight. The only substitutes for the articles referred to, were such brief and tame pieces as he could prepare, after the best and almost only hours for composition had passed by. This circumstance, together with the consciousness that the paper was ill sustained in respect to its patronage, was sufficiently discouraging to a person whose sensibilities were as acute as those of BRAINARD. It accounts, also, for the frequent turns of mental depression which marked his latter years,-heightened, indeed, by that frequent and mortifying concomitant of genius,-slender pecuniary means."

The volume was introduced by the following charac teristic address to the reader :-"The author of the following pieces has been induced to publish them in a book, from considerations which cannot be interesting to the public. Many of these little poems have been printed in the Connecticut Mirror; and others are just fit to keep them company. No apologies are made, and no criticisms deprecated. The commonplace story of the impor tunities of friends, though it had its share in the publication, is not insisted upon; but the vanity of the author, if others choose to call it such, is a natural motive, and the hope of making a little something by it,' is an honest acknowledgment, if it is a poor excuse." The motto of the title-page was as quaint :—

"Some said, 'John, print it ;' others said 'Not so ;' Some said 'It might do good;' others said, 'No.'" Bunyan's Apology.