THE EDGE OF THE SWAMP. "Tis a wild spot, and hath a gloomy look; A butterfly, That look like felon spectres-fetid shrubs, CHANGES OF HOME. And all those airs of gentleness, They wind about our forms at noon, When panting, from the summer's heats, That gilds our passing thoughts of life, And well would they persuade us now, In moments all too dear, That, sinful though our hearts may be, We have our Eden here. Ah, well has lavish nature, From out her boundless store, No sweeter stream than Ashley glides- May claim no softer hue; And let them sing of fruits of Spain, But the blue-eyed Caroliniart rules, And none may say, it is not true, The burden of my lay, "Tis written, in the sight of all, In flower and fruit and ray; Look on the scene around us now, And say if sung amiss, The song that pictures to your eye Her buds, her blooms, her flowers, Are still in rich perfection, As our fathers found them first, Wild thoughts are in our bosoms And a savage discontent; The merry dance delights us not, And all the smile is gone, That link'd the spirits of our youth, JONATHAN LAWRENCE. [Born, 1807. Died, 1833.] FEW persons in private life, who have died so young, have been mourned by so many warm friends as was JONATHAN LAWRENCE. Devoted to a profession which engaged nearly all his time, and regardless of literary distinction, his productions would have been known only to his associates, had not a wiser appreciation of their merits withdrawn them from the obscurity to which his own low estimate had consigned them. He was born in New York, in November, 1807, and, after the usual preparatory studies, entered Columbia College, at which he was graduated before he was fifteen years of age. He soon after became a student in the office of Mr. W. SLOSSON, an eminent lawyer, where he gained much regard by the assiduity with which he prosecuted his studies, the premature ripeness of his judgment, and the undeviating purity and honourableness of his life. On being admitted to the bar, he entered into a partnership with Mr. SLOSSON, and daily added confirmation to the promise of his probational career, until he was suddenly called to a better life, in April, 1833. The industry with which he attended to his professional duties did not prevent him from giving considerable attention to general literature; and in moments to use his own language "Stolen from hours I should have tied he produced many poems and prose sketches of considerable merit. These, with one or two exceptions, were intended not for publication, but as tributes of private friendship, or as contributions to the exercises of a literary society-still in existence of which he was for several years an activo member. After his death, in compliance with a request by this society, his brother made a collection of his writings, of which a very small edition was printed, for private circulation. Their character is essentially meditative. Many of them are devotional, and all are distinguished for the purity of thought which guided the life of the man. THOUGHTS OF A STUDENT. MANY a sad, sweet thought have I, Many a wild and wandering dream, Oft, when the south wind's dancing free And the flowers peep softly out to see The frolic Spring as she wantons by; When the breeze and beam like thieves come in, To steal me away, I deem it sin To slight their voice, and away I'm straying Then can I hear the earth rejoice, That sings of its glad festivity;. Many a hue of fancy, when The hues of earth are about to perish; Love hath its thoughts, we cannot keep, The secret transports of the soul; Many a big, proud tear have I, When from my sweet and roaming track, From the green earth and misty sky, And spring, and love, I hurry back; And almost make me gay and bright. And, though I sometimes sigh to think Of earth and heaven, and wind and sea, And know that the cup which others drink Shall never be brimm'd by me; That many a joy must be urtasted, And many a glorious breeze be wasted, Yet would not, if I dared, repine, That toil, and study, and care are mine. SEA-SONG. OVER the far blue ocean-wave, On the wild winds I flee, Yet every thought of my constant heart For each foaming leap of our gallant ship Had not thy form, through sun and storm, O, the sea-mew's wings are fleet and fast, And lovelier, too, than yon rainbow's hue, Are the daylight dreams and sunny gleams And when moon and stars are asleep on the wa*es, And the sailor is guiling the long watch-hour When our sail is white in the dark midnight, O, never knew hall such festival LOOK ALOFT. In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale Are around and above, if thy footing should fail, If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart, "Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart. If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow, With a smile for each joy and a tear for each wo, Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are array'd, "Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade. Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye, Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret, "Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set. Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart, Yet, lovely May! Teach her whose eyes shall rest upon this rhyme To spurn the gilded mockeries of time, The heartless pomp that beckons to betray, And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year, Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear. And let me too, sweet May! Let thy fond votary see, As fade thy beauties, all the vanity Of this world's pomp; then teach, that though decay In his short winter bury beauty's frame, In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway, Another spring shall bloom, eternal and the same. J. O. ROCKWELL. [Born, 1907. Died, 1831.] JAMES OTIS ROCKWELL was born in Lebanon, an agricultural town in Connecticut, in 1807. At an early age he was apprenticed to a printer, in Utica, and in his sixteenth year he began to write verses for the newspapers. Two years afterward he went to New York, and subsequently to Boston, in each of which cities he laboured as a journeyman compositor. He had now acquired considerable reputation by his poetical writings, and was engaged as associate editor of the "Statesman," an old and influential journal published in Boston, with which, I believe, he continued until 1829, when he became the conductor of the Providence Patriot," with which he was connected at the time of his death. He was poor, and in his youth he had been left nearly to his own direction. He chose to learn the business of printing, because he thought it would afford him opportunities to improve his mind; and his education was acquired by diligent study during the leisure hours of his apprenticeship. When he removed to Providence, it became necessary for him to take an active part in the discussion of political questions. He felt but little interest in public affairs, and shrank instinctively from the strife of partisanship; but it seemed the only avenue to competence and reputation, and he embarked in it with apparent ardour. Journalism, in the hands of able and honourable men, is the noblest of callings; in the hands of the ignorant and mercenary, it is among the meanest. There are at all times connected with the press, persons of the baser sort, who derive their support and chief enjoyment from ministering to the worst pas sions; and by some of this class ROCKWELL'S private character was assailed, and he was taunted with his obscure parentage, defective education, and former vocation, as if to have elevated his position in society, by perseverance and the force of mind, were a ground of accusation. He had too little energy in his nature to regard such assaults with the indifference they merited; and complained in some of his letters that they "robbed him of rest and of all pleasure." With constantly increasing reputation, however, he continued his editorial labours until the summer of 1831, when, at the early age of twenty-four years, he was suddenly called to a better world. He felt unwell, one morning, and, in a brief paragraph, apologized for the apparent neglect of his gazette. The next number of it wore the signs of mourning for his death. A friend of ROCKWELL'S, in a notice of him published in the "Southern Literary Messenger," mentions as the immediate cause of his death, that he "was troubled at the thought of some obliga *Reverend CHARLES W. EVEREST, of Meriden, Connecticut. tion which, from not receiving money then due to him, he was unable to meet, and shrank from the prospect of a debtor's prison." That it was in some way a result of his extreme sensitiveness, was generally believed among his friends at the time. WHITTIER, who was then editor of the "New England Weekly Review," soon after wrote the following lines to his memory: "The turf is smooth above him! and this rain No vigil with the dead. Well-it is meet But we may trust And the pure dews of mercy will descend, "Nor died he unlamented! To his grave To feel that earth remembers him in love!" The specimens of ROCKWELL's poetry which have fallen under my notice show him to have possessed considerable fancy and deep feeling His imagery is not always well chosen, and his versification is sometimes defective; but his thoughts pieces is striking. His later poems are his best, are often original, and the general effect of his and probably he would have produced works of much merit had he lived to a maturer age. THE SUM OF LIFE. SEARCHER of gold, whose days and nights And strugglest in the foam; O! come and view this land of graves, And mark thee out thy home. Lover of woman, whose sad heart Wastes like a fountain in the sun, Come to the land of graves; for here Here slumber forms as fair as those Lover of fame, whose foolish thought Steals onward o'er the wave of time, The spirit-mansion desolate, The absent soul in fear; Bring home thy thoughts and come with me, And, warrior, thou with snowy plume, Shall hold thee and thy glories all: TO ANN. THOU wert as a lake that lieth I was as a bird that flieth O'er it on a pleasant day; When I look'd upon thy features Presence then some feeling lent; But thou knowest, most false of creatures, With a kiss my vow was greeted, But I saw that kiss repeated That thy heart should not be changed; I could blame thee for awaking Thoughts the world will but deride; Calling out, and then forsaking Flowers the winter wind will chide; Guiling to the midway ocean Barks that tremble by the shore; THE LOST AT SEA. WIFE, who in thy deep devotion Hope no more-his course is done. Dream not, when upon thy pillow, That he slumbers by thy side; For his corse beneath the billow Heaveth with the restless tide. Children, who, as sweet flowers growing, For your father lost and gone! When the sun look'd on the water, Where the giant current roll'd, And the silent sunbeams slanted, Wavering through the crystal deep, Till their wonted splendours haunted Those shut eyelids in their sleep. Sands, like crumbled silver gleaming, Sparkled through his raven hair; But the sleep that knows no dreaming Bound him in its silence there. So we left him; and to tell thee That thy heart-blood wildly flows, That thy cheek's clear hue is faded, Are the fruits of these new woes. Children, whose meek eyes, inquiring |