L'INCONNUE.

Is thy name MARY, maiden fair?
Such should, methinks, its music be;
The sweetest name that mortals bear,
Were best befitting thee;

And she to whom it once was given,
Was half of earth and half of heaven.

I hear thy voice, I see thy smile,

I look upon thy folded hair; Ah! while we dream not they beguile, Our hearts are in the snare;

And she, who chains a wild bird's wing, Must start not if her captive sing.

So, lady, take the leaf that falls,

To all but thee unseen, unknown; When evening shades thy silent walls, Then read it all alone;

In stillness read, in darkness seal,
Forget, despise, but not reveal!

THE LAST READER.

I SOMETIMES sit beneath a tree,

And read my own sweet songs;
Though naught they may to others be,
Each humble line prolongs

A tone that might have pass'd away,
But for that scarce-remember'd lay.

I keep them like a lock or leaf,

That some dear girl has given;
Frail record of an hour, as brief

As sunset clouds in heaven,
But spreading purple twilight still
High over memory's shadow'd hill.
They lie upon my pathway bleak,

Those flowers that once ran wild,
As on a father's care-worn cheek

The ringlets of his child;
The golden mingling with the gray,
And stealing half its snows away.
What care I though the dust is spread
Around these yellow leaves,

Or o'er them his sarcastic thread

Oblivion's insect weaves;

Though weeds are tangled on the stream,
It still reflects my morning's beam.
And therefore love I such as smile
On these neglected songs,
Nor deem that flattery's needless wile
My opening bosom wrongs;
For who would trample, at my side,
A few pale buds, my garden's pride?

It may be that my scanty ore

Long years have wash'd away,
And where were golden sands before,
Is naught but common clay;
Still something sparkles in the sun,
For Memory to look back upon.
And when my name no more is heard,
My lyre no more is known,

OLD IRONSIDES.*

Ar, tear her tatter'd ensign down!

Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle-shout,

And burst the cannon's roar; The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,

Where knelt the vanquish'd foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquer'd knee; The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea!

O, better that her shatter'd hulk

Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,-
The lightning and the gale!

STANZAS.

STRANGE! that one lightly-whisper'd tone
Is far, far sweeter unto me,

Than all the sounds that kiss the earth,
Or breathe along the sea;

But, lady, when thy voice I greet,
Not heavenly music seems so sweet.
I look upon the fair, blue skies,

And naught but empty air I see;
But when I turn me to thine eyes,
It seemeth unto me

Ten thousand angels spread their wings
Within those little azure rings.

The lily hath the softest leaf

That ever western breeze hath fann'd, But thou shalt have the tender flower, So I may take thy hand; That little hand to me doth yield More joy than all the broider'd field.

O, lady! there be many things

That seem right fair, below, above;
But sure not one among them all
Is half so sweet as love;-
Let us not pay our vows alone,
But join two altars both in one.

Written when it was proposed to break up the frigate Constitution, as unfit for service.

THE STEAMBOAT.

SEE how yon flaming herald treads
The ridged and rolling waves,

As, crashing o'er their crested heads,
She bows her surly slaves!
With foam before and fire behind,
She rends the clinging sea,
That flies before the roaring wind,
Beneath her hissing lee.

The morning spray, like sea-born flowers
With heap'd and glistening bells,
Falls round her fast in ringing showers.
With every wave that swells;
And, flaming o'er the midnight deep,
In lurid fringes thrown,
The living gems of ocean sweep
Along her flashing zone.

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel,
And smoking torch on high,
When winds are loud, and billows reel,
She thunders foaming by!

When seas are silent and serene,

With even beam she glides,

The sunshine glimmering through the green
That skirts her gleaming sides.
Now, like a wild nymph, far apart
She veils her shadowy form,
The beating of her restless heart

Still sounding through the storm;
Now answers, like a courtly dame,
The reddening surges o'er,
With flying scarf of spangled flame,
The Pharos of the shore.

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep,

Who trims his narrow'd sail; To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep Her broad breast to the gale; And many a foresail, scoop'd and strain'd, Shall break from yard and stay, Before this smoky wreath has stain'd The rising mist of day.

Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud, I see yon quivering mast;

The black throat of the hunted cloud

Is panting forth the blast!

An hour, and, whirl'd like winnowing chaff,
The giant surge shall fling
His tresses o'er yon pennon-staff,

White as the sea-bird's wing!

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep;
Nor wind nor wave shall tire
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap
With floods of living fire;
Sleep on-and when the morning light
Streams o'er the shining bay,

O, think of those for whom the night

Shall never wake in day!

BENJAMIN BUSSEY THATCHER was born in Warren, Maine, on the eighth of October, 1809; entered Bowdoin College, two years in advance, at the age of fifteen, and was graduated bachelor of arts, in 1826. He afterward studied the law, but on being admitted to the bar, finding the duties of the profession too arduous for his delicate constitution, devoted himself to literature, and besides writing much and ably for several periodicals, produced two works on the aborigines of this country, "Indian Biography," and "Indian Traits," which had a wide and well-deserved popularity. In 1836 he went to England, where he remained

about two years, writing industriously meanwhile for British and American reviews, and for two or three journals in Boston and New York as a correspondent. He returned in 1838, still struggling with disease, but with a spirit unbroken, and labored with unfaltering assiduity until near th time of his death, which occurred on the fourteenth of July, 1840, when he was in the thirtyfirst year of his age. He left an account of his residence abroad, which has not been published; nor has there been any collection of his numerous reviews, essays, and poems, many of which are creditable to his abilities, taste, and character.

THE BIRD OF THE BASTILE.*

COME to my breast, thou lone
And weary bird!—one tone,

Of the rare music of my childhood! Dear
Is that strange sound to me;

Dear is the memory

It brings my soul of many a parted year! Again, yet once again,

O minstrel of the main!

Lo! festal face, and form familiar, throng. Unto my waking eye;

And voices of the sky

Sing, from these walls of death, unwonted song. Nay, cease not: I would call

Thus, from the silent hall

Of the unlighted grave, the joys of old:

Beam on me yet once more,

Ye blessed eyes of yore,

Starting life blood through all my being cold.

Ah! cease not; phantoms fair
Fill thick the dungeon's air;

They wave me from its gloom; I fly-I stand
Again upon that spot,

Which ne'er hath been forgot

In all time's tears, my own green, glorious land!

There, on each noon-bright hill,
By fount and flashing rill,

Slowly the faint flocks sought the breezy shade;
There gleamed the sunset's fire,
On the tall tapering spire,

And windows low, along the upland glade.
Sing, sing!-I do not dream-

It is my own blue stream,

* One prisoner I saw there, who had been imprisoned from his youth, and was said to be occasionally insane in consequence. He enjoyed no companionship (the keeper told me) but that of a beautiful tamed bird. Of what name or clime it was, I know not-only that he called it fondly, his dove, and seemed never happy but when it sang to him.-MS. of a Tour through France.

I see far down where white walls fleck the vale ;I know it by the hedge

Of rose-trees at its edge,

Vaunting their crimson beauty to the gale:
There, there, 'mid clustering leaves,
Glimmer my father's eaves,

And the worn threshold of my youth beneath;-
I know them by the moss,
And the old elms that toss

[wreath.

Their lithe arms up where winds the smoke's gray

Sing, sing!-I am not mad-
Sing! that the visions glad

May smile that smiled, and speak that spake but now;
Sing, sing!-I might have knelt

And prayed; I might have felt

Their breath upon my bosom and my brow.

I might have pressed to this

Cold bosom, in my bliss,

Each long-lost form that ancient hearth beside:
O heaven! I might have heard,
From living lips, one word,

Thou mother of my childhood! and have died.
Nay, nay, 't is sweet to weep,
Ere yet in death I sleep;

It minds me I have been, and am again,-
And the world wakes around

It breaks the madness, bound,
While I have dreamed, these ages on my brain.
And sweet it is to love
Even this gentle dove,

This breathing thing from all life else apart:Ah! leave me not the gloom

Of my eternal tomb

To bear alone-alone! Come to my heart,

My bird!-Thou shalt go free

And come, oh come to me

Again, when from the hills the spring-gale blow; So shall I learn, at least,

One other year hath ceased

That the long wo throbs lingering to its close.

ALBERT PIKE was born in Boston, on the twenty-ninth day of December, 1809. When he was about four years old, his parents removed to Newburyport. His father, he informs me, "was a journeyman shoemaker, who worked hard, paid his taxes, and gave all his children the benefit of an education." The youth of the poet was passed principally in attending the district-schools at Newburyport, and an academy at Framingham, until he was sixteen years of age, when, after a rigid and triumphant examination, he was admitted to Harvard College. Not being able to pay the expenses of a residence at Cambridge, however, he soon after became an assistant teacher in the grammar-school at Newburyport, and, at the end of a year, its principal. He was induced to resign this office after a short time, and in the winter which followed was the preceptor of an academy at Fairhaven. He returned to Newburyport in the spring, on foot, and for one year taught there a private school. During all this time he had been a diligent student, intending to enter the university, in advance; but in the spring of 1831 he changed his plans, and started on his travels to the west and south.

He went first to Niagara, and then, through Cleveland, Cincinnati, Nashville, and Paducah, much of the way on foot, to Saint Louis. He left that city in August, with a company of forty persons, among whom were two young men besides himself from Newburyport, for Mexico; and after much fatigue and privation, arrived at Santa Fe on the twenty-eighth of November. Here he remained nearly a year, passing a part of the time as a clerk in a store, and the residue in selling merchandise through the country. Near the close of September, 1832, he left Taos, with a trappingparty; travelled around the sources of Red River to the head waters of the Brazos; separated from the company, with four others, and came into Arkansas,--travelling the last five hundred miles on foot, and reaching Fort Smith, in November, "without a rag of clothing, a dollar in money, or knowing a person in the territory."

Near this place he spent the winter in teaching a few children, and in the following July he went further down the country, and opened a school under more favourable auspices; but after a few weeks, being attacked by a fever, was compelled to abandon it. He had in the mean time written seve ral poems for a newspaper printed at Little Rock, which pleased the editor so much that he sent for him to go there and become his partner. The proposition was gladly accepted, and in October he crossed the Arkansas and landed at Little Rock, paying his last cent for the ferriage of a poor old soldier, who had known his father in New England.

Here commenced a new era in the life of PIKE.

From this time his efforts appear to have been crowned with success. The Arkansas Advocate" was edited by him until the autumn of 1834, when it became his property. Soon after his alrival at his new home he began to devote his leisure to the study of the law, and he was now admitted to the bar. He continued both to write for his paper and to practise in the courts, until the summer of 1836, when he sold his printing establishment; and since then he has successfully pursued his profession. He was married at Little Rock, in November, 1834.

In

About this time he published at Boston a volume of prose sketches and poems, among which are an interesting account of his journeys over the prairies, and some fine poetry, written at Santa Fe and among the mountains and forests of Mexico. the preface to it, he says: "What I have written has been a transcript of my own feelings-too much so, perhaps, for the purposes of fame. Writing has always been to me a communion with my own soul. These poems were composed in desertion and loneliness, and sometimes in places of fear and danger. My only sources of thought and imagery have been my own mind, and Nature, who has appeared to me generally in desolate guise and utter dreariness, and not unfrequently in sublimity."

His "Hymns to the Gods," published afterward, were composed at an carly age, in Fairhaven, and principally while he was surrounded by pupils, in the school-room. They are bold, spirited, scholarly and imaginative, and their diction is appropriate and poetical, though in some instances marred by imperfect and double rhymes. Of his minor pieces, "Spring" and "To the Mockingbird," are the best. I have heard praise bestowed on "Ariel," a poem much longer than these, published in 1835, but as it appeared in a periodical which had but a brief existence, I have not been able to obtain a copy of it. In "Fantasma," in which, I suppose, he intended to shadow forth his own "eventful history," he speaks of one who "Was young,

And had not known the bent of his own mind,
Until the mighty spell of COLERIDGE woke
Its hidden powers,"

and in some of his poems there is a cast of thought similar to that which pervades many of the works of this poet, though nothing that amounts to imitation. His early struggles, and subsequent wanderings and observations furnished him with the subjects, thoughts, and imagery of many of his pieces, and they therefore leave on the mind an impression of nature and truth.

In 1854 Mr. PIKE printed in Philadelphia a collection of his poems, under the title of "Nuge," for his friends. It was not published.

HYMNS TO THE GODS.

NO. ITO NEPTUNE.

GoD of the mighty deep! wherever now
The waves beneath thy brazen axles bow-
Whether thy strong, proud steeds, wind-wing'd
and wild,

Trample the storm-vex'd waters round them piled,
Swift as the lightning-flashes, that reveal
The quick gyrations of each brazen wheel;
While round and under thee, with hideous roar,
The broad Atlantic, with thy scourging sore,
Thundering, like antique Chaos in his spasms,
In heaving mountains and deep-yawning chasms,
Fluctuates endlessly; while, through the gloom,
Their glossy sides and thick manes fleck'd with foam,
Career thy steeds, neighing with frantic glee
In fierce response to the tumultuous sea,—
Whether thy coursers now career below,
Where, amid storm-wrecks, hoary sea-plants grow,
Broad-leaved, and fanning with a ceaseless motion
The pale, cold tenants of the abysmal ocean-
O, come! our altars waiting for thee stand,
Smoking with incense on the level strand!
Perhaps thou lettest now thy horses roam
Upon some quiet plain; no wind-toss'd foam
Is now upon their limbs, but leisurely

They tread with silver feet the sleeping sea,
Fanning the waves with slowly-floating manes,
Like mist in sunlight; haply, silver strains
From clamorous trumpets round thy chariot ring,
And green-robed sea-gods unto thee, their king,
Chant, loud in praise: APOLLO now doth gaze
With loving looks upon thee, and his rays
Light up thy steeds' wild eyes: a pleasant warmth
Is felt upon the sea, where fierce, cold storm
Has just been rushing, and the noisy winds,
That EOLUS now within their prison binds,
Flying with misty wings: perhaps, below
Thou liest in green caves, where bright things glow
With myriad colours-many a monster cumbers
The sand a-near thee, while old TRITON slumbers
As idly as his wont, and bright eyes peep
Upon thee every way, as thou dost sleep.
Perhaps thou liest on some Indian isle,
Under a waving tree, where many a mile
Stretches a sunny shore, with golden sands
Heap'd up in many shapes by naiads' hands,
And, blushing as the waves come rippling on,
Shaking the sunlight from them as they run
And curl upon the beach-like molten gold
Thick-set with jewellery most rare and old-
And sea-nymphs sit, and, with small, delicate shells,
Make thee sweet melody: as in deep dells
We hear, of summer nights, by fairies made,
The while they dance within some quiet shade,
Sounding their silver flutes most low and sweet,
In strange but beautiful tunes, that their light feet
May dance upon the bright and misty dew
In better time: all wanton airs that blew
But lately over spice trees, now are here,
Waving their wings, all odour-laden, near
The bright and laughing sea. O, wilt thou rise,
And come with them to our new sacrifice!

NO. II. TO APOLLO.

Bright-hair'd APOLLO!-thou who ever art
A blessing to the world-whose mighty heart
Forever pours out love, and light, and life:
Thou, at whose glance all things of earth are rife
With happiness; to whom, in early spring,
Bright flowers raise up their heads, where'er they
On the steep mountain-side, or in the vale [cling
Are nestled calmly. Thou at whom the pale
And weary earth looks up, when winter flees,
With patient gaze: thou forwhom wind-stripp'd trees
Put on fresh leaves, and drink deep of the light
That glitters in thine eye: thou in whose bright
And hottest rays the eagle fills his eye
With quenchless fire, and far, far up on high
Screams out his joy to thee: by all the names
That thou dost bear-whether thy godhead claims
PHOEBUS, OF SOL, or golden-hair'd APOLLO,
Cynthian or Pythian-if thou dost follow
The fleeing night, O, hear

Our hymn to thee, and smilingly draw near!

O, most high poet! thou whose great heart's swell
Pours itself out on mountain and deep dell:
Thou who dost touch them with thy golden feet,
And make them for a poet's theme most meet:
Thou who dost make the poet's eye perceive
Great beauty every where-in the slow heave
Of the unquiet sea, or in the war

Of its unnumber'd waters; on the shore
Of pleasant streams, upon the jagged cliff
Of savage mountain, where the black clouds drift
Full of strange lightning; or upon the brow
Of silent night, that solemnly and slow
Comes on the earth; O, thou! whose influence
Touches all things with beauty, makes each sense
Double delight, tinges with thine own heart
Each thing thou meetest; thou who ever art
Living in beauty-nay, who art, in truth,
Beauty imbodied-hear, while all our youth
With carnest calling cry!
Answer our hymn, and come to us, most high!
O, thou! who strikest oft thy golden lyre
In strange disguise, and with a wondrous fire
Sweepest its strings upon the sunny glade,
While dances to thee many a village maid,
Decking her hair with wild flowers, or a wreath
Of thine own laurel, while, reclined beneath
Some ancient oak, with smiles at thy good heart,
As though thou wert of this our world a part,
Thou lookest on them in the darkening wood,
While fauns come forth, and, with their dances rude
Flit round among the trees with merry leap.
Like their god, PAN; and from fir thickets deep
Come up the satyrs, joining the wild crew,
And capering for thy pleasure: from each yew,
And oak, and beech, the wood-nymphs oft peep out
To see the revelry, while merry shout
And noisy laughter rings about the wood,
And thy lyre cheers the darken'd solitude-
O, come! while we do sound
Our flutes and pleasant-pealing lyres around!
O, most high prophet!-thou that showest men
Deep-hidden knowledge: tho that from its den