THE author of "The Last Night of Pompeii" was born in Warwick, near the western border of Massachusetts, in the autumn of 1803. His father, a respectable physician, died in 1806, and his mother, on becoming a widow, returned with two children to her paternal home in Worcester.

Mr. FAIRFIELD entered Harvard College when thirteen years of age; but, after spending two years in that seminary, was compelled to leave it, to aid his mother in teaching a school in a neighbouring village. He subsequently passed two or three years in Georgia and South Carolina, and in 1824 went to Europe. He returned in 1826, was soon afterwards married, and from that period resided in Philadelphia, where for several years he conducted the North American Magazine," a monthly miscellany in which appeared most of his prose writings and poems.

He commenced the business of authorship at a very early period, and perhaps produced more in the form of poetry than any of his American contemporaries. The Cities of the Plain," one of his earliest poems, was originally published in England. It was founded on the history of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, in the eighteenth and nineteenth chapters of Genesis. The "Heir of the World," which followed in 1828, is a poetical version of the life of ABRAHAM. It is in the Spenserian measure, and contains some fine passages, descriptive of scenery and feeling. His next considerable work, "The Spirit of Destruction," appeared in 1830. Its subject is the deluge. Like the Cities of the Plain," it is in the heroic verse, in which he wrote with great facility. His "Last Night of Pompeii"* was published in 1832. It is the result of two years' industrious labour, and was written amid the cares and vexations of poverty. The destruction of the cities of Herculaneum, Pompeii, Retina and Stabiæ, by an eruption of Vesuvius, in the summer of the year seventy-nine, is perhaps one of the finest subjects for poetry in modern history. Mr. FAIRFIELD in this poem exhibits a familiar acquaintance with the manners and events of the period, and his style is stately and sustained. His shorter pieces, though in some cases turgid and unpolished, are generally distinguished for vigour of thought and depth of feeling. An edition of his principal writings was published in a closely-printed octavo volume, in Philadelphia, in 1841.

The first and last time I ever saw FAIRFIELD was in the summer of 1842, when he called at my hotel to thank me for some kind notice of him in one of the journals, of which he supposed me

Mr. FAIRFIELD accused Sir EDWARD BULWER LYT. TON of founding on this poem his romance of the "Last Days of Pompeii."

34

to be the author. In a note sent to my apartment he described himself as " an outcast from all human affections" except those of his mother and his children, with whom he should remain but a little while, for he "felt the weight of the arm of Death." He complained that every man's hand had been against him, that exaggerated accounts had been published of his infirmities, and uncharitable views given of his misfortunes. He said his mother, who had been abused as an annoying old crone," in the newspapers, for endeavouring to obtain subscribers for his works, was attending him from his birth to his burial, and would never grow weary till the end. This prediction was verified. About a year afterwards I read in a published letter from New Orleans that FAIRFIELD had wandered to that city, lived there a few months in solitude and destitution, and after a painful illness died. While he lingered on his pallet, between the angel of death and his mother, she counted the hours of day and night, never slumbering by his side, nor leaving him, until as his only mourner she had followed him to a grave.

Not wishing to enter into any particular examination of his claims to personal respect, I must still express an opinion that FAIRFIELD was harshly treated, and that even if the specific charges against him were true, it was wrong to permit the private character of the author to have any influence upon critical judgments of his works. He wrote much, and generally with commendable aims. His knowledge of books was extensive and accurate. He had considerable fancy, which at one period was under the dominion of cultivated taste and chastened feeling; but troubles, mostly resulting from a want of skill in pecuniary affairs, induced recklessness, misanthropy, intemperance, and a general derangement and decay of his intellectual and moral nature. I see not much to admire in his poems, but they are by no means contemptible; and "the poet FAIRFIELD" had during a long period too much notoriety not to deserve some notice in a work of this sort, even though his verses had been still less poetical.

Persons of an ardent temperament and refined sensibilities have too frequently an aversion to the practical and necessary duties of common life, to the indulgence of which they owe their chief misfortunes and unhappiness. The mind of the true poet, however, is well ordered and comprehensive, and shrinks not from the humblest of duties. FAIRFIELD had the weakness or madness, absurdly thought to belong to the poetical character, which unfitted him for an honourable and distinguished life. He needed, besides his "some learning and more feeling," a strong will and good sense, to be either great or useful.

DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII.*

[here!

A ROAR, as if a myriad thunders burst, Now hurtled o'er the heavens, and the deep earth Shudder'd, and a thick storm of lava hail Rush'd into air, to fall upon the world. And low the lion cower'd, with fearful moans And upturn'd eyes, and quivering limbs, and clutch'd The gory sand instinctively in fear. The very soul of silence died, and breath Through the ten thousand pallid lips, unfelt, Stole from the stricken bosoms; and there stood, With face uplifted, and eyes fix'd on air, (Which unto him was throng'd with angel forms,) The Christian-waiting the high will of Heaven. A wandering sound of wailing agony, A cry of coming horror, o'er the street Of tombs arose, and all the lurid air Echo'd the shrieks of hopelessness and death. "Hear ye not now?" said PANSA. Death is Ye saw the avalanche of fire descend Vesuvian steeps, and, in its giant strength Sweep on to Herculaneum; and ye cried, It threats not us: why should we lose the sport? Though thousands perish, why should we refrain?' Your sister city-the most beautifulGasps in the burning ocean-from her domes Fly the survivors of her people, driven Before the torrent-floods of molten earth, With desolation red-and o'er her grave Unearthly voices raise the heart's last criesFly, fly! O, horror! O, my son! my sire!' The hoarse shouts multiply; without the mount Are agony and death-within, such rage Of fossil fire as man may not behold! Hark! the destroyer slumbers not-and now, Be your theologies but true, your Jove, Mid all his thunders, would shrink back aghast, Listening the horrors of the Titan's strife. The lion trembles; will ye have my blood, Or flee, ere Herculaneum's fate is yours?"

Vesuvius answer'd: from its pinnacles Clouds of far-flashing cinders, lava showers, And seas, drank up by the abyss of fire, To be hurl'd forth in boiling cataracts, Like midnight mountains, wrapp'd in lightnings, fell. O, then, the love of life! the struggling rush, The crushing conflict of escape! few, brief, And dire the words delirious fear spake now,— One thought, one action sway'd the tossing crowd. All through the vomitories madly sprung, And mass on mass of trembling beings press'd, Gasping and goading, with the savageness That is the child of danger, like the waves Charybdis from his jagged rocks throws down, Mingled in madness-warring in their wrath. Some swoon'd, and were trod down by legion feet; Some cried for mercy to the unanswering gods; Some shriek'd for parted friends, forever lost; And some, in passion's chaos, with the yells Of desperation, did blaspheme the heavens;

From "The Last Night of Pompeii." This scene follows the destruction of Herculaneum. PANSA, a Christian, condemned by DIOMEDE, is brought into the gladiatorial arena, when a new eruption from Vesuvius causes a suspension of the proceedings.

And some were still in utterness of wo.
Yet all toil'd on in trembling waves of life
Along the subterranean corridors.
Moments were centuries of doubt and dread;
Each breathing obstacle a hated thing;
Each trampled wretch a footstool to o'erlook
The foremost multitudes; and terror, now,
Begat in all a maniac ruthlessness,—
For, in the madness of their agonies,
Strong men cast down the feeble, who delay'd
Their flight; and maidens on the stones were crush'd,
And mothers madden'd when the warrior's heel
Pass'd o'er the faces of their sons! The throng
Press'd on, and in the ampler arcades now
Beheld, as floods of human life roll'd by,
The uttermost terrors of the destined hour.
In gory vapours the great sun went down;
The broad, dark sea heaved like the dying heart,
"Tween earth and heaven hovering o'er the grave
And moan'd through all its waters; every dome
And temple, charr'd and choked with ceaseless
Of suffocating cinders, seem'd the home [showers
Of the triumphant desolator, Death.
One dreadful glance sufficed,-and to the sea,
Like Lybian winds, breathing despair, they fled.

Nature's quick instinct, in most savage beasts,
Prophesies danger ere man's thought awakes,
And shrinks in fear from common savageness,
Made gentle by its terror; thus, o'erawed,
E'en in his famine's fury, by a Power
Brute beings more than human oft adore,
The lion lay, his quivering paws outspread,
His white teeth gnashing, till the crushing throngs
Had pass'd the corridors; then, glaring up,
His eyes imbued with samiel light, he saw
The crags and forests of the Apennines
Gleaming far off, and, with the exulting sense
Of home and lone dominion, at a bound
He leap'd the lofty palisades, and sprung
Along the spiral passages, with howls
Of horror, through the flying multitudes,
Flying to seek his lonely mountain-lair.

From every cell shrieks burst; hyenas cried, Like lost child, wandering o'er the wilderness, That, in deep loneliness, mingles its voice With wailing winds and stunning waterfalls; The giant elephant, with matchless strength, Struggled against the portal of his tomb, And groan'd and panted; and the leopard's yell, And tiger's growl, with all surrounding cries Of human horror mingled; and in air, Spotting the lurid heavens and waiting prey, The evil birds of carnage hung and watch'd, As ravening heirs watch o'er the miser's couch. All awful sounds of heaven and earth met now; Darkness behind the sun-god's chariot roll'd, Shrouding destruction, save when volcan fires Lifted the folds, to glare on agony; And, when a moment's terrible repose Fell on the deep convulsions, all could hear The toppling cliffs explode and crash below,— While multitudinous waters from the sea In whirlpools through the channel'd mountain rocks Rush'd, and, with hisses like the damned's speech, Fell in the mighty furnace of the mount.

VISIONS OF ROMANCE.

WHEN dark-brow'd midnight o'er the slumbering world

Mysterious shadows and bewildering throws,
And the tired wings of human thought are furl'd,
And sleep descends, like dew upon the rose,—
How full of bliss the poet's vigil hour,
When o'er him elder time hath magic power!
Before his eye past ages stand reveal'd,
When feudal chiefs held lordly banquettings,
In the spoils revelling of flood and field,
Among their vassals proud, unquestion'd kings:
While honour'd minstrels round the ample board
The lays of love or songs of battle pour'd.
The dinted helmet, with its broken crest,
The serried sabre, and the shatter'd shield
Hung round the wainscot, dark, and well express'd
That wild, fierce pride, which scorn'd, unscathed, to
The pictures there, with dusky glory rife, [yield;
From age to age bore down stern characters of strife.
Amid long lines of glorious ancestry, [walls,
Whose eyes flash'd o'er them from the gray, old
What craven quails at Danger's lightning eye?
What warrior blenches when his brother falls?
Bear witness Cressy and red Agincourt!
Bosworth, and Bannockburn, and Marston Moor!
The long, lone corridors, the antler'd hall,
The massive walls, the all-commanding towers-
Where revel reign'd, and masquerading ball,
And beauty won stern warriors to her bowers-
In ancient grandeur o'er the spirit move,
With all their forms of chivalry and love.
The voice of centuries bursts upon the soul;
Long-buried ages wake and live again;
Past feats of fame and deeds of glory roll,
Achieved for ladye-love in knighthood's reign;
And all the simple state of olden time
Assumes a garb majestic and sublime.

The steel-clad champion on his vaulting steed,
The mitred primate, and the Norman lord,
The peerless maid, awarding valour's meed,
And the meek vestal, who her GoD adored-
The pride, the pomp, the power and charm of earth
From fancy's dome of living thought come forth.
The feast is o'er, the huntsman's course is done,
The trump of war, the shrill horn sounds no more;
The heroic revellers from the hall have gone,
The lone blast moans the ruin'd castle o'er!
The spell of beauty, and the pride of power
Have pass'd forever from the feudal tower.
No more the drawbridge echoes to the tread
Of visor'd knights, o'ercanopied with gold;
O'er mouldering gates and crumbling archways
Dark ivy waves in many a mazy fold, [spread,
Where chiefs flash'd vengeance from their lightning
glance,
[lance.
And grasp'd the brand, and couch'd the conquering
The gorgeous pageantry of times gone by,
The tilt, the tournament, the vaulted hall,
Fades in its glory on the spirit's eye,
And fancy's bright and gay creations-all

Sink into dust, when reason's searching glance
Unmasks the age of knighthood and romance.
Like lightning hurtled o'er the lurid skies,
Their glories flash along the gloom of years;
The beacon-lights of time, to wisdom's eyes,
O'er the deep-rolling stream of human tears.
Fade! fade! ye visions of antique romance!
Tower, casque, and mace, and helm, and banner'd
lance!

AN EVENING SONG OF PIEDMONT.
AVE MARIA! 'tis the midnight hour,
The starlight wedding of the earth and heaven,
When music breathes its perfume from the flower,
And high revealings to the heart are given;
Soft o'er the meadows steals the dewy air-
Like dreams of bliss; the deep-blue ether glows,
And the stream murmurs round its islets fair
The tender night-song of a charm'd repose.

Ave Maria! 't is the hour of love,
The kiss of rapture, and the link'd embrace,
The hallow'd converse in the dim, still grove,
The elysium of a heart-revealing face,
When all is beautiful-for we are bless'd,
When all is lovely-for we are beloved,
When all is silent-for our passions rest,
When all is faithful-for our hopes are proved.

Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer,

Of hush'd communion with ourselves and Heaven, When our waked hearts their inmost thoughts declare,

High, pure, far-searching, like the light of even;
When hope becomes fruition, and we feel
The holy earnest of eternal peace,

That bids our pride before the Omniscient kneel,
That bids our wild and warring passions cease.

Ave Maria! soft the vesper hymn Floats through the cloisters of yon holy pile, And, mid the stillness of the night-watch dim, Attendant spirits seem to hear and smile! Hark! hath it ceased? The vestal seeks her cell, And reads her heart-a melancholy tale! A song of happier years, whose echoes swell O'er her lost love, like pale bereavement's wail.

Ave Maria! let our prayers ascend
From them whose holy offices afford
No joy in heaven-on earth without a friend-
That true, though faded image of the LORD!
For them in vain the face of nature glows,
For them in vain the sun in glory burns,
The hollow breast consumes in fiery woes,

And meets despair and death where'er it turns.
Ave Maria! in the deep pine wood,
On the clear stream, and o'er the azure sky
Bland midnight smiles, and starry solitude
Breathes hope in every breeze that wanders by.
Ave Maria! may our last hour come

As bright, as pure, as gentle, Heaven! as this'
Let faith attend us smiling to the tomb,
And life and death are both the heirs of bliss!

THE family of the author of "Geraldine" is one of the most ancient and respectable in Massachusetts. His ancestors were among the earliest settlers of Boston; and his grandfather, as president of the Council, was for a time acting governor of the state, on the death of the elected chief magistrate. His father, THOMAS DAWES, was for ten years one of the associate judges of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts, and was distinguished among the advocates of the Federal Constitution, in the state convention called for its consideration. He was a sound lawyer, a man of great independence of character, and was distinguished for the brilliancy of his wit, and for many useful qualities.* RUFUS DAWES was born in Boston, on the twenty-sixth of January, 1803, and was the youngest but one of sixteen children. He entered Harvard College in 1820; but in consequence of class disturbances, and insubordination, of which it was afterward shown he was falsely accused, he was compelled to leave that institution without a degree. This indignity he retaliated by a severe satire on the most prominent members of the faculty-the first poem he ever published. He then entered the office of General WILLIAM SULLIVAN, as a law-student, and was subsequently admitted a member of the Suffolk county bar. He has however never pursued the practice of the legal profession, having been attracted by other pursuits more congenial with his feelings.

of Chief Justice CRANCH, of Washington. In 1830 he published "The Valley of the Nashaway, and other Poems," some of which had appeared originally in the Cambridge "United States Literary Gazette;" and in 1839, "Athenia of Damas cus," "Geraldine," and his miscellaneous poetical writings. His last work, "Nix's Mate," an histo rical romance, appeared in the following year.

With Mr. DAWES poetry seems to have been a passion, which is fast subsiding and giving place to a love of philosophy. He has been said to be a disciple of COLERIDGE, but in reality is a devoted follower of SWEDENBORG; and to this influence must be ascribed the air of mysticism which pervades his later productions. He has from time to time edited several legal, literary, and political works, and in the last has shown himself to be an adherent to the principles of the old Federal party. As a poet, his standing is yet unsettled, there being a wide difference of opinion respecting his writings. His versification is generally easy and correct, and in some pieces he exhibits considerable imagination,

In the winter of 1840-41, he delivered a course of lectures in the city of New York, before the American Institute, in which he combated the principles of the French eclectics and the Transcendentalists, contending that their philosophy is only a sublimated natural one, and very far re moved from the true system of causes, and genuspirituality.

LANCASTER.

THE Queen of May has bound her virgin brow, And hung with blossoms every fruit-tree bough; The sweet Southwest, among the early flowers, Whispers the coming of delighted hours, While birds within the heaping foliage, sing Their music-welcome to returning Spring.

O, Nature! loveliest in thy green attireDear mother of the passion-kindling lyre; Thou who, in early days, upled'st me where The mountains freeze above the summer air; Or luredst my wandering way beside the streams, To watch the bubbles as they mock'd my dreams, Lead me again thy flowery paths among, To sing of native scenes as yet unsung! Dear Lancaster! thy fond remembrance brings Thoughts, like the music of Æolian strings,

* He is classed by Mr. KETTELL among the American poets; and in the Book of "Specimens" published by him are given some passages of his "Law given on Sinai," published in Boston in 1777.

When the hush'd wind breathes only as it sleeps,
While tearful Love his anxious vigil keeps :—
When press'd with grief, or sated with the show
That Pleasure's pageant offers here below,
Midst scenes of heartless mirth or joyless glee,
How oft my aching heart has turn'd to thee,
And lived again, in memory's sweet recess,
The innocence of youthful happiness!

In life's dull dream, when want of sordid gain Clings to our being with its cankering chain. When lofty thoughts are cramp'd to stoop below The vile, rank weeds that in their pathway grow, Who would not turn amidst the darken'd scene, To memoried spots where sunbeams intervene; And dwell with fondness on the joyous hours, When youth built up his pleasure-dome of flowers?

Now, while the music of the feather'd choir Rings where the sheltering blossoms wake desire, When dew-eyed Love looks tenderness, and speaks A ilent language with his mantling cheeks; I think of those delicious moments past, Which joyless age shall dream of to the last;

As now, though far removed, the Muse would tell, Though few may listen, what she loved so well.

Dear hours of childhood, youth's propitious spring, When Time fann'd only roses with his wing, When dreams, that mock reality, could move To yield an endless holiday to Love, How do ye crowd upon my fever'd brain, And, in imagination, live again!

Lo! I am with you now, the sloping green, Of many a sunny hill is freshly seen; Once more the purple clover bends to meet, And shower their dew-drops on the pilgrim's feet; Once more he breathes the fragrance of your fields, Once more the orchard tree its harvest yields, Again he hails the morning from your hills, And drinks the cooling water of your rills, While, with a heart subdued, he feels the power Of every humble shrub and modest flower.

O thou who journeyest through that Eden-clime,
Winding thy devious way to cheat the time,
Delightful Nashaway! beside thy stream,
Fain would I paint thy beauties as they gleam.
Eccentric river! poet of the woods!
Where, in thy far secluded solitudes,

The wood-nymphs sport and naiads plash thy wave,
With charms more sweet than ever Fancy gave;
How oft with Mantua's bard, from school let free,
I've conn'd the silver lines that flow like thee,
Couch'd on thy emerald banks, at full length laid,
Where classic elms grew lavish of their shade,
Or indolently listen'd, while the throng
Of idler beings woke their summer song;
Or, with rude angling gear, outwatched the sun,
Comparing mine to deeds by WALTON done,

Far down the silent stream, where arching trees
Bend their green boughs so gently to the breeze,
One live, broad mass of molten crystal lies,
Clasping the mirror'd beauties of the skies!
Look, how the sunshine breaks upon the plains!
So the deep blush their flatter'd glory stains.
Romantic river! on thy quiet breast,
While flash'd the salmon with his lightning crest,
Not long ago, the Indian's thin canoe
Skimm'd lightly as the shadow which it threw;
Not long ago, beside thy banks of green,
The night-fire blazed and spread its dismal sheen.
Thou peaceful valley! when I think how fair
Thy various beauty shines, beyond compare,
I cannot choose but own the Power that gave
Amidst thy woes a helping hand to save,
When o'er thy hills the savage war-whoop came,
And desolation raised its funeral flame!

'Tis night! the stars are kindled in the sky, And hunger wakes the famished she-wolf's cry, While, o'er the crusted snow, the careful tread Betrays the heart whose pulses throb with dread; Yon flickering light, kind beacon of repose! The weary wanderer's homely dwelling shows, Where, by the blazing fire, his bosom's joy Holds to her heart a slumbering infant boy; While every sound her anxious bosom moves, She starts and listens for the one she loves;Hark! was't the night-bird's cry that met her

ear,

Curdling the blood that thickens with cold fear?—

"Again, O God! that voice,-'tis his! 'tis his!" She hears the death-shriek and the arrow's whiz, When, as she turns, she sees the bursting door Roll her dead husband bleeding on the floor.

Loud as the burst of sudden thunder, rose The maddening war-cry of the ambush'd foes; Startling in sleep, the dreamless infant wakes, Like morning's smile when daylight's slumber breaks;

66

For mercy! spare my child, forbear the blow!” In vain ;-the warm blood crimsons on the snow. O'er the cold earth the captive mother sighs, Her ears still tortured by her infant's cries; She cannot weep, but deep resolve, unmoved, Plots vengeance for the victims so beloved; Lo! by their fire the glutted warriors lie, Locked in the death-sleep of ebriety, When from her bed of snow, whence slumber flew, The frenzied woman rose the deed to do ;Firmly beside the senseless men of blood, With vengeful arm, the wretched mother stood; She hears her groaning, dying lord expire, Her woman's heart nerves up with maddening fire, She sees her infant dashed against the tree,— "Tis done!-the red men sleep eternally.

[now,

Such were thy wrongs, sweet Lancaster! but No spot so peaceful and serene as thou; Thy hills and fields in checker'd richness stand, The glory and the beauty of the land.

From calm repose, while glow'd the eastern sky, And the fresh breeze went fraught with fragrance by, Waked by the noisy woodbird, free from care, What joy was mine to drink the morning air! Not all the bliss maturer life can bring, When ripen'd manhood soars with strengthen'd wing,

Not all the rapture Fancy ever wove,

Nor less than that which springs from mutual love,
Could challenge mine, when to the ravish'd sense
The sunrise painted Gon's magnificence!
George-hill, thou pride of Nashaway, for thee,-
Thyself the garden of fertility,-
Nature has hung a picture to the eye,
Where Beauty smiles at sombre Majesty.
The river winding in its course below, [grow,
Through fertile fields where yellowing harvests
The bowering elms that so majestic grew,
A green arcade for waves to wander through;
The deep, broad valley, where the new-mown hay
Loads the fresh breezes of the rising day,
And, distant far, Wachusett's towering height,
Blue in the lingering shadows of the night,
Have power to move the sternest heart to love,
That Nature's loveliness could ever move.

Ye who can slumber when the starlight fades, And clouds break purpling through the eastern shades,

Whose care-worn spirits cannot wake at morn,
To lead your buoyant footsteps o'er the lawn,
Can never know what joy the ravish'd sense
Feels in that moment's sacred influence.

I will not ask the meed of fortune's smile,
The flatterer's praise, that masks his heart of guile,
So I can walk beneath the ample sky,
And hear the birds' discordant melody,