[Born,

MR. EASTMAN was educated at the University of Vermont, and has been for several years engaged as a journalist, at Burlington, Woodstock, and Montpelier. He now resides in the latter town, where he is editor of "The Vermont Patriot," the leading gazette of the democratic party in the state. In 1848 he published a collection of "Poems," nearly all of which had previously appeared in various literary miscellanies. They are chiefly lyrical, and the author displays in them

THE FARMER SAT IN HIS EASY CHAIR.

THE farmer sat in his easy chair,
Smoking his pipe of clay,

While his hale old wife with busy care
Was clearing the dinner away;

A sweet little girl with fine blue eyes
On her grandfather's knee was catching flies.
The old man laid his hand on her head,
With a tear on his wrinkled face;
He thought how often her mother, dead,
Had sat in the self-same place:

As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye-
"Don't smoke," said the child; "how it makes
you cry!"

The house-dog lay stretch'd out on the floor
Where the shade after noon used to steal;
The busy old wife by the open door

Was turning the spinning-wheel;
And the old brass clock on the manteltree
Had plodded along to almost three:

Still the farmer sat in his easy chair,
While close to his heaving breast
The moisten'd brow and the cheek so fair
Of his sweet grandchild were press'd;
His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay-
Fast asleep were they both, that summer day.

MILL MAY.

THE strawberries grow in the mowing, MILL MAY,
And the bob-o'-link sings on the tree;
On the knolls the red clover is growing, MILL MAY,
Then come to the meadow with me!
We'll pick the ripe clusters among the deep grass,
On the knolls in the mowing, MILL MAY,
And the long afternoon together we'll pass,
Where the clover is growing, MILL MAY.
Come! come, ere the season is over, MILL MAY,
To the fields where the strawberries grow,
While the thick-growing stems and the clover, MILL
Shall meet us wherever we go; [MAY,

-]

a fondness for the French construction, with re frains and choruses, which he introduces naturally and effectively.

Some of his pieces in the manner of PRAED, and other contemporary poets, are successful as imitations, but are scarcely equal in the qualities of poetry to his more independent compositions, in which he has reflected with equal truth and felicity the living features of the rural life of New England.

We'll pick the ripe clusters among the deep grass,
On the knolls in the mowing, MILL MAY,
And the long afternoon together we'll pass,
Where the clover is growing MILL MAY.

The sun, stealing under your bonnet, MILL MAY,
Shall kiss a soft glow to your face,

And your lip the strawberry leave on it, MILL MAY,
A tint that the sea-shell would grace;
Then come the ripe clusters among the deep grass.
We'll pick in the mowing, MILL MAY,
And the long afternoon together we'll pass,
Where the clover is growing, MILL MAY.

HER GRAVE IS BY HER MOTHER'S.

HER grave is by her mother's,

Where the strawberries grow wild, And there they've slept for many a year, The mother and the child.

She was the frailest of us all,

And, from her mother's breast,
We hoped, and pray'd, and trembled, more
For her, than all the rest.

So frail, alas! she could not bear
The gentle breath of Spring,
That scarce the yellow butterfly
Felt underneath its wing.

How hard we strove to save her, love
Like ours alone can tell;
And only those know what we lost,
Who've loved the lost as well.

Some thirteen summers from her birth,
When th' reaper cuts the grain,
We laid her in the silent earth,
A flower without a stain.
We laid her by her mother,

Where the strawberries grow wild,
And there they sleep together well,
The mother and the child!

MR. STODDARD is a young man, who has within a year or two appeared before the public as a poet. The first poem to which his name was attached attracted notice by a purity and quiet grace of language, which, though echoing at times the masters of song whom he studied, would have suggested a greater range of opportunity and experience than he actually possessed. In the autumn of 1848 he collected a number of his effusions, most of which had previously been published in the Knickerbocker and Union Magazine, into a small volume, with the title of "Foot-Prints." This essay was well received; notwithstanding some traces of unconscious imitation, natural to a young writer, it gave evidence of a clear and vigorous fancy and a correct appreciation of the harmonies of sound and rhythm. Perhaps the most individual trait displayed in its pages is a capacity for finished and picturesque description. His landscapes have a sharp and distinct outline, in which none of the minor features are omitted-a keen

perception of form, in striking contrast to the more glowing coloring and careless outline of young writers in general.

Mr. STODDARD's best poems, from which the following selections are taken, have been written since the appearance of his volume. They give evidence of growing power and a capacity of attaining high excellence in a school of poetry of which we have few modern specimens. The poem of "Leonatus," in its daintiness of metre and language, reminds one of the old English songwriters, whose purity of diction Mr. STODDARD evidently endeavours to emulate. Fortunately for him, he has the industry and untiring enthusiasm without which lasting success is impossible, his literary studies being prosecuted entirely in the scanty interva's of severe physical labour.

Mr. STODDARD is a native of Hingham, Massachusetts, but has resided several years in the city of New York. He was about twenty-one years of age when he published his "Foot-Prints."

LEONATUS.

A LEAF FROM "CYMBELINE."

I.

THE orphan LEONATUS,
The page of IMOGEN--

His father died when he was small:
A general in the wars with Rome,
Wounded to death, he totter'd home,
And hung his sword upon the wall;
He had borne it through the fight,
Summer, winter, day and night-
He died at last with it in sight,
And they laid it on his pall,
A legacy unto his son;

Other fortune he had none

What need of more, what could he claim As precious as a soldier's fame?

II.

The fair boy LEONATUS,
The page of IMOGEN-

He was now a dainty youth,

His brow was smooth, and fair, and high,
And in the blueness of his eye
Glow'd sincerity and truth.

He was soft and low of speech;
His checks were rounded-upon each
Was down, like that upon a peach;
And his golden hair, in sooth

A shower of tresses rich and bright,
Shone down upon his shoulders white,

Like the sunny locks of Spring Falling o'er its snowy wing.

III.

The sweet boy LEONATUS,
The page of IMOGEN-
It was his duty evermore
To tend on Ladye IMOGEN.

By peep of day he might be seen,
Light-finger'd, tapping at her door,
Rousing the s'eepy waiting-maid:
When she had risen, and array'd
The princess, and their prayers were said
(On pearled rosaries counted o'er),
They call'd him, pacing to and fro;
And cap in hand, and bowing low,
He enter'd, and began to feed

The singing-birds with fruit and seed.

And fill'd his golden salver there, And hurried to his ladye fair.

V.

The gallant LEONATUS,
The page of IMOGEN-

He had a steed from Arab ground,
And when the lords and ladies gay
Went hawking on a festal day,
And hunting in the country round,
And IMOGEN did join the band,
He rode him like a hunter grand,
A hooded hawk upon his hand,
And by his side a slender hound:

When they saw the deer go by,
He slipp'd the leash and let him fly,
And spurr'd his steed, and slack'd the rein,
And scour'd beside her o'er the plain.

VI.

The strange boy LEONATUS,
The page of IMOGEN-

Sometimes he used to stand for hours
Within her room, behind her chair;
The soft wind blew his golden hair
Across his eyes, and bees from flowers
Flew at him, but he did not stir:
He fix'd his earnest eyes on her,
A pure and reverent worshipper,
A dreamer building airy towers.

But when she spoke, he gave a start
That sent the warm blood from his heart
Into his cheeks; and, blushing sweet,
He listen'd, kneeling at her feet.

VII.

The sad boy LEONATUS,
The page of IMOGEN-

He lost all relish and delight

For all things that did please before; By day, he wish'd the day was o'erAnd night, he wish'd the same of night.

He could not mingle in the crowd, He loved to be alone, and shroud His tender thoughts, and sigh aloud, And cherish in his heart its blight.

At last his health began to fail,
His fresh and glowing cheeks to pale;
His eyes grew lustreless and dead,
Like violets ere their dews are shed.

VIII.

The timid LEONATUS,
The page of IMOGEN-

"What ails the boy?" said IMOGEN.

Hestammer'd, sigh'd, and answer'd "Naught." She shook her head, and then she thought What all his malady could mean;

It might be love: her maid was fair,
And LEON' had a loving air.

She watch'd them with a jealous care,
And play'd the spy, but naught was seen;
And then she was aware at first
That she unwittingly had nursed
Passion, till it had grown a part—
A heart within her very heart!

IX.

The dear boy LEONATUS,
The page of IMOGEN-
She loved, but own'd it not as yet;
When he was absent, she was lone,
She felt a void before unknown,
And LEON' fill'd it when they met.

She call'd him twenty times a day,
She knew not why, she could not say;
She fretted when he went away,
And lived in sorrow and regret;

Sometimes she frown'd with stately mien,
And chid him like a little queen—
And then she soothed him, meek and mild,
As pettish as a wayward child.

x.

The neat scribe LEONATUS,
The page of IMOGEN-
She wonder'd that he did not speak
And tell his love, if love indeed

It was that made his spirit bleed;
And she bethought her of a freak

To test the lad: she bade him write A letter that a maiden mightA billet to her heart's delight. He took the pen with fingers weak, Unknowing what he did, and wrote, And folded up and seal'd the note. She wrote the superscription sage"For LEONATUs, ladye's page!"

XI.

The happy LEONATUS,
The page of IMOGEN-

The die was cast, and all was o'er;
She loved him so, she could not stir
But she took LEON' after her,

And they were lovers evermore.
He used to sit beside her feet,

And read the classic poets sweet; And touch her lute, and then repeat Brave legends of the days of yore.

One day he tried to spin: in vain-
He tangled up the silken skein;
His thoughts were busy in his head,
Spinning away a golden thread.

XII.

The daring LEONATUS, The page of IMOGENThey wedded secretly one day, And grew secure and light of wing; And tidings came unto the king, Who frown'd the messenger away. His child, the glory of his age, In love, and married to a page!S'death!" he shouted in a rage, And pluck'd his beard so thin and gray. He would have burn'd him at the stake, But for his honour'd father's sake (JESU, mercy for the dead!)— And so he banish'd him instead, And he went out with curse and ban From Brittany, a ruin'd man

The wretched LEONATUS, The lord of IMOGEN!

ARCADIAN HYMN TO FLORA.

J.

COME all ye virgins fair in kirtles white,

Ye debonair and merry-hearted maids, Who have been out in troops before the light, And gather'd blossoms in the woodland shadesThe footprints of the fiery-sandall'd Day

Are glowing in the sky, like kindling coals, The clouds are golden-rimm'd, like burning scrolls, Jagged and fringed, and darkness melts away; The shrine is wreathed with leaves; the holy urns, Brimming with morning dew, are laid thereby; The censers swing, the odorous incense burns, And floats in misty volumes up the sky: Lay down your garlands, and your baskets trim, Heap'd up with floral offerings to the brim, And knit your little hands and trip away With light and nimble feet,

To music soft and sweet,

And celebrate the joyous break of day,
And sing a hymn to Flora, queen of May!

II.

O Flora, sweetest Flora, goddess bright,
Impersonation of selectest things—
The soul and spirit of a thousand springs,
Bodied in all their loveliness and light-
A delicate creation of the mind,

Fashion'd in its divinest, daintiest mould,
In the bright age of gold,

Before the world was wholly lost and blind,
But saw and entertain'd with thankful heart
The gods as guests-O Flora, goddess dear,
Immaculate, immortal as thou art,

Thou wert a maiden once, like any here;
And thou didst tend thy flowers with proper care,
And shield them from the sun and chilly air;
Wetting thy little sandals through and through,
As all flower-maidens must, in morning dew;
Roving among the urns and mossy pots,
About the hedges and the garden plots;
Straightening and binding up the drooping stalks,
That kiss'd thy sweeping garments in the walks;
Setting thy dibble deep and sowing seeds,
And careful-handed, plucking out the weeds,
A simple flower-girl, and lowly born,
Till Zephyrus bore thee to the heavens away:
And thus it was-flying one pleasant morn
Behind the golden chariot of the Day,
Sighing amid the winged, laughing Hours,
In love with something bright which haunted him,
Sleeping on beds of flowers in arbours dim,
Breaking his tender heart with love extreme-
He saw thee on the earth, amid thy flowers,
The spirit of his dream!

Entranced with longings deep, he call'd the Air, And melting, bodiless, in the warm, sweet south, Twined his invisible fingers in thy hair,

And stooping, kiss'd thee with his odorous mouth, And chased thee, flying, in thy garden shades; And wooed, as men are wont to woo the maids, And won at last; and then flew back to heaven, Pleading with Jove till his consent was given, And thou wert made immortal-happy day!The goddess of the flowers and queen of May!

Oh what a sweet and pleasant life is thine,
On blue Olympus with the gods divine!
Thou hast thy gardens and a range of bowers,
And beds of asphodel, unfading flowers,
And many a leafy screen in arbours green,
Where thou dost lie and wile the hours away,
Lull'd by the drowsy sound of trees around,
And springs that fall in basins full of spray.
Sweet are thy duties and employments there:
Sometimes to wreathe imperial Juno's tresses,
And Cytherea's with her bosom bare,

Melting to meet the young Adon's caresses
When he lies in his death sleep stark and cold;
And oft with Hebe and with Ganymede,
(A pious, pleasant task, by Jove decreed)
Entwining chaplets round their cups of gold,
And round the necks of Dian's spotted fawns,
Like strings of bells, and Leda's snowy swans,
That floating sing in heaven's serenest streams,
Like thoughts of purity in poets' dreams;
And when red Mars, victorious from the field,
Throws down his shining spear and dinted shield,
And doffs his plumed helmet by his side,
And kneeling, bathes his forehead in the tide,
Thou dost a-sly with flowery fetters bind him,
And tie his arms behind him,

And smooth with playful hands his furrow'd cheek,
Until, beguiled and meek,

He kisses thee, and laughs with joy aloud!
And when Minerva, lost in wisdom's cloud,
Muses abstracted in profoundest nooks,
Thou dost unclasp her ponderous tomes and books,
And press the leaves of flowers within their leaves,
And thou dost bind them up in Ceres' sheaves,
And wreathe Apollo's lyre and Hermes' rod-
And venturing near the cloud-compelling god,
Sitting with thought-concentred brows alone,
Bestrow the starry footstool of his throne!—
And sometimes thou dost steal to hades grim,
The shadowy realm of spirits, dark and dim,
And drowsing gloomy Pluto, hard and cold,
With slumb'rous poppies pluck'd from Lethe's bow-
Givest to Proserpine a bunch of flowers,
Such as she pluck'd in Sicily of old,
In Enna's meads, the solemn morn in May,
When she was stolen away:
Pressing it to her pallid lips in fear,
She kisses thee for that remembrance dear,
And then ye weep together-(soften'd so,
When Cytherea knelt down and plead with thee,
And Death was drugg'd, she let Adonis go,
And gave pale Orpheus Eurydicé);

[ers,

And when the night is waning, thou dost soar,
And walk the Olympian palaces once more.
When clear-eyed Hesper folds the morning star,
And harnesses the wingéd steeds of Day,
And flush'd Aurora urges on her car,

Chasing the shadows of the night away,
Thou dost with Zephyrus fly in pomp behind,
Shaking thy scarf of rainbows on the wind;
And when the Orient is reach'd at last,
Thou dost unbar its gate of golden state,
And wait till she has past,
And soar again far up the dappled blue,

And wet the laughing Earth with freshest dewAs now thou dost, in pomp and triumph gay, This happy, happy day,

Thy festival, divinest queen of May!

IV.

O Flora, sweetest Flora, hear us now,
Gather'd to worship thee in shady bowers;
Accept the benediction and the vow

We offer thee, that thou hast spared the flowers!
The spring has been a cold, belated one-
Dark clouds, and showers, and a little sun,
And in the nipping mornings hoary frost;
We hoped, but fear'd the tender seeds were lost:
But, thanks to thee, at last they 'gan to grow,
Pushing their slender shoots above the ground,
In cultured gardens trim, and some were found
Beside the edges of the banks of snow,
Like Spring-thoughts in the heart of Winter old,
Or children laughing o'er a father's mould;
And now the sward is full, and teems with more ;
Earth never was so bounteous before!
Here are red roses throwing back their hoods,
Like willing maids to greet the kissing wind,
And here are violets from sombre woods,
With tears of dew within their lids enshrined;
Lilies like little maids in bridal white,

Or in their burial-garments, if you will; And here is that bold flower the daffodil, That peers i' th' front of March; and daisies bright, The vestals of the morning; crocuses, Snowdrops like specks of foam on stormy seas; And yellow buttercups, that gem the fields Like studs of richest gold on massive shields; Anemonies, that sprang in golden years(The story goes, they were not seen before) Where young Adonis, tuskéd by the boar, Bled life away, and Venus rain'd her tears(Look! in their hearts a small ensanguined spot!) And here is pansy, and forget-me-not; And trim Narcissus, vain and foolish elf, Enamour'd (would you think it?) of himself, Rooted beside a crystal brook his glass; And drooping Hyacinthus, slain, alas! By rudest Auster, blowing in the stead Of Zephyrus, then in Flora's meshes bound; Pitching with bright Apollo in his ground, He blew the discus back and struck him dead!— Pied wind-flowers, oxlips, and the jessamine; The sleepy poppy, and the eglantine; Primroses, Dian's flowers that ope at night; And here's that little sun, the marigold, And fringed pinks, and water-lilies, bright As floating Naiads in the river cold; Carnations, gilliflowers, and savoury rue, And rosemary, that loveth tears for dew, And many nameless flowers and pleasant weeds, That grow untended in the marshy meads, Where flags shoot up, and ragged grasses wave Perennial, when Autumn seeks her grave Among the wither'd leaves, and breezes blow A dirge, and Winter weaves a shroud of snow. Flowers! oh, what loveliness there is in flowers! What food for thought and fancy, rich and new! What shall we liken or compare them to?Stars in this trodden firmament of ours;

Jewels and rare mosaics, dotting o'er
Creation's tessellated palace floor;

Or beauty's dials, marking with their leaves
The pomp and flight of golden morns and eves;
Illuminate missals, open on the meads,

Bending with rosaries of dewy beads;
Or characters inscribed on Nature's scrolls,
Or sweet-thoughts from the heart of Mother Earth,
Or wind-rock'd cradles, where the bees in rolls
Of odorous leaves, are wont to lie in mirth,
Full-hearted, murmuring the hours away,
Like little children busy at their play;
Or cups and beakers of the butterflies,
Brimming with nectar, or a string of bells,
Tolling unheard a requiem for the hours;
Or censers swinging incense to the skies;
Pavilions, tents, and towers,

The little fortresses of insect powers,
Winding their horns within; or magic cells
Where smallest fairies dream the time away;
Night-elfius, slumbering all a summer's day-
Sweet nurslings thou art wont to feed with dew
From out thy urns, replenish'd in the blue.
But this is idlesse all-away! away!
White-handed maids, and scatter buds around,
And let the lutes awake, and tabours sound,
And every heart its deep devotion pay.
Once more we thank thee, Flora, and once more
Perform our rites, as we were used to do;
Oh bless us, smile upon us, fair and true,
And watch the flowers till Summer's reign is o'er;
Preserve the seeds we sow in winter time
From burrowing moles, and blight, and icy rime;
And in their season cause the shoots to rise,
And make the dainty buds unseal their eyes-
And we will pluck the finest, and entwine
Chaplets, and lay them on thy rural shrine,
And sing our choral hymns, melodious, sweet,
And dance with nimble feet,
And worship thee, as now, serenely gay,
The goddess of the flowers and queen of May!
All hail, thou queen of May!

THE TWO BRIDES.

I SAW two maids at the kirk, And both were fair and sweet; One was in her bridal robe,

One in her winding-sheet. The choisters sang the hymn, The sacred rites were readAnd one for life to Life,

And one to Death, was wed! They went to their bridal beds In loveliness and bloom: One in a merry castle,

One in a solemn tomb. One to the world of sleep,

Lock'd in the arms of Love; And one in the arms of Death Pass'd to the heavens above. One to the morrow woke,

In a world of sin and pain; But the other was happier far, And never woke again!