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And how the messenger of fate-
That courier who rode so late-
Was dragg'd on to her palace gate;
And how the lady sat in hall,
Moaning among her damsels all,
At the wild tale of Ronceval.
That story sounds like solemn truth,
And she would hear it with such ruth
As sympathetic hearts will pay
To real griefs of yesterday.

Pity look'd lovely in the maiden;
Her eyes were softer, when so laden
With the bright dew of tears unshed.
But I was somewhat envious

That other bards should move her thus, And oft within myself had said, "Yea-I will strive to touch her heart With some fair songs of mine own art"And many days before the day Whereof I speak, I made assay At this bold labour. In the wells Of Froissart's life-like chronicles I dipp'd for moving truths of old. A thousand stories, soft and bold, Of stately dames, and gentlemen, Which good Lord Berners, with a pen Pompous in its simplicity, Yet tipt with charming courtesy, Had put in English words, I learn'd; And some of these I deftly turn'd Into the forms of minstrel verse. I know the good tales are the worseBut, sooth to say, it seems to me My verse has sense and melody— Even that its measure sometimes flows With the brave pomp of that old prose. Beneath our trysting tree, that day, With dubious face, I read one lay; Young Emily quite understood My fears, and gave me guerdon good In well-timed praise, and cheer'd me on, Into full flow of heart and tone. And when, in days of pleasant weather, Thereafter, we were met together, As our strong love oft made us meet, I always took my cosy seat, Just at the damsel's little feet, And read my tales. It was no friend To me that day that heard their end. It had become a play of love, To watch the swift expression rove Over the bright sky of her faceTo steal those upward looks, and trace In every change of check and eye, The influence of my poesy.

I made my verse for Emily-
I give it, reader, now to thee.

The tales which I have toil'd to tell
Of Dame in hall and knight in Selle,
Of faithful love, and courage high-
Sweet flower, strong staff of chivalry—
These tales indeed are old of date;
But why should time their force abate?
Shall we look back with vision dull
On the old brave and beautiful,

And, for they lived so long ago,

Be careless of their mirth or wo?
If sympathy knows but to-day-
If time quite wears its nerve away—
If deeds majestically bold,

In words of ancient music told,

Are only food for studious minds
And touch no hearts-if man but finds
An abstract virtue in the faith,

That clung to truth, and courted death,-
If he can lift the dusky pall
With dainty hand artistical

And smile at woes, because some years
Have swept between them and his tears-
I say, my friend, if this may be,
Then burn old books; antiquity

Is no more than a skeleton
Of painted vein and polish'd bone.
Reader! the minstrel brotherhood,
Earnest to soothe thy listening mood,
Were wont to style thee Gentle, Good,
Noble or Gracious:-they could bow
With loyal knee, yet open brow—
They knew to temper thy decision
With graces of a proud submission.
That wont is changed. Yet I, a man
Of this new land republican,

Where insolence wins upward better
Than courtesy-that old dead letter-
And toil claims pay with utterance sharp,
Follow the good Lords of the Harp,
And dub thee with each courtly phrase,
And ask indulgence for my lays.

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And little thought, as up the bold deer bounded, Of the sad creature wounded.

A brave and good,

But world-worn knight*-soul wearied with his part
In this vext life-gave man for solitude,

And built a lodge, and lived in Wantley wood,
To hear the belling Hart.

It was a gentle taste, but its sweet sadness
Yields to the Hunter's madness.

What passionate

And keen delight is in the proud swift chase! Go out what time the lark at heaven's red gate Soars joyously singing-quite infuriate

With the high pride of his place;

What time the unrisen sun arrays the morning In its first bright adorning.

Hark! the quick horn

As sweet to hear as any clarion

Piercing with silver call the ear of morn;

And mark the steeds, stout Curtal and Topthorne
And Greysteil and the Don-

Each one of them his fiery mood displaying
With pawing and with neighing.

Urge your swift horse,

After the crying hounds in this fresh hour, Vanquish high hills-stem perilous streams perforce, On the free plain give free wings to your course, And you will know the power

Of the brave chase-and how of griefs the sorest A cure is in the forest.

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In times like these, which, he will say, repays him For all care that waylays him.

A strong joy fills

(A joy beyond the tongue's expressive power) My heart in autumn weather-fills and thrills! And I would rather stalk the breezy hills, Descending to my bower

Nightly, by the sweet spirit of Peace attended, Than pine where life is splendid.

FLORENCE VANE.

I LOVED thee long and dearly,
Florence Vane;

My life's bright dream and early
Hath come again;

I renew, in my fond vision,
My heart's dear pain,
My hopes, and thy derision,
Florence Vane.

The ruin, lone and hoary,
The ruin old

Where thou didst hark my story,
At even told,-

That spot-the hues Elysian

Of sky and plain

I treasure in my vision,

Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime;

Thy voice excell'd the closes

Of sweetest rhyme; Thy heart was as a river

Without a main.

Would I had loved thee never,
Florence Vane!

But, fairest, coldest, wonder!
Thy glorious clay
Lieth the green sod under-

Alas, the day!

And it boots not to remember Thy disdain

To quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley

By young graves weep, The daisies love to dally

Where maidens sleep; May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane

Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane!

EPES SARGENT.

[Born, 1816.]

THE author of "Velasco" is a native of Gloucester, a town on the sea-coast of Massachusetts, and was born on the twenty-seventh of September, 1816. His father, a respectable merchant, of the same name, is still living, and resides in Boston. The subject of this sketch was educated in the schools of that city and the neighbourhood, where he lived until his removal to New York, in 1837. His earliest metrical compositions were printed in "The Collegian," a monthly miscellany edited by several of the students of Harvard College, of the junior and senior classes of 1830. One of his contributions to that work, entitled "Twilight Sketches," exhibits the grace of style, ease of versification, and variety of description, which are characteristic of his more recent effusions. It was a sketch of the Summer Gardens of St. Petersburg, and was written during a visit to that capital in the spring of 1828.

Mr. SARGENT's reputation rests principally on his dramas, which bear a greater value in the closet than on the stage. His first appearance as a dramatic author was in the winter of 1836, when his "Bride of Genoa" was brought out at the Tremont Theatre, in Boston. This was a five-act play, founded on incidents in the career of ANTONIO MONTALDO, a plebeian, who at the age of twentytwo, made himself doge of Genoa, in 1693, and who is described in the history of the times as a man of forgiving temper," but daring and ambitious, with a genius adequate to the accomplishment of vast designs. In the delineation of his hero, the author has followed the historical record, though the other characters and incidents of the drama are entirely fictitious. It was successfully

performed in Boston, and since in many of the first theatres of the country. His next production was of a much higher order, and as a specimen of dramatic art, has received warm commendation from the most competent judges. It was the tragedy of "Velasco," first performed at Boston, in November, 1837, Miss ELLEN TREE in the character of IZIDORA, and subsequently at the principal theatres in New York, Philadelphia, Washington, and New Orleans. It was published in New York in 1839. "The general action of the piece," says the author in his preface, "is derived from incidents in the career of RODRIGO DIAZ, the Cid, whose achievements constitute so considerable a portion of the historical and romantic literature of Spain." The subject had been variously treated by French and Spanish dramatists, among others, by CORNEILLE, but Mr. SARGENT was the first to introduce it successfully upon the English stage. It is a chaste and elegant performance, and probably has not been surpassed by any similar work by so youthful an author. It was written before Mr. SARGENT was twenty-one years of age.

In the beginning of 1847 Mr. SARGENT published in Boston a volume entitled "Songs of the Sea, and other Poems," and a new edition of his plays. The quatorzains written during a voyage to Cuba, in the spring of 1835, appear to be among the most elaborate of his sea pieces, but some of his nautical lyrics are more spirited.

He has published anonymously several prose works, and in 1846 commenced the publication of the "Modern Acting Drama," of which several volumes have been issued under his editorial supervision.

RECORDS OF A SUMMER-VOYAGE TO

CUBA.

I. THE DEPARTURE.

AGAIN thy winds are pealing in mine ear!
Again thy waves are flashing in my sight!
Thy memory-haunting tones again I hear,
As through the spray our vessel wings her flight!
On thy cerulean breast, now swelling high,
Again, thou broad Atlantic, am I cast!
Six years, with noiseless tread, have glided by,
Since, an adventurous boy, I hail'd thee last,
The sea-birds o'er me wheel, as if to greet
An old companion; on my naked brow
The sparkling foam-drops not unkindly beat; [now
Flows through my hair the freshening breeze-and
The horizon's ring enclasps me; and I stand
Gazing where fades from view, cloud-like, my father-
land!

II. THE GALE.

The night came down in terror. Through the

air Mountains of clouds, with lurid summits, roll'd; The lightning kindling with its vivid glare Their outlines, as they rose, heap'd fold on fold, The wind, in fitful sughs, swept o'er the sea; And then a sudden lull, gentle as sleep, Soft as an infant's breathing, seem'd to be Lain, like enchantment, on the throbbing deep. But, false the calm! for soon the strengthen'd gale

Burst, in one loud explosion, far and wide, Drowning the thunder's voice! With every sail Close-reef'd, our groaning ship heel'd on her side; The torn waves comb'd the deck; while o'er the

mast

The meteors of the storm a ghastly radiance cast!

III-MORNING AFTER THE GALE.

Bravely our trim ship rode the tempest through;
And, when the exhausted gale had ceased to rave,
How broke the day-star on the gazer's view!
How flush'd the orient every crested wave!
The sun threw down his shield of golden light
In fierce defiance on the ocean's bed;
Whereat, the clouds betook themselves to flight,
Like routed hosts, with banners soil'd and red.
The sky was soon all brilliance, east and west;
All traces of the gale had pass'd away-
The chiming billows, by the breeze caress'd,
Toss'd lightly from their heads the feathery spray.
Ah! thus may Hope's auspicious star again
Rise o'er the troubled soul where gloom and grief

have been!

IV. TO A LAND-BIRD.

Thou wanderer from green fields and leafy nooks! Where blooms the flower and toils the honey-bee; Where odorous blossoms drift along the brooks, And woods and hills are very fair to seeWhy hast thou left thy native bough to roam, With drooping wing, far o'er the briny billow? Thou canst not, like the osprey, cleave the foam, Nor, like the petrel, make the wave thy pillow. Thou'rt like those fine-toned spirits, gentle bird, Which, from some better land, to this rude life Seem borne-they struggle, mid the common herd, With powers unfitted for the selfish strife! Haply, at length, some zephyr wafts them back To their own home of peace, across the world's dull track.

V. A THOUGHT OF THE PAST.

I woke from slumber at the dead of night,
Stirr'd by a dream which was too sweet to last-
A dream of boyhood's season of delight;
It flash'd along the dim shapes of the past!
And, as I mused upon its strange appeal,
Thrilling my heart with feelings undefined,
Old memories, bursting from time's icy seal,
Rush'd, like sun-stricken fountains, on my mind.
Scenes, among which was cast my early home,
My favourite haunts, the shores, the ancient woods,
Where, with my schoolmates, I was wont to roam,
Green, sloping lawns, majestic solitudes-
All rose before me, till, by thought beguiled,
Freely I could have wept, as if once more a child.

VI. TROPICAL WEATHER.

We are afloat upon the tropic sea!
Here summer holdeth a perpetual reign:
How flash the waters in their bounding glee!
The sky's soft purple is without a stain! [blowing,
Full in our wake the smooth, warm trade-winds
To their unvarying goal still faithful run;
And as we steer, with sails Lefore them flowing,
Nearer the zenith daily climbs the sun.
The startled flying-fish around us skim,
Gloss'd, like the hummingbird, with rainbow dyes;
And, as they dip into the water's brim,
Swift in pursuit the preying dolphin hies.
All, all is fair; and, gazing round, we feel
The south's soft languor gently o'er our senses steal.

VII-A CALM.

O! for one draught of cooling northern air!
That it might pour its freshness on me now;
That it might kiss my cheek and cleave my hair,
And part its currents round my fever'd brow!
Ocean, and sky, and earth! a blistering calm
Spread over all! how weary wears the day!
O, lift the wave, and bend the distant palm,
Breeze! wheresoe'er thy lagging pinions stray,
Triumphant burst upon the level deep,

Rock the fix'd hull and swell the clinging sail!
Arouse the opal clouds that o'er us sleep,
Sound thy shrill whistle! we will bid thee hail!
Though wrapt in all the storm-clouds of the north,
Yet from thy home of ice, come forth, O, breeze,
come forth!

VIII. A WISH.

That I were in some forest's green retreat, Beneath a towering arch of proud old elms; Where a clear streamlet gurgled at my feetIts wavelets glittering in their tiny helms! Thick clustering vines, in many a rich festoon, From the high, rustling branches should depend; Weaving a net, through which the sultry noon Might stoop in vain its fiery beams to send. There, prostrate on some rock's gray sloping side, Upon whose tinted moss the dew yet lay, Would I catch glimpses of the clouds that ride Athwart the sky-and dream the hours away; While through the alleys of the sunless wood The fanning breeze might steal, with wild-flowers' breath imbued.

IX. TROPICAL NIGHT.

But, O! the night!-the cool, luxurious night, Which closes round us when the day grows din, And the sun sinks from his meridian height Behind the ocean's occidental rim! Clouds, in thin streaks of purple, green, and red, Lattice his parting glory, and absorb The last bright emanations that are shed In wide profusion, from his failing orb. And now the moon, her lids unclosing, deigns To smile serenely on the charmed sea, That shines as if inlaid with lightning-chains, From which it hardly struggled to be free. Swan-like, with motion unperceived, we glide, Touch'd by the downy breeze, and favour'd by the tide.

X. THE PLANET JUPITER.

Ever, at night, have I look'd first for thee, O'er all thy astral sisterhood supreme! Ever, at night, have I look'd up to see The diamond lustre of thy quivering beam; Shining sometimes through pillowy clouds serene. As they part from thee, like a loosen'd scroll; Sometimes unveil'd, in all thy native sheen, When no pale vapours underneath thee roll. Bright planet! that art but a single ray From our Creator's throne, illume my soul! Thy influence shed upon my doubtful way Through life's dark vista to the immortal goalGleam but as now upon my dying eyes [shall rise. And hope, from earth to thee, from thee to heaven,

XI. TO EGERIA.

Leagues of blue ocean are between us spread;
And I cannot behold thee save in dreams!
I may not hear thy voice, nor list thy tread,
Nor see the light that ever round thee gleams.
Fairest and best! mid summer joys, ah, say,
Dost thou e'er think of one who thinks of thee--
The Atlantic-wanderer, who, day by day,
Looks for thine image in the deep, deep sea?
Long months, and years, perchance, will pass away,
Ere he shall gaze into thy face again;

He cannot know what rocks and quicksands may
Await him, on the future's shipless main;
But, thank'd be memory! there are treasures still,
Which the triumphant mind holds subject to its will.

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XII. CUBA.

What sounds arouse me from my slumbers light? Land ho! all hands ahoy!"-I'm on the deck. "Tis early dawn. The day-star yet is bright. A few white vapoury bars the zenith fleck. And lo! along the horizon, bold and high, The purple hills of Cuba! hail, all hail! Isle of undying verdure, with thy sky Of purest azure! Welcome, odorous gale! O! scene of life and joy! thou art array'd In hues of unimagined lovelinessSing louder, brave old mariner! and aid My swelling heart its rapture to express; For from enchanted memory never more [shore! Shall fade this dawn sublime, this bright, celestial

THE DAYS THAT ARE PAST.

WE will not deplore them, the days that are past;
The gloom of misfortune is over them cast;
They are lengthen'd by sorrow and sullied by care;
Their griefs were too many, their joys were too rare;
Yet, now that their shadows are on us no more,
Let us welcome the prospect that brightens before!
We have cherish'd fair hopes, we have plotted
brave schemes,

We have lived till we find them illusive as dreams; Wealth has melted like snow that is grasp'd in the hand,

And the steps we have climb'd have departed like sand;

Yet shall we despond while of health unbereft,
And honour, bright honour, and freedom are left?
O! shall we despond, while the pages of time
Yet open before us their records sublime! [gold,
While, ennobled by treasures more precious than
We can walk with the martyrs and heroes of old;
While humanity whispers such truths in the ear,
As it softens the heart like sweet music to hear?
O! shall we despond while, with visions still free,
We can gaze on the sky, and the earth, and the sea;
While the sunshine can waken a burst of delight,
And the stars are a joy and a glory by night:
While each harmony, running through nature, can
raise

In our spirits the impulse of gladness and praise?
O! let us no longer then vainly lament
Over scenes that are faded and days that are spent:

But, by faith unforsaken, unawed by mischance, On hope's waving banner still fix'd be our glance; And, should fortune prove cruel and false to the last, Let us look to the future and not to the past!

THE MARTYR OF THE ARENA. HONOUR'D be the hero evermore,

Who at mercy's call has nobly died! Echoed be his name from shore to shore, With immortal chronicles allied! Verdant be the turf upon his dust,

Bright the sky above, and soft the air!
In the grove set up his marble bust,

And with garlands crown it, fresh and fair.
In melodious numbers, that shall live
With the music of the rolling spheres,
Let the minstrel's inspiration give

His eulogium to the future years!
Not the victor in his country's cause,
Not the chief who leaves a people free,
Not the framer of a nation's laws

Shall deserve a greater fame than he!
Hast thou heard, in Rome's declining day,
How a youth, by Christian zeal impell'd,
Swept the sanguinary games away,

Which the Coliseum once beheld?
Fill'd with gazing thousands were the tiers,
With the city's chivalry and pride,
When two gladiators, with their spears,
Forward sprang from the arena's side.
Rang the dome with plaudits loud and long,
As, with shields advanced, the athletes stood-
Was there no one in that eager throng

To denounce the spectacle of blood?
Aye, TELEMACHUS, with swelling frame,
Saw the inhuman sport renew'd once more:
Few among the crowd could tell his name-
For a cross was all the badge he wore!
Yet, with brow elate and godlike mien,

Stepp'd he forth upon the circling sand;
And, while all were wondering at the scene,
Check'd the encounter with a daring hand.
"Romans!" cried he-"Let this reeking sod
Never more with human blood be stain'd!
Let no image of the living GoD

In unhallow'd combat be profaned! Ah! too long has this colossal dome

Fail'd to sink and hide your brutal shows! Here I call upon assembled Rome

Now to swear, they shall forever close!" Parted thus, the combatants, with joy,

Mid the tumult, found the means to fly; In the arena stood the undaunted boy,

And, with looks adoring, gazed on high.
Peal'd the shout of wrath on every side;

Every hand was eager to assail!
"Slay him! slay!" a hundred voices cried,
Wild with fury-but he did not quail!
Hears he, as entranced he looks above,

Strains celestial, that the menace drown?
Sees he angels, with their eyes of love,

Beckoning to him, with a martyr's crown? Fiercer swell'd the people's frantic shout! Launch'd against him flew the stones like rain!

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