THE CHILD ON THE BEACH. MARY, a beautiful, artless child, Came down on the beach to me, Where I sat, and a pensive hour beguiled By watching the restless sea. I never had seen her face before, And mine was to her unknown; But we each rejoiced on that peaceful shore Her cheek was the rose's opening bud, Her brow of an ivory white; Her eyes were bright as the stars that stud To reach my side as she gayly sped, With the step of a bounding fawn, With the love of a holier world than this Her innocent heart seem'd warm; Her soul seem'd spreading the scene to span She climb'd and stood on the rocky steep, Like a bird that would mount and fly Far over the waves, where the broad, blue deep She placed her lips to the spiral shell, She look'd for the depth of its pearly cell, Her small white fingers were spread to toss The green sea-egg, by its tenant left, And form'd to an ocean cup, She held by its sides, of their spears bereft, But the hour went round, and she knew the space While she seem'd to look with a saddening face She search'd mid the pebbles, and, finding one Then, "Here," said she, "I will give you this, And she seal'd her gift with a parting kiss, Mary, thy token is by me yet: Than ever was brought from the mine, or set It carries me back to the far-off deep, And places me on the shore, Where the beauteous child, who bade me keep Her pebble, I meet once more. And all that is lovely, pure, and bright, In a soul that is young, and free From the stain of guile, and the deadly blight I wonder if ever thy tender heart Where thy soft, quick sigh, as we had to part, Bless'd one! over time's rude shore, on thee May an angel guard attend, And a white stone bearing a new name," be Thy passport when time shall end! A NAME IN THE SAND. My name-the year-the day And wash'd my lines away. And so, methought, 'twill shortly be With every mark on earth from me; A wave of dark oblivion's sea Will sweep across the place, Where I have trod the sandy shore Of time, and been to be no more, Of me--my day--the name I bore, To leave nor track, nor trace. And yet, with Him who counts the sands, I know a lasting record stands, Of all this mortal part has wrought; CARLOS WILCOX. [Born, 1794. Died, 1827.] THE ancestors of CARLOS WILCOX were among the early emigrants to New England. His father was a respectable farmer at Newport, New Hampshire, where the poet was born, on the twentysecond day of October, 1794. When he was about four years old, his parents removed to Orwell, in Vermont; and there, a few years afterward, he accidentally injured himself with an axe; the wound, for want of care or skill, was not healed; it was a cause of suffering for a long period, and of lameness during his life; it made him a minister of religion, and a poet. Perceiving that this accident and its consequences unfitted him for agricultural pursuits, his parents resolved to give him a liberal education. When, therefore, he was thirteen years old, he was sent to an academy at Castleton; and when fifteen, to the college at Middlebury. Here he became religious, and determined to study theology. He won the respect of the officers, and of his associates, by the mildness of his temper, the gravity of his manners, and the manliness of his conduct; and he was distinguished for his attainments in languages and polite letters. He was graduated in 1813; and after spending a few months with a maternal uncle, in Georgia, he entered the theological school at Andover, in Massachusetts. He had not been there long when one of his classmates died, and he was chosen by his fellows to pronounce a funeral oration. The departed student was loved by all for his excellent qualities; but by none more than by WILCOX; and the tenderness of feeling, and the purity of diction which characterized his eulogy, established his reputation for genius and eloquence in the seminary. WILCOX had at this time few associates; he was a melancholy man; "I walk my room," he remarks, in one of his letters, "with my hands clasped in anguish, and my eyes streaming with tears;" he complained that his mind was unstrung, relaxed almost beyond the power of reaction; that he had lost all control of his thoughts and affections, and become a passive slave of circumstances; "I feel borne along," he says, "in despairing listlessness, guided by the current in all its windings, without resolution to raise my head to see where I am, or whither I am going; the roaring of a cataract before me would rather lull me to a deeper sleep than rouse me to an effort to escape destruction." His sufferings were apparent to his friends, among whom there were givings-out concerning an unrequited passion, or the faithlessness of one whose hand had been pledged to him; and he himself mentioned to some who were his confidants, troubles of a different kind: he was indebted to the college faculty, and in other ways embarrassed. Whatever may have been the cause, all perceived that there was something preying on his mind; that he was ever in dejection. As time wore on, he became more cheerful; he finished the regular course of theological studies, in 1817, and in the following spring returned to Vermont, where he remained a year. In this period he began the poem, in which he has sung "Of true Benevolence, its charms divine, In 1819, WILCOX began to preach; and his professional labours were constant, for a year, at the end of which time his health failed, and he accepted an invitation from a friend at Salisbury, in Connecticut, to reside at his house. Here he remained nearly two years, reading his favourite authors, and composing "The Age of Benevolence." The first book was published at New Haven, in 1822; it was favourably received by the journals and by the public. He intended to complete the poem in five books; the second, third, and fourth, were left by him when he died, ready for the press; but, for some reason, only brief fragments of them have been printed. During the summer of 1824, WILCOX devoted his leisure hours to the composition of "The Religion of Taste," a poem which he pronounced before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale College; and in the following winter he was ordained as minister of the North Congregational Church, in Hartford. He soon obtained a high reputation for eloquence; his sermons were long, prepared with great care, and delivered with deep feeling. His labours were too arduous; his health rapidly declined; and in the summer of 1825, he sought relief in relaxation and travel. He visited New York, Philadelphia, the springs of Saratoga, and, for the last time, his home in Vermont. In the autumn he returned to his parish, where he remained until the spring, when, finding himself unable to perform the duties of his office, he sent to the government of the church his resignation. It was reluctantly accepted, for he had endeared himself, as a minister and a man, to all who knew him. The summer of 1826 was passed at Newport, Rhode Island, in the hope that the sea-breeze and bathing in the surf would restore his health. He was disappointed; and in September, he visited the White Mountains, in New Hampshire, and afterward went to Boston, where he remained several weeks. Finally, near the end of December, he received an invitation to preach in Danbury, in Connecticut. He went immediately to his new parish, and during the winter discharged the duties of his profession regularly. But as the spring came round, his strength failed; and on the 27th of May, 1827, he died. There is much merit in some passages of the fragment of the "Age of Benevolence." WILCOX was pious, gentle-hearted, and unaffected and retiring in his manners. The general character of his poetry is religious and sincere. He was a lover of nature, and he described rural sights and sounds with singular clearness and fidelity. In the ethical and narrative parts of his poems, he was less successful than in the descriptive; but an earnestness and simplicity pervaded all that he wrote. SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND.* LONG Swoln in drenching rain, seeds, germs, and Start at the touch of vivifying beams. On the first morn, light as an open plain Is lovely Nature, as in her bless'd prime. * This and the four following extracts are from "The Age of Benevolence." Close to the door, repairs to build again And on its top a trembling moment stand, And the fair prospect of a fruitful year, He follows slow and silent, stopping oft A SUMMER NOON. A SULTRY noon, not in the summer's prime, The melancholy mind. The fields are still; No sound nor motion of a living thing So smoothly serpentine, her wings outspread SEPTEMBER. THE sultry summer past, September comes, Soft twilight of the slow-declining year. All mildness, soothing loneliness, and peace; The fading season ere the falling come, More sober than the buxom, blooming May, And therefore less the favourite of the world, But dearest month of all to pensive minds. "Tis now far spent ; and the meridian sun, Most sweetly smiling with attemper'd beams, Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth. Beneath its yellow lustre, groves and woods, Checker'd by one night's frost with various hues, While yet no wind has swept a leaf away, Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues, The yellow, red, or purple of the trees That, singly, or in tufts, or forests thick Adorn the shores; to see, perhaps, the side Of some high mount reflected far below, With its bright colours, intermix'd with spots Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad To wander in the open fields, and hear, E'en at this hour, the noonday hardly past, The lulling insects of the summer's night; To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard, A lonely bee long roving here and there To find a single flower, but all in vain; Then rising quick, and with a louder hum, In widening circles round and round his head, Straight by the listener flying clear away, SUNSET IN SEPTEMBER.* THE sun now rests upon the mountain topsBegins to sink behind-is half conceal'dAnd now is gone: the last faint, twinkling beam Is cut in twain by the sharp rising ridge. Sweet to the pensive is departing day, When only one small cloud, so still and thin, So thoroughly imbued with amber light, And so transparent, that it seems a spot Of brighter sky, beyond the farthest mount, Hangs o'er the hidden orb; or where a few Long, narrow stripes of denser, darker grain, At each end sharpen'd to a needle's point, With golden borders,sometimes straight and smooth, And sometimes crinkling like the lightning stream, A half-hour's space above the mountain lie; Or when the whole consolidated mass, That only threaten'd rain, is broken up Into a thousand parts, and yet is one, One as the ocean broken into waves; And all its spongy parts, imbibing deep The moist effulgence, seem like fleeces dyed Every person, who has witnessed the splendour of the sunset scenery in Andover, will recognise with delight the local as well as general truth and beauty of this description. There is not, perhaps, in New England, a spot where the sun goes down, of a clear summer's evening, amidst so much grandeur reflected over earth and sky. In the winter season, too, it is a most magnificent and impressive scene. The great extent of the landscape; the situation of the hill, on the broad, level summit of which stand the buildings of the Theological Institution; the vast amphitheatre of luxuriant forest and field, which rises from its base, and swells away into the heavens ; the perfect outline of the horizon; the noble range of blue mountains in the background, that seem to retire one beyond another almost to infinite distance; together with the magnificent expanse of sky visible at once from the elevated spot,-these features constitute at all times a scene on which the lover of nature can never be weary with gazing. When the sun goes down, it is all in a blaze with his descending glory. The sunset is the most perfectly beautiful when an afternoon shower has just preceded it. The gorgeous clouds roll away like masses of amber. The sky, close to the horizon, is a sea of the richest purple. The setting sun shines through the mist, which rises from the wet forest and meadow, and makes the clustered foliage appear invested with a brilliant golden transparency. Nearer to the eye, the trees and shrubs are sparkling with fresh rain-drops, and over the whole scene, the parting rays of sunlight linger with a yellow gleam, as if reluctant to pass entirely away. Then come the varying tints of twilight, "fading, still fading," till the stars are out in their beauty, and a cloudless night reigns, with its silence, shadows, and repose. In the summer, Andover combines almost every thing to charm and elevate the feelings of the student. In winter, the north-western blasts, that sweep fresh from the snowbanks on the Grand Monadnock, make the invalid, at least, sigh for a more congenial climate.-Rev. G. B. CHEEVER. Deep scarlet, saffron light, or crimson dark, With shapely form, looks beautiful alone; While, farther northward, through a narrow pass But now the twilight mingles into one SUMMER EVENING LIGHTNING. FAR off and low In the horizon, from a sultry cloud, |