DOCTOR HOLMES is a son of the late Reverend ABIEL HOLMES, D. D., and was born at Cambridge, in Massachusetts, on the twenty-ninth day of August, 1809. He received his early education at the Phillips Exeter Academy, and entered Harvard University in 1825. On being graduated he commenced the study of the law, but relinquished it after one year's application, for the more congenial pursuit of medicine, to which he devoted himself with much ardour and industry. For the more successful prosecution of his studies, he visited Europe in the spring of 1833, passing the principal portion of his residence abroad at Paris, where he attended the hospitals, acquired an intimate knowledge of the language, and became personally acquainted with many of the most eminent physicians of France.

He returned to Boston near the close of the year 1835, and in the following spring commenced the practice of medicine in that city. In the autumn of the same year he delivered a poem before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard University, which was received with extraordinary and wellmerited applause. In 1838 he was elected Professor of Anatomy and Physiology in the medical institution connected with Dartmouth College; but, on being married, two years afterward, he resigned that office, and has since devoted himself entirely to the duties of his profession.

The earlier poems of Doctor HOLMES appeared in "The Collegian." They were little less distinguished for correct and melodious versification than his more recent and most elaborate compositions.

They attracted attention by their humour and originality, and were widely circulated and republished in contemporary periodicals. But a small portion of them have been printed under his proper signature.

In 1831 a small volume appeared in Boston, entitled "Illustrations of the Athenæum Gallery of Paintings," and composed of metrical pieces, chiefly satirical, written by Doctor HOLMES and EPES SARGENT. It embraced many of our author's best humorous verses, afterward included in the edition of his acknowledged works. His principal production, "Poetry, a Metrical Essay," was delivered before a literary society at Cambridge. It is in the heroic measure, and in its versification it is not surpassed by any poem written in this country.

"The Collegian” was a monthly miscellany published in 1830, by the undergraduates at Cambridge. Among the editors were HOLMES, the late WILLIAM H. SIMMONS, Who will long be remembered for his admirable lectures on the great poets and orators of England, and JOHN O. SARGENT, who distinguished himself as an able political

writer in the long contest which resulted in the election of General HARRISON to the presidency, and is now engaged in the successful practice of the law in the city of New York.

It relates to the nature and developments of poetry,
which he regards as only expression. He says:
There breathes no being but has some pretence
To that fine instinct called poetic sense;
The rudest savage, roaming through the wild,
The simplest rustic, bending o'er his child,
The infant, listening to the warbling bird,
The mother, smiling at its half-formed word;
The freeman, casting with unpurchased hand
The vote that shakes the turrets of the land;
The slave, who, slumbering on his rusted chain,
Dreams of the paim-trees on his burning plain;
The hot-cheek'd reveller, tossing down the wine,
To join the chorus pealing "Auld lang syne;"
The gentle maid, whose azure eye grows dim,
While Heaven is listening to her evening hymn;
The jewel'd beauty, when her steps draw near
The circling dance and dazzling chandelier;
E'en trembling age, when spring's renewing air
Waves the thin ringlets of his silver'd hair;-
All, all are glowing with the inward fame,
Whose wider halo wreathes the poet's name,
While, unembalm'd, the silent dreamer dies,
His memory passing with his smiles and sighs!
The poet, he contends, is

He, whose thoughts differing not in shape, but dress,
What others feel, more fitly can express.

In another part of the essay he gives the following fine description of the different English

measures:

Poets, like painters, their machinery claim,
And verse bestows the varnish and the frame;
Our grating English, whose Teutonic jar
Shakes the rack'd axle of Art's rattling car,
Fits like Mosaic in the lines that gird
Fast in its place each many-angled word;
From Saxon lips ANACREON's numbers glide,
As once they melted on the Teian tide,
And, fresh transfused, the Hiad thrills again
From Albion's cliffs as o'er Achaia's plain;
The proud heroic, with its pulse-like beat,
Rings like the cymbals clashing as they meet;
The sweet Spenserian, gathering as it flows,
Sweeps gently onward to its dying close,
Where waves on waves in long succession pour,
Till the ninth billow melts along the shore;
The lonely spirit of the mournful lay,
Which lives immortal in the verse of GRAY,
In sable plumage slowly drifts along,
On eagle pinion, through the air of song;
The glittering lyric bounds elastic by,
With flashing ringlets and exulting eye,
While every image, in her airy whirl,
Gleams like a diamond on a dancing girl!

For several years the attention of Doctor HOLMES, as I have before remarked, has been devoted to his professional business. He has obtained two or three prizes for dissertations on medical questions, and as a physician and as a lecturer on physiological subjects, he has become eminently popular in the city in which he resides. As a poet he has won an enduring reputation. He possesses a rich vein of humour, with learning and originality, and great skill as an artist.

THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD.

OUR ancient church! its lowly tower,
Beneath the loftier spire,

Is shadow'd when the sunset hour
Clothes the tall shaft in fire;
It sinks beyond the distant eye,

Long ere the glittering vane,
High wheeling in the western sky,
Has faded o'er the plain.

Like sentinel and nun, they keep

Their vigil on the green;

One seems to guard, and one to weep,
The dead that lie between;

And both roll out, so full and near,

Their music's mingling waves,

They shake the grass, whose pennon'd spear Leans on the narrow graves.

The stranger parts the flaunting weeds,

Whose seeds the winds have strown
So thick beneath the line he reads,

They shade the sculptured stone;
The child unveils his cluster'd brow,
And ponders for a while
The graven willow's pendent bough,
Or rudest cherub's smile.

But what to them the dirge, the knell?
These were the mourner's share;
The sullen lang, whose heavy swell
Throbb'd through the beating air;
The rattling cord,--the rolling stone,-
The shelving sand that slid,
And, far beneath, with hollow tone

Rung on the coffin's lid.

The slumberer's mound grows fresh and green,

Then slowly disappears;

The mosses creep, the gray stones lean,
Earth hides his date and years;

But, long before the once-loved name
Is sunk or worn away,

No lip the silent dust may claim,

That press'd the breathing clay.
Go where the ancient pathway guides,
See where our sires laid down

Their smiling babes, their cherish'd brides,
The patriarchs of the town;

Hast thou a tear for buried love!
A sigh for transient power?

All that a century left above,
Go, read it in an hour!

The Indian's shaft, the Briton's ball,
The sabre's thirsting edge,

The hot shell, shattering in its fall,

The bayonet's rending wedge,—

Here scatter'd death; yet seek the spot,
No trace thine eye can see,
No altar,--and they need it not

Who leave their children free!

Look where the turbid rain-drops stand
In many a chisell❜d square,

The knightly crest, the shield, the brand Of honour'd names were there; Alas! for every tear is dried

Those blazon'd tablets knew, Save when the icy marble's side

Drips with the evening dew.

Or gaze upon yon pillar'd stone,*
The empty urn of pride;
There stands the goblet and the sun,—
What need of more beside?
Where lives the memory of the dead?
Who made their tomb a toy?

Whose ashes press that nameless bed?
Go, ask the village boy!

Lean o'er the slender western wall,

Ye ever-roaming girls;

The breath that bids the blossom fall
May lift your floating curls,
To sweep the simple lines that tell
An exile'st date and doom;
And sigh, for where his daughters dwell,
They wreathe the stranger's tomb.
And one amid these shades was born,
Beneath this turf who lies,
Once beaming as the summer's morn,
That closed her gentle eyes;
If sinless angels love as we,

Who stood thy grave beside,
Three seraph welcomes waited thee,
The daughter, sister, bride!

I wander'd to thy buried mound,
When earth was hid, below

The level of the glaring ground,

Choked to its gates with snow, And when with summer's flowery waves The lake of verdure roll'd,

As if a sultan's white-robed slaves

Had scatter'd pearls and gold.

Nay, the soft pinions of the air,

That lifts this trembling tone,
Its breath of love may almost bear,
To kiss thy funeral-stone;
And, now thy smiles have pass'd away,
For all the joy they gave,

May sweetest dews and warmest ray
Lie on thine early grave!

When damps beneath, and storms above,
Have bow'd these fragile towers,
Still o'er the graves yon locust-grove
Shall swing its orient flowers;

And I would ask no mouldering bust,
If o'er this humble line,
Which breathed a sigh o'er other's dust,
Might call a tear on mine.

*The tomb of the VASSALL family is marked by a freestone tablet, supported by five pillars, and bearing nothing but the sculptured reliefs of the goblet and the sun,— VasSol,-which designated a powerful family, now almost forgotten.

+ The exile referred to in this stanza was a native of Honfleur, in Normandy.

AN EVENING THOUGHT. WRITTEN AT SEA.

Ir sometimes in the dark-blue eye,
Or in the deep-red wine,
Or soothed by gentlest melody,

Still warms this heart of mine,
Yet something colder in the blood,

And calmer in the brain,

Have whisper'd that my youth's bright flood
Ebbs, not to flow again.

If by Helvetia's azure lake,

Or Arno's yellow stream,

Each star of memory could awake,

As in my first young dream,

I know that when mine eye shall greet
The hill-sides bleak and bare,

That gird my home, it will not meet
My childhood's sunsets there.

O, when love's first, sweet, stolen kiss
Burn'd on my boyish brow,
Was that young forehead worn as this?

Was that flush'd cheek as now?
Where that wild pulse and throbbing heart
Like these, which vainly strive,
In thankless strains of soulless art,
To dream themselves alive?

Alas! the morning dew is gone,
Gone ere the full of day;

Life's iron fetter still is on,

Its wreaths all torn away;

Happy if still some casual hour

Can warm the fading shrine,
Too soon to chill beyond the power
Of love, or song, or wine!

LA GRISETTE.

AH, CLEMENCE! when I saw thee last
Trip down the Rue de Seine,

And turning, when thy form had pass'd,
I said, "We meet again,”-

I dream'd not in that idle glance
Thy latest image came,

And only left to memory's trance

A shadow and a name.

The few strange words my lips had taught

Thy timid voice to speak;

Their gentler sighs, which often brought
Fresh roses to thy cheek;
The trailing of thy long, loose hair

Bent o'er my couch of pain,

All, all return'd, more sweet, more fair;
O, had we met again!

I walk'd where saint and virgin keep
The vigil lights of Heaven,

I knew that thou hadst woes to weep,
And sins to be forgiven;

I watch'd where GENEVIEVE was laid,
I knelt by MARY'S shrine,

Beside me low, soft voices pray'd;

Alas! but where was thine?

And when the morning sun was bright,
When wind and wave were calm,
And flamed, in thousand-tinted light,
The rose of Notre Dame,

I wander'd through the haunts of men,
From Boulevard to Quai,
Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne,
The Pantheon's shadow lay.

In vain, in vain; we meet no more,
Nor dream what fates befall;
And long upon the stranger's shore

My voice on thee may call,
When years have clothed the line in moss
That tells thy name and days,

And wither'd, on thy simple cross,
The wreaths of Pere-la-Chaise!

THE TREADMILL SONG.

THE stars are rolling in the sky,

The earth rolls on below,
And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.

Then tread away, my gallant boys,

And make the axle fly;

Why should not wheels go round about Like planets in the sky?

Wake up, wake up, my duck-legg❜d man, And stir your solid pegs;

Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,

And shake your spider-legs;

What though you're awkward at the trade?
There's time enough to learn,-

So lean upon the rail, my lad,

And take another turn.

They've built us up a noble wall,
To keep the vulgar out;
We've nothing in the world to do,
But just to walk about;
So faster, now, you middle men,
And try to beat the ends:-
It's pleasant work to ramble round
Among one's honest friends.

Here, tread upon the long man's toes,
He sha'n't be lazy here;

And punch the little fellow's ribs,
And tweak that lubber's ear;
He's lost them both; don't pull his hair,
Because he wears a scratch,

But poke him in the farther eye,
That is n't in the patch.

Hark! fellows, there's the supper-bell,
And so our work is done;
It's pretty sport,-suppose we take
A round or two for fun!

If ever they should turn me out,
When I have better grown,
Now, hang me, but I mean to have
A treadmill of my own!

*Circular-stained windows are called roses.

DEPARTED DAYS.

YES, dear, departed, cherish'd days,
Could Memory's hand restore
Your morning light, your evening rays,
From Time's gray urn once more,—
Then might this restless heart be still,

This straining eye might close,
And Hope her fainting pinions fold,
While the fair phantoms rose.
But, like a child in ocean's arms,

We strive against the stream, Each moment farther from the shore,

Where life's young fountains gleamEach moment fainter wave the fields,

And wilder rolls the sea;

The mist grows dark-the sun goes downDay breaks-and where are we?

THE DILEMMA.

Now, by the bless'd Paphian queen,
Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen;
By every name I cut on bark
Before my morning-star grew dark;
By Hymen's torch, by Cupid's dart,
By all that thrills the beating heart;
The bright, black eye, the melting blue,-
I cannot choose between the two.

I had a vision in my dreams;
I saw a row of twenty beams;
From every beam a rope was hung,
In every rope a lover swung.
I ask'd the hue of every eye
That bade each luckless lover die;
Ten livid lips said, heavenly blue,
And ten accused the darker hue.

I ask'd a matron, which she deem'd
With fairest light of beauty beam'd;
She answer'd, some thought both were fair-
Give her blue eyes and golden hair.
I might have liked her judgment well,
But as she spoke, she rung the bell,
And all her girls, nor small nor few,
Came marching in-their eyes were blue.

I ask'd a maiden; back she flung
The locks that round her forehead hung,
And turn'd her eye, a glorious one,
Bright as a diamond in the sun,
On me, until, beneath its rays,
I felt as if my hair would blaze;
She liked all eyes but eyes of green;
She look'd at me; what could she mean?
Ah! many lids Love lurks between,
Nor heeds the colouring of his screen;
And when his random arrows fly,
The victim falls, but knows not why.
Gaze not upon his shield of jet,
The shaft upon the string is set;
Look not beneath his azure veil,
Though every limb were cased in mail.

Well, both might make a martyr break
The chain that bound him to the stake,
And both, with but a single ray,
Can melt our very hearts away;
And both, when balanced, hardly seem
To stir the scales, or rock the beam;
But that is dearest, all the while,

That wears for us the sweetest smile.

THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY.

THE Sun stepp'd down from his golden throne,
And lay in the silent sea,

And the Lily had folded her satin leaves,
For a sleepy thing was she;
What is the Lily dreaming of?

Why crisp the waters blue?
See, see, she is lifting her varnish'd lid!

Her white leaves are glistening through!
The Rose is cooling his burning cheek
In the lap of the breathless tide;
The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair,

That would lie by the Rose's side;
He would love her better than all the rest,
And he would be fond and true;
But the Lily unfolded her weary lids,
And look'd at the sky so blue.
Remember, remember, thou silly one,

How fast will thy summer glide,
And wilt thou wither a virgin pale,

Or flourish a blooming bride?
"O, the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold,
And he lives on earth," said she;
"But the Star is fair and he lives in the air,
And he shall my bridegroom be."

But what if the stormy cloud should come,
And ruffle the silver sea?

Would he turn his eye from the distant sky,
To smile on a thing like thee?

O, no! fair Lily, he will not send

One ray from his far-off throne; The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow, And thou wilt be left alone.

There is not a leaf on the mountain-top,

Nor a drop of evening dew,

Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore,
Nor a pearl in the waters blue,
That he has not cheer'd with his fickle smile,
And warm'd with his faithless beam,—
And will he be true to a pallid flower,

That floats on the quiet stream?
Alas, for the Lily! she would not heed,
But turn'd to the skies afar,

And bared her breast to the trembling ray
That shot from the rising star;
The cloud came over the darken'd sky,
And over the waters wide;

She look'd in vain through the beating rain,
And sank in the stormy tide.

THE MUSIC-GRINDERS.

THERE are three ways in which men take
One's money from his purse,

And very hard it is to tell

Which of the three is worse;
But all of them are bad enough

To make a body curse.
You're riding out some pleasant day,
And counting up your gains;
A fellow jumps from out a bush

And takes your horse's reins,
Another hints some words about

A bullet in your brains.

It's hard to meet such pressing friends
In such a lonely spot;

It's very hard to lose your cash,
But harder to be shot;

And so you take your wallet out,

Though you would rather not.

Perhaps you're going out to dine,-
Some filthy creature begs
You'll hear about the cannon-ball
That carried off his pegs,
And says it is a dreadful thing

For men to lose their legs.

He tells you of his starving wife,
His children to be fed,

Poor, little, lovely innocents,

All clamorous for bread,-
And so you kindly help to put
A bachelor to bed.

You're sitting on your window-seat
Beneath a cloudless moon;

You hear a sound, that seems to wear
The semblance of a tune,

As if a broken fife should strive
To drown a crack'd bassoon.

And nearer, nearer still, the tide

Of music seems to come,

There's something like a human voice,

And something like a drum;

You sit, in speechless agony,

Until your ear is numb.

Poor Home, sweet home" should seem to be

66

A very dismal place;

Your "Auld acquaintance," all at once,

Is alter'd in the face;

Their discords sting through BURNS and Moore, Like hedgehogs dress'd in lace.

You think they are crusaders, sent

From some infernal clime, To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,

And dock the tail of Rhyme, To crack the voice of Melody,

And break the legs of Time.
But, hark! the air again is still,

The music all is ground,
And silence, like a poultice, comes
To heal the blows of sound;

It cannot be,-it is,—it is,

A hat is going round!

No! Pay the dentist when he leaves
A fracture in your jaw,

And pay the owner of the bear,

That stunn'd you with his paw, And buy the lobster, that has had Your knuckles in his claw;

But if you are a portly man,

Put on your fiercest frown, And talk about a constable

To turn them out of town; Then close your sentence with an oath, And shut the window down!

And if you are a slender man,

Not big enough for that,
Or, if you cannot make a speech,
Because you are a flat,

Go very quietly and drop
A button in the hat!

THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE.

DEAREST, a look is but a ray
Reflected in a certain way;
A word, whatever tone it wear,
Is but a trembling wave of air;
A touch, obedience to a clause
In nature's pure material laws.

The very flowers that bend and meet,
In sweetening others, grow more sweet;
The clouds by day, the stars by night,
Inweave their floating locks of light;
The rainbow, Heaven's own forehead's braid,
Is but the embrace of sun and shade.

How few that love us have we found!
How wide the world that girds them round!
Like mountain-streams we meet and part,
Each living in the other's heart,

Our course unknown, our hope to be

Yet mingled in the distant sea.

But ocean coils and heaves in vain,
Bound in the subtle moonbeam's chain;
And love and hope do but obey
Some cold, capricious planet's ray,
Which lights and leads the tide it charms,
To Death's dark caves and icy arms.

Alas! one narrow line is drawn,
That links our sunset with our dawn;
In mist and shade life's morning rose,
And clouds are round it at its close;
But, ah! no twilight beam ascends
To whisper where that evening ends.
O! in the hour when I shall feel
Those shadows round my senses steal,
When gentle eyes are weeping o'er
The clay that feels their tears no more,
Then let thy spirit with me be,
Or some sweet angel, likest thee!