JONES VERY is a native of the city of Salem. In his youth he accompanied his father, who was a sea-captain, on several voyages to Europe; and he wrote his " Essay on Hamlet" with the more interest from having twice seen Elsineur. After his father's death, he prepared himself to enter college, and in 1832 became a student at Cambridge. He was graduated in 1836, and in the same year was appointed Greek tutor in the university. While he held this office, a religious enthusiasm took possession of his mind, which gradually produced so great a change in him, that his

friends withdrew him from Cambridge, and he returned to Salem, where he wrote most of the poems in the small collection of his writings published in 1839. His essays entitled " Epic Poet. ry," «Shakspeare,” and “Hamlet,” are fine specimens of learned and sympathetic criticism; and his sonnets, and other pieces of verse, are chaste, simple, and poetical, though they have little range of subjects and illustration. They are religions, and some of them are mystical, but they will be recognised by the true poet as the overflowings of a brother's soul.

TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE.

BRIGHT image of the early years

When glow'd my cheek as red as thou, And life's dark throng of cares and fears Were swift-wing'd shadows o'er my sunny brow!

Thou blushest from the painter's page, Robed in the mimic tints of art; But Nature's hand in youth's green age With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart.

The morning's blush, she made it thine,

The morn's sweet breath, she gave it thee; And in thy look, my Columbine ! Each fond-remember'd spot she bade me see.

I see the hill's far-gazing head,

Where gay thou noddest in the gale;
I hear light-bounding footsteps tread
The grassy path that winds along the vale.

I hear the voice of woodland song

Break from each bush and well-known tree, And, on light pinions borne along,

Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee.

O'er the dark rock the dashing brook,

With look of anger, leaps again,
And, hastening to each flowery nook,
Its distant voice is heard far down the glen.

Fair child of art! thy charms decay,

Touch'd by the wither'd hand of Time; And hush'd the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime; But on my heart thy cheek of bloom

Shall live when Nature's smile has fled;
And, rich with memory's sweet perfume,
Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed.

There shalt thou live and wake the glee
That echoed on thy native hill;
And when, loved flower! I think of thee,
My infant feet will seem to seek thee still.

LINES TO A WITHERED LEAF SEEN ON A POET'S TABLE.

·POET's hand has placed thee there,
Autumn's brown and wither'd scroll!
Though to outward eye not fair,
Thou hast beauty for the soul;

Though no human pen has traced
On that leaf its learned lore,
Love divine the page has graced,—
What can words discover more!

Not alone dim autumn's blast
Echoes from yon tablet sear,--
Distant music of the past
Steals upon the poet's ear.

Voices sweet of summer-hours,
Spring's soft whispers murmur by;
Feather'd songs from leafy bowers
Draw his listening soul on high.

THE HEART.

THERE is a cup of sweet or bitter drink,
Whose waters ever o'er the brim must well,
Whence flow pure thoughts of love as angels

think,

Or of its demon depths the tongue will tell; That cup can ne'er be cleansed from outward stains

While from within the tide forever flows; And soon it wearies out the fruitless pains The treacherous hand on such a task bestows; But ever bright its crystal sides appear, While runs the current from its outlet pure; And pilgrims hail its sparkling waters near, And stoop to drink the healing fountain sure, And bless the cup that cheers their fainting soul While through this parching waste they seek their heavenly goal.

TO THE CANARY-BIRD.

I CANNOT hear thy voice with others' ears,
Who make of thy lost liberty a gain;

And in thy tale of blighted hopes and fears
Feel not that every note is born with pain.
Alas! that with thy music's gentle swell [throng,
Past days of joy should through thy memory
And each to thee their words of sorrow tell,
While ravish'd sense forgets thee in thy song.
The heart that on the past and future feeds,
And pours in human words its thoughts divine,
Though at each birth the spirit inly bleeds,
Its song may charm the listening ear like thine,
And men with gilded cage and praise will try
To make the bard, like thee, forget his native sky.

THY BEAUTY FADES.

-THY beauty fades, and with it too my love,
For 't was the selfsame stalk that bore its flower;
Soft fell the rain, and breaking from above
The sun look'd out upon our nuptial hour;
And I had thought forever by thy side
With bursting buds of hope in youth to dwell;
But one by one Time strew'd thy petals wide,
And every hope's wan look a grief can tell :
For I had thoughtless lived beneath his sway,
Who like a tyrant dealeth with us all,
Crowning each rose, though rooted on decay,
With charms that shall the spirit's love enthrall,
And for a season turn the soul's pure eyes [defies.
From virtue's changeless bloom, that time and death

THE WIND-FLOWER.

THOU lookest up with meek, confiding eye
Upon the clouded smile of April's face,
Unharm'd though Winter stands uncertain by,
Eyeing with jealous glance each opening grace.
Thou trustest wisely! in thy faith array'd,
More glorious thou than Israel's wisest king;
Such faith was His whom men to death betray'd,
As thine who hearest the timid voice of Spring,
While other flowers still hide them from her call
Along the river's brink and meadow bare.
Thee will I seek beside the stony wall,
And in thy trust with childlike heart would share,
O'erjoy'd that in thy early leaves I find

A lesson taught by Him who loved all human kind.

ENOCH.

I LOOK'D to find a man who walk'd with Gon,
Like the translated patriarch of old ;-
Though gladden'd millions on his footstool trod,
Yet none with him did such sweet converse hold;
I heard the wind in low complaint go by,
That none its melodies like him could hear;
Day unto day spoke wisdom from on high,
Yet none like DAVID turn'd a willing ear;
Gon walk'd alone unhonour'd through the earth;
For him no heart-built temple open stood,
The soul, forgetful of her nobler birth,
Had hewn him lofty shrines of stone and wood,
And left unfinish'd and in ruins still
The only temple he delights to fill.

MORNING.

THE light will never open sightless eyes, It comes to those who willingly would see; And every object,-hill, and stream, and skies, Rejoice within the encircling line to be; 'Tis day, the field is fill'd with busy hands, The shop resounds with noisy workmen's din, The traveller with his staff already stands His yet unmeasured journey to begin; The light breaks gently too within the breast,Yet there no eye awaits the crimson morn, The forge and noisy anvil are at rest, Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn, Nor pilgrim lifts his staff,—it is no day To those who find on earth their place to stay.

NIGHT.

I THANK thee, Father, that the night is near When I this conscious being may resign; Whose only task thy words of love to hear, And in thy acts to find each act of mine; A task too great to give a child like me, The myriad-handed labours of the day, Too many for my closing eyes to see, Thy words too frequent for my tongue to say; Yet when thou seest me burden'd by thy love, Each other gift more lovely then appears, For dark-robed night comes hovering from above, And all thine other gifts to me endears; And while within her darken'd couch I sleep, Thine eyes untired above will constant vigils keep.

-

THE SPIRIT-LAND.

FATHER! thy wonders do not singly stand, Nor far removed where feet have seldom stray'd; Around us ever lies the enchanted land, In marvels rich to thine own sons display'd; In finding thee are all things round us found; In losing thee are all things lost beside; Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound, And to our eyes the vision is denied ; We wander in the country far remote, Mid tombs and ruin'd piles in death to dwell; Or on the records of past greatness dote, And for a buried soul the living sell; While on our path bewilder'd falls the night That ne'er returns us to the fields of light.

THE TREES OF LIFE.

For those who worship THEE there is no death, For all they do is but with THEE to dwell; Now, while I take from THEE this passing breath, It is but of THY glorious name to tell; Nor words nor measured sounds have I to find, But in them both my soul doth ever flow; They come as viewless as the unseen wind, And tell thy noiseless steps where'er I go; The trees that grow along thy living stream, And from its springs refreshment ever drink, Forever glittering in thy morning beam, They bend them o'er the river's grassy brink; And as more high and wide their branches grow, They look more fair within the depths below.

THE ARK.

THERE is no change of time and place with THEE; Where'er I go, with me 'tis still the same; Within thy presence I rejoice to be, And always hallow thy most holy name; The world doth ever change; there is no peace Among the shadows of its storm-vex'd breast; With every breath the frothy waves increase, They toss up mire and dirt, they cannot rest; I thank THEE that within thy strong-built ark My soul across the uncertain sea can sail, And, though the night of death be long and dark, My hopes in CHRIST shall reach within the veil; And to the promised haven steady steer, Whose rest to those who love is ever near.

NATURE.

THE bubbling brook doth leap when I come by,
Because my feet find measure with its call;

The birds know when the friend they love is nigh,
For I am known to them, both great and small;
The flower that on the lovely hill-side grows
Expects me there when spring its bloom has given;
And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows,
And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven;
For he who with his Maker walks aright,
Shall be their lord as ADAM was before;

His ear shall catch each sound with new delight,
Each object wear the dress that then it wore;
And he, as when erect in soul he stood,
Hear from his Father's lips that all is good.

THE TREE.

I LOVE thee when thy swelling buds appear, And one by one their tender leaves unfold, As if they knew that warmer suns were near, Nor longer sought to hide from winter's cold; And when with darker growth thy leaves are seen To veil from view the early robin's nest, I love to lie beneath thy waving screen, With limbs by summer's heat and toil oppress'd; And when the autumn winds have stript thee bare, And round thee lies the smooth, untrodden snow, When naught is thine that made thee once so fair, I love to watch thy shadowy form below, And through thy leafless arms to look above On stars that brighter beam when most we need their love.

THE SON.

FATHER, I wait thy word. The sun doth stand
Beneath the mingling line of night and day,
A listening servant, waiting thy command
To roll rejoicing on its silent way;

The tongue of time abides the appointed hour,
Till on our ear its solemn warnings fall;

The heavy cloud withholds the pelting shower, Then every drop speeds onward at thy call; The bird reposes on the yielding bough, With breast unswollen by the tide of song; So does my spirit wait thy presence now To pour thy praise in quickening life along, Chiding with voice divine man's lengthen'd sleep, While round the unutter'd word and love their vigils keep.

THE ROBIN.

THOU need'st not flutter from thy half-built nest, Whene'er thou hear'st man's hurrying feet go by, Fearing his eye for harm may on thee rest, Or he thy young unfinish'd cottage spy; All will not heed thee on that swinging bough, Nor care that round thy shelter spring the leaves, Nor watch thee on the pool's wet margin now, For clay to plaster straws thy cunning weaves; All will not hear thy sweet out-pouring joy, That with morn's stillness blends the voice of song, For over-anxious cares their souls employ, That else upon thy music borne along And the light wings of heart-ascending prayer Had learn'd that Heaven is pleased thy simple joys to share.

THE RAIL-ROAD.

THOU great proclaimer to the outward eye Of what the spirit too would seek to tell, Onward thou goest, appointed from on high The other warnings of the Lord to swell; Thou art the voice of one that through the world Proclaims in startling tones, “Prepare the way;" The lofty mountain from its seat is hurl'd, The flinty rocks thine onward march obey; The valleys, lifted from their lowly bed, O'ertop the hills that on them frown'd before, Thou passest where the living seldom tread, Through forests dark, where tides beneath thee roar, And bidd'st man's dwelling from thy track remove, And would with warning voice his crooked paths reprove.

THE LATTER RAIN.

THE latter rain,-it falls in anxious haste Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste, As if it would each root's lost strength repair; But not a blade grows green as in the spring, No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves; The robins only mid the harvests sing, Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves. The rain falls still,-the fruit all ripen'd drops, It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut-shell, The furrow'd fields disclose the yellow crops, Each bursting pod of talents used can tell, And all that once received the early rain Declare to man it was not sent in vain.

MR. STREET is a native of Poughkeepsie, in Duchess county, New York. His father, RANDALL S. STREET, was a counsellor at law, and for several years a representative in the national Congress; and his grandfather, CALEB STREET, of Connecticut, was a direct and lineal descendant of the Reverend NICHOLAS STREET, who came to this country soon after the landing of JOHN CARVER, at Plymouth, and was ordained minister of the first church in New Haven, in 1659. His mother, a daughter of ANDREW BILLINGS, of Duchess county, was descended from the LIVINGSTON family, and his maternal grandfather was a major in the revolutionary army.

When the subject of this notice was about thirteen years of age, his father removed into the county of Sullivan. He had previously written

verses,

but the earliest of his compositions that I have seen appeared in the New York "Evening Post," in his fifteenth year. These are "A Winter Scene" and "A Day in March," and they evidence the possession at that age of much of the skill in description which is shown in his more recent productions. Sullivan is what is called a "wild county," though it is extremely fertile where well cultivated. Its scenery is magnificent, and its deep forests, streams as clear as dew-drops, gorges of piled rock and black shade, mountains and valleys, could hardly fail to waken into life all the faculties that slumbered in a youthful poet's bosom.

Mr. STREET studied law in the office of his father, and, for a few years after his admission to the bar, practised in the courts of Sullivan county. In the winter of 1839 he removed to Albany, and he has since resided in that city. He was married in the autumn of 1841.

The longest of his poems is entitled "Nature." It was pronounced before the literary societies of the college at Geneva, in the summer of 1840. After a few retrospective passages, he describes the scenery of England, Italy, Switzerland, and India, and last, of America, in the summer-time, when

In the moist hollows, and by streamlet-sides,
The grass shoots thick and deep; the pigeon-tribes
Dotting the air, stream o'er in countless throngs;
The robin whistles, and the noisy swamp
Has deepen'd in its tones.

In the page following that from which the above lines are taken, is this fine description of a shower in June:

But now the wind stirs fresher; darting round
The spider tightens his frail web; dead leaves
Whirl in quick eddies from the mounds; the snail
Creeps to its twisted fortress, and the bird
Crouches amid its feathers. Wasted up,
The stealing cloud with soft gray blinds the sky,
And, in its vapoury mantle, onward steps
The summer shower; over the shivering grass

It merrily dances, rings its tinkling bells
Upon the dimpling stream, and moving on,
It treads upon the leaves with pattering feet
And softly murmur'd music. Off it glides,
And as its misty robe lifts up, and melts,
The sunshine, darting, with a sudden burst,
Strikes o'er the scene a magic brilliancy.

The "Indian summer," which follows the November storms, and is well called "the Sabbath-rest of Nature ere she yields to Winter's power," is thus described:

The stern, black frost, Blighting the pageant-leaves, had left them pale, Shrunken, and sear; and the strong, howling blasts Had whirl'd them from their branches, darkening air And strewing them o'er earth. Now, sweet and calm, Like music gliding o'er discordant sounds, Or moonlight smiling on a troubled sea, Summer, unrobed of all her glowing charms That graced her prime, but mild and matron-like, For a brief while returns to greet those scenes O'er which she reign'd in queenly loveliness. A purple haze is trembling in the air, Softening all near in veils of glimmering gauze, And steeping far-off masses in thick mist, Blending their outlines with the shaded sky. So still the atmosphere, the thistle's star Drops motionless on the moss. Such quiet reigns, The low, faint crackling of the dry, fallen leaves, Stirr'd by the squirrel's bounding foot, is heard. The beech-nut, falling from its open'd burr, Gives a sharp rattle, and the locust's song, Rising and swelling shrill, then pausing short, Rings like a trumpet. Distant woods and hills Are full of echoes, and each sound that strikes Upon the hollow air, lets loose their tongues. The ripples, creeping through the matted grass, Drip on the ear, and the far partridge-drum Rolls like low thunder. The last butterfly, Like a wing'd violet, floating in the meek, Pink-colour'd sunshine, sinks his velvet feet Within the pillar'd mullein's delicate down, And shuts and opens his unruffled fans. Lazily wings the crow with solemn croak From tree-top on to tree-top. Feebly chirps The grasshopper, and the spider's tiny clock Ticks from his crevice.

A morning after a snow-storm, in winter:

The morning sunshine glows upon a waste
Sparkling with diamonds; bare the mountain's brow,
But the low vale is level with the hill-
The hemlock stands an ivory pyramid,
And the link'd branches gleam like silvery webs
Traced on the glittering azure of the sky.

These are characteristic passages. Mr. STREET describes with remarkable fidelity and minuteness, and while reading his poems one may easily fancy himself in the forests, on the open plain, or by the side of the shining river. In a few pieces he has also shown considerable skill in narration, but it is as a descriptive poet that he is most worthy of our regard. His contributions to the literary journals have been numerous, but no collection of them has yet been published.