WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH was born in the town of Woodstock, in Connecticut, on the second day of February, 1812. His paternal ancestors came to this country from Wales; and on both sides he is descended from the stern old Puritan stock, being on the mother's a lineal descendant of Governor BRADFORD, whose name appears conspicuously and honourably in the early annals of Massachusetts. An intermediate descendant, the grandfather of Mr. BURLEIGH, served with credit under WASHINGTON, in the war of the Revolution. Such ancestral recollections are treasured, with just pride, in many an humble but happy home in New England.

In his infancy, Mr. BURLEIGH's parents removed to Plainfield, in his native state, where his father was for many years the principal of a popular academy, until the loss of sight induced him to abandon his charge, before his son had attained an age to derive much benefit from his instructions. He retired to a farm, and the boy's time was mainly devoted to its culture, varied by the customary attendance in a district-school through the wintermonths, until he was sixteen, when he proposed to become an apprentice to a neighbouring clothier, but abandoned the idea after two weeks' trial, from an inveterate loathing of the coarseness and brutality of those among whom he was set to labour. Here, however, while engaged in the repulsive cares of his employment, he composed his first sonnet, which was published in a gazette printed in the vicinity. Returning to his father's house, he in the following summer became an apprentice to a

| village printer, whom he left after eight months' tedious endurance, leaving in his "stick" a farewell couplet to his master, which is probably re- j membered unforgivingly to this day. He did not, however, desert the business, of which he had thus obtained some slight knowledge, but continued to labour as half-apprentice, journey man, sub-editor, etc., through the next seven years, during which he assisted in the conduct of per haps as many periodicals, deriving thereby little fame and less profit. In December, 1834, while editor of "The Literary Journal," in the city of Schenectady, he married an estimable woman, who has since "divided his sorrows and doubled his joys." In July, 1836, abandoning the printing business for a season, he commenced a new career as a public lecturer, under the auspices of a philanthropic society, and in his new employment he continued for two years. At the close of that period he assumed the editorship of "The Christian Witness," at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, which he held two years and a half, when he resigned it, to take charge of "The Washington Banner," a gazette published at Allegheny, on the opposite side of the Ohio. Between this duty, and the study of the law, his time is now divided.

His contributions to the periodical literature of the country commenced at an early age, and have been continued at intervals to the present day. "The New Yorker" was for years his favourite medium of communication with the public. A collection of his poems appeared in Philadelphia, early in 1840.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

SAE hath gone in the spring-time of life,

Ere her sky had been dimm'd by a cloud, While her heart with the rapture of love was yet rife, And the hopes of her youth were unbow'dFrom the lovely, who loved her too well;

From the heart that had grown to her own; From the sorrow which late o'er her young spirit fell, Like a dream of the night she hath flown; And the earth hath received to its bosom its trustAshes to ashes, and dust unto dust. The spring, in its loveliness dress'd,

Will return with its music-wing'd hours, And, kiss'd by the breath of the sweet south-west, The buds shall burst out in flowers;

And the flowers her grave-sod above,

Though the sleeper beneath recks it not, Shall thickly be strown by the hand of Love, To cover with beauty the spot

Meet emblems are they of the pure one and bright, Who faded and fell with so early a blight.

Ay, the spring will return--but the blossom
That bloom'd in our presence the sweetest,
By the spoiler is borne from the cherishing bosom,
The loveliest of all and the fleetest!

The music of stream and of bird

Shall come back when the winter is o'er; But the voice that was dearest to us shall be heard In our desolate chambers no more! The sunlight of May on the waters shall quiver— The light of her eye hath departed forever!

As the bird to its sheltering nest,

When the storm on the hills is abroad,
So her spirit hath flown from this world of unrest
To repose on the bosom of God!
Where the sorrows of earth never more

May fling o'er its brightness a stain;
Where, in rapture and love, it shall ever adore,
With a gladness unmingled with pain;

And its thirst shall be slaked by the waters which

spring,

Like a river of light, from the throne of the KING!

There is weeping on earth for the lost!

There is bowing in grief to the ground!
But rejoicing and praise mid the sanctified host,
For a spirit in Paradise found!

Though brightness hath pass'd from the earth,
Yet a star is new-born in the sky,

And a soul hath gone home to the land of its birth,
Where are pleasures and fulness of joy!
And a new harp is strung, and a new song is given
To the breezes that float o'er the gardens of heaven!

"LET THERE BE LIGHT.”

NIGHT, stern, eternal, and alone,
Girded with solemn silence round,
Majestic on his starless throne,

Sat brooding o'er the vast profound-
And there unbroken darkness lay,

Deeper than that which veils the tomb, While circling ages wheel'd away

Unnoted mid the voiceless gloom.

Then moved upon the waveless deep

The quickening Spirit of the LORD,
And broken was its pulseless sleep

Before the Everlasting Word!
"Let there be light!" and listening earth,
With tree, and plant, and flowery sod,
"In the beginning" sprang to birth,
Obedient to the voice of God.
Then, in his burning track, the sun
Trod onward to his joyous noon,
And in the heavens, one by one,
Cluster'd the stars around the moon-

In glory bathed, the radiant day

Wore like a king his crown of lightAnd, girdled by the "Milky Way,"

How queenly look'd the star-gemm'd night!

Bursting from choirs celestial, rang
Triumphantly the notes of song;
The morning-stars together sang

In concert with the heavenly throng;
And earth, enraptured, caught the strain
That thrill'd along her fields of air,
Till every mountain-top and plain
Flung back an answering echo there!

Creator! let thy Spirit shine

The darkness of our souls within,
And lead us by thy grace divine

From the forbidden paths of sin;
And may that voice which bade the earth
From Chaos and the realms of Night,
From doubt and darkness call us forth
To God's own liberty and light!

Thus, made partakers of THY love,
The baptism of the Spirit ours,
Our grateful hearts shall rise above,
Renew'd in purposes and powers;
And songs of joy again shall ring
Triumphant through the arch of heaven-
The glorious songs which angels sing,
Exulting over souls forgiven!

JUNE.

JUNE, with its roses-June!
The gladdest month of our capricious year,
With its thick foliage and its sunlight clear;
And with the drowsy tune

Of the bright leaping waters, as they pass
Laughingly on amid the springing grass!

Earth, at her joyous coming,

Smiles as she puts her gayest mantle on ;
And Nature greets her with a benison;
While myriad voices, humming
Their welcome song, breathe dreamy music round,
Till seems the air an element of sound.

The overarching sky

Weareth a softer tint, a lovelier blue,

As if the light of heaven were melting through
Its sapphire home on high;

Hiding the sunshine in their vapoury breast,
The clouds float on like spirits to their rest.

A deeper melody,

Pour'd by the birds, as o'er their callow young Watchful they hover, to the breeze is flungGladsome, yet not of glee

Music heart-born, like that which mothers sing Above their cradled infants slumbering.

On the warm hill-side, where
The sunlight lingers latest, through the grass
Peepeth the luscious strawberry! As they pass,
Young children gambol there,

Crushing the gather'd fruit in playful mood,
And staining their bright faces with its blood.

A deeper blush is given

To the half-ripen'd cherry, as the sun
Day after day pours warmth the trees upon,
Till the rich pulp is riven;

The truant schoolboy looks with longing eyes,
And perils limb and neck to win the prize.

The farmer, in his field,

Draws the rich mould around the tender maize ;
While Hope, bright-pinion'd, points to coming days,
When all his toil shall yield

An ample harvest, and around his hearth
There shall be laughing eyes and tones of mirth.

Poised on his rainbow-wing,

The butterfly, whose life is but an hour,
Hovers coquettishly from flower to flower,
A gay and happy thing;
Born for the sunshine and the summer-day,
Soon passing, like the beautiful, away!

[ers!

These are thy pictures, June!
Brightest of summer-months-thou month of flow-
First-born of beauty, whose swift-footed hours
Dance to the merry tune

Of birds, and waters, and the pleasant shout
Of childhood on the sunny hills peal'd out.

I feel it were not wrong

To deem thou art a type of heaven's clime,
Only that there the clouds and storms of time

Sweep not the sky along;

The flowers-air-beauty-music-all are thine, But brighter-purer-lovelier-more divine!

THE strife is o'er-Death's seal is set
On ashy lip and marble brow;
"Tis o'er, though faintly lingers yet
Upon the cheek a life-like glow:
The feeble pulse hath throbb'd its last,
The aching head is laid at rest-
Another from our ranks hath pass'd,

The dearest and the loveliest!
Press down the eyelids-for the light,
Erewhile so radiant underneath,
Is gone forever from our sight,

And darken'd by the spoiler, Death:
Press down the eyelids-who can bear
To look beneath their fringed fold?
And softly part the silken hair

Upon the brow so deathly cold.

The strife is o'er! The loved of years,
To whom our yearning hearts had grown,
Hath left us, with life's gathering fears
To struggle darkly and alone;

Gone, with the wealth of love which dwelt,

Heart-kept, with holy thoughts and highGone, as the clouds of evening melt

Beyond the dark and solemn sky.

Yet mourn her not-the voice of wo
Befits not this, her triumph-hour;
Let Sorrow's tears no longer flow,

For life eternal is her dower!
Freed from the earth's corrupt control,
The trials of a world like this,

Joy! for her disembodied soul

Drinks at the fount of perfect bliss!

STANZAS,

WRITTEN ON VISITING MY BIRTH-PLACE.

We are scatter'd-we are scatter'd―
Though a jolly band were we!
Some sleep beneath the grave-sod,
And some are o'er the sea;
And Time hath wrought his changes
On the few who yet remain;
The joyous band that once we were
We cannot be again!

We are scatter'd-we are scatter'd!-
Upon the village-green,
Where we play'd in boyish recklessness,
How few of us are seen!
And the hearts that beat so lightly

In the joyousness of youth—
Some are crumbled in the sepulchre,
And some have lost their truth.
The beautiful-the beautiful

Are faded from our track! We miss them and we mourn them, But we cannot lure them back; For an iron sleep hath bound them In its passionless embraceWe may weep-but cannot win them From their dreary resting-place. How mournfully-how mournfully The memory doth come Of the thousand scenes of happiness Around our childhood's home! A salutary sadness

Is brooding o'er the heart,
As it dwells upon remembrances
From which it will not part.

In memory-in memory—
How fondly do we gaze
Upon the magic loveliness

Of childhood's fleeting days!
The sparkling eye-the thrilling tone-
The smile upon its lips:

They all have gone!—but left a light
Which time cannot eclipse.

The happiness-the happiness
Of boyhood must depart;
Then comes the sense of loneliness
Upon the stricken heart!

SONG.

BELIEVE not the slander, my dearest KATRINE! For the ice of the world hath not frozen my heart; In my innermost spirit there still is a shrine

Where thou art remember'd, all pure as thou art: The dark tide of years, as it bears us along,

Though it sweep away hope in its turbulent flow, Cannot drown the low voice of Love's eloquent song, Nor chill with its waters my faith's early glow.

True, the world hath its snares, and the soul may grow faint

In its strifes with the follies and falsehoods of earth;

And amidst the dark whirl of corruption, a taint May poison the thoughts that are purest at birth. Temptations and trials, without and within,

From the pathway of virtue the spirit may lure; But the soul shall grow strong in its triumphs o'er sin, And the heart shall preserve its integrity pure. The finger of Love, on my innermost heart,

Wrote thy name, O adored! when my feelings were young;

And the record shall 'hide till my soul shall depart, And the darkness of death o'er my being be flung. Then believe not the slander that says I forget,

In the whirl of excitement, the love that was thine; Thou wert dear in my boyhood, art dear to me yet: For my sunlight of life is the smile of KATRINE!

THE BROOK.

"LIKE thee, O stream! to glide in solitude
Noiselessly on, reflecting sun or star,
Unseen by man, and from the great world's jar
Kept evermore aloof: methinks 't were good
To live thus lonely through the silent lapse

Of my appointed time." Not wisely said,
Unthinking Quietist! The brook hath sped
Its course for ages through the narrow gaps
Of rifted hills and o'er the reedy plain,
Or mid the eternal forests, not in vain;
The grass more greenly groweth on its brink,

And lovelier flowers and richer fruits are there, And of its crystal waters myriads drink,

That else would faint beneath the torrid air.

THE TIMES.

INACTION now is crime. The old earth reels Inebriate with guilt; and Vice, grown bold, Laughs Innocence to scorn. The thirst for gold Hath made men demons, till the heart that feels The impulse of impartial love, nor kneels

In worship foul to Mammon, is contemn'd. He who hath kept his purer faith, and stemm'd Corruption's tide, and from the ruffian heels

Of impious tramplers rescued peril'd right,

Is call'd fanatic, and with scoffs and jeers Maliciously assail'd. The poor man's tears Are unregarded; the oppressor's might Revered as law; and he whose righteous way Departs from evil, makes himself a prey.

SOLITUDE.

THE ceaseless hum of men, the dusty streets,
Crowded with multitudinous life; the din
Of toil and traffic, and the wo and sin,
The dweller in the populous city meets:
These have I left to seek the cool retreats

Of the untrodden forest, where, in bowers Builded by Nature's hand, inlaid with flowers, And roof'd with ivy, on the mossy seats

Reclining, I can while away the hours
In sweetest converse with old books, or give
My thoughts to Gon; or fancies fugitive

Indulge, while over me their radiant showers Of rarest blossoms the old trees shake down, And thanks to HIм my meditations crown!

RAIN.

DASHING in big drops on the narrow pane,
And making mournful music for the mind,
While plays his interlude the wizard wind,
I hear the ringing of the frequent rain:

How doth its dreamy tone the spirit lull,
Bringing a sweet forgetfulness of pain,
While busy thought calls up the past again,
And lingers mid the pure and beautiful
Visions of early childhood! Sunny faces

Meet us with looks of love, and in the moans Of the faint wind we hear familiar tones, And tread again in old familiar places! Such is thy power, O Rain! the heart to bless, Wiling the soul away from its own wretchedness!