I may not turn away

From the charm'd brow; and I have heard his Even as a prophet by his people spoken; [name And that high brow in death bears seal and token Of one whose words were flame.

O, Holy Teacher! couldst thou rise and live, Would not those hush'd lips whisper, "I forgive?"

Away with lute and harp

With the glad heart forever, and the dance!
Never again shall tabret sound for me!
O, fearful mother! I have brought to thee

The silent dead with his rebuking glance, And the crush'd heart of one to whom is given Wild dreams of judgment and offended Heaven!

Wait thou for Time-the slow-unfolding flower
Chides man's impatient haste with long delay;
The harvest ripening in the autumnal sun-
The golden fruit of suffering's weighty power
Within the soul-like soft bells' silvery chime
Repeat the tones, if fame may not be won,
Or if the heart where thou shouldst find a shrine,
Breathe forth no blessing on thy lonely way.
Wait thou for Time-it hath a sorcerer's power
To dim life's mockeries that gayly shine,
To lift the veil of seeming from the real,
Bring to thy soul a rich or fearful dower,
With golden tracery on the sands of life,
And raise the drooping heart from scenes ideal,
To a high purpose in the world of strife.
Wait thou for Time!

Yea, wait for Time, but to thy heart take Faith,
Soft beacon-light upon a stormy sea:
A mantle for the pure in heart, to pass
Through a dim world, untouch'd by living death,
A cheerful watcher through the spirit's night,
Soothing the grief from which she may not flee-
A herald of glad news-a seraph bright,

Pointing to sheltering havens yet to be.

Yea, Faith and Time, and thou that through the hour

Of the lone night hast nerved the feeble hand,
Kindled the weary heart with sudden fire,
Gifted the drooping soul with living power,
Immortal Energy! shalt thou not be
With the old tales our wayward thoughts inspire,
Link'd with each vision of high destiny,

Till on the fadeless borders of that land

Suggested by a passage in BULWER'S "Night and Morning."

Where all is known we find our certain way,
And lose ye, mid its pure effulgent light?
Kind ministers, who cheer'd us in our gloom,
Seraphs who lighten'd griefs with guiding ray,
Whispering through tears of cloudless glory dawn-
ing,

Say, in the gardens of eternal bloom

Will not our hearts, where breaks the cloudless morning,

Joy that ye led us through the drooping night?

GIVE ME ARMOUR OF PROOF.

GIVE me armour of proof, I must ride to the plain;
Give me armour of proof, ere the trump sound again:
To the halls of my childhood no more am I known,
And the nettle must rise where the myrtle hath
blown!

Till the conflict is over, the battle is past-
Give me armour of proof-I am true to the last!

Give me armour of proof-bring me helmet and

spear;

Away! shall the warrior's cheek own a tear? Bring the steel of Milan-'t is the firmest and best, And bind o'er my bosom its closely link'd vest, Where the head of a loved one in fondness hath lain, Whose tears fell at parting like warm summer rain! Give me armour of proof-I have torn from my heart Each soft tie and true that forbade me to part; Bring the sword of Damascus, its blade cold and bright,

That bends not in conflict, but gleams in the fight; And stay--let me fasten your scarf on my breast, Love's light pledge and true--I will answer the rest!

Give me armour of proof--shall the cry be in vain, When to life's sternest conflicts we rush forth

LINES SUGGESTED BY A SCENE IN "MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK."*

BEAUTIFUL child! my lot is cast;
Hope from my path hath forever past;
Nothing the future can bring to me
Hath ever been shadow'd in dreams to thee;
The warp is woven, the arrow sped,
My brain hath throbb'd, but my heart is dead:
Tell ye my tale, then, for love or gold?—
Years have pass'd by since that tale was told.
God keep thee, child, with thine angel brow,
Ever as sinless and bright as now;
Fresh as the roses of earliest spring,
The fair, pure buds it is thine to bring.
Would that the bloom of the soul could be,
Beautiful spirit! caught from thee;
Would that thy gift could anew impart
The roses that bloom for the pure in heart.
Beautiful child! mayst thou never hear
Tones of reproach in thy sorrowing ear:
Beautiful child! may that cheek ne'er glow
With a warmer tint from the heart below:
Beautiful child! mayst thou never bear
The clinging weight of a cold despair;
A heart, whose madness each hope hath cross'd,
Which hath thrown one die, and the stake hath lost.

Beautiful child! why shouldst thou stay?
There is danger near thee,-away! away!
Away! in thy spotless purity;
Nothing can here be a type of thee;
The very air, as it fans thy brow,

May leave a trace on its stainless snow;
Lo! spirits of evil haunt the bowers,

And the serpent glides from the trembling flowers.
Beautiful child! alas, to see

A fount in the desert gush forth for thee,
Where the queenly lilies should faintly gleam,
And thy life flow on as its silent stream
Afar from the world of doubt and sin,-
This weary world thou must wander in;
Such a home was once to my visions given,-
It comes to my heart as a type of heaven.
Beautiful child! let the weary in heart
Whisper thee once, ere again we part;
Tell thee that want, and tell thee that pain
Never can thrill in the throbbing brain,
Till a sadder story that brain hath learn'd,
Till a fiercer fire hath in it burn'd;
God keep thee sinless and undefiled,
Though poor, and wretched, and sad, my child!
Beautiful being! away, away!

The angels above be thy help and stay,
Save thee from sorrow, and save thee from sin,
Guard thee from danger without and within.
Pure be thy spirit, and breathe for me
A sigh or a prayer when thy heart is free;
In the crowded mart, by the lone wayside,
Beautiful child! be thy God thy guide.

"Nelly bore upon her arm the little basket with her flowers, and sometimes stopped, with timid and modest looks, to offer them at some gay carriage. . . . . . There was but one lady who seemed to understand the child,

LIFE AND DEATH.

"La mort est le seul dieu que J'osais implorer.”

Nor unto thee, O pale and radiant Death! Not unto thee, though every hope be past, Though Life's first, sweetest stars may shine no more,

Nor earth again one cherish'd dream restore,
Or from the bright urn of the future cast
Aught, aught of joy on me.

Yet unto thee, O monarch! robed and crown'd,
And beautiful in all thy sad array,

I bring no incense, though the heart be chill,
And to the eyes, that tears alone may fill,

Shines not as once the wonted light of day,
Still upon another shrine my vows
Shall all be duly paid, and though thy voice
Is full of music to the pining heart,
And woos one to that pillow of calm rest,
Where all Life's dull and restless thoughts depart,
Still, not to thee, O Death!

I pay my vows, though now to me thy brow
Seems crown'd with roses of the summer prime,
And to the aching sense thy voice would be,
O Death! O Death! of softest melody,
And gentle ministries alone were thine,
Still I implore thee not.

But thou, O Life! O Life! the searching test
Of the weak heart! to thee, to thee I bow;
And if the fire upon the altar shrine
Descend, and scathe each glowing hope of mine,
Still may my heart as now
Turn not from that dread test.

But let me pay my vows to thee, O Life!
And let me hope that from that glowing fire
There yet may be redeem'd a gold more pure
And bright, and eagle thoughts to mount and soar
Their flight the higher,

Released from earthly hope, or earthly fear.

This, this, O Life! be mine.

Let others strive thy glowing wreaths to bindLet others seek thy false and dazzling gleams, For me their light went out on early streams, And faded were thy roses in my grasp,

No more, no more to bloom. Yet as the stars, the holy stars of night, Shine out when all is dark, So would I, cheer'd by hopes more purely bright, Tread still the thorny path whose close is light, If, but at last, the toss'd and weary barque Gains the sure haven of her final rest.

and she was one who sat alone in a handsome carriage, while two young men in dashing clothes, who had just dismounted from it, talked and laughed loudly at a little distance, appearing to forget her quite. There were many ladies all around, but they turned their backs, or looked another way, or at the two young men, (not unfavourably at them,) and left her to herself. She motioned away a gipsy-woman, urgent to tell her fortune, saying, that it was told already, and had been for some years, but called the child towards her, and taking her flowers, put money into her trembling hand, and bade her go home, and keep at home, for God's sake. . . .

MR. COXE is the eldest son of the Reverend SAMUEL H. CoxE, D. D., of Brooklyn. He was born in Mendham, in New Jersey, on the tenth day of May, 1818. At ten years of age he was sent to a gymnasium at Pittsfield, in Massachusetts, and he completed his studies preparatory to entering the University of New York, under the private charge of Doctor Busa, author of "The Life of Mohammed," etc. While in the university he distinguished himself by his devotion to classic learning, and particularly by his acquaintance with the Greek poets. In his freshman year he delivered a poem before one of the undergraduates' societies, on "" The Progress of Ambition," and in the same period produced many spirited metrical pieces, some of which appeared in the periodicals of the time. In the autumn of 1837 he published his first volume, "Advent, a Mystery," a poem in the dramatic form, to which was prefixed the following dedication :

FATHER, as he of old who reap'd the field,

The first young sheaves to Him did dedicate
Whose bounty gave whate'er the glebe did yield,
Whose smile the pleasant harvest might create-
So I to thee these numbers consecrate,
Thou who didst lead to Silo's pearly spring;
And if of hours well saved from revels late
And youthful riot, I these fruits do bring,
Accept my early vow, nor frown on what I sing.

This work was followed in the spring of 1838 by "Athwold, a Romaunt;" and in the summer of the same year were printed the first and second cantos of "Saint Jonathan, the Lay of a Scald." These were intended as introductory to a novel in the stanza of "Don Juan," and four other cantos were afterward written, but wisely destroyed by the author on his becoming a candidate for holy orders, an event not contemplated in his previous studies. He was graduated in July, and on the occasion delivered an eloquent valedictory oration.

From this period his poems assumed a devotional cast, and were usually published in the periodicals of the church. His "Athanasion" was pronounced before the alumni of Washington College, in Connecticut, in the summer of 1840. It is an irregular ode, and contains passages of considerable merit, but its sectarian character will prevent its receiving general applause. The following allusion to Bishop BERKELEY is from this

poem:

Oft when the eve-star, sinking into day,
Seems empire's planet on its westward way,
Comes, in soft light from antique window's groin,
Thy pure ideal, mitred saint of Cloyne!

Among them "The Blues" and "The Hebrew Muse," in "The American Monthly Magazine." 54

Taught, from sweet childhood, to revere in thee
Earth's every virtue, writ in poesie,
Nigh did I leap, on CLIO's calmer line,

To see thy story with our own entwine.
On Yale's full walls, no pictured shape to me
Like BERKELEY's seem'd, in priestly dignity,
Such as he stood, fatiguing, year by year,
In our behoof, dull prince and cavalier;
And dauntless still, as erst the Genoese;
Such as he wander'd o'er the Indy seas
To vex'd Bermoothes, witless that he went
Mid isles that beckon'd to a continent.

Such there he seem'd, the pure, the undefiled!
And meet the record! Though, perchance, I smiled.
That those, in him, themselves will glorify,
Who reap his fields, but let his doctrine die,
Yet, let him stand: the world will note it well,
And Time shall thank them for the chronicle
By such confess'd, COLUMBUS of new homes
For song, and Science with her thousand tomes.
Yes-pure apostle of our western lore,
Spoke the full heart, that now may breathe it more,
Still in those halls, where none without a sneer
Name the dear title of thy ghostly fear,
Stand up, bold bishop-in thy priestly vest;
Proof that the Church bore letters to the West!

In the autumn of the same year appeared Mr. COXE'S "Christian Ballads," a collection of religious poems, of which the greater number had previously been given to the public through the columns of "The Churchman." They are elegant, yet fervent expressions of the author's love for the impressive and venerable customs, ceremonies, and rites of the Protestant Episcopal Church.

man.

While in the university, Mr. CoxE had, besides acquiring the customary intimacy with ancient literature, learned the Italian language; and he now, under Professor NORDHEIMER, devoted two years to the study of the Hebrew and the GerAfter passing some time in the Divinity School at Chelsea, he was admitted to deacon's orders, by the Bishop of New York, on the twenty-eighth of June, 1841. In the following July, on receiving the degree of Master of Arts from the University, he pronounced the closing oration, by appointment of the faculty; and in August he accepted a call to the rectorship of Saint Anne's church, then recently erected by Mr. GOUVERNEUR MORRIS on his family domain of Morrisiana, near New York. He was married on the twenty-first of September, by the bishop of the diocese, to his third cousin, CATHARINE CLEVELAND, eldest daughter of Mr. SIMEON HYDE.

Besides his numerous metrical compositionspublished and unpublished-Mr. CoxE has written several elaborate prose articles for the "Biblical Repository," "The Churchman," "The New York Review," and other periodical works. Rarely has an author accomplished so much before reaching his twenty-fourth year.

2N2

425

MANHOOD.*

Bornоon hath gone or ever I was 'ware; Gone like the birds that have sung out their summer, And fly away, but never to return.

Gone like the memory of a fairy vision;

Gone like the stars that have burnt out in heaven;
Like flowers that open once an hundred years,
And have just folded up their golden petals;
Like maidenhood to one no more a virgin;

Like all that's bright and beautiful and transient,
And yet, in its surpassing loveliness
And swift dispersion into empty nothing,
Like its own self alone-like life-like boyhood!
Now, on the traversed scene I leave forever,
Doth memory cast already her pale look ;
And though the mellow light of bygone summers,
Gay, like a bride that leaveth her home-valley,
She, with faint heart, upon the bending hill-top
Turns her fair neck, one moment unperceived,
And through the sunset and her tearful eye
Throws a last glimpse upon her father's dwelling:
Blesses the roof-tree, and the groves, and garden
Where romp her younger sisters, still at home!

I have just waken'd from a darling dream,
And fain would sleep again. I have been roving
In a sweet isle, and would return once more.
I have just come, methinks, from Fairy-land,
And grieve for its sweet landscapes. Wake, my soul!
Thy holiday is over, play-time done,
And a stern master calls thee to thy task.

How shall I ever go through this rough world?
How grow still older every coming day?
How merge my childish heart in manliness?
How take my part upon this tricking stage?
How wear the mask to seem what I am not?
Ah me! for I forget-I'll need no mask,
And soon old age will need no mimicry!
I've taken my first step adown the valley,
And e'er I reach it e'en my pace shall change.
I shall go down as men have ever done,
And tread the pathway worn by constant tramp,
Since first the giants of old time descended,
And ADAM, leading on our mother EVE,
In ages older than antiquity.

This voice so buoyant shall be all unstrung,
Like harps that chord by chord grow musicless :
These hands must totter on a smooth-topp'd staff,
That whirl'd so late the ball-club vigorously:
This eye grow glassy that can sparkle now,
And on the clear earth's hues look doatingly:
And these brown locks, which tender hands have
In loving curls about their taper fingers, [twined
Must silver soon, and bear about such snows
As freeze away all touch of tenderness.
And this, the end of every human story,
Is always this-whatever its beginning-
To wear the robes of being in their rags,
To bear, like the old Tuscan prisoners,
A corpse still with us, insupportable;
And then to sink in clay, like earth to earth,
And hearse forever, from the gaze of man, [relics.
What long they thought-now dare to call-our

Conclusion of an unpublished poem, written the night the author came of age, May 10, 1839.

Glory to Him who doth subject the same In hope of immortality! My song shall change! I go from strength to strength, from joy to joy, From being into being. I have learn'd This doctrine from the vanishing of youth. The pictured primer, true, is thrown aside; But its first lesson liveth in my heart. I shall go on through all eternity. Thank God, I only am an embryo still: The small beginning of a glorious soul, An atom that shall fill immensity.

The bell hath toll'd! my birth-hour is upon me: The hour that made me child, now makes me man! Put childish things away, is in the warning; And grant me, Lord, with this, the Psalmist's prayer, Remember not the follies of my youth, But in thy goodness think upon me, Lord!

OLD CHURCHES.

HAST been where the full-blossom'd bay-tree is blowing

With odours like Eden's around? [growing, Hast seen where the broad-leaved palmetto is And wild vines are fringing the ground? Hast sat in the shade of catalpas, at noon,

And ate the cool gourds of their clime; Or slept where magnolias were screening the moon, And the mocking-bird sung her sweet rhyme? And didst mark, in thy journey, at dew-dropping Some ruin peer high o'er thy way, With rooks wheeling round it, and bushes to weave A mantle for turrets so gray?

Did ye ask if some lord of the cavalier kind

[eve,

Lived there, when the country was young? And burn'd not the blood of a Christian, to find How there the old prayer-bell had rung? And did ye not glow, when they told ye—the LORD Had dwelt in that thistle-grown pile;

And that bones of old Christians were under its sward,

That once had knelt down in its aisle ? And had ye no tear-drops your blushes to steep

When ye thought-o'er your country so broad, The bard seeks in vain for a mouldering heap, Save only these churches of GOD!

O ye that shall pass by those ruins agen,
Go kneel in their alleys and pray,

And not till their arches have echoed amen,
Rise up, and fare on, in your way. [more,
Pray God that those aisles may be crowded once
Those altars surrounded and spread,
While anthems and prayers are upsent as of yore,
As they take of the wine-cup and bread.
Ay, pray on thy knees, that each old rural fane
They have left to the bat and the mole,
May sound with the loud-pealing organ again,

Peradventure, when next thou shalt journey there-
And the full swelling voice of the soul. [by,

Even-bells shall ring out on the air, And the dim-lighted windows reveal to thine eye The snowy-robed pastor at prayer.