LUCY HOOPER. [Born, 1817. Died, 1841.] months of her death she edited an elegant volume, entitled The Lady's Book of Flowers and Poet MISS HOOPER was a native of Newburyport, near Boston, but, for several of the last years of her life, resided at Brooklyn, on Long Island. Shery," and wrote her "Stories from Real Life," and was a girl of much gentleness and simplicity of character, and from her childhood gave evidence of the possession of a poetical mind. She was a long time an invalid, and her illness was borne with fortitude and resignation. Within a few some of her finest poems Doubtless, had she lived to a riper age, she would have won an enduring reputation as an author. She died on the second day of August, 1841, in the twenty-fourth year of her age. OSEOLA. Nor on the battle-plain, As when thy thousand warriors joy'd to meet thee, Sounding the fierce war-cry, Not thus-not thus we greet thee. But in a hostile camp, Lonely amid thy foes Thine arrows spent, Thy brow unbent, Yet wearing record of thy people's woes. Chief! for thy memories now, While the tall palm against this quiet sky Her branches waves, And the soft river laves The green and flower-crown'd banks it wanders by; While in this golden sun The burnished rifle gleameth with strange light, Rest harmless here, Yet flash with startling radiance on the sight; Wake they thy glance of scorn, Thou of the folded arms and aspect stern? Thou of the soft, deep tone,* For whose rich music gone, Kindred and tribe full soon may vainly yearn! Wo for the trusting hour! O, kingly stag, no hand hath brought thee down: Thou camest, a noble offering-and alone! For vain yon army's might, While for thy band the wide plain own'd a tree, And the wild vine's tangled shoots Wo for thine evil times and lot, brave chief! Thy sadly-closing story, Thy quickly-vanish'd glory, Thy high but hopeless struggle, brave and brief. OSEOLA was remarkable for a soft and flute-like voice. Alas! at yester morn My heart was light, and to the viol's sound I gayly danced, while crown'd with summer flowers, And all was joy around Not death! O, mother! could I say thee nay? Take it! my heart is sad ;— And the pure forehead hath an icy chill. I dare not touch it, for avenging Heaven And the pale face appals me, cold and still, 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! 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 Yea, wait for Time, but to thy heart take Faith, 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, 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, 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; Till the conflict is over, the battle is past- 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; Beautiful child! why shouldst thou stay? May leave a trace on its stainless snow; And the serpent glides from the trembling flowers. A fount in the desert gush forth for thee, The angels above be thy help and stay, "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, Yet unto thee, O monarch! robed and crown'd, I bring no incense, though the heart be chill, Shines not as once the wonted light of day, I pay my vows, though now to me thy brow But thou, O Life! O Life! the searching test But let me pay my vows to thee, O Life! 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. . . . ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. [Born, 1818.] 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 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, Among them "The Blues" and "The Hebrew Muse," in "The American Monthly Magazine." 54 Taught, from sweet childhood, to revere in thee To see thy story with our own entwine. Such there he seem'd, the pure, the undefiled! 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 all that's bright and beautiful and transient, I have just waken'd from a darling dream, How shall I ever go through this rough world? This voice so buoyant shall be all unstrung, 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, And not till their arches have echoed amen, Peradventure, when next thou shalt journey there- Even-bells shall ring out on the air, And the dim-lighted windows reveal to thine eye The snowy-robed pastor at prayer. |