fortune occurs at Geneseo, not a conflagration, not a poor harvest, but the Wadsworth family claim the right to relieve the sufferers. Money, that great corrupter of the age; money, which changes so many men, has not changed the descendants of Mr. Wadsworth. Alone, perhaps, in America, with the exception of the Livingstons, they lead the life of the rustic noble; but it is upon the condition of remaining simple, unassuming, and hospitable. The luxury in the midst of which they live, and which the traveller is surprised to meet with in so remote a district, they would not hesitate to resign, if it tended to diminish in any wise, the thousand benefits which they lavish around them. The mansion of Geneseo possesses something more valuable than sumptuous apartments, than rich plates, than exquisite wines; it possesses the Star of the East, whose grace, wit and beauty, are popular in America.

At Geneseo wonder succeeds to wonder. What cool hermitage is this? With what care are these alleys swept! this grassy carpet, how thick and silky! These bushes, covered with white, red, and purple roses, how they perfume the air and delight the eye! Two deer, male and female, roam careless and secure; too happy deer, destined to die the death of patriarchs! The house breathes an air of coquettish old age, which can only have been renovated by the hand and heart of a woman. The garden extends even to the saloon. Flowers upon the mantel-piece, flowers upon the piano, flowers upon the tables; cushions of rose leaves, covered with white muslin, ornament the sofas; books, music, furniture, sets of shelves from the hands of Riessner, the portrait of Jenny Lind-already! and windows which open upon an enchanting prospect! Do not look upon this description as the fancied sketch of a narrator, as the recital of a tourist. There is not a word in it which is not true, not a rose leaf too many. This little paradise is the terrestrial abode of a young girl, sometimes sad, sometimes gay, elegant as a Parisian, who rides blood horses, dresses and wears her hair, as if fresh from the hands of Palmyre and Berenne, speaks French with grace, and who has scarcely ever left Geneseo. Many American lions have taken the journey to Geneseo to obtain that hand which she will give to none. The young girl views these testimonials of homage with ennui as they pass in array before her, testimonials of which any other would be proud. Were she less sure of her indifference, she would not suffer so many idle pretensions to blossom, she would open her doors only to friends, never to lovers. If, in addition to this, she were a coquette! but she is merely unaffected and kind, and this interested and eager pursuit wearies her, although she does not venture to shake it off.

What would a son of Big Tree say on seeing Geneseo at the present day. Without doubt he would prefer the women of his wigwam to the two females whom we have surnamed the Star of the East and the Diana of Geneseo. A European would be less difficult, or less blase. After having once enjoyed this charming intimacy, he would leave it with regret for the airy Marquises of the Chaussee d'Antin, for the formal routs of London. Life at Geneseo has its striking contrasts; from the refinements of the most delicate luxury, you pass at once to scenes of the utmost wildness. In the evening, after a conversation, which has been a contest, not of wit, but of remembrances, when you enter a carriage drawn by horses, which do not gallop, but fly across the vast prairies, amid thousands of grazing cattle, you are ready to ask yourself, "am I awake, or dreaming?" Suddenly the carriage stops, and these spirited animals come to eat a handful of salt from the hands of their beautiful mistresses.

COREGGIO:

THE FATE OF GENIUS.

The celebrated artist, Antonio Allegrida Coreggio, returning on foot from Parma with sixty crowns in copper coin, the price received for his last picture, the Madonna, sank exhausted by the margin of a water fall, near Coreggio. Stooping to refresh himself with a cooling draught from the stream, a blood-vessel burst, and his gentle spirit departed to the better land. He died at the age of 39, in the year 1513.

I.

On, Genius! thou hast many sons of name
To wake the echo of triumphant fame :
Eternal praise!

And thou hast daughters, holy, pure and bright,
Upon whose brow a calm, celestial light
Forever plays.

And yet, thy favored children, in the spring
Of life and gladness, when the heart should bring
Its fairest flowers;

Thy children, panting with an eager thirst
For shining streams, whence living fountains burst,
Have left earth's bowers.

But ah! a sadder fate than early grave

They oft have known! to breast affliction's wave,
Till want and care

Have silvered locks, and furrowed blooming cheeks,
And strung the maddened wire, which sternly speaks
The heart's despair.

And they have died, by Fortune's hirelings spurned,
Till heaven-ward wings the soul, and men have learned
Their cheerless fate :

Then Fame, with trumpet-tongue, proclaims aloud,
But wakes no pulse beneath the humble shroud,
'Tis all too late.

Such are thy children, Genius, such their life;
With brilliant fancies, yet with sorrows rife,
They pass from earth;—

Such was immortal White, whose notes have stirred
The hearts of thousands, trembling on the word
His thought gave birth.

The bard of Ayrshire, with his melting song,
Which flowed, like Afton's gentle stream along,
Amid green braes;

"Misfortune's cauld nor-west" he keenly knew,
And scarce received the honor, justly due,
The meed of praise.

And he, the minstrel of a noble line,

Who downward stooped to touch a thought sublime;
Alas! he died

Thy victim, Genius, in a foreign land,

With fearful temper, ill at his command,
And much of pride.

Beloved Hemans, honored queen of song,
Thy daughter, too, she comes amid the throng,
Serene and slow;

Grief hath been hers, the wasting grief of years,
And o'er her quivering lyre the silent tears
In anguish flow.

And ye, sweet sisters of the bright Champlain,
Ye star-eyed spirits of a seraph train;

Ye dwell not here;

Exiled to earth, your longing souls have flown
Back to their native land, their angel home,
In brighter sphere.

Lamented Mozart, Genius' darling child,
With music in his heart so deep, so wild,
'Twas angel tone;-

He poured his gushing soul in plaintive song,
His requiem chanted, as he passed along
Through Death's dark zone.

And he, the artist improvisatore,*

Whose sculptured brow that shade of paleness wore,
Which want doth know;

Like to his own Prometheus, bound, he stood;
Endured, for bold and heaven-aspiring mood,
The vulture, wo.

And such, oh Genius! are thy favored ones,
Thy high-souled daughters and most noble sons-
Their home the sky;

Thou givest burning thoughts and hopes of fame,
But dost bequeath them but a mortal frame,
And they must die.

And yet, stern sire, our solace thou dost give;
Their mighty works imperishable live

While ages flow ;—

So live the works of him to whom belong
The feeble honors of undying song,

Coreggio.

II.

'Twas Morn, and the rich Italian sky
Was a sea of molten gold,

As wave on wave, in its gorgeous dye,
To the western ocean rolled;

And tower, and tree, and the woodland bright,
Were bathed in a soft and mellow light,
All beauteous to behold.

Alone, in his humble cottage-door,

Was an artist wan and pale;
He saw not the vine his lattice o'er,
Nor heeded the passing gale;

But, eager, he bent his piercing eyes
On visions that floated in cloudless skies,
And he murmured thus, "All hail!"

"All hail, ye bright-winged spirits of morn!
I listen your voices' chime;

There sits on your brow no shade of scorn
To wither this heart of mine.

Ye call me hence, and I would not stay,
For life is a weary, weary day ;-
I long for the sinless clime."

"Would'st thou leave me thus, Coreggio?"
Said a voice of tender spell;

"Whom hath your Madalene here below,
But him she hath loved so well?

Thou shalt not die till the breath of fame
Hath borne to the great thine honored name,
And the world thy glories tell."

A laugh rang out on the summer air,
With a sweet and childish glee;
A bold, bright boy, with his sunny hair,
Was beside his mother's knee;

"I will toil for these," the artist cried,

66

Oh, Fame! for thy fading wreath I've sighed,
But I sigh no more for thee."

Wearily, wearily, toiled he on,

Till the eye no more was bright;

The fading flush from his cheek had gone,
And gone was the spirit's light;

The world looked on with its cheerless gaze,
Then turned again to its busy ways,

Nor pondered the mournful sight.

It was Eve-and the burning stars looked out,
And the perfumed air was still;

No voice was heard, save the gushing shout
Of the merry forest rill;

Away, away, o'er the mountain side

The moon beamed forth in her peerless pride,
And silvered each vale and hill.

The artist passed on his weary way

From the stately halls of mirth,
With cheerful heart he had toiled all day
For the proud and great of earth;
But now, as the evening shades came on,
And he bore his toil-earned burden home,
O! the bitter thought had birth.

He, fainting, paused in the silent wood

And quaffed of the cooling stream,
The life-blood rose to the silver flood,

And he murmured, " Madalene,
Oh, Madalene! we shall meet no more,
And the hope and fear alike are o'er;
Farewell to the artist's dream!"

But list! on the air are voices low

As the evening's plaintive sigh,

And Madalene breathes, Coreggio,

"I am with thee here to die;"
But the pale-browed sleeper knew it not,
For the griefs of earth were all forgot-
He had found his home on high.

Wheatland, N. Y.

THE POETRY OF COLERIDGE.

THE world has not done justice to the poetry of Coleridge. For a time, no one collected the Sybilline leaves and presented them to the public. Excepting among his familiar friends, his fame rested rather on his philosophy and philanthropy than on his poetry.

Those who had revelled in the splendid, but satanic imagination of Byron, or admired the gorgeous infidelity of Shelley, or loved the feminine delicacy of Keats, turned with distaste to the verses of Coleridge. He had not been a persecuted poet-no review had forced him into notice, either by the severity of its censure, or the extravagance of its praise. He had broached no daring theories—he had made war against no established institutions-he wrote neither for bread nor for fame.

Had he concentrated all his mighty intellect in one great effort-had he, as he once intended, written an English Faust with Michael Scott for his hero, then would he have enshrined his genius and immortalized his name. But the fire of youth and the vigor of manhood passed awaythe work not accomplished-and a life of sixty years, clouded by gloom and embittered by disappointment, found him ill-fitted for the task. He presented the sad spectacle of an old, white haired man, brooding in silence and suffering over a life mis-spent, and godlike talents wasted away.

Still, these were the reflections of age, and when we read his poems, we must remember that they were composed in all the buoyancy of hope and the fair prospects of youthful genius. We must call to mind what he himself said when he gave his fragments to the world-"I expect neither profit nor general fame by my writings, and I consider myself as having been amply repaid without either. Poetry has been to me its own exceeding great reward;' it has soothed my afflictions-it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments-it has endeared solitude-and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the good and the beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me."

The fragments of Coleridge are essentially poems of many moods. Now the utterances of quiet contemplation, and now the glad outbreaks of ecstatic joy; at one time the stern rebukes of manly indignation, and at another, the gentle whispers of love-they reflect as in a mirror the varied hues of his ever-changing mind. He conforms to no poetical rules. He transcends poetical license in innumerable instances; yet, his most wayward fancies have so much of beauty and grace, that they compel our admiration. His music is sometimes" wild, airy and fitful, like the strains of the Eolian harp; now sad and spectral, like the sighing of wind through a forest of pines; now "silver sweet, like lovers' tongues by night;" and now, solemn and sublime, as the voice of the

cataract.

Coleridge wrote as he felt. Every one of his poems is the outflowing of his soul-whether it glides in silent depth or bubbles in melodious rhyme. And what purity of thought and elevation of sentiment does he ever display? Even the hatred and vengeful ridicule of Byron could conjure up no graver charge, than that he soared to "elegize an ass," and "chose a Pixy for his muse." Rising at times until he breathes the inspiration of Milton, and then stooping to inscribe an amorous ditty, he never loses his feeling of humble reverence, or transgresses the limits of the strictest delicacy.