PARK BENJAMIN. THIS gentleman is the author of a great number of unclaimed poems; and some of them, written many years ago, are still "going the rounds of the press," both in this country and in Great Britain. They have never been collected into a volume, as they richly deserve to be, for they have not only been very popular, but they have received high praise from "mouths of wisest censure." Mr. Benjamin has also written largely in prose; and many of his articles have appeared in the "North American Review," the "New York Review," the "American Monthly," and other prominent magazines. Mr. Benjamin was born in Demerara, South America, in the year 1809. His father was a highly-respected merchant, a native of New England, and his mother an English lady, closely allied to a noble family. Their son Park was sent to this country at a very tender age, under the care of an excellent female guardian. From the age of fourteen until his graduation from college, he resided chiefly in Boston and its vicinity. He studied law under the eminent Mr. Justice Story, and also in the school of Chief-Justice Daggett, in Yale College. He commenced the practice in Boston, but was soon lured away by his love of letters, to which he has with great fidelity devoted himself. He has edited several very successful periodicals:-first, the "New England Magazine," and then, on his removal to New York in 1836, the "American Monthly;" afterwards, in connection with Horace Greeley, he conducted the "New-Yorker;" then, with Rufus W. Griswold, the "Brother Jonathan." But the paper with which Mr. Benjamin was longest connected, and which was for years under his sole charge, was "THE NEW WORLD." This hebdomadal has never been excelled as a repository of the best literature of the day, and for its fair and able criticisms. Weary of excessive literary toil, notwithstanding its satisfactory results, Mr. Benjamin disposed of his interest in THE NEW WORLD, with the design of spending some years in Europe. Our limits permit us to say no more than that since that time this writer has continued his literary pursuits with ardor and success. He has delivered lectures in many of our principal towns and cities, which have been universally liked and have won him "golden opinions." He is still by profession a public speaker, resides in New York City, and is constantly invited to deliver poems and addresses before various literary associations. Of the following selections, the sonnet-A Life of Lettered Ease-has never before, we believe, appeared in print. THE DEPARTED. The departed! the departed! And they glide above our memories Like shadows over streams; But where the cheerful lights of home The departed, the departed The good, the brave, the beautiful, In the cities of the dead! I look around, and feel the awe Among the wrecks of former days, I start to hear the stirring sounds That solemn voice! it mingles with Can never be so dear to me As their remember'd words. I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles "HOW CHEERY ARE THE MARINERS!" How cheery are the mariners,— Those lovers of the sea! Their hearts are like its yesty waves, As bounding and as free. They whistle when the storm-bird wheels In circles round the mast; And sing when deep in foam the ship Ploughs onward to the blast. What care the mariners for gales? When wide the berth along the lee, Let billows toss to mountain-heights, The vessel stout will ride it out, Nor reel beneath the blow. With streamers down and canvass furl'd, A silken-tassell'd boat; God keep those cheery mariners! That sweep against the rocky coast Safe in the hollow of His hand, SPORT. To see a fellow of a summer's morning, For well I know that, when he's out of town, And undestructive sleep till game and light are flown. PRESS ON. Press on there's no such word as fail! Press on surmount the rocky steeps, He wins, who dares the hero's march. Be thou a hero! let thy might Press on! if Fortune play thee false Makes up for follies past and gone,- The sweetest, which is born of pain. Therefore, press on! and reach the goal, Come wealth and honor and renown. Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil; THE SEXTON. Nigh to a grave that was newly made, A relic of bygone days was he, And his locks were white as the foamy sea,And these words came from his lips so thin:— "I gather them in! I gather them in! "I gather them in! for, man and boy, "Many are with me, but still I'm alone! I am king of the dead,-and I make my throne On a monument-slab of marble cold, And my sceptre of rule is the spade I hold. Come they from cottage or come they from hall,- Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully spin,- "I gather them in,—and their final rest, Is here, down here in the earth's dark breast ;"- A LIFE OF LETTERED EASE. A life of letter'd ease! what joy to lead Could mar the murmurous music of his dream. ROBERT T. CONRAD, 1809-1858. ROBERT T. CONRAD, the son of John Conrad, who was for many years an extensive bookseller and publisher in Philadelphia, was born in that city on the 10th of June, 1809. He studied law with his uncle, Thomas Kittera, an eminent jurist, and was admitted to practice in 1830. While a student, he wrote his first tragedy, Conrad of Naples, which was quite successful, and is regarded by many as the best of his poems. Shortly after he was admitted to the bar, he connected himself with the press, and shared the editorial duties of some of the leading journals of the city; but, the labor proving too much for his health, he resumed the practice of his profession in 1834. On the 15th of July, 1836, he was appointed by Governor Ritner Recorder of the Recorder's Court; and on the 27th of March, 1838, with the unanimous recommendation of the bar, he was commissioned by the same Governor to be a Judge of the Court of Criminal Sessions for the city and county of Philadelphia,―being a higher and more extended jurisdiction. Upon the union of the several municipalities of Philadelphia into one great "consolidated" city in 1854, he was elected Mayor by a large majority. On |