and beauty. The pure maiden walks unscathed amidst these desperate fires. One charmed incident of Eastern romance succeeds another, with sentiment and description of nature blended with a certain cool spiritual breath of the peace which tempers the flames of passion burning through it. The imagery and ideas have been so thoroughly fused in the writer's mind, and come forth so naturally in the simple verses, that we would not suspect the deep study and costly elaboration of the work, which it is said was written over seven times, were we not reminded of these things by the learned quotations in the admirably written notes which carry us to Oriental, Classic, German, and French sources.*

Returning to America from England, Mrs. Brooks resided for a time at West Point, where her son, now an officer in the United States army, was stationed at the Military Academy as Assistant Professor, and afterwards at Governor's Island, New York.

In 1843 she had printed for private circulation a prose romance, Idomen, or the Vale of Yumuri, which, under a disguise of fiction, embodies the incidents of her career with much fine poetical description and philosophical reflection. At the close of the year she returned to her home in Cuba, a luxurious tropical residence, continuing to cultivate her poetic faculties in the production of some minor poems, and the planning and partial composition of an epic entitled, Beatriz, the Beloved of Columbus. It was her habit, says her correspondent, Dr. R. W. Griswold, “to finish her shorter pieces and entire cantos of longer poems, before committing a word of them to paper.' Her Ode to the Departed was written in 1843. Her death occurred at Matanzas November 11, 1845.t

EGLA SLEEPING in the grove OF ACACIAS-FROM Zóphiel. Sephora held her to her heart, the while

Grief had its way; then saw her gently laid, And bade her, kissing her blue eyes, beguile Slumbering, the fervid noon. Her leafy bed

Breathed forth o'erpowering sighs; increased the heat;

Sleepless had been the night; her weary sense Could now no more. Lone in the still retreat, Wounding the flowers to sweetness more intense

She sank. Thus kindly Nature lets our woe

Swell till it bursts forth from the o'erfraught

breast;

Then draws an opiate from the bitter flow,

And lays her sorrowing child soft in the lap of

rest.

Now all the mortal maid lies indolent;

Save one sweet cheek, which the cool velvet turf

The notes of Zóphiel were written some in Cuba, some in Canada, some at Hanover, United States, some at Paris, and the last at Keswick, England, under the kind encouragement of Robert Southey, Esq.; and near a window which overlooks the beautiful lake Derwent, and the finest groups of those mountains which encircle completely that charming valley where the Greta winds over its bed of clean pebbles, looking as clear as dew.-Author's Note.

+ A Biographical sketch of Mrs. Brooks, with an analysis of her poems, appeared in the Southern Literary Messenger for August, 1889. Griswold, to whom the public is indebted for the publication of several of her minor poems in Graham's Magazine, has added some interesting particulars in his Female Poets of America.

Had touched too rude, though all with blooms besprent,

One soft arm pillowed. Whiter than the surf That foams against the sea-rock looked her neck By the dark, glossy, odorous shrubs relieved, That close inclining o'er her, seemed to reck What 'twas they canopied; and quickly heaved, Beneath her robe's white folds and azure zone, Her heart yet incomposed; a fillet through Peeped softly azure, while with tender moan, As if of bliss, Zephyr her ringlets blew Sportive; about her neck their gold he twined; Kissed the soft violet on her temples warm, And eyebrow just so dark might well define Its flexile arch; throne of expression's charm. As the vexed Caspian, though its rage be past, And the blue smiling heavens swell o'er in peace, Shook to the centre by the recent blast, Heaves on tumultuous still, and hath not power to cease;

So still each little pulse was seen to throb,

Though passion and its pain were lulled to rest; And ever and anon a piteous sob

Shook the pure arch expansive o'er her breast. Save that, a perfect peace was, sovereign, there O'er fragrance, sound, and beauty; all was mute; Only a dove bemoaned her absent phere,

Or fainting breezes swept the slumberer's lute.

EGLA AT THE BANQUET OF SARDIUS-FROM THE SAME.

But Egla this refused them; and forbore
The folded turban twined with many a string
Of gems; and, as in tender memory, wore
Her country's simpler garb, to meet the youthful
king.

Day o'er, the task was done; the melting hues

Öf twilight gone, and reigned the evening gloom Gently o'er fount and tower; she could refuse No more; and, led by slaves, sought the fair banquet-room.

With unassured yet graceful step advancing,

The light vermillion of her cheek more warm
For doubtful modesty; while all were glancing
Over the strange attire that well became such
form.

To lend her space the admiring band gave way;
The sandals on her silvery feet were blue;
Of saffron tint her robe, as when young day
Spreads softly o'er the heavens, and tints the trem-
bling dew.

Light was that robe, as mist; and not a gem
Or ornament impedes its wavy fold,
Long and profuse; save that, above its hem,
'Twas 'broidered with pomegranate-wreath, in gold.
And, by a silken cincture, broad and blue

In shapely guise about the waist confined,
Blent with the curls that, of a lighter hue,
Half floated, waving in their length behind;
The other half, in braided tresses twined,
Was decked with rose of pearls, and sapphires
azure too,

Arranged with curious skill to imitate

The sweet acacia's blossoms; just as live
And droop those tender flowers in natural state;
And so the trembling gems seemed sensitive;

And pendant, sometimes, touch her neck; and there
Seem shrinking from its softness as alive.
O'er her arms flower-white, and round, and bare,
Slight bandelets were twined of colours five;

Like little rainbows seemly on those arms;

None of that court had seen the like before; Soft, fragrant, bright,- -so much like heaven her charms,

It scarce could seem idolatry t'adore.

He who beheld her hand forgot her face;
Yet in that face was all beside forgot;
And he, who as she went, beheld her pace,

And locks profuse, had said, “nay, turn thee not." Placed on a banquet-couch beside the king,

'Mid many a sparkling guest no eye forbore; But, like their darts, the warrior-princes fling Such looks as seemed to pierce, and scan her o'er and o'er:

Nor met alone the glare of lip and eye

Charms, but not rare:-the gazer stern and cool, Who sought but faults, nor fault or spot could spy; In every limb, joint, vein, the maid was beautiful. Save that her lip, like some bud-bursting flower, Just scorned the bounds of symmetry, perchance, But by its rashness gained an added power; Heightening perfection to luxuriance.

But that was only when she smiled, and when
Dissolved th' intense expression of her eye;
And had her Spirit-love first seen her then
He had not doubted her mortality.

MORNING SUNLIGHT FROM THE SAME.

How beauteous art thou, O thou morning sun!-
The old man, feebly tottering forth, admires
As much thy beauty, now life's dream is done,
As when he moved exulting in his fires.

The infant strains his little arms to catch

The rays that glance about his silken hair;
And Luxury hangs her amber lamps, to match
Thy face, when turned away from bower and
palace fair.

Sweet to the lip, the draught, the blushing fruit;
Music and perfumes mingle with the soul;
How thrills the kiss, when feeling's voice is mute!
And light and beauty's tints enhance the whole.
Yet each keen sense were dulness but for thee:
Thy ray to joy, love, virtue, genius, warms;
Thou never weariest: no inconstancy

But comes to pay new homage to thy charms. How many lips have sung thy praise, how long! Yet, when his slumbering harp he feels thee woo, The pleasured bard pours forth another song,

And finds in thee, like love, a theme for ever new. Thy dark-eyed daughters come in beauty forth

In thy near realms; and, like their snow-wreaths fair,

The bright-haired youths and maidens of the North
Smile in thy colours when thou art not there.
Tis there thou bid'st a deeper ardour glow,*
And higher, purer reveries completest;

It has been generally believed that "the cold in clime are cold in blood," but this on examination would, I am convinced, be found physically untrue; at least, in those climates near the equator. It is here that most cold-blooded animals, such as the tortoise, the serpent, and various tribes of beautiful insects, are found in the greatest perfection.

Fewer instances of delirium or suicide, occasioned by the passion of love, would, perhaps, be found within the tropics than in the other divisions of the earth. Nature, in the colder regions, appears to have given an innate warmth and energy proportionate to those efforts, which the severity of the elements and the numerous wants which they create, keep continually in demand.

Those who live, as it were, under the immediate protection of the sun, have little need of internal fires. Their blood is cool and thin; and living where everything is soft and flatter

SONG FROM THE SAME.

Day, in melting purple dying,
Blossoms, all around me sighing,
Fragrance, from the lilies straying,
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing,
Ye but waken my distress:
I am sick of loneliness.

Thou, to whom I love to hearken,
Come, ere night around me darken;
Though thy softness but deceive me,
Say thou'rt true and I'll believe thee;
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent,
Let me think it innocent!
Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure:
All I ask is friendship's pleasure:
Let the shining ore lie darkling,
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling;
Gifts and gold are naught to me;
I would only look on thee!
Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,
Ecstasy but in revealing;
Paint to thee the deep sensation,
Rapture in participation,

Yet but torture, if comprest
In a lone unfriended breast.

Absent still! Ah! come and bless me!
Let these eyes again caress thee,
Once, in caution, I could fly thee:
Now, I nothing could deny thee;
In a look if death there be,
Come, and I will gaze on thee!

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE was born in the city of New York, August 7, 1795. His father died while he was quite young, and the family had to contend with adverse circumstances. There were four children, Joseph and three sisters-Louisa, Millicent, and Caroline, of whom the last shared in his poetic susceptibility. Drake obtained a good education, and studied medicine under Dr. Nicholas Romayne, who was strongly attached to his young pupil. He obtained his degree, and shortly after, in October, 1816, married Sarah, the daughter of Henry Eckford, a connexion which placed him in affluent circumstances. After his marriage he visited Europe with his wife, and his relative, Dr. De Kay, who had also married a daughter of Eckford, and who was subsequently known to the public as the author of a volume of

ing to the senses, it is not surprising that their thoughts seldom wander far beyond what their bright eyes can look upon.

Though sometimes subject to violent fits of jealousy, these generally pass off without leaving much regret or unhappiness behind, and any other object falling in their way (for they would not go far to seek it) would very soon become just as valuable to them as the one lost. Such of them as are constant are rather so from indolence, than from any depth of sentiment or conviction of excellence. "The man who reflects (says Rousseau) is a monster out of the order of nature." The natives of all tropical regions might be brought forward in proof of his assertion: they never look at remote results, or enter into refined speculations; and yet, are undoubtedly less unhappy than any other of the inhabitants of earth.-Note by the Author.

Travels in Turkey, and of the zoological portion of the Natural History of New York. His health failing at this time, he visited New Orleans in the winter of 1819, for its recovery. He returned to New York in the spring, fatally smitten with consumption, and died in the following autumn, on the 21st September, 1820, at the age of twenty-five. He is buried in a quiet, rural spot, at Hunt's Point, Westchester county, in the neighborhood of the island of New York, where he passed some of his boyish years with a relative, and where the memory of his gentle manners and winning ways still lingers. A monument contains a simple inscription of his name and age, with a couplet from the tributary lines of Halleck:

None knew him but to love him, Nor named him but to praise. Drake was a poet in his boyhood. The anecdotes preserved of his early youth show the prompt

Roum anDrake

kindling of the imagination. His first rhymes were a conundrum, which he perpetrated when he was scarcely five. When he was but seven or eight years old, he was one day punished for some childish offence, by imprisonment in a portion of the garret shut off by some wooden bars, which had originally inclosed the place as a wine closet. His sisters stole up to witness his suffering condition, and found him pacing the room with something like a sword on his shoulder, watching an incongruous heap on the floor, in the character of Don Quixote at his vigils over the armor in the church. He called a boy of his acquaintance, named Oscar, "little Fingal;" his ideas from books thus early seeking living shapes before him in the world. In the same spirit, the child listened with great delight to the stories of an old lady about the Revolution. He would identify himself with the scene, and once, when he had given her a very energetic account of a ballad which he had read, upon her remarking it

was a tough story, he quickly replied, with a deep sigh: "Ah! we had it tough enough that day, ma'am."

As a poet, "he lisped in numbers, for the numbers came." He wrote The Mocking-Bird, the earliest of his poems which has been preserved, when a mere boy. It shows not merely a happy facility, but an unusual consciousness of the imitative faculty in young poets. A portion of a poem, The Past and the Present, which furnished the concluding passage of Leon in the published volume, was communicated to a friend in MS. when the author was about fourteen. On his European tour in 1818, he addressed two long rhyming letters to his friend Halleck-one dated Dumfries, in May, in the measure of Death and Dr. Hornbook, and in English-Scotch; the other, dated Irvine, in the same month, mostly on Burns, in the eight-syllable iambic.

On his return home to New York, he wrote, in March, 1819, the first of the famous Croakers, the verses to Ennui, which he sent to the Evening Post, and which Coleman, the editor, announced to the public as "the production of genius and taste." The authorship was for a while kept secret. Drake communicated it to Halleck, who joined his friend in the series as Croaker, Jr., and they mostly signed the contributions, afterwards, Croaker & Co. Of the thirty or more poems of which the whole series was composed, Drake wrote nearly one half, including The American Flag, which appeared among them.

Though the poems have not been acknowledged by either author, and the public is of course somewhat in the dark as to these anonymous effusions, yet the mystery has been penetrated by various knowing persons of good memories and skilled in local and political gossip -of the result of whose labors the following is, we believe, a pretty accurate statement.

The Croakers, published in the Evening Post, appeared in rapid succession in one season, beginning with the lines by Drake, to Ennui, March 10, 1819, and ending July 24, with The Curtain Conversation by Halleck, that pleasant appeal of Mrs. Dash, since included among his poems under the title "Domestic Happiness." The following Croakers have been attributed to Drake: "On Presenting the Freedom of the City in a Gold Box to a Great General;" "The Secret Mine sprung at a late Supper," an obscure local political squib, of temporary interest; "To Mr. Potter, the Ventriloquist," who is supposed to be employed in the State Legislature, promoting & confusion of tongues among the members in malà-propos speeches; the first "Ode to Mr. Simpson, Manager and Purveyor of the Theatre,"--pleasant gossip about Woodworth, Coleman, Mrs. Barnes, Miss Leesugg who afterwards became Mrs. Hackett, and others: "The Battery War," a sketch of a forgotten debate in Tammany; "To John Minshull, Esq., Poet and Playwright, who formerly resided in Maiden-lane but now absent in England," a pleasant satire, light and effective, upon a melancholy poetaster of the times; the lines to John Lang, Esq.,

In thee, immortal Lang! have all
The sister graces met-
Thou statesman! sage! and "editor"
Of the New York Gazette;

the "Abstract of the Surgeon-General's Report," and, perhaps, the lines "Surgeon-General" himself-hitting off Dr. Mitchill's obvious peculiarities in the funniest manner; "To

Esq.," a legal friend, who is invited from his law books to "the feast of reason and the flow of soul of the wits;" an "Ode to Impudence," which expresses the benefit and delight of paying debts in personal brass in preference to the usual gold and silver currency; an "Ode to Fortune," with a glimpse of the resources of an easy lounger about the city; the "Ode to Simon Dewitt, Esq., Surveyor-General," to whom it appears the public is indebted for those classic felicities in the naming of our rural towns Pompey, Ovid, Cicero, Manlius, and the like; "To Croaker, Jr.," in compliment to his associate Halleck,-with whom the honors of the whole, for wit and sentiment, are fairly divided.

The Culprit Fay arose out of a conversation in the summer of 1819, in which Drake, De Kay, Cooper the novelist, and Halleck were speaking of the Scottish streams and their adaptation to the uses of poetry by their numerous romantic associations. Cooper and Halleck maintained that our own rivers furnished no such capabilities, when Drake, as usual, took the opposite side of the argument; and, to make his position good, produced in three days The Culprit Fay. The scene is laid in the Highlands of the Hudson, but it is noticeable that the chief associations conjured up relate to the salt water; the poet drawing his inspiration from his familiar haunt on the Sound, at Hunt's Point.*

The Culprit Fay is a poem of exquisite fancy, filled with a vast assemblage of vitalized poetical images of earth, air and water, which come thronging upon the reader in a tumult of youthful creative ecstasy. We cannot suppose this poem to have been written otherwise than it was, in a sudden brilliant flash of the mind, under the auspices of the fairest associations of natural scenery and human loveliness. No churl could have worked so generously, prodigally bestowing poetical life upon the tiny neglected creatures which he brings within the range of the reader's unaccustomed sympathy. It is a Midsummer's Night's Dream after Shakespeare's Queen Mab; but the poet had watched this manifold existence of field and wave or he never would have described it, though a thousand Shakespeares had written. The story is pretty and sufficient for the purpose, which is not a very profound one-a mere junketing with a poet's fancy. The opening scenery is a beautiful moonlight view of the Highlands of the Hudson.

'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night-
The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright;
Nought is seen in the vault on high

But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky,
And the flood which rolls its milky hue,
A river of light on the welkin blue.
The moon looks down on old Cronest,
She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast,
And seems his huge grey form to throw

In a MS. copy of the Culprit Fay the author left a note, ingeniously removing the difficulty. "The reader will find some of the inhabitants of the salt water a little further up the Hudson than they usually travel; but not too far for the purposes of poetry."

In a silver cone on the wave below;
His sides are broken by spots of shade,
By the walnut bough and the cedar made.
And through their clustering branches dark
Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark-
Like starry twinkles that momently break
Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack.
The stars are on the moving stream,

And fling, as its ripples gently flow,
A burnished length of wavy beam

In an eel-like, spiral line below;
The winds are whist, and the owl is still,
The bat in the shelvy rock is hid,
And nought is heard on the lonely hill
But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill
Of the gauze-winged katy-did;

And the plaint of the wailing whip-poor-will,
Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings,
Ever a note of wail and wo,

Till morning spreads her rosy wings,
And earth and sky in her glances glow.

The Culprit has been guilty of the enormity of falling in love with an earthly maid.

And left for her his woodland shade;
He has lain upon her lip of dew,
And sunned him in her eye of blue,
Fanned her cheek with his wing of air,
Played in the ringlets of her hair,
Aud, nestling on her snowy breast,
Forgot the lily-king's behest.

For this he is put on trial and sentenced at once. In consideration of the damage done to his wings he is to repair their wounded purity by seizing a drop from the glistening vapory arch in the moonlight of the leaping sturgeon, and since his flame-wood lamp has been extinguished he is to light it again from the last spark of a falling star. It was a pretty penance, but difficult of execution. The Fay, plunging into the wave in quest of the sturgeon, is met by an embattled host of those thorny, prickly, and exhaustive powers which lurk in the star-fish, the crab, and the leech.

Up sprung the spirits of the waves,

From sea-silk beds in their coral caves,
With snail-plate armour snatched in haste,
They speed their way through the liquid waste:
Some are rapidly borne along

On the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong,
Some on the blood-red leeches glide,
Some on the stony star-fish ride,
Some on the back of the lancing squab,
Some on the sideling soldier-crab;
And some on the jellied quarl that flings
At once a thousand streamy stings-
They cut the wave with the living oar
And hurry on to the moonlight shore,
To guard their realms and chase away
The footsteps of the invading Fay.

The activity of these foes is vigorously described.
Fearlessly he skims along,

His hope is high, and his limbs are strong,
He spreads his arms like the swallow's wing,
And throws his feet with a frog-like fling;
His locks of gold on the waters shine,

At his breast the tiny foam-beads rise,
His back gleams bright above the brine,
And the wake-line foam behind him lies.
But the water-sprites are gathering near
To check his course along the tide;

Their warriors come in swift career
And hem him round on every side.
On his thigh the leech has fixed his hold,
The quarl's long arms are round him rolled,
The prickly prong has pierced his skin,
And the squab has thrown his javelin,
The gritty star has rubbed him raw,

And the crab has struck with his giant claw;
He howls with rage, and he shrieks with pain,
He strikes around, but his blows are vain;
Hopeless is the unequal fight,
Fairy! nought is left but flight.

He turned him round and fled amain
With hurry and dash to the beach again;
He twisted over from side to side,

And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide.
The strokes of his plunging arms are fleet,
And with all his might he flings his feet,
But the water-sprites are round him still,
To cross his path and work him ill.
They bade the wave before him rise;
They flung the sea-fire in his eyes,

And they stunned his ears with the scallop stroke,
With the porpoise heave and the drum-fish croak.
Oh! but a weary wight was he

When he reached the foot of the dog-wood tree.

Like wounded knight-errant, repairing his personal injuries with the simples at hand, he embarks this time in the shallow of a purple muscleshell, meets the sturgeon, and catches the evanescent lustre. He has then the powers of the air to deal with in quest of the star; but they are less formidable, or he is better mounted on a firefly steed, which carries him safely through all opposition.

He put his acorn helmet on;

It was plumed of the silk of the thistle down:
The corslet plate that guarded his breast
Was once the wild bee's golden vest;

His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes,

Was formed of the wings of butterflies;

His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen,
Studs of gold on a ground of green;

And the quivering lance which he brandished bright,

Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight.
Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed;

He bared his blade of the bent grass blue;
He drove his spurs of the cockle seed,

And away like a glance of thought he flew,
To skim the heavens and follow far
The fiery trail of the rocket-star.

With this armor he wins his way to the palace of the sylphid queen, who is for retaining him in that happy region. She is a kind damsel, for while he rejects her love, she speeds him on his errand with a charm. The star bursts, the flame is relighted, and there is a general jubilee on his return to the scenery of Crow Nest.

But hark! from tower on tree-top high,
The sentry elf his call has made,

A streak is in the eastern sky,

Shapes of moonlight! flit and fade!
The hill-tops gleam in morning's spring,
The skylark shakes his dappled wing,
The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn,
The cock has crowed, and the Fays are gone.

The poems of Drake have not all been preserved. He wrote with great facility on the spur of the moment, and seldom cared for a piece

after it was written, but would give it to the first friend who would ask him for it. Some of his best verses were written with his friends and family sitting round the winter hearth-a passing amusement of the hour. These impromptus, whether witty or sentimental, were equally felicitous. He always touched matters of feeling with delicacy, and the Croakers witness the pungency of his wit. The following epigram does not appear in the collection of his poems :—

IMPROMPTU.

Unveil her mind, but hide her face,

And love will need no fuel;
Alas! that such an ugly case,

Should hide so rich a jewel.

Of Drake's personal character and literary habits we are enabled to present several characteristic anecdotes, by the aid of Mr. James Lawson, who some time since prepared an elaborate notice of the poet for publication, and has kindly placed his manuscript notes at our disposal.

"Drake's reading," remarks Mr. Lawson, "commenced early, and included a wide range of books. His perception was rapid and his memory tenacious. He devoured all works of imagination. His favorite poets were Shakespeare, Burns, and Campbell. He was fond of discussion among his friends, and would talk by the hour, either side of an argument affording him equal opportunity. The spirit, force, and at the same time simplicity of expression, with his artless manner, gained him many friends. He had that native politeness which springs from benevolence, which would stop to pick up the hat or the crutch of an old servant, or walk by the side of the horse of a timid lady. When he was lost to his friends one of them remarked that it was not so much his social qualities which engaged the affections as a certain inner grace or dignity of mind, of which they were hardly conscious at the time:

"Free from vanity and affectation, he had no morbid seeking for popular applause. When he was on his death-bed, at his wife's request, Dr. De Kay collected and copied all his poems which could be found, and took them to him. 'See, Joe,' said he to him, 'what I have done.' 'Burn them,' he replied, they are valueless.'

"Halleck's acquaintance with Drake arose in a poetical incident on the Battery, one day, when in a retiring shower the heavens were spanned by a rainbow. De Kay and Drake were together, and Halleck was talking with them: the conversation taking the turn of some passing expression of the wishes of the moment, when Halleck whimsically remarked that it would be heaven for him, just then, to ride on that rainbow, and read Campbell. The idea arrested the attention of Drake. He seized Halleck by the hand, and from that moment they were friends.

"Drake's person was well formed and attractive: a fine head, with a peculiar blue eye, pale and cold in repose, but becoming dark and brilliant under excitement. His voice was full-toned and musical; he was a good reader, and sang with taste and feeling, though rarely."

A fastidious selection, including the Culprit Fay, was made from Drake's poems, and published in 1836 by the poet's only child, his