Like little rainbows seemly on those arms; It scarce could seem idolatry t'adore. He who beheld her hand forgot her face; 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 MORNING SUNLIGHT-FROM THE SAME. How beauteous art thou, O thou morning sun!- The rays that glance about his silken hair; Sweet to the lip, the draught, the blushing fruit; 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 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 BONG FROM THE SAME. Day, in melting purple dying, Thou, to whom I love to hearken, Paint to thee the deep sensation, Yet but torture, if comprest Absent still! Ah! come and bless me! 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 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 a eonfusion 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 "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- But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, 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; And fling, as its ripples gently flow, In an eel-like, spiral line below; And the plait of the wailing whip-poor-will, Till morning spreads her rosy wings, The Culprit has been guilty of the enormity of falling in love with an earthly maid. And left for her his woodland shade; 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 wayes, From sea-silk beds in their coral caves, On the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong, The activity of these foes is vigorously described. His hope is high, and his limbs are strong, At his breast the tiny foam-beads rise, 2. Their warriors come in swift career And the crab has struck with his giant claw; He turned him round and fled amain And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide. And they stunned his ears with the scallop stroke, 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: His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes, Was formed of the wings of butterflies; His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen, And the quivering lance which he brandished bright, Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight. He bared his blade of the bent grass blue; And away like a glance of thought he flew, 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, A streak is in the eastern sky, Shapes of moonlight! flit and fade! 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; 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 daughter, married to the late Commodore De Kay, famed for his naval engagements in the La Plata while commanding the squadron of Buenos Ayres. The Mocking-Bird, and several of the other poems among the following extracts, are not included in that volume, the only one of the author's writings which has appeared. THE MOCKING-BIRD. Early on a pleasant day, Forth I walked, where tangling grew, Where the red-breast and the thrush, All transported and amazed, Thus, in most poetic wise, I began to moralize In fancy thus, the bird I trace, Thus, perchance, has Moore oft sung, Round the cliffs of Elsinore; Thus he dug the soldier's grave, Iser, by thy rolling wave. SONNET. Is thy heart weary of unfeeling men, And chilled with the world's ice? Then come with me, And I will bring thee to a pleasant glen Lovely and lonely. There we'll sit, unviewed By scoffing eye; and let our hearts beat free With their own mutual throb. For wild and rude The access is, and none will there intrude, To poison our free thoughts, and mar our solitude! Such scenes move not their feelings for they hold No fellowship with nature's loneliness; The frozen wave reflects not back the gold And crimson flushes of the sun-set hour; The rock lies cold in sunshine-not the power Of heaven's bright orb can clothe its barrenness. TO THE DEFENDERS OF NEW ORLEANS. Hail sons of generous valor, Who now embattled stand, To wield the brand of strife and blood, And hail to him your laurelled chief, And throw, like Ocean's barrier rocks, For justice guides the warrior's steel, And long as patriot valor's arm Then on, ye daring spirits, The bowl is filled and wreathed the crown, BRONX. I sat me down upon the green bank-side, Like parting friends who linger while they sever; Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready, Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy. Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow Or the fine frost-work which young winter freezes; When first his power in infant pastime trying, Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying. From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling, |