Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys, And even she who gave thee birth, Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, Talk of thy doom without a sigh:

For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's;
One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.

A POET'S DAUGHTER.

For the Album of Miss ***, at the request of her Father.

"A lady asks the Minstrel's rhyme."
A lady asks? There was a time
When, musical as play-bell's chime
To wearied boy,

That sound would summon dreams sublime

Of pride and joy.

But now the spell hath lost its sway,
Life's first-born fancies first decay,

Gone are the plumes and pennons gay
Of young romance;

There linger but her ruins gray,
And broken lance.

"Tis a new world—no more to maid,
Warrior, or bard, is homage paid;
The bay-tree's, laurel's, myrtle's shade,
Men's thoughts resign;

Heaven placed us here to vote and trade,
Twin tasks divine!

" "Tis youth, 'tis beauty asks; the green
And growing leaves of seventeen

Are round her; and, half hid, half seen,
A violet flower,

Nursed by the virtues she hath been
From childhood's hour."

Blind passion's picture-yet for this
We woo the life-long bridal kiss,
And blend our every hope of bliss
With her's we love;
Unmindful of the serpent's hiss
In Eden's grove.

Beauty-the fading rainbow's pride,
Youth 'twas the charm of her who died
At dawn, and by her coffin's side
A grandsire stands,

Age-strengthened, like the oak storm-tried
Of mountain lands.

Youth's coffin-hush the tale it tells!
Be silent, memory's funeral bells!
Lone in one heart, her home, it dwells

"But her who asks, though first among
The good, the beautiful, the young,
The birthright of a spell more strong
Than these hath brought her;
She is your kinswoman in song,
A Poet's daughter."

A Poet's daughter? Could I claim
The consanguinity of fame,
Veins of my intellectual frame!
Your blood would glow
Proudly to sing that gentlest name
Of aught below.

A Poet's daughter?-dearer word
Lip hath not spoke nor listener heard,
Fit theme for song of bee and bird
From morn till even,

And wind harp by the breathing stirred
Of star-lit heaven.

My spirit's wings are weak, the fire
Poetic comes but to expire,

Her name needs not my humble lyre
To bid it live;

She hath already from her sire
All bard can give.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

JAMES GATES PERCIVAL was born in Kensington, Connecticut, a town of which his ancestors had been among the earliest inhabitants, on the 15th of September, 1795. He was the second son of Dr. James Percival, a physician of the place, who, dying in 1807, left his three sons to their mother's

care.

An anecdote is related of his early childhood, indicative of strength of mind and purpose. He had just begun to spell, when a book, in compli ance with the custom of the district school to which he belonged, was lent to him on Saturday, to be returned on the following Monday. He found, by spelling through its first sentences, that a portion of it related to astronomy. This so excited his interest, that he sat diligently to work, and, by dint of hard study, with the aid of the family, was able to read the portion he desired on the Monday morning with fluency. This achievement seemed to give him confidence in his powers, and he advanced so rapidly in his studies, that he soon compassed the limited resources of the school. At the age of sixteen he entered Yale College, and during his course frequently excited the commendation and interest of President Dwight. He was at the head of his class in 1815, and his tragedy of Zamor, afterwards published in his works, formed part of the Commencement exercises. He had previously begun his poetical career by the composition of a few fugitive verses during his college course, and yet earlier, it is said, had written a satire in his fourteenth year. In 1820 he published his first volume, containing the first part of Prometheus, a poem in the Spenserian stanza, and a few minor pieces. It was well received. In the same year, having been admitted to the practice of medicine,

and the Idle Man. It was made up mostly of verse, to which a few essays were added. A second part of Clio was published the same year at New Haven, and a few months afterward another portion of Prometheus.

Dr. Percival was appointed, in 1824, an assistant-surgeon in the United States army, and Professor of Chemistry at the Military Academy at West Point. Finding a greater portion of his time occupied in the performance of its duties than he had anticipated, he resigned after a few months, and was appointed a surgeon in connexion with the recruiting service at Boston. In the same year a collected edition of his principal poems appeared in New York in two volumes, and was reprinted in London. In 1827 he published in New York the third part of Clio, and was closely engaged in the two following years in assisting in the preparation of the first quarto edition of Webster's Dictionary, a service for which he was well qualified by his philological acquirements. He next commenced the translation of Malte-Brun's Geography, and published the last part of his version in 1843.

While in college he was inferior to none of his classmates in the mathematics, yet his inclinations led him rather into the fields of classical literature. While engaged in the study of medicine, he also applied himself to botany with ardor, and made himself acquainted with natural history in general. Being necessarily much abroad and fond of exploring nature, he became a geologist, and as such has served privately and publicly. In 1835 he was appointed to make, in conjunction with Professor C. U. Shepard, a survey of the mineralogy and geology of Connecticut. In 1842 he published his Report on the Geology of the State of Connecticut. This work, of nearly five hundred pages, contains the results of a very minute survey of the rock formations of the state, and abounds with minute and carefully systematized details.

In the summer of 1854 he received from the governor a commission as State Geologist of Wisconsin, and he entered at once upon the work, His first annual report was published at Madison, Wisconsin, in 1855.* He is still engaged in this survey:

Dr. Percival is an eminent linguistic scholar, and has a critical knowledge of most of the languages of Modern Europe. As a specimen of his readiness, it may be mentioned that when Ole Bull was in New Haven in 1844 or 1845, he addressed to him a poem of four or five stanzas in the Danish language. This was printed in a New Haven paper of the day.t

The poems of Percival have spirit, freshness, and a certain youthful force of expression as the

author harangues of love and liberty. The deliverance of oppressed nations; the yearnings and eloquence of the young heart ready to rejoice or mourn with a Byronic enthusiasm; the hour of exaltation in the triumph of love, and of gloom as some vision of the betrayal of innocence or the inroads of disease came before his mind: these were his prominent themes. There is the inner light of poetry in the idyllic sketch of Maria, the Village Girl, where nature and the reality of life in the "long-drawn-out sweetness" of the imagery assume a visionary aspect.

In those days he struck the lyre with no hesitating hand. There is the first spring of life and passion in his verse. It would have been better, sometimes, if the author had waited for slow reflection and patient elaboration-since fancy is never so vigorous as to sustain a long journey alone. Percival, however, has much of the true heat. His productions have been widely popular, and perhaps better meet the generally received notion of a poet than the well filed compositions of many others which have had more consideration at the hands of the judicious and critical.

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY-FROM CLIO.

The world is full of Poetry-the air
Is living with its spirit; and the waves
Dance to the music of its melodies,
And sparkle in its brightness-Earth is veiled,
And mantled with its beauty; and the walls,
That close the universe, with crystal, in,
Are eloquent with voices, that proclaim
The unseen glories of immensity,

In harmonies, too perfect, and too high
For aught, but beings of celestial mould,
And speak to man, in one eternal hymn,
Unfading beauty, and unyielding power.

The year leads round the seasons, in a choir
For ever charming, and for ever new,
Blending the grand, the beautiful, the gay,
The mournful, and the tender, in one strain,
Which steals into the heart, like sounds, that rise
Far off, in moonlight evenings, on the shore
Of the wide ocean resting after storms;
Or tones, that wind around the vaulted roof,
And pointed arches, and retiring aisles
Of some old, lonely minster, where the hand,
Skilful, and moved with passionate love of art,
Plays o'er the higher keys, and bears aloft
The peal of bursting thunder, and then calls,
By mellow touches, from the softer tubes,
Voices of melting tenderness, that blend
With pure and gentle musings, till the soul,
Commingling with the melody, is borne,
Rapt, and dissolved in ecstasy, to heaven.
'Tis not the chime and flow of words, that move
In measured file, and metrical array;
'Tis not the union of returning sounds,
Nor all the pleasing artifice of rhyme,
And quantity, and accent, that can give
This all-pervading spirit to the ear,
Or blend it with the movings of the soul.
"Tis a mysterious feeling, which combines
Man with the world around him, in a chain
Woven of flowers, and dipped in sweetness, till
He taste the high communion of his thoughts,
With all existences, in earth and heaven,
That meet him in the charm of grace and power.
"Tis not the noisy babbler, who displays,
In studied phrase, and ornate epithet,
And rounded period, poor and vapid thoughts,

Which peep from out the cumbrous ornaments,
That overload their littleness.-Its words
Are few, but deep and solemn; and they break
Fresh from the fount of feeling, and are full
Of all that passion, which, on Carmel, fired
The holy prophet, when his lips were coals,
His language winged with terror, as when bolts
Leap from the brooding tempest, armed with wrath,
Commissioned to affright us, and destroy.

A PLATONIC BACCHANAL SONG.

Fill high the bowl of life for me

Let roses mantle round its brim,
While heart is warm, and thought is free,
Ere beauty's light is waning dim-
Fill high with brightest draughts of soul,
And let it flow with feeling o'er,
And love, the sparkling cup, he stole

From Heaven, to give it briskness, pour.
O! fill the bowl of life for me,

And wreathe its dripping brim with flowers, And I will drink, as lightly flee

Our early, unreturning hours.

Fill high the bowl of life with wine,

That swelled the grape of Eden's grove, Ere human life, in its decline,

Had strowed with thorns the path of lov Fill high from virtue's crystal fount,

That springs beneath the throne of Heaven, And sparkles brightly o'er the mount,

From which our fallen souls were driven.
O! fill the bowl of life with wine,

The wine, that charmed the gods above,
And round its brim a garland twine,
That blossomed in the bower of love.
Fill high the bowl of life with spirit,

Drawn from the living sun of soul,
And let the wing of genius bear it,
Deep-glowing, like a kindled coal-
Fill high from that ethereal treasure,
And let me quaff the flowing fire,
And know awhile the boundless pleasure,
That Heaven lit fancy can inspire.
O! fill the bowl of life with spirit,
And give it brimming o'er to me.
And as I quaff, I seem to inherit
The glow of immortality.

Fill high the bowl of life with thought
From that unfathomable well,
Which sages long and long have sought
To sound, but none its depths can tell-
Fill high from that dark stainless wave,
Which mounts and flows for ever on,
And rising proudly o'er the grave,

There finds its noblest course begun.
O! fill the bowl of life with thought,
And I will drink the bumper up,
And find, whate'er my wish had sought,
In that, the purest, sweetest cup.

THE SERENADE

Softly the moonlight

Is shed on the lake,

Cool is the summer nightWake! O awake! Faintly the curfew

Is heard from afar,

List ye! O list!

To the lively guitar.

Trees cast a mellow shade
Over the vale,

Sweetly the serenade
Breathes in the gale,

Softly and tenderly
Over the lake,
Gaily and cheerily-
Wake! O awake!

See the light pinnace
Draws nigh to the shore,
Swiftly it glides

At the heave of the oar,
Cheerily plays

On its buoyant car,
Nearer and nearer

The lively guitar.

Now the wind rises
And ruffles the pine,
Ripples foam-crested
Like diamonds shine,
They flash, where the waters
The white pebbles lave,
In the wake of the moon,
As it crosses the wave.
Bounding from billow

To billow, the boat
Like a wild swan is seen,
On the waters to float;
And the light dipping oars
Bear it smoothly along
In time to the air

Of the Gondolier's song.

And high on the stern

Stands the young and the brave,
As love-led he crosses

The star-spangled wave,
And blends with the murmur
Of water and grove
The tones of the night,
That are sacred to love.
His gold-hilted sword

At his bright belt is hung,
His mantle of silk

On his shoulder is flung,
And high waves the feather,
That dances and plays
On his cap where the buckle
And rosary blaze.

The maid from her lattice
Looks down on the lake,
To see the foam sparkle,

The bright billow break,
And to hear in his boat,

Where he shines like a star, Her lover so tenderly

Touch his guitar.

She opens her lattice.

And sits in the glow
Of the moonlight and starlight,
A statue of snow;
And she sings in a voice,

That is broken with sighs,
And she darts on her lover
The light of her eyes.
His love-speaking pantomime
Tells her his soul—

How wild in that sunny clime
Hearts and eyes roll.

She waves with her white hand
Her white fazzolet,

And her burning thoughts flash
From her eyes' living jet.

The moonlight is hid

In a vapor of snow; Her voice and his rebeck Alternately flow;

Re-echoed they swell

From the rock on the hill;

They sing their farewell,

And the music is still.

TO SENECA LAKE

On thy fair bosom, silver lake!

The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,
And round his breast the ripples break,
As down he bears before the gale.
On thy fair bosom, waveless stream!
The dipping paddle echoes far,
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star.
The waves along thy pebbly shore,

As blows the north-wind, heave their foam; And curl around the dashing oar,

As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view

Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue

Float round the distant mountain's side.

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,

Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake!

O! I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er.

THE GRAVES OF THE PATRIOTS.

Here rest the great and good. Here they repose
After their generous toil. A sacred band,
They take their sleep together, while the year
Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves,
And gathers them again, as Winter frowns.
Theirs is no vulgar sepulchre-green sods
Are all their monument, and yet it tells
A nobler history than pillared piles,
Or the eternal pyramids. They need
No statue nor inscription to reveal

Their greatness. It is round them; and the joy With which their children tread the hallowed ground

That holds their venerated bones, the peace
That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth
That clothes the land they rescued, these, though

mute

As feeling ever is when deepest,-these
Are monuments more lasting than the fanes
Reared to the kings and demigods of old.

Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade

Over their lowly graves; beneath their boughs
There is a solemn darkness, even at noon,
Suited to such as visit at the shrine
Of serious liberty. No factious voice
Called them unto the field of generous fame,
But the pure consecrated love of home.
No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakes
In all its greatness. It has told itself
To the astonished gaze of awe-struck kings,
At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here,
Where first our patriots sent the invader back
Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be all
To tell us where they fought, and where they lie.
Their feelings were all nature, and they need
No art to make them known. They live in us,
While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold,
Worshipping nothing but our own pure hearts,
And the one universal Lord. They need

No column pointing to the heaven they sought,
To tell us of their home. The heart itself,
Left to its own free purpose, hastens there,
And there alone reposes. Let these elms
Bend their protecting shadow o'er their graves,
And build with their green roof the only fane,
Where we may gather on the hallowed day
That rose to them in blood, and set in glory.
Here let us meet, and while our motionless lips
Give not a sound, and all around is mute
In the deep Sabbath of a heart too full

For words or tears-here let us strew the sod
With the first flowers of spring, and make to them
An offering of the plenty Nature gives,
And they have rendered ours-perpetually.

DANIEL PIERCE THOMPSON,

THE historical novelist of Vermont, was born at Charlestown, Massachusetts, October 1, 1795. His grandfather, Daniel Thompson, of Woburn, a cousin of the well known Count Rumford, fell in the battle of Lexington. His mother was a descendant of the old primitive New England schoolmaster, Ezekiel Cheever. His father settled for awhile in business at Charlestown, but being unsuccessful withdrew to a wild farm of a few acres on Onion River in the town of Berlin, Vermont, which he had some time before purchased of one Lovel, a hunter, and son of the noted Indian fighter, the hero of Lovel's Pond in Fryburgh, Maine. Here the family lived a pioneer life in the wilderness, remote from schools and churches; if indeed the latter were not supplied in the Christian piety and devout religious exercises of the mother of the household, to the memory of whose virtues and instructions the heart of her son fondly turns. The youth was brought up in the labors of the farm, securing such elementary instruction as his home and a scanty winter attendance at the poor district school afforded. He was sighing for books to read when--he was then about sixteenat the breaking up of the roads and ice in the spring, after an extraordinary freshet, which brought together the wrecks of bridges, mills, and trees, he found among the remains a thoroughly soaked volume. He dried the leaves, and with great zest read, for the first time, the verses of the English poets. The passages which he then admired he afterwards found to be the favorite passages of the world, "a fact," he has remarked, "which taught him a lesson of respect for the opinions of the uncultivated, by which he has often profited." He was now intent on procuring an education. It is difficult, in the matured state of society of the present day, with the appliances of education extended so freely on all sides, to estimate the natural strength of mind, and personal efforts and sacrifices, which led many a farmer's son half a century ago to the gates of the New England colleges. Daniel Webster rejoicing on his way to Dartmouth, and afterwards supporting his brother there by teaching, will recur to everyone.

The young Thompson, on looking around for resources, found that he was master of a small flock of sheep, which had come to be his under rather singular circumstances. When the family had set out for the wilderness his grandmother had put into his hand, in his childhood, a silver dollar which was to be invested in a ewe, the good lady calculating that the future growth of the flock, well tended, might in some way be of important