A novel, The Spirit Rapper, treating of the subject of demoniac agency, published in 1854, is the last of Mr. Brownson's separate publications. The style of Mr. Brownson is a remarkably felicitous one for the discussion of abstract topics; full, fluent, easily intelligible, meeting the philosophic requirements of the subject, at the same time preserving a popular interest, it was well adapted to enlist the popular ear. When employed in appeals to the laboring classes, and enforced by the living energy of the orator, its triumph was certain. As a vehicle for the speculations of the scholar it still preserves its attraction to those who delight in mental gladiatorial exercises, or are curious to note the reconciliation of the "chartered libertine" in doctrine to the authoritative voice of the Church. NATHANAEL DEERING Is a native of Portland, Maine, and the son of the late Mr. James Deering, an esteemed merchant of the city. He was educated at the Academy at Exeter and at Cambridge, where he was graduated at Harvard in 1810. He then studied law in the office of Chief-justice Whitman at Portland, and pursued the profession in the northern counties of his native state. He is now a resident of Portland. Mr. Deering's literary productions are two five act tragedies-Carabasset, or the Last of the Norridgewocks, which was produced at the Portland Theatre in 1831, and Bozzaris. His miscellaneous writings, including numerous tales of humor of "Down East" life, have appeared from time to time in the journals of the day. THE WRECK OF THE TWO POLLIES. "Twas a starless night, with drifting clouds, So they two reefs in the mainsail took, The Skipper Bond was at the helm, The tobacco juice on his mouth and chin, The other hand was Isaac Small, And only one eye had he; But that one eye kept a sharp look-out For breakers under the lee. All unconcerned was Skipper Bond, But he buttoned his fearnaught higher up, "Odd's bloods! I must the main brace splice, "So, Isaac, let us quaff "And as the wind's a snorter, mind "And mix it half and half." The Skipper raised it to his lips, And soon the dipper drained: A second and a third he took, Nor of its strength complained. "Shake out the reefs! haul aft fore sheet! "I am not the man to flag, "With a breeze like this, in the 'Two Polleys “So give her every rag.” Aghast poor Isaac heard the call, For he knew full well the Skipper was one "And speedily turn in; "I'll call you when off Portland Light, "We now are off Seguin." The Skipper was alone on deck Steady, my boys," he cried; And hardly would the words escape, When " steady 'tis," he replied. "A plague on all our Congress men! Light-houses so thick I see 66 "Odd's bloods! on such a darksome night They bother exceedingly." "Twas a sad mistake; he saw but one, And that was not Seguin ; But the Skipper's brain like the Light revolved And what of her, the "Two Polleys?" The sun shone out on Richmond's Isle- A broken mast and a tattered sail, And there were heaps of old dun fish, But nothing was seen of the old Skipper, Three days had gone when a "homeward bound" Was entering Casco Bay; And Richmond's Isle bore Nor' Nor' West. Yet scarcely three knots did she make, And the crew hung idly round her bows, But there leans one on the quarter rail, Then floating past-'tis a smack's pink stern, ALBERT G. GREENE, THE author of the popular ballad of "Old Grimes," a poet of cultivation, and an ardent prosecutor of the historical literature of Rhode Island, is a native of that state, where he was born at Providence, February 10, 1802. He is a graduate of Brown University, a lawyer by profession, and has for a number of years filled the offices of Clerk of the Municipal Court of the city of Providence, and Clerk of the Common Council. Mr. Greene's fugitive poems have never been collected, and a portion of them, of which the reputation has got abroad, are still in manuscript. Among these is a quaint comic poem, entitled The Militia Muster, a remarkable thesaurus of the Yankee dialect, and of the vulgarisms of New England. One of the longest of Mr. Greene's serious poems, a ballad entitled Canonchet, is published in Updike's History of the Narraghansett Church. Mr. Greene has been a curious collector of American poetry, of which he has a large library; and it is understood, contemplates a publication on the subject. TO THE WEATHERCOCK ON OUR STEEPLE The dawn has broke, the morn is up, And there thy poised and gilded spear Upon that steep and lofty tower Where thou thy watch hast kept, A true and faithful sentinel, While all around thee slept. For years upon thee there has poured And through the long, dark, starless night, By day and night the same, Still thou hast met and faced the storm, No chilling blast in wrath has swept But thou hast watched its onward course And instant warning given; And when mid-summer's sultry beams Thou dost foretell each breeze that comes How oft I've seen, at early dawn, Or twilight's quiet hour, And when, around thee or above, No breath of air has stirred, Thou seem'st to watch the circling flight Till after twittering round thy head Then, if perchance amidst their mirth, Men slander thee, my honest friend, They have no right to make thy name VOL. II.-22 They change their friends, their principles, Whilst thou hast ne'er, like them, been known But when thou changest sides, canst give Thou, like some lofty soul, whose course Who, 'round their earth-bound circles, plod Through one more dark and cheerless night And now in glory o'er thy head And unto Earth's true watcher, thus, Will come "the day-spring from on high," Bright symbol of fidelity, Still may I think of thee; And may the lesson thou dost teach But still, in sun-shine or in storm, May I be faithful to my trust Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the culverin, Bid each retainer arm with speed,-call every vassal in, Up with my banner on the wall,—the banquet board prepare; Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armor there!" An hundred hands were busy then-the banquet forth was spread— And rung the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread, While from the rich, dark tracery along the vaulted wall, Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, o'er the proud old Gothic hall. Fast hurrying through the outer gate the mailed retainers poured, On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the board. While at its head, within his dark, carved oaken chair of state, Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, with girded falchion, sate. "Fill every beaker up, my men, pour forth the cheering wine, There's life and strength in every drop,-thanksgiving to the vine! Are ye all there, waxing dim; my vassals true?-mine eyes are Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim. "You're there, but yet I see ye not. Draw forth each trusty sword And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board: I hear it faintly:-Louder yet!-What clogs my heavy breath? Up all, and shout for Rudiger, 'Defiance unto Death!'" Bowl rang to bowl-steel clang to steel-and rose a deafening cry That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on high "Ho! cravens, do ye fear him?-Slaves, traitors! have ye flown? Ho! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone! But I defy him:-let him come!" Down rang the massy cup, While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing Old Grimes is dead; that good old man All buttoned down before. His heart was open as the day, Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, Kind words he ever had for all; He knew no base design: His eyes were dark and rather small, He lived at peace with all mankind, His coat had pocket holes behind, Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes For thirty years or more. But good old Grimes is now at rest, He modest merit sought to find, And pay it its desert; He had no malice in his mind, His neighbors he did not abuse, He wore large buckles on his shoes, His knowledge, hid from public gaze, His worldly goods he never threw EDWARD COATE PINKNEY, THE lyric poet, was the son of the eminent lawyer and diplomatist of Maryland, William Pinkney, and was born in London, October, 1802, while his father was minister to the English Court. At the age of nine he was brought home with his parents to America, and was educated at the college at Baltimore. At fourteen he entered the navy as a midshipman, and remained nine years in the service, during which he became intimately acquainted with the classic scenes of the Mediterranean. After the death of his father in 1822, he resigned his appointment in the navy, married, and occupied himself with the law, which he pursued with soine uncertainty. The small volume of poems, sufficiently large to preserve his memory with all generous appreciators of true poetry as a writer of exquisite taste and susceptibility, appeared in Baltimore in 1825. It contained Rodolph, a Fragment, which had previously been printed anonymously for the author's friends. It is a powerful sketch of a broken life of passion and remorse, of a husband slain by the lover of his wife, of her early death in a convent, and of the paramour's wanderings and wild mental anticipations. Though a fragment, wanting in fulness of design and the last polish of execution, it is a poem of power and mark. There is an occasional inner music in the lines, demonstrative of the true poet. The imagery is happy and original, evidently derived from objects which the writer had seen in the impressible youth of his voyages in the navy. We follow the poem in a few of these similes. This is the striking opening. The Summer's heir on land and sea The winds in stormy revelry Here are the lady and her lover. Like rarest porcelain were they, 'Tis pity that their loves were vices, There was an age, they tell us, when No dial needed they to measure Yes, although fleeting rapidly, And he was gladsome as the bee,t Might this endure-her husband came But ere his tongue pronounced her shame, 'Twas whispered by whose hand he fell, And Rodolph's prosperous loves were gone. And lived in penitence alone; Thrice blest, that she the waves among Happy, the monster of that Nile, She ceased to smile back on the sun, And earth, which gave, resumed the charms, But never walked upon its face, Nor mouldered in its dull embrace, A creature fitter to prepare Sorrow, or social joy to share: We grieve when morning puts to flight And benefactress of our sight ? A second part describes the visions of Rodolph's -Hearts are prophets still. Their voices-fear can still divine: The soul all hostile advents sees, Like shadows by a brilliant day Things which, like fleeting insect-mothers The remaining poems were brief, consisting of & short poetical sketch, The Indian's Bride; a Reminiscence of Italy; an Occasional Prologue, delivered at the Greek Benefit in Baltimore in 1823, and a number of passionate, sensuous songs, dedicated to love and the fair. The author did not long survive the publication of this volume. He died in Baltimore in 1828. An appreciative biographical notice of him appeared the year previously, from the pen of the late William Leggett, in the "Old Mirror," which speaks warmly of his shorter poems as "rich in beauties of a peculiar nature, and not surpassed by productions of a similar character in the English language." The poem "On Italy," Leggett especially admired. He particularly notes the power of the four lines beginning * Vide Suetonius. The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud; and the beauty of the portrait in "The Indian's Bride." Exchanging lustre with the sun, A part of day she strays- The poems of Pinkney were published in a second edition at Baltimore in 1838, and in 1844 appeared, with a brief introduction by Mr. N. P. Willis, in the series of the Mirror Library entitled "The Rococo." ITALY. Know'st thou the land which lovers ought to choose? Like blessings there descend the sparkling dews; Beloved!-speed we from this sullen strand Until thy light feet press that green shore's yellow sand. Look seaward thence, and naught shall meet thine eye But fairy isles, like paintings on the sky; It looks a dimple on the face of earth, The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud; Have but been hallowed by the hand of Time, The meanest stone is not without a name, THE INDIAN'S BRIDE. Why is that graceful female here Her candid brow, disclose The loitering Spring's last violet, And Summer's earliest rose: Their hearts from very difference caught The household goddess here to be And sought in this sequestered wood Behold them roaming hand in hand, While she assumes a bolder gait To ramble at his side; And momently grows mild; She humanizes him, and he Oh, say not they must soon be old, Their limbs prove faint, their breasts feel cold! Yet envy I that sylvan pair, More than my words express, And seeming happiness. Repining towards the past: Their actions are all free, And how should they have any cares?— The world, or all they know of it, Is theirs for them the stars are lit; For them the moon doth wax and wane, For them the branches of those trees For them that brook, the brakes among, And change at once, like smiles and frowns, |