THE DEATH OF PAN.

FROM the Ionian sea a voice came sighing-
A voice of mournful sweetness and strange power,
Borne on the scented breeze when day was dying,
Through fair Arcadie's sylvan groves and bowers,
Along her thousand sunny colored rills—

Her fairy peopled vales and haunted fountainsAlong her glens, and grots, and antique hills,

And o'er her vine-hung, purple tinted mountains,
Was heard that piercing, haunting voice,which said,
The God of Song, the once great Pan, is dead!
The old Sileni in their sparry caves- [cesses-
The fauns and wood nymphs in their green re-
The lovely naiads by the whispering waves-
The oriads, through all their mountain passes,
Wept when that voice thrilled on the silent air:
The stately shepherd, and the soft eyed maiden,
Who dwelt in Arcadie-the famed and fair
Wept for that moaning voice, with sorrow laden,
Told that the sylvan king, with his gay court,
Would join no more their song and greenwood sport.
Died he in Thessaly, that land enchanted?
In Tempe's ever rich, romantic vale?
By clear Pencus, whose classic tide is haunted?
Or did Olympus listen to the wail

Of all his satyrs? Died he where
His infancy to Sinoe's care was given,
When first his flute-tones melted on the air,
And filled with music Grecia's glorious heaven?
Where many a wild and long remembered strain
He poured for shepherdess and rustic swain?
Ah yes! he died in Arcadie, and never

Unto his favorite haunts did mirth return:
The voice of song was hushed by wood and river,
Long did his children for his presence yearn-
But never more by old Alpheus' shore

Was heard the song-voice of the god of gladness: His tuneful reed its numbers poured no more Where Dian and her oriads roved in sadness; The soul of love and melody had fled Far from Arcadie-the great Pan was dead!

CLEOPATRA.

ENCHANTRESS queen! whose empire of the heart
With sovereign sway o'er sea and land extended,
Whose peerless, haunting charms, and siren art,
Won from the imperial Cæsar conquests splendid:
Rome sent her thousands forth, and foreign powers
Poured in thy woman's hand an empire's treasures.
Was Fate beside thee in those gorgeous hours
When monarchs knelt, slaves to thy merest pleas-
When but a gesture of thy royal hand
Was to the proud triumvirs a command.
Oh, bright Egyptian queen! thy day is past
With the young Cæsar-lo! the spell is broken
That thy all radiant beauty o'er him cast;

[ures?

His eye is cold-wo for thy grief unspoken! Yet thy proud features wear a mask, which tells How true thou art to thy commanding nature: Once more, in all thy wild, bewildering spells, [ture; Thou standest robed and crowned, imperial crea

Thy royal barge is on the sunny sea-
Oh, sceptred queen! goest thou victoriously?
But hark! a trumpet's thrilling call to arms
O'er the soft sounds of lute and lyre ringeth!
Doubt not thy matchless sovereignty of charms,
But haste the victor of Philippi bringeth
His shielded warriors and lords renowned; [thee,
With spear and princely crest they come to meet
Arrayed for triumph, and with laurels crowned:
How will their stern and haughty leader treat thee?
He comes to conquer-lo! on bended knee
The spell-bound Roman pleads, and yields to thee!
Once more the world is thine: exultingly
Thy beautiful and stately head is lifted.
He lives but in thy smile-proud Antony,
The crowned of empire-he, the grandly gifted.
The spoils of nations at thy feet are laid-
The wealth of kingdoms for thy favor scattered:
Oh, siren of the Nile! thy love has made
The royal Roman's ruin! crowns were shattered
And kingdoms lost : fame, honor, glory, power,
Were playthings given to grace thy triumph-hour.
Another change! the last for thee, doomed queen,
Now calmly on thine ivory couch reclining—
The impassioned glow hath left thy marble mien,
And from thy night-black eyes hath past the shining.
But still a queen! that brow, so icy cold,
Its diadem of starry jewels beareth:
Robed in the royal purple, and the gold,
No conqueror's chain that form imperial beareth.
To grace Death's triumph was but left for thee,
Daughter of Afric, by the asp set free!

MY MOTHER.

My mother oft as thy dear name I mention,
Or trace thine image in my musing dream,
How strain my heart nerves to their fullest tension;
How swells and bounds, like an imprisoned stream,
My restless spirit to go forth to thee,
Whose dear, dear face, I in each nightly vision see.
Dear mother, of the thousand strings which waken
The sleeping harp within the human heart,
The longest kept in tune, though oft forsaken,
Is that in which the mother's voice bears part:
Her still, small voice, which e'en the careless ear
Turneth with deep reverence and pure delight to

hear.......

But once, kind mother, might this aching forehead Feel the soft pressure of thy gentle handCould this poor heart, that so hath pined and sorrowed,

Yet once more feel its pulse of hope expand At thy dear presence-oh, mother, might this be, I could die blessing God, for one last look at thee! For one last word-alas! that I should ever E'en carelessly have caused thy heart a pain! How oft, amid my late life's "fitful fever," Thy many acts of kindness rise againUnheeded then, but well remembered now: Oh for thy blessing said once more above my brow!

Fond wish, but vain! and I am weak to smother
The human yearnings that my bosom fill;
Thou canst but hope and pray, dear distant mother,
That the All-pitying may aid me still-
Aid thy frail child to lift, in lowly trust,

The burden of her heart above this trembling dust.
And pray that as the shadowy hour draws nearer,
God may irradiate and purify

My spirit's inmost vision, to see clearer

Through Death's dim veil the pathway to the sky! Mother beloved! oh let this comfort thee, That in yon blissful heaven shall no more partings be.

IV. TASSO.

ABOVE thy golden verse I bent me late,
And read of bright Sophronia's lover young-
Of fair Erminia's flight-Clorinda's fate :
While over Godfrey's deeds enwrapt I hung-
And Tancred's, told in soft Italia's tongue!
Thou who didst tune thy harp for Salem's shrine-
Thou the renowned and gifted among men—
Tasso, superior with the sword and pen:
Oh, poet-heir! vain was the dower divine
To still the unrest of thy human heart!
Lonely and cold did Glory's star-beam shine
For him who saw a lovelier light depart!
Oh, master of the lyre! did not thy touch [much.
Tell how the heart may break,that Love has troubled

SONNETS.

I. MILTON.

LEARNED and illustrious of all poets thou,
Whose Titan intellect sublimely bore

The weight of years unbent-thou, on whose brow
Flourished the blossom of all human lore:
How dost thou take us back, as 't were by vision,
To the grave learning of the Sanhedrim;
And we behold in visitings Elysian,

Where waved the white wings of the cherubim;
But, through thy "Paradise Lost," and "Regained,"
We might, enchanted, wander evermore.
Of all the genius-gifted thou hast reigned
King of our hearts; and till upon the shore
Of the Eternal dies the voice of Time, [sublime.
Thy name shall mightiest stand-pure, brilliant, and

V. TO THE AUTHORESS OF THE SINLESS CHILD.

OFT as I bend o'er thy sweet "sinless child,"
I pause to think of thee, oh, ladye fair!
And fancy conjures up a vision rare

Of grace ethereal and beauty mild:

I picture thee with soft and gleamy hair,
Down shapely shoulders floating goldenly—
With Eva's eye, and brow, and spiritual air,
And purest lip-'tis thus I picture thee.
I know not if this shadowy ideal
Do justice to the animated real.

I ne'er have looked upon thy form of face,
Albeit they tell me thou art passing fair;

I know but of the Intellectual there,
And shape from thence all loveliness and grace.

II. DRYDEN.

NoT dearer to the scholar's eye than mine,
(Albeit unlearned in ancient classic lore,)
The daintie poesie of days of yore-
The choice old English rhyme-and over thine,
Oh, "glorious John," delightedly I pore:
Keen, vigorous, chaste, and full of harmony,
Deep in the soil of our humanity

It taketh root, until the goodly tree

Of poesy puts forth green branch and bough, [gloom
With bud and blossom sweet. Through the rich
Of one embowered haunt I see thee now, [bloom.
Where 'neath thy hand the " Flower and Leaflet"
That hand to dust hath mouldered long ago,
Yet its creations with immortal life still glow.

III. ADDISON.

THOU, too, art worthy of all praise, whose pen, "In thoughts that breathe, and words that burn," did shed

A noontide glory over Milton's headHe, "prince of poets"—thou, the prince of men: Blessings on thee, and on the honored dead! How dost thou charm for us the touching story Of the lost children in the gloomy woodHaunting dim memory with the early glory That in youth's golden years our hearts imbued. From the fine world of olden poetry,

Lifelike and fresh, thou bringest forth again The gallant heroes of an earlier reign, And blend them in our minds with thoughts of thee, Whose name is ever shrined in old-world memory.

VI. TO THE AUTHORESS OF THE SINLESS CHILD.

(CONTINUED.)

LADY! less easy were it now to tell

How the soft radiance of thy dove-like eyes Won me to love thee, by its mingled spell Of tenderness and graceful majesty— And how thy voice, the "ever soft and low," Like music strains returns to haunt me now. Thine, too, is the far higher charm, which hath Its pure source in the spirit depth below: For thou hast dallied in no idle path, But, in the free aspiring of thy soul,

Hast gloriously disproved the common faith, That man alone may reach the mental goal. Oh, lady dear! still on thine honored head [shed. Blessings of heaven and earth a thousand fold be

VII. THE PAST.

IN her strange, shadowy coronet she weareth
The faded jewels of an earlier time;
An ancient sceptre in her hand she beareth-
The purple of her robe is past its prime.
Through her thin silvery locks still dimly shineth
The flower wreath woven by pale Mem'ry's fingers.
Her heart is withered-yet it strangely shrineth
In its lone urn a light that fitful lingers.
With her low, muffled voice of mystery, [pages;
She reads old legends from Time's mouldering
She telleth the present the recorded history
And change perpetual of bygone ages:
Her pilgrim feet still seek the haunted sod [trod.
Once ours,but now by naught but memory's footsteps

VIII. DIEM PERDIDI.

When the Emperor Titus remembered, at night, that he had done nothing beneficial during the day, he used to exclaim, 'I have lost a day!'

O GREATLY wise! thou of the crown and rod,
Robed in the purple majesty of kings-
Power was thine own where'er thy footsteps trod,
Yet didst thou mourn if Time on idle wings
Went by for thee! Deep sunk in thought wert
And sadness rested on thy noble brow, [thou-
If, when the dying day closed o'er thy head,
Thou hadst no knowledge gained, no good con-
ferred:

"Diem Perdidi" was the thought that stirred Thy conscious soul, when night her curtain spread. Oh emperor, greatly wise! could we so deal With misspent hours, and win thy faith sublime, We should not be (mid the soul's mute appeal) Such triflers with the solemn trust of Time!

IX., X. BOOKS.

"Of making many books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh."-Solomon.

"Or making many books there is no end,"
Said the wise monarch of the olden time;
Yet, through all ages and in every clime
Doth the pale seeker o'er his studies bend,
The intellectual Numen to obey,

Eager and anxious still still doth he toil (Making the night familiar as the day)

To find the clew to loose the ravelled coilTo pierce the depth of things that hidden lie The oil of life consumeth: this he knoweth, Yet, with a feverish brow and streaming eye, He seeks to find-and patiently bestoweth His midnight laborings in Wisdom's mine, [shine. To win for earth the gems that midst its darkness "Much study is a weariness." The sage

Who gave his mind, to seek and search until He knew all wisdom, found that on the page Knowledge and Grief were vow'd companions still. And so the students of a later day

Sit down among the records of old Time To hold high commune with the thoughts sublime Of minds long gone; so they too pass away, And leave us what? their course, to toil, reflect, To feel the thorn pierce through our gathered flowers, Still midst the leaves the earth-worm to detect. And this is knowledge: wisdom is not ours.

Oh! well the Preacher bids his son admonished be, That all the days of man's short life are vanity!

THE PICTURE OF A DEPARTED POETESS.
THIS still, clear, radiant face! doth it resemble
In each fair, faultless lineament thine own?
Methinks on that enchanting lip doth tremble
The soul that breathes thy lyre's melodious tone.
The soul of music, oh! ethereal spirit,

Fills the dream-haunted sadness of thine eyes; Sweet poetess! thou surely didst inherit

Thy gifts celestial from the upper skies. Clear on the expansion of that snow-white forehead Sits intellectual beauty, meekly throned;

[row

O meek and lonely wildwood flowers! Ye are welcome, as light amid the gloom That hangs upon my weary hours. Here by my lowly couch of languishment and sorrow Your station take, that I may from your presence borLessons of hope, and lowly trust, That He whose touch revived your bloom Hath the same power o'er this poor dust, To raise it from the shadowy tomb! Thanks for your presence! for ye bring Back to the aching heart and eye Bright visions of the festal Spring,

Its blossoms, birds, and azure sky. [tranged, Now, far from each green haunt and sunny nook esFading and faint, I lie; yet in my heart unchanged Glows the same love for you, fair flowers, As when my unchained footsteps trod Lightly amidst your forest bowers,

And plucked ye from the dewy sod! And THOU, who gavest these grateful flowers, I bless thee for thy thought of me! And that through long and painful hours

My vigils have been shared by thee. [faltered,

I bless thee for the kindness and care which ne'er have
For the noble, loving heart that through ill remains
A little while, companion dear, [unaltered!
And e'en thy watchful care shall cease:
Oh, grieve not when the hour draws near,
But thank Heaven that it bringeth peace!

MISS EMELINE SHERMAN, now MRS. SMITH, was born in New Baltimore, Greene county, New York, and in 1836 was married to Mr. James M. Smith, of the New York bar. Mrs. Smith has been a contributor to several of the leading literary journals, and in 1847 she published a volume entitled The Fairy's

| Search, and other Poems, in which she has evinced considerable fancy, and a poetical vein of sentiment. Her distinguishing characteristics are a religious delight in nature, and a contentment with home affections and pleasures, which in one form or another are the materiel of the finest poetry of women.

HYMN TO THE DEITY,

IN THE CONTEMPLATION OF NATURE.

THOU Giver of all earthly good-
Thou wonder-working Power,
Whose spirit smiles in every star,

And breathes in every flower:
How gratefully we speak thy name—
How gladly own thy sway!
How thrillingly thy presence feel,

When mid thy works we stray!
We may forget thee for a time,

In scenes with tumult rife, Where worldly cares or pleasures claim Too large a share of life; But not in Nature's sweet domain, Where everything we see, From loftiest mount to lowliest flower, Is eloquent of thee.

Where waves lift up their tuneful voice,

And solemn anthems chime;
Where winds through echoing forests peal
Their melodies sublime;
Where e'en insensate objects breathe
Devotion's grateful lays—
Man can not choose but join the choir
That hymns his Maker's praise.

Beneath the city's gilded domes,
In temples decked with care,
Where Art and Splendor vie to make

Thine earthly mansions fair,
Our forms may lowly bend, our lips
May breathe a formal lay,
The whilst our wayward hearts refuse
These holy rites to pay.

But in that grander temple, reared
By thine Almighty hand,
Where glorious beauty bids the mind's
Diviner powers expand,

Our thoughts, like grateful vassals, give
An homage glad and free;

Our souls in adoration bow,

And mutely reverence Thee.

WE'VE HAD OUR SHARE OF BLISS, BELOVED.

WE'VE had our share of bliss, beloved,
We've had our share of bliss;
And mid the varying scenes of life,
Let us remember this.

If sorrows come, from vanished joy
We'll borrow such a light

As the departed sun bestows

Upon the queen of night:

And thus, by Memory's moonbeams cheered, Hope's sun we shall not miss,

But tread life's path as gay as when

We had our share of bliss.

'Tis true our sky hath had its clouds, Our spring its stormy hoursWhen we have mourned, as all must mourn,

O'er blighted buds and flowers;

And true, our bark hath sometimes neared
Despair's most desert shore,

When gloomy looked the waves around,
And dark the land before :

But Love was ever at the helm

He could not go amiss,

So long as two fond spirits sang,
"We've had our share of bliss."
These holy watchwords of the Past
Shall be the Future's stay-
For by their magic aid we'll keep

A host of ills at bay.

Our happy hearts, like tireless bees,
Have revelled mid the flowers,
And hived a store of summer sweets
To cheer life's wintry hours:
While Memory lives, and Love remains,
We'll ask no more than this-
But ever sing, in grateful strains,
"We've had our share of bliss."

MISS MARGARET FULLER is best known as a prose writer. Her Woman in the Nineteenth Century, Papers on Literature and Art, Summer on the Lakes, etc., entitle her undoubt edly to be ranked among the first authors of her sex. I have recently re-read these works, incited to do so by the apparent candor and decided sagacity displayed in the Letters she has written to The Tribune during her residence in Europe; and I confess some change

GOVERNOR EVERETT RECEIVING THE INDIAN CHIEFS, NOVEMBER, 1837.

WHO says that poesy is on the wane, And that the Muses tune their lyres in vain ? Mid all the treasures of romantic story, When thought was fresh and fancy in her glory, Has ever Art found out a richer theme, More dark a shadow, or more soft a gleam, Than fall upon the scene, sketched carelessly, In the newspaper column of to-day?

American romance is somewhat stale. Talk of the hatchet, and the faces pale, Wampum and calumets, and forests dreary, Once so attractive, now begins to weary. Uncas and Magawisca please us still— Unreal, yet idealized with skill; But every poetaster, scribbling witling, From the majestic oak his stylus whittling, Has helped to tire us, and to make us fear The monotone in which so much we hear Of" stoics of the wood," and "men without a tear." Yet Nature, ever buoyant, ever young, If let alone, will sing as erst she sung: The course of circumstance gives back again The picturesque, erewhile pursued in vain— Shows us the fount of romance is not wasted, The lights and shades of contrast not exhausted. Shorn of his strength, the Samson now must sue For fragments from the feast his fathers gave; The Indian dare not claim what is his due, But as a boon his heritage must crave: His stately form shall soon be seen no more Through all his father's land, th' Atlantic shore; Beneath the sun, to us so kind, they meltMore heavily each day our rule is felt: The tale is old-we do as mortals must; Might makes right here, but God and Time are just. So near the drama hastens to its close, On this last scene awhile your eyes repose: The polished Greek and Scythian meet again, The ancient life is lived by modern men

of opinion in her favor since writing the article upon her in The Prose Writers of America. Few can boast so wide a range of literary culture; perhaps none write so well with as much facility; and there is marked individuality in all her productions. As a poet, we have few illustrations of her abilities; but what we have are equal to her reputation. She is said to have written much more poetry than she has published.

The savage through our busy cities walks-
He in his untouched grandeur silent stalks!
Unmoved by all our gayeties and shows,
Wonder nor shame can touch him as he goes;
He gazes on the marvels we have wrought,
But knows the models from whence all was brought;
In God's first temples he has stood so oft,
And listened to the natural organ loft- [heard,
Has watched the eagle's flight, the muttering thunder
Art can not move him to a wondering word:
Perhaps he sees that all this luxury
Brings less food to the mind than to the eye;
Perhaps a simple sentiment has brought
More to him than your arts had ever taught.
What are the petty triumphs Art has given,
To eyes familiar with the naked heaven?

All has been seen-dock, railroad, and canal, Fort, market, bridge, college, and arsenal, Asylum, hospital, and cotton-mill.

The theatre, the lighthouse, and the jail.
The Braves each novelty, reflecting, saw,
And now and then growled out the earnest yaw;
And now the time is come, 'tis understood,
When, having seen and thought so much, a talk

may do some good.

A well dressed mob have thronged the sight to greet, And motley figures throng the spacious street; Majestical and calm through all they stride, Wearing the blanket with a monarch's pride; The gazers stare and shrug, but can't deny Their noble forms and blameless symmetry. If the Great Spirit their morale has slighted, And wigwam smoke their mental culture blighted, Yet the physique, at least, perfection reaches, In wilds where neither Combe nor Spurzheim teaches

Where whispering trees invite man to the chase, And bounding deer allure him to the race.

Would thou hadst seen it! That dark, stately Whose ancestors enjoyed all this fair land, [band, Whence they, by force or fraud, were made to flee, Are brought, the white man's victory to see.