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ISAAC CLASON.

[Born about 1796. Died, 1830.]

ISAAC CLASON wrote the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Cantos of Don Juan-a continuation of the poem of Lord BYRON-published in 1825. I have not been able to learn many particulars of his biography. He was born in the city of New York, where his father was a distinguished merchant, and graduated at Columbia College in 1813. He inherited a considerable fortune, but in the pursuit of pleasure he spent it all, and much besides, received from his relatives. He was in turn a gay roué in London and Paris, a writer for the public journals, an actor in the theatres, and a private

NAPOLEON.*

I love no land so well as that of FranceLand of NAPOLEON and CHARLEMAGNE, Renown'd for valour, women, wit, and dance, For racy Burgundy, and bright Champagne, Whose only word in battle was, Advance;

While that grand genius, who seem'd born to reign, Greater than AMMON's son, who boasted birth From heaven, and spurn'd all sons of earth; Greater than he who wore his buskins high, A VENUS arm'd, impress'd upon his seal; Who smiled at poor CALPHURNIA's prophecy,

Nor fear'd the stroke he soon was doom'd to feel; Who on the ides of March breath'd his last sigh,

AS BRUTUS pluck'd away his "cursed steel," Exclaiming, as he expired, "Et tu, BRUTE," But BRUTUS thought he only did his duty;

Greater than he, who, at nine years of age,
On Carthage' altar swore eternal hate;
Who, with a rancour time could ne'er assuage,
With feelings no reverse could moderate,
With talents such as few would dare engage,
With hopes that no misfortune could abate,
Died like his rival, both with broken hearts,-
Such was their fate, and such was BONAPARTE'S.

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE! thy name shall live
Till time's last echo shall have ceased to sound;
And if eternity's confines can give

To space reverberation, round and round
The spheres of heaven, the long, deep cry of "Vive
NAPOLEON!" in thunders shall rebound;

The lightning's flash shall blaze thy name on high, Monarch of earth, now meteor of the sky!

What though on St. Helena's rocky shore

Thy head be pillow'd, and thy form entomb'd, Perhaps that son, the child thou didst adore, Fired with a father's fame, may yet be doom'd

* From the Seventeenth Canto of Don Juan.

tutor. A mystery hangs over his closing years. It has been stated that he was found dead in an obscure lodging-house in London, under circumstances that led to a belief that he committed suicide, about the year 1830.

Besides his continuation of Don Juan, he wrote but little poetry. The two cantos which he left under that title, have much of the spirit and feeling, in thought and diction, which characterize the work of BYRON. He was a man of attractive manners and brilliant conversation. His fate is an unfavourable commentary on his character.

To crush the bigot BOURBON, and restore

Thy mouldering ashes ere they be consumed;
Perhaps may run the course thyself didst run,
And light the world, as comets light the sun.
"Tis better thou art gone: 't were sad to see,
Beneath an "imbecile's impotent reign,"
Thine own unvanquish'd legions doom'd to be
Cursed instruments of vengeance on poor Spain,
That land, so glorious once in chivalry,

Now sunk in slavery and shame again;
To see the imperial guard, thy dauntless band,
Made tools for such a wretch as FERDINAND.
Farewell, NAPOLEON! thine hour is past;

No more earth trembles at thy dreaded name;
But France, unhappy France, shall long contrast
Thy deeds with those of worthless D'ANGOULEME.
Ye gods! how long shall slavery's thraldom last!
Will France alone remain forever tame?
Say, will no WALLACE, will no WASHINGTON
Scourge from thy soil the infamous BOURBON?
Is Freedom dead? Is NERO's reign restored?
Frenchmen! remember Jena, Austerlitz:
The first, which made thy emperor the lord

Of Prussia, and which almost threw in fits Great FREDERICK WILLIAM; he who, at the board, Took all the Prussian uniform to bits; FREDERICK, the king of regimental tailors, AS HUDSON LOWE, the very prince of jailors. Farewell, NAPOLEON! couldst thou have died

The coward scorpion's death, afraid, ashamed To meet adversity's advancing tide,

The weak had praised thee, but the wise had
blamed;

But no! though torn from country, child, and bride,
With spirit unsubdued, with soul untamed,
Great in misfortune, as in glory high,
Thou daredst to live through life's worst agony.

Pity, for thee, shall weep her fountains dry,
Mercy, for thee, shall bankrupt all her store;
Valour shall pluck a garland from on high,
And Honour twine the wreath thy temples o'er;

Beauty shall beckon to thee from the sky,

And smiling seraphs open wide heaven's door; Around thy head the brightest stars shall meet, And rolling suns play sportive at thy feet.

Farewell, NAPOLEON! a long farewell,

A stranger's tongue, alas! must hymn thy worth; No craven Gaul dares wake his harp to tell,

Or sound in song the spot that gave thee birth. No more thy name, that, with its magic spell, Aroused the slumbering nations of the earth, Echoes around thy land; 'tis past—at length France sinks beneath the sway of CHARLES the Tenth.

JEALOUSY.

HE who has seen the red-fork'd lightnings flash From out some black and tempest-gather'd cloud, And heard the thunder's simultaneous crash,

Bursting in peals, terrifically loud;

He who has mark'd the madden'd ocean dash (Robed in its snow-white foam as in a shroud) Its giant billows on the groaning shore,

While death seem'd echo'd in the deafening roar;

He who has seen the wild tornado sweep

(Its path destruction, and its progress death) The silent bosom of the smiling deep

With the black besom of its boisterous breath, Waking to strife the slumbering waves, that leap In battling surges from their beds beneath, Yawning and swelling from their liquid caves, Like buried giants from their restless graves:He who has gazed on sights and scenes like these, Hath look'd on nature in her maddest mood; But nature's warfare passes by degrees,

The thunder's voice is hush'd, however rude, The dying winds unclasp the raging seas,

The scowling sky throws back her cloud-capt
hood,

The infant lightnings to their cradles creep,
And the gaunt earthquake rocks herself to sleep.
But there are storms, whose lightnings never glare,
Tempests, whose thunders never cease to roll-
The storms of love, when madden'd to despair,
The furious tempests of the jealous soul.
That kamsin of the heart, which few can bear,
Which owns no limit, and which knows no goal,
Whose blast leaves joy a tomb, and hope a speck,
Reason a blank, and happiness a wreck.

EARLY LOVE.

THE fond caress of beauty, O, that glow!
The first warm glow that mantles round the heart
Of boyhood! when all's new-the first dear vow
He ever breathed-the tear-drops that first start,
Pure from the unpractised eye-the overflow

Of waken'd passions, that but now impart
A hope, a wish, a feeling yet unfelt,

That mould to madness, or in mildness melt.

Ah! where's the youth whose stoic heart ne'er knew The fires of joy, that burst through every vein, That burn forever bright, forever new,

As passion rises o'er and o'er again? That, like the phoenix, die but to renew

Beat in the heart, and throb upon the brainSelf-kindling, quenchless as the eternal flame That sports in Etna's base. But I'm to blame Ignobly thus to yield to raptures past;

To call my buried feelings from their shrouds, O'er which the deep funereal pall was castLike brightest skies entomb'd in darkest clouds; No matter, these, the latest and the last

That rise, like spectres of the past, in crowds; The ebullitions of a heart not lost, But weary, wandering, worn, and tempest-toss'd. "Tis vain, and worse than vain, to think on joys Which, like the hour that's gone, return no more; Bubbles of folly, blown by wanton boys

Billows that swell, to burst upon the shorePlaythings of passion, manhood's gilded toys, (Deceitful as the shell that seems to roar, But proves the mimic mockery of the surge:) They sink in sorrow's sea, and ne'er emerge.

ALL IS VANITY.

I've compass'd every pleasure, Caught every joy before its bead could pass; I've loved without restriction, without measureI've sipp'd enjoyment from each sparkling glass— I've known what 't is, too, to "repent at leisure"

I've sat at meeting, and I've served at mass:-And having roved through half the world's insanities, Cry, with the Preacher--Vanity of vanities!

What constitutes man's chief enjoyment here?
What forms his greatest antidote to sorrow?
Is 't wealth? Wealth can at last but gild his bier,
Or buy the pall that poverty must borrow.
Is't love? Alas, love's cradled in a tear;

It smiles to-day, and weeps again to-morrow; Mere child of passion, that beguiles in youth, And flies from age, as falsehood flies from truth.

Is't glory? Pause beneath St. Helen's willow,

Whose weeping branches wave above the spot; Ask him, whose head now rests upon its pillow, Its last, low pillow, there to rest, and rot. Is't fame? Ask her, who floats upon the billow, Untomb'd, uncoffin'd, and perchance forgot; The lovely, lovesick Lesbian, frail as fair, Victim of love, and emblem of despair.

Is 't honour? Go, ask him whose ashes sleep Within the crypt of Paul's stupendous dome, Whose name once thunder'd victory o'er the deep, Far as his country's navies proudly roam; Above whose grave no patriot Dane shall weep,

No Frank deplore the hour he found a home-A home, whence valour's voice from conquest's car No more shall rouse the lord-of Trafalgar.

LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

[Born about 1797.]

LYDIA HUNTLEY, now Mrs. SIGOURNEY, was born at Norwich, in Connecticut, about the year 1797. From early childhood she was remarkable for her love of knowledge, and the facility with which she acquired it. She could read with fluency when but three years old, and at eight she wrote verses which gave promise of the eminence she has since attained. Some of her early contributions to the public journals attracted the attention of Mr. DANIEL WADSWORTH, a wealthy and intelligent gentleman of Hartford, who induced her to collect and publish them in a volume, which appeared in 1815, under the modest title of "Moral Pieces, by LYDIA HUNTLEY." About the same period she commenced a select school for young women, which she conducted for several years with much ability.

In 1819 she was married to Mr. CHARLES SIGOURNEY, a leading merchant and banker, of Hartford. Their two children have been carefully educated by herself, and she has had the charge of a large household from the time of her marriage; but she has never for a single year omitted the literary pursuits to which she was so early devoted. Her visits to the tomb of the mother of Washington, to Niagara, and other places, have been fitly commemorated in her poems, while the splendid scenery and the history of New England have been celebrated in "Connecticut Forty Years Ago," a prose legend, and in stanzas inspired by the "Connecticut River," the "Charter Oak," and

many kindred themes. Probably her "Letters to Young Ladies" should be ranked first in usefulness and ability among her prose works, though several others, intended, like that, to improve the minds and the hearts of her sex, have been much read, and generally praised.

Mrs. SIGOURNEY has been a frequent contributor to the best periodicals of this country, and has occasionally written for the English annuaries. Six or seven volumes of her poetry have been published, of which the last appeared near the close of 1841. In the summer of 1840, she went to Europe, and remained there a year, visiting the principal cities of Great Britain and France, and Avon, Dryburgh Abbey, Grassmere, and Rydal Mount, and other Meccas of the literary pilgrim. While in London a collection of her writings was published in that city.

Mrs. SIGOURNEY has surpassed any of the poets of her sex in this country in the extent of her productions; and their religious and domestic character has made them popular with the large classes who regard more than artistic merit the spirit and tendency of what they read. Her subjects are varied, and her diction generally melodious and free; but her works are written too carelessly; they lack vigour and condensation; and possess but few of the elements of enduring verse. Very little poetry, save that of scholars, finished with extreme care and skill, belongs to the permanent literature of any language.

66

THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. Ax axe rang sharply mid those forest shades Which from creation toward the sky had tower'd In unshorn beauty. There, with vigorous arm, Wrought a bold emigrant, and by his side His little son, with question and response, Beguiled the toil. Boy, thou hast never seen Such glorious trees. Hark, when their giant trunks Fall, how the firm earth groans. Rememberest thou The mighty river, on whose breast we sail'd, So many days, on toward the setting sun? Our own Connecticut, compared to that, Was but a creeping stream." "Father, the brook That by our door went singing, where I launch'd My tiny boat, with my young playmates round When school was o'er, is dearer far to me Than all these bold, broad waters. To my eye They are as strangers. And those little trees My mother nurtured in the garden bound Of our first home, from whence the fragrant peach Hung in its ripening gold, were fairer, sure, Than this dark forest, shutting out the day."

66

What, ho!-my little girl," and with light step A fairy creature hasted toward her sire, And, setting down the basket that contain'd His noon-repast, look'd upward to his face With sweet, confiding smile. See, dearest, see, That bright-wing'd paroquet, and hear the song Of yon gay red-bird, echoing through the trees, Making rich music. Didst thou ever hear, In far New England, such a mellow tone?" I had a robin that did take the crumbs Each night and morning, and his chirping voice Did make me joyful, as I went to tend My snow-drops. I was always laughing then In that first home. I should be happier now Methinks, if I could find among these dells The same fresh violets." Slow night drew on, And round the rude hut of the emigrant The wrathful spirit of the rising storm Spake bitter things. His weary children slept, And he, with head declined, sat listening long To the swoln waters of the Illinois, Dashing against their shores. Starting, he spake"Wife! did I see thee brush away a tear?

"T was even so. Thy heart was with the halls
Of thy nativity. Their sparkling lights,
Carpets, and sofas, and admiring guests,
Befit thee better than these rugged walls

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Of shapeless logs, and this lone, hermit home."
No-no. All was so still around, methought
Upon mine ear that echoed hymn did steal,
Which mid the church, where erst we paid our vows,
So tuneful peal'd. But tenderly thy voice
Dissolved the illusion." And the gentle smile
Lighting her brow, the fond caress that soothed
Her waking infant, reassured his soul
That, wheresoe'er our best affections dwell,
And strike a healthful root, is happiness.
Content and placid, to his rest he sank;
But dreams, those wild magicians, that do play
Such pranks when reason slumbers, tireless wrought
Their will with him. Up rose the thronging mart
Of his own native city-roof and spire,
All glittering bright, in fancy's frost-work ray.
The steed his boyhood nurtured proudly neighed,
The favourite dog came frisking round his feet,
With shrill and joyous bark-familiar doors
Flew open-greeting hands with his were link'd
In friendship's grasp-he heard the keen debate
From congregated haunts, where mind with mind
Doth blend and brighten-and till morning roved
Mid the loved scenery of his native land.

NIAGARA.

FLow on, forever, in thy glorious robe
Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on
Unfathom'd and resistless. God hath set
His rainbow on thy forehead: and the cloud
Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give
Thy voice of thunder, power to speak of Him
Eternally-bidding the lip of man

Keep silence and upon thy rocky altar pour
Incense of awe-struck praise. Ah! who can dare
To lift the insect trump of earthly hope,
Or love, or sorrow-mid the peal sublime
Of thy tremendous hymn? Even ocean shrinks
Back from thy brotherhood: and all his waves
Retire abash'd. For he doth sometimes seem
To sleep like a a spent labourer-and recall
His wearied billows from their vexing play,
And lull them to a cradle-calm: but thou,
With everlasting, undecaying tide,

Dost rest not, night or day.-The morning stars,
When first they sang o'er young creation's birth,
Heard thy deep anthem; and those wrecking fires,
That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve
This solid earth, shall find JEHOVAH's name
Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears,
Of thine unending volume. Every leaf,
That lifts itself within thy wide domain,
Doth gather greenness from thy living spray,
Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo!-yon birds
Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing
Amid thy mist and foam. 'Tis meet for them
To touch thy garment's hem, and lightly stir
The snowy leaflets of thy vapour-wreath,

For they may sport unharm'd amid the cloud,
Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven,
Without reproof. But as for us, it seems
Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak
Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint
Thy glorious features with our pencil's point,
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song,
Were profanation. Thou dost make the soul
A wondering witness of thy majesty,
But as it presses with delirious joy
To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step,
And tame its rapture, with the humbling view
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand
In the dread presence of the Invisible,
As if to answer to its Gon through thee.

WINTER.

1

I DEEM thee not unlovely, though thou comest
With a stern visage. To the tuneful bird,
The blushing floweret, the rejoicing stream,
Thy discipline is harsh. But unto man
Methinks thou hast a kindlier ministry.
Thy lengthen'd eve is full of fireside joys,
And deathless linking of warm heart to heart,
So that the hoarse storm passes by unheard.
Earth, robed in white, a peaceful Sabbath holds,
And keepeth silence at her Maker's feet.
She ceaseth from the harrowing of the plough,
And from the harvest-shouting. Man should rest
Thus from his fever'd passions, and exhale
The unbreathed carbon of his festering thought,
And drink in holy health. As the toss'd bark
Doth seek the shelter of some quiet bay
To trim its shatter'd cordage, and restore
Its riven sails-so should the toil-worn mind
Refit for time's rough voyage. Man, perchance,
Soured by the world's sharp commerce, or impair'd
By the wild wanderings of his summer way,
Turns like a truant scholar to his home,
And yields his nature to sweet influences
That purify and save. The ruddy boy
Comes with his shouting school-mates from their
sport,

On the smooth, frozen lake, as the first star
Hangs, pure and cold, its twinkling cresset forth,
And, throwing off his skates with boisterous glee,
Hastes to his mother's side. Her tender hand
Doth shake the snow-flakes from his glossy curls,
And draw him nearer, and with gentle voice
Asks of his lessons, while her lifted heart
Solicits silently the Sire of Heaven

To bless the lad." The timid infant learns
Better to love its sire-and longer sits
Upon his knee, and with a velvet lip
Prints on his brow such language, as the tongue
Hath never spoken. Come thou to life's feast
With dove-eyed meekness, and bland charity,
And thou shalt find even Winter's rugged blasts
The minstrel teacher of thy well-tuned soul,
And when the last drop of its cup is drain'd-
Arising with a song of praise-go up
To the eternal banquet.

NAPOLEON'S EPITAPH.

"The moon of St. Helena shone out, and there we saw the face of NAPOLEON'S sepulchre, characterless, uninscribed."

And who shall write thine epitaph! thou man Of mystery and might. Shall orphan hands Inscribe it with their father's broken swords? Or the warm trickling of the widow's tear Channel it slowly mid the rugged rock, As the keen torture of the water-drop Doth wear the sentenced brain? Shall countless Arise from Hades, and in lurid flame With shadowy finger trace thine effigy, Who sent them to their audit unanneal'd, And with but that brief space for shrift of prayer, Given at the cannon's mouth! Thou, who didst sit Like eagle on the apex of the globe,

[ghosts

And hear the murmur of its conquer'd tribes,
As chirp the weak-voiced nations of the grass,
Why art thou sepulchred in yon far isle,
Yon little speck, which scarce the mariner
Descries mid ocean's foam? Thou, who didst hew
A pathway for thy host above the cloud,
Guiding their footsteps o'er the frost-work crown
Of the throned Alps--why dost thou sleep unmark'd,
Even by such slight memento as the hind
Carves on his own coarse tomb-stone? Bid the

throng

Who pour'd thee incense, as Olympian Jove,
And breathed thy thunders on the battle-field,
Return, and rear thy monument. Those forms
O'er the wide valleys of red slaughter spread,
From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone,
Heed not thy clarion call. But should they rise,
As in the vision that the prophet saw,
And each dry bone its sever'd fellow find,
Piling their pillar'd dust as erst they gave
Their souls for thee, the wondering stars might deem
A second time the puny pride of man
Did creep by stealth upon its Babel stairs,
To dwell with them. But here unwept thou art,
Like a dead lion in his thicket-lair,
With neither living man, nor spirit condemn'd,
To write thine epitaph. Invoke the climes,
Who served as playthings in thy desperate game
Of mad ambition, or their treasures strew'd
Till meagre famine on their vitals prey'd,
To pay the reckoning. France! who gave so free
Thy life-stream to his cup of wine, and saw
That purple vintage shed o'er half the earth,
Write the first line, if thou hast blood to spare.
Thou, too, whose pride did deck dead CESAR's tomb,
And chant high requiem o'er the tyrant band
Who had their birth with thee, lend us thine arts
Of sculpture and of classic eloquence,
To grace his obsequies, at whose dark frown
Thine ancient spirit quail'd, and to the list
Of mutilated kings, who glean'd their meat
'Neath AGAG's table, add the name of Rome.
-Turn, Austria! iron-brow'd and stern of heart,
And on his monument, to whom thou gavest
In anger, battle, and in craft a bride,
Grave Austerlitz, and fiercely turn away.

-As the rein'd war-horse snuffs the trumpet-blast,
Rouse Prussia from her trance with Jena's name,
And bid her witness to that fame which soars
O'er him of Macedon, and shames the vaunt
Of Scandinavia's madman. From the shades
Of letter'd ease, O, Germany! come forth
With pen of fire, and from thy troubled scroll
Such as thou spread'st at Leipsic, gather tints
Of deeper character than bold romance
Hath ever imaged in her wildest dream,
Or history trusted to her sibyl-leaves.
-Hail, lotus crown'd! in thy green childhood fed
By stiff-neck'd PHARAOH, and the shepherd-kings,
Hast thou no tale of him who drench'd thy sands
At Jaffa and Aboukir! when the flight
Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong
To the accusing Spirit? Glorious Isle !
Whose thrice enwreathed chain, Promethean-like,
Did bind him to the fatal rock, we ask
Thy deep memento for this marble tomb.
-Ho! fur-clad Russia! with thy spear of frost,
Or with thy winter-mocking Cossack's lance,
Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain,
And give the last line of our epitaph.
-But there was silence; for no sceptred hand
Received the challenge. From the misty deep
Rise, island-spirits! like those sisters three,
Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life,
Rise on your coral pedestals, and write
That eulogy which haughtier climes deny.
Come, for ye lull'd him in your matron arms,
And cheer'd his exile with the name of king,
And spread that curtain'd couch which none disturb,
Come, twine some trait of household tenderness,
Some tender leaflet, nursed with Nature's tears
Around this urn. But Corsica, who rock'd
His cradle, at Ajacio, turn'd away,
And tiny Elba, in the Tuscan wave
Threw her slight annal with the haste of fear,
And rude Helena, sick at heart, and gray
'Neath the Pacific's smiling, bade the moon,
With silent finger, point the traveller's gaze
To an unhonour'd tomb. Then Earth arose,
That blind, old empress, on her crumbling throne,
And to the echoed question "Who shall write
Napoleon's epitaph ?" as one who broods
O'er unforgiven injuries, answer'd, « None."

THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.*

LONG hast thou slept unnoted. Nature stole
In her soft ministry around thy bed,
Spreading her vernal tissue, violet-gemm'd,
And pearl'd with dews. She bade bright Summer
bring

Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds,
And Autumn cast his reaper's coronet
Down at thy feet, and stormy Winter speak
Sternly of man's neglect. But now we come
To do thee homage-mother of our chief!
Fit homage-such as honoureth him who pays.
Methinks we see thee-as in olden time-

*On laying the corner-stone of her monument at Fredericksburg, Virginia.

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