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Isaac McLellan.



The tender twilight with a crimson cheek
Leans on the breast of Eve. The wayward wind

Hath folded her fleet pinions, and gone down

To slumber by the darken'd woods - the herds
Have left their pastures, where the sward grows green
And lofty by the river's sedgy brink,

And slow are winding home. Hark, from afar
Their tinkling bells sound through the dusky glade
And forest openings, with a pleasant sound;
While answering Echo, from the distant hill
Sends back the music of the herdsman's horn.
How tenderly the trembling light yet plays
O'er the far-waving foliage! Day's last blush
Still lingers on the billowy waste of leaves,
With a strange beauty-like the golden flush
That haunts the ocean, when the day goes by.
Methinks, whene'er earth's wearying troubles pass
Like winter shadows o'er the peaceful mind,
'Twere sweet to turn from life, and pass abroad,
With solemn footsteps, into Nature's vast

And happy palaces, and lead a life

Of peace in some green paradise like this.



ISAAC MCLELLAN, is a son of the late Isaac McLellan, Esq., of Portland, where he was born on the twentieth day of April, 1811. When quite young, his parents removed with him to Boston, in which city and vicinity he has since resided. His early education was received at the Phillips Academy, in the town of Andover, Mass. From this school he entered Bowdoin College, and graduated in the class of 1826. He then returned to Boston, where he pursued the study of the law for some time, and on being admitted to the 'Suffolk Bar,' in 1830, opened a law-office, and commenced practice in that city. For some years past he has done but little professional business, devoting his time and talent mostly to literature, and agricultural pursuits. He now resides at Dorchester, a few miles out of Boston, where he has a beautiful and tastefully arranged country residence. Here he can enjoy the sweets of poesy, and the comforts of life, amid blooming flowers, waving trees, and fresh cool air, a privilege enjoyed by but few of our literary men, the most of whom are

"Dwellers in the crowded city,

'Mid its dust, and noise and heat."

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Mr. McLellan made his first appearance before the public, as a prominent writer, while a student in Bowdoin College. He was at that time a regular contributor to Knapp's Boston Magazine,' and to the 'New-York Literary Gazette,' a well established and popular journal, then edited by William C. Bryant, the poet. In 1830, while practicing law in Boston, he became associated with the 'Boston Daily Pat

riot,' which he conducted with great ability. He was also, at different periods, connected with other Boston journals and magazines. His first volume of poems appeared in 1836, under the title of The Fall of the Indian, and other Poems'; and two years later, in 1838, 'The Year, and other Poems'; and in 1843, a third volume of poems, entitled 'Mount Auburn.' Many of the poems contained in these volumes were written by the author, during College life, and were first published in 'Knapp's Boston Magazine,' and the 'NewYork Literary Gazette.' In 1837, he pronounced a Poem before the 'Phi Beta Kappa' of Bowdoin College; and in 1839, went to England, where he spent some time, and from thence made an extended tour through France, Germany, Italy, also visiting Egypt and Syria. While making this tour he contributed a series of very interesting letters to the Boston Daily Courier,' under the head of Foreign Travels,' and returned to the United States after an absence of two years, and renewed the practice of law in Boston. As a poet, Mr. McLellan has attained a high reputation, and is placed in the ranks of our most celebrated poets. We regret to say, however, that his later poems are evidently thrown off in a hurry, and with little study. But few of them evince the careful finish that beautifies his earlier productions. He is still adding to his established reputation by contibuting to a few of the select and leading Magazines now published.


WELL do I love those various harmonies
That ring so gaily in spring's budding woods,
And in thickets, and green, quiet haunts,
And lonely copses of the summer-time,
And in red autumn's ancient solitudes.

If thou art pain'd with the world's noisy stir, Or crazed with its mad tumult, and weigh'd down of the ills of human life;

With any
If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss

Of brethren gone to that far distant land

To which we all do pass, gentle and poor,
The gayest and the gravest, all alike;
Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear
The thrilling music of the forest-birds.

How rich the varied choir! The unquiet finch
Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren
Uttereth her sweet and mellow pliant at times,
And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs
Its crimson-spotted caps, or chirps half hid
Amid the lowly dogwood's snowy flowers,
And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree,
And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear
With its shrill sounding and unearthly cry.

With the sweet airs of spring, the robin comes; And in her simple song there seems to gush A strain of sorrow when she visiteth

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