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Frederic Mellen.



LADY! the dark, long night

Of grief and sorrow,
That knows no cheerful light,
No sun-bright morrow,

Is gathering round my heart,
In gloom and tears,

That will not, cannot part,
For long, long years.

Oh! would that thought could die!

And fadeless mem'ry

Pass, like the night-winds sigh,

Away, away from me.

There is a quiet resting place,

Cold, dark, and deep;

Where grief shall leave no trace,

And misery sleep.

Would I were slumbering there,

From life's sad dream!

The tempest's cold, bleak air
Sounding my requiem.

Fair lady! my harp's sad song
Hath wing'd its flight;

But murmurs its chords along,

My last 'good night.'



FREDERIC MELLEN was a native of Portland, a son of the late Hon. Prentiss Mellen, LL. D., and a brother of Grenville Mellen, a biographical sketch of whom is to be found in the preceding pages of this work. He was an alumnus of Bowdoin College, of the class of 1825, but of his birth, and after life we have no information, other than that he died at an early age. Like his deceased brother, he was a man of undoubted genius, and, like him, was stricken down before it had fully developed its richness and beauty. He devoted his talent mostly to the art of Painting, and many of his protraits and landscapes are proof that no unskilful hand gave grace and beauty to them. Mr. Mellen was highly esteemed by all who knew him, and his death was much lamented. As a poet, he would have become very distinguished, had he have lived. He was for some time a contributor to the United States Literary Gazette, from which we have made our selections, and from the "Atlantic Souvenir," a popular and able Annual, to which he also contributed. His poetry, we regret to say, is of a foreign character, and bears no imprint of American genius, yet it is equally meritorious. He died in the city of Boston, and from an obituary notice of his death, we make the following extract:

"With a native character of great suavity, simplicity, and instinctive correctness of moral sentiment, an intuitive perception of poetic beauty, and peculiar quickness of apprehension and susceptibility to the influences under which he was reared from infancy, and imbibing at home the purest principles of virtue, he seasonably received the advantages of an education at Bowdoin College, which nourished a love of classic and polished literature, and enabled him to cultivate those powers with which he was gifted, with an upward aim to excel in whatever belonged to mental or professional accomplishment. A per


vading taste for one favorite art, early discovered, and displaying a peculiar aptitude for the finest combinations of forms and colors — the art of painting- obtained the mastery of his pursuits and purposes; and he bade fair, by the proofs of original effort, to arrive at distinction in the most elegant branches of this polite department. He also possessed a very delightful and poetic talent. A number of gems have been preserved, among the choicest and sweetest which grace Annuals, which would form a pleasing circlet on the now pale brow, upon which the blooming wreath of youthful hope has untimely perished. He had a short time previous to his death, removed to a sphere more propitious to the cultivation of his favorite pursuits, and the interest of his friends were awakened to his merited success. But his monument is, alas! to be marked by the broken column; and the blighted flower of his manly promise is watered, but cannot be revived by the tears of friendship and affection."

'Yet 'twas but yesterday that all before him
Shone in the freshness of life's morning hour;
Joy's radient smile was playing briefly o'er him,
And his light feet impress'd but vernal flowers.
The restless spirit charm'd his sweet existence,
Making all beautious in youth's pleasant maze,
While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance,
And lit with sunbeams his expectant days.

How have the garlands of his childhood wither'd,
And hope's false anthem died upon the air!
Death's cloudy tempests o'er his way have gather'd,
And its stern bolts have burst in fury there.
On his pale forehead sleeps the shade of even,
Youth's braided wreath lies stain'd in sprinkled dust,
Yet looking upward in its grief to Heaven,

Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and trust.'



We have outstaid the hour-mount we our clouds!


ADIEU! adieu!' thus the storm-spirit sang,

'Adieu to the southern sky;'

And the wintry wind that round him rang,
Caught up the unearthly minstrelsy,

Adieu! adieu! to its flood's bright gleams,

Its waving woodlands, its thousand streams.'

'Off! off!' said the spirit: like the whirlwind's rush His snow-wreathed car was gone;

And their cold white breath came down the night, As his startled steeds sped on.

Yet the night-wind's dirge o'er the changing year, Fell slowly and sadly upon the ear.

''Twas the

of song woe, of that wintry wind, As the laughing streams ran by, And lingered around the budding trees,

Once clothed in its own chaste livery. Its tones were sad, as it sunk its wing, And this was its simple offering:

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