CARLOS WILCOX, 1794-1827.

CARLOS WILCOX was born at Newport, New Hampshire, October 22, 1794. He graduated at Middlebury College in 1813, and then entered the theological school at Andover, Massachusetts. He began to preach in 1819; but his health failed, and he accepted an invitation from a friend in Salisbury, Connecticut, to reside at his house, where he spent two years and composed his Age of Benevolence. In 1824, he was ordained as pastor of the North Congregational Church, Hartford, and soon won a high reputation for eloquence; but his health began to decline rapidly, and after various journeys for its restoration, to no purpose, he breathed his last on the 27th of May, 1827.

His Remains, with a Memoir of his Life, were published in 1828. The volume contains two poems, the Age of Benevolence; The Religion of Taste, delivered in 1824 before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale College; and fourteen Sermons. Both of the poems are incomplete; but of such merit are they as fragments, that they make us the more sorrowful for what we have lost.1

SEPTEMBER.

The sultry summer past, September comes,
Soft twilight of the slow-declining year;-
All mildness, soothing loneliness and peace;
The fading season ere the falling come,
More sober than the buxom blooming May,
And therefore less the favorite of the world,
But dearest month of all to pensive minds.
'Tis now far spent; and the meridian sun,
Most sweetly smiling with attemper'd beams,
Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth.
Beneath its yellow lustre, groves and woods,

Checker'd by one night's frost with various hues,

bound in the richest manner, no house in the country surpasses, if any equals, that of E. H. Butler & Co. Their last published work of this kind,--A Gallery of Famous Poets, selected and arranged by Professor Henry Coppée,-as bound by Pawson & Nicholson, is certainly one of the most magnificent books ever issued in this country, but has lately (1861) been surpassed in letter-press and in beauty and richness of illustration by the "Folk-Songs," edited by Dr. J. W. Palmer, and published by Appleton & Co., New York.

He was a true poet, and deeply interesting in his character, both as a man and a Christian. He resembled Cowper in many respects,-in the gentleness and tenderness of his sensibilities,-in the modest and retiring disposition of his mind, in its fine culture and its original poetic cast,--and not a little in the character of his poetry."-GEORGE B. CHEEVER.

* I believe New York and Boston booksellers acknowledge Pawson & Nicholson the best binders in this country, and not surpassed even by Hayday of London. The junior partner, James B. Nicholson, has published a work of great practical value upon the subject, entitled "A Manual of the Art of Bookbinding; containing Full Instructions in the Different Branches of Forwarding, Gilding, and Finishing; also, the Art of Marbling Book-Edges and Paper. The whole designed for the Practical Workman, the Amateur, and the BookCollector."

While yet no wind has swept a leaf away,
Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight
Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged
Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues,
The yellow, red, or purple of the trees,
That, singly, or in tufts, or forests thick,
Adorn the shores; to see, perhaps, the side
Of some high mount reflected far below
With its bright colors, intermix'd with spots
Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad
To wander in the open fields, and hear,
E'en at this hour, the noon-day hardly past,
The lulling insects of the summer's night;
To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard,
A lonely bee long roving here and there
To find a single flower, but all in vain;
Then, rising quick, and with a louder hum,
In widening circles round and round his head,
Straight by the listener flying clear away,
As if to bid the fields a last adieu;

To hear, within the woodland's sunny side,
Late full of music, nothing, save, perhaps,

The sound of nutshells by the squirrel dropp'd

From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves.

FREEDOM.

All are born free, and all with equal rights.
So speaks the charter of a natica proud
Of her unequall'd liberties and laws,
While in that nation-shameful to relate-
One man in five is born and dies a slave.
Is this my country? this that happy land,
The wonder and the envy of the world?
Oh for a mantle to conceal her shame!
But why, when Patriotism cannot hide
The ruin which her guilt will surely bring
If unrepented? and, unless the God

Who pour'd his plagues on Egypt till she let
The oppress'd go free, and often pours his wrath,
In earthquakes and tornadoes, on the isles
Of Western India, laying waste their fields,
Dashing their mercenary ships ashore,
Tossing the isles themselves like floating wrecks,
And burying towns alive in one wide grave,
No sooner oped but closed, let judgment pass
For once untasted till the general doom,
Can it go well with us while we retain
This cursed thing? Will not untimely frosts,
Devouring insects, drought, and wind and hail,
Destroy the fruits of ground long till'd in chains?
Will not some daring spirit, born to thoughts
Above his beast-like state, find out the truth,
That Africans are men; and, catching fire

From Freedom's altar raised before his eyes
With incense fuming sweet, in others light
A kindred flame in secret, till a train,
Kindled at once, deal death on every side?
Cease then, Columbia, for thy safety cease,
And for thine honor, to proclaim the praise
Of thy fair shores of liberty and joy,

While thrice five hundred thousand wretched slaves,1
In thine own bosom, start at every word

As meant to mock their woes, and shake their chains,
Thinking defiance which they dare not speak.

DOING GOOD, TRUE HAPPINESS.

Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief?
Or is thy heart oppress'd with woes untold?
Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief?
Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold.
'Tis when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold
Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there
Its life and beauty; not when, all unroll'd,
Leaf after leaf, its bosom, rich and fair,

Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air.
Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers,

Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night
When death is waiting for thy number'd hours
To take their swift and everlasting flight;

Wake, ere the earth-born charm unnerve thee quite,
And be thy thoughts to work divine address'd;

Do something-do it soon-with all thy might;
An angel's wing would droop if long at rest,
And God himself, inactive, were no longer blest.
Some high or humble enterprise of good
Contemplate, till it shall possess thy mind,
Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food,
And kindle in thy heart a flame refined.
Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bind
To this thy purpose--to begin, pursue,

With thoughts all fix'd, and feelings purely kind;
Strength to complete, and with delight review,
And grace to give the praise where all is ever due.
No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit
To light on man as from the passing air;
The lamp of genius, though by nature lit,
If not protected, pruned, and fed with care,
Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful glare;
And learning is a plant that spreads and towers
Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare,

That 'mid gay thousands, with the suns and showers
Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers.

According to the census of 1850, there are in the land 3,204,347 slaves,about one to every six free men.

Has immortality of name been given

To them that idly worship hills and groves,
And burn sweet incense to the queen of heaven?
Did Newton learn from fancy, as it roves,

To measure worlds, and follow where each moves?
Did Howard gain renown that shall not cease,

By wanderings wild that nature's pilgrim loves!
Or did Paul gain heaven's glory and its peace
By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles of Greece?

Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would appear
But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim

Thy want of worth,-a charge thou couldst not hear
From other lips, without a blush of shame,
Or pride indignant; then be thine the blame,
And make thyself of worth; and thus enlist

The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame;
'Tis infamy to die and not be miss'd,

Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist.

Rouse to some work of high and holy love,

And thou an angel's happiness shalt know;
Shalt bless the earth while in the world above;
The good begun by thee shall onward flow
In many a branching stream, and wider grow;
The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours,
Thy hands, unsparing and unwearied, sow,
Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers,
And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THIS eminent poet and political philosopher, the son of Peter Bryant, M.D., of Cummington, Hampshire County, Massachusetts, was born in that town on the 3d of November, 1794. When only ten years of age, Mr. Bryant produced several small poems, which, though bearing, of course, the marks of immaturity, were thought of sufficient merit to be published in a neighboring newspaper,-the "Hampshire Gazette." After going through the usual preparatory studies, he entered the sophomore class of Williams College, in 1810, and for two years pursued his studies with commendable industry,-being distinguished more especially for his fondness of the classics. Anxious, however, to begin the profession which he had chosen,-the law,―he procured an honorable dismission at the end of the junior year, and in 1815 was admitted to practice at the bar of Plymouth. But Mr. Bryant did not, during the period of his professional studies, neglect the cultivation of his poetic talents. In 1808, before he entered college, he had published, in Boston, a satirical poem which attracted so much attention that a second edition was demanded the next year. But what gave him his early, enviable rank as a poet was the publication, in the "North American Review,"

in 1817, of the poem Thanatopsis, written four years before, (in 1812.) That a young man, not yet nineteen, should have produced a poem so lofty in conception and so beautiful in execution, so full of chaste language and delicate and striking imagery, and, above all, so pervaded by a noble and cheerful religious philosophy, may well be regarded as one of the most remarkable examples of early maturity in literary history. Nor did this production stand alone: the Inscription for an Entrance into a Wood followed in 1813; and The Waterfowl in 1816. In 1821, he wrote his longest poem, The Ages, which was delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard College, and soon after published in Boston in connection with his other poems. The appearance of this volume at once placed Mr. Bryant in the very front rank of American poets.

In 1822, Mr. Bryant was married to Miss Fairchild, of Great Barrington, Massachusetts, whither he had removed to prosecute his profession. But, though skilful and successful in it, he preferred to devote his life to the more congenial pursuits of literature; and in 1825 he removed to New York, where he edited a monthly periodical, "The New York Review and Athenæum Magazine," in which appeared many forcible and just criticisms, and some of his best poems. In 1826, he became the editor of the "Evening Post,”"-one of the oldest and most influential of the daily gazettes in our country. At once its columns evinced new spirit and vigor, and it became the leading journal of the so-called "Democratic" party, supporting its views in relation to banks, free trade, &c. with signal ability. But in later years, when he thought that that party had abandoned the principles of its founders, and was becoming too much the ally of the slave-power, he divorced himself from it, and devoted his talents and influence to the cause of republican freedom.1

Mr. Bryant has visited Europe five times,-in 1834, 1836, 1849, 1852, and 1857, enriching his journal with his letters descriptive of the scenes, places, countries, and persons visited. In 1850, he published a collection of letters written during his travels, under the title of Letters of a Traveller, of which several editions have appeared. His letters written during his last tour, mostly in Spain, have been lately published, and form the Second Series of Letters of a Traveller. But notwithstanding the ease and charm of his descriptive style, and its terseness and power in discussing political subjects, it is as a poet that Mr. Bryant will ever be most known, most loved, and most honored.2

When the "Evening Post" completed its first half-century, in 1851, Mr. Bryant wrote its history, which appeared in a pamphlet.

For criticisms of Mr. Bryant's poetry, read articles in "Democratic Review," vols. vii. and x.; "North American Review," vols. xiii., xxxiv., and lv.; “Christian Examiner," vols. xxii. and xxxiii.; "American Quarterly Review," vol. xx. - In the "Democratic Review" for February, 1845, is a fine article on his poetry, by H. T. Tuckerman. In the "North American Review" for January, 1844, are the following just and well-written remarks:

"His poems are almost perfect of their kind. The fruits of meditation, rather than of passion or imagination, and rarely startling with an unexpected image or sudden outbreak of feeling, they are admirable specimens of what may be called the philosophy of the soul. They address the finer instincts of our nature with a voice so winning and gentle, they search out with such subtle power all in the heart which is true and good, that their influence, though quiet, is resistless.