SAMUEL GRISWOLD GOODRICH is a native of Ridgefield, on the western border of Connecticut, and was born about the year 1796. His father

was a respectable clergyman, distinguished for his simplicity of character, strong common sense, and eloquence. Our author was educated in the common schools of his native town, and soon after he was twenty-one years old, engaged in the business of publishing, in Hartford, where he resided for several years. In 1824, being in ill health, he visited Europe, and travelled over England, France, Germany, and Holland, devoting his attention particularly to the institutions for education; and on his return, having determined to attempt an improvement in books for the young, established himself in Boston, and commenced the trade of authorship. Since that time he has produced from twenty to thirty volumes, under the signature of "Peter Parley," which have passed through a great number of editions in this country and in England, and been translated into several foreign languages. Of some of these works more than fifty thousand copies are circulated annually. In 1824 Mr. GOODRICH commenced "The Token," an annuary, of which he was the editor for fourteen years. In this series

he published most of the poems of which he is known to be the author. They were all written while he was actively engaged in business. His "Fireside Education" was composed in sixty days, while he was discharging his duties as a member of the Massachusetts Senate, and superintending his publishing establishment; and his numerous other prose works were produced with equal rapidity. In 1837 he published a volume entitled "The Outcast, and other Poems," most of the contents of which had previously been printed; and, in 1841, "Sketches from a Student's Window," a collection of poems and prose writings that had originally appeared in "The Token" and other periodicals.

Mr. GOODRICH has been a liberal patron of American authors and artists; and it is questionable whether any other person has done as much to improve the style of the book manufacture, or to promote the arts of engraving. It is believed that he has put in circulation more than two millions of volumes of his own productions; all of which inculcate pure morality, and cheerful views of life. His style is simple and unaffected; the flow of his verse melodious; and his subjects generally such as he is capable of treating most successfully.

BIRTHNIGHT OF THE HUMMING-BIRDS.

I.

I'LL tell you a fairy tale that's new— How the merry elves o'er the ocean flew, From the Emerald isle to this far-off shore, As they were wont in the days of yoreAnd play'd their pranks one moonlit night, Where the zephyrs alone could see the sight.

II.

Ere the old world yet had found the new, The fairies oft in their frolics flew, To the fragrant isles of the CarribeeBright bosom-gems of a golden sea. Too dark was the film of the Indian's eye, These gossamer sprites to suspect or spy,So they danced raid the spicy groves unseen, And gay were their gambolings, I ween; For the fairies, like other discreet little elves, Are freest and fondest when all by themselves. No thought had they that in after time The muse would echo their deeds in rhyme; So, gayly doffing light stocking and shoe, They tripp'd o'er the meadow all dappled in dew. I could tell, if I would, some right merry tales Of unslipper'd fairies that danced in the vales

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But the lovers of scandal I leave in the lurchAnd, besides, these elves don't belong to the church. If they danced-be it known-'t was not in the clime

Of your MATHERS and HOOKERS, where laughter was crime;

Where sentinel virtue kept guard o'er the lip, Though witchcraft stole into the heart by a slip! O, no! 't was the land of the fruit and the flowerWhere summer and spring both dwelt in one bower

Where one hung the citron, all ripe from the bough,

And the other with blossoms encircled its brow,Where the mountains embosom'd rich tissues of

Or listen'd to mermaids that sang from the cave;
Or slid with the moonbeams down deep to the grove
Of coral, "where mullet and gold-fish rove:"
How there, in long vistas of silence and sleep,
They waltzed, as if mocking the death of the deep:
How oft, where the wreck lay scatter'd and torn,
They peep'd in the skull-now ghastly and lorn;
Or deep, mid wild rocks, quizzed the goggling shark,
And mouth'd at the sea-wolf--so solemn and
stark-

Each seeming to think that the earth and the sea
Were made but for fairies--for gambol and glee!
Enough, that at last they came to the isle,
Where moonlight and fragrance were rivals the
while.

Not yet had those vessels from Palos been here,
To turn the bright gem to the blood-mingled tear.
O, no! still blissful and peaceful the land,
And the merry elves flew from the sea to the strand.
Right happy and joyous seem'd now the bright crew,
As they tripp'd mid the orange groves flashing in
dew,

For they were to hold a revel that night,
A gay, fancy ball, and each to be dight

In the gem or the flower that fancy might choose
From mountain or vale, for its fragrance or hues.

IV.

Away sped the maskers like arrows of light, To gather their gear for the revel bright. To the dazzling peaks of far-off Peru, In emulous speed some sportive flewAnd deep in the mine, or mid glaciers on high, For ruby and sapphire searched heedful and sly. For diamonds rare that gleam in the bed Of Brazilian streams, some merrily sped, While others for topaz and emerald stray, Mid the cradle cliffs of the Paraguay. As these are gathering the rarest of gems, Others are plucking the rarest of stems. They range wild dells where the zephyr alone To the blushing blossoms before was known; Through forests they fly, whose branches are hung By creeping plants, with fair flowerets strungWhere temples of nature with arches of bloom, Are lit by the moonlight, and faint with perfume. They stray where the mangrove and clematis twine, Where azalia and laurel in rivalry shine; Where, tall as the oak, the passion-tree glows, And jasmine is blent with rhodora and rose. O'er blooming savannas and meadows of light, Mid regions of summer they sweep in their flight, And gathering the fairest they speed to their bower, Each one with his favourite brilliant or flower.

The hour is come, and the fairies are seen
In their plunder array'd on the moonlit green.
The music is breathed-'t is a soft tone of pleasure,
And the light giddy throng whirl into the measure.
"Twas a joyous dance, and the dresses were bright,
Such as never were known till that famous night;
For the gems and the flowers that shone in the scene,
O'ermatch'd the regalia of princess and queen.
No gaudy slave to a fair one's brow

Was the rose, or the ruby, or emerald now;
But lighted with souls by the playful elves,
The brilliants and blossoms seem'd dancing them-
selves.

VI.

Of all that did chance, 't were a long tale to tell, Of the dresses and waltzes, and who was the belle; But each were so happy, and all were so fair, That night stole away and the dawn caught them there!

Such a scampering never before was seen
As the fairies' flight on that island green.
They rush'd to the bay with twinkling feet,
But vain was their haste, for the moonlight fleet
Had pass'd with the dawn, and never again
Were those fairies permitted to traverse the main,—
But mid the groves, when the sun was high,
The Indian marked with a worshipping cye
The humming-birds, all unknown before,
Glancing like thoughts from flower to flower,
And seeming as if earth's loveliest things,
The brilliants and blossoms, had taken wings:-
And fancy hath whisper'd in numbers light,
That these are the fairies who danced that night,
And linger yet in the garb they wore,

Content in our clime, and more blest than before!

THE RIVER.

O, TELL me, pretty river!
Whence do thy waters flow?
And whither art thou roaming,
So pensive and so slow?

"My birthplace was the mountain,
My nurse, the April showers;
My cradle was a fountain,
O'ercurtain'd by wild flowers.
"One morn I ran away,

A madcap, hoyden rill-
And many a prank that day
I play'd adown the hill!

"And then, mid meadowy banks,
I flirted with the flowers,
That stoop'd, with glowing lips,
To woo me to their bowers.

"But these bright scenes are o'er, And darkly flows my wave

I hear the ocean's roar,

And there must be my grave!"

THE LEAF.

IT came with spring's soft sun and showers,
Mid bursting buds and blushing flowers;
It flourish'd on the same light stem,
It drank the same clear dews with them.
The crimson tints of summer morn,
That gilded one, did each adorn.
The breeze, that whisper'd light and brief
To bud or blossom, kiss'd the leaf;
When o'er the leaf the tempest flew,
The bud and blossom trembled too.

But its companions pass'd away,
And left the leaf to lone decay.
The gentle gales of spring went by,
The fruits and flowers of summer die.
The autumn winds swept o'er the hill,
And winter's breath came cold and chill.
The leaf now yielded to the blast,
And on the rushing stream was cast.
Far, far it glided to the sea,
And whirl'd and eddied wearily,
Till suddenly it sank to rest,

And slumber'd in the ocean's breast.

Thus life begins-its morning hours,
Bright as the birth-day of the flowers;
Thus passes like the leaves away,
As wither'd and as lost as they.
Beneath the parent roof we meet
In joyous groups, and gayly greet
The golden beams of love and light,
That kindle to the youthful sight.
But soon we part, and one by one,
Like leaves and flowers, the group is gone.
One gentle spirit seeks the tomb,
His brow yet fresh with childhood's bloom.
Another treads the paths of fame,
And barters peace to win a name.
Another still tempts fortune's wave,
And seeking wealth, secures a grave.
The last grasps yet the brittle thread-
Though friends are gone and joy is dead,
Still dares the dark and fretful tide,
And clutches at its power and pride,
Till suddenly the waters sever,
And, like the leaf, he sinks forever.

LAKE SUPERIOR.

"FATHER OF LAKES!" thy waters bend
Beyond the eagle's utmost view,
When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send
Back to the sky its world of blue.

Boundless and deep, the forests weave

Their twilight shade thy borders o'er, And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave Their rugged forms along thy shore. Pale Silence, mid thy hollow caves,

With listening ear, in sadness broods;

Or startled Echo, o'er thy waves,

Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods.
Nor can the light canoes, that glide
Across thy breast like things of air,
Chase from thy lone and level tide

The spell of stillness reigning there.
Yet round this waste of wood and wave,
Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives,
That, breathing o'er each rock and cave,
To all a wild, strange aspect gives.
The thunder-riven oak, that flings
Its grisly arms athwart the sky,
A sudden, startling image brings
To the lone traveller's kindled eye.

The gnarl'd and braided boughs, that show
Their dim forms in the forest shade,
Like wrestling serpents seem, and throw
Fantastic horrors through the glade.

The very echoes round this shore

Have caught a strange and gibbering tone;
For they have told the war-whoop o'er,
Till the wild chorus is their own.

Wave of the wilderness, adieu!
Adieu, ye rocks, ye wilds and woods!
Roll on, thou element of blue,

And fill these awful solitudes!

Thou hast no tale to tell of man

God is thy theme. Ye sounding cavesWhisper of Him, whose mighty plan Deems as a bubble all your waves!

THE SPORTIVE SYLPHS.

THE sportive sylphs that course the air, Unseen on wings that twilight weaves, Around the opening rose repair,

And breathe sweet incense o'er its leaves.

With sparkling cups of bubbles made,
They catch the ruddy beams of day,
And steal the rainbow's sweetest shade,
Their blushing favourite to array.

They gather gems with sunbeams bright,
From floating clouds and falling showers;
They rob Aurora's locks of light

To grace their own fair queen of flowers.

Thus, thus adorned, the speaking rose Becames a token fit to tell

Of things that words can ne'er disclose, And naught but this reveal so well.

Then, take my flower, and let its leaves Beside thy heart be cherish'd near, While that confiding heart receives

The thought it whispers to thine ear.

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 France-
Land 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; 't is 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 boisterc us 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 cast

Like 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 's gone, return no more; Bubbles of folly, blown by wanton boysBillows 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 glassI've known what 'tis, 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 homeA home, whence valour's voice from conquest's car No more shall rouse the lord-of Trafalgar.