EASTMAN, CHARLES GAMAGE, an American poet and journalist, was born at Fryeburg, Me., June 1, 1816; and died at Burlington, Vt., in 1861. In early life he removed with his parents to Vermont, and settled at Barnard. He was educated at Royalton Academy, Windsor; at Burlington; and at the University of Vermont, where he was graduated in 1837. While pursuing his studies, he began his journalistic career by writing editorials for the Burlington Sentinel; and upon leaving the university, he founded at Johnson the Lamoille River Express. In 1840 he founded at Woodstock the Spirit of the Age; and in 1846 he removed to Montpelier and became proprietor and editor of the Vermont Patriot. He was for some years postmaster of Woodstock and of Montpelier; at which latter place he published the small volume of Poems (1848) by which he became known to the literary world. He was elected to the State Senate in 1851; and was a delegate to the national conventions of 1852 and 1856. He was well known as a reader of original poems at his alma mater and at Dartmouth and other colleges; and was a frequent contributor to magazines and reviews. An enlarged edition of his poems was published by his widow in 1880.

Eastman has been highly commended as a delineator of the rural life of New England. Sted

man, writing of the poets who "have paid tribute to the charm of American home-life," takes occasion to mention the "simple balladists like the Vermonter, Eastman." Duyckinck says that his poems "are marked by facility in the use of lyric and ballad measures, and many are in a familiar sportive vein." Harper's Magazine, quoting, in 1855, the following charming verses, said: "It is not often that our readers will find a more tender and beautiful picture taken from our varied receptacle of things new and old,' than the following, from the pen of Hon. Charles G. Eastman, of Vermont. Its perfect simplicity is one of its

greatest charms."

THE NEW ENGLAND FARMER.

The farmer sat in his easy chair
Smoking his pipe of clay,

While his hale old wife with busy care
Was clearing the dinner away :

A sweet little girl with fine blue eyes
On her grandfather's knee was catching flies.

The old man laid his hand on her head,
With a tear on his wrinkled face,

He thought how often her mother, dead,

Had sat in the self-same place;

As the tear stole down from his half shut eye,

"Don't smoke!" said the child; "how it makes you cry!"

The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor,

Where the shade, afternoons, used to steal:

The busy old wife by the open door
Was turning the spinning wheel,

And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree
Had plodded along to almost three;

Still the farmer sat in his easy chair,
While close to his heaving breast
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The moistened brow and cheek so fair

Of his sweet grandchild were pressed; His head bent down, on her soft hair layFast asleep were both on that summer day.

LOOKING IN THE RIVER.

Looking in the river,

Smiling to herself,
Stands a little maiden,
On a mossy shelf:
Looking in the river,

What's the maiden see?
Than herself, I'm certain,
Something it must be!
Looking in the river,

Where the shimmering sun,
Than the orb above her,

Seems another one;
Looking in the river,

There the maiden sees
Something than the heavens,
Or the mirrored trees.

Looking in the river

With a dreamy stare;
Wonder what the maiden
Can be seeing there?
Looking in the river

What if I should be?
Then I may be certain,
What the girl can see.
Looking in the river-
Now, ah, ah! I know
What the little maiden
Gazes at below!
Looking in the river,
Now I understand,
Why the little maiden
Stands upon the land!

Looking in the river,

As the water stirs,

There I see another

Face beside of hers!
Looking in the river,
Close beside her own,
There I see another

Face in shadow thrown;
Looking in the river,
Just behind the maid,
There I see her lover
In the maple shade!
Looking in the river,
Now I understand
Why the little maiden
Stands upon the land.

Looking in the river

With her other self,
Stands the little maiden
On a mossy shelf;
Looking in the river-
Maiden, never run!
That's a thing, I'm certain,
All of us have done;
Looking in the river

All of us have been,
And can tell the summer
We remember, when,
Looking in the river,

By the shadow thrown,
We have seen another
Face beside our own.

A SNOW-STORM IN VERMONT.

"Tis a fearful night in the Winter-time,

As cold as it ever can be:

The roar of the storm is heard like the chime
Of the waves of an angry sea.

The moon is full, but the wings to-night
Of the furious blast dash out her light;
And over the sky, from south to north,
Not a star is seen as the storm come forth
In the strength of a mighty glee.

All day had the snow come down-all day,
As it never came down before,
Till over the ground, at sunset, lay

Some two or three feet or more.

The fence was lost, and the wall of stone;
The windows blocked and the well-curb gone;
The haystack rose to a mountain lift;
And the woodpile looked like a monster drift,
As it lay by the farmer's door.

As the night set in, came wind and hail,
While the air grew sharp and chill,
And the warning roar of a fearful gale
Was heard on the distant hill;

And the norther! see, on the mountain peak

In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek ;
He shouts on the plain, Ho! ho!

He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow,
And growls with a savage will!

Such a night as this to be found abroad!
In the hail and the freezing air,

Lies a shivering dog, in the field by the road,
With the snow on his shaggy hair.

As the wind drives, see him crouch and growl
And shut his eyes with a dismal howl;
Then, to shield himself from the cutting sleet,
His nose is pressed on his quivering feet :-
Pray, what does the dog do there?

An old man came from the town to-night,
But he lost the travelled way;

And for hours he trod with main and might
A path for his horse and sleigh;
But deeper still the snow-drifts grew,
And colder still the fierce wind blew ;

And his mare-a beautiful Morgan brown—
At last o'er a log had floundered down,
That deep in a hollow lay.

Many a plunge, with a frenzied snort,
She made in the heavy snow;