But still, with a charm which is born of the hours,

Her love shall implore thee to bliss ever free;
Thou wilt rove with delight through her crystalline bowers,
And sleep without care in her home of the sea.

From Atalantis.


We are not always equal to our fate

Nor true to our conditions. Doubt and fear

Beset the bravest, in their high career,
At moments when the soul, no more elate

With expectation, sinks beneath the time.
The masters have their weakness. “I would climb,”

Said Raleigh, gazing on the highest hill,-
“But that I tremble with the fear to fall.”

Apt was the answer of the high-soul'd queen :-
“If thy heart fail thee, never climb at all!”
The heart! if that be sound, confirms the rest,

Crowns genius with his lion will and mien,
And, from the conscious virtue in the breast,
To trembling nature gives both strength and will.


Isaac McLELLAN is a native of Portland, Maine, and was born on the 21st of May, 1806. In early life, his father, Isaac McLellan, removed to Boston, where for many years he was a prominent merchant, distinguished for bis integrity and success in business. The son, after receiving his degree at Bowdoin College, in 1826, returned to Boston, completed a course of legal study, and was admitted to practice in the courts of that city. But the Muses and general literature had more charms for him than clients and briefs, and for many years he contributed, both in prose and poetry, to several magazines and papers published in the city and vicinity, and had the editorial management of two or three of them. About the year 1840, he went abroad, and passed about two years in Europe. On his return, he gave a description of his journeyings, in a series of letters published in the “Boston Daily Courier." Since that period, he has been engaged chiefly in literary pursuits, and now resides in the city of New York.

Mr. McLellan's published works are, The Fall of the Indian, in 1830; The Year, and other Poems, in 1832; and Mount Auburn, and other Poems, in 1813. Though the Muse of Mr. McLellan aims at no ambitious flight, yet in the middle region of the descriptive and the lyrical in which she delights chiefly to play, she moves with even and graceful wing, bearing such offerings as the following:


New England's dead! New England's dead!

On every hill they lie;
On every field of strife made red

By bloody victory.
Each valley, where the battle pour'd

Its red and awful tide,
Beheld the brave New England sword

With slaughter deeply dyed.
Their bones are on the northern hill,

And on the southern plain,
By brook and river, lake and rill,
And by the roaring main.

The land is holy where they fought,

And holy where they fell;
For by their blood that land was bought,

The land they loved so well.
Then glory to that valiant band,
The honor'd saviours of the land!
Oh, few and weak their numbers were-

A handful of brave men;
But to their God they gave their prayer,

And rush'd to battle then.
The God of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory.

They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half garner'd, on the plain,
And muster’d, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress,
To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.
And where are ye, O fearless men ?

And where are ye to-day ?
I call :-the hills reply again

That ye have pass'd away;
That on old Bunker's lonely height,

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
The grass grows green, the harvest bright,

Above each soldier's mound.

1“Mr. President: I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts; she needs none. There she is; behold her, and judge for yourselves. There is her history. The world knows it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, anı Bunker Hill; and there they will remain forever. The bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every State, from New England to Georgia; and there they will remain forever.” Webster's Speech in Reply to Hayne, 1830.

The bugle's wild and warlike blast

Shall muster them no more;
An army now might thunder past,

And they heed not its roar.
The starry flag, 'neath which they fought,

In many a bloody day,
From their old graves shall rouse them not ;

For they have pass'd away.



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 yellow 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.

The brazen trumpet and the loud war-drum
Ne'er startled these green woods :—the raging sword
Hath never gather'd its red harvest here!
The peaceful summer day hath never closed
Around this quiet spot, and caught the gleam
Of War's rude pomp:-the humble dweller here
Hath never left his sickle in the field,
To slay his fellow with unholy hand :-
The maddening voice of battle, the wild groan,
The thrilling murmuring of the dying man,
And the shrill shriek of mortal agony,
Have never broke its Sabbath solitude.

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