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But still, with a charm which is born of the hours,
Her love shall implore thee to bliss ever free;
HEART ESSENTIAL TO GENIUS.
We are not always equal to our fate
Nor true to our conditions. Doubt and fear
Beset the bravest, in their high career,
With expectation, sinks beneath the time.
Said Raleigh, gazing on the highest hill,-
Apt was the answer of the high-soul'd queen :-
Crowns genius with his lion will and mien,
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! New England's dead!
On every hill they lie;
By bloody victory.
Its red and awful tide,
With slaughter deeply dyed.
And on the southern plain,
The land is holy where they fought,
And holy where they fell;
The land they loved so well.
A handful of brave men;
And rush'd to battle then.
They left the ploughshare in the mould,
And where are ye to-day ?
That ye have pass'd away;
In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
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;
And they heed not its roar.
In many a bloody day,
For they have pass'd away.
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON.
The tender Twilight with a crimson cheek
The brazen trumpet and the loud war-drum