THE WIDOW'S WOOER. He wooes me with those honey'd words So sweet on every ear. He tells me that my face is fair, Too fair for grief to shade: My cheek, he says, was never meant He stands beside me, when I sing The songs of other days, And often in my eyes he looks, Some answering love to see, In vain! he there can only read He little knows what thoughts awake How, by his looks and tones, the founts The visions of my youth return, Joys far too bright to last; And while he speaks of future bliss, I think but of the past. Like lamps in Eastern sepulchres, Affection sheds its holiest light Upon my husband's tomb. And, as those lamps, if brought once more To upper air, grow dim, So my soul's love is cold and dead, Unless it glow for him. OH! TELL ME NOT OF LOFTY FATE. Oh! tell me not of lofty fate, Vainly philosophy would soar,- The cup may bear a poison'd draught, But yet the chalice may be quaff'd,— Man's sterner nature turns away Wealth's glittering gifts, and pleasure's ray, But woman knows one only dream, That broken, all is o'er; For on life's dark and sluggish stream THE MAIDEN SAT AT HER BUSY WHEEL. The maiden sat at her busy wheel, Her heart was light and free, And ever in cheerful song broke forth Her song was in mockery of Love, And oft I heard her say, "The gather'd rose and the stolen heart I look'd on the maiden's rosy cheek, And I sigh'd to think that the traitor Love But she thought not of future days of woe, A year pass'd on, and again I stood Oh, well I knew what had dimm'd her eye The maid had forgotten her early song, And the stolen heart, like the gather'd rose, PARK BENJAMIN. THIS gentleman is the author of a great number of unclaimed poems; and some of them, written many years ago, are still "going the rounds of the press," both in this country and in Great Britain. They have never been collected into a volume, as they richly deserve to be,-for they have not only been very popular, but they have received high praise from "mouths of wisest censure." Mr. Benjamin has also written largely in prose; and many of his articles have appeared in the "North American Review," the "New York Review," the "American Monthly," and other prominent magazines. Mr. Benjamin was born in Demerara, South America, in the year 1809. His father was a highly-respected merchant, a native of New England, and his mother an English lady, closely allied to a noble family. Their son Park was sent to this country at a very tender age, under the care of an excellent female guardian. From the age of fourteen until his graduation from college, he resided chiefly in Boston and its vicinity. He studied law under the eminent Mr. Justice Story, and also in the school of Chief-Justice Daggett, in Yale College. He commenced the practice in Boston, but was soon lured away by his love of letters, to which he has with great fidelity devoted himself. He has edited several very successful periodicals:-first, the "New England Magazine," and then, on his removal to New York in 1836, the "American Monthly;" afterwards, in connection with Horace Greeley, he conducted the "New-Yorker;" then, with Rufus W. Griswold, the "Brother Jonathan." But the paper with which Mr. Benjamin was longest connected, and which was for years under his sole charge, was "THE NEW WORLD." This hebdomadal has never been excelled as a repository of the best literature of the day, and for its fair and able criticisms. Weary of excessive literary toil, notwithstanding its satisfactory results, Mr. Benjamin disposed of his interest in THE NEW WORLD, with the design of spending some years in Europe. Our limits permit us to say no more than that since that time this writer has continued his literary pursuits with ardor and success. He has delivered lectures in many of our principal towns and cities, which have been universally liked and have won him "golden opinions." He is still by profession a public speaker, resides in New York City, and is constantly invited to deliver poems and addresses before various literary associations. Of the following selections, the sonnet-A Life of Lettered Ease-has never before, we believe, appeared in print. THE DEPARTED. The departed! the departed! And they glide above our memories Like shadows over streams; But where the cheerful lights of home In constant lustre burn, The departed, the departed The good, the brave, the beautiful, In the cities of the dead! I look around, and feel the awe I start to hear the stirring sounds For the voice of the departed That solemn voice! it mingles with Can never be so dear to me As their remember'd words. I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles Their tones of love I faintly hear "HOW CHEERY ARE THE MARINERS!" How cheery are the mariners, Those lovers of the sea! Their hearts are like its yesty waves, As bounding and as free. They whistle when the storm-bird wheels In circles round the mast; And sing when deep in foam the ship What care the mariners for gales? When wide the berth along the lee, Let billows toss to mountain-heights, The vessel stout will ride it out, Nor reel beneath the blow. With streamers down and canvass furl'd, A silken-tassell'd boat: God keep those cheery mariners! That sweep against the rocky coast Safe in the hollow of His hand, To brave the mighty sea! SPORT. To see a fellow of a summer's morning, Of harmless murder, yet it is to me For well I know that, when he's out of town, He and his dog and gun will all lie down, And undestructive sleep till game and light are flown. PRESS ON. Press on! there's no such word as fail! Why shouldst thou faint? Heaven smiles above, He wins, who dares the hero's march. |