I moulded kings and saviours,
And bards o'er kings to rule ;-
But fell the starry influence short,
The cup was never full.

Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more,
And mix the bowl again;

Seethė, Fate! the ancient elements,

Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain.

Let war and trade and creeds and song
Blend, ripen race on race,

The sunburnt world a man shall breed
Of all the zones, and countless days.

No

ray

is dimm'd, no atom worn,

My oldest force is good as new,

And the fresh rose on yonder thorn
Gives back the bending heavens in dew.

BRAHMA.

IF the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
Far or forgot to me is near;

Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanish'd gods to me appear;

And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,

And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.
The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred seven ;
But thou, meek lover of the good!

Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

FRIENDSHIP.

A RUDDY drop of manly blood
The surging sea outweighs,
The world uncertain comes and goes,
The lover rooted stays.
I fancied he was fled,

And, after many a year,
Glow'd unexhausted kindliness,
Like daily sunrise there.
My careful heart was free again,
O friend! my bosom said,-
Through thee alone the sky is arch'd,
Through thee the rose is red;

All things through thee take nobler form,
And look beyond the earth,
The mill-round of our fate appears
A sun-path in thy worth.

Me too thy nobleness has taught
To master my despair;

The fountains of my hidden life
Are through thy friendship fair.

TO EVA.

OH fair and stately maid, whose eyes
Were kindled in the upper skies

At the same torch that lighted mine;
For so I must interpret still

Thy sweet dominion o'er my will,
A sympathy divine.

Ah, let me blameless gaze upon
Features that seem at heart my own;

Nor fear those watchful sentinels,
Who charm the more their glance forbids,
Chaste-glowing, underneath their lids,
With fire that draws while it repels.

CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.

Born in New York City 1806.

THE BOB O' LINKUM.

THOU Vocal sprite! thou feather'd troubadour!
In pilgrim weeds through many a clime a ranger,
Comest thou to doff thy russet suit once more,

And play in foppish trim the masquing stranger?
Philosophers may teach thy whereabouts and nature;
But, wise as all of us, perforce, must think 'em,
The schoolboy best hath fix'd thy nomenclature,
And poets too must call thee Bob O' Linkum !
Say! art thou, long 'mid forest glooms benighted,
So glad to skim our laughing meadows over,
With our gay orchards here so much delighted,
It makes thee musical, thou airy rover?
Or are those buoyant notes the pilfer'd treasure
Of fairy isles, which thou hast learn'd to ravish
Of all their sweetest minstrelsy at pleasure,
And, Ariel-like, again on men to lavish?
They tell sad stories of thy mad-cap freaks;
Wherever o'er the land thy pathway ranges,
And even in a brace of wandering weeks,

They say, alike thy song and plumage changes:
Here both are gay; and when the buds put forth,
And leafy June is shading rock and river,
Thou art unmatch'd, blithe warbler of the north!
When through the balmy air thy clear notes quiver.

Joyous, yet tender, was that gush of song

Caught from the brooks, where, 'mid its wildflowers smiling,

The silent prairie listens all day long,

The only captive to such sweet beguiling;

Or didst thou, flitting through the verdurous halls
And column'd aisles of western groves symphonious,

Learn from the tuneful woods rare madrigals,

To make our flowering pastures here harmonious?

Caught'st thou thy carol from Otawa maid,

Where, through the liquid fields of wild rice plashing, Brushing the ears from off the burden'd blade,

Her birch canoe o'er some lone lake is flashing? Or did the reeds of some savannah south

Detain thee while thy northern flight pursuing, To place those melodies in thy sweet mouth

The spice-fed winds had taught them in their wooing? Unthrifty prodigal! is thought of ill

Thy ceaseless roundelay disturbing ever?
Or doth each pulse in choiring cadence still
Throb on in music till at rest forever?
Yet, now in wilder'd maze of concord floating,
"Twould seem that glorious hymning to prolong,
Old Time, in hearing thee, might fall a doting,
And pause to listen to thy rapturous song!

THE ORIGIN OF MINT JULEPS.

"TIS said that the gods, on Olympus of old

(And who the bright legend profanes with a doubt?) One night, 'mid their revels, by BACCHUS were told That his last butt of nectar had somehow run out!

But, determined to send round the goblet once more,
They sued to the fairer immortals for aid

In composing a draught, which, till drinking were o'er,
Should cast every wine ever drunk in the shade.

Grave CERES herself blithely yielded her corn;

And the spirit that lives in each amber-hued grain, And which first had its birth in the dews of the morn, Was taught to steal out in bright dew-drops again.

POMONA, whose choicest of fruits on the board

Were scatter'd profusely in every one's reach, When call'd on a tribute to cull from the hoard, Express'd the mild juice of the delicate peach.

The liquids were mingled, while VENUS look'd on,
With glances so fraught with sweet magical power,
That the honey of Hybla, e'en when they were gone,
Has never been miss'd in the draught from that hour.
FLORA then, from her bosom of fragrancy, shook,
And with roseate fingers press'd down in the bowl,
All dripping and fresh, as it came from the brook,
The herb whose aroma should flavour the whole.

The draught was delicious, each god did exclaim,
Though something yet wanting they all did bewail;
But juleps the drink of immortals became,

When JOVE himself added a handful of hail.

TO A LADY BLUSHING.

THE lilies faintly to the roses yield,

As on thy lovely cheek they struggling vie,
(Who would not strive upon so sweet a field
To win the mastery?)

And thoughts are in thy speaking eyes reveal'd,
Pure as the fount the prophet's rod unseal'd.

I could not wish that in thy bosom aught

Should e'er one moment's transient pain awaken,
Yet can't regret that thou-forgive the thought!—
As flowers when shaken

Will yield their sweetest fragrance to the wind,
Should'st, ruffled thus, betray thy heavenly mind.

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.

Born at Charleston, South Carolina, 1806-died 1870.

THE LOST PLEIAD.

Nor in the sky,

Where it was seen,

Nor on the white tops of the glistering wave,
Nor in the mansions of the hidden deep-