For thine her evening prayer is said
At palace couch and cottage bed;
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears:
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh:
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's;
One of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die.

The following verses afford an example of the melody of diction, the grace of rhythm, and the felicity of personifica tion, so universally accorded our poet's writings.

TWILIGHT.

THERE is an evening twilight of the heart,

When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest,
And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart,
As fades the day-beam in the rosy west.

"Tis with a nameless feeling of regret

We gaze upon them as they melt away,
And fondly would we bid them linger yet,

But Hope is round us with her angel lay,
Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour;

Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early powe

In youth the cheek was crimsoned with her glow;
Her smile was loveliest then; her matin song
Was heaven's own music, and the note of woe
Was all unheard her sunny bowers among.

Life's little world of bliss was newly born;

We knew not, cared not, it was born to die,
Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of morn,
With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky,

And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue,
Like our own sorrows then-as fleeting and as few.

And manhood felt her sway too-on the eye,
Half realized, her early dreams burst bright,
Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh,
Its days of joy, its vigils of delight;

And though at times might lower the thunderstorm,
And the red lightnings threaten, still the air

Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form,

The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there.

"Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen,

Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green.

But though less dazzling in her twilight dress,

There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now; That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness,

Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow;

That smile shall brighten the dim evening star

That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart

Till the faint light of life is fled afar,

And hushed the last deep beating of the heart; The meteor-bearer of our parting breath,

A moonbeam in the midnight cloud of death.

Speaking of Halleck, an able critic* has remarked: "His theory of poetic expression is that of the most popular masters of English verse-manly, clear, vivid, warm with genuine emotion, or sparkling with true wit. The more recent style of metrical writing, suggestive rather than emphatic, undefined and involved, and borrowed mainly from German idealism, he utterly repudiates. All his verses have a vital meaning, and the clear ring of pure metal. They are few, but memorable."

Halleck died November 19, 1867.

*H. T. Tuckerman.

WILLIS.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS was born in Portland, Maine, January 20, 1806. At the age of six he removed to Boston, and in 1827 graduated at Yale College. While a student here he published several religious poems, which, it is thought, his finest maturer efforts have failed to surpass. We cite, as one of the most graphic, melodious, and touching of these,

THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS.

FRESHLY the cool breath of the coming eve
Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl
Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain
Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance-
Her thin, pale fingers clasp'd within the hand
Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast,
Like the dead marble, white and motionless.

The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips,
And, as it stirr'd with the awakening wind,
The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes,
And her slight fingers moved, and heavily
She turn'd upon her pillow. He was there—
The same loved, tireless watcher, and she look'd
Into his face until her sight grew dim
With the fast-falling tears; and, with a sigh
Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name,
She gently drew his hand upon her lips,
And kiss'd it as she wept.

The old man sunk

Upon his knees, and in the drapery

Of the rich curtains buried up his face;

And when the twilight fell, the silken folds
Stirr'd with his prayer, but the slight hand he held
Had ceased its pressure; and he could not hear,

In the dead utter silence, that a breath

Came through her nostrils; and her temples gave
To his nice touch no pulse; and at her mouth

He held the lightest curl that on her neck
Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze
Ached with its deadly stillness.

*

*

It was night

And, softly, c'er the Sea of Galilee,
Danced the breeze-ridden ripples to the shore,
Tipp'd with the silver sparkles of the moon.
The breaking waves play'd low upon the beach
Their constant music, but the air beside
Was still as starlight, and the Saviour's voice,
In its rich cadences unearthly sweet,
Seem'd like some just-born harmony in the air,
Waked by the power of wisdom. On a rock,
With the broad moonlight falling on his brow,
He stood and taught the people.

At his feet

Lay his small scrip, and pilgrim's scallop-shell,
And staff-for they had waited by the sea
Till he came o'er from Gadarene, and pray'a
For his wont teachings as he came to land.
His hair was parted meekly on his brow,
And the long curls from off his shoulders fell,
As he lean'd forward earnestly, and still
The same calm cadence, passionless and deep-
And in his looks the same mild majesty-
And in his mien, the sadness mix'd with power-
Fill'd them with love and wonder.

Suddenly,

As on his words entrancedly they hung,
The crowd divided, and among them stood
Jairus the Ruler. With his flowing robe
Gather'd in haste about his loins, he came,
And fixed his eyes on Jesus. Closer drew
The twelve disciples to their Master's side;

And silently the people shrunk away,
And left the haughty Ruler in the midst,
Alone.

A moment longer on the face

Of the meek Nazarene he kept his gaze.

And, as the twelve look'd on him, by the light Of the clear moon they saw a glistening tear Steal to his silver beard; and, drawing nigh Unto the Saviour's feet, he took the hem Of his coarse mantle, and with trembling hands Press'd it upon his lids, and murmur'd low, "Master! my daughter!"

The same silvery light, That shone upon the lone rock by the sea, Slept on the Ruler's lofty capitals, As at the door he stood, and welcomed in Jesus and his disciples. All was still. The echoing vestibule gave back the slide Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam Of moonlight, slanting to the marble floor, Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms, As Jairus led them on.

With hushing steps
He trod the winding stair; but ere he touch'd
The latchet, from within a whisper came,
"Trouble the Master not—for she is dead!"

And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side,
And his steps falter'd, and his broken voice
Choked in its utterance; but a gentle hand
Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear
The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low,
"She is not dead; but sleepeth."

They pass'd in.

The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns

Burn'd dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke

Curl'd indolently on the chamber walls.

The silken curtains slumber'd in their folds

Not even a tassel stirring in the air

And as the Saviour stood beside the bed,