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Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,
O ROME! my country ! city of the soul !
hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, ye !
Whose agonies are evils of a day
The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness ?
The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire,
the steep barbarian monarchs ride,
“here was, or is,” where all is doubly night?
The double night of ages, and of her,
Our hands, and cry Eureka!” it is clear,
Alas! the lofty city! and alas !
Alas for Earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free!
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean, — roll!
the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his
own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee, -
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow,-
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Dark-heaving ; - boundless, endless, and sublime, * This line refers to two historical naral battles in which the English were victorious.
The image of Eternity — the throne
The monsters of the deep are made : each zone Obeys thee : thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
as I do here.
I SAW THEE WEEP.
I saw thee weep, the big bright tear
Came o'er that eye of blue ;
A violet dropping dew;
Beside thee ceased to shine;
That filled that glance of thine.
As clouds from yonder sun receive
A deep and mellow dve,
Can banish from the sky,
Their own pure joy impart ;
That lightens o’er the heart.
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER, who may be called the first, and perhaps the most popular, of American novelists, was born in New Jersey in 1789 and died at Cooperstown, New York, in 1851. The best of his works are The Spy, The Prairie, The Pilot, and The Last of the Mohicans. His fame is owing mainly to the excellence of his delineation of Indian life and of maritime adventure. In these respects no writer has yet excelled him. His style is peculiarly interesting, being highly dramatic, and pure and scholarly in construction. No American writer has received more cordial treatment at the hands of foreign critics; Victor Hugo went so far as to pronounce him a greater novelist than Scott; the London Athenæum called him "the most original writer that America has yet produced"; and the Revue de Paris said: "Who is there writing English among our contemporaries, if not of him, of whom it can be said that he has a genius of the first order?" These panegyrics will hardly be accepted at their full value by literary authori ties of the present day, when American literature is far stronger and richer than at their date. But Mr. Cooper's title to a high, if not the first, place among our writers, is too strong to be impugned. In the assignment of his rank he should have the bencfi: of the cons deration that he was a pioneer in a specialty of authorship, before his time hardly approached by American writers, and which for many years he occupied and honored without a rival. He was intensely patriotic, and resented with spirited indignation the assaults of British writers upon American character and customs. Somewhat reserved and formal in manner, he made few warm personal friends, but his probity and high moral excellence commanded universal respect. Our first extract is from The Prairie, a story of Indian life; the second is from The Pilot, the best of Mr. Cooper's sea novels.
THE INDIAN ADOPTION.
A LOW, feeble, and hollow voice was heard rising on the ear, as if it rolled from the inmost cavities of the human chest, and gathered strength and energy as it issued into the air. A solemn stillness followed the sounds, and then the lips of the aged man were first seen to move.
The day of Le Balafré is near its end," were the first words that were distinctly audible. 'He is like a buffalo on whom the hair will grow no longer. He will soon be ready to leave his lodge to go in search of another that is far from the villages of the Siouxes; therefore what he has to say concerns not him, but those he leaves behind him. His words are like the fruit on the tree, ripe and fit to be given ́ to chiefs.
Many snows have fallen since Le Balafré has been found on the war-path. His blood has been very hot, but it has had time to cool. The Wahcondah gives him dreams of war no longer; he sees that it is better to live in peace.
"My brothers, one foot is turned to the happy hunting-grounds, the other will soon follow, and then an old chief will be seen looking