He comes, he comes, from the northern zone,
Where the night-fires shoot and the icebergs form,
And his sleety hair to the wind is thrown,

Like the scudding rack in the van of a storm.

His hosts are such as he ever hath

The rain and the hail, that like arrows come,
The sleet and the snow, that lie white in his path,
And the winds that rush from his own drear home;
And he leads them on with a furious haste,

The fields and the woods, and the mountains o'er ;
And his minions howl through the dreary waste,
Where the ice-plains crash, and the forests roar.

He comes, he comes, from the stormy north,
And his legions wait on his sliding car,
From their icy home hath he called them forth,

And their banners are white on the hills afar;
And they pour along with their glittering lines
In the clear, cold light of the sparkling morn,
And their blasts ring loud through the mountain pines,
Like the distant note of a warrior's horn.

He hath spread his robe on the naked hills,
And hung his gems on the forest tree;

He hath stopped the voice of the summer rills-
They are ringing now to the skater's glee.
And the rivers, poured from the mountains down
Through a thousand leagues on their winding way,

He hath looked upon with his icy frown,
And a frozen and motionless mass are they.

SONNET.

FROM A PICTURE.

Now bright beneath them gleam'd the sun-lit vale,
And just discern'd, the cot from whence they pass'd,
When stay'd the creaking wheels, and slow, and pale
Stepp'd forth the sorrowing emigrants, to cast,
Upon the home they left, one gaze-the last.
The grandsire shaded with his trembling hand,
The dim eye, strain'd upon the roof he rear'd;
The son but look'd, and bow'd himself, unmann'd,
Upon his horse's neck, whose rough breast shar'd
His master's agony;-unlike the rest

The wife gaz'd tearless, and her infant son
Folded in silence to her tranquil breast,

As though she felt, wherever doom'd to roam,
With him and with his sire-there would be home.

LETTERS OF A MADCAP.

No. I.

TO THE EDITORS OF THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE,—

Dear Gentlemen,-Drawing inspiration and courage from that passage of the sacred volume which says, "Knock, and it shall be opened unto you," one who has thus far experienced with you, the joys and sorrows of College life, would beg leave to make his first bow before your editorial throne. And if this epistle be not consigned to the "tomb of the Capulets," a series shall in process of time follow, to delight your numerous readers and immortalize their author. I had thus, gentlemen, safely delivered myself on this beautiful sheet of paper, of the foregoing introductory, (and you know Byron has said there's "nothing so difficult as a beginning, unless, perhaps, the end,") when I began to scratch, with my thumb and fore-finger, the extremest projection of my cranium for a subject on which to dilate. The bump of composiveness, (I am a decided believer in phrenology,) I found on examination to be exceedingly small, and I was left in what a poet would undoubtedly denominate a reverie, and a common man a quandary. Could you have seen, as leaning back in my antique rockingchair, I looked "like sculptured agony," (I quote from the new tragedy of Mr. Hillhouse, have you seen it?) I know you would have ejaculated with Shakspeare's African hero, "indeed, 'tis strange-'tis passing strange-'tis pitiful-'tis wondrous pitiful." I had not long been buried in this mood of contemplation, before a voice as of an unseen spirit hovering over me, whispered in my ear: "Young man, let not your thoughts, like lazy steeds, be idle now. You may find monitors in every thing around you. The slow pacing cloud that now glides over the blue fields of heaven-yon ancient rock, that lifts its bald summit in the clouds the blue waves of Long Island Sound, reposing now in tranquil majesty-yon murmuring river, rolling like the cherished hopes of your youth, to the forgetfulness of ocean-the flowers that now wither like friends grown cold-the dancing leaves in your footpath, perishing like the happiness of childhood-the echoes among the hills-the caves' eternal silence-every where Nature furnishes a theme. Or, let your thoughts roll back through the star-light of memory, let them recall those eloquent imaginings, which, in the distance far away, once waked departed ages; resume those bright hopes you but now experienced of a happy future, 'making sunshine in a shady place,' and can you fail to write?" The voice ceased-the spell was broken, but the hint

was not disregarded. Start not, reader, nor think that I intend giving you a disquisition on the beauties of natural scenery. Oh! no; that subject was always a bore to me, and even if I wished to do so, how could I now, cooped up as I am in the fourth story of old South Middle, where no such beauties can be descried.

What I meant by saying I would follow the hint is, that I will look around me for a subject. Very well-here on this old table lie scattered slates, books, pipes, papers, etcetera, &c. There an Olmsted, the "ne plus ultra" in stoves, according to the distinguished professor of chemistry in this institution, is casting out its bright effulgence. Two or three chairs are kicked overboard on the floor, and the carpet looks as if it had been swept about six weeks ago. (We have a confounded bad sweep in this entry.) Well, these are certainly not very animating topics; but ah, look there! a portrait of the virgin queen of Albion. Beautiful picture! and by the bye, Messrs. Editors, have you seen Sully's splendid portrait? Whom would not such a thought inspire? Let us examine this writing under the picture. "Alexandrina Victoria, born at Kensington, May 24th, 1819." May 24th, by heavens, the very day when I first saw the blessed light! Well, here is a theme for a sonnet worthy of Wordsworth.

TO VICTORIA.

Fair queen, that sittest high enthroned in pride,
And peerless power; while the rainbow arch
Of glory, in the clouds above thy march,
Bends, glittering, like the purple at thy side;
Though thou be mistress of the noblest land,

On which the sun in all his course looks down;
Though many a sea-girt isle obey thy crown,
And pay its treasures at thy mild command;
Though thou be such-and I am poor and weak,
And unlike thee as any mortal man—
Yet, lady, I will say, as well I can,
(And sure, you won't forbid me now to speak
The solemn truth,) upon the self-same day,

We both were born-the twenty-fourth of May.

The subject is tempting, but, beautiful Victoria, I am a decided republican, and think I have paid you homage enough. What have we here? "Ion, a Tragedy, by Thomas Noon Talfourd." What a host of images crowd the mind at sight of this poem-a poem which is already one of the parlor ornaments of every enlightened family in the land-a poem to which a remark that was made of Pope's Rape of the Lock may, with far more propriety, be applied, "its only fault is, it is too beautiful." Who is he, where is he, who ever closed its pages, beaming with a sunlike brilliancy, without having his taste enriched, his thoughts refined, his intellect expanded, his heart improved? For myself,

dear Editors, I can only say I have almost committed it to memory; and then the "Captive,"-Gentlemen, your hearts must be deadened to beauty if you can join in the indiscriminate condemnation of this play by the critics. Ion, followed by the Captive, reminds me of Juno followed by Iris. But it is not for his efforts to purify the national drama, that Mr. Talfourd is alone entitled to our gratitude. Remember his unfaltering struggles in behalf of an international copy-right law. Have you hung with rapture over his delightful memoirs of Charles Lamb? Have you perused his splendid essay on the Genius of Hazlitt? that sublimest of all critics. If you have, then recall the fact that Talfourd is an American-a Yankee-a native of old Boston-and say if you can, say if you dare, that I am wrong in loving, almost to idolatry, this great and good man. I attempt another

SONNET.

We owe thee much, oh Talfourd! for the pall
Of darkness that had settled on the stage,

Is fled before thy magic pen, and all

Our hopes are brightening for the future age.
In weeds and desolation, now, no more

Like widow, for her first-born sorrowing,
Melpomene doth sit-but now thy Ion o'er

Our hearts, a thrill of gratitude doth fling.
The Captive too shall live when thou art gone,
And shed immortal honor on thy name.

The poet's wreath-the laurel's deathless fame,
Are thine, oh Talfourd! yes, are all thine own:
And now, farewell, for this weak lyre of mine
Is all too frail to sing of praise like thine.

Ah! before we dismiss this beautiful volume, one thought is present to me. This book, dear Editors, is not precious for itself alone-it is a present-turn to the first blank leaf and see; "to his friend, from Jno. Todd Breck." Oh, well did the minstrel say

-"Ever and anon of griefs subdued,

There comes a token like a scorpion's sting,
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued';
And slight withal may be the things which bring
Back on the heart, the weight which it would fling

Aside forever."

John Todd Breck! what a crowd of recollections does not that name excite. The delights of boyhood recur once again; again return those hours, when with him I roved in the green woods, and saw the sunshine sleeping on the lake; when the breeze, laden with the perfume of spring flowers, wafted its fragrance upon us, as arm in arm we wandered through the sleeping valleys, or climbed the mountains overlooking the rich cornfields of our own

western home. Together we commenced the ascent of the toilsome hill of science. With a heart gifted with a fire from heaven, to purge off all the dross of life that would otherwise cloud and darken; with an amiability of temper, that won love from all; disease laid its cold icy fingers upon him-he withered-perished. And do not you, Editors, remember the classmate? that brow rising up like a mental pillar-the eye that beamed like a star of intellectual light-the voice, whose musical tones have forever passed from earth. Yes, he is dead! "like a tree, with the weight of its own golden fruitage, bent down to the earth."

SONNET.

See, where yon willow lowly bending weeps,

And fadeless blooms upon the hallowed ground,
While summer flowers their fragrance cast around,
And deck the spot where worth departed sleeps:
There, in that garden, lies a mother's pride-
Within that grave, repose a father's joys,
Crushed by that ruthless arm that all destroys-
The brother, friend, companion, he hath died.
There rest his ashes-gloomy, dark and deep
The curtain, fallen on that once proud brow,
And worms are feeding on that figure now,
Forever hushed in an unending sleep.
But his pure, lofty spirit robed in bliss,

Hath found a fairer, happier home than this.

A change came over me. How strange are our thoughts! what intricate labyrinths, what mazes unknown! even to the will do they not pierce? When the body is hushed in the quietness of repose, what wild places do they not traverse! how do they people dreary shores with shadows of wild reality! In the dim twilight of memory, they see and recall objects and scenes of yore; they see the gold bursts that tell of sunshine; they see the blackness portending the thunder-storm; and fiery, restive coursers, what trifling incidents make them start off their track, to bound over the plains of imagination! It was so now. Dear Editors, in turning over the leaves of an old Casket, a book of gems—one I cherish in my heart of hearts-the dead leaves of a rose fell out. How came they there? Listen, and you shall hear.

Nearly three years ago, your humble servant left his father's hall, to make a pilgrimage to this fount of learning. With a heart open to all the delightful impressions of that romantic age, when, in this country, young men lay aside the toga juvenilis and assume the strut of manhood, he had already been often guilty of the wicked, the unpardonable sin of visiting the residence of a neighboring old farmer, whose myriads of acres, and "lots of niggers," elicited the admiration of every passer-by.