New-York daily tribune., 1845-12-24

fine taste We have rarely seen an engraving moro k'
life tha, of The Young Cavalier or more graphic
picture than that of Washington a, Princeton BROOKS
contributes No of his Battle Grounds OF America;
there are brief wewritien Tales by Mrs. Stephens Ars
| Butler Mrs Mcdonald and Fanny and Frank Forester
and Poems by E. J. Eames, E NJ. Sidney. B. Head, w
r. c. Hosmer T H. Chivers, Alfred B. Street and j. r
Lowell. The contribution OF the writer ast named We
TO THE PAST
pY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
| WoNpRoUs and awful are thy silent halls,
O. kingdom OF the past
There lie the bygone ages in their pals,
Guarded by shadows vast.
There all is hushed and breathless,
Save when some image OF old error falls,
Earth worsniped once as deathless.
There sits drear Egypt, mid beleaguering sands,
Half woman and half beast,
The burnt out torch within her moulderng hands
That once lit all the East
a dotard blearcd and hoacy
There Assur crouches oer the blackcned brands
OF Asia's long -quenched glory.
Still as city buried meath the sea
Thy courts and temples stand
Idle, as forms on wind waved tapestry
OF saints and heroes grand,
Thy phanlasms group and shlver,
Or watch the loose shores crumbling silently
Into Times gDawing river.
Titanic shapes with faces blank and dun,
OF their old godhcad born,
Gaze on the embers Of the sunkcn sun
Which they nisdeem for morn
And yet the eternal sorrow
In their unmonarched eyes says Day is done
Without the hope of morrow.
o, realm of silence and of swart eclipse,
The shapes that haunt thy gloom
Make signs to u.s. and move their withered lips
Across the gulf of DOOM
Yet all their sound and motion
Bring no more freight 10 US than wraths Of ships
| On the mirage's ocean
| And if sometimes moaning wandereth
From out thy desolate halls,
If some grim shadow of thy living death
Across our sunshine falls
And scarcs the world 10 error,
| The eternal life sends forth melodious breath
To chase the misty terror.
Thy mighty clamors, wars and world -nosed deed.
| Are silent now in dust,
| Gone like trembe Of the budding reeds
Beneath some sudden gust,
Thy forms and creeds have vanished,
| Tossed out TO wither like unsightly weeds
! From the worlds garden vanished.
Whatever of true life there was in thee
| Leaps in ages veins;
Weld still thy bent and wrnkled empery
And shake thine idle chains;-
To thee thy dross is cnging,
| For us thy martyrs die, thy prophets see,
| Thy poets still are singing
| Here mid the bleak waves of our strife and care,
| Float the green Fortunate Isles
Where all thy hero spirits dwell, and share
Our maryrdoms and tolls;
| The present moves attended
| With all of brave and excellent and fair
That made the old time splendid.
The mechanical execution Of Graham is almost fault
less Now is the time for subscribers. w. H. Ora
ham, Tribune Buildings. is the Agent for New-York.
| ES THE COLUMBIAN MAGAZINE, for January
Ed tied by JOHN INMAN and ROBERT A. WEST, and Pub
lished by Israel Post l40 Nassaustree is before
We have looked il through with care and can give
il hearty commentator ally superior number o.
periodical that has been well conducted from the com
mencement. The editors are men of known characte,
and talent and the publisher literally in the way
of embellishments One Of the engrayings in the pre-
sent number gned expressly for the work and rep
resents in Coopers Pioneers The came plan ID
to be pursued in reference to other American Noveists
In the mech anca execution of the Columbian we are
glad to see great improvement. We give two briei
selections
THE SELFCCNSCIOUS AND THE UNCONSCIOUS.
BY L. MARIA CHILD.
With whizz and glare the rocket rushed upward,
proclaimng TO all men, Lo, am coming Look
|
ked itself in shining fragments; but the gem-like
sparks went out in the darkness and stick on the
ground was all that remained OF the rocket.
| High above the horizon radiant star shone III
| quiet glory. making the night time beautiful. Men
| knew not when it rose for it went up in the still
ness.
! In rich mans garden stands pagoda The
noise OF the hammers told of its progress, and all
men knew how much was added TO it dey by day.
1t was pretty toy with curious carving and gilded
bells. But it remained skill had fashioned 1t, and
grew not nor cast seed into the future.
An oak noseessly dropped acorn near by,
and two leaves sprang from the ground, and became
fair Young tree. The gardener said to the haw-
thorn, wv hen did the oak go above you Z" The
hawthorn answered, i do not know for It passed
| quietly by in the night
Thus does mere talent whizz and hammer to
produce the transient forms OF things, while genius
unconsciousy evolves the great and the beautiful
and casts it silently into everlasting time
THE EMPTY CRADLE BY MISS HANNAH F. GOULD
| SHE sits by the cradle with sadness and signing;
And holds the small shoe that her fair infant wore
Her black.ribboned bonnet beside her is lying,
and dark her feet from the path they We come DER
For she has been out where the light breeze was sweep
iug weeping
The drops from the flowers which the night had been
Around the fresh grave where her loved sleeping
So soundly its mother could wake it no more
Twas there she sped forth, when the morn yet was
With rose. tints and saffron the mild Orient sky;
And there she bowed, whilst the hot tears were
gushing
To shower the cold c!ods from her woclouded eye
She whispered-she ca!led-but her child did not hear
her.
Her lips to its bed she brought and nearer
Tnan life with all else, on, she felt i were dearer
Her darling 10 clasp but momens-and die
For this WAS the hour when in beauty awakipg
Her babe had been wont her glad soul to illume
And her heartsings were bleeding and break
The glory OF morn wrapt her spirs In gloom ling
And death the grave seemed heir suppants spurn
When back in despair 10 her chamber returning ling
All dropping and orn and with ionG bosom yearnng.
She sought from the cradle what lay in the tomb
But drear is its void-and its GOODNESS, how chilling
With soft infant breathugs soothes not her ear.
It is griet's bitter essence al round II dsiilng
Her cheruo is gone-and deaths Loneliness here.
On keen, keen the anguish The childess mother
ketires in her babes empty cradle TO smother;
And, known her soul ana its God, but none other,
The weight OF her wo and the price OF her tear
sSy THE CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS Es-
OF Thomas Carlyle rth volume OF the Mod
nk.i, Al