an influential family, was elected president, Professor Brooks received more votes than any of the other competitors.  In 1827, he married Mary Elizabeth, eldest daughter of William Gobright, a lady of great beauty and excellence, and in 1867, married Christiana Octavia, youngest daughter of Dr. William Crump, of Virginia.  Of the former union four sons and two daughters are living; of the latter union a son.  The following poems are selected as specimens of his style.

THE MOTHER TO HER DEAD BOY.

The flowers you reared repose in sleep
With folded bells where the night-dews weep,
And the passing wind, like a spirit, grieves
In a gentle dirge through the sighing leaves. 
The sun will kiss the dew from the rose,
Its crimson petals again unclose,
And the violet ope the soft blue ray
Of its modest eye to the gaze of day;
But when will the dews and shades that lie
So cold and damp on thy shrouded eye,
Be chased from the folded lids, my child,
And thy glance break forth so sweetly wild?

The fawn, thy partner in sportive play,
Has ceased his gambols at close of day,
And his weary limbs are relaxed and free
In gentle sleep by his favorite tree. 
He will wake ere long, and the rosy dawn
Will call him forth to the dewy lawn,
And his sprightly gambols be seen again,
Through the parted boughs and upon the plain;
But oh! when will slumber cease to hold
The limbs that lie so still and cold? 
When wilt thou come with thy tiny feet
That bounded my glad embrace to meet?

The birds you tended have ceased to sing,
And shaded their eyes with the velvet wing,
And, nestled among the leaves of the trees,
They are rocked to rest by the cool night breeze. 
The morn will the chains of sleep unbind,
And spread their plumes to the freshening wind;
And music from many a warbler’s mouth
Will honey the grove, like the breath of the south;
But when shall the lips, whose lightest word
Was sweeter far than the warbling bird,
Their rich wild strain of melody pour? 
They are mute! they are cold! they will ope no more!

When heaven’s great bell in a tone sublime
Shall sound the knell of departed Time,
And its echoes pierce with a voice profound
Through the liquid sea and the solid ground,
Thou wilt wake, my child, from the dreamless sleep
Whose oblivious dews thy senses steep,
And then will the eye, now dim, grow bright
In the glorious rays of Heaven’s own light,
The limbs, that an angel’s semblance bore,
Bloom ’neath living trees on the golden shore,
And the voice that’s hushed, God’s praises hymn
’Mid the bands of the harping seraphim.

TO A DOVE.

MOURNING AMID THE RUINS OF AN ANCIENT CHURCH.