From this time Mr. Cooke wrote much, but in a desultory way, and seemed, in a growing devotion to a few friends, and in the happiness that was in his home, to forget almost the dreams of ambition. He had commenced an historical novel to be called "Lutzen," in which that great battle was to end the adventures of his hero; this he threw aside, and his love for that age appeared in "The Chevalier Merlin," suggested by the beautiful story of Charles the Twelfth, as given by Voltaire, several chapters of which appeared in the Southern Literary Messenger. In the same magazine he printed "John Carpe," "The Two Country Houses," and other tales, parts of a series in which he intended to dramatize the whole life and manners of Virginia. As for any applause that these might win for him, he wrote to his friend John R. Thompson: "I look upon these matters serenely, and will treat renown as Sir Thomas More advises concerning guests; welcome its coming when it cometh, hinder not with oppressive eagerness its going, when it goeth. Furthermore, I am of the temper to look placidly upon the profile of this same renown, if, instead of stopping, it went by to take up with another; therefore it would not ruffle me to see you win the honors of southern letters away from me." The chivalric poetry had filled his mind early and long, and he was only banishing it for the more independent and beautiful growth of his nature, when his untimely death destroyed hopes of fruits which the productions of his youth seemed to precede as blossoms. He died suddenly, at his home, on Sunday, the 20th of January, 1850, at the age of thirty-three. At the time of his death he was writing "The Women of Shakspeare," "The Chariot Race," and a political and literary satire. Undoubtedly Philip Pendleton Cooke was one of the truest poets of our day, and what he has left us was full of promise that he would become one of the most famous. Of his love poems, this little song, written when he was scarcely more than twenty, is perhaps the finest: FLORENCE VANE. I loved thee long and dearly, Florence Vane; My life's bright dream, and early Hath come again; I renew, in my fond vision, My heart's dear pain, My hopes, and thy derision, Florence Vane. The ruin lone and hoary, The ruin old, Where thou didst hark my story, At even told,---- That spot--the hues Elysian Of sky and plain---- I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane. Thou wast lovelier than the roses, In their prime; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme; Thy heart was as a river Without a main; Would I had loved thee never, Florence Vane.