THE white dawn glimmered and he said "" 'tis day!" The east was reddening and he sighed "Farewell"— The herald Sun came forth and he was dead. Life was in all his veins but yester-morn, And ruddy health seemed laughing on his lips;- Now he is dust and will not breathe again!
Give him a place to lay his regal head, Give him a tomb beside his brothers gone, Give him a tablet for his deeds and name.
Hear the new voice that claims the vacant throne, Take the new hand outstretched to meet thy kiss,— But give the Past-'tis all thou canst-thy tears!
On swift we go, o'er the fleecy snow,
When moonbeams sparkle round; When hoofs keep time to music's chime. As merrily on we bound.
On a winter's night, when hearts are light, And health is on the wind, We loose the rein and sweep the plain, And leave our cares behind.
With a laugh and song, we glide along Across the fleeting snow;
With friends beside, how swift we ride On the beautiful track below! Oh, the raging sea has joy for me,
When gale and tempests roar ;
But give me the speed of a foaming steed, And I'll ask for the waves no more.
Оn, who can tell, that never sail'd
Among the glassy seas,
How fresh and welcome breaks the morn That ushers in a breeze!
"Fair wind! fair wind!" alow, aloft,
All hands delight to cry,
As, leaping through the parted waves,
The good ship makes reply.
While fore and aft, all staunch and tight, She spreads her canvass wide, The captain walks his realm, the deck, With more than monarch's pride; For well he knows the sea-bird's wings, So swift and sure to-day, Will waft him many a league to-night In triumph on his way.
Then welcome to the rushing blast
That stirs the waters now- Ye white-plumed heralds of the deep, Make music round her prow! Good sea-room in the roaring gale, Let storny trumpets blow;
But chain ten thousand fathoms down The sluggish calm below!
"ALL the hedges are in bloom,
And the warm west wind is blowing, Let me leave this stifled room
Let me go where flowers are growing. "Look! my cheek is thin and pale, And my pulse is very low; Ere my sight begins to fail,
Take my hand and let us go; "Was not that the robin's song
Piping through the casement wide? I shall not be listening longTake me to the meadow-side! "Bear me to the willow-brook
Let me hear the merry mill- On the orchard I must look,
Ere my beating heart is still. "Faint and fainter grows my breath- Bear me quickly down the lane; Mother dear, this chill is death— I shall never speak again!"
Still the hedges are in bloom,
And the warm west wind is blowing, Still we sit in silent gloom
O'er her grave the grass is growing.
SAE stood, like an angel just wander'd from heaven, A pilgrim benighted away from the skies, And little we deem'd that to mortals were given Such visions of beauty as came from her eyes. She look'd up and smiled on the many glad faces, The friends of her childhood, who stood by her side; But she shone o'er them all, like a queen of the Graces,
When blushing she whisper'd the vow of a bride. We sang an old song, as with garlands we crown'd
And each left a kiss on her delicate brow; [her, And we pray'd that a blessing might ever surround And the future of life be unclouded as now.
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH was born in Phila- | but with freshness and apparent earnestness. Of delphia on the twenty-ninth of June, 1819; re- one of these, entitled "Dora Lee," the concluding ceived the degree of Doctor of Medicine, from the verses display in a creditable manner his abilities University of Pennsylvania, in 1839; and after- for description: wards studying the law, was admitted to the bar in 1842.
He wrote "Walter Woolfe, or the Doom of the Drinker," a novel, in 1842; "MDCCCXLII. or the Power of the S. F.," a political romance, in 1846; and, with G. G. FOSTER, an octavo volume on the then recent European revolutions, in 1848. He has edited"The Aristidean," a monthly magazine; "The John Donkey," a comic weekly; "The Philadelphia Lancet," "The New York Aurora," and a few other journals, besides writing largely for "De Bow's Review," the "American Review," and "Sartain's Magazine." Since 1852 he has resided in south-western Virginia.
Dr. ENGLISH published a collection of his 66 Poems," in New York, in 1855. Several of them are written in a style of vigorous declamation, upon subjects to which such a style is suitable. The stirring lyric of "The Gallows Goers," is the best of his productions, and there are few more effective examples of partisan verse. It was much quoted during the agitation of the deathpunishment question in several of the states between 1845 and 1850. Of a more poetical character are various love songs, written carelessly,
"OH, cabin brown! low-roofed and fast decaying: No kin of mine now dwell within your walls; Around your ruins now the gray fox straying His step arrests, and to his fellow calls. The mountain, o'er whose top the winds are blowing, Still rears its form as loftily to the gaze: The waterfall yet roars; the stream is flowing As wildly as it flowed in other days: The eagle soars as he was wont; his screaming Is heard o'erhead, as loudly as when I, Shading my vision from the sun's hot beaming, Looked up to note his dark form on the sky. Yet I shall see him not; nor hill nor valley, Nor waterfall, nor river rushing on; Although they rise around continually,
"T is that they are in constant memory drawn. There are they figured, deeply as an etching Worked on soft metal by strong hand could be; And in the foreground of that life-like sketching
She stands most life-like-long lost DORA LEK Dr. ENGLISH is of that large and busy class known as "reformers," and seldom writes without some other purpose than the making of verses. His poems commonly refer to the experiences of humble life, which they reflect with distinctness and fidelity.
DON'T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown, Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown? In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and alone, They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray, And Alice lies under the stone.
Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt,
Which stood at the foot of the hill, Together we've lain in the noonday shade, And listened to Appleton's mill: The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, The rafters have tumbled in,
And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze,
Has followed the olden din.
In the preface to his poems, Dr. ENGLISH notices quite unnecessarily an unfounded charge of plagiarism in connection with this popular song. No such charge ever deserves or receives attention unless accompanied by specifications and citations, such as were quite impossible in this
Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, At the edge of the pathless wood, And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs, Which nigh by the door-step stood? The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt,
The tree you would seek in vain; And where once the lords of the forest waved, Grows grass and the golden grain.
And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, With the master so cruel and grim, And the shaded nook in the running brook, Where the children went to swim? Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, The spring of the brook is dry,
And of all the boys who were schoolmates then, There are only you and I.
There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt,
They have changed from the old to the new: But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth. There never was change in you. Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt, Since first we were friends-yet I hail Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a truth, Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gule.
MR. LEGARE is of Charleston, South Carolina, and is of the family of the late eminent scholar and orater HUGH S. LEGARE. He published, in Boston, in 1848, " Orta Undis, and other Poems," in Latin and English, and he has since contributed to the literary miscellanies many compositions
of various but progressive excellence. His favourite themes are of love and nature, and his writings are often pervaded by a religious feeling. His taste is elegant, and his tone chivalrous and manly. His verse is occasionally abrupt and harsh-perhaps from attempted condensation.
I THINK We faint and weep more than is manly; I think we more mistrust than Christians should. Because the earth we cling to interposes And hides the lower orbit of the sun, We have no faith to know the circle perfect, And that a day will follow on the night: Nay, more, that when the sun we see, He is but rising on another people, And not his face but ours veil'd in darkness. We are less wise than were the ancient heathen Who temper'd feasting with a grisly moral. With higher hope, we shrink from thoughts of dying,
And dare not read, while yet of death unbidden, As gipsies in the palm, those seams, and circles, And time-worn lineaments, which kings in purple Have trembled to behold, but holy men, Interpreting aright, like martyr'd STEPHEN, In singleness of heart have sunk to sleep; Gon's children weary with an evening ramble. Unthinking custom from our very cradle Makes us most cowards where we should be bold. The house is closed and hush'd; a gloom funereal Pervades the rooms once cheerful with the light; Sobs and outcries from those we love infect us With strange disquiet, making play unsought Before they take us on the knee and tell us We must no more be joyful, for a dread And terrible calamity has smitten one.
And then, poor innocents, with frighted hearts Within the awful chamber are we led To look on death; the hard, impassive face, The formal shroud, which the stiff feet erect Into the semblance of a second forehead, Swathed and conceal'd; the tumbler whence he drank
Who ne'er shall drink again; the various adjuncts Of a sick room; the useless vials
Half emptied only, on the hearth the lamp, Even the fly that buzzes round and settles Upon the dead man's mouth, and walking thence Into his nostril, starts him not from slumber. All portions of the dreary, changeless scene
In the last drama, with unwholesome stillness Succeeding to the weepings and complaints Of Heaven's own justice, and loud cries for succour That fill the dying ear not wholly dead, Distract the fluttering spirit, and invest A death-bed with a horror not its own. I thought of these things sadly, and I wonder'd If in this thanatopsis, soul as clay While I this debated, Took part and sorrow'd. I knew my soul was loosing from my hold, And that the pines around, assuming shape Of mournful draperies, shut out the day. Then I lost sight and memory for a moment, Then stood erect beside my usual couch, And saw my longwhile tenement, a pallid And helpless symbol of my former self. The hands laid heavily across the breast, The eyelids down, the mouth with final courage That aim'd a smile for sake of her who watch'd, But lapsed into a pang and so congeal'd, Half sweet, half suffering: Aria to Caecinna.
Poor sinful clod, erewhile the spirit's master Not less than servant, with desire keen Alloying love, and oft with wants and achings Leading the mind astray from noblest deeds To sell its birthright for an Esau's portion. I all forgave, for I was all forgiven. Phosphor had brought a day too broad for twilight All the old Or mist upon its confines. Sad mysteries that raise gigantic shadows Betwixt our mortal faces and God's throne, Had fainted in its splendour; pride and sin, Sorrow and pain, and every mortal ill, In the deserted tenement remain'd, A palace outwardly, a vault within. And so, because she thought it still a palace And not a prison with the prisoner fled, She stood before the gates accustom'd. Weeping, Laid her moist cheek upon its breast, and cried, "My lord! my life!" to what had ceased from living And could no more command with word or eyes. It moved my pity sorely, for these fingers, Now lock'd in agonizing prayer, once turn'd Gently the pages of his life who slumber'd; And this brave mouth, with words of faith and cheer
Strew'd flowers in the path he needs must tread ; That as a conqueror and not a captive, Dragg'd at the heavy chariot-wheels of Time, And through an arch triumphal, where for others A narrow portal opens in the sod, Silent, and sad, and void of outlet, he The kingdom of his LORD might enter in. Thus she made dying sweet and full of beauty As life itself. There was no harsh transition; He that slept twofold, woke a single nature Beatified and glad. But she who stay'd, Poor little Roman heart, no longer brave Now that the eyes were shut forevermore, Which made all virtues sweeter for their praise, Saw not the joy and greatness of the change. And I drew near her, as a spirit may Not to the mortal ear, but that the words Seem'd teachings of her bruised and lowly soul: "Is this the poet of thy summer days, The thoughtful husband of maturer years? Are these the lips whose kindly words could reach The deepness of thy nature? If they be. Let them resume their own, nor tarry. Nay, Thou knowest all that thou didst ever love Is lifted out, and all that thou didst hate Lived in the flesh, and with the flesh re:nains. What matters it to thee if this decays, And mingling with the sod, is trampled on Of clownish feet, by gleaming share upturn'd, Or feeds a rose, or roots a noisone weed? How canst thou halve thy heart, half to the grave, Half to high Heaven yield? Thank Gon instead, That he who was so dear to thee, released From sin and care, at length has found great peace." While she thus mused, her silent tears were stay'd, And kneeling down, with her sweet, patient face Lifted toward heaven, itself sufficient prayer- "Lonn Gon!" she cried, "thou kuowest best how weak
And frail I am, and faithless; give me strength To take the rod thou sendest for a staff, And falter never more in this lone journey!" Then she went forth and gather'd freshest flowers, And strew'd them on the dead: young violets Upon the breast, verbena round the temples, Loose rose-leaves o'er the mouth, to hide the pang, And in his hand a lily newly open'd, In token of her faith and his transition. And in her eyes there reign'd such quietude, That those who saw her, said, "An angel surely Has spoken with her, or her reason's moved By sufferings prolong'd." But none might say She loved but lightly, or with levity Look'd forward to the co.amon lot of all.
MAIZE IN TASSEL.
THE blades of maize are broad and green, The farm-roof scarcely shows between The long and softly-rustling rows Through which the farmer homeward goes. The blue smoke curling through the trees, The children round their mother's knees, He sees, and thanks Gon while he sees.
He holds one in his sturdy hands Aloft, when at the threshold stands (None noticed whence) a stranger. The stranger said, as half with shame He made request; "astray and poor, By hunger guided to your door, I"--"Hush," she answer'd, "say no more!" The farmer set the prattler down- (Soft heart, although his hands were brown!) With words of welcome brought and pour'd Cool water from the spring: the board The wife set out. What mellow light Made the mean hovel's walls as white As snow! how sweet their bread that night! Long while their humble lot had been To dwell with poverty: between Them all one pallet and a bed Were shared. But to the latter led, The guest in peaceful slumber lay, While, with what broken sleep they may, The dame and host await the day. So pass'd the night. At length the dawn Arrived, and show'd the stranger gone. To none had e'er been closed their door Who ask'd for alms; yet none before Had so much lack'd in courtesy. So spoke the wife. Her husband, he Sat musing by most anxiously- Of sterner need. A drought that year Prevail'd, and though the corn in ear Began to swell, must perish all Unless a kindly rain should fall. Gon send it straight!—or toil from morn To eve, the hoard of buried corn, Ay, food itself, were lost and gone. Such thoughts now bring him to the door: Perchance some cloud sails up before The morning breeze. None-none; in vain His eyes explore the blue again : With sighs to earth returns his gaze. Ha! what is here?-to God be praise! See, see the glad drops on the maize! No mist had dimm'd the night, and yet The furrows all lay soft and wet, As if with frequent showers; nay, More-all bloom that shuns the day, And tassel tall, and ear and blade, With heavy drops were downward weighed, And a swift stream the pathway fray'd. Long while might I prolong this strain, Relating thence how great his gain; How he who held not from the poor, Now saw his corncribs running o'er; And how his riches grew amain, And on his hillside ripen'd grain When parch'd was that within the plain. But who the guest was of that night Conjecture thou-I dare not write. We know that angels, with the mien Of men, of men the guests have been; That he who giveth to the poor, Lends to the Lord. (I am not sure—) The promise here deep meaning bore.
His first published poem, entitled "The Yan kee," appeared in 1849, and he has since been an occasional contributor to the literary journals. His best and longest poem, the finest structure in English verse from the suggestive materials furnished by the classical legend, is "Ariadne," originally
ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH was born in East Windsor, Connecticut, in November, 1822. His father was at that time a merchant, doing business in New York, in which city our author passed his boyhood until 1833, when the family retired to a farm, in his native town, where they have ever since resided, He was graduated at Amherst Col-printed in the "International Magazine" for 1852. lege, in 1844, and soon after commenced the study of the law, but a predilection for natural philosophy induced the devotion of much of his time to experimental studies, chiefly relating to machinery and mechanical inventions, and in 1845 he took out two patents, one for a drawing or copying instrument, and the other for a device for making a syphon discharge a portion of its contents at the highest point, or curve, thus making it available or elevating water or other fluids. Both these inventions are now in practical though not extensive use; and their reception led him to abandon his legal studies, and to enter an extensive foundry and machine shop, where he remainel, among tools and machinery, until he acquired a competent knowledge of the art and mystery of making steam-engines. If his profession is now demanded, he calls himself a machinist, but he has never since the completion of his novitiate given the trade much attention
It reminds us, in some passages, of "Comus," but its peculiar merits as a specimen of poetical art are decided and conspicuous. In the spring of 1855 he published his first volume, containing not a complete collection, nor perhaps the best selec- tion that might have been offered of his fugitive pieces, but such as exhibited in the most striking manner the variety of his tastes and talents. The leading poem is entitled "The Chimes," the main idea of which is, that poets derive a portion of their inspiration from each others' songs, and for its illustration he pays Mr. LONGFELLOW a delicate compliment by imitating the melody of one of his beautiful productions. His success led to a ridi- culous but offensively-stated charge of plagiarism in one of the monthly magazines.
Of Mr. ELLSWORTH's shorter poems one of the most thoughtful and impressive is, "What is the Use?" It might be abridged without injury, but it is a performance to be pondered and remembered.
I SAW a man, by some accounted wise,
"The hoodwinked world is seeking happiness. Which way!' they cry, here?' no!' there?' who can guess ?'
For some things said and done before their eyes, And so they grope, and grope, and grope, and cruise Quite overcast, and in a restless muse,
Pacing a path about,
And often giving out:
"What is the use?"
Then I, with true respect: What meanest thou By those strange words, and that unsettled brow? Health, wealth, the fair esteem of ample views, To these things thou art born. But he as one forlorn: "What is the use?"
"I have surveyed the sages and their books, Man, and the natural world of woods and brooks, Seeking that perfect good that I would choose; But find no perfect good, Settled and understood.
· Life, in a poise, hangs trembling on the beam, Even in a breath bounding to each extrem Of joy and sorrow; therefore I refuse
All beaten ways of bliss,
And only answer this: What is the use?
On, on, till life is lost,
At blindman's with a ghost.
What is the use?
"Love first, with most, then wealth, distinction, fame, Some try them all, and all alike accuse- Quicken the blood and spirit on the game. I have been all,' said one,
And find that all is none.' What is the use?
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