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by Mr. Epes Sargent, prefixed to an edition of his poems published by Phillips, Sampson and Co., of Boston, in 1854.

Hohenlinden (two German words meaning high lime-trees) is the name of a village in Bavaria near which the Austrians, under the Archduke John, were defeated by the French and Bavarians, under General Moreau, December 3, 1800. A snow-storm had fallen in the night before the battle, and had hardly ceased when its first movements began. It is only by virtue of a poetical license that the river Iser (pronounced e'zer) is made a part of the scenery of the contest as, in point of fact, it is several miles distant.]

1 ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

2 But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

3 By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.

4 Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of Heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.

5 But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainéd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

6 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

7 The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!

8 Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

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[JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER was born in Haverhill, Massachusetts, in 1808. He has written much in prose and verse; and his writings are characterized by earnestness of tone, high moral purpose, and energy of expression. His spirit is that of a sincere and fearless reformer; and his fervent appeals are the true utterances of a brave and loving heart. The themes of his poetry have been drawn, in a great measure, from the history, traditions, manners, and scenery of New England; and he has found the elements of poetical interest among them without doing any violence to truth. He describes natural scenery correctly and beautifully; and a vein of genuine tenderness runs through his writings.]

1 HEAP high the farmer's wintry hoard!
Heap high the golden corn!

No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out her lavish horn.

2 Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,

The orange from its glossy green,

The cluster from the vine:
:-

8 We better love the hardy gift
Our rugged vales bestow,

To cheer us when the storm shall drift
Our harvest-fields with snow.

4 Through vales of grass and meads of flowers, Our ploughs their furrows made,

While on the hills the sun and showers
Of changeful April played.

5 We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,
Beneath the sun of May,

And frightened, from our sprouting grain,
The robber-crows away.

6 All through the long, bright days of June, Its leaves grew green and fair,

And waved in hot midsummer's noon
Its soft and yellow hair.

7 And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves,
Its harvest-time has come;
We pluck away the frosted leaves,
And bear the treasure home.

8 There, richer than the fabled gift,
Apollo showered of old,

Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,
And knead its meal of gold.

9 Let vapid idlers loll in silk
Around their costly board;

Give us the bowl of samp and milk,
By homespun beauty poured!

10 Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth
Sends up its smoky curls,

Who will not thank the kindly earth,
And bless our farmer girls?

11 Then shame on all the proud and vain,
Whose folly laughs to scorn
The blessing of our hardy grain,
Our wealth of golden corn.

12 Let earth withhold her goodly root,
Let mildew blight the rye,

Give to the worm the orchard's fruit,
The wheat-field to the fly:

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[SAMUEL JOHNSON was born in Litchfield, England, September 18, 1709, and died December 13, 1784. Besides his great work, the "Dictionary of the English Language," which occupied many laborious years, he wrote "Irene," a tragedy; "London," and "The Vanity of Human Wishes," poems in imitation of Juvenal; "Rasselas," a tale; "The Rambler," a periodical paper ; " A Tour to the Hebrides;" "The Lives of the Poets;" various other biographies; and many reviews, miscellanies, pamphlets, and contributions to periodical literature.

The peculiarities of Dr. Johnson's style are well known. It is artificial, elaborate, delighting in antithesis and in words of Latin origin, and frequently pompous and heavy. Its defects are redeemed by essential vigor of mind, but it is very easily imitated, and when adopted by men of commonplace understanding, it is like Saul's armor upon the limbs of David. His diction grew simpler, as he grew older, and his "Lives of the Poets," his latest work, is also his best. His carefully poised periods, also, had a sensible effect upon the general structure of the language as it has since been written. Dr. Johnson's character was a singular compound of strength and weakness. He was very religious, but bigoted and superstitious. His judgment was generally sound, but he was full of the most unreasonable prejudices. He was charitable and benevolent, but impetuous, and most impatient of contradiction. His conversation was rich in sense and wit, but his manners were intolerable. He was capable of great application, though not habitually industrious. He was of a morbid temperament, and his spirit was often dark

ened by constitutional melancholy. For a long period, too, he had to struggle against poverty, and to live in a state of literary slavery most galling to his haughty and independent spirit.

Dr. Johnson's life and character have been painted to us as those of no man of letters were ever before painted-in his biography by Boswell, a most instructive and delightful book, which has done quite as much for Johnson's fame as his own writings have done. It is not merely a biography of Johnson, but a record of the social and literary life of England, during the period of which it treats, such as is nowhere else to be found. Till the publication of "Lockhart's Life of Scott," there was no other such work in the language; and these two are not proper subjects of comparison, but each stands alone in its peculiar and unrivalled excellence; both full of dramatic interest, possessing the highest charm of fiction, and yet richly freighted with the fruits of wisdom, observation, and experience.

Two of the greatest writers of our age - Macaulay and Carlyle-have written essays upon the life and writings of Johnson. Each is characteristic of its author, and they are therefore unlike; but both are excellent, and deserve an attentive reading.

The following extract is from the life of Pope in "The Lives of the Poets," and is an excellent specimen of Johnson's peculiar style.]

POPE professed to have learned his poetry from Dryden, whom, whenever an opportunity was presented, he praised through his whole life with unvaried liberality; and perhaps his character may receive some illustration, if he be 5 compared with his master.

Integrity of understanding, and nicety of discernment, were not allotted in a less proportion to Dryden than to Pope. The rectitude of Dryden's mind was sufficiently shown by the dismission of his poetical prejudices, and 10 the rejection of unnatural thoughts and rugged numbers. But Dryden never desired to apply all the judgment that he had. He wrote, and professed to write, merely for the people; and when he pleased others, he contented himself. He spent no time in struggles to rouse latent powers; he 15 never attempted to make that better which was already good, nor often to mend what he must have known to be faulty. He wrote, as he tells us, with very little consideration. When occasion or necessity called upon him, he poured out what the present moment happened to supply, 20 and, when once it had passed the press, ejected it from his mind; for, when he had no pecuniary interest, he had no further solicitude.

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