Each passing moment some frail mortal To the Destroyer yields his breath, And enters the wide-open portal To endless life, or endless death. Onward, still on! the foe is coming, Concealed by midnight's gloomy hour, No one can tell when it's approaching Onward, still on! the way make ready, The fell Destroyer 'll soon be here; The weary frame soon is laid low. Onward, still on! our days are fleeting, Onward, still on! the dead and dying Are scattered now from shore to shore, While in the East red war is crying, Crying for human victims more. In every clime disease is raging, And linked with war goes hand in hand, While famime some dire wrath presaging, Threatens to devastate the land. Onward, still on! yet never ceasing, The travelers to the open tomb! JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. THE HE year of 1892 has come and gone, and it will be commemorated in history as having taken from the world of letters four great poets; Whitman, Lowell, Whittier and Tennyson, each supreme in his own realm of versification. Of this notable quartette, Lowell and Tennyson more nearly resembled each other, while nothing could exceed the dissimilarity existing between Whittier and Whitman. Indeed, some have even gone so far as to say Whitman was not a poet. Poetical prose, is the title they bestow on his writings. Whittier's position, and his right to the bay have, however, never been questioned. His place in the hearts of the American people is unique, and can only find a parallel with that of Helen Hunt. Lowell, Longfellow, Holmes, and others of our poets are admired for the products of their genius, and a great amount of respect is felt towards the possessor of so manifestly great capabilities; but with Whittier, love mingles and even predominates in the tribute paid to him, and as the years roll on apace, it will come to be said how we admired those illustrious ones of the past, but how we loved the "Good Gray Poet." John Greenleaf Whittier was born in Haverhill, Mass., December 17th, 1807. His parents were members of the Society of Friends, and to their beliefs and principles he adhered throughout his life. His American ancestry dates from the year 1638. Whittier was born on a farm, and his boyhood occupations were such as farmer's boys usually engage in. He learned shoemaking from one of the farm hands and by that means secured enough money to enable himself to attend Haverhill academy six months during 1829. This served as a polishing to his previous education and he then began teaching in the district school of West Amesbury, which supplied him with the means for another six months in the academy. In his nineteenth year he began contributing poems, anonymously, to the Free Press, then edited by W. L. Garrison. By this means an acquaintance with Mr. Garrison was established, and thus was gained another pen to espouse the cause of the abolitionists. His father died and for five years Mr. Whittier conducted the farm. In 1835 he was sent to the general court from Haverhill. From the year 1829 he edited at different periods, the American Manufacturer, Boston, the Haverhill Gazette, the New England Weekly Review, Hartford, Conn., the Pennsylvania Freeman, Philadelphia, and the Middlesex Standard, Lowell, Mass. He was fearless in doing what he believed to be right, and he was a strong factor in preparing that which later culminated in the Republican Party. Mr. Whittier was a voluminous writer and he has left a colossal monument which time will never efface. H. M. BAYARD TAYLOR. He brought us wonders of the new and old. And, pleased, we listened to the tales he told. 0. W. HOLMES. His still the keen analysis Of men and moods, electric wit, Lifes, sorrows and regrets, And rest beneath the violets. And tender memories of the old. MARTYRS. Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here The joys prepared, the promised bliss above, -The Female Martyr. PATIENCE. There's quiet in that Angel's glance, He kindly trains us to endure. -The Angel of Patience. Oh! when the soul, once pure and high, The strength to dare, the nerve to meet But lacks the mean of mind and heart, SPRING. -Ibid. 'Tis springtime on the eastern hills! The southwest wind is warmly blowing, EUTHANASIA. -Ibid. "Oh, in her meek, forgiving eye There was a brightness not of mirth, A light whose clear intensity Was borrowed not of earth. |