A battle whose great scheme and scope They little cared to know, Content, as men-at-arms, to cope Each with his fronting foe. Man now his virtue's diadem Puts on, and proudly wears Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them, They went about their gravest deeds And what if Nature's fearful wound To watch the misery there For that their love but flowed more fast, Not conscious what mere drops they cast A man's best things are nearest him, It is the distant and the dim That we are sick to greet: For flowers that grow our hands beneath Our hearts must die, except they breathe But, brothers, who up Reason's hill Remembering distance leaves a haze From The Long-ago? On that deep-retiring shore Lose the bitter taste of woe; In the griefs of Long-ago. Tombs where lonely love repines, Ghastly tenements of tears, Wear the look of happy shrines Through the golden mist of years: Though the doom of swift decay FITZGREENE HALLECK. Without attempting, in our confined limits, to range over the fields of American literature, now rapidly extending, and cultivated with ardour and success, we have pleasure in including some eminent transatlantic names in our list of popular authors. MR HALLECK became generally known in this country in 1827 by the publication of a volume of Poems, the result partly of a visit to England. In this volume are some fine verses on Burns, on Alnwick Castle, &c., and it includes the most elevated of his strains, the martial lyric Marco Bozzaris. Our poet-laureate, Mr Tennyson, has described the poetical character: The poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above; Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, His Mr Halleck was a native of Guildford, Connecticut, born in 1790. He resided some time in New York, following mercantile pursuits. In 1819 he published Fanny, a satirical poem in the ottava rima stanza. Next appeared his volume of Poems, as already stated, to which additions were made in subsequent republications. works are comprised in one volume, and it is to be regretted that his muse was not more prolific. He died November 19, 1867. His Life and Letters were published in one volume in 1869 by James Grant Wilson of New York, who has also edited the poetical works of Halleck (1871), and written a short Memoir of Bryant, in the Western Monthly, November 1870. Marco Bozzaris. The Epaminondas of Modern Greece. He fell in a nightattack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were: To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain.' At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour In dreams, through camp and court, he bore In dreams his song of triumph heard, As Eden's garden bird. At midnight, in the forest shades, And now there breathed that haunted air An hour passed on, the Turk awoke ; He woke to hear his sentries shriek : 'To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek !' 'Strike, till the last armed foe expires; They fought, like brave men, long and well, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal-chamber, Death! Come to the mother's when she feels The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, The thanks of millions yet to be. Of sky and stars to prisoned men ; When the land-wind from woods of palm, Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee: there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime; She wore no funeral weeds for thee, The heartless luxury of the tomb; Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's; One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die! EDGAR ALLAN POE. This singular and unfortunately degraded man of genius-the Richard Savage of American literature was born at Boston, January 19, 1809. He was left destitute when a child by the death of his parents (strolling players), but was adopted and liberally educated by a benevolent Virginian planter, Mr Allan. All attempts to settle him respectably in life failed. He was reckless, debauched, and unmanageable. He was expelled from college and from a military academy in which he was placed by Mr Allan; he enlisted in the army, but soon deserted; and after various scenes of wretchedness, he became a contributor to, and occasional editor of, several American periodicals. His prose tales attracted notice from their ingenuity and powerful, though morbid and gloomy painting; and his poem of The Raven, coloured by the same diseased imagination, but with bright gleams of fancy, was hailed as the most original and striking poem that America had ever produced. Poe died in a hospital at Baltimore, the victim of intemperance, October 7, 1849. A complete edition of the works of Poe, with Memoir by John H. Ingram, was published in 1875, in four volumes-three of them prose, and one poetry. The editor clears the memory of the unfortunate poet from certain charges brought against him by Griswold, the American editor. Some of the criticisms by Poe collected in this edition of his works are marked by a fine critical taste and acuteness. Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly shore Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber-door Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door, With such name as 'Nevermore.' But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered Till I scarcely more than muttered: Other friends have flown before On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said: 'Never more.' Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 'Doubtless,' said I, 'what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, wondering, fearing, Of" Never-never more. Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 'Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, Lenore!' Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. 'Surely,' said I-'surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. 'Tis the wind, and nothing more.' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber-door Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamberdoor Perched and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, 'art sure no craven, But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking 'Never more.' This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core ; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, never more! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. 'Wretch!' I cried, 'thy god hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee Respite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost 'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. The father of the present generation of American poets, and one of the most original of the brotherhood, is WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, born at Cummington, Hampshire County, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794. With a precocity rivalling that of Cowley or Chatterton, Bryant at the age of thirteen wrote a satirical poem on the Jeffersonian party, which was published in 1808 under the title of The Embargo. A few lines from this piece will shew how well the boy-poet had mastered the art of versification : E'en while I sing, see Faction urge her claim, And sues successful for each blockhead's vote. From this perilous course of political versifying, the young author was removed by being placed at Williams College. He was admitted to the bar, and practised for several years with fair success; but in 1825 he removed to New York, and entered upon that literary life which he has ever since followed. In 1826 Mr Bryant became editor of the New York Evening Post, and his connection with that journal still subsists. His poetical works consist of Thanatopsis-an exquisite solemn strain of blank verse, first published in 1816; The Ages, a survey of the experience of mankind, 1821; and various pieces scattered through periodical works. Mr Washington Irving, struck with the beauty of Bryant's poetry, had it collected and published in London in 1832. The British public, he said, had expressed its delight at the graphic descriptions of American scenery and wild woodland characters contained in the works of Cooper. 'The same keen eye and just feeling for nature,' he added, 'the same indigenous style of thinking and local peculiarity of imagery, which give such novelty and interest to the pages of that gifted condensed into a narrower compass, and sublimwriter, will be found to characterise this volume, ated into poetry. From this opinion Professor Wilson-who reviewed the volume in Blackwood's Magazine-dissented, believing that Cooper's pictures are infinitely richer in local peculiarity of imagery and thought. 'The chief charm of Bryant's genius,' he considered, 'consists in a tender pensiveness, a moral melancholy, breathing over all his contemplations, dreams, and reveries, even such as in the main are glad, and giving assurance of a pure spirit, benevolent to all living creatures, and habitually pious in the felt omnipresence of the Creator. His poetry overflows with natural religion-with what Wordsworth calls the religion of the woods.' This is strictly applicable to the Thanatopsis and Forest Hymn; but Washington Irving is so far right that Bryant's grand merit is his nationality and his power of painting the American landscape, espeHis diction is pure and lucid, with scarcely a flaw, cially in its wild, solitary, and magnificent forms. and he is a master of blank verse. Mr Bryant has translated the Iliad and Odyssey, 4 vols. (Boston, 1870-1872). From Thanatopsis. Not to thy eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste- Or lose thyself in the continuous woods The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes So live, that when thy summons comes to join To that mysterious realm, where each shall take Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath. In nearer kindred than our race. Then they were kind-the forests here, A tribute to the net and spear Of the red ruler of the shade. Fruits on the woodland branches lay, But they are gone, A noble race! Ah, let us spare at least their graves! An Indian at the Burying-place of his Fathers. My fathers' ancient burial-place, It is the spot-I know it well- For here the upland bank sends out I know the shaggy hills about, The meadows smooth and wide; The plains that, toward the eastern sky, Fenced east and west by mountains lie. A white man, gazing on the scene, Would say a lovely spot was here, I like it not-I would the plain The sheep are on the slopes around, And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, Methinks it were a nobler sight To see these vales in woods arrayed, Their summits in the golden light, Their trunks in grateful shade; And then to mark the lord of all, This bank, in which the dead were laid, Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, But now the wheat is green and high The weapons of his rest; Ah, little thought the strong and brave, Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth, Or the young wife that weeping gave Her first-born to the earth, That the pale race, who waste us now, Among their bones should guide the plough! They waste us-ay, like April snow In the warm noon, we shrink away; And fast they follow, as we go Toward the setting day |