MATTHEW C. FIELD. [Born, 1812. Died, 1844.] THE author of the numerous compositions, in prose and verse, which appeared in the journals of the southern states under the signature of “Phazma," between the years 1834 and 1844, was born of Irish parentage, in London, in 1812, and when but four years of age was brought to this country, which was his home from that period until he died. He was of a feeble constitution, and in his later years a painful disease interrupted his occupations and induced a melancholy which is illustrated in the humorous sadness of many of his verses. In the hope of relief he made a journey from New Orleans to Sam's Fé, and another, soon after, to the Rocky Moure tains; and failing of any advantage from these, set out to visit some friends in Boston, trasting to the good influences of a voyage by sea but died in the ship, before reaching Mobile, on third year of his age. He was several years the fifteenth of November, 1844, in the thirty one of the editors of the New Orleans "Pica yune," and was a brother of Mr. J. M. FIELD, of by birth. St. Louis, who is as nearly related in genius as TO MY SHADOW. SHADOW, just like the thin regard of men, Constant and close to friends, while fortune's bright, You leave me in the dark, but come again And stick to me as long as there is light! Yet, Shadow, as good friends have often done, You've never stepped between me and the sun; But ready still to back me I have found youAlthough, indeed, you're fond of changing sides; And, while I never yet could get around you, Where'er I walk, my Shadow with me glides! That you should leave me in the dark, is meet Enough, there being one thing to remarkLight calls ye forth, yet, lying at my feet, I'm keeping you forever in the dark! POOR TOM. Oh, the old churchyard, with its new white stone, In the old churchyard we have wandered off, Poor Tom! poor Tom! THERE's a new stone now in the old churchyard, On the very spot where the stone now stands, And a few withered flowers enwreath it; Alas! for the youth, by the fates ill-starr'd, Who sleeps in his shroud beneath it: Poor Tom! poor Tom! In his early day to be pluck'd away, All the joy that love and affection sheds, Seemed to fling golden hope around him, And the warmest hearts and the wisest heads Alike to their wishes found him. Poor Tom! poor Tom! He is sleeping now 'neath the willow bough, As if to bewail, so sad a tale, While the eyes of the night are weeping. 494 We have sat in the shade of the willow, Poor Tom! poor Tom! CHARLES T. BROOKS. [Born, 1813.] THE Reverend CHARLES T. BROOKS was born in Salem, Massachusetts, on the twentieth of June, 1813; graduated at Harvard University in 1832; completed his theological preparation in 1835; and was settled over the Unitarian church in Newport, Rhode Island, of which he has ever since been the pastor, in the beginning of 1837. His first poetical publication was a translation of SCHILLER'S "William Tell," printed anonymously in Providence in 1838. Translations of "Mary Stuart" and "The Maid of Orleans" were made in a year or two after, but remain yet in manuscript. About the date of these last, he commenced versions of JEAN PAUL RICHTER'S "Levana," "Jubel Senior," and "Titan," which have been since completed. In 1842 he published in Boston, in Mr. RIPLEY's series of "Specimens of Foreign Literature," a volume of Songs and Ballads, from the German," of UnLAND, KORNER, BURGER, and others. In 1845 he 64 published a "Poem delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard College;" in 1817, Homage of the Arts," from SCHILLER, with miscellaneous gleanings from other German poets; in 1848, " Aquidneck and other Poems," embracing a" Poem on the hundreth Anniversary of the Redwood Library;" in 1853 the small collection called "Songs of Field and Flood," and in the same year a volume of "German Lyrics," the principal piece in which is that of ANASTASIUS GRUN, (count von AUERSPERG,) entitled "The Ship Cincinnatus,"representing an American vessel with the figure-head of the noble Roman, sailing home from Pompeii. Mr. BROOKS has made himself thoroughly familiar with the spirit of German literature, and has been remarkably successful in most of his attempts to reproduce it in English. His original poems are chaste and elegant, equally modest in design and successful in execution. "ALABAMA."t BRUISED and bleeding, pale and weary, By the stern steam-demon hurried, Far from home and scenes so blest; By the gloomy care-dogs worried, Sleepless, houseless, and distressed, Like a bird without a nest, With its cares and woes oppressed, From my sick and fainting breast, Cry, beside the swelling Jordan, "Alabama! Here I rest!" * Another volume from the German poets in this excellent series is by JOHN S. DWIGHT, a translator of kindred scholarship and genius. †There is a tradition, that a tribe of Indians, defeated and hard pressed by a more powerful foe, reached in their flight a river, where their chief set up a staff and exclaimed, "Alabama" a word meaning, "Here we rest," which from that time became the river's name. TO THE MISSISSIPPI. MAJESTIC stream! along thy banks, In silent, stately, solemn ranks, The forests stand, and seem with pride To gaze upon thy mighty tide; As when, in olden, classic time, Beneath a soft, blue, Grecian clime, Bent o'er the stage, in breathless awe, Crowds thrilled and trembled, as they saw Sweep by the pomp of human life, The sounding flood of passion's strife, And the great stream of history Glide on before the musing eye. There, row on row, the gazers rise; Above, look down the arching skies; O'er all those gathered multitudes Such deep and voiceful silence broods, Methinks one mighty heart I hear Beat high with hope, or quake with fear;E'en so yon groves and forests seem Spectators of this rushing stream. In sweeping, circling ranks they rise, Beneath the blue, o'erarching skies; They crowd around and forward lean, As eager to behold the scene-To see, proud river! sparkling wide, The long procession of thy tide,-To stand and gaze, and feel with thee All thy unuttered ecstasy. It seems as if a heart did thrill Within yon forests, deep and still, So soft and ghost-like is the sound That stirs their solitudes profound. "OUR COUNTRY-RIGHT OR WRONG." "OUR country-right or wrong!"- Let no true patriot's pen such words indite! Let him, with heart, voice, hand, Say, "Country or no country: speed the right!" "Our country-right or wrong!" O Christian men! how long Shall HE who bled on Calvary plead in vain! Where War's gash'd victims fall, While sisters, widows, orphans, mourn the slain! "Our country-right or wrong!"- Take GOD's whole armor for the holy fray; Of GoD stand steadfast in the evil day! Of ghastly woes that rise upon thy sight, Man! man! whoe'er thou art, To say, "God guide our struggling country right!" A SABBATH MORNING, AT PETTA- THE Sabbath breaks-how heavenly clear! Such deep contentment seems to brood That tell the peopled solitude How great is God,-how wise,-how good? This pensive pause, I seem to hear SUNRISE ON THE SEA-COAST. Ir was the holy hour of dawn: Alone upon a rock I stood, Now all creation seemed to wake; NE ON THE S C. P. CRANCH. [Born, 1813.] THE grandfather of Mr. CRANCH was Judge RICHARD CRANCH, of Quincy, Massachusetts, and his grandmother MARY SMITH, a sister of the fs wife of the first President ADAMS. His father, Chief Justice WILLIAM CRANCH, of Washington, A married a Miss GREENLEAF, one of whose sisters was the wife of NOAH WEBSTER, the lexicograhdpher, and another the wife of Judge DAWES, father of the author of "Athenia of Damascus," &c. He gradually withdrew from the clerical profession, and finally, about the year 1842, determined to devote himself entirely to painting, for which he had shown an early predilection and very decided talents. He was never a regular pupil of any one artist, but received friendly assistance from Mr. DURAND and others, and always studied with enthusiasm from nature. In October, 1843, he was married to Miss ELIZABETH DE WINDT, of Fishkill, on the Hudson, and from this period until 1847 resided principally in New York, in the assiduous practice of his art, in which he made very rapid improvement. He now proceeded to Italy, where for two or three years he was an industrious and successful student in the galleries, and produced many fine original landscape studies. In 1853 he went a second time to Europe, and has since made his home in Paris. His course as an artist has been marked by a strict regard to truth and nature, and he ranks among the first of our landscape painters. A taste for music is also one of his strong characteristics, and has been carefully cultivated. Mr. CRANCH was associated with GEORGE RipLEY, RALPH WALDO EMERSON, MARGARET FULLER, and others of the school of "Boston transcendentalists," as a writer for "The Dial," and some of his earliest and best lyrical effusions appeared in that remarkable periodical. In 1854 he published in Philadelphia a small volume of his "Poems," which was sharply reviewed by old-fashioned critics; but it was not addressed to them: "Him we will seek," the poet says, "and none but him, Whose inward sense hath not grown dim; The wisdom that o'erlooketh sense, And the class who saw themselves reflected in these Heaved happily beneath the winter-rose's blossoms; Youth hath its time- The forms were fair to see, The tones were sweet to the ear; I stood in the open air, The crescent moon hung o'er the west; Wooing the feverish soul to rest; Flooding the skies, bathing the earth, All was sweet to the ear: But there's beauty more fair to me- I sat in my room alone. Its soothing strains were such Then the purposes of life The wants of every human heart, Blessings to the weary soul That hath felt the better world's control. Here is beauty such as ne'er Met the eye or charm'd the ear. In the soul's high duties then I felt That the loftiest beauty ever dwelt. MY THOUGHTS. MANY are the thoughts that come to me In my lonely musing; And they drift so strange and swift, There's no time for choosing Which to follow, for to leave Any, seems a losing. When they come, they come in flocks, In autumnal weather, Waking one another up From the sheltering heather. Some so merry that I laugh, There are thoughts that o'er me steal, Like the day when dawning; Great thoughts wing'd with melody, Common utterance scorning, Moving in an inward tune, And an inward morning. Some have dark and drooping wings, Children all of sorrow; Some are as gay, as if to-day Could see no cloudy morrow, And yet like light and shade they each Must from the other borrow. One by one they come to me On their destined mission; One by one I see them fade With no hopeless vision; For they 've led me on a step To their home Elysian. THE HOURS. THE hours are viewless angels, As one by one departs, Like summer-bees, that hover The heart's deep flower-cups yield, And some flit by on pinions Of joyous gold and blue, And as we spend each minute That God to us hath given, The deeds are known before His throne, The tale is told in heaven. These bee-like hours we see not, Nor hear their noiseless wings; We only feel, too oft, when flown, That they have left their stings. So, teach me, Heavenly Father, |