No general account of American literature can be complete without some mention of Joaquin Miller. Cincinnatus Hiner Miller, was born in the Wabash District, Ind., November 10, 1841. From 1854 on he lived in Oregon or California, being an editor in Oregon and for four years County Judge there. Having visited Europe in 1870, he published Songs of the Sierras. Other volumes have followed, among them The Danites, which has a merit that seems now unusual for a literary play, that of being successful on the stage. Almost from the very outset of Miller's career, it was evident that his genius was larger than his literary surroundings. His earlier Californian verse was the prelude to the wider, richer note of Songs of the Sierras and Songs of the Sunlands. Among Miller's poems it is not easy, both on account of his range and of his prolificness, to make a choice for the purpose of commentary. Among other productions may well be selected, however, his pictures of the flying journey by rail across the American continent, his tales of pioneer adventure, and his idyl, the scene of which is laid upon the Amazon. Miller's power would not have been shown but for his longer poems, although the more critical reader may prefer the shorter ones. Of the latter, In Yosemite Valley is onomatopoetic, keenly descriptive, and strongly, though perhaps a little dimly, reverential. Charity is an original treatment of a favorite subject in painting and poetry and contains some fine single lines. On the whole, Miller's poems show a genius which even yet has probably not fully developed itself. AT BETHLEHEM. "In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wild waste there still is a tree." Though the many lights dwindle to one light, Change lays not her hand upon truth." With incense and myrrh and sweet spices, In ivory, chased with devices Cut quaint and in serpentine coil; Heads bared and held down to the bosom ; Child Christ, in their sandals. The sound IN YOSEMITE VALLEY. Sound! sound! sound! O colossal walls as crown'd In one eternal thunder! Sound! sound! sound! O ye oceans overhead, While we walk, subdued in wonder, Fret fret! fret! Streaming, sounding banners, set Surge! surge! surge! From the white Sierra's verge, Surge! surge! surge! 1 Merced, a river in California, rising in the Sierra Nevadas, and flowing into the San Joaquin. Yet the song-bird builds a home, Sweep! sweep! sweep! O ye heaven-born and deep, We may We may shout or lift a hand,- Beat! beat! beat! We advance, but would retreat From this Paradise below Waves us onward and—we go. CHARITY. Her hands were clasped downward and doubled. Her robes were all dust and disorder'd She heard not accusers that brought her Nor heeded, nor said, nor besought her All crush'd and stone-cast in behavior, What wrote He? How fondly one lingers Fell down from the beautiful fingers O better the Scian 1uncherished He arose and he look'd on the daughter And he heard the revilers that brought her- And he said: "She has sinn'd; let the blameless 1 Scian, Homer, the greatest Greek poet, born perhaps at Chios, on the island of Scio. |