Thou that wouldst taste it, still do thy best; Use it, not waste it,-else 'tis no rest. Wouldst behold beauty near thee? all round? Only hath duty such a sight found. Rest is not quitting the busy career; Rest is the fitting of self to its sphere. "Tis the brook's motion, clear without strife, Fleeing to ocean after its life. Deeper devotion nowhere hath knelt; Fuller emotion heart never felt. 'Tis loving and serving the highest and best; "Tis onward! unswerving, and that is true rest. VANITAS! VANITATUM VANITAS! I've set my heart upon nothing, you see; And so the world goes well with me. Hurrah! And who has a mind to be fellow of mine, Why, let him take hold and help me drain These mouldy lees of wine. I set my heart at first upon wealth: And bartered away my peace and health; The slippery change went about like air, I set my heart upon woman next; Hurrah! For her sweet sake was oft perplexed; The False one looked for a daintier lot, I set my heart upon travels grand; Hurrah! And spurned our plain old father-land; But, ah! Naught seemed to be just the thing it should,Most comfortless beds and indifferent food! My tastes misunderstood! I set my heart upon sounding fame; Hurrah! And, lo! I'm eclipsed by some upstart's name; And, ah! When in public life I loomed quite high, The folks that passed me would look awry: Their very worst friend was I. And then I set my heart upon war; We gained some battles with éclat. We troubled the foe with sword and flame Now I've set my heart upon nothing, you see; And the whole wide world belongs to me. The feast begins to run low, no doubt; Henry B. Hirst. AMERICAN. Hirst was born in Philadelphia in 1813. He began the study of the law in 1830. His earliest poems appeared in Graham's Magazine when he was about thirty. In the preface to his "Endymion" (written before he had ever seen the "Endymion" of Keats), he says: "Until the age of twenty-three, I entertained a holy horror of poetryan almost ludicrous result of an exceedingly prosaic existence. *** It would be safe to say that I have written, not published, more English rhyme than I have read." In 1845 he put forth, in Boston, "The Coming of the Mammoth,' ," "The Funeral of Time, and other Poems;" and in 1848 appeared his "Endymion," a poem of one hundred and twenty pages, in which there is an occasional passage not unworthy of Keats. In 1849 he published "The Penance of Roland: a Romance of the Peine Forte et Dure, and other Poems." It is rather a tragic story of a husband who, in a fit of unjust jealousy, slays his wife. PARTING OF DIAN AND ENDYMION. The goddess gasped for breath, with bosom swelling: With passion on the audacious youth were dwelling: She raised her angry hand, that seemed to clasp Jove's thunder in its grasp. And then she stood in silence, fixed and breathless; But presently the threatening arm slid down; The fierce, destroying frown Departed from her eyes, which took a deathless Expression of despair, like Niobe's Her dead ones at her knees. Slowly her agony passed, and an Elysian, Now dwelling on the skies: Meanwhile, Endymion stood, cheek, brow, and vision, Radiant with resignation, stern and cold, In conscious virtue bold. Their glances met; his, while they trembled, showing An earnestness of purpose; hers, a soul Whence passion's wild control Had passed forever; while her whole form, glowing, Resumed its stateliness: once more she stood Erect, in all-the god! * "Farewell, Endymion," said the goddess, stooping, Pressing with pallid lips upon his brow A kiss of frozen snow, [ing And, mournfully turning, passed, her fair head droopUpon her snowy breast: "Farewell forever Forever and forever!" Endymion, stretching forth his arms, endeavored To clasp her garment's hem, but slowly, slowly, She waned and vanished wholly, And like a dream: the sudden silence severed His heart from him: "Farewell," it breathed, "forever! Forever and forever!" Thomas Osborne Davis. Davis (1814-1845) was a native of Mallow, County Cork, Ireland. He was a close student from early youth, entered Trinity College, and was admitted to the Irish Bar. In company with John Dillon and Charles Gavan Duffy, in 1842 he founded The Nation, a powerful organ for the most radical of the Irish patriots. He showed as much lyrical as political fervor in his contributions. Of an exuberant, joyous spirit, and a strict lover of truth and right, he did not live to redeem the high promise of his youth. Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you. Light is my heart since the day we were plighted, Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers! don't sever." I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them; Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom. I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you; I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you; Oh! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer, Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor; I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, Then, wandering, I'll wish you in silence to love me. We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie, We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy, We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her. Oh! she'll whisper yon, "Love as unchangeably beaming, And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming, Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." So come in the evening, or come in the morning, Come when you're looked for, or come without warning, Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you! And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers! don't sever!" THE WELCOME. Come in the evening, or come in the morning, Come when you're looked for, or come without warning, Robert Nicoll. Nicoll (1814-1837), a youth of high promise, cultivated literature amidst many discouragements, and died in his twenty-fourth year, of consumption. He was a native of Auchtergaven, in Perthshire, Scotland. When about thirteen he began to note down his thoughts and to scribble verses. When twenty, he remarked, in a letter to a friend, "I am a Radical in every sense of the term;" and in 1836 he became editor of the Leeds Times, representing the extreme of the liberal class of opinions. He added largely to its circulation. His poems are short occasional pieces and songs-the latter much inferior to his serious poems. His "People's Anthem" rises into somewhat of true grandeur by virtue of simplicity; and his lines on "Death," believed to be the last of his compositions, are entitled to similar praise. Ebenezer Elliott styles him "Scotland's second Burns." PEOPLE'S ANTHEM. Lord, from Thy blesséd throne, Sorrow look down upon! God save the Poor! Teach them true libertyMake them from tyrants freeLet their homes happy be! God save the Poor! The arms of wicked men Raise Thou their lowliness- Give them staunch honesty- These woods have shaken mighty human souls: Are there not aspirations in each heart After a better, brighter world than this? Longings for beings nobler in each partThings more exalted-steeped in deeper bliss ? Who gave us these? What are they? Soul, in thee The bud is budding now for immortality! Death comes to take me where I long to be; One pang, and bright blooms the immortal flower; Death comes to lead me from mortality, To lands which know not one unhappy hour; I have a hope, a faith-from sorrow here I'm led by death away-why should I start and fear? If I have loved the forest and the field, A change from woe to joy-from earth to heaven,— Death gives me this-it leads me calmly where The souls that long ago from mine were riven May meet again! death answers many a prayer: Bright day, shine on! be glad: days brighter far Are stretched before my eyes than those of mortals are! LIFE IN DEATH. The dew is on the summer's greenest grass, The sun shines sweetly-sweeter may it shine; Alexander Beaufort Meek. AMERICAN. A native of Columbia, S. C., Meek was born in 1814, and died in 1865. He made the law his profession. He edited for a time The Southron, a literary monthly published at Tuscaloosa, Ala. In 1836 he served as lieutenant of volunteers against the Seminoles. He was United States Attorney for the Southern District of Alabama from 1846 to 1850, and associate editor of the Mobile Daily Register from 1848 to 1853. In 1859 he was elected Speaker of the Alabama Legislature. In 1855 he published "The Red Eagle: a Poem of the South ;" and in 1857 a volume of orations, songs, and poems of the South. His spirited poem describing the charge at Balaklava was for a long time attributed to Alexander Smith, the young Scottish poet. Many critics of the day professed to prefer it to Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade." BALAKLAVA. Oh the charge at Balaklava! Oh that rash and fatal charge! Never was a fiercer, braver, On the battle's bloody marge! Fortress huge, and blazing banks, Scarce six hundred men and horses Oh that rash and fatal charge, Far away the Russian Eagles Soar o'er smoking hill and dell, And their hordes, like howling beagles, Dense and countless, round them yell! Thundering cannon, deadly mortar, Sweep the field in every quarter! Never, since the days of Jesus, Trembled so the Chersonesus! Here behold the Gallic Lilies- No, by heavens! at that command- Brave Six Hundred! lo! they charge, Down yon deep and skirted valley, Where the crowded cannon play,Where the Czar's fierce cohorts rally, Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli,— Down that gorge they swept away! Down that new Thermopylæ, Flashing swords and helmets sec! Underneath the iron shower, To the brazen cannon's jaws, Heedless of their deadly power, Press they without fear or pause,- At the field of Roncesvalles, Oh that rash and fatal charge, Now the bolts of volleyed thunder Screaming wildly, sink away; Yet your remnant, brave Six Hundred, Till they storm the bloody pass,— Lo, they storm the deadly pass! Oh that rash and fatal charge, For now Russia's rallied forces, Drive the thinned assailants back, Ever trod the field of fame, Than the Knights of Balaklava,— Honor to each hero's name! |