"But now, if I die, fulfil for me This last request, O brother! Take home my body to France with thee, To be laid in the lap of my mother. "The cross of honor, with ribbon red, Shalt thou place on my heart where they lay me; The shouldered musket beside my head, And with girded sword array me. "And so in the grave, like a sentinel, Waking and watching, I'll lie there, Till I hear at last the cannon's yell, And the neighing steeds tramp by there. "And then shall my emperor ride o'er my grave, ALABAMA. There is a tradition that a tribe of Indians, defeated and hard pressed by a 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. Bruised and bleeding, pale and weary, By relentless foemen pressed,— Flushed a mighty river's breast; By the stern steam-demon hurried, Far from home and scenes so blessed; By the gloomy care-dogs worried, Sleepless, houseless, and distressed,— Days and nights beheld me hieing Like a bird without a nest, Till I hailed thy waters, crying, "Alabama! Here I rest!" Oh! when life's last sun is blinking From my sick and fainting breast, Jones Very. AMERICAN. A native of Salem, Mass., Jones Very (1813-1880) graduated at Harvard College in 1836. In 1823 he accompa nied his father, who was a sea-captain, to Europe; on his return, served as Greek tutor at Harvard two years, entered the ministry, and continued in it, though without a pastoral charge. In 1839 he published a volume of “Essays and Poems." His residence was in Salem, Mass., with two sisters, both of whom had the poetical gift. His brother, Washington Very (1815-1853), was also a poet in the best sense of the word. Very's meditative poems show refined taste and a strong devotional tendency. THE BUD WILL SOON BECOME A FLOWER. Then seize, oh youth, the present hour,- Do thy best always-do it now; The sun and rain will ripen fast Each seed that thou hast sown; And every act and word at last By its own fruit be known. And soon the harvest of thy toil Rejoicing thou shalt reap, Or o'er thy wild, neglected soil Go forth in shame to weep. HOME AND HEAVEN. With the same letter, heaven and home begin, THE SPIRIT-LAND. Father! thy wonders do not singly stand, In marvels rich to thine own sons displayed; We wander in the country far remote, NATURE. The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, And many a tree or bush my wanderings knows, OUR SOLDIERS' GRAVES. Strew all their graves with flowers, Bring flowers to deck each sod, Where rests their sacred dust; Though gone from earth, they live to God, Their everlasting trust! Fearless in Freedom's cause They suffered, toiled, and bled; And died obedient to her laws, By truth and conscience led. Oft as the year returns, She o'er their graves shall weep; And wreathe with flowers their funeral urns, Their memory dear to keep. Bring flowers of early spring To deck each soldier's grave, And summer's fragrant roses bring,They died our land to save. William Edmondstoune Aytoun. Descended from an ancient Scottish family, Aytoun (1813-1865) was born in Edinburgh, and educated at the Academy and University of that city. He also studied in Germany, and made translations of some of the best of Uhland's poems. In 1841, in conjunction with Theodore Martin, he produced the "Bon Gaultier Ballads." But his chief success (1843) was his spirited "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers." Seventeen editions of it had been issued up to 1865. He married a daughter of Professor John Wilson, the poet, and editor of Blackwood's Magazine. With this periodical Aytoun was connected till the close of his life. Among his later works are "Firmilian; or, The Student of Badajoz," a poem in ridicule of the "spasmodic school" of verse; Bothwell," a pocm; and "Norman Sinclair," a romance. THE OLD SCOTTISH CAVALIER. Come, listen to another song, Should make your heart beat high, Bring crimson to your forehead, And the lustre to your eye: It is a song of olden time, Of days long since gone by, And of a baron stout and bold As e'er wore sword on thigh! Like a brave old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time! He kept his castle in the North, Hard by the thundering Spey; And a thousand vassals dwelt around, All of his kindred they. And not a man of all that clan Had ever ceased to pray For the royal race they loved so well, Though exiled far away From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers, All of the olden time! His father drew the righteous sword For Scotland and her claims, Among the loyal gentlemen And chiefs of ancient names, Who swore to fight or fall beneath The standard of King James, And died at Killiecrankie Pass, With the glory of the Graemes, Like a true old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time! He never owned the foreign rule, But kept his clan in peace at home And when they asked him for his oath, All of the olden time! At length the news ran through the land,- That night the fiery cross was sped With the valiant Scottish cavaliers, He was the first that bent the knee And ever in the van of fight, Like a good old Scottish cavalier, Oh! never shall we know again A heart so stout and true The olden times have passed away, The fair White Rose has faded From the garden where it grew, And no fond tears, save those of heaven, The glorious bed bedew Of the last old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time! Christopher Pearse Cranch. AMERICAN. Crauch was born in Alexandria, Va., in 1813, and was graduated at Columbia College, Washington, in 1832, He began the study of divinity; but forsook it for landscape-painting. A small volume of poetry from his pen appeared in 1844; and in 1875, "The Bird and the Bell, with other Poems." In 1847 he visited Europe, and lived abroad, mostly in Paris, for over ten years. He is the author of two works for the young, and of a superior metrical translation of Virgil. SONNET. Upon God's throne there is a seat for me: own, Thy quick love flies to meet my feeble prayer, In endless space; but thou and I were there, child. GNOSIS.' Thought is deeper than all speech, Souls to souls can never teach We are spirits clad in veils; Mind with mind did never meet; We are columns left alone Of a temple once complete. Like the stars that gem the sky, Far apart, though seeming near, 1 Greek, Tvois-knowing. FROM AN "ODE." ON THE BIRTHDAY OF MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI.1 Where now, where, O spirit pure, where walk those shining feet? By gracious companies who share That strange supernal air? Or art thou sleeping dreamless, knowing naught Of good or ill, of life or death? Or art thou but a breeze of Heaven's breath, In the eternal essence ?-All in vain, As the proud eagles fail From the thin empyrean, so, with wing 1 For an account of this lady, see page 676. Henry Theodore Tuckerman. AMERICAN. Tuckerman (1813-1871) was a native of Boston, the son of a well-known merchant. He was fitted for college, but, on account of feeble health, did not enter. He was a prolific, but never, in the commercial sense, a successful writer. He spent some eleven years of his life in Italy; wrote "The Italian Sketch-book," "Thoughts on the Poets," "Artist Life," "The Optimist," etc., besides contributing to the leading magazines. In poetry, he preferred the school of Pope, Cowper, and Burns to the modern style, so largely influenced by Tennyson, Browning, and their imitators. His principal poem, published in Boston in 1851, and entitled "The Spirit of Poetry," is an elaborate essay in heroic verse of some seven hundred lines. He was a close student of art, as his writings show. SONNET: FREEDOM. Freedom! beneath thy banner I was born: Caught from her mountains, groves, and crystal streams; Her starry host, and sunset's purple glow, Till Life's harsh fetters clog the heart no more! Epes Sargent. AMERICAN. A native of Gloucester, Mass. (born 1813), Sargent attended the Public Latin School in Boston some five years. In 1827 he went in one of his father's ships to Denmark and Russia, and, a few years later, to Cuba. He entered Harvard College, but did not graduate. He was connected in an editorial capacity with the Advertiser, Atlas, and Transcript of Boston; and for several years with the Mirror, New World, and other New York journals. He published in 1849"Songs of the Sea, and other Poems," now out of print. Before that, he had passed several seasons at Washington as the correspondent of Boston and New York journals. He wrote a Life of Henry Clay, afterward re-edited by Horace Greeley. In 1868 he revisited Europe, and passed some time in England and the South of France. His home has been in the Roxbury district of Boston. EVENING IN GLOUCESTER HARBOR. The very pulse of ocean now was still: And Boston Light winking at Minot's Ledge! But when the moon shone crescent in the west, SUNRISE AT SEA. When the mild weather came, And set the sea on flame, How often would I rise before the sun, And from the mast behold The gradual splendors of the sky unfold Ere the first line of disk had yet begun, Above the horizon's arc, To show its flaming gold, Across the purple dark! One perfect dawn how well I recollect, Went up before the mounting luminary, How reverently calm the ocean lay Before the augmenting ray, Till the victorious Orb rose unattended, And every billow was his mirror splendid! May, 1827. A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. A life on the ocean wave, A home on the rolling deep, Where the scattered waters rave, And the winds their revels keep: Like an eagle caged, I pine On this dull, unchanging shore: Oh! give me the flashing brine, The spray and the tempest's roar! Once more on the deck I stand Of my own swift-gliding craft: Set sail! farewell to the land! The gale follows fair abaft. We shoot through the sparkling foam Like an ocean-bird set free ;— Like the ocean-bird, our home We'll find far out on the sea. The land is no longer in view, The clouds have begun to frown; But with a stout vessel and crew, We'll say, Let the storm come down! And the song of our hearts shall be, While the winds and the waters rave, A home on the rolling sea! A life on the ocean wave! |