cify the plan which was adopted to gain the information desired. It is already familiar to the reader. The desire of Washington being stated to his assembled officers, they retired to their meditations. Who among them was willing to undertake a service so fraught with danger? Among these officers, was Nathan Hale. After mature deliberation, impelled by a sense of duty, he resolved to undertake the task. Though urged by the pleadings of a friend, not to undertake a service so hazardous, his mind still remained fixed and steadfast; and no motive, however powerful, could induce him to neglect an opportunity to be useful to his country. Being told that his success was extremely doubtful, and his danger imminent, he replied, that, 'conscious of all this, as he was, he could not consent to withhold his services.' Accordingly, he passed over to the enemy, and succeeded in obtaining the desired information. What must have been his feelings, now that he had performed his duty to his country? What emotions must have filled his bosom, at the thought of returning to his great commander, the immortal Washington, laden with the fruits of his daring enterprise? Indeed no reward was expected, none was offered, to him who should undertake this task. No bribe of promotion, no glorious prize, was held out in case of success; but all that could be gained, at most, was the approving smile of the Pater Patriæ, and the thanks of his countrymen! Such noble disinterestedness, such patriotic devotion, can only be found in the hearts of those who, like him, could appreciate the blessing of freedom. But while such happy thoughts were passing in his mind; while his heart beat high with the expectation of a speedy return to his fellow soldiers, and his friends; a sudden cloud dimmed the bright vision. Arrested by the hand of the enemy, he was already beyond the reach of mercy. His object discovered, he frankly confessed it. The die was cast. He was tried and convicted; and now he stands upon the scaffold. Let us pause, and for a moment contemplate the awful scene which is soon to close. Calm, collected, firm - no servile fear of death is marked upon his brow. Conscious of no guilt, how dignified his deportment!-how undaunted his courage! As he looks around upon the assembled multitude, who are gathered together to behold his departure from the world, and sees before him none but his enemies, he neither hesitates nor falters; but with an undaunted look, resolved to die for his country, he yields to the sacrifice. As a dying request, he asks that a Bible may be furnished him. With a fiendish malice, this last dying prayer is refused; and his letters which he desires may be conveyed to his mother and his friends, are destroyed. His last sad farewell they never will receive! Still firm amid all this cruelty, he utters no complaint; but as his eyes are turned for the last time toward the home of his birth, while a beam of patriotic fire kindles up his countenance, he exclaims: 'I only lament that I have but one life to lose for my country;' and he dies, a martyr in the cause of liberty. Such was the fate of HALE. Though no marble column rears its head, to tell that he died for the republic, yet on the hearts of his countrymen his name is engraved, in living characters. Let his memory be cherished. Let it be transmitted to the latest posterity. And long after the frailer monuments of marble and brass shall have crumbled into dust, his story shall survive. F. W. S. THE PIPE. THE lady who has kindly presented the author of 'Ship and Shore' with a KNICKERBOCKER PIPE, will accept, as a slight token of his gratitude, the following lines, in eulogy of its beauty and breath. VOL. XI. Rev. Matter Belton COME, Sweet, melodious Muse! sole source of song, Full and o'erflowing, as through Egypt's plain Beloved narcotic weed!-- hadst thou been known Converting baser substances to gold; Nor would the Argonauts have sailed from Greece, Or what the treasures of the Hybla bee, Thy quiet spirit lulls the laboring brain, Lures back to thought the sounds of vacant mirth, And sheds contentment round the humble hearth; The mighty mound that guards Achilles' dust, Now only give to doubt a deeper gloom; The towers of Thebes, that millions toiled to rear, Terrific Etna, whose volcanic fires O'er flaming fields and cindered cities fell, 8 W. C. Thy purple wreaths, in solemn ringlets curled, Thou too wilt then that last sad change reveal, Away, poor trifle! what with thee is death? To leave its work, for that awarding state, Where boundless bliss or endless woes await. BACON'S POEM S.* PERHAPS no young writer in this country has produced a more promising volume of poetry than the one before us. There is a great deal more than ordinary merit in it; and hence it is deserving of cordial commendation. The reception which some of our critics have given this book, is not a little to be wondered at. Although it is, as we have said, a volume of poetry evincing undoubted genius, yet there has been an attempt, as it seems to us, to depreciate it, and that too without intelligence or justice. Some of the critics have seemed to shut their eyes, and with a book in their hands, on almost every page of which there is much of genuine poetry, they have thought fit to denounce the author; accusing him of faults which he does not possess, and denying him excellencies of which his book bears abundant testimony. There are some passages in this volume which would do credit to any American poet. They have a vigor of thought, a delicacy of sentiment, a simplicity and strength of diction, and withal a moral dignity, worthy of all praise. The reception of young American writers among us is by no means always what it should be. There is not sufficient attention given them. Their faults are not kindly pointed out, and their excellences commended; and they have too often no other way but to get along as they can, and find at last, that if success does crown their efforts, it is so embittered, that they would almost as soon do without it. In support of this position, we might adduce the reception of Mr. Bacon. He has not been without liberal supporters; still, one or two critics of reputation have come down upon him with such ponderous bludgeons, as might well have beaten his brains out. We trust, however, that his brains are safe, and we are glad of it; for, in our opinion, such brains as his should not be scattered, unless he makes a worse use of them than appears in this volume. As a first effort, the work, as might well be expected, has not the uniformity and finish of older writers; still there is such manifest ability in it, as makes us confident the author can do much in future. There is a soundness in his thoughts; the language evinces much taste and talent; while the great moral independence of the volume gives it an additional claim upon our attention. *Poems by WILLIAM THOMPSON BACON. Boston: WEEKS, JORDAN AND COMPANY. ́One of the first requisites for the production of good poetry, is a good understanding; we mean by this, common sense. We give Mr. Bacon credit here. Indeed, the mind that could produce the essay at the end of the volume, would leave prettinesses, affectations, and languishings, to moon-struck lovers. The subject there discussed is one about which many young poets have made themselves ridiculous; but the last sin of that very sensible and elegant essay, is a poetic mania. Mr. Bacon writes with enthusiasm, yet as if he thought the world had at times something else to do, beside read verses; and though our admiration of Wordsworth is not of the same temperature as our author's, yet his views are propounded in such a manly style, that we will praise his sense, though we like not his system. Some of the critics have seized this to his disadvantage; yet they have certainly failed. Not one twentieth of the book is at all Wordsworthian, either good or bad; and the pieces selected as such, and censured, are altogether of another school. The following poem has been censured as tinctured with the Lake Spirit.' Let a man who has a heart, read it: 'LESSON OF LIFE. "Tis very strange, 't is very strange, Tis very strange, the simplest things, 'A word, a tone, a look, a song, A bird, a bee, a leaf, a flower; These to the self-same class belong, And all of them they have this power; 'And all about the heart they bring 'Now 'tis not, that there is not found The sky is just as blue above; 'Birds sing, bees hum, brooks prattle near, And warm, warm words are in the ear, 'And yet, the heart lies cold and dead We once did love and cherish so; 'And we look round, and we look back 'And then we ask, since this we see, 'If earth must change as on we go, 'Alas, alas, as we move on, If thus the heart from bliss must sever, Better we children be for ever!' The only thing like Wordsworth here, is that it is poetry. It would be well for some of the writer's critics, if they were 'tinctured' with a little of the same folly. We give Mr. Bacon great credit, likewise, for the vividness and power of his imagination. We would select the last half of Thanatos,' a poem of much power and beauty, and the Vision of War,' as undeniable proofs of his claims, in this regard, to general admiration. We give Mr. Bacon credit, also, for that which is the best test of poetic genius; power of description. Here he must speak for himself. The following is from A Forest Noon Scene:' 6 'This is indeed a sacred solitude, And beautiful as sacred. Here no sound, Meets nought but hath a moral. These deep shades, Or beech, or nut, whose branches interlaced' O'ercanopy us, and, shutting out the day, A twilight make- they press upon the heart These trunks enormous, from the mountain side Transversely cast; these monarchs of the wood, That, shiver'd by the thunder-stroke, and hurl'd From yonder cliff, their bed for centuries, Here crushed and wedged; all by their massiveness, Of Deity. And here are wanted not More delicate forms of beauty. Numerous tribes Of natural flowrets blossom in these shades, Meet for the scene alone. At ev'ry step, Inlay the turf. Here, softly peeping forth, Such as the city boasts- - of paler hue, Yet fragrant more. The simple forest flower, Right o'er the forest walk, the wild syringa And all its aspirations to the source Of life and light. Nor woodland sounds are wanting, The poet feels, lull soothingly. The winds Are playing with the forest tops in glee, And music make. Sweet rivulets Slip here and there from out the crevices |