Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

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,
And aid this once my bold, adventurous strain;
Teach me to roll the liquid verse along,

Full and o'erflowing, as through Egypt's plain
Rolls the rich Nile, which time and death defies-
Pipes are my theme, and woman's love the prize!

Beloved narcotic weed!-- hadst thou been known
To dreaming seers and alchymists of old,
They had not idly sought that fabled stone,

Converting baser substances to gold;
And Midas might his wand's transmuting stroke
Have lightly prized, in thy delicious smoke.

Nor would the Argonauts have sailed from Greece,
In search of Colchos; what, compared to thee,
Were all that glittered in that Golden Fleece?

Or what the treasures of the Hybla bee,
Or Eden's fruit and shade, lost in the fall?
One whiff of thee, my pipe, were worth them all!

Thy quiet spirit lulls the laboring brain,

Lures back to thought the sounds of vacant mirth,
Consoles the mourner, soothes the couch of pain,

And sheds contentment round the humble hearth;
While savage hatred, in thy melting breath,
Forgets the war-whoop, the wild dance of death!

The mighty mound that guards Achilles' dust,
The marble strength of Agamemnon's tomb,
The pyramid of Cheop's dying trust,

Now only give to doubt a deeper gloom;
But thy memorial unborn men shall find
Immortal mid the triumphs of the mind.

The towers of Thebes, that millions toiled to rear,
In scattered ruins own the earthquake's shock;
The fleets of Rome, that filled the isles with fear,
The storm hath left in fragments on the rock:
But thrones may crumble, empires fade away,
Their frailties reach not thee, thou thing of clay!

Terrific Etna, whose volcanic fires

O'er flaming fields and cindered cities fell,
When once its central nursing-flame expires,
Will ever stand a deep extinguished hell!
But thy warm life extinct, a kindling coal
Can light again thy vapor-heaving bowl.

8

W. C.

Thy purple wreaths, in solemn ringlets curled,
Float on the breeze to join that pall of cloud,
'Neath whose sepulchral gloom, this restless world
Will lie at last, in its unheaving shroud.

Thou too wilt then that last sad change reveal,
Which follows fast, where death hath set its seal.

Away, poor trifle! what with thee is death?
Only the spark put out, that lit thy bowl,
The fragrance fled, that mingled with thy breath;
With man,
it is a summons for his soul

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,
The fancies of our early years,
Despite of chance, despite of change,
Can thus melt manhood into tears!

Tis very strange, the simplest things,
No matter what they were, we loved,
Are those the memory cagerest brings,
And those the last to be removed.

'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
Their memories -a potent spell!
As parting friends still kiss and cling,
And must, yet cannot say, farewell.

'Now 'tis not, that there is not found
As much to see, and feel, and love;
The earth is just as fair around,

The sky is just as blue above;

'Birds sing, bees hum, brooks prattle near,
Music is of the world a part,

And warm, warm words are in the ear,
And heart beats fondly unto heart.

'And yet, the heart lies cold and dead
Its finer feelings will not glow;
The blossoms all are withered,

We once did love and cherish so;

'And we look round, and we look back
At things of Life's young morning-hour,
And wonder those of manhood's track,
Have not as soft and sweet a power.

'And then we ask, since this we see,
If thus, in running out life's span,
We must be what we would not be,
That cold, care-fretted creature, man?

'If earth must change as on we go,
If life, and loveliness, and truth
Must pass from every thing below,
With the delightful days of youth?

'Alas, alas, as we move on,

If thus the heart from bliss must sever,
Better were manhood not begun -

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,
Save such as breathes a soft tranquillity,
Falls on the ear; and all around, the eye

Meets nought but hath a moral. These deep shades,
With here and there an upright trunk of ash,

Or beech, or nut, whose branches interlaced'

O'ercanopy us, and, shutting out the day,

A twilight make- they press upon the heart
With force amazing and unutterable.

These trunks enormous, from the mountain side
Ripp'd roots and all by whirlwinds; those vast pines
Athwart the ravine's melancholy gloom

Transversely cast; these monarchs of the wood,
Dark, gnarl'd, centennial oaks, that throw their arms
So proudly up; those monstrous ribs of rock

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,
And silent strength, impress us with a sense

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,
Some beauteous combination of soft hues,
Less brilliant though than those that deck the field,
The eye attracts. Mosses of softest green,
Creep round the trunks of the decayed trees;
And mosses, hueless as the mountain snow,

Inlay the turf. Here, softly peeping forth,
The eye detects the little violet,

Such as the city boasts- - of paler hue,

Yet fragrant more. The simple forest flower,
And that pied gem, the wind-flower, sweetly named,
Here greet the cautious search; while, bending down

Right o'er the forest walk, the wild syringa
Displays its long and tufted flower, and swings
In the soft breeze. And these soft delicate forms,
And breaths of perfume, send th' unwilling heart

And all its aspirations to the source

Of life and light. Nor woodland sounds are wanting,
Such as the mind to that soft melancholy

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

« ПредишнаНапред »