GEORGE P. MORRIS. [Born 1801. THIS popular song-writer is a native of Philadelphia. In common with many prominent authors of the present time, he commenced his literary career by contributions to the journals. When about fifteen years of age he wrote verses for the "New York Gazette," and he subsequently filled occasionally" the poet's corner" in the "American," at that time under the direction of Mr. JOHNSON VERPLANCK. In 1823, with the late Mr. WoonWORTH, he established the "New York Mirror," a weekly miscellany which for nearly nineteen years was conducted with much taste and ability. In 1827 his play, in five acts, entitled "Brier Cliff, a tale of the American Revolution," was brought out at the Chatham Theatre by Mr. WALLACK, and acted forty nights successively. I have been informed that its popularity was so great that it was played at four theatres in New York, to full houses, on the same evening, and that it yielded the author a profit of three thousand five hundred dollars, a larger sum, probably, than was ever paid for any other dramatic composition in the United States. In 1836 General MORRIS published a volume of amusing prose writings under the title of The Little Frenchman and his Water Lots;" in 1838 The Deserted Bride and other Poems," of which an enlarged edition, illustrated by WIER and CHAPMAN, appeared in 1843; and in 1852 a complete collection of his "Poetical Works." The composition which is understood to rank highest in his own estimation is the poetry of "The Maid of Saxony," an opera with music by Mr. CHARLES HORN, produced at the Park Theatre in 1842. In 1843, in conjunction with Mr. WILLIS, he reestablished The Mirror," and he is now associated with that popular author in conducting "The Home Journal." If there is any literary work which calls for a special gift of nature, perhaps it is the song. In terms of a sounder theory, I may say, that its successful accomplishment, beyond almost any other composition, demands an intelligent insight into the principles upon which its effect depends, and a capacity, if not to combine with imposing strength, yet to select with the nicest judgment. Other productions often gratify long and highly, in spite | of considerable defects, while the song, to succeed at all, must be nearly perfect. It implies a taste delicately skilled in the fine influences of language. It has often shunned the diligence of men who have done greater things. Starting from some common perception, by almost a crystalline process of accretion, it should grow up into a poem. Its first note should find the hearer in sympathy with it, and its last should leave him moved and wondering. Throughout, it must have a affi Died 1864.] nity to some one fixed idea. Its propriety is, ra so much to give expression to a feeling existing in the bosom of the author, as to reproduce that feeling in the heart of the listener. The tone of the composition ought therefore to be, as much as is possible, below the force of the feeling which it would inspire. It should be simple, entire, and glowing. The distinction and difficulty of the song are illustrated by the genius of JONSON, MARLOWE, and DRYDEN; by the fame of MOORE, and the failure of BYRON. Several of the songs of MORRIS, whether judged of by their success, or by the application of any rules of criticism, are nearly faultless. They are in a very chaste style of art. They have the simplicity which is the characteristic of the classic models, and the purity which was once deemed an indispensable quality in the lyric poet. They are marked by neatness of anguage, free from every thing affected or finical; a natural elegance of sentiment, and a correct moral purpose. His best effusions have few marks of imitation; they are like each other, but no English song can be named from which, in character and tone, they are not different. "The Chieftain's Daughter" is an example of the narrative song, in which the whole story is told, in a few lines, without omission and without redundancy; "When other friends are round thee," is a beautiful expression of affection; "Land, Ho!" is an exceedingly spirited and joyous nautical piece; and in "Near the Lake," the very delicate effect which the author has contemplated is attained with remarkable precision. In sentiment, as in sound, there are certain natural melodies, which seem to be discovered rather than contrived, and which, as they are evolved from time to time by the felicity or skill of successive artists, are sure to be received with unbounded popularity. The higher and more elaborate productions of genius are best appreciated by the thoughtful analysis of a single critic; but the appropriate test of the merit of these simple, apparently almost spontaneous effusions, is the response which they meet with from the common heart of man. lodies of MoZART and AUBER, doubtless, enchanted their ears who first heard them played by the composers, but we know them to be founded in the enduring truth of art, only because they have made themselves a home in the streets of every city of Europe and America, and after long experience have been found to be among the natural formulas by which gaiety and melancholy express themselves in every rank and in every land. The song of " Woodman, spare that Tree," has touched one of those cords of pervading nature which fraternize multitudes of different nations. The me Mr. N. P. WILLIS, who has been for twenty years associated with General MORRIS in various literary labors, in one of his letters gives characteristically the following estimate of his literary and personal qualities: MORRIS is the best-known poet of the country, by acclamation, not by criticism. He is just what poets would be if they sang, like birds, without criticism: and it is a peculiarity of his fame, that it seems as regardless of criticism as a bird 'n he air. Nothing can stop a song of his. It is very easy to say that they are easy to do. They have a mo. mentum. somehow, that it is difficult for others to give, and that speeds them to the far goal of popularity-the best proof consisting in the fact that he can, at any moment, get fifty dollars for a song unread, when the whole remainder of the American Parnassus could not sell one to the same buyer for a shilling. It may, or may not. be one secret of his popularity, but it is the truth-that MORRIS's heart is at the level of most other people's, and his poetry flows out by that door. He stands breast-high in the common stream of sympathy, and the fine oil of his poetic feeling goes from him upon an element it is its nature to float upon, and which carries it safe to other bosoms, with little need of deep-diving or high-flying. His sentiments are simple, honest, truthful, and familiar; his language is pure and eminently musical, and he is prodigally full of the poetry of everyday feeling. These are days when poets try experiments; and while others succeed by taking the world's breath away with flights and plunges, MORRIS uses his feet to walk quietly with nature. Ninety-nine people in a hundred, taken as they come in the census, would find more to admire in MORRIS's songs, than in the writings of any other American poet; and that is a parish in the poetical episcopate well worthy a wise man's nurture and prizing. As to the man-MORRIS, my friend-I can hardly ven ture to burn incense on his moustache, as the French say-write his praises under his very nose-but as far off as Philadelphia, you may pay the proper tribute to his loyal nature and manly excellencies. His personal qualities have made him universally popular, but this overflow upon the world does not impoverish him for his friends. I have out. lined a true poet, and a fine fellow-fill up the picture to your liking." I NEVER HAVE BEEN FALSE TO THEE. I NEVER have been false to thee! With constant soul in good or ill; Thou 'st proved, as man too often proves, A rover-but I love thee still! Yet think not that my spirit stoops To bind thee captive in my train! Love's not a flower, at sunset droops, But smiles when comes her god again! Thy words, which fall unheeded now, Could once my heart-strings madly thrill! Love's golden chain and burning vow Are broken-but I love thee still. Once what a heaven of bliss was ours, When love dispelled the clouds of care, And time went by with birds and flowers, While song and incense filled the air! The past is mine-the present thineShould thoughts of me thy future fill, Think what a destiny is mine, To lose-but love thee, false one, still. WOMAN. Au, woman! in this world of ours, What boon can be compared to thee? How slow would drag life's weary hours, Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers, If destined to exist alone, My mother! at that holy name Within my bosom there's a gush Uf feeling, which no time can tameA feeling, which. for years of fame, I would not, could not, crush; And sisters! ye are dear as life; But when I look upon my wife, My heart blood gives a sudden rush, And pure as bright Aurora's ray, I would not estimate their worth, WE WERE BOYS TOGETHER. And never can forget In childhood where we met; Its sorrows and its joys; Where woke the transient smile or tear, We were youths together, And castles built in air, Your heart was like a feather, And mine weighed down with care; To you came wealth with manhood's prima To me it brought alloysForeshadowed in the primrose time, When you and I were boys. We're old men together The friends we loved of yore, With leaves of autumn weather, Are gone for evermore. How blest to age the impulse given, The hope time ne'er destroys Which led our thoughts from earth to heaven, When you and I were boys. THE WEST. Ho! brothers come hither and list to my story- And there curls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling Talk not of the town, boys,-give me the broad prairie, Where man like the wind roams impulsive and Behold how its beautiful coleurs all vary, [free; Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea. A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing; With proud independence we season our cheer, And those who the world are for happiness ranging, Won't find it at all, if they don't find it here. Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest; I'll show you the life, boys, we live in the west. Oho, boys!-oho, boys!—oho! Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger, We reap what we sow, for the soil is our own; We spread hospitality's board for the stranger, And care not a fig for the king on his throne; We never know want, for we live by our labour, And in it contentment and happiness find; We do what we can for a friend or a neighbour, And die, boys, in peace and good-will to mankind. Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest; You know how we live, boys, and die in the west! Oho, boys!-oho, boys!—oho! May rain-drops that fall from the storm-clouds of care, Melt away in the sun-beaming smiles of the fair! So be happy, if never again, boys, to-night! THE CHIEFTAIN'S DAUGHTER. UPON the barren sand A single captive stood, Around him came, with bow and brand, Like him of old, his doom he hears, The savage war-club swung, Her arms about him flung. Then shook the warriors of the shade, Like leaves on aspen limb, Subdued by that heroic maid Who breathed a prayer for him. "Unbind him?" gasp'd the chief, Obey your king's decree!" He kiss'd away her tears of grief, And set the captive free. "Tis ever thus, when in life's storm, Hope's star to man grows dim, An angel kneels in woman's form, And breathes a prayer for him. "LAND-HO!" Up, up, with the signal! The land is in sight! We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night! the holiest spot on the face of the earth! Dear country! our thoughts are as constant to thee, As the steel to the star, or the stream to the sea. Ho!-land-ho! We near it-we bound at the sight! Then be happy, if never again, boys, to-night! The signal is answer'd! The foam-sparkles rise Like tears from the fountain of joy to the eyes! NEAR THE LAKE. NEAR the lake where droop'd the willow, Long time ago! Where the rock threw back the billow, Brighter than snow; Dwelt a maid, beloved and cherish'd, By high and low; But with autumn's leaf she perished, Rock and tree and flowing water, Bee and bird and blossom taught her Tenderly her dove-eyes glistened Mingled were our hearts for ever! Can I now forget her?—Never' WHEN OTHER FRIENDS ARE ROUND THEE." When other friends are round thee, And other hearts are thine, When other bays have crown'd thee, More fresh and green than mine, Then think how sad and lonely This doating heart will be, Which, while it throbs, throbs only, Beloved one, for thee! Yet do not think I doubt thee, This heart still turns to thee. WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.* WOODMAN, spare that tree! And I'll protect it now. That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea, And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; Oh spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies! When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here too my sisters play'd. My mother kiss'd me here; My father press'd my handForgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand! My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall harm it not. *After I had sung the noble ballad of Woodman, spare that tree, at Boulogne, says Mr. Henry Russell, the vo calist, an old gentleman, among the audience, who was greatly moved by the simple and touching beauty of the words, rose and said, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Russell, but was the tree really spared?" "It was," said I. "I am very glad to hear it," said he, as he took his seat Amidst the unanimous applause of the whole assembly I never saw such excitement in a concert-room, Ax ivy-mantled cottage smiled, In all her maiden bloom and pride. Yet none of all the swains who sought her The town-gallants cross'd hill and plain, To lay their riches at her feet. One balmy eve in dewy spring A bard became her father's guest; He struck his harp, and every string To love vibrated in her breast. With that true faith which cannot falter, Her hand was given at the altar, And faithful was the heart he brought her To wedlock and the pastor's daughter. How seldom learn the worldly gay, With all their sophistry and art, To woman's fond, devoted heart: WILLIAM LEGGETT. [Born, 1802. Died, 1840.] THIS distinguished political and miscellaneous writer was born in the city of New York, in the summer of 1802, and was educated at the Georgetown College, in the District of Columbia. In 1822 he entered the navy of the United States as a midshipman; but in consequence of the arbitrary conduct of his commander, Captain JOHN ORDE CREIGHTON, he retired from the service in 1826, after which time he devoted himself mainly to literary pursuits. His first publication was entitled "Leisure Hours at Sea," and was composed of various short poems written while he was in the navy. In 1828 he established, in New York, "The Critic," a weekly literary gazette, which he conducted with much ability for seven or eight months, at the end of which time it was united with the "Mirror," to which he became a regular contributor. In "The Critic" and "The Mirror," he first published "The Rifle," "The Main Truck, or the Leap for Life," "White Hands, or Not Quite in Character," and other stories, afterward embraced in the volumes entitled "Tales by a Country Schoolmaster," and "Sketches of the Sea." These tales and sketches are probably the most spirited and ingenious productions of their kind ever written in this country. In 1829 Mr. LEGGETT became associated with Mr. BRYANT, in the editorship of the " Evening Post," and on the departure of that gentleman for Europe, in 1834, the entire direction of that able journal was devolved to him. A severe illness, which commenced near the close of the succeeding year, induced him to relinquish his connexion with the "Post;" and on his recovery, in 1836, he commenced "The Plaindealer," a weekly periodical devoted to politics and literature, for which he obtained great reputation by his independent and fearless assertion of doctrines, and the vigorous eloquence and powerful reasoning by which he maintained them. It was discontinued, in consequence of the failure of his publisher, before the close of the year; and his health, after that period, prevented his connexion with any other journal. In 1828 he had been married to Miss ELMIRA WARING, daughter of Mr. JoNA. WARING, of New Rochelle; and to that pleasant village he now retired, with his family. He occasionally visited his friends in the city, and a large portion of the democratic party there proposed to nominate him for a seat in Congress; but as he had acted independently of a majority of the party in regard to certain important political questions, his formal nomination was prevented. In April, 1840, he was appointed by Mr. VAN BUREN, then President of the United States, a diplomatic agent* from our * Soon after the death of Mr. LEGGETT, Mr. JOHN L. STEPHENS, Whose "Travels in Central America" have been since published, was appointed his successor as diplomatic agent to that country. government to the Republic of Guatemala. He was preparing to depart for that country, when he suddenly expired, on the twenty-ninth day of fol lowing month, in the thirty-eighth year of his age. A few months after his death, a collection of his political writings, in two large duodecimo volumes, was published, under the direction of his friend, Mr. THEODORE SEDGWICK. Besides the works already mentioned, he wrote much in various periodicals, and was one of the authors of "The Tales of Glauber Spa," published in 1832. In the maturity of his powers, his time and energies were devoted to political writing. His poems are the poorest of his productions, and were written while he was in the naval service, or during his editorship of "The Critic." In addition to his Melodieswhich are generally ingenious and well versified— he wrote one or two prize addresses for the theatres, and some other pieces, which have considerable merit. His death was deeply and generally deplored, especially by the members of the democratic party, who regarded him as one of the ablest champions of their principles. Mr. BRYANT, with whom he was for several years intimately associated, published in the "Democratic Review" the following tribute to his character : "The earth may ring from shore to shore, Upon that warm and mighty heart, "The words of fire that from his pen Were flung upon the lucid page, "His love of Truth, too warm-too strong Burn in the breasts he kindled still." Mr. SEDGWICK, in the preface to his political writings, remarks that "every year was softening his prejudices, and calming his passions; enlarging his charities, and widening the bounds of his liberality. Had a more genial clime invigorated nis constitution, and enabled him to return to his labours, a brilliant and honourable future might have been predicted of him. It is not the sugges tion of a too fond affection, but the voice of a calm judgment, which declares that, whatever public (areer he had pursued, he must have raised to his memory an imperishable monument, and that as no name is now dearer to his friends, so few could have been more honourably associated with the history of his country, than that of WILLIAM LEGGETT." 285 |