The chimbleys shudder in the gale, Thet lulls, then sudden takes to flappin' Like a shot hawk, but all's ez stale To me ez so much sperit-rappin'. Under the yaller-pines I house, When sunshine makes 'em all sweet-scented, An' hear among their furry boughs The baskin' west-wind purr contented, Or up the slippery knob I strain An' see a hundred hills like islan's Beaver roars hoarse with meltin' snows, Started my blood to country-dances, Can't set me goin' more'n a dunce Thet hain't no use for dreams an' fancies. Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street I hear the drummers makin' riot, An' I set thinkin' o' the feet Thet follered once an' now are quiet,— White feet ez snowdrops innercent, Thet never knowed the paths o' Satan, Why, hain't I held 'em on my knee? Hahnsome an' brave an' not tu knowin'? I set an' look into the blaze Whose natur', jes' like theirn, keeps climbin', Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways, An' half despise myself for rhymin'. Wut's words to them whose faith an' truth Who ventered life an' love an' youth Flashed on afore the charge's thunder, Thet rived the Rebel line asunder? "Tain't right to hev the young go fust, All throbbin' full o' gifts an' graces, Leavin' life's paupers dry ez dust To try an' make b'lieve fill their places: Ther' 's gaps our lives can't never fay in Come, Peace! not like a mourner bowed An' step thet proves ye Victory's daughter! Like shipwrecked men's on raf's for water. Come, while our country feels the lift Of a gret instinct shoutin' "Forwards!" An' knows thet freedom ain't a gift Thet tarries long in han's o' cowards! Come, sech ez mothers prayed for, when They kissed their cross with lips thet quivered, An' bring fair wages for brave men, A nation saved, a race delivered! THE MAN OF LIFE UPRIGHT. THE man of life upright, Whose guiltless heart is free From all dishonest deeds, The man whose silent days That man needs neither towers Nor armor for defence, From thunder's violence: He only can behold With unaffrighted eyes And terrors of the skies. Thus scorning all the cares Good thoughts his only friends, The earth his sober inn And quiet pilgrimage. NIL NISI BONUM. From THE ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. William Makepeace Thackeray. ALMOST the last words which Sir Walter spoke to Lockhart, his biographer, were, "Be a good man, my dear!" and with the last flicker of breath on his dying lips, he sighed a farewell to his family, and passed away blessing them. Two men, famous, admired, beloved, have just left us, the Goldsmith and the Gibbon of our time.1 Ere a few weeks are over, many a critic's pen will be at work, reviewing their lives, and passing judgment on their works. This is no review, 1 Washington Irving died the twenty-eighth of November, 1859; Lord Macaulay died the twenty-eighth of December, 1859. or history, or criticism: only a word in testimony of respect and regard from a man of letters, who owes to his own professional labor the honor of becoming acquainted with these two eminent literary men. One was the first ambassador whom the New World of Letters sent to the Old. He was born almost with the republic; the pater patriae had laid his hand on the child's head. He bore Washington's name: he came amongst us bringing the kindest sympathy, the most artless, smiling good-will. His new country (which some people here might be disposed to regard rather superciliously) could send us, as he showed in his own person, a gentleman, who, though himself born in no very high sphere, was most finished, polished, easy, witty, quiet; and, socially, the equal of the most refined Europeans. If Irving's welcome in England was a kind one, was it not also gratefully remembered? If he ate our salt, did he not pay us with a thankful heart? Who can calculate the amount of friendliness and good feeling for our country which this writer's generous and untiring regard for us disseminated in his own? His books are read by millions of his countrymen, whom he has taught to love England, and why to love her. It would have been easy to speak otherwise than he did: to inflame national rancors, which, at the time when he first became known as a public writer, war had just renewed: to cry down the old civilization at the expense of the new: to point out our faults, arrogance, short-comings, and give the republic to infer how much she was the parent state's superior. There are writers enough in the United States, honest and otherwise, who preach that kind of doctrine. But the good Irving, the peaceful, the friendly, had no place for bitterness in his heart, and no scheme but kindness. Received in England with extraordinary tenderness and friendship (Scott, Southey, Byron, a hun 2 pater patriae, father of his country. |