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From the golden hours of bright-eyed youth
To life's mid span?

Ah, soul of mine, thy tones I hear,
But weak and low;

Like far, sad murmurs on my ear

They come and go.

I have wrestled stoutly with the Wrong,
And borne the Right

From beneath the footfall of the throng
To life and light.

"Wherever Freedom shiver'd a chain,

God speed,' quoth I;

To Error amidst her shouting train

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the lie."

Ah, soul of mine! ah, soul of mine!

Thy deeds are well:

Were they wrought for Truth's sake or for thine?

My soul, pray tell.

"Of all the work my hand hath wrought

Beneath the sky,

Save a place in kindly human thought,

No gain have I."

Go to, go to!--for thy very self

Thy deeds were done:

Thou for fame, the miser for pelf,

Your end is one.

And where art thou going, soul of mine? Canst see the end?

And whither this troubled life of thine
Evermore doth tend?

What daunts thee now?-what shakes thee so? My sad soul, say.

"I see a cloud like a curtain low Hang o'er my way.

"Whither I go I cannot tell :

That cloud hangs black,
High as the heaven and deep as hell,
Across my track.

"I see its shadow coldly enwrap
The souls before.

Sadly they enter it, step by step,

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To return no more!

They shrink, they shudder, dear God! they kneel To thee in prayer.

They shut their eyes on the cloud, but feel

That it still is there.

"In vain they turn from the dread Before
To the Known and Gone;

For while gazing behind them evermore,
Their feet glide on.

"Yet, at times, I see upon sweet, pale faces

A light begin

To tremble, as if from holy places

And shrines within.

"And at times methinks their cold lips move With hymn and prayer,

As if somewhat of awe, but more of love
And hope were there.

"I call on the souls who have left the light, To reveal their lot;

I bend mine ear to that wall of night,

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And they answer not.

But I hear around me sighs of pain

And the cry of fear,

And a sound like the slow, sad dropping of rain,

Each drop a tear!

"Ah, the cloud is dark, and, day by day,

I am moving thither:

I must pass beneath it on my way

God pity me!-WHITHER?"

Ah, soul of mine, so brave and wise
In the life-storm loud,

Fronting so calmly all human eyes
In the sunlit crowd!

Now standing apart with God and me,
Thou art weakness all,

Gazing vainly after the things to be

Through Death's dread wall.

But never for this, never for this

Was thy being lent;

For the craven's fear is but selfishness,
Like his merriment.

Folly and Fear are sisters twain:
One closing her eyes,

The other peopling the dark inane

With spectral lies.

Know well, my soul, God's hand controls Whate'er thou fearest;

Round him in calmest music rolls

Whate'er thou hearest.

What to thee is shadow, to him is day,
And the end he knoweth,

And not on a blind and aimless way
The spirit goeth.

Man sees no future-a phantom show
Is alone before him;

Past Time is dead, and the grasses grow,
And flowers bloom o'er him.

Nothing before, nothing behind:

The steps of Faith

Fall on the seeming void, and find

The rock beneath.

The Present, the Present is all thou hast

For thy sure possessing;

Like the patriarch's angel, hold it fast

Till it gives its blessing.

Why fear the night? why shrink from Death, That phantom wan?

There is nothing in heaven, or earth beneath,
Save God and man.

Peopling the shadows, we turn from Him
And from one another;

All is spectral, and vague, and dim,
Save God and our brother!

Like warp and woof, all destinies
Are woven fast,

Linked in sympathy like the keys
Of an organ vast.

Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar;
Break but one

Of a thousand keys, and the paining jar
Through all will run.

Oh, restless spirit! wherefore strain

Beyond thy sphere ?—

Heaven and hell, with their joy and pain,
Are now and here.

Back to thyself is measured well

All thou hast given;

Thy neighbor's wrong is thy present hell,
His bliss thy heaven.

And in life, in death, in dark and light,
All are in God's care;

Sound the black abyss, pierce the deep of night,
And he is there!

All which is real now remaineth,
And fadeth never:

The hand which upholds it now, sustaineth

The soul for ever.

Leaning on Him, make with reverent meekness His own thy will,

And with strength from him shall thy utter weakness
Life's task fulfil:

And that cloud itself, which now before thee
Lies dark in view,

Shall with beams of light from the inner glory
Be stricken through.

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THINE is a grief, the depth of which another
May never know;

Yet, o'er the waters, oh, my stricken brother!
To thee I go.

I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding
Thy hand in mine;

With even the weakness of my soul upholding
The strength of thine.

I never knew, like thee, the dear departed,
I stood not by

When, in calm trust, the pure and tranquil-hearted
Lay down to die.

And on thine ears my words of weak condoling
Must vainly fall:

The funeral-bell which in thy heart is tolling,
Sounds over all!

I will not mock thee with the poor world's common
And heartless phrase,

Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman
With idle praise.

With silence only as their benediction,
God's angels come

Where, in the shadow of a great affliction,
The soul sits dumb!

Yet, would I say what thine own heart approveth:
Our Father's will,

Calling to him the dear one whom he loveth,
Is mercy still.

Not upon thee or thine the solemn angel
Hath evil wrought:

Her funeral-anthem is a glad evangel—
The good die not!

God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly
What he hath given;

They live on earth, in thought and deed, as truly
As in his heaven.

And she is with thee: in thy path of trial
She walketh yet;

Still with the baptism of thy self-denial
Her locks are wet.

Up, then, my brother! Lo, the fields of harvest
Lie white in view!

She lives and loves thee, and the God thou servest To both is true.

Thrust in thy sickle! England's toil-worn peasants Thy call abide;

And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy presence, Shall glean beside!

GEORGE W. PATTEN.

[Born, 1808.]

"I give you my consent, my son, because I promised it: my approbation I cannot give." Young PATTEN, nevertheless, proceeded to West Point, and soon acquired there the same brilliant reputation for talents which he had enjoyed at the university. He received his commission as lieutenant in the second regiment of infantry in 1830, was made a captain in 1846, and in 1848 was brevetted major, for his gallantry in the action of Cerro Gordo, where he lost his left hand. His reputation as an officer has always been very high; he is one of the best disciplinarians and bravest soldiers in the army.

MAJOR PATTEN was born in Newport, Rhode | swered in the affirmative, willing that his son Island, on the twenty-sixth of December, 1808. should learn by experience the futility of such an He was the third son of WILLIAM PATTEN, D.D., attempt; and he was as much surprised as painwho was minister of the second Congregational ed when, after a few weeks, the credentials of a church in that city for half a century. When cadet were exhibited to him. JOHN C. CALHOUN, only twelve years of age he entered Brown Uni- ASHER ROBBINS, WILLIAM HUNTER, and other versity, where he was distinguished rather for abi- powerful friends, had willingly and successfully lities than for application, being naturally averse to exerted their influence with the President in besystematic study, and addicted to poetry and music. half of a member of the family of Dr. PATTEN. The He was, however, preeminent in chemistry, as sub-excellent clergyman could not help saying now, sequently at West Point in mathematics. At fourteen he wrote a class poem, entitled "Logan," and when he was graduated, in 1825, recited a lyrical story called "The Maid of Scio." Both these pieces were warmly praised, as illustrations of an unfolding genius of a very high order. After leaving the university he remained a year in his father's house, at Newport, before deciding on the choice of a profession. Dr. PATTEN hoped this son at least would follow in the long line of his ancestors, who, since the landing of the Mayflower, had furnished an almost uninterrupted succession of pastors; but the young man felt no predilection for the pulpit, and rejected the profession of the law because his two elder brothers had already chosen it, and for want of nerve, that of medicine, to become a soldier. When he disclosed his wishes on this subject, Dr. PATTEN expressed regret that the son of a minister should think of a career so incompatible with the principles of the gospel, and declined aiding him to a cadet's appointment. To his inquiry, however, whether ne would consent to his entering the Military Academy if he could himself obtain one, he an

Major PATTEN writes in verse with a rarely equalled fluency, and has probably been one of the most prolific of American poets. Led by the exigencies of the service into almost every part of our vast empire, his singularly impressible faculties have been kindled by the various charms of its scenery, by never-ending diversities of character, and by the always fresh and frequently romantic experiences of his profession. His writings display a fine vein of sentiment, and considerable fancy, but have the faults of evident haste and carelessness.

TO S. T. P.

SHADOWS and clouds are o'er me;
Thou art not here, my bride!
The billows dash before me

Which bear me from thy side;
On lowering waves benighted,
Dim sets the weary day;
Thou art not here, my plighted,
To smile the storm away.
When nymphs of ocean slumber,
I strike the measured stave
With wild and mournful number,

To charm the wandering wave.
Hark to the words of sorrow

Along the fading main!
"Tis night-but will the morrow
Restore that smile again?"
Mid curtain'd dreams descending,
Thy gentle form I trace;
Dimly with shadows blending,

I gaze upon thy face;
Thy voice comes o'er me gladly,
Thy hand is on my brow;
I wake the wave rolls madly

Beneath the ploughing prow!
Speed on, thou surging billow!
O'er ocean speed away!
And bear unto her pillow

The burden of my lay:
Invest her visions brightly

With passion's murmur'd word,
And bid her bless him nightly-
Him of the lute and sword.
And her, of dreams unclouded,
With tongue of lisping tale,
Whose eye I left soft shrouded

'Neath slumber's misty veil,-
When morn at length discloses

The smile I may not see,
Bear to her cheek of roses

A father's kiss for me.

FREDERICK W. THOMAS.

[Born 1803. Died 1861.]

THE family of the author of "Clinton Bradshaw," by the father's side, were among the early settlers of New England. ISAIAH THOMAS, founder of the American Antiquarian Society, of Worcester, Massachusetts, and author of the "History of Printing," was his father's uncle. During the revolutionary war Mr. ISAIAH THOMAS conducted the Massachusetts Spy," and was a warm and sagacious whig. With him Mr. E. S. THOMAS, the father of FREDERICK WILLIAM, learned the printing business, and he afterward emigrated to Charleston, South Carolina, where he established himself as a bookseller. Here he met and married Miss ANN FORNERDEN, of Baltimore, who was then on a visit to the South. Shortly after this marriage Mr. THOMAS removed to Providence, where our author was born, on the twenty-fifth of October, 1808. He considers himself a Southerner, however, as he left Rhode Island for Charleston when a child in the nurse's arms, and neverreturned. When about four years of age he slipped from a furniture box on which he was playing, and injured his left leg. Little notice was taken of the accident at the time, and in a few weeks the limb became very painful, his health gradually declined, and it was thought advisable to send him to a more bracing climate. He was accordingly placed in charge of an aunt in Baltimore, where he grew robust, and had recovered from his lameness, with the exception of an occasional weakness in the limb, when a second fall, in his eighth or ninth year, had such an effect upon it that he was confined to the house for many months, and was compelled to resort to crutches, which he used until he grew up to manhood, when they were superseded by a more con

venient support. In consequence of these accidents, and his general debility, he went to school but seldom, and never long at a time; but his ardent mind busied itself in study at home, and he was noted for his contemplative habits. At seventeen he commenced reading in the law, and about the same period began his literary career by inditing a poetical satire on some fops about town, the result of which was that the office of the paper in which it was printed was mobbed and demolished.

Soon after he was admitted to the bar, the family removed to Cincinnati, where, in the winter of 1834-5, Mr. THOMAS wrote his first novel, "Clinton Bradshaw," which was published in Philadelphia in the following autumn. It was followed in 1836 by "East and West," and in 1840 by Howard Pinckney." His last work was "Sketches of John Randolph, and other Public Characters," which appeared in Philadelphia in 1853.

Mr. THOMAS has published two volumes of poems: "The Emigrant," descriptive of a wanderer's feelings while descending the Ohio, in Cincinnati, in 1833, and "The Beechen Tree, and other Poems," in New York, in 1844. He has also written largely in verse as well as in prose for the periodicals.

He has a nice discrimination of the peculiarities of character which give light and shade to the surface of society, and a hearty relish for that peculiar humor which abounds in that portion of our country which undoubtedly embraces most that is original and striking in manners and unrestrained in conduct. He must rank with the first illustrators of manners in the valley of the Mississippi, and deserves praise for many excellencies in general authorship.

SONG.

"T is said that absence conquers love! But, O! believe it not;

I've tried, alas! its power to prove,
But thou art not forgot.
Lady, though fate has bid us part,
Yet still thou art as dear,
As fix'd in this devoted heart

As when I clasp'd thee here.

I plunge into the busy crowd,

And smile to hear thy name; And yet, as if I thought aloud,

They know me still the same.
And when the wine-cup passes round,
I toast some other fair,-

But when I ask my heart the sound,
Thy name is echoed there.

And when some other name I learn,
And try to whisper love,

Still will my heart to thee return,
Like the returning dove.

In vain! I never can forget,

And would not be forgot;
For I must bear the same regret,
Whate'er may be my lot.

E'en as the wounded bird will seek
Its favorite bower to die,
So, lady, I would hear thee speak,
And yield my parting sigh.
'Tis said that absence conquers love!
But, O! believe it not;

I've tried, alas! its power to prove,

But thou art not forgot.

CINCINNATI, 1838.

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