author. These lines, from the seventh canto, are excellent: "Thou phantom, military fame! How long will Genius laud thy name. Tempting his victim to draw near? Guide beardless boy and gray-haired sire? Of murder, orphanage, and crime!” In a preface to his poems relating to the Indians. Mr. HOSMER reminds us of the extrordinary advantages he has enjoyed, "by their campfires, and The queen of Beauty and her blushing daughters Thus thoughts that send and will send on forever, When done with life, its fever, din, and jostle, Though grazing herd and hosts with clanging sabres [bors, Oh, Genius! dowered with privilege immortal, Death knows thee not, tho' long ago were blended Thy visible forms with undistinguished clay; The dead are they whose mission here is endedThy voice is heard to-day. From a poem on The Utility of Imagination." in their councils," for becoming acquainted with their characteristics and traditions, and discusses eloquently the suitableness of his theme for poetical treatment. To such poems, however, most readers will be apt to prefer the simpler effusions in which he has echoed the "Notes of the Birds," or painted the varying phenomena of "The Months." In these, too, he has faithfully subjected his muse to the requirements of truth. He accomplishes his task of description by felicities in selection and combination from nature. An AUDUBON or a MICHAUX would search in vain for an error in his plumage or foliage, and a COLE might give the finishing touches to the lights and shadows of his landscapes from the poet's observation of atmospheric effects or the changing influence of the seasons. In 1854 Mr. HOSMER removed to the city of New York, where he occupies a place in the custom-house. Heard on the honeyed lip of JULIET meltingIn dreaming RICHARD's cry of guilty fearIn shouts that rise above the night-storm pelting From old distracted LEAR: Heard in the organ-swell of MILTON pealingIn GRAY's elegaic sorrow for the past In flute-notes from the muse of SPENSER stealing, Heard in the matchless works of thy creation, THE SOLDIER OF THE CLOSET.* Nor they alone work faithfully who labor On the dull, dusty thoroughfare of life; The clerkly pen can vanquish, when the sabre Is useless in the strife. In cloistered gloom the quiet man of letters Launching his thoughts, like arrows from the Oft strikes the traitor and his base abettors, [bow, Bringing their grandeur low. Armed with a scroll, the birds of evil omen, That curse a country, he can scare away, Or, in the wake of error, marshal formen Impatient for the fray. Scorn not the sons of Song! nor deem them only Poor, worthless weeds upon the shore of time Although they move in walks retired and lonely They have their tasks sublime. When tyrants tread the hill-top and the valley, Calling the birthright of the brave their own, Around the tomb of Liberty they rally, And roll away the stone! From "The Ideal" W. H. C. HOSMER. BATTLE-GROUND OF DENONVILLE. OH! what secrets are revealed Round are scattered skull and bone, On the chase-ground where their sires Of the Frank who clenched it well, Tameless chasers of the deer- To the rallying bugle-note, Where these graves are crumbling in. Busy actors in the fray They had wives, perchance, who kept Brush and leaves were loosely piled And the soil that drank their gore MENOMINEE DIRGE. WE bear the dead, we bear the dead, In robes of otter habited, From the quiet depths of the greenwood shada, Above the bones of our buried sires-- On the wafting wings of yesternight, Say, "Come to that bright and blissful land Flower, farewell! THE SWALLOW. "La Rondinella, sopra il nido allegra, "The swallow is one of my favorite birds, and a rival of the nightingale; for he glads my sense of seeing, as the other does my sense of hearing."-Sir H. DAVY. WARM, cloudless days have brought a blithe new comer, Beloved by young and old, That twitters out a welcome unto summer, Arrayed in green and gold. With sunlight on his plume, the happy swallow Is darting swiftly by, As if, with shaft dismissed by bright Apollo, His speed he fain would try. Now high above yon steeple wheels the rover, In many a sportive ring; Anon, the glassy lakelet skimming over, He dips his dusky wing. Old nests yet hang, though marred by winter's traces, To rafter, beam and wall, And his fond mate, to ancient breeding-places, Comes at his amorous call. Those mud-built domes were dear to me in childhood, With feathers soft inlaid; Dearer than the nests whose builders in the wildwood. Were birds of man afraid. To seedy floors of barns in thought I wander, And play with comrades in the church-yard yonder, The "guests of summer" in and out are flying, While on the fragrant hay together lying, Barns that they haunt no thunderbolt can shatter, No showers that bring a blighting mildew patter Upon the golden sheaves. Taught were our fathers that a curse would follow, The cruel farmer who destroyed the swallow Oh! how I envied, in the school-house dreary, Cutting the wind on pinion never, weary, And when the bird and his blithe mate beholding Their evolutions filled my soul unfolding With images of grace. And, oh! what rapture, after wintry chidings, And April's smile and tear, Thrilled to the core, my bosom at the tidings, "The swallow, boy, is here!" Announcement of an angel on some mission Of love without alloy, Could not have sooner wakened a transition From gloom to heart-felt joy. For summer to the dreaming youth a heaven And in her sunshine less of earthly leaven In honor of the bird, with vain endeavor, By SHAKSPEARE's art he is embalmed forever, LAY OF A WANDERER. A FLORIDIAN SCENE. WHERE Pablo to the broad St. John Lie wreathy shells with lips of red. The jessamine hangs golden flowers While mock-birds warble in the shade; Mounds, built by mortal hands are near, Green from the summit to the base, Where, buried with the bow and spear, Rest tribes, forgetful of the chase. Cassada, nigh the ocean shore, Is banner waved or trumpet blown; Who hurled defiance there to France, But when the light of dying day Wear softened beauty like the clime, That fans the rolling deep, sweep by, Who ruled the land of yore, seemed nigh; For mournful marks, around where stood Their palm-roofed lodges, yet are seen, And in the shadows of the wood Their monumental mounds are green. * An old Spanish fort. JEDIDIAH VINCENT HUNTINGTON. [Born 1815. Died 1862.] J. V. HUNTINGTON, of the distinguished Connecticut family of that name, was born in New York in 1815; was graduated bachelor of arts at the University of New York in 1835, and doctor of medicine at the University of Pennsylvania in 1838; practised his profession about two years in his native city, and then turned his attention to literature; wrote, for the "New York Review," an article on the Greek Anthology, which made him known among scholars, and various papers in the magazines; became professor of mental philosophy in St. Paul's College; in 1841 was ordained a clergyman in the Protestant Episcopal church; married his cousin (a daughter of the late Reverend JOSHUA HUNTINGTON, the memoirs of whose wife, Mrs. SUSAN HUNTINGTON, have had so wide a circulation as a religious biography); took a parish in Middlebury, Vermont, where his health failed; visited the South, and afterwards Europe, where he spent four years, mainly in Italy; in 1849 returned to this country, and reëngaged in the duties of the ministry, but at the end of a year renounced them by submitting to the church of Rome. He published a volume of "Poems," in 1842; "The Divine Institution of the Festival System,' a sermon, in 1843; "Lady Alice," a novel, in 1849; "The Sacrament of Repentance," a tract, in 1850; "Alban, or the History of a Young Puritan," a novel, in 1851; “ America Discovered," a poem, in 1852; "The Forest," a sequel to "Alban," partly re"Alban," in the same year; written, in 1853; and "St. Vincent de Paul," a lecture, also in that year. His poems are chiefly meditative, and are finished in a style of scholarly elegance. I. THE ABBEY. WITHIN the minster's venerable pile What pomps unwonted flash upon our eyes! What galleries, in gold and crimson, rise Between the antique pillars of the aisle, Crowded with England's gayest life; the while Beneath, her dead, unconscious glory lies; Above, her ancient faith still seeks the skies; And with apparent life doth well beguile Our senses in that ever-growing roof; Whence on the soul return those recollections Of her great annals-built to be time-proof, Which chiefly make this spot the fittest scene Wherein to consecrate those new affections We plight this day to Britain's virgin queen. 11. THE QUEEN. How strange to see a creature young and fair Deep in the past extends whose famous root; And realms from age to age securely free, Gather of sucial peace its yet unfailing fruit. YE Winds, whose various voices in his lay 511 TO EMMELINE: A THRENODIA. J. SISTER! for as such I loved thee, May I not the privilege claim As thy brother to lament thee, Though not mine that sacred name? For though not indeed thy brother, Yet fraternal is the grief, That in tears no solace meeting, Now in words would find relief. Who did watch thy final conflict? Who did weep when it was o'er? Whose the voice which then consoled One by thee beloved more? Lips that kiss'd thy cold white forehead Is a task more soothing yet. Tears drew forth which soon it stay'd So the memory of thy goodness Calms the grief that from it springs: That which makes our loss the greatest, Sweetest consolation brings. 11. When the Christian maiden findeth Over beauty unpossess'd. As the tender MELEAGER, In that sweetly mournful strain, Sung the fate of CLEARISTA Borne to nuptial couch in vain : How her virgin zone unloosed, She in Death's embraces slept; As for vainly-woo'd ANTIBIA Pure ANYTE hopeless wept. For the soul to CHRIST united Need regret no human bliss, Weaded love is but the symbol Which unto the stainless only Life and Hope, when they embracing Are the Love of heavenly birth. Was it haply this foreknowing That thou so wouldst ever be?From pursuing ardours shrinking In thy saintly chastity. III. In thy fairy-like proportions In what sweet and lively accents On thy tender graces breathed, Were the faded flowerets wreathed. So the grief that dimm'd thy beauty Writes upon her wither'd leaves, IV. Greenly swell the clustering mountains Pass'd away the spirit wholly From the haunts to us so dear? Now pervading all the place; We upon each other gazing, Mystic shadows come and go, Over each loved visage flitting, Why and whence we do not know. In the old familiar dances Mingle thy accustom'd feet; Still are heard thy concords sweet. |