He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, THE BATTLE-FIELD. ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encounter'd in the battle-cloud. Ah! never shall the land forget How gush'd the life-blood of her braveGush'd, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save. Now, all is calm, and fresh, and still; And bell of wandering kine are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry; O! be it never heard again. Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life. A friendless warfare! lingering long Yet, nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot. The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown-yet faint thou not, Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The hissing, sturging bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born. Truth, crush'd to earth, shall rise again: The eternal years of GoD are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers. Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When they who help'd thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust, Like those who fell in battle here. Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. THE melancholy days are come, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, With the fair and good of ours. But the cold November rain The wind-flower and the violet, They perish'd long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, And the brightness of their smile was gone, And now, when comes the calm, mild day, To call the squirrel and the bee From out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, Though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light The waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers And then I think of one who in Her youthful beauty died, In the cold, moist earth we laid her, Should perish with the flowers. Ye shook from faded flowers the lingering dew; Before you the catalpa's blossoms flew, Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow. How are ye changed! Ye take the cataract's sound, Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might; The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground; The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight. The clouds before you sweep like eagles past; The homes of men are rocking in your blast; Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast, Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight. The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain, Toscape your wrath; ye seize and dash them dead. Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain; The harvest field becomes a river's bed; And torrents tumble from the hills around, Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drown'd, And wailing voices, midst the tempest's sound, Rise, as the rushing floods close over head. Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray; Ye fling its waters round you, as a bird Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's Her isles where summer blossoms all the year. O, ye wild winds! a mightier power than yours In chains upon the shores of Europe lies; The sceptred throng, whose fetters he endures, Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes: And armed warriors all around him stand, And, as he struggles, tighten every band, And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand, To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise. Yet, O, when that wrong'd spirit of our race, Shall break,as soon he must, his long-worn chains, And leap in freedom from his prison-place, Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains, Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air, To waste the loveliness that time could spare, To fill the earth with wo, and blot her fair Unconscious breast with blood from human veins. But may he, like the spring-time, come abroad, Who crumbles winter's gyves with gentle might, When in the genial breeze, the breath of God, Come spouting up the unseal'd springs to light; Flowers start from their dark prisons at his feet, The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet, And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet, Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night. AUTUMN WOODS. ERE, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The mountains that infold, In their wide sweep, the colour'd landscape round, Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, That guard the enchanted ground. I roam the woods that crown The upland, where the mingled splendours glow, Where the gay company of trees look down On the green fields below. My steps are not alone In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown Along the winding way. And far in heaven, the while, The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, Where now the solemn shade, Verdure and gloom where many branches meet; So grateful, when the noon of summer made The valleys sick with heat? Let in through all the trees Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright; Their sunny-colour'd foliage, in the breeze, Twinkles, like beams of light. The rivulet, late unseen, Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, But 'neath yon crimson tree, Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseat canopy, Her blush of maiden shame. O, Autumn! why so soon Ah! 't were a lot too bless'd And leave the vain low strife That makes men mad; the tug for wealth and power, JOHN NEAL. [Born about 1794.] JOHN NEAL is now, probably, not far from fortyseven years old. He is a native of Portland, in Maine, where he passed his early years. In 1815, he went to Baltimore, and was there, for a time, associated with JoHN PIERPONT in mercantile transactions; but these resulting disastrously, he turned his attention to literature, commencing his career by writing for "The Portico," a monthly magazine, a series of critical essays, on the works of Lord BYRON. In 1818, he published "Keep Cool, a Novel," and in the following year "The Battle of Niagara, Goldau the Maniac Harper, and other Poems, by Jehu O’Cataract,' " and "Otho, a Tragedy." He also wrote a large portion of "Allen's History of the American Revolution," which appeared early in 1821. In 1822, he published, in Philadelphia, "Logan, a Novel," which was reprinted soon after in London, in four volumes. This was followed, in 1823, by "Seventy-six," the most popular of his fictions; "Randolph," a story which attracted considerable attention at the time, from the fact that it contained notices of the most prominent politicians, authors, and artists then in this country; and "Errata, or the Works of Will Adams." Near the close of 1823, Mr. NEAL went to England. Soon after his arrival in that country, he wrote for Blackwood's Magazine "Sketches of the five American Presidents, and the five Candidates for the Presidency," an article which was republished in many of the foreign and American periodicals. To correct the erroneous opinions which he found to be prevalent in regard to this country, he contributed to Blackwood's, and other British magazines, under the guise of an Englishman, numerous articles on the political and social condition of the United States, which attracted considerable attention, and led to his introduction to many distinguished men, among whom was JEREMY BENTHAM. His acquaintance with this distinguished philosopher, it is said, had much influence on his subsequent conduct and opinions. After passing four years in Great Britain and France, and publishing, besides his papers in the periodicals, the novel entitled "Brother Jonathan," Mr. NEAL returned to his native city of Portland, where he has since resided. The year after his return, he published "Rachel Dyer," a novel, and he has since that time given to the world "Authorship," "The Down Easters," and 66 Bentham's Morals and Legislation." He also conducted for two years "The Yankee," a weekly gazette, and he has written much in other periodicals. Mr. NEAL is a man of uncommon natural abilities; and had he been thoroughly educated, he might have won an enduring and enviable reputation as an author. His works contain many brilliant passages, but they are written too carelessly, and with too little regard to the rules of art, to be long remembered. I have heard an anecdote which illustrates the rapidity with which he throws off his compositions. When he lived in Baltimore, he went one evening to the rooms of PIERPONT, and read to him a poem which he had just completed. The author of 66 The Airs of Palestine" was always a nice critic, and he frankly pointed out the faults of the performance. NEAL promised to revise it, and submit it again on the following morning. At the appointed time he repaired to the apartment of his friend, and read to him a new poem, of three or four hundred lines; he had tried to improve his first attempt, but failing to do so, had chosen a new subject, a new measure, and produced an entirely new work, before he retired to sleep. True poetry is never so written. THE SOLDIER'S VISIT TO HIS FAMILY.‡ "JEHU O'CATARACT" was the name given to NEAL by the Delphian Club of Baltimore, of which PAUL ALLEN, Gen. BYND, the Rev. JOHN PIERPONT, Judge BRECKENRIDGE, NEAL, and other distinguished men, were then members. The second edition of the Battle of Niagara was published in 1819, and for "JEHU O'CATARACT" was substituted "JOHN NEAL." In a note in Blackwood's Magazine, Mr. NEAL says he wrote "Randolph” in thirty-six days, with an interval of about a week between the two volumes, in which he wrote nothing; "Errata" in less than thirty-nine days; and "Seventy-six" in twenty-seven days. During this time he was engaged in professional business, and they were written in the leisure and idle hours of a lawyer. From "The Battle of Niagara." As though it dared the elements, and stood And one might think, who saw his outstretch'd hands, That something more than soldiers e'er may feel, His pulses quicken; for a rude, old door A single bound! our chief is standing by, His glorious boy springs freshly from his sleep, THE BIRTH OF A POET. Os a blue summer night, And all that came near it went scented away; With large, blue eyes, Like the wet, warm skies, Brim full of water and light; A profusion of hair Flashing out on the air, And a forehead alarmingly bright: "T was the head of a poet! He grew As the sweet, strange flowers of the wilderness grow, In the dropping of natural dew, Unheeded-alone Till his heart had blown As the sweet, strange flowers of the wilderness blow; Full of wo and surprise, Like the eyes of them that can see the dead. Looking about, For a moment or two, he stood, On the shore of the mighty wood; Then ventured out, With a bounding step and a joyful shout, AMBITION. I LOVED to hear the war-horn cry, They went like battle o'er my soul: I burn'd to be the slave-of men. I stood and saw the morning light, Where nations warr'd for liberty: I sail'd upon the dark-blue deep, And shouted to the eagle soaring; To hear the gallant waters roaring; I love no more the bugle's voice- And all the sons of Gon rejoice,— JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. [Born, 1795. Died, 1820.] THE author of the "Culprit Fay" was born in the city of New York, on the seventh day of August, 1795. His father died while he was very young, and I believe left his family in possession of but little property. Young DRAKE, therefore, experienced some difficulties in acquiring his education. He entered Columbia College, however, at an early period, and passed through that seminary with a reputation for scholarship, taste, and admirable social qualities. He soon after made choice of the medical profession, and became a student, first, with Doctor ROMAINE, and subsequently with Doctor POWELL, both of whom were at that time popular physicians in New York. Soon after completing his professional studies he was married to Miss SARAH ECKFORD, a daughter of the well-known marine architect, HENRY ECKFORD, through whom he inherited a moderate for tune. His health, about the same time, began to decline, and in the winter of 1819 he visited New Orleans, to which city his mother, who had married a second husband, had previously removed with his three sisters. He had anticipated some benefit from the sea-voyage, and the mild climate of Louisiana, but was disappointed, and in the spring of 1820 he returned to New York. His disease--consumption--was now too deeply seated for hope of restoration to be cherished, and he gradually withdrew himself from society, and sought quiet among his books, and in the companionship of his wife and most intimate friends. He lingered through the summer, and died near the close of September, in the twenty-sixth year of his age. He began to write verses when very young, and was a contributor to several gazettes before he was sixteen years old. He permitted none but his most intimate friends to know his signatures, and sometimes kept the secrets of his authorship entirely to himself. The first four of the once celebrated series of humorous and satirical odes, known as the "Croaker Pieces," were written by him, for the New York "Evening Post," in which they appeared between the tenth and the twentieth of March, 1819. After the publication of the fourth number, DRAKE made HALLECK, then recently arrived in New York, a partner, and the remainder of the pieces were signed "Croaker and Co." The last one written by DRAKE was "The American Flag," printed on the twenty-ninth of May, and the last of the series, "Curtain Conversations," was contributed by HALLECK, on the twenty-fourth of July. These pieces related to persons, events, and scenes, with which most of the readers in New York were familiar, and as they were distinguished alike for playful humour, and an easy and spirited diction, they became very popular, and many efforts were made to find out the authors. Both DRAKE and HALLECK were unknown as poets, and, as they kept the secret from their friends, a considerable period elapsed before they were discovered. The "Croakers" are now, however, well nigh forgotten, save a few of the least satirical numbers, which HALLECK has preserved in the collections of his own and of his friend's writings; and the reputation of either author rests on more elaborate and ingenious productions. The longest poem by DRAKE is "The Culprit Fay," a story exhibiting the most delicate fancy, and much artistic skill, which was not printed until several years after his death. It was composed hastily among the highlands of the Hudson, in the summer of 1819. The author was walking with some friends, on a warm, moonlit evening, when one of the party remarked, that "it would be difficult to write a fairy poem, purely imaginative, without the aid of human characters." When the friends were reassembled, two or three days afterwards, "The Culprit Fay" was read to them, nearly as it is printed in this volume. DRAKE placed a very modest estimate on his own productions, and it is believed that but a small portion of them have been preserved. When on his death-bed, a friend inquired of him what disposition he would have made with his poems? "O, burn them," he replied, "they are quite valueless." Written copies of a number of them were, however, in circulation, and some had been incorrectly printed in the periodicals; and, for this reason, Commodore DEKAY, the husband of the daughter and only child of the deceased poet, in 1836 published the single collection of them which has appeared. It includes, beside "The Culprit Fay," eighteen shorter pieces, some of which are very beautiful. DRAKE was unassuming and benevolent in his manners and his feelings, and he had an unfailing fountain of fine humour, which made him one of the most pleasant of companions. HALLECK closes a tributary poem published soon after his death, in the New York Review," with the following stanzas When hearts, whose truth was proven, To tell the world their worth. And I, who woke each morrow To clasp thy hand in mine, While memory bids me weep thee, That mourns a man like thee. |