VOL. XV.

And neighboring farms, and distant cities, all
Disgorge their throngs, to mingle at the fall.
There stand at least, on mountain-height and glen,
Ten thousand women, and one thousand men;
For woman seeks and shines in trial's hour,
When pity - her own balsam- she can pour;
And measuring glances many an eye would throw
From the tall cliff to yon black lake below,

Streaked white with suds from many a well-washed rock;
Oh! who could mark that depth, without a shock!
Schools are let loose the merry urchins scream —
Bestride the sharp-backed rock, or wade the stream;
And many a tree around that craggy shore

The precious fruit of mortal bodies bore:
Among their leaves that quivered in the breeze,
thousand hearts were fluttering more than these.
Boud shouts the tumbling river, 'till it frights
To shrieks and quakings, all the rocky heights.
Oh glorious spectacle! oh noble stage!
Whereon to bare bright science to the age;
A heaven-set trap appears this rock-girt glen,
To corner truth, and here pursuing, pen;
And captured thus, by genius' conquering power,
Advance it centuries in a single hour.
Who would not seek it even through yon abyss!
Or die to prove it on a scene like this!

But where is he? - the hero of the day
Whose call this thronging multitude obey?
Why ask? When genius oft its face displays,
'T is tanned and cheapened in the public gaze:
It were unfitting his should be attacked
By vulgar vision, till the hour of act.
But where is he? Approach yon humble shed,
Behold him there! - his frugal dinner spread
His active jaws their motion quick repeating-
And PATCH the hero, PATCH the sage, is eating
You smile! as if a wit could live on stone
'As if God meant his fruits for fools alone;'*
As if a genius of the mightiest ken

Had not teeth, stomach, throat, like other men.
Even Satire might forgive him a repast
All human reason feared would be his last.
Our hero knew what compounds men must be,
He felt himself 'half dust, half deity!'
And knew the body still supplies must find,
Despite the nausea of the haughty mind:
Ungrateful mind the very means to slight,
Whence through corporeal channels springs its might.
Full well he knew the courage food instils
The heart grows bigger as the stomach fills:
Full well he knew, where food does not refresh,
The shrivelled soul shrinks inward with the flesh;
That he's best armed for danger's rash career,
Who's crammed so full there is no room for fear.

-

Now from the gathered and still gathering crowd,
Impatient murmurs swell, and burst aloud;
And threats arise which soon to whispers sink
For look! at last he stands upon the brink :
'PATCH!' shouts the mighty multitude around,

And 'PATCH!' 'PATCH! PATCH!' hills, caves, and skies rebound!
Now! hero- now! one trial, and the last,

To build thy fortune, or for ever blast;

Ere one young hour be born from time's full womb,

Thy fame shall find a trumpet, or a tomb!

* DESCARTES.
16

then springs!

No time he wastes; from the brown jug he brings,
One draught he takes - thrice claps his hands
He's off! He whirls! with flutter, rush, whiz — dash;
Cleaving the foam with gurgle, spatter, splash,
Down-sinking! Through the hushed and choking crowd,
The breath grows thick, and cannot shriek aloud:
All feel his gasping pangs increasing still-
The breathless spasm the epigastric thrill;

As fast, and faster hurried to the stroke,

He strikes! all start as from wild dreams awoke!
In that dread moment of uncertainty,

Ev'n envy's sneer dies down to pity's sigh;
While the cold doubter, whom no pangs can thrill,
Prepares to croak 'He knew 't would end in ill:'
But soon to sneers and fears is put an end;
Through the dark lake behold his face ascend!
Ruddy, and welcome as the second sun

To Adam rose, who feared his race was run.
When genius shoots his lightning through the soul
Applause the recognizing peal should roll:

Loud shouts and long, the roaring flood outroar,

When safe he finds, and stands upon the shore!

Through the glad heavens, which tempests now conceal,
Deep thunder-guns in quick succession peal;

As if salutes were firing from the sky,

To hail the triumph, and the victory:

Shout! trump of fame.

'till thy brass lungs burst out!
Shout! mortal tongues ! deep-throated thunders, shout!
For lo! electric genius, downward hurled,
Has startled science, and illumed the world!

Now rushing winds and thunderbolts engage:
Chaos of sounds, and dust, and flame in rage;
That the firm frame-work of the heavens on high
Rocks wide, as if an earthquake shook the sky.
While from the brimming and o'errunning cloud,
The ominous drops, big, scattered, rare and loud,
Tinkle like dropping pebbles on the lake

Beat dust from earth on rocks, wide spattering, break.
Each friend of science gazes upward-wheels,

And takes, for shelter, meanly to his heels:

Not even the hero, dripping from the flood,
The general panic of the time withstood.
Oh! strange infatuation of the mind:

To flinch at trifles, though to dangers blind.

So the hot heroes of the barricade,

When, tired of laws and kings themselves had made,

They met defying fire and sword and slaughter,

Were by Lobau dispersed with inuddy water.*

A knot of savans, huddled 'neath a shed,
Discussed the feat; one rigid sceptic said

There was some trick - but where he could not see:
Enough for him to know it could not be ;
What was impossible for man t' achieve,
Ev'n though he saw it, he would not believe.

A learned sage from Gotham that had come,
Who bared some falsehoods, and believed in some,
Declared, with boldness common to the wise,
Possible, or not he must believe his eyes.
The doubter cried 't was humbug, humbug all
Believers ever into error fall;

The world was full of humbug; he, for one,
Could not so tamely be imposed upon.

The hero vowed with anger justly moved,
To hear disputed all that he had proved;

To prove it still, on that, or any ground

On taller heights, could taller heights be found;

A mob in the Place Vendome, at Paris, that refused to retire on threat of being fired upon, were

thus finally scattered by means of a fire-engine, and a little dirty water.

Ay, hotly swore to leap through all the air,

From the moon's horns, if they would hang him there.
Take not his boasting in the literal sense-
Success and whiskey gave him confidence;
And in the heat, and triumph of the hour,
He felt no bounds to his presumptuous power.
The doubter, warming, said he must repeat,
He deemed him all a humbug, and his feat.
Redder than morn the hero's life-blood rose,
And tinged his cheek still brighter than his nose:
Then fell his vengeance on the slanderer's head,

Fists flew claws clenched- teeth gnashed, and noses bled;
And struggling, tumbling, rolling, on they go,
Till Patch was parted from his prostrate foe:
Conqueror, alike in battle and th' abyss,
The day, the triumph, now is doubly his!

'T were vain to trace the toils the hero passed,
Through each repeated trial, to the last :
From towering masts to Hudson's tide the leap,
Or from Niagara's more appalling steep:

Till that dark day of sorrow's blackest frown,
When the bright sun of leapers last went down;
And that great light so many streams had drenched,
Óh, Genessee! – was in thy waters quenched.

No cloud- no gloom that morn the heavens o'erhung,
Yet dark forebodings rose from many a tongue;
And warning voices bade him shun the shore,
And tempt the horrors of the leap no more.
But with that fatal bias which has led

So many a hero to his doom, he said:

'Could danger fright, I ne'er had braved th' abyss:
If death must come, what fitter hour than this?'
He ceased, and leaping from the fatal shore,
Dropped like a stone, and sank to rise no more!
When to the crowd the awful truth grew plain,
That daring form was ne'er to rise again;

They spoke not, shrieked not, wailed not; with dismay,
Each gazed on other, dumb- then turned away.
And oh! most sad, most touching sight-the mate
The widowed comrade of his wandering fate-
His bear, returning with the mournful throng,
There led, all friendless, masterless, along!

He fell! the Great Descender of his time
The only traveller in his route sublime :
Sole, lastnor had before, nor since he fled,
A rival, living, or a follower, dead :

Forewarned, like Nelson, of his doom, too well;
Like Nelson, mid his scenes of glory fell:
By that last mortal effort of his mind,
Enriching truth, but beggaring mankind.
Dropping too often for his zeal was such
He yielded, vanquished by a drop too much.
Think not I mean to hint the hero quaffed
Too oft for health the soul-inspiring draught:
Though some there be who slanderously contend
He thus was basely hurried to his end.

Weak, ignorant fools, then know ye not, indeed,
That souls of fire on fiery food must feed?
That what would burn your feeble nerves apart,
Is natural diet to the great of heart?

As well the dull and browsing ass might sneer
At locomotive in its swift career;

Unthinking, in the folly of his ire,

That such tremendous energies require

A drink of scalding vapor, and a food of fire!

There are, who hold this dread belief, beside:
That by design the mighty leaper died;

That of earth's common, tame abysses tired,
His soul some wilder, bolder plunge desired;"
And thus, all braced to brave the final pang,
Down the deep gulf that knows no bottom, sprang.
Such were an end- howe'er the heart it thrill-
More in accordance with his daring will.
Why should he farther here prolong the strife?
He had fulfilled the mission of his life;
And ran art, science, and the world in debt:
A mighty debt, alas! uncancelled yet.
Oh! my sad pen with tears of ink could weep,
To find such worth left unrenowned to sleep.
His class immortal, who possess, combined,
Th' heroic body with th' inventive mind;
Too rarely run with triumph to the goal,
Till from the clay-clog death has loosed the soul.
Then shall their fame rush brightly into day;
What present owes them, future time shall pay;
And all, whe erst their living fires did spurn,
Shall throng to hail the ashes of their urn.

No living laurel on their brows may bloom,
But chiselled garlands shall enwreath their tomb:
No praise shall swell, their lonely course to cheer,
Till poured unheeded in their marble ear:
Their very features to the world unknown,
Till carved by glory in the pallid stone.
'Tis only from the chilly air of death

Fame, like the soul, first draws enduring breath;
And genius, when from earthly fetters freed,
First grows immortal, when it has no need.
Like rays phosphoric that surprise the night,
"T is death's corruption fires its hidden light:
Death's tongue of thunder tells us, when gone by,
Some flash of wit has shot along our sky.
The world to merit wakes not till 't is past,
And notes no struggle, till it makes the last :
Nor knows the skies a genius deigned to rain,
Till like a cloud it blooms on high again:
Learns not a spark astray from heaven has come,
Till the bright wanderer finds once more its home;
And, like a star life's day-time has concealed,
Stands, by the darkness of the grave revealed.

Martyr of science! - in whose glorious cause
Thou lost thy life, and gain'dst the world's applause,
To the historian of thy deeds sublime,

Thou seem'st a fossil monster of old time:

Huge, shadowy, lone, of mighty race of yore;

But now on earth extinct for ever more.

Mine be the boast thy relics to have stirred!

Mine the Cuvierian hand that disinterred,

And classed thee monarch of a giant reign,
Whose mammoth like we ne'er may see again.

Farewell! Great Heart! Thou'rt doomed to bright renown, And like thy body shall thy fame go down

To the deep sea that rolls without a shore,

Farther than fame or body went before.

Oh! happy chance that gave thee for my theme!

Now, linked together, will we sail the stream;

Thou shalt be called the PATCH whom Flaccus sang,

Or I the bard who PATCH's praises rang:

Yes! I shall buoy thee on th' immortal sea,

Or, failing that, thyself shalt carry me!

END OF THE GREAT DESCENDER.

THE HAUNTED MERCHANT.

BY HARRY FRANCO.

CHAPTER 111.

RELATES HOW OUR HERO WAS RECEIVED BY THE MEMBERS OF MR. TREMLETT'S HOUSEHOLD.

WHEN Mr. Tremlett came down to breakfast next morning, he discovered that something had occurred to ruffle the temper of his house-keeper, for that respectable old lady made a display of some of the most dignified airs that were probably ever seen in a republican country. And she did not allow him to remain long in ignorance of the cause of her unusual stateliness of demeanor.

'That little scamp,' said Mrs. Swazey, as she filled up Mr. Tremlett's cup, is the greatest villain; the greatest villain,' she repeated again, giving the coffee urn an emphatic shake, 'in the individual world.'

'I am afraid he is a rogue,' said Mr. Tremlett.

I can dispel all your fears on that subject,' said the dignified lady; I know he is.'

Has he made his escape?' inquired Mr. Tremlett.

'No, Sir, he has not, but I reckon he will;' replied the lady, 'for this house is not big enough to hold him and me, as big as it is.'

Mr. Tremlett thought to himself, as he swallowed his coffee, that he had some right to be heard in the matter; and he determined that the boy should remain, if it was only to convince his housekeeper that he would do as he pleased in his own house.

What has the boy done?' asked Mr. Tremlett.

'Every thing,' replied the lady; 'he abused me in the shamefullest manner.'

'But you must make allowance for the poor child's education,' said Mr. Tremlett; consider that he has not had the advantages of other children.'

'I can consider nothing as an excuse for unnatural conduct,' replied the lady; 'for that shows a natural wickedness of heart; and I never heard any minister say that we must forgive unnaturalness, particularly in beggare.'

It is very true,' replied Mr. Tremlett, 'that unnatural conduct, particularly in a child, shows a native wickedness of heart, that we can hardly hope to correct by education.'

'Very much so indeed,' said Mrs. Swazey, approvingly.

'But I do not understand why the accident of a bad man's being a beggar, should place him out of the pale of forgiveness.'

It is a high time of day, to be sure,' said the lady, ' if beggars are to be choosers.' As Mr. Tremlett made no reply to this conclusive answer, the lady concluded the day was her own, and proceeded to relate her grievances in a more subdued tone.

'I was always very partial to children,' she continued, 'particularly boys, although I never had any of my own; that is, I never have had any,' she said, as if she meant to convey the meaning that she might