Imatges de pàgina
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THE INGLE-SIDE.

It's rare to see the morning bleeze,1
Like a bonfire frae the sea;

It's fair to see the burnie2 kiss
The lip o' the flowery lea;
An' fine it is on green hill-side,
Where hums the hinny bee;
But rarer, fairer, finer fair,

Is the ingle-side to me.

Glens may be gilt wi' gowans rare,
The birds may fill the tree,

An' haughs ha'e a' the scented ware

That simmer's growth can gie;

But the cantie hearth, where cronies meet,
An' the darling o' our e'e,
That makes to us a warld complete,--
Oh, the ingle-side's for me!

I sat alone in my cottage,

The midnight needle plying;

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I feared for my child, for the rush's light In the socket now was dying!

There came a hand to my lonely latch,
Like the wind at midnight moaning:

I knelt to pray, but rose again,

For I heard my little boy groaning;

I crossed my brow, and I crossed my breast,
But that night my child departed-
They left a weakling in his stead,

And I am broken-hearted!

Oh, it cannot be my own sweet boy,
For his eyes are dim and hollow;
My little boy is gone-is gone,

And his mother soon will follow!
The dirge for the dead will be sung for me,
And the mass be chanted meetly;
And I shall sleep with my little boy,
In the moonlight church-yard sweetly.

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THE DAYS OF YOUTH.

FROM THE "PRELUDE TO FAUSTUS."

Give me, oh give me back the days
When I-I too-was young-

And felt, as they now feel, each coming hour
New consciousness of power.

Oh, happy, happy time, above all praise!

Then thoughts on thoughts and crowding fancies

sprung,

And found a language in unbidden laysUnintermitted streams from fountains ever flowing. Then, as I wandered free,

In every field for me

Its thousand flowers were blowing!

A veil through which I did not see,

A thin veil o'er the world was thrown-
In every bud a mystery,

Magic in everything unknown:--

The fields, the grove, the air was haunted,
And all that age has disenchanted!

Yes! give me give me back the days of youth,
Poor, yet how rich!-my glad inheritance
The inextinguishable love of truth,
While life's realities were all romance-

Give me, oh give youth's passions unconfined,
The rush of joy that felt almost like pain,
Its hate, its love, its own tumultuous mind ;-
Give me my youth again!

THE SOUL OF ELOQUENCE.

TRANSLATION FROM GOETHE'S "FAUSTUS."

How shall we learn to sway the minds of men
By eloquence to rule them? to persuade ?
Do you seek genuine and worthy fame?
Reason and honest feeling want no arts
Of utterance, ask no toil of elocution!

republished in London. Of his poetry he himself says, "It is disfigured by extravagance, and overloaded with imagery;" and he tells us that he got the sobriquet of "John O'Cataract" because of his impetuosity, his fiery temper, and his Irish name.

In 1824 Neal went to England, became domiciled with Jeremy Bentham, and wrote for Blackwood's Magazine up to 1826, when he returned to Portland. Here he opened a law-office, but in 1828 started The Yankee, a weekly paper, which he edited a year or two with much vigor. Of his contributions to magazines and reviews, it may be said their name is legion. At one time, by way of vari

an accomplished athlete. When eighty-two years old, being in a horse-car with some old gentlemen, they were insulted by a robust, ruffianly fellow, whereupon Neal grappled him, and pitched him out of the car. A firm friend, and a somewhat tenacious enemy, Neal was remembered as a warm-hearted, honorable man, and a delightful companion.

And when you speak in earnest, do you need
A search for words? Oh, these fine holiday phrases
In which you robe your worn-out commonplaces,―ety, he gave lessons in sparring and fencing, for he was
These scraps of paper which you crimp and curl,
And twist into a thousand idle shapes,-
These filagree ornaments, are good for nothing!
Cost time and pains, please few, impose on no one;
Are unrefreshing as the wind that whistles
In autumn 'mong the dry and wrinkled leaves.
If feeling does not prompt, in vain you strive:
If from the soul the language does not come,
By its own impulse, to impel the hearts
Of hearers with communicated power,-
In vain you strive, in vain you study earnestly,
Toil on forever, piece together fragments,
Cook up your broken scraps of sentences,

And blow, with puffing breath, a struggling light,
Glimmering confusedly now, now cold in ashes—
Startle the school-boys with your metaphors—
And, if such food may suit your appetite,
Win the vain wonder of applauding children!
But never hope to stir the hearts of men,
And mould the souls of many into one,

By words which come not native from the heart.

John Neal.

AMERICAN.

Neal (1793-1876) was a native of Portland, Maine. From his "Autobiography" (1869), written at the suggestion of the poet Longfellow, we learn that he was of Quaker descent, and could trace back his ancestry to the time of George Fox. He had a twin-sister, Rachel. "At the age of twelve," he says, "my education was completed. I never went to school another day." Thenceforth he was self-instructed. Quitting the retail shop where he had been placed as a boy, he taught drawing and penmanship for awhile; then became a dry-goods jobber successively in Boston, New York, and Baltimore, in the latter city going into partnership with the poet Pierpont. Failing in business (1815), he studied law; then tried literature, publishing (1817) his novel of "Keep Cool," "Goldau, and other Poems," "Otho: a Tragedy," besides supplying editorial matter for the Baltimore Telegraph. He wrote with great rapidity, and became one of the most voluminous of American authors. His novels "Seventy-six" and "Logan" were

GOLDAU.

A small village of the same name in the valley of Goldau, Switzerland, was entirely destroyed, along with some adjoining villages, September 2d, 1806, by a landslip of the Rossberg, which then took place, and which also converted this once beautiful valley into a scene of desolation, covering it with enormous rocks and other débris. Upward of four hundred and fifty human beings were killed, one hundred and eleven houses destroyed, and whole herds of cattle swept away. The portion of the mountain that fell was about three miles long, a thousand feet broad, and a hundred feet thick.

O Switzerland! my country! 'tis to thee
I strike my harp in agony :—
My country! nurse of Liberty!
Home of the gallant, great, and free,
My sullen harp I strike to thee.
Oh! I have lost you all!
Parents, and home, and friends:

Ye sleep beneath a mountain pall,
A mountain's plumage o'er you bends.
The cliff-yew of funereal gloom,
Is now the only mourning plume
That nods above a people's tomb.

Of the echoes that swim o'er thy bright blue lake,
And, deep in its caverns, their merry bells shake,
And repeat the young huntsman's cry:-
That clatter and laugh when the goatherds take
Their browsing flocks, at the morning's break,
Far over the hills,-not one is awake

In the swell of thy peaceable sky.
They sit on that wave with a motionless wing,
And their cymbals are mute; and the desert birds
sing

Their unanswered notes to the wave and the sky,
One startling and sudden, unchangeable cry-
As they stoop their broad wing, and go sluggishly by:

For deep in that blue-bosomed water is laid
As innocent, true, and lovely a maid

As ever in cheerfulness carolled her song

In the blithe mountain air as she bounded along.The heavens are all blue, and the billow's bright verge

Is frothily laved by a whispering surge,
That heaves incessant, a tranquil dirge,

To lull the pale forms that sleep below;
Forms that rock as the waters flow.
That bright lake is still as a liquid sky,
And when o'er its bosom the swift clouds fly,
They pass like thoughts o'er a clear blue eye!
The fringe of thin foam that their sepulchre binds,
Is as light as a cloud that is borne by the winds;
While over its bosom the dim vapors hover,
And flutterless skims the snowy-winged plover:
Swiftly passing away-like a haunted wing;
With a drooping plume, that may not fling
One sound of life, or a rustling note,

O'er that sleepless tomb, where my loved ones float.

Oh! cool and fresh is that bright blue lake,
While over its stillness no sounds awake;
No sights but those of the hill-top fountain
That swims on the height of a cloud-wrapped
mountain,

The basin of the rainbow stream,

The sunset gush, the morning gleam,
The picture of the poet's dream.

Land of proud hearts, where freedom broods
Amid her home of echoing woods,

The mother of the mountain floods,—
Dark, Goldau, is thy vale!

The spirits of Rigi shall wail

On their cloud-bosomed deep, as they sail

In mist where thy children are lying:

But the hour when the sun in his pride went down,

While his parting hung rich o'er the world,— While abroad o'er the sky his flush mantle was blown,

And his red-rushing streamers unfurled,—
An everlasting hill was torn

From its perpetual base, and borne,
In gold and crimson vapors dressed,
To where a people are at rest!
Slowly it came in its mountain wrath,
And the forests vanished before its path;
And the rude cliffs bowed, and the waters fled,
And the living were buried, while over their head
They heard the full march of the foe as he sped,
And the valley of life was the tomb of the dead!
The clouds were all bright; no lightnings flew;
And over that valley no death-blast blew:
No storm passed by on his cloudy wing;
No twang was heard from the sky-archer's string;
But the dark old hill in its strength came down,
While the shedding of day on its summit was thrown,
A glory all light, like a wind-wreathed crown;
While the tame bird flew to the vulture's nest,
And the vulture forbore in that hour to molest.

The mountain sepulchre of all I loved!
The village sank-and the monarch trees
Leaned back from the encountering breeze,
While this tremendous pageant moved!
The mountain forsook his perpetual throne,
Came down from his rock, and his path is shown
In barrenness and ruin, where

The secret of his power lies bare:

His rocks in nakedness arise,
His desolation mocks the skies!

Sweet vale, Goldau, farewell!
An Alpine monument may dwell
Upon thy bosom, O my home!

As their thunders once paused in their headlong The mountain, thy pall and thy prison, may keep

descent,

And delayed their discharge, while thy desert was

rent

With the cries of thy sons who were dying. No chariots of fire on the clouds careered; No warrior-arm, with its falchion reared:, No death-angel's trump o'er the ocean was blown; No mantle of wrath o'er the heaven was thrown; No armies of light, with their banners of flame, Or neighing steeds, through the sunset came, Or leaping from space appeared!

No earthquakes reeled, no Thunderer stormed; No fetterless dead o'er the bright sky swarmed; No voices in heaven were heard!

thee,

I shall see thee no more, but till death I will weep thee;

Of thy blue lake will dream, wherever I roam, And wish myself wrapped in its peaceful foam.

Henry Francis Lyte.

Lyte (1793-1847) was a native of Ednam, Scotland, where the poet Thomson was born. He entered Trinity College, Dublin, and carried off on three occasions the prize for English poetry. He studied for the ministry, and, after some changes, settled as a clergyman at Brixham, Devonshire. Here he labored successfully for twen

ty years, and composed most of his hymns. His health failing, he went to Nice, where he died. His noble hymn, "Abide with Me," was written in 1847, in view of his approaching departure from earth. It was the last, as it was the best, of his productions.

HYMN: "ABIDE WITH ME." Abide with me! fast falls the even-tide; The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide! When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me!

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;
Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see;
O thou, who changest not, abide with me!

Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word;
But as thou dwell'st with thy disciples, Lord,
Familiar, condescending, patient, free,
Come, not to sojourn, but abide, with me!

Come not in terrors as the King of kings;
But kind and good, with healing in thy wings;
Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea;
Come, Friend of sinners, thus abide with me!

Thou on my head in early youth didst smile;
And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile,
Thou hast not left me, oft as I left thee.
On to the close, O Lord, abide with me!

I need thy presence every passing hour:
What but thy grace can foil the tempter's power?
Who like thyself my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, oh, abide with me!

I fear no foe, with thee at hand to bless :
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness:
Where is Death's sting? where, Grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if thou abide with me?

Hold, then, thy cross before my closing eyes! Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies! Heaven's morning breaks, and Earth's vain shadows

flee;

In life and death, O Lord, abide with me!

FROM LINES ON "EVENING." Sweet evening hour! sweet evening hour! That calms the air, and shuts the flower;

That brings the wild bird to her nest, The infant to its mother's breast.

Sweet hour! that bids the laborer cease, That gives the weary team release,

That leads them home, and crowns them there With rest and shelter, food and care.

Oh season of soft sounds and hues,
Of twilight walks among the dews,
Of feelings calm, and converse sweet,
And thoughts too shadowy to repeat!

Yes, lovely hour! thou art the time When feelings flow, and wishes climb; When timid souls begin to dare,

And God receives and answers prayer.

Then, as the earth recedes from sight,
Heaven seems to ope her fields of light,
And call the fettered soul above
From sin and grief, to peace and love.

Who has not felt that Evening's hour Draws forth devotion's tenderest power; That guardian spirits round us stand, And God himself seems most at hand?

Sweet hour! for heavenly musing made-
When Isaac walked, and Daniel prayed;
When Abram's offering God did own,
And Jesus loved to be alone!

Nathaniel Langdon Frothingham.

AMERICAN.

A native of Boston, and a graduate of Harvard, Frothingham (1793-1870) studied for the ministry, and was settled over a parish in Boston several years. He published some excellent translations from the German, and made several visits to Europe. The latter part of his life he became blind; and he pathetically alludes, in the poem we quote, to the fact that the blind, when they dream, have no sense of their deprivation. His son, Octavius Brooks Frothingham (born in Boston, 1822), is a clergyman of the liberal school, and the author of some approved hymus.

THE SIGHT OF THE BLIND.

"I always see in dreams," she said, "Nor then believe that I am blind." That simple thought a shadowy pleasure shed Within my mind.

In a like doom, the nights afford

A like display of mercy done : How oft I've dreamed of sight as full restored! Not once as gone.

Restored as with a flash! I gaze

On open books with letters plain; And scenes and faces of the dearer days Are bright again.

O sleep! in pity thou art made

A double boon to such as we:

Beneath closed lids and folds of deepest shade We think we see.

O Providence! when all is dark Around our steps and o'er thy will, The mercy-seat that hides the covenant-ark Has angels still.

Thou who art light! illume the page Within; renew these respites sweet, And show, beyond the films and wear of age, Both walk and seat.

Then grant the needed force Unmixed with bitterness.

When trouble shall break in,

Let me not turn despairer;

But give a steadfast heart,

And make me a cross-bearer.

When help and comfort fail, Send to my side the Friend, Who, closer than a brother, Shall watch the sorrow's end.

William Maginn.

Maginn (1793-1842), the "Odoherty" of Blackwood's Magazine, from 1819 to 1828, was a native of Cork. He received the degree of LL.D. in his twenty-fourth year. There was much scholarly wit and satirical power in his writings; but his literary career was irregular, and his intemperate habits made it a failure. He was often arrested, and lodged in jail. He was one of the chief supporters of Fraser's Magazine (1830), and for a time co-editor of the Standard newspaper. In 1838 he commenced a series of Homeric ballads in Blackwood's Magazine. He was also distinguished as a Shakspearian critic.

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