Page images
PDF
EPUB

W. B. O. PEABODY.

[Born, 1799.]

THE Reverend WILLIAM B. O. PEABODY was born at Exeter, New Hampshire, in 1799. He was educated at Cambridge, where he graduated in 1816. In 1820, he was established as a minister

in the village of Springfield, Massachusetts, and has resided there since that time, discharging his professional duties, and occasionally writing for the North American Review and other periodicals.

HYMN OF NATURE.

Gon of the earth's extended plains!
The dark, green fields contented lie;
The mountains rise like holy towers,
Where man might commune with the sky;
The tall cliff challenges the storm

That lowers upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams,
With joyous music in their flow.

Gop of the dark and heavy deep!
The waves lie sleeping on the sands,
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summon'd up their thundering bands;
Then the white sails are dash'd like foam,
Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,
Till, calm'd by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.

Gon of the forest's solemn shade!

The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale, Lifts up admiring eyes to thee; But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm.

GoD of the light and viewless air!

Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might,

The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All-from the evening's plaintive sigh,

That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry,
Breathe forth the language of thy power.

Gon of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs
The tented dome, of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings!
Each brilliant star, that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud, that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.

GoD of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.

For every fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.

GoD of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return;
Her crumbling altars must decay;

Her incense fires shall cease to burn;
But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.

TO WILLIAM.

WRITTEN BY A BEREAVED FATHER.

It seems but yesterday, my love,
Thy little heart beat high;
And I had almost scorn'd the voice
That told me thou must die.

I saw thee move with active bound,
With spirits wild and free;
And infant grace and beauty gave
Their glorious charm to thee.

Far on the sunny plains, I saw
Thy sparkling footsteps fly,
Firm, light, and graceful, as the bird
That cleaves the morning sky;
And often, as the playful breeze

Waved back thy shining hair,
Thy cheek display'd the red rose-tint
That health had painted there.

And then, in all my thoughtfulness,
I could not but rejoice
To hear, upon the morning wind,
The music of thy voice,-
Now, echoing in the rapturous laugh,
Now sad, almost to tears,

"T was like the sounds I used to hear, In old and happier years.

Thanks for that memory to thee,

My little, lovely boy,-
That memory of my youthful bliss,
Which time would fain destroy.

I listen'd, as the mariner
Suspends the out-bound oar,
To taste the farewell gale that breathes
From off his native shore.

So gentle in thy loveliness!

Alas! how could it be,

That death would not forbear to lay

His icy hand on thee;
Nor spare thee yet a little while,

In childhood's opening bloom, While many a sad and weary soul Was longing for the tomb!

Was mine a happiness too pure

For erring man to know?
Or why did Heaven so soon destroy
My paradise below?
Enchanting as the vision was,
It sunk away as soon

As when, in quick and cold eclipse,
The sun grows dark at noon.

I loved thee, and my heart was bless'd;
But, ere the day was spent,

I saw thy light and graceful form
In drooping illness bent,

And shudder'd as I cast a look
Upon thy fainting head;

The mournful cloud was gathering there,
And life was almost fled.

Days pass'd; and soon the seal of death
Made known that hope was vain;
I knew the swiftly-wasting lamp

Would never burn again;
The cheek was pale; the snowy lips
Were gently thrown apart;
And life, in every passing breath,

Seem'd gushing from the heart.

I knew those marble lips to mine
Should never more be press'd,
And floods of feeling, undefined,
Roll'd wildly o'er my breast;
Low, stifled sounds, and dusky forms
Seem'd moving in the gloom,
As if death's dark array were come,
To bear thee to the tomb.

And when I could not keep the tear
From gathering in my eye,
Thy little hand press'd gently mine,
In token of reply;

To ask one more exchange of love,
Thy look was upward cast,
And in that long and burning kiss
Thy happy spirit pass'd.

I never trusted to have lived
To bid farewell to thee,
And almost said, in agony,

It ought not so to be;

I hoped that thou within the grave
My weary head shouldst lay,
And live, beloved, when I was gone,
For many a happy day.

With trembling hand, I vainly tried
Thy dying eyes to close;
And almost envied, in that hour,
Thy calm and deep repose;
For I was left in loneliness,

With pain and grief oppress'd,
And thou wast with the sainted,

Where the weary are at rest.

Yes, I am sad and weary now;
But let me not repine,
Because a spirit, loved so well,

Is earlier bless'd than mine;
My faith may darken as it will,
I shall not much deplore,
Since thou art where the ills of life
Can never reach thee more.

MONADNOCK.

UPON the far-off mountain's brow
The angry storm has ceased to beat;
And broken clouds are gathering now
In sullen reverence round his feet;

I saw their dark and crowded bands

In thunder on his breast descending; But there once more redeem'd he stands,

And heaven's clear arch is o'er him bending. I've seen him when the morning sun

Burn'd like a bale-fire on the height; I've seen him when the day was done,

Bathed in the evening's crimson light. I've seen him at the midnight hour,

When all the world were calmly sleeping, Like some stern sentry in his tower,

His weary watch in silence keeping.

And there, forever firm and clear,

His lofty turret upward springs; He owns no rival summit near,

No sovereign but the King of kings.
Thousands of nations have pass'd by,
Thousands of years unknown to story,
And still his aged walls on high
He rears, in melancholy glory.

The proudest works of human hands
Live but an age before they fall;
While that severe and hoary tower

Outlasts the mightiest of them all.
And man himself, more frail, by far,

Than even the works his hand is raising, Sinks downward, like the falling star

That flashes, and expires in blazing.

And all the treasures of the heart,

Its loves and sorrows, joys and fears, Its hopes and memories, must depart To sleep with unremember'd years. But still that ancient rampart stands Unchanged, though years are passing o'er him; And time withdraws his powerless hands, While ages melt away before him.

So should it be for no heart beats
Within his cold and silent breast;
To him no gentle voice repeats

The soothing words that make us blest. And more than this-his deep repose

Is troubled by no thoughts of sorrow; He hath no weary eyes to close,

No cause to hope or fear to-morrow.

Farewell! I go my distant way;

Perchance, in some succeeding years, The eyes that know no cloud to-day,

May gaze upon thee dim with tears. Then may thy calm, unaltering form Inspire in me the firm endeavourLike thee, to meet each lowering storm, Till life and sorrow end forever.

THE WINTER NIGHT.

"TIs the high festival of night!
The earth is radiant with delight;
And, fast as weary day retires,
The heaven unfolds its secret fires,
Bright, as when first the firmament
Around the new-made world was bent,
And infant seraphs pierced the blue,
Till rays of heaven came shining through.

And mark the heaven's reflected glow
On many an icy plain below;

And where the streams, with tinkling clash,
Against their frozen barriers dash,
Like fairy lances fleetly cast,
The glittering ripples hurry past;
And floating sparkles glance afar,
Like rivals of some upper star.

And see, beyond, how sweetly still
The snowy moonlight wraps the hill,
And many an aged pine receives
The steady brightness on its leaves,
Contrasting with those giant forms,
Which, rifled by the winter storms,
With naked branches, broad and high,
Are darkly painted on the sky.

From every mountain's towering head
A white and glistening robe is spread,
As if a melted silver tide

Were gushing down its lofty side;
The clear, cold lustre of the moon
Is purer than the burning noon;
And day hath never known the charm
That dwells amid this evening calm.

The idler, on his silken bed,
May talk of nature, cold and dead;
But we will gaze upon this scene,
Where some transcendent power hath been,
And made these streams of beauty flow

In gladness on the world below,
Till nature breathes from every part

The rapture of her mighty heart.

DEATH.

LIFT high the curtain's drooping fold
And let the evening sunlight in;

I would not that my heart grew cold
Before its better years begin.
"Tis well; at such an early hour,

So calm and pure, a sinking ray Should shine into the heart, with power To drive its darker thoughts away.

The bright, young thoughts of early days
Shall gather in my memory now,
And not the later cares, whose trace
Is stamp'd so deeply on my brow.
What though those days return no more?
The sweet remembrance is not vain,
For Heaven is waiting to restore
The childhood of my soul again.
Let no impatient mourner stand
In hollow sadness near my bed,
But let me rest upon the hand,
And let me hear that gentle tread
Of her, whose kindness long ago,
And still, unworn away by years,
Has made my weary eyelids flow
With grateful and admiring tears.

I go, but let no plaintive tone
The moment's grief of friendship tell;
And let no proud and graven stone

Say where the weary slumbers well. A few short hours, and then for heaven! Let sorrow all its tears dismiss ;

For who would mourn the warning given Which calls us from a world like this?

AUTUMN EVENING.

BEHOLD the western evening light!
It melts in deepening gloom;
So calmly Christians sink away,
Descending to the tomb.

The wind breathes low; the withering leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree;

So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be.

How beautiful on all the hills

The crimson light is shed!

"T is like the peace the Christian gives
To mourners round his bed.

How mildly on the wandering cloud
The sunset beam is cast!

"T is like the memory left behind

When loved ones breathe their last.
And now, above the dews of night,
The yellow star appears;
So faith springs in the heart of those
Whose eyes are bathed in tears.
But soon the morning's happier light
Its glory shall restore;
And eyelids that are seal'd in death
Shall wake, to close no more.

ROBERT C. SANDS.

[Born, 1799. Died, 1832.]

THE history of American literature, for the period which has already passed, will contain the names of few men of greater genius, or more general learning, than ROBERT C. SANDS. His life has been written so well by his intimate friend, GuLIAN C.VERPLANCK, LL. D., that I shall attempt only to present an abstract of the narrative of that accomplished scholar and critic.

SANDS was born in the city of New York, (where his father, who had been distinguished for his patriotism during the revolutionary struggle, was an eminent merchant,) on the eleventh of May, 1799. At a very early age he was remarkable for great quickness of apprehension, and facility of acquiring knowledge. When seven years old, he began to study the Latin language, and at thirteen he was admitted to the sophomore class of Columbia College. He had already, under Mr. FINDLAY, of Newark, and the Reverend Mr. WHELPLEY, of New York, made great progress in classical knowledge; and while in the college, which had long been distinguished for sound and accurate instruction in the dead languages, he excelled all his classmates in ancient learning, and was equally successful in the mathematics and other branches of study. In his second collegiate year, in conjunction with his friend EASTBURN, and some other students, he established a periodical entitled "The Moralist," and afterward another, called "Academic Recreations," of both of which he wrote the principal contents. He was graduated in 1815, and soon after became a student in the law-office of DAVID B. OGDEN, one of the most distinguished advocates of the time. He pursued his legal studies with great ardour; his course of reading was very extensive; and he became not only familiar with the more practical part of professional knowledge, but acquired a relish for the abstruse doctrines and subtle reasonings of the ancient common law.

Still he found time for the study of the classics; and, in company with two or three friends, read several of the most difficult of the Greek authors, exactly and critically. His love of composition continued to grow upon him. He wrote on all subjects, and for all purposes; and, in addition to essays and verses, on topics of his own choice, volunteered to write orations for the commencement displays of young graduates, verses for young lovers, and even sermons for young divines. Several of the latter, written in an animated style, were much admired, when delivered in the pulpit with good emphasis and discretion, to congregations who little suspected to whom they were indebted for their edification. One of them, at least, has been printed under the name of the clergyman by whom it was delivered. In 1817 he published a

poem, which he had begun and in great part written four years before. It was called "The Bridal of Vaumond," and was a metrical romance, founded on the same legend of the transformation of a decrepit and miserable wretch into a youthful hero, by compact with the infernal powers, which forms the groundwork of BYRON'S "Deformed Transformed."

It was during the period of these studies, that he and three of his friends, of as many different professions, formed an association, of a somewhat remarkable character, under the name of the Literary Confederacy. The number was limited to four; and they bound themselves to preserve a friendly communication in all the vicissitudes of life, and to endeavour, by all proper means, to advance their mutual and individual interest, to advise each other on every subject, and to receive with good temper the rebuke or admonition which might thus be given. They proposed to unite, from time to time, in literary publications, covenanting solemnly that no matter hostile to the great principles of religion or morals should be published by any member. This compact was most faithfully kept to the time of SANDS's death, though the primary objects of it were gradually given up, as other duties engrossed the attention of its members. In the first year of its existence, the confederacy contributed largely to several literary and critical gazettes, besides publishing in one of the daily papers of the city a series of essays, under the title of the Amphilogist," and a second under that of the Neologist," which attracted much attention, and were very widely circulated and republished in the newspapers of the day. SANDS wrote a large portion of these, both in prose and verse.

66

66

His friend EASTBURN had now removed to Bristol, Rhode Island, where, after studying divinity for some time under the direction of Bishop GRISWOLD, he took orders, and soon after settled in Virginia. A regular correspondence was kept up between the friends; and the letters that have been preserved are filled with the evidence of their literary industry. EASTBURN had undertaken a new metrical version of the Psalms, which the pressure of his clerical duties and his untimely death prevented him from ever completing. SANDS was led by curiosity, as well as by his intimacy with EASTBURN, to acquire some knowledge of the Hebrew. It was not very profound, but it enabled him to try his skill at the same translation; and he from time to time sent his friend a Psalm paraphrased in verse.

But amid their severer studies and their literary amusements, they were engaged in a bolder poetical enterprise. This was a romantic poem, founded on the history of PHILIP, the celebrated sachem

of the Pequods, and leader of the great Indian wars against the New England colonists in 1665 and 1676. It was planned by EASTBURN, during his residence in the vicinity of Mount Hope, in Rhode Island, the ancient capital of the Pequod race, where the scene is laid. In the year following, when he visited New York, the plan of the story was drawn up in conjunction with his friend. "We had then," said SANDS, "read nothing on the subject; and our plot was formed from a hasty glance into a few pages of HUBBARD's Narrative. After EASTBURN's return to Bristol, the poem was written, according to the parts severally assigned, and transmitted, reciprocally, in the course of correspondence. It was commenced in November, 1817, and finished before the summer of 1818, except the concluding stanzas of the sixth canto, which were added after Mr. EASTBURN left Bristol. As the fable was defective, from our ignorance of the subject, the execution was also, from the same cause, and the hasty mode of composition, in every respect imperfect. Mr. EASTBURN was then preparing to take orders; and his studies, with that view, engrossed his attention. He was ordained in October, 1818. Between that time and the period of his going to Accomack county, Virginia, whence he had received an invitation to take charge of a congregation, he transcribed the first two cantos of this poem, with but few material variations, from the first collating copy. The labours of his ministry left him no time even for his most delightful amusement. He had made no further progress in the correction of the work when he returned to New York, in July, 1819. His health was then so much impaired, that writing of any kind was too great a labour. He had packed up the manuscripts, intending to finish his second copy in Santa Cruz, whither it was recommended to him to go, as the last resource to recruit his exhausted constitution." He died on the fourth day of his passage, on the second of December, 1819. The work, thus left imperfect, was revised, arranged, and completed, with many additions, by SANDS. It was introduced by a proem, in which the surviving poet mourned, in noble and touching strains, the accomplished friend of his youth.

The work was published under the title of "Yamoyden," at New York, in 1820. It unquestionably shows some marks of the youth of its authors, besides other imperfections arising from the mode of its composition, which could not fail to prove a serious impediment to a clear connection of the plot, and a vivid and congruous conception of all the characters. Yet it has high merit in various ways. Its descriptions of natural scenery are alike accurate and beautiful. Its style is flexible, flowing, and poetical. It is rich throughout with historical and antiquarian knowledge of Indian history and tradition; and every thing in the customs, manners, superstitions, and story of the aborigines of New England, that could be applied to poetical purposes, is used with skill, judgment, and taste.

In 1820, SANDS was admitted to the bar, and opened an office in the city of New York. He entered upon his professional career with high

hopes and an ardent love of the learning of the law. His first attempt as an advocate was, however, unsuccessful, and he was disheartened by the result. Though he continued the business of an attorney, he made no second attempt of consequence before a jury, and after a few years he gradually withdrew himself from the profession. During this period he persevered in his law reading, and renewed and extended his acquaintance with the Latin poets, and the "grave, lofty tragedians" of Greece; acquiring an intimacy such as professors might have envied, with the ancient languages and learning. He had early learned French, and was familiar with its copious and elegant literature; but he never much admired it, and in his multifarious literary conversation and authorship, rarely quoted or alluded to a French author, except for facts. He now acquired the Italian, and read carefully and with great admiration all its great writers, from DANTE to ALFIERI. His versions and imitations of POLITIAN, MONTI, and METASTASIo, attest how fully he entered into their spirit. Some time after he acquired the Spanish language very critically, and, after studying its more celebrated writers, read very largely all the Spanish historians and documents he could find touching American history. In order to complete his acquaintance with the cognate modern languages of Latin origin, he some years later acquired the Portuguese, and read such of its authors as he could procure.

In 1822 and 1823 he wrote many articles for "The Literary Review," a monthly periodical then published in New York, which received great increase of reputation from his contributions. In the winter of 1823-4, he and some friends published seven numbers of a sort of mock-magazine, entitled "The St. Tammany Magazine." Here he gave the reins to his most extravagant and happiest humour, indulging in parody, burlesque, and grotesque satire, thrown off in the gayest mood and with the greatest rapidity, but as good-natured as satire and parody could well be. In May, 1824, "The Atlantic Magazine" was established in New York, and placed under his charge. At the end of six months he gave up this work; but when it changed its name, and in part its character, and became the New York Review, he was reëngaged as an editor, and assisted in conducting it until 1827. During this same period he assisted in preparing and publishing a digest of equity cases, and also in editing some other legal compilations, enriching them with notes of the American decisions. These publications were, it is true, not of a high class of legal authorship; but they show professional reading and knowledge, as well as the ready versatility of his mind. He had now become an author by profession, and looked to his pen for support, as heretofore for fame or for amusement. When, therefore, an offer of a liberal salary was made him as an assistant editor of the "New York Commercial Advertiser," a long-established and well-known daily evening paper, he accepted it, and continued his connection with that journal until his death.

[ocr errors]
« PreviousContinue »