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BENJAMIN BUSSEY THATCHER.
DIED, AGED 31 YEARS.
B. B. THATCHER was the third son of the Hon. Samuel Thatcher, of Bangor, and was born in the town of Warren, on the eighth day of October, 1809. He received his early education at the Warren Academy, and entered Bowdoin College, one year in advance, at the age of thirteen years, and graduated with distinction, in 1823. A short time after this, he became a student in the law office of Messrs. Hill & Starrett, at Bangor, in which city his father and brother resided. He remained there for some time, and then removed to Boston, and finished his law studies with the Hon. Elijah Morse, and on his admission to the Suffolk Bar, became associated in practice with William Brigham, Esq. While residing in Bangor, he did much towards the improvement and mental culture of the citizens, by the establishment of a "Debating Club," which afterwards became merged into a "Lyceum," and was the means of contributing much to the happiness and intellectual improvement of its members. We believe he also, in connection, established a literary journal.
Mr. Thatcher commenced his literary career, in the city of Boston, as a contributor to the leading Magazines and Journals then published, and among them was the "New-England Magazine," to which Longfellow, Tuckerman, Lowell, Benjamin, Holmes, Emerson, Winthrop, and other distinguished literary men contributed, with whom he was an associate. His only published works are, “Indian Biography," and "Indian Traits," although at his death he left a large amount of manuscript matter, which has never been published. He spent some
a heart. He was educated to the profession of the law, but his great aim through life appears to have been to acquire knowledge, and to diffuse it abroad for the purpose of enlightening, elevating and improving the human race. For several years past he has devoted himself exclusively to literary pursuits—and if his career, by a wise Providence, had not been abridged, he would have been surpassed by few of his countrymen in rendering true service to his country-and would have acquired a fame to endure for ages. Many of his writings are before the world-they bear the stamp of worth, and have been read with much interest in this country and Europe-and he has doubtless left many important manuscripts, which, it is to be hoped, his friends will give the public at some future day. Mr. Thatcher was at one time editor of this paper-and since it has been committed to our care, the columns have frequently been enriched by his contributions—and in his death we lose "a friend, faithful and just." It is now nearly two years since he returned from Europe, where he had passed many months, in travel, and in studying the manners and characteristics of the inhabitants-chiefly in Great Britain. He was there attacked with a chronic affection of the stomach-and on his return to this country, he suffered much from ill health. Since then, he has been gradually declining--but he has never neglected his literary pursuits, or his accustomed exercise of walking, until within a few days. He was conscious of the approach of death, which at last came upon him suddenly-but he met the grim king of terrors like a Christian philosopher and his last moments were soothed by the benignant spirit of Religion. The death of B. B. Thatcher has left a blank in society that will not be easily filled."
It brings my soul of many a parted year.
Again, yet once again,
O minstrel of the main !
Lo! festal face and form familiar throng
Unto my waking eye;
And voices of the sky
Sing from the walls of death unwonted song.
Nay, cease not I would call,
Thus, from the silent hall
Of the unlighted grave, the joys of old:
Beam on me yet once more,
Ye blessed eyes of yore,
Startling life-blood through all my being cold.
Ah! cease not
Fill thick the dungeon's air;
They wave me from its gloom - I fly—I stand Again upon that spot,
Which ne'er hath been forgot
In all time's tears, my own green, glorious land!
There, on each noon-bright hill,
By fount and flashing rill,
Slowly the faint flocks sought the breezy shade;
On the tall taper spire,
And windows low, along the upland glade.
It is my own blue stream,
Far, far below, amid the balmy vale ;
I know it by the hedge
Of rose-trees at its edge,
Vaunting their crimson beauty to the gale:
There, there, mid clust'ring leaves,
And the worn threshold of my youth beneath ;
I know them by the moss,
And the old elms that toss
Their lithe arms up where winds the smoke's gray wreath.
Sing, sing! I am not mad
Sing that the visions glad.
May smile that smiled, and speak that spake but now ;Sing, sing!-I might have knelt
And pray'd; I might have felt
Their breath upon my bosom and my brow.
I might have press'd to this
Cold bosom, in my bliss,
Each long lost form that ancient hearth beside;
From living lips, one word,
Thou mother of my childhood, and have died.
Nay, nay, 'tis sweet to weep,
Ere yet in death I sleep;
It minds me I have been, and am again,
It breaks the madness bound,
While I have dream'd, those ages, on my brain.
And sweet it is to love
Even this gentle dove,
This breathing thing from all life else apart:
Ah! leave me not the gloom
Of my eternal tomb
Thou shalt go free;
And come, O come to me
Again, when from the hills the spring-gale blows;
So shall I learn, at least,
One other year hath ceased,
And the long woe throbs lingering to its close.