MR. LEGARE is of Charleston, South Carolina, and is of the family of the late eminent scholar and orator HUGH S, LEGARE. He published, in Boston, in 1848," Orta Undis, and other Poems," in Latin and English, and he has since contributed to the literary miscellanies many compositions
of various but progressive excellence. His favourite themes are of love and nature, and his writings are often pervaded by a religious feeling. His taste is elegant, and his tone chivalrous and manly. His verse is occasionally abrupt and harsh-perhaps from attempted condensation.
I THINK We faint and weep more than is manly; I think we more mistrust than Christians should. Because the earth we cling to interposes And hides the lower orbit of the sun, We have no faith to know the circle perfect, And that a day will follow on the night: Nay, more, that when the sun we see, is setting, He is but rising on another people, And not his face but ours veil'd in darkness. We are less wise than were the ancient heathen Who temper'd feasting with a grisly moral.
With higher hope, we shrink from thoughts of dying,
And dare not read, while yet of death unbidden, As gipsies in the palm, those seams, and circles, And time-worn lineaments, which kings in purple Have trembled to behold, but holy men, Interpreting aright, like martyr'd STEPHEN, In singleness of heart have sunk to sleep; GoD's children weary with an evening ramble. Unthinking custom from our very cradle Makes us most cowards where we should be bold. The house is closed and hush'd; a gloom funereal Pervades the rooms once cheerful with the light; Sobs and outcries from those we love infect us With strange disquiet, making play unsought Before they take us on the knee and tell us We must no more be joyful, for a dread And terrible calamity has smitten one.
And then, poor innocents, with frighted hearts Within the awful chamber are we led To look on death; the hard, impassive face, The formal shroud, which the stiff feet erect Into the semblance of a second forehead, Swathed and conceal'd; the tumbler whence he drank
Who ne'er shall drink again; the various adjuncts Of a sick room; the useless vials
Half emptied only, on the hearth the lamp, Even the fly that buzzes round and settles Upon the dead man's mouth, and walking thence Into his nostril, starts him not from slumber. All portions of the dreary, changeless scene
In the last drama, with unwholesome stillness Succeeding to the weepings and complaints Of Heaven's own justice, and loud cries for succour That fill the dying ear not wholly dead, Distract the fluttering spirit, and invest A death-bed with a horror not its own. I thought of these things sadly, and I wonder'd If in this thanatopsis, soul as clay
Took part and sorrow'd. While I this debated, I knew my soul was loosing from my hold, And that the pines around, assuming shape Of mournful draperies, shut out the day. Then I lost sight and memory for a moment, Then stood erect beside my usual couch, And saw my longwhile tenement, a pallid And helpless symbol of my former self. The hands laid heavily across the breast, The eyelids down, the mouth with final courage That aim'd a smile for sake of her who watch'd, But lapsed into a pang and so congeal'd, Half sweet, half suffering: Aria to Caecinna.
Poor sinful clod, erewhile the spirit's master Not less than servant, with desire keen Alloying love, and oft with wants and achings Leading the mind astray from noblest deeds To sell its birthright for an ESAU's portion. I all forgave, for I was all forgiven. Phosphor had brought a day too broad for twilight Or mist upon its confines. All the old Sad mysteries that raise gigantic shadows Betwixt our mortal faces and GoD's throne, Had fainted in its splendour; pride and sin, Sorrow and pain, and every mortal ill, In the deserted tenement remain'd, A palace outwardly, a vault within. And so, because she thought it still a palace And not a prison with the prisoner fled, She stood before the gates accustom'd. Weeping, Laid her moist cheek upon its breast, and cried, "My lord! my life!" to what had ceased from living, And could no more command with word or eyes. It moved my pity sorely, for these fingers, Now lock'd in agonizing prayer, once turn'd Gently the pages of his life who slumber'd; And this brave mouth, with words of faith and cheer
Strew'd flowers in the path he needs must tread; That as a conqueror and not a captive, Dragg'd at the heavy chariot-wheels of Time, And through an arch triumphal, where for others A narrow portal opens in the sod, Silent, and sad, and void of outlet, he The kingdom of his LORD might enter in. Thus she made dying sweet and full of beauty As life itself. There was no harsh transition; He that slept twofold, woke a single nature Beatified and glad. But she who stay'd, Poor little Roman heart, no longer brave Now that the eyes were shut forevermore, Which made all virtues sweeter for their praise, Saw not the joy and greatness of the change. And I drew near her, as a spirit may Not to the mortal ear, but that the words Seem'd teachings of her bruised and lowly soul: "Is this the poet of thy summer days, The thoughtful husband of maturer years? Are these the lips whose kindly words could reach The deepness of thy nature? If they be, Let them resume their own, nor tarry. Nay, Thou knowest all that thou didst ever love Is lifted out, and all that thou didst hate Lived in the flesh, and with the flesh remains. What matters it to thee if this decays, And mingling with the sod, is trampled on Of clownish feet, by gleaming share upturn'd, Or feeds a rose, or roots a noisome weed? How canst thou halve thy heart, half to the grave, Half to high Heaven yield? Thank Gon instead, That he who was so dear to thee, released From sin and care, at length has found great peace." While she thus mused, her silent tears were stay'd, And kneeling down, with her sweet, patient face Lifted toward heaven, itself sufficient prayer- "LORD GOD!" she cried, "thou kuowest best how weak
And frail I am, and faithless; give me strength To take the rod thou sendest for a staff, And falter never more in this lone journey!" Then she went forth and gather'd freshest flowers, And strew'd them on the dead: young violets Upon the breast, verbena round the temples, Loose rose-leaves o'er the mouth, to hide the pang, And in his hand a lily newly open'd,
In token of her faith and his transition. And in her eyes there reign'd such quietude, That those who saw her, said, "An angel surely Has spoken with her, or her reason's moved By sufferings prolong'd." But none might say She loved but lightly, or with levity Look'd forward to the common lot of all.
MAIZE IN TASSEL.
THE blades of maize are broad and green, The farm-roof scarcely shows between The long and softly-rustling rows Through which the farmer homeward goes. The blue smoke curling through the trees, The children round their mother's knees, He sees, and thanks GoD while he sees.
He holds one in his sturdy hands Aloft, when at the threshold stands (None noticed whence) a stranger. The stranger said, as half with shame He made request; "astray and poor, By hunger guided to your door, I"--" Hush," she answer'd, "say no more!" The farmer set the prattler down-
(Soft heart, although his hands were brown!) With words of welcome brought and pour'd Cool water from the spring: the board The wife set out. What mellow light Made the mean hovel's walls as white As snow! how sweet their bread that night! Long while their humble lot had been To dwell with poverty: between Them all one pallet and a bed Were shared. But to the latter led, The guest in peaceful slumber lay, While, with what broken sleep they may, The dame and host await the day. So pass'd the night. At length the dawn Arrived, and show'd the stranger gone. To none had e'er been closed their door Who ask'd for alms; yet none before Had so much lack'd in courtesy.
So spoke the wife. Her husband, he Sat musing by most anxiously— Of sterner need. A drought that year Prevail'd, and though the corn in ear Began to swell, must perish all Unless a kindly rain should fall. GoD send it straight!—or toil from morn To eve, the hoard of buried corn, Ay, food itself, were lost and gone. Such thoughts now bring him to the door: Perchance some cloud sails up before The morning breeze. None-none; in vain His eyes explore the blue again : With sighs to earth returns his gaze. Ha! what is here?-to GoD be praise! See, see the glad drops on the maize! No mist had dimm'd the night, and yet The furrows all lay soft and wet, As if with frequent showers; nay, More all bloom that shuns the day, And tassel tall, and ear and blade, With heavy drops were downward weighed, And a swift stream the pathway fray'd. Long while might I prolong this strain, Relating thence how great his gain; How he who held not from the poor, Now saw his corncribs running o'er; And how his riches grew amain, And on his hillside ripen'd grain When parch'd was that within the plain. But who the guest was of that night Conjecture thou-I dare not write. We know that angels, with the mien Of men, of men the guests have been; That he who giveth to the poor, Lends to the Lord. (I am not sure-) The promise here deep meaning bore.
MR READ was born in Chester county, Pennsylvania, on the twelfth of March, 1822. His family having separated, in consequence of the death of his father, he in 1839 went to Cincinnati, where he was employed in the studio of CLEVENGER the sculptor, and there his attention was first directed to painting, which he chose for his profession, and soon practised with such skill as to arrest the favourable notice of some of the most eminent persons of the city and adjoining country, several of whom, including the late President HARRISON sat to him for portraits, which he carried as specimens of his abilities to New York, when he settled in that city, in 1841, while he was still under twenty years of age. After a few months he removed to Boston, where he remained until 1846, when he went to Philadelphia, where he has since resided.
Mr. READ's earliest poems were a series of lyrics published in the " Boston Courier" in 1843 and 1844. In 1847 his first volume appeared in Boston, under the title of "Poems," and in 1848 he printed in Philadelphia a second collection, under the name of "Lays and Ballads."
Mr. READ's distinguishing characteristic is a delicate and varied play of fancy. His more ambitious productions display its loftier exercise, rather than that of a distinct and creative imagination; he is a lark flickering aloft in the pure air of song, not an eagle, courting its storms and undazzled by its meridian splendour. And, to extend the comparison, his muse most delights in common and humble subjects. The flowers that spring by the dusty wayside, the cheerful murmur of the meadow brook, the village tavern and rustic mill, and all quiet and tender impulses and affections, are his most favourite sources of inspiration. He excels in homely description, marked frequently by a quaintness of epithet and a quiet and natural pathos. Many of his lyrics on simple and common themes have become widely popular.
His verse, though sometimes irregular, is always musical. Indeed, in the easy flow of his stanzas and in the melody of their cadences, he seems to follow some chime of sound within his brain. This is the pervading expression of his poems, most of which might more properly be called songs. Though he has written in the dramatic form with freedom and unaffected feeling, his province is evidently the lyrical. Some of the brief songs in his last volume, among which "The Nameless," "Bring me the Juice of the Honey Fruit," and "The Light of our Home," may be cited, are fine specimens of the school in which BARRY CORNWALL attained his poetical fame.
Mr. READ's familiarity with the rural life of this country gives a peculiar freshness to his descrip
tions of rural scenery and objects. His early recollections are of the country, and of the habits of the primitive Pennsylvania farmers, in many respects the most picturesque and truly pastoral to be found in these active and practical times. A school of American pastoral poetry is yet to be established. The fresh and luxuriant beauty of our inland scenery has been sung in noble verse by BRYANT and WHITTIER, and with less power in the sweet and plaintive strains of CARLOS WILcox, and the striking productions of STREET and GALLAGHER; but the life of an American farmer has not yet received a just degree of attention from our poets. Mr. READ has touched on this ground very successfully in his "Stranger on the Sill," "The Deserted Road," and other illustrations of country life. Their graphic truth and healthful sentiment will be recognised by readers familiar with their subjects. Like most of our poets, however, in his earlier poems Mr. READ wrote from the inspiration of foreign song and story, and he seems but lately to have perceived that the most appropriate field for the exercise of his fancy is to be found at home. In one of the finest of his pieces, in which he inscribes his last volume to a friend, he discloses the range of his truest sympathies:
Come thou, my friend !-the cool autumnal eves About the hearth have drawn their magic rings; There, while his song of peace the cricket weaves, The simmering hickory sings......
The leafless branches chafe the roof all night,
And through the house the troubled noises go, While, like a ghostly presence, thin and white, The frost foretells the snow.
The muffled owl within the swaying elm
Thrills all the air with sadness as he swings, Till Sorrow seems to spread her shadowy realm About all outward things.
Come, then, my friend, and this shall seem no more- Come when, October walks his red domain, Or when November from his windy floor Winnows the snow and rain.
And when old Winter through his fingers numb Blows till his breathings on the windows gleam; And when the mill-wheel, spiked with ice, is dumb Within the neighbouring stream.
Then come, for nights like these have power to wake The calm delight no others may impart, When round the fire true souls communing make A summer in the heart.
And I will weave athwart the mystic gloom,
With hand grown weird in strange romance, for thee Bright webs of fancy from the golden loom
And let no censure in thy looks be shown,
That I, with hands adventurous and bold, Should grasp the enchanted shuttle which was thrown Through mightier warps of old!
Mr. READ is never more successful than when his poems reflect his own observation and emotion
THE ALCHEMIST'S DAUGHTER.
GIACOMO, the Alchemist.
BERNARDO, his son in-lare.
ROSALIA, his daughter, und Bernardo's wife. LORENZO, his servant.
SCENE 1-FERRARA-The interior of GIACOMO's house. GIACOMO and LORENZO discovered together.-TIME, a little before daybreak.
Giacomo. Art sure of this?
Lorenzo. Ay, signor, very sure.
'Tis but a moment since I saw the thing; BERNARDO, who last night was sworn thy son, Hath made a villanous barter of thine honour: Thou mayst rely the duke is where I said.
Gia. If so-no matter-give me here the light.
Lor. (alone). Oh, what a night! It must be all a dream!
For twenty years, since that I wore a beard, I've served my melancholy master here, And never until now saw such a night! A wedding in this silent house, forsooth- A festival! The very walls in mute Amazement stared through the unnatural light; And poor ROSALIA, bless her tender heart, Look'd like her mother's sainted ghost! Ah me, Her mother died long years ago, and took One half the blessed sunshine from our house- The other half was married off last night. My master, solemn soul, he walk'd the halls As if in search of something which was lost; The groom, I liked not him, nor ever did, Spake such perpetual sweetness, till I thought He wore some sugar'd villany within; But then he is my master's ancient friend, And always known the favourite of the duke, And, as I know, our lady's treacherous lord! Oh, holy Mother, that to villain hawks Our dove should fall a prey! poor gentle dear! Now if I had their necks within my grasp, These fingers should be adders at their throats! No matter if my master be himself, Nor time nor place shall bind up his revenge. He's not a man to spend his wrath in noise, But when his mind is made, with even pace He walks up to the deed and does his will. In fancy I can see him to the end:
The duke perchance already breathes his last, And, for BERNARDO, he will join him soon; And for ROSALIA, she will take the veil, To which she hath been heretofore inclined; And for my master, he will take again To alchemy-a pastime well enough, For aught I know, and honest Christian work. Still it was strange how my poor mistress died, Found, as she was, within her husband's study. The rumour went she died of suffocation; Some cursed crucible, which had been left By GIACOMO aburning, fill'd the room, And when the lady enter'd, took her breath. He found her there, and from that day the place Has been a home for darkness and for dust! I hear him coming! by his hurried step There's something done, or will be very soon. Enter GIACOMO. (He sets the light upon the table, and confronts LORENZO with a stern look.)
Gia. LORENZO, thou hast served me twenty years, And faithfully. Now answer me, how wast That thou wert in the street at such an hour?
Lor. When that the festival was o'er last night, I went to join some comrades in their wine, To pass the time in memory of the event. [drink? Gia. And doubtless thou wert blinded soon with Lor. Indeed, good signor, tho' the wine flow'd free, I could not touch it, though much urged by all; Too great a sadness sat upon my heart; I could do naught but sit and sigh, and think Of our ROSALIA in her bridal dress.
Gia. And sober, too! so much the more at fault. But, as I said, thou'st served me long and well, Perchance too long-too long by just a day. Here, take this purse, and find another master. Lor. Oh, signor, do not drive me thus away! If I have made mistake
Lor. No, signor-I am going; stay-see here:
(He draws a paper from Ast beams.)
Oh, blessed Virgin, grant some proof of this! This paper, as they changed their mant'es, dropp'd Between them to the ground, and when they pass'd I pick'd it up and placed it safely here.
Gia. (examining it). Who forged the lie, could fabricate this too.
Get to thy duties, sir, and mark me well, Let no word pass thy lips about the matter-
BERNARDO's very hand indeed is here! Oh, compact villanous and black! The means, the hour, the signal-everything To rob my honour of its holiest pearl! LORENZO, shallow fool-he does not guess The mischief was all done, and that it was The duke he saw departing. Oh, brain-brain! How shall I hold this river of my wrath! It must not burst-no, rather it shall sweep A noiseless maelstrom, whirling to its centre All thoughts and plans to further my revenge, And rid me of this most accursed blot!
(He rests his forehead on his hand a few minutes, and crolaums) — The past returns to me again-the lore I gladly had forgot, comes like a ghost, And points with shadowy finger to the means Which best shall consummate my just design. The laboratory hath been closed too long; The door smiles welcome to me once again; The dusky latch invites my hand. I come! (He unlocks the door, and stands upon the threshola '
O thou, whose life was stolen from me here, Stand not to thwart me in this great revenge; But rather come with large, propitious eyes, Smiling encouragement with bygone looks! Ye sages, whose pale, melancholy orbs Gaze through the darkness of a thousand years, Oh, pierce the solid blackness of to-day, And fire anew this crucible of thought, Until my soul flames up to the result!
(He enters, and the door closes.) SCENE II.-Another apartment in the Alchemist's houseEnter ROSALIA and BERNARDO.
Rosalia. You tell me he has not been seen to-day? Bernardo. Save by your trusty servant here, who
He saw his master, from without, unciose The shutters of his laboratory while The sun was yet unrisen. It is well; This turning to the past pursuits of youth Argues how much the aspect of to-day Hath driven the ancient darkness from his brain. And now, my dear ROSALIA, let thy face,
And thoughts, and speech, be dress'd in summer smiles,
And naught shall make a winter in our house. Ros. Ah, sir, I think that I am happy! Ber. Happy?
Why so, indeed, dear love, I trust thou art! But thou dost sigh, and look along the floor So vaguely, that thy happiness seems rather The constant sense of duty than true joy.
Ros. Nay, chide me not, good sir; the world to me A riddle is at best: my heart has had No tutor. From my childhood until now My thoughts have been on simple, honest things. Ber. On honest things? Then let them dwell henceforth
On love, for nothing is more honest than True love.
Ros. I hope so, sir-it must be so! And if to wear thy happiness at heart With constant watchfulness, and if to breathe Thy welfare in my orisons, be love, Thou never shalt have cause to question mine. To-day I feel, and yet I know not why, A sadness which I never knew before; A puzzling shadow swims upon my brain, Of something which has been or is to be. My mother coming to me in my dream, My father taking to that room again, Have somehow thrill'd me with mysterious awe.
Ber. Nay, let not that o'ercast thy gentle mind: For dreams are but as floating gossamer, And should not blind or bar the steady reason; And alchemy is innocent enough, Save when it feeds too greedily on gold,
A crime the world not easily forgives.
But if ROSALIA likes not the pursuit
Her sire engages in, my plan shall be
To lead him quietly to other things.
But see-the door uncloses, and he comes.
Enter GIACOMO in loose-gown and dishevelled hair.
Gia. (not perceiving them). Ha, precious villains, ye are caught at last! Both. Good-morrow, father
Slides that word father from his slippery tongue! Come hither, daughter-let me gaze on thee; For I have dream'd that thou wert beautiful- So beautiful, our very duke did stop To smile upon thy brightness. What sayst thou, BERNARDO, didst thou ever dream such things?
Ber. That she is beautiful I had no cause to dream: Mine eyes have known the fact for many a day. What villains didst thou speak of even now?
Gia. Two precious villains, Carbon and Azote: They have perplex'd me heretofore; but now The thing is plain enough. This morning, ere I left my chamber, all the mystery stood Asudden in an awful revelation!
Ber. I'm glad success has crown'd thy task to
But do not overtoil thy brain. These themes Are dangerous things, and they who master'd most Have fallen at last but victims to their slaves. Gia. It is a glorious thing to fall and die The victim of a noble cause.
The man who battles for his country's right Hath compensation in the world's applause; The victor when returning from the field Is crown'd with laurel, and his shining way Is full of shouts and roses. If he fall, His nation builds his monument of glory. But mark the alchemist who walks the streets: His look is down, his step infirm, his hair And cheeks are burn'd to ashes by his thought; The volumes he consumes, consume in turn; They are but fuel to his fiery brain, Which, being fed, requires the more to feed on. The people gaze on him with curious looks, And step aside to let him pass untouch'd, Believing Satan hath him arm-in-arm.
Gia. Are there no wrongs but what a nation fee's!
No heroes but among the martial throng? Nay, there are patriot souls who never grasp'd A sword, or heard the crowd applaud their names; Who lived and labour'd, died and were forgot, And after whom the world came out and reap'd The field, and never question'd who had sown. Ber. I did not think of that.
Gia. Now mark ye well,
I am not one to follow phantom themes,
To waste my time in seeking for the stone,
Or crystallizing carbon to o'erflood
The world with riches which would keep it poor;
Nor do I seek the elixir that would make
Not life alone, but misery, immortal;
But something far more glorious than these.
Ber. Pray what is that?
Gia. A cure, sir, for the heart-ache.
Come, thou shalt see. The day is on the wane Mark how the moon, as by some unseen arm, Is thrust toward heaven like a bloody shield! On such an hour the experiment must begin.
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