Richard Henry Wilde.

Wilde (1789-1847), a native of Dublin, Ireland, came to America in 1797, and settled in Georgia. He became attorney-general of that State, and represented it in Congress most of the time from 1815 to 1835. He was a genial, noble-hearted gentleman, with decided literary tastes. We have pleasant recollections of our acquaintance with him in Washington.

SONNET: TO THE MOCKING-BIRD. Winged mimic of the woods! thou motley fool! Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe? Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe: Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe, Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school; To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule! For such thou art by day,-but all night long Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain, As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song Like to the melancholy Jacques complain, Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong, And sighing for thy motley coat again.

Alexander Hill Everett.

AMERICAN.

Everett (1790-1847) was a native of Boston, and a graduate of Harvard. He entered college at the age of twelve, and graduated the first in his class. He studied law with John Quincy Adams, went with him as secretary of legation to Russia in 1809, served as Minister to Spain in 1829, and on his return home edited the North American Review. He was President of Jefferson College, Louisiana, in 1841. In 1846 he went to Canton as United States Minister to the Chinese Empire, and died there at the age of fifty-seven. He was a frequent contributor to the Boston Miscellany, and in 1846 published two volumes of "Critical and Miscellaneous Essays, with Poems." He was a brother of Edward Everett and John, both of them writers of poetry.

THE YOUNG AMERICAN. Scion of a mighty stock! Hands of iron-hearts of oakFollow with unflinching tread Where the noble fathers led.

Craft and subtle treachery,
Gallant youth! are not for thee;
Follow thou in word and deeds
Where the God within thee leads!

Honesty with steady eye,
Truth and pure simplicity,

Love that gently winneth hearts, —
These shall be thy only arts:

Prudent in the council train,
Dauntless on the battle-plain,
Ready at the country's need
For her glorious cause to bleed!

Where the dews of night distil
Upon Vernon's holy hill;
Where above it, gleaming far,
Freedom lights her guiding star:

Thither turn the steady eye, Flashing with a purpose high; Thither, with devotion meet, Often turn the pilgrim feet!

Let the noble motto be,
God, the Country-Liberty!
Planted on Religion's rock,
Thou shalt stand in every shock.

Laugh at danger far or near! Spurn at baseness-spurn at fear! Still, with persevering might, Speak the truth, and do the right.

So shall Peace, a charming guest,
Dove-like in thy bosom rest;
So shall Honor's steady blaze
Beam upon thy closing days.

Happy if celestial favor
Smile upon the high endeavor;
Happy if it be thy call
In the holy cause to fall.

Thomas Doubleday.

Doubleday (1790-1870), a native of England, was the associate author of a little volume of verse published in 1818, and entitled "Sixty-five Sonnets: with Prefatory Remarks on the accordance of the Sonnet with the powers of the English Language. Also a few Miscellaneous

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Poems" the joint production of Doubleday and his cousin, William Greene. Doubleday afterward rose to eminence as a writer on political, social, and financial subjects.

THE WALLFLOWER.

I will not praise the often-flattered rose,

Or, virgin-like, with blushing charms half seen,
Or when, in dazzling splendor, like a queen,
All her magnificence of state she shows;
No, nor that nun-like lily which but blows
Beneath the valley's cool and shady screen;
Nor yet the sunflower, that with warrior mien
Still eyes the orb of glory where it glows;
But thou, neglected wallflower! to my breast
And Muse art dearest,-wildest, sweetest flower!
To whom alone the privilege is given
Proudly to root thyself above the rest,

As Genius does, and from thy rocky tower
Lend fragrance to the purest breath of heaven.

Charles Wolfe.

On the

Wolfe (1791-1823) was a native of Dublin. death of his father, his mother removed to England, and placed Charles at Hyde Abbey School, in Winchester, where he remained till 1808, when the family returned to Ireland. He then entered Trinity College, where he acquired distinction for scholarship and literary ability. In 1817 he obtained a curacy in Tyrone. His incessant attention to his parish duties undermined his delicate constitution, and he died young of consumption. His lines on the " Burial of Sir John Moore" were pronounced by Byron "the most perfect ode in the language." But Wolfe's song, "Go, forget me," is hardly less deserving of praise. It is unsurpassed in delicacy of pathos, and has been wedded to appropriate music. His "Remains" were published in 1826.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

He was killed at Corunna, where he fell in the arms of victory, 1809. With his dying breath he faltered out a message to his mother. Sir John Moore had often said that if he were killed in battle, he wished to be buried where he fell. The body was removed at midnight to the citadel of Corunna. A grave was dug for him on the rampart there by a party of the 9th Regiment, the aides-de-camp attending by turns. No coffin could be procured; and the officers of his staff wrapped the body, dressed as it was, in a military cloak and blankets. The interment was hastened, for about eight in the morning some firing was heard.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

Charles Sprague.

AMERICAN.

Sprague (1791-1876) was a native of Boston, Mass., and entered upon mercantile pursuits at an early age. In 1825 he became cashier of the Globe Bank, an office he held thirty-nine years. He then retired from active life. His literary tastes were developed early. He wrote prize odes for the opening of theatres, and delivered a poem, entitled "Curiosity," before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard College. An edition of his collected poems was published in 1876. Upright, generous, and independent, few poets have been more respected for moral worth and nobility of character. His son, Charles J. Sprague (born 1823), seems to have inherited much of his father's genius and worth.

THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS.

"Twere heaven indeed

Through fields of trackless light to soar, On nature's charms to feed,

And nature's own great God adore.

THE FOURTH OF JULY.

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To the sages who spoke, to the heroes who bled, To the day and the deed, strike the harp-strings of glory!

Let the song of the ransomed remember the dead, And the tongue of the eloquent hallow the story! O'er the bones of the bold

Be that story long told, And on Fame's golden tablets their triumphs enrolled

Gay, guiltless pair,

What seek ye from the fields of heaven? Ye have no need of prayer,

Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

Why perch ye here,

Where mortals to their Maker bend? Can your pure spirits fear

The God ye never could offend?

Ye never knew

The crimes for which we come to weep; Penance is not for you,

Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.

To you 'tis given

To wake sweet nature's untaught lays,
Beneath the arch of heaven
To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing

Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,
And join the choirs that sing

In yon blue dome not reared with hands.

Or, if ye stay

To note the consecrated hour,
Teach me the airy way,

And let me try your envied power.

Above the crowd,

On upward wings could I but fly,
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.

unfurled,

And the beacon-fire raised that gave light to the world!

They are gone-mighty men!-and they sleep in their fame:

Shall we ever forget them? Oh, never! no, never! Let our sons learn from us to embalm each great

name,

And the anthem send down-"Independence forever!"

Wake, wake, heart and tongue!
Keep the theme ever young;

Let their deeds through the long line of ages

be sung

Who on Freedom's green hills Freedom's banner unfurled,

And the beacon-fire raised that gave light to the world!

SHAKSPEARE.

FROM AN ODE RECITED AT THE SHAKSPEARE CELEBRA-
TION IN BOSTON, MASS., IN 1823.

Then Shakspeare rose!—
Across the trembling strings

His daring hand he flings,

And lo! a new creation glows!

There, clustering round, submissive to his will,
Fate's vassal train his high commands fulfil.

Madness, with his frightful scream; Vengeance, leaning on his lance; Avarice, with his blade and beam; Hatred, blasting with a glance;

Remorse, that weeps; and Rage, that roars; And Jealousy, that dotes, but dooms and murders, yet adores.

Mirth, his face with sunbeams lit,

Waking Laughter's merry swell,
Arm-in-arm with fresh-eyed Wit,

That waves his tingling lash while Folly shakes his bell.

Despair, that haunts the gurgling stream,
Kissed by the virgin moon's cold beam,
Where some lost maid wild chaplets wreathes,
And, swan-like, there her own dirge breathes;
Then, broken-hearted, sinks to rest

Beneath the bubbling wave that shrouds her maniac breast.

Young Love, with eye of tender gloom,
Now drooping o'er the hallowed tomb
Where his plighted victims lie,
Where they met, but met to die;
And now, when crimson buds are sleeping,
Through the dewy arbor peeping,

Where beauty's child, the frowning world forgot,
To youth's devoted tale is listening,
Rapture on her dark lash glistening,

While fairies leave their cowslip cells, and guard the happy spot.

Thus rise the phantom throng, Obedient to their master's song,

And lead in willing chain the wondering soul along!

I SEE THEE STILL.
I see thee still!

Remembrance, faithful to her trust,
Calls thee in beauty from the dust;
Thou comest in the morning light,
Thou'rt with me through the gloomy night;
In dreams I meet thee as of old,
Then thy soft arms my neck enfold,
And thy sweet voice is in my ear:
In every scene to memory dear
I see thee still!

I see thee still

In every hallowed token round: This little ring thy finger bound,

This lock of hair thy forehead shaded,
This silken chain by thee was braided;
These flowers, all withered now, like thee,
Sweet sister, thou didst cull for me;
This book was thine-here didst thou read;
This picture—ah yes! here indeed
I see thee still!

I see thee still!

Here was thy summer noon's retreat,
Here was thy favorite fireside seat;
This was thy chamber-here, each day,
I sat and watched thy sad decay;
Here, on this bed, thou last didst lie-
Here, on this pillow, thou didst die!
Dark hour! once more its woes unfold;
As then I saw thee pale and cold,
I see thee still!

I see thee still!

Thon art not in the grave confined--
Death cannot claim the immortal mind;
Let earth close o'er its sacred trust,
But goodness dies not, in the dust:
Thee, O my sister! 'tis not thee,
Beneath the coffin's lid I see;
Thon to a fairer land art gone:
There, let me hope, my journey done,
To see thee still!

Henry Hart Milman.

Milman (1791-1868), the son of an eminent physician, was a native of London. At Oxford he distinguished himself as a classical scholar, and took a prize for his poem on the Apollo-Belvidere. Having studied for the Church, he was made dean of St. Paul's in 1849. He first appeared as an author in 1817, in his tragedy of “ Fazio," produced at Drury Lane, February 5th, 1818, and afterward revived with great success by the acting of Fanny Kemble both in England and the United States. Milman wrote other dramatic pieces: "Samor" (1818); "The Fall of Jerusalem" (1820); "Belshazzar" (1822); "The Martyr of Antioch" (1822); and “Anne Boleyn" (1826); also several minor poems. He was the author of a "History of the Jews" and a "History of Christianity," both highly esteemed works. As a poet he shows high culture and a refined literary taste. As a man he was greatly beloved by a large circle of acquaintances. His histories gave rise to controversy. He was accused of treating the Bible as a philosophical inquirer would treat any profane work of antiquity-as having ascribed to natural causes events which the Scriptures declare to be miraculous, and as having, therefore, unwittingly contributed to subvert the bulwarks of the faith he was bound to defend.