So, lady, take the leaf that falls, To all but thee unseen, unknown; When evening shades thy silent walls, Then read it all alone; In stillness read, in darkness seal, Albert Pike. AMERICAN. ALBERT PIKE. Pike was born in Boston in 1809, but his boyhood was passed at Newburyport. He entered Harvard College, but left before graduating. After teaching school for awhile, he went South, and settled in Little Rock, Arkansas, where he practised law and published a newspaper. He fought in the Mexican War against the Mexicans, and in the Civil War on the side of the Confederates. He published in 1834 "Prose Sketches and Poems;" and in 1854, "Nugæ, a Collection of Poems." His "Hymns to the Gods," in the style of Keats, show a kindred poetical gift. BUENA VISTA. From the Rio Grande's waters to the icy lakes of Maine, Let all exult! for we have met the enemy againBeneath their stern old mountains, we have met them in their pride, 657 Now charge again, Santa Auna! or the day is surely lost; For back, like broken waves, along our left your hordes are tossed. Still louder roar two batteries-his strong reserve moves on; More work is there before you, meu, ere the good fight is won; Now for your wives and children stand! steady, my braves, once more! And rolled from Buena Vista back the battle's bloody Now for your lives, your honor, fight! as you never tide: fought before. Ho! Hardin breasts it bravely!-McKee and Bissell there Stand firm before the storm of balls that fills the astonished air. The lancers are upon them, too!-the foe swarms ten to one Hardin is slain-McKee and Clay the last time see the sun; And many another gallant heart, in that last desperate fray, Grew cold, its last thoughts turning to its loved ones far away. Still sullenly the cannon roared-but died away at last: [ows fast, Upon them with your squadrons, May!-Out leaps And o'er the dead and dying came the evening shadAnd then above the mountains rose the cold moon's silver shield, [field ; the flaming steel! Before his serried column how the frightened lancers reel! They flee amain.-Now to the left, to stay their triumph there, And patiently and pityingly looked down upon the And careless of his wounded, and neglectful of his dead, [fled. Or else the day is surely lost in horror and despair: Despairingly and sullen, in the night, Santa Anna Thomas Miller. Miller (1809-1874) was a native of Gainsborough, England, "one of the humble, happy, industrious, self-taught sons of genius." He was brought up to the trade of a basket-maker; and while thus obscurely laboring "to consort with the Muse and support a family," he attracted attention by his poetical effusions. He was assisted by Rogers, the poet, and through him obtained the more congenial employment of a bookseller. He produced several novels, and some poems that entitle him to honorable mention among the poets that have fought their way to notice from very humble beginnings. He published "A Day in the Woods" (1836), “Gideon Giles, the Roper" (1841), "Fair Rosamond," "Lady Jane Grey," and other novels; also several volumes of rural description, besides contributing largely to periodical literature. EVENING SONG. How many days with mute adieu Have gone down yon untrodden sky, And still it looks as clear and blue As when it first was hung on high. The rolling sun, the frowning cloud That drew the lightning in its rear, The thunder tramping deep and loud, Have left no footmark there. The village-bells, with silver chime, A silence rests upon the hill, And in this hushed and breathless close, Now Nature sinks in soft repose, A living semblance of the grave; Andrew Young. Young, a native of Edinburgh, was born about 1809. His father was a successful teacher, and Andrew followed the same occupation for a time. The following sacred song from his pen, composed early in life, appears as anonymous in many collections. THE HAPPY LAND. There is a happy land, Far, far away, Where saints in glory stand, Bright, bright as day. Oh, how they sweetly sing, Worthy is our Saviour King; Loud let his praises ringPraise, praise for aye. Come to this happy land, Come, come away; Why still delay? Oh, we shall happy be, Bright in that happy land Beams every eye: Kept by a Father's hand, Love cannot die. On then to glory run; Be a crown and kingdom won; And bright above the sun, Reign, reign for aye. Alexander Hume. Hume (1809-1851) was a native of Kelso, Scotland, the son of a respectable retail trader. His family moved to London, and in 1827 he got a situation in a brewery in Mark Lane. He published a volume of songs dedicated to Allan Cunningham; married in 1837, and had six children. In 1845 a complete edition of his "Songs and Poems" was published in London. MY WEE, WEE WIFE. My wee wife dwells in yonder cot, ALEXANDER HUME.-RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES (LORD HOUGHTON). My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife, My bonnie bairnies three,How bright is day, how sweet is life, When love lights up the e'e! The king o'er me may wear a crown, But lacks he love to share his throne, My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife, Let kings ha'e thrones, 'mang warld's strife, I've felt oppression's galling chain, When my wee wife was near. My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife, The chains we wear are sweet to bear,- Richard Monckton Milnes Milnes, who became Lord Houghton in 1863, was a native of Yorkshire, and born in 1809. He published “Poetry for the People," in 1840; "Palm Leaves," in 1844; edited the "Life and Remains of John Keats" in 1848. An edition of his complete poetical works appeared in 1876. He made two visits to the United States, where he left many warm friends. He has fully vindicated his claim to the name of poet. As a member of the House of Commons, and (1863) of the House of Peers, he has been the efficient supporter of all measures for social ainelioration and reform. ALL THINGS ONCE ARE THINGS FOREVER. All things once are things forever. THE WORTH OF HOURS. Believe not that your inner eye Can ever in just measure try The worth of hours as they go by: For every man's weak self, alas! But if, with earnest care, you would Mete out to each its part of good, Trust rather to your after mood. Those surely are not fairly spent, And more, though free from seeming harm If then a painful sense comes ou Of something from your being's chain Upon your heart this truth may rise- So should we live, that every hour May die as dies the natural flower, A self-reviving thing of power; That every thought and every deed Esteeming sorrow, whose employ Is to develop, not destroy, YOUTH AND MANHOOD. Youth, that pursuest with such eager pace Thy even way, Thou pantest on to win a mournful race; Then stay! oh, stay! 653 He came not-no, he came not,— Fast, silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind, FROM "THE LONG-AGO." On that deep-retiring shore Frequent pearls of beauty lie, Where the passion-waves of yore Fiercely beat and mounted high: Sorrows that are sorrows still Lose the bitter taste of woe; Nothing's altogether ill In the griefs of Long-ago. Tombs where lonely love repines, Through the golden mist of years: Death, to those who trust in good, Vindicates his hardest blow; Oh, we would not, if we could, Wake the sleep of Long-ago! Though the doom of swift decay Shocks the soul where life is strong, Though for frailer hearts the day Lingers sad and overlong- Still the spoiler's hand is slow, Edgar Allan Poc. AMERICAN. Poe is one of the small class of poets whose posthumous fame has largely exceeded that of their lifetime. It rests chiefly, in his case, on one striking poem, “The Raven," which seems to have done for him what the "Elegy in a Country Church-yard" did for Gray. Poe was born in Boston, Mass., on the 19th of January, 1809, and died in Baltimore in 1849. His father, David Poe, of Baltimore, while a law-student, fell in love with Elizabeth Arnold, an English actress, married her, and went himself upon the stage. Edgar, a bright and handsome youth, at an early age lost his parents, and was adopted by Mr. and Mrs. John Allan, of Virginia, who, wealthy but childless, took him with them to England, and sent him to school at Stoke-Newington. Returning to Amer EDGAR ALLAN POE. ica in his eleventh year, he entered the University of Virginia, where he became the foremost scholar of his class. His unruly habits caused him to be expelled. He then quarrelled with Mr. Allan, and started for Europe to fight for the Greeks. But Greece he never saw. He shaped his course northward instead of southward, and drifted as far as St. Petersburg, where the ambassador of the United States, Mr. Middleton, found him in a state of destitution, and provided him with the means of returning home. Mr. Allan now procured for him an appointment as cadet at West Point; but disliking the routine of a military education, Poe soon qualified himself for dismissal by just the necessary amount of insubordination. Meanwhile his benefactor had married a young wife, and the wayward young man was cut off from all hopes of further pecuniary supplies from the quarter on which he had hitherto relied for help. In 1829 he published, at Baltimore, a thin volume entitled "Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and other Poems:" it contains little of any enduring value. In 1833 he obtained a prize offered by the Baltimore Saturday Visitor for a story. This introduced him to John P. Kennedy, a wellknown lawyer and man of letters, through whose good offices he became editor of the Literary Messenger, a respectable monthly magazine published at Richmond; but with this work his connection lasted only two years. At Richmond he married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, who died after a union of some ten years. Removing to Philadelphia, he edited Burton's Magazine, and then Graham's Magazine. His "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque" had meanwhile appeared. In 1844 he took up his residence in New York, where the present writer was brought into frequent communication with him. Personally he was, as Willis called him, a "sad-mannered gentleman," grave and somewhat reticent. He had more the appearance and bearing of a sedate clergyman than of a writer of romance. While editing the New World weekly, we bought and published some of his prose pieces, and, but for lack of means, would have been glad to engage him permanently as a contributor. Referring to our inability to oblige him on one occasion, he said, "If you could have done it, S., I would have immortalized you-yes, immortalized you, sir." Perhaps he was here wiser than he knew. We had done for him what we could. Like Shakspeare and other men of genius, he seems to have had previsions of a posthumous renown far exceeding what he could hope for in his lifetime. The movement for the erection of his statue in Central Park, New York, is one of the latest proofs of the veracity of his anticipations. Poe's great poetical hit, "The Raven," appeared first in Colton's Whig Review for February, 1845. The same year, in company with the late Charles F. Briggs, an estimable gentleman well known to us, he started The Broadway Journal. The partnership soon ended, and Mr. Briggs's account of his experience in it is not flattering to his wayward associate. It corroborates the estimate of Poe's character given by James Russell Lowell, who knew him personally, and wrote of him: "Three-fifths of him genius and two-fifths sheer fudge, 661 Poe struggled on single-handed with his newspaper enterprise for about a year, when it became extinct. He next wrote for Godey's Lady's Book a series of random sketches of the New York literati, in which the bias of merely personal partialities is quite apparent. In 1847-'48 he became affianced for a short time to Mrs. Whitman, of whom some account will be found on page 583 of this volume. The present writer, who had long known her through an intimate mutual friend, had frequent correspondence with her up to within a year of her death; and perhaps the strongest point in Poe's favor is the loyal, enthusiastic attachment of this gifted lady, thoroughly sincere, clear-sighted, and cultivated as she was, to his memory. She could not tolerate a word prejudicial to his honor. In opposition to the estimate of some of his male friends, she believed in his heart as well as in his head. Poe was far from being habitually intemperate; his countenance at once contradicted the supposition. But he was almost morbidly sensitive to the effect of a very slight quantity of the lightest intoxicating drink. In the autumn of 1849, while in Baltimore, he fell into bad company, was tempted, overcome, became a wanderer about the streets, and was finally taken to a hospital, where he died October 7th. Whatever dispute there may be as to his qualities as a man, there can be none as to his rare and unique genius as a poct. What he has written is slight in quantity, and some of that of little value; but the dross is readily tolerated in consideration of the release of so much pure gold. He had that force and vividness of imagination which made him for the moment keenly sensitive to the high-strung emotions to which he gave utterance in most harmonious verse. That these emotions were often fugitive docs not seem to have impaired his power of imparting to them a rare beauty and intensity of expression. While the fervor lasted he was sincere. His remarkable lines to S. W. (Mrs. Whitman) are an example. Analyze them-throw off the first effect-and they issue in a glitter of sensuous but poetical fancies, highly hyperbolical, yet cold as icicles, and having hardly one touch of nature. The poem of "The Bells," while it shows the same power over the unreal, fails as a work of art in the frequent repetition of the word bells, where the sibilant plural destroys all the metallic, onomatopoetic quality of sound that would have been appropriate. But Poe's posthumous fame seems to be increasing rather than diminishing. The best of his writings have been translated into all the principal European languages, and the public interest in his life and his literary productions seems to be unabated. That he anticipated the celebrity has already been suggested. TO S. H. W. I saw thee once-once only--years ago: A full-orbed moon that, like thine own soul, soaring, |