PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE.-CHRISTOPHER CHRISTIAN COX. That spot-the hues Elysian Of sky and plain- I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane. Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme; Thy heart was a river Without a main. Would I had loved thee never, But fairest, coldest wonder! Thy glorious clay Lieth the green sod underAlas the day! And it boots not to remember Thy disdain To quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane. The lilies of the valley By young graves weep, The pansies love to dally Where maidens sleep; May their bloom in beauty vying Never wane, Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane! Christopher Christian Cox. AMERICAN. Born in Baltimore, Md., in 1816, Cox graduated at Yale College in 1835; was admitted to practice medicine in 1838; was Brigade-surgeon of the United States in 1860, and Surgeon-general of Maryland in 1863. An outspoken upholder of the Union, he was elected Lieutenant-governor of Maryland in 1865. In 1869 he received the degree of LL.D. from Trinity College, Hartford. In 1871 he was President of the Board of Health, Washington, D. C.; and in 1879 was sent Commissioner to the World's Fair in Australia, whence he returned in impaired health. His poems have appeared mostly in the magazines, and are characterized by qualities suggestive of the affectionate nature, the tenderness, and intellectual grace, which endeared the writer to many attached friends. ONE YEAR AGO. What stars have faded from our sky! What hopes unfolded but to die! What dreams so fondly pondered o'er Where is the face we loved to greet? Ah! vacant is the fireside chair, The smile that won no longer there: And we who linger only know Beside her grave the marble white But why repine? A few more years, A few more broken sighs and tears, And we, enlisted with the dead, Shall follow where her steps have led; To that far world rejoicing go To which she passed 66 'one year ago." HASTE NOT, REST NOT. AFTER THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. Without haste, without rest: Storm or sunshine, guard it well; Haste not let no reckless deed Rest not time is sweeping byDo and dare before thou die: 737 Something mighty and sublime Leave behind to conquer time: When these forms have passed away. Haste not, rest not: calmly wait; Charles Gamage Eastman. AMERICAN. Eastman (1816-1860) was a native of Fryeburg, Me., the son of a watch-maker. At eighteen he became a student at the University of Vermont, Burlington. Here, to maintain himself, he taught and wrote for the newspapers, and finally entered upon the career of an editor. In 1846 he bought the Vermont Patriot, published at Montpelier, in the editorship of which he continued until his death. An edition of the poems of Eastman, copyrighted by his widow, was published in Montpelier, in 1880. SCENE IN A VERMONT WINTER. "Tis a fearful night in the winter-time, As cold as it ever can be! The roar of the storm is heard like the chime The moon is full, but the wings to-night All day had the snow come down-all day, Some two or three feet or more. As the night set in, came wind and hail, And the norther! see! on the mountain peak, In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek! He shouts on the plain, Ho! ho! He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, And growls with a savage will! Such a night as this to be found abroad, As the wind drives, see him crouch and growl, An old man came from the town to-night, And for hours he trod with main and might Many a plunge, with a frenzied snort, And her master urged, till his breath grew short, But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight, He has given the last faint jerk of the rein, To rouse up his dying steed; And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain For awhile he strives with a wistful cry And whines that he takes no heed. The wind goes down, the storm is o'er, On the silent plain are cast. CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN.—THEODORE MARTIN. But cold and dead-by the hidden log- THANATOS. Hush! her face is chill, and the summer blossom, Ah, how light the lid on the thin cheek presses! Theodore Martin. Martin, the son of a lawyer, was born in Edinburgh in 1816. On the completion of his studies at the University, he qualified himself as a solicitor, and in 1846 established himself in that capacity in London. He was associated with Aytoun in the "Bon Gaultier Ballads," which passed through twelve editions. But it was by his excellent translations from Heine, Goethe, and other German writers, and his successful version of Horace (1860), that he won most fame. In 1863 appeared his "Poems, Original and Translated: printed for Private Circulation;" and in 1875 the first volume of a "Memoir of Prince Albert:" a work prepared under the Queen's authority, and the second volume of which appeared in 1880, when he was knighted by the Queen, and became Sir Theodore Martin. In 1851 he was married to Miss Helen Faucit, the popular and accomplished actress. As a lawyer he has been prominent and active. NAPOLEON'S MIDNIGHT REVIEW. FROM THE GERMAN OF BARON JOSEPH CHRISTIAN VON ZEdlitz. At midnight, from the sullen sleep Of death the drummer rose; The night winds wail, the moonbeams pale Are hid as forth he goes; With solemn air and measured step He paces on his rounds, And ever and anon with might The doubling drum he sounds. His fleshless arms alternately The rattling sticks let fall, By turns they beat in rattlings meet Oh! strangely drear fell on the ear Old soldiers from their graves start up They who repose 'mong Northern snows, In icy cerements lapped, Or in the mould of Italy All sweltering are wrapped,— Who sleep beneath the oozy Nile, Or desert's whirling sand, Break from their graves, and, arméd all, Spring up at the command. 739 And at midnight, from death's sullen sleep, He mounts his steed, and loud and long Deep in his gory shroud, Deep gash and scar their bodies mar- And underneath the glittering casques 'Twould fright the brave to see them wave Their long and gleaming brands. And at midnight, from the sullen sleep As slowly forth he goes. The wan moon threw a livid hue For whom they left their graves that night LADY JOHN SCOTT.-ROBERT TRAILL SPENCE LOWELL.-FRANCES BROWN. 741 Daughter of the postmaster of Stranolar, Ireland, Miss Brown was born in 1816. When only eighteen months old, she lost her eyesight from small-pox; and the development of her poetical faculty under this deprivation is a remarkable instance of the triumph of the spiritual nature over physical obstructions. In 1847 appeared her "Lyrics and Miscellaneous Poems," and she has since contributed largely to periodical works. A pension of twenty pounds a year was settled on her by government. LOSSES. Upon the white sea-sand Telling the losses that their lives had known, From breezy cliff and bay, And the strong tides went out with weary moan. One spake with quivering lip, Of a fair freighted ship, With all his household to the deep gone down; But one had wilder woe For a fair face, long ago, Lost in the darker depths of a great town. There were who mourned their youth For its brave hopes and memories ever green; Turned an eye that would not rest For far-off hills whereon its joys had been. Some talked of vanished gold, Some of proud honors told, Some spake of friends who were their trust no more, And one of a green grave Beside a foreign wave, That made him sit so lonely on the shore. But when their tales were done, A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free: "Sad losses ye have met, But mine is heavier yet, For a believing heart is gone from me." "Alas," these pilgrims said, "For the living and the dead— For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross, But, however it came to thee, Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss." |