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THOMAS WARD.

[Born, 1807.]

DOCTOR WARD was born at Newark, in New Jersey, on the eighth of June, 1807. His father, General THOMAS WARD, is one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most respectable citizens of that town; and has held various offices of public trust in his native state, and represented his district in the national Congress.

Doctor WARD received his classical education at the academies in Bloomfield and Newark, and the college at Princeton. He chose the profession of physic, and, after the usual preparation, obtained his degree of Doctor of Medicine in the spring of 1829, at the Rutgers Medical College, in New York. In the autumn of the same year he went to Paris, to avail himself of the facilities afforded in that capital for the prosecution of every branch of medical inquiry; and, after two years' absence, during which he accomplished the usual tour through Italy. Switzerland, Holland, and Great Britain, he returned to New York, and commenced the practice of medicine in that city. In the course

of two or three years, however, he gradually withdrew from business, his circumstances permitting him to exchange devotion to his profession for the more congenial pursuits of literature and general knowledge. He is married, and still resides in New York; spending his summers, however, in his native city, and among the more romantic and beautiful scenes of New Jersey. His first literary efforts were brief satirical pieces, in verse and prose, published in a country gazette, in 1825 and 1826. It was not until after his return from Europe, when he adopted the signature of "FLACCUS," and began to write for the "New York American," that he attracted much attention. His principal work, "Passaic, a Group of Poems touching that River," appeared in 1841. It contains some fine descriptive passages, and its versification is generally correct and musical. "The Monomania of Money-getting," a satire, and many of his minor pieces, are more distinguished for vigour and sprightliness, than for mere poetical qualities.

MUSINGS ON RIVERS.

BEAUTIFUL rivers! that adown the vale With graceful passage journey to the deep, Let me along your grassy marge recline At case, and musing, meditate the strange Bright history of your life; yes, from your birth, Has beauty's shadow chased your every step; The blue sea was your mother, and the sun Your glorious sire: clouds your voluptuous cradle, Roof'd with o'erarching rainbows; and your fall To earth was cheer'd with shout of happy birds, With brighten'd faces of reviving flowers And meadows, while the sympathising west Took holiday, and donn'd her richest robes. From deep, mysterious wanderings your springs Break bubbling into beauty; where they lie In infant helplessness a while, but soon Gathering in tiny brooks, they gambol down The steep sides of the mountain, laughing, shouting, Teasing the wild flowers, and at every turn Meeting new playmates still to swell their ranks; Which, with the rich increase resistless grown, Shed foam and thunder, that the echoing wood Rings with the boisterous glee; whileo'er their heads, Catching their spirit blithe, young rainbows sport, The frolic children of the wanton sun.

Nor is your swelling prime, or green old age, Though calm, unlovely; still, where'er ye move, Your train is beauty; trees stand grouping by To mark your graceful progress: giddy flowers, And vain, as beauties wont, stoop o'er the verge To greet their faces in your flattering glass; The thirsty herd are following at your side; And water-birds, in clustering fleets, convoy

Your sea-bound tides; and jaded man, released
From worldly thraldom, here his dwelling plants,
Here pauses in your pleasant neighbourhood,
Sure of repose along your tranquil shores.
And when your end approaches, and ye blend
With the eternal ocean, ye shall fade
As placidly as when an infant dies;
And the death-angel shall your powers withdraw
Gently as twilight takes the parting day,
And, with a soft and gradual decline
That cheats the senses, lets it down to night.
Bountiful rivers! not upon the earth

Is record traced of Gon's exuberant grace
So deeply graven as the channels worn
By ever-flowing streams: arteries of earth,
That, widely branching, circulate its blood:
Whose ever-throbbing pulses are the tides.
The whole vast enginery of Nature, all
The roused and labouring elements combine
In their production; for the mighty end
Is growt, is life to every living thing.
The sun himself is charter'd for the work:
His arm uplifts the main, and at his smile
The fluttering vapours take their flight for heaven,
Shaking the briny sea-dregs from their wings;
Here, wrought by unseen fingers, soon is wove
The cloudy tissue, till a mighty fleet,

Freighted with treasures bound for distant shores,
Floats waiting for the breeze; loosed on the sky
Rush the strong tempests, that, with sweeping
Impel the vast flotilla to its port; [breath,

Where, overhanging wide the arid plain,
Drops the rich mercy down; and oft, when summer
Withers the harvest, and the lazy clouds
Drag idly at the bidding of the breeze.

New riders spur them, and enraged they rush, Bestrode by thunders, that, with hideous shouts And crackling thongs of fire, urge them along.

As falls the blessing, how the satiate earth
And all her race shed grateful smiles!--not here
The bounty ceases: when the drenching streams
Have, inly sinking, quench'd the greedy thirst
Of plants, of woods, some kind, invisible hand
In bright, perennial springs draws up again
For needy man and beast; and, as the brooks
Grow strong, apprenticed to the use of man,
The ponderous wheel they turn, the web to weave,
The stubborn metal forge; and, when advanced
To sober age at last, ye seek the sea.

Bearing the wealth of commerce on your backs,
Ye seem the unpaid carriers of the sky
Vouchsafed to earth for burden; and your host
Of shining branches, linking land to land.
Seem bands of friendship-silver chains of love,
To bind the world in brotherhood and peace.
Back to the primal chaos fancy sweeps
To trace your dim beginning; when dull earth
Lay sunken low, one level, plashy marsh,
Girdled with fists; while saurian reptiles, strange,
Measureless monsters, through the cloggy plain
Paddled and flounder'd; and the Almig1 ty voice,
Like silver trumpet, from their hidden dens
Summon'd the central and resistless fires,
That with a groan from pole to pole upheave
The mountain-masses, and, with dreadful rent,
Fracture the rocky crust; then Andes rose,
'And Alps their granite pyramids shot up,
Barren of soil; but gathering vapours round
Their stony scalps, condensed to drops, from drops
To brooks, from brooks to rivers, which set out
Over that rugged and untravell❜d land,
The first exploring pilgrims, to the sea.
Tedious their route, precipitous and vague,
Seeking with humbleness the lowliest paths:
Oft shut in valleys deep, forlorn they turn
And find no vent; till, gather'd into lakes,
Topping the basin's brimming lip, they plunge
Headlong, and hurry to the level main,
Rejoicing: misty ages did they run,
And, with unceasing friction, all the while
Fritter'd to granular atoms the dense rock,
And ground it into soil-then dropp'd (O! sure
From heaven) the precious seed: first mosses, lichens
Seized on the sterile flint, and from their dust
Sprang herbs and flowers: last from the deepening
mould

Uprose to heaven in pride the princely tree,
And earth was fitted for her coming lord.

TO THE MAGNOLIA.

WHEN roaming o'er the marshy field,
Through tangled brake and treacherous slough,
We start, that spot so foul should yield,

Chaste blossom! such a balm as thou.
Such lavish fragrance there we meet,
That all the dismal waste is sweet.

So, in the dreary path of life,

Through clogging toil and thorny care, Love rears his blossom o'er the strife,

Like thine, to cheer the wanderer there: Which pours such incense round the spot, His pains, his cares, are all forgot.

TO AN INFANT IN HEAVEN.

THOU bright and star-like spirit!

That, in my visions wild,

I see mid heaven's seraphic host-
O! canst thou be my child?
My grief is quench'd in wonder,
And pride arrests my sighs;
A branch from this unworthy stock
Now blossoms in the skies.
Our hopes of thee were lofty,

But have we cause to grieve?
O! could our fondest, proudest wish
A nobler fate conceive?

The little weeper, tearless,

The sinner, snatch'd from sin;
The babe, to more than manhood grown,
Ere childhood did begin.

And I, thy earthly teacher,
Would blush thy powers to see;
Thou art to me a parent now,

And I, a child to thee!

Thy brain, so uninstructed

While in this lowly state, Now threads the mazy track of spheres, Or reads the book of fate.

Thine eyes, so curb'd in vision,

Now range the realms of spaceLook down upon the rolling stars, Look up to God's own face.

Thy little hand, so helpless,

That scarce its toys could hold, Now clasps its mate in holy prayer, Or twangs a harp of gold.

Thy feeble feet, unsteady,

That totter'd as they trod,
With angels walk the heavenly paths.
Or stand before their Gop.

Nor is thy tongue less skilful,
Before the throne divine
"Tis pleading for a mother's weal,
As once she pray'd for thine.

What bliss is born of sorrow!

'Tis never sent in vainThe heavenly surgeon maims to save, He gives no useless pain.

Our God, to call us homeward,
His only Son sent down:

And now, still more to tempt our hearts,
Has taken up our own.

EPHRAIM PEABODY.

[Born 1807. Died 1886.]

THE year in which EPHRAIM PEABODY was born, is remarkable in our annals for having produced an extraordinary number of literary characters. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, NATHANIEL P. WILLIS, THEODORE S. FAY, GEORGE B. CHEEVER, GEORGE LUNT, THOMAS WARD, EDWARD SANDFORD, and some dozen other makers of American books, were born in that year. The native place of Mr. PEABODY is Wilton, in New Hampshire, where he passed his boyhood. He entered Bowdoin College, in Maine, when about sixteen years of age, and was graduated bachelor of arts in 1827. He studied theology at Cambridge, and in 1831 became pastor of a Unitarian church in Cincinnati; whence he removed in 1838 to New Bedford, Massachusetts, where he remained until 1846, since

which time he has been minister of King's Chapel, in Boston.

Mr. PEABODY's writings, in prose and verse, are marked by a charming freshness, and some of his descriptions have a truthfulness and picturesqueness which can have been derived only from a loving study of nature. Several of his best poems were produced while he was in college, and others, as their subjects indicate, while he was residing or travelling in the valley of the Mississippi. Mr. GALLAGHER, in his "Selections from the Poetical Literature of the West," published in Cincinnati in 1841, claims him as a westen. writer, and quotes him largely. Few western poets have written so frequently or so well of western themes.

THE SKATER'S SONG.

AWAY! away! our fires stream bright
Along the frozen river;

And their arrowy sparkles of frosty light,
On the forest branches quiver.
Away! away! for the stars are forth,

And on the pure snows of the valley,

In a giddy trance, the moonbeams dance-
Come, let us our comrades rally!

Away! away! o'er the sheeted ice,
Away, away we go;

On our steel-bound feet we move as fleet
As deer o'er the Lapland snow.
What though the sharp north winds are out,
The skater heeds them not-

Midst the laugh and shout of the jocund rout,
Gray winter is forgot.

'Tis a pleasant sight, the joyous throng,
In the light of the reddening flame,
While with many a wheel on the ringing steel,
They wage their riotous game;
And though the night-air cutteth keen,
And the white moon shineth coldly,
Their homes, I ween, on the hills have been-
They should breast the strong blast boldly.

Let others choose more gentle sports,
By the side of the winter hearth;

Or 'neath the lamps of the festal hall,
Seek for their share of mirth;

But as for me, away! away!
Where the merry skaters be-

Where the fresh wind blows and the smooth

ice glows,

There is the place for me!

LAKE ERIE.

THESE lovely shores! how lone and still,
A hundred years ago,

The unbroken forest stood above,
The waters dash'd below-
The waters of a lonely sea,

Where never sail was furl'd,
Embosom'd in a wilderness,

Which was itself a world.

A hundred years! go back, and lo!
Where, closing in the view,
Juts out the shore, with rapid oar
Darts round a frail canoe-
"T is a white voyager, and see,

His prow is westward set
O'er the calm wave: Hail to thy bold,
World-seeking barque, MARQUETTE!

The lonely bird, that picks his food
Where rise the waves and sink,
At their strange coming, with shrill

scream,

Starts from the sandy brink; The fishhawk, hanging in mid sky, Floats o'er on level wing,

And the savage from his covert looks, With arrow on the string.

A hundred years are past and gone,
And all the rocky coast

Is turreted with shining towns,
An empire's noble boast;
And the old wilderness is changed
To cultured vale and hill;
And the circuit of its mountains

An empire's numbers fill! 38'

THE BACKWOODSMAN.

THE silent wilderness for me!

Where never sound is heard,
Save the rustling of the squirrel's foot,
And the flitting wing of bird,

Or its low and interrupted note,
And the deer's quick, crackling tread,
And the swaying of the forest boughs,
As the wind moves overhead.

Alone, (how glorious to be free!)
My good dog at my side,

My rifle hanging in my arm,
I range the forest wide.
And now the regal buffalo

Across the plains I chase;

Now track the mountain stream to find
The beaver's lurking-place

I stand upon the mountain's top,
And (solitude profound!)

Not even a woodman's smoke curls up
Within the horizon's bound.
Below, as o'er its ocean breadth

The air's light currents run,
The wilderness of moving leaves
Is glancing in the sun.

I look around to where the sky
Meets the far forest line,

And this imperial domain

This kingdom-all is mine.

This bending heaven, these floating clouds, Waters that ever roll,

And wilderness of glory, bring

Their offerings to my soul.

My palace, built by God's own hand,

The world's fresh prime hath seen;
Wide stretch its living halls away,
Pillar'd and roof'd with green
My music is the wind that now
Pours loud its swelling bars,
Now lulls in dying cadences,
My festal lamps are stars.

Though when in this my lonely home,

My star-watch'd couch I press,

I hear no fond "good-night"-think not
I am companionless.

O, no! I see my father's house,

The hill, the tree, the stream,

And the looks and voices of my home

Come gently to my dream.

And in these solitary haunts,
While slumbers every tree
In night and silence, GOD himself
Seems nearer unto me.

I feel His presence in these shades,
Like the embracing air;
And as my eyelids close in sleep,
My heart is hush'd in prayer.

RAFTING.

AN August night was shutting down,
The first stars faintly glowed,
And deep and wide the river's tide,

Through the mountain gorges flowed
The woods swelled up from either side,
The clear night-sky bent o'er,
And the gliding waters darkly gleamed,
In the shadows of the shore.

A moving mass swept round the hills.
In the midst a broad, bright flame;
And flitting forms passed to and fro
Around it, as it came

The raft-fire with its flying light,
Fill'd the thin river haze :
And rock and tree and darkling cliff.
Stooped forward in the blaze.

And while it floated down the stream,
Yet nearer and more near,

A bugle blast on the still night air,
Rose loftily and clear.

From cliff to cliff, from hill to hill,

Through the ancient woods and wide,

The sound swelled on, and far away

In their silent arches died.

And ever and anon they sung,

Yo, heave ho!

And loud and long the echo rung,

Yo, heave ho!

And now the tones burst sharp and fast, As if the heavens to climb;

Now their soft fall made musical,

The waters ceaseless chime.

Then all was hushed, till might be heard

The plashing of the oar;

Or the speech and laugh, half audible,
Upon the silent shore.

We flung to them some words of cheer,
And loud jests flung they back;
Good night! they cried, and drifted on,
Upon their lonely track.

We watched them till a sudden bend

Received them from our sight; Yet still we heard the bugle blast

In the stillness of the night.

But soon its loud notes on the ear,

Fell faint and low;

And we ceased to hear the hearty cheer,
Of Yo, heave ho!

Thus quickly did the river pass,
Forth issuing from the dark-
A moment, lighting up the scene
Drifted the phantom ark.

And thus our life. From the unknown,
To the unknown, we sweep;
Like mariners who cross and hail
Each other o'er the deep.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Born, 1908.'

THE ancestors of MR. WHITTIER settled at an early period in the town of Haverhill, on the banks of the Merrimack River, in Massachusetts. They were Quakers, and some of them suffered from the "sharp laws" which the fierce Independents enacted against those "devil-driven heretics," as they are styled in the "Magnalia" of COTTON MATHER. The poet was born in the year 1808, on a spot inhabited by his family during four or five generations; and until he was eighteen years of age, his time was chiefly passed in the district schools, and in aiding his father on the farin. His nineteenth year was spent in a Latin school, and in 1828 he went to Boston to conduct "The American Manufacturer," a gazette established to advocate a protective tariff. He had previously won some reputation as a writer by various contributions, in prose and verse, to the newspapers printed in his native town and in Newburyport, and the ability with which he managed the "Manufacturer," now made his name familiar throughout the country. In 1830 he went to Hartford, in Connecticut, to take charge of the "New England Weekly Review." He remained here about two years, during which he was an ardent politician, of what was then called the National Republican party, and devoted but little attention to literature. He published, however, in this period his "Legends of New England," a collection of poems and prose sketches, founded on events in the early history of the country; wrote the memoir of his friend BRAINARD, prefixed to the collection of that author's works printed in 1830; and several poems which appeared in the "Weekly Review."

In 1831 Mr. WHITTIER returned to Haverhill, where he was five or six years engaged in agricultural pursuits. He represented that town in the legislature, in its sessions for 1835 and 1836, and declined a reclection in 1837. His longest poem,

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Mogg Megone," was first published in 1836. He regarded the story of the hero only as a framework for sketches of the scenery and of the primitive settlers of Massachusetts and the adjacent states. In portraying the Indian character, he followed as closely as was practicable the rough but naturai delineations of CHURCH, MAYHEW, CHARLEVOIX, and ROGER WILLIAMS, discarding much of the romance which more modern writers have thrown around the red-man's life. In this, as in the fine Jallad of "Cassandra Southwick," and in some of his prose writings, he has exhibited in a very striking manner the intolerant spirit of the Puritans. It can excite no surprise that a New England Quaker refuses to join in the applause which it is the custom to bestow upon the persecutors of his ancestors. But our poet, by a very natural

exaggeration, may have done them even less than justice.

Impelled by that hatred of every species of op pression which perhaps is the most marked of his characteristics, Mr. WHITTIER entered at an early period upon the discussion of the abolition question, and since the year 1836, when he was elected one of the secretaries of the American Anti-Slavery Society, he has been among the most prominent and influential advocates of immediate emancipation. His poems on this subject are full of indignant and nervous remonstrance, invective and denunciation. Very few in this country express themselves with uniform freedom and sincerity. Nowhere else is there so common and degrading a servility. We have therefore comparatively little individuality, and of course less than we otherwise should have that is original. Mr. WHITTIER rates this tyranny of public opinion at its true value. Whatever may be its power he despises it. He gives to his mind and heart their true voice. His simple, direct and earnest appeals have produced deep and lasting impressions. Their reception has happily shown that plain and unprejudiced speech is not less likely to be heard than the vapid self-praise and wearisome iteration of inoffensive commonplaces with which the great mass of those who address the public ply the drowsy ears of the hydra.

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Mr. WHITTIER published a volume of Ballads" in 1838; "Lays of my Home, and other Poems," in 1845; a full collection of his "Poems" in 1849; "Songs of Labor," in 1851; and "The Chapel of the Hermits, and other Poems," in 1852. His prose works, besides "Legends of New England," before-mentioned, are The Stranger in Lowell," a collection of prose essays, 1845; “Supernaturalism in New England," 1847; "Leaves from MARGARET SMITH'S Journal," illustrating the age of the Puritans, 1849; "Old Portraits and Modern Sketches," 1850; and "Literary Recreations and Miscellanies," in 1854.

Although boldness and energy are WHITTIER'S leading characteristics, his works are not without passages scarcely less distinguished for tenderness and grace. He may reasonably be styled a national poet. His works breathe affection for and faith in our republican polity and unshackled religion, but an affection and a faith that do not blind him to our weakness or wickedness. He is of that class of authors whom we most need in America to build up a literature that shall elevate with itself the national feeling and character.

He resides at Amesburg, and has been for seve ral years a "corresponding editor of the "Nation al Era," published in Washington.

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