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 Is record traced of Gon's exuberant grace Freighted with treasures bound for distant shores, Where, overhanging wide the arid plain, 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 Bearing the wealth of commerce on your backs, Uprose to heaven in pride the princely tree, TO THE MAGNOLIA. WHEN roaming o'er the marshy field, Chaste blossom! such a balm as thou. 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- But have we cause to grieve? The little weeper, tearless, The sinner, snatch'd from sin; And I, thy earthly teacher, 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, Nor is thy tongue less skilful, 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, And now, still more to tempt our hearts, 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 And their arrowy sparkles of frosty light, And on the pure snows of the valley, In a giddy trance, the moonbeams dance- Away! away! o'er the sheeted ice, On our steel-bound feet we move as fleet Midst the laugh and shout of the jocund rout, 'Tis a pleasant sight, the joyous throng, Let others choose more gentle sports, Or 'neath the lamps of the festal hall, But as for me, away! away! 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, The unbroken forest stood above, Where never sail was furl'd, Which was itself a world. A hundred years! go back, and lo! His prow is westward set The lonely bird, that picks his food 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, Is turreted with shining towns, An empire's numbers fill! 38' THE BACKWOODSMAN. THE silent wilderness for me! Where never sound is heard, Or its low and interrupted note, Alone, (how glorious to be free!) My rifle hanging in my arm, Across the plains I chase; Now track the mountain stream to find I stand upon the mountain's top, Not even a woodman's smoke curls up The air's light currents run, I look around to where the sky 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; Though when in this my lonely home, My star-watch'd couch I press, I hear no fond "good-night"-think not 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, I feel His presence in these shades, RAFTING. AN August night was shutting down, Through the mountain gorges flowed A moving mass swept round the hills. The raft-fire with its flying light, And while it floated down the stream, A bugle blast on the still night air, 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, We flung to them some words of cheer, 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, Thus quickly did the river pass, And thus our life. From the unknown, 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, 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. 46 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. |