66 CORNELIUS MATHEWS. [Born, 1815.] MR. MATHEWS was born in New York in 1815; was graduated at Columbia College, in that city, in 1835; was admitted an attorney and counsellor in 1837; and has since devoted his attention A notice of his novels and chiefly to literature. 66 The Prose Writers of essays may be found in America," pages 543-554. His principal poetiWakondah, the Master of cal compositions are, Life," founded upon an Indian tradition, and "Man in the Republic, a series of Poems." Each of these works has appeared in several editions. There is a diversity of opinions as to the merits of Mr. MATHEWS. He has been warmly praised, and ridiculed with unsparing severity. The "North American Review," which indeed does not profess any consistency, has spoken of his "Man in the Republic" with both derision and respect, and for THE JOURNALIST. As shakes the canvass of a thousand ships, [sings; A dark-eyed spirit, he who coins the time, Thou grimy man over thine engine bending; 33 whatever condemnation others have expressed, his In the last edition, the author, referring to some friendly criticisms, observes: "I have carefully considered whatever has been objected to them, and where I could, in good conscience, and according to the motions of my own taste, have made amend ment." Obey, rhinoceros! an infant's hand Leviathan! obey the fisher mild and young! Vex'd ocean! smile, for on thy broad-beat sand The little curlew pipes his shrilly song. THE CITIZEN. WITH plainness in thy daily pathway walk, Let him who in thy upward countenance looks, A full-fraught hope upon thy shoulder leans, 513 THE REFORMER. MAN of the future! on the eager headland standing, Gazing far off into the outer sea, Thine eye, the darkness and the billows rough commanding, Beholds a shore, bright as the heaven itself may be; Where temples, cities, homes, and haunts of men, Orchards and fields spread out in orderly array, Invite the yearning soul to thither flee, And there to spend in boundless peace its happier day. By passion and the force of earnest thought, Yet, so into the frame of empire wrought, Thou, stout man, canst not thence be sever'd, Till ruled and rulers, fiends or men, are taught And feel the truths by thee delivered. Seize by its horns the shaggy Past, Full of uncleanness; heave with mountain-cast But rush not, therefore, with a brutish blindness, Thy race to ruin dark and suffering long has hurl'd. For many days of light, and smooth repose, "Twixt storms and weathery sadness intervene ; Thy course is nature's: on thy triumph flows, Assured, like hers, though noiseless and serene. Wake not at midnight and proclaim it day, When lightning only flashes o'er the way; Pauses and starts, and strivings towards an end, Are not a birth, although a god's birth they portend. Be patient, therefore, like the old broad earth That bears the guilty up, and through the night Conducts them gently to the dawning lightThy silent hours shall have as great a birth. THE MASSES. WHEN, wild and high, the uproar swells As if an earthquake's shock And set its troubled turrets singing: [bells But, when thick as night the sky is crusted o'er, Stifling life's pulse, and making heaven an idle dream, Arise! and cry, up through the dark, to God's ow throne: Your faces in a furnace-glow, Your arms uplifted for the deathward blowFiery and prompt as angry angels show; Then draw the brand and fire the thunder gun! Be nothing said and all things done, Till every cobweb'd corner of the common weal Is shaken free, and, creeping to its scabbard back, the steel, Lets shine again God's rightful sun. THE MECHANIC. Он, when thou walkest by the river's side, Proportioned fair, as in its first estate. It consecrates whate'er it strikes-each blow, Up to the big-voiced sledge that heaving slow Its entrail, glowing, as with angry teethAnchors that hold a world should thus-wise grow In the First Builder's gracious spirit-workThrough hall, through enginery, and temples meek, In grandeur towered, or lapsing, bet.uty-sleek, Let order and creative fitness shine: Though mountains are no more to rear, Though woods may rise again no more, The noble task to reproduce is thine! The spreading branch, the firm-set peak, may live With thee, and in thy well-sped labours thrive. The untried forces of the air, the earth, the ses, Wait at thy bidding: oh, compel their powers To uses holy! Let them ever be Servants to tend and bless these new-found bow ers, And make them household-workers, free and swift, Her face again old Eden may uplift, WILLIAM JEWETT PABODIE. [Born about 1815.] MR. PABODIE is a native of Providence, in Rhode Island. He was admitted to the bar in the spring of 1837, and has since, I believe, practised his profession in his native city. His principal work is “Calidore, a Legendary Poem," published in 1839. It possesses considerable merit, but is not so carefully finished as some of his minor pieces, nor is there any thing strikingly original in its fable or sentiments. His writings are more distinguished for elegance than for vigour. GO FORTH INTO THE FIELDS. Go forth into the fields, Ye denizens of the pent city's mart! Leave ye the feverish strife, The jostling, eager, self-devoted throng;- Hark! from each fresh-clad bough, The silvery gleaming rills Lure with soft murmurs from the grassy lea, And the young, wanton breeze, With breath all odorous from her blossomy chase, Go-breathe the air of heaven, Where violets meekly smile upon your way; Seek ye the solemn wood, Whose giant trunks a verdant roof uprear, Stand by the tranquil lake, Sleeping mid willowy banks of emerald dye, And if within your breast, Hallow'd to nature's touch, one chord remain ; A strange delight shall thrill, A quiet joy brood o'er you like a dove; O, in the calm, still hours, Pass ye the proud fane by, The vaulted aisles, by flaunting folly trod, TO THE AUTUMN FOREST. RESPLENDENT hues are thine! What though thy depths be hush'd! More eloquent in breathless silence thou, Gone from thy walks the flowers! I love thee in the spring, Earth-crowning forest! when amid thy shades In the hot summer-time, With deep delight thy sombre aisles I roam, But, 0, when autumn's hand Hath mark'd thy beauteous foliage for the grave, I linger then with thee, Like some fond lover o'er his stricken bride; When my last hours are come, Bathe thou in hues as blest-- 515. A ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. GONE in the flush of youth! Gone ere thy heart had felt earth's withering care; Ere the stern world had soil'd thy spirit's truth, Or sown dark sorrow there. Fled like a dream away! But yesterday mid life's auroral bloom- Sighs round thy lonely tomb. Fond hearts were beating high, Fond eyes were watching for the loved one gone, And gentle voices, deeming thou wert nigh, Talk'd of thy glad return. They watch'd--not all in vain- Thy form once more the wonted threshold pass'd; But choking sobs, and tears like summer-rain, Welcom'd thee home at last. Friend of my youth, farewell! To thee, we trust, a happier life is given; OUR COUNTRY. OUR country!--'t is a glorious land! With broad arms stretch'd from shore to shore, The proud Pacific chafes her strand, She hears the dark Atlantic roar; And, nurtured on her ample breast, How many a goodly prospect lies In Nature's wildest grandeur drest, Enamell'd with her loveliest dyes. Rich prairies, deck'd with flowers of gold, Go sweeping onward, dark and deep, In rich profusion o'er the land, I HEAR THY VOICE, O SPRING! I HEAR thy voice, O Spring! Its flute-like tones are floating through the air, Winning my soul with their wild ravishing, From earth's heart-wearying care. Divinely sweet thy song- But yet, methinks, as near the groves I pass, Low sighs on viewless wings are borne along, Tears gem the springing grass. For where are they, the young, The loved, the beautiful, who, when thy voice, A year agone, along these valleys rung, Did hear thee and rejoice! Thou seek'st for them in vainNo more they'll greet thee in thy joyous round; Calmly they sleep beneath the murmuring main Or moulder in the ground. Yet peace, my heart--be still! Look upward to yon azure sky and know, For them hath bloom'd a spring, I STOOD BESIDE HIS GRAVE. I STOOD beside the grave of him, The stars stole trembling into sight. O Death! had then thy summons come, And night itself grew wild and drear,- And winds sigh'd mournful on the ear: And yet I linger'd mid the fern, And leave him to his loneliness! EPES SARGENT. [Born, 1816.] THE author of Velasco" is a native of Gloucester, a town on the sea-coast of Massachusetts, and was born on the twenty-seventh of September, 1816. His father, a respectable merchant, of the same name, is still living, and resides in Boston. The subject of this sketch was educated in the schools of that city and the neighbourhood, where he lived until his removal to New York, in 1837. His earliest metrical compositions were printed in The Collegian," a monthly miscellany edited by several of the students of Harvard College, of the junior and senior classes of 1830. One of his contributions to that work, entitled "Twilight Sketches," exhibits the grace of style, ease of versification, and variety of description, which are characteristic of his more recent effusions. It was a sketch of the Summer Gardens of St. Petersburg, and was written during a visit to that capital in the spring of 1828. Mr. SARGENT's reputation rests principally on his dramas, which bear a greater value in the closet than on the stage. His first appearance as a dramatic author was in the winter of 1836, when his "Bride of Genoa" was brought out at the Tremont Theatre, in Boston. This was a five-act play, founded on incidents in the career of ANTONIO MONTALDO, a plebeian, who at the age of twentytwo, made himself doge of Genoa, in 1693, and who is described in the history of the times as a man of "forgiving temper," but daring and ambitious, with a genius adequate to the accomplishment of vast designs. In the delineation of his hero, the author has followed the historical record, though the other characters and incidents of the drama are entirely fictitious. It was successfully performed in Boston, and since in many of the first theatres of the country. His next production was of a much higher order, and as a specimen of dramatic art, has received warm commendation from the most competent judges. It was the tragedy of "Velasco," first performed at Boston, in November, 1837, Miss ELLEN TREE in the character of IZIDORA, and subsequently at the principal theatres in New York, Philadelphia, Washington, and New Orleans. It was published in New York in 1839. "The general action of the piece," says the author in his preface, "is derived from incidents in the career of RODRIGO DIAZ, the Cid, whose achievements constitute so considerable a portion of the historical and romantic literature of Spain." The subject had been variously treated by French and Spanish dramatists, among others, by CoRNEILLE, but Mr. SARGENT was the first to introduce it successfully upon the English stage. It is a chaste and elegant performance, and probably has not been surpassed by any similar work by so youthful an author. It was written before Mr. SARGENT was twenty-one years of age. In the beginning of 1847 Mr. SARGENT published in Boston a volume entitled "Songs of the Sea, and other Poems," and a new edition of his plays. The quatorzains written during a voyage to Cuba, in the spring of 1835, appear to be among the most elaborate of his sea pieces, but some of his nautical lyrics are more spirited. Mr. SARGENT has edited "The Modern Acting Drama," and several modern British poets; and recently has done the public an important service by preparing the best series of reading books, for schools, ever published in this country. RECORDS OF A SUMMER-VOYAGE TO I CUBA. I. THE DEPARTURE. AGAIN thy winds are pealing in mine ear! A gain thy waves are flashing in my sight! Thy memory-haunting tones again I hear, As through the spray our vessel wings her flight! On thy cerulean breast, now swelling high, Again, thou broad Atlantic, am I cast! Six years, with noiseless tread, have glided by, Since, an adventurous boy, I hail'd thee last, The sea-birds o'er me wheel, as if to greet An old companion; on my naked brow The sparkling foam-drops not unkindly beat; [now Flows through my hair the freshening breeze-and The horizon's ring enclasps me; and I stand Gazing where fades from view, cloud-like, my fatherland! II. THE GALE. The night came down in terror. Through the Burst, in one loud explosion, far and wide, The meteors of the storm a ghastly radiance cast! |