Francis Alexander Durivage. AMERICAN. Durivage was born in Boston in 1814. His family name was Caillaud-du rivage being a territorial title. His father, an estimable teacher of the French language, married a sister of Edward Everett. Francis acquired early a good knowledge of French and Spanish. Before he was seventeen, he edited the Amateur, a Boston weekly periodical. He contributed to nearly all the leading magazines, and became noted as a humorist. A collection of his papers, under the signature of "The Old 'Un," illustrated by Darley, was published by Carey and Hart in 1849. He visited Europe six times, chiefly to study the great art collections. He is favorably known as an amateur artist, as well as for his poetry. William C. Bryant and Bayard Taylor were among the literary friends who praised and valued his poetical productions, the dramatic element in which is a distinguishing quality, to which they owe much of their effect. ALL. There hangs a sabre, and there a rein Come out to the stable, it is not far; The good black steed came riderless home, All? O God! it is all I can speak. And his horse pined to death. I have told you all! CHEZ BREBANT. The vicomte is wearing a brow of gloom I want no clients from Père la Chaise. And a damask cloth white as driven snow. Vite! The vicomte sits down with a ghastly air— start: "Mimi is dead of a broken heart. Could I think, when she gave it with generous joy, JERRY. His joyous neigh, like the clarion's strain, When we set before him his hay and grain, And the rhythmic beat Of his flying feet, We never, never shall hear again; For the good horse sleeps Where the tall grass weeps, On the velvet edge of the emerald plain, By the restless waves of the billowy grain, And never will answer to voice or rein. By whip-cord and steel he was never stirred, By loving hands was his neck caressedHands, like his own fleet limbs, at rest. Through blinding snow, in the murkiest night, Till I'd rubbed him down and bedded him deep. If I ever can sit in the saddle again, With foot in stirrup and hand on rein, I shall look for the like of Jerry in vain. He would have answered the trumpet's peal, And when his life-work was all complete, Aubrey Thomas De Vere. Son of Sir Aubrey De Vere, the poet, De Vere, born in Ireland in 1814, has published several productions in verse: "The Waldenses, with other Poems" (1842); "The Infant Bridal, and other Poems" (1864). He is also the author of "Sketches of Greece and Turkey" (1850). His poems are marked by refinement and delicacy of expression, united with rare sweetness in the versification. "This gentle poet and scholar, the most spiritual of the Irish poets," says Mr. E. C. Stedman, "though hampered by a too rigid adoption of Wordsworth's theory, often has an attractive manner of his own." THE TRUE BLESSEDNESS. Who hath not spent in Time's vainglorious war Their iron trophies to a temple's height On trampled Justice; who desires not bliss, Of God and of His angels, seeking this ADOLESCENTULE AMAVERUNT TE NIMIS. "Behold! the wintry rains are past; The airs of midnight hurt no more: The young maids love thee. Come at last: "Blow over all the garden; blow, Thou wind that breathest of the south, Through all the alleys winding low, With dewy wing and honeyed mouth. "But wheresoe'er thou wanderest, shape Thy music ever to one Name: Thou too, clear stream, to cave and cape Be sure thou whisper of the same. "By every isle and bower of musk Thy crystal clasps, as on it curls, We charge thee, breathe it to the dusk; We charge thee, grave it in thy pearls." The stream obeyed. That Name he bore SONNET: HOW ALL THINGS ARE SWEET. Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, Crumbling away beneath our very feet; Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing In current unperceived, because so fleet; Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing: But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat; Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing: And still, oh still, their dying breath is sweet; And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us A nearer good to cure an older ill; And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them. James Hedderwick. Hedderwick, editor of The Glasgow Citizen, a daily newspaper, was born in that city in 1814. He studied for a time at the London University, then became connected with the Press. In 1854 he published a small volume of poems, and in 1859 his "Lays of Middle Age, and other Poems." FIRST GRIEF. They tell me first and early love Outlives all after-dreams; But the memory of a first great grief To me more lasting seems. The grief that marks our dawning youth And o'er the path of future years Oh! oft my mind recalls the hour When to my father's home Death came, an uninvited guest, From his dwelling in the tomb. I had not seen his face before- A youthful brow and ruddy cheek An eye grew dim in which the light Cold was the cheek, and cold the brow, I know not if 'twas summer then, If flowers came forth to deck the earth, I looked upon one withered flower, A sad and silent time it was Within that house of woe; All eyes were dim and overcast, And every voice was low. And from each cheek at intervals Softly we trod, as if afraid To mar the sleeper's sleep, And stole last looks of his sad face For memory to keep. With him the agony was o'er, And when at last he was borne afar From this world's weary strife, How oft in thought did we again Live o'er his little life! His every look, his every word, Came back to us like things whose worth That grief has passed with years away, But the one is long remembered, The gayest hours trip lightly by, And leave the faintest trace; But the deep, deep track that sorrow wears No time can e'er efface! Thomas Westwood. Westwood, a native of England, born in 1814, has produced "Beads from a Rosary" (1843); "The Burden of the Bell" (1850); "Berries and Blossoms" (1855); and "The Quest of the Sanegreal" (1868). All these are in verse. His most popular poem, "Little Bell," originally appeared in the London Athenæum. He says: "Though the writer is a childless man, he has a love and reverence for childhood which can scarcely be surpassed." THE PET LAMB. Storm upon the mountain, night upon its throne! And the little snow-white lamb, left alone-alone! Very calm and clear Rose the praying voice, to where, unseen, In blue heaven an angel shape serene Paused awhile to hear. "What good child is this," the angel said, "That with happy heart, beside her bed, Prays so lovingly ?" Low and soft, oh! very low and soft, Crooned the Blackbird in the orchard croft, "Bell, dear Bell!" crooned he. "Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care; Child, thy bed shall be Folded safe from harm; love, deep and kind, Shall watch round, and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee!" William Henry Cuyler Hosmer. AMERICAN. Hosmer, born in Avon, N. Y., in 1814, graduated at Hobart College, Geneva. He engaged in the practice of the law, but afterward held a position in the Custom-house. In early life he spent much of his time among the Indians, and some of his poems have reference to their traditions. His mother conversed fluently in the dialect of the Seneca tribe, and thus he became well acquainted with the legends of which he made use in his romance of Yonnondis." In 1854 two volumes of his numerous poems were published by Redfield, New York. BLAKE'S VISITANTS. "Blake, the painter-poet, conceived that he had formed friendships with distinguished individuals of antiquity. He asserted that they appeared to him, and were luminous and majestic shadows. The most propitious time for their visits was from nine at night till five in the morning." The stars shed a dreamy light The wind, like an infant, sighs; My lattice gleams, for the queen of night The gloom of the grave forsake, Ye princes who ruled of yore! For the painter fain to life would wake Your majestic forms once more. Ye brave, with your tossing plumes, Ye bards of the pale, high brow! Leave the starless night of forgotten tombs,For my hand feels skilful now. They come, a shadowy throng, With the types of their old renownThe Mantuan bard, with his wreath of song, The monarch with robe and crown. They come on the fatal Ides Of March yon conqueror fell; For the rich, green leaf of the laurel hides His baldness of forehead well. I know, though his tongue is still, The Roman whose spell of voice could thrill How mournfully Lesbian Sappho leans That terrible shade I know By the scowl his visage wears, And the Scottish knight, his noble foe, By the broad claymore he bears. That warrior king who dyed In Saracen gore the sands, With his knightly harness on, beside The fiery Soldan stands. Ye laurelled of old, all hail! And gaze on your features bright. TO A LONG SILENT SISTER OF SONG. That tender, starry eyes should know eclipse, |