THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. Look on him-through his dungeon-grate, His hand upholds his drooping head- No grateful fire before him glows,- A sound, half-murmur and half-groan, Just Gon! why lies that old man there? What has the gray-hair'd prisoner done? God made the old man poor! And so, for such a place of rest, Old prisoner, pour'd thy blood as rain On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest, Look forth, thou man of many scars, Go, ring the bells and fire the guns, And fling the starry banner out; Shout Freedom!" till your lisping ones Of honour, liberty, and fame; Still let the poet's strain be heard, Bunker Hill Monument. And every thing with breath agree That prison's cold and gloomy wall, Down with the law that binds him thus! No refuge from the withering curse THE MERRIMACK. STREAM of my fathers! sweetly still I see the winding Powow fold The green hill in its belt of gold, But lies distinct and full in sight, Flit, stooping from the eastern gale; And more abundant waters given On yonder rocky cape which braves But look! the yellow light no more ST. JOHN.* "To the winds give our banner! Sir CHARLES of Estienne; On the heretic sail, As the songs of the Huguenot The pale, ghostly fathers And had cursed her while passing, But the men of Mouhegan,+ Of Papists abhorr'd, The heretic lord. With dun-fish and ball, The fierce rivalship of the two French officers, left by the death of RAZILLA in the possession of Acadia, or Nova Scotia, forms one of the most romantic passages in the history of the New World. CHARLES ST. ESTIENNE, inheriting from his father the title of Lord DE LA TOUR, whose seat was at the mouth of the St. John's river, was a Protestant; DE AULNEY CHARNISY, whose fortress was at the mouth of the Penobscot, or ancient Pentagoet, was a Catholic. The incentives of a false religious feeling, sectarian intolerance, and personal interest and ambition, conspired to render their feud bloody and unsparing. The Catholic was urged on by the Jesuits, who had found protection from Puritan gallows-ropes under his jurisdiction; the Huguenot still smarted under the recollection of his wrongs and persecutions in France. Both claimed to be champions of that cross from which went upward the holy petition of the Prince of Peace: "Father, forgive them." LA TOUR received aid in several instances from the Puritan colonies of Massachusetts. During one of his voyages for the purpose of obtaining arms and provisions for his establishment at St. John, his castle was attacked by DE AULNEY, and successfully defended by its highspirited mistress. A second attack, however, followed in the 4th mo., 1647. Lady LA TOUR defended her castle with a desperate perseverance. After a furious cannonade, DE AULNEY stormed the walls, and put the entire garrison to the sword. Lady LA TOUR languished a few days only in the hands of her inveterate enemy, and died of grief, greatly regretted by the colonists of Boston, to whom, as a devoted Protestant, she was well known. + The settlement of the Jesuits on the island of Mount Desert was called St. Saviour. The isle of Mouhegan was one of the first settled on the coast of Maine. At this island Captain SMITH obtained, in 1614, eleven thousand beaver skins and forty thousand dry fish. And the prayers of the elders Had follow'd his way, As homeward he glided, Down Pentecost Bay. O! well sped LA TOUR! For, in peril and pain, His lady kept watch For his coming again. O'er the Isle of the Pheasant The morning sun shone, On the plane trees which shaded The shores of St. John. Dark and wild, from his deck And silent redoubt; There thunder'd no gun! But, beneath the low arch Of its doorway there stood A pale priest of Rome, In his cloak and his hood. With the bound of a lion, LA TOUR sprang to land, On the throat of the Papist He fasten'd his hand. "Speak, son of the Woman, Of scarlet and sin! What wolf has been prowling My castle within?" "No wolf, Lord of Estienne, I hitherward came, "Half-veil'd in the smoke-cloud, Her hand grasp'd thy pennon, While her dark tresses sway'd In the hot breath of cannon! But wo to the heretic, Evermore wo! When the son of the church "In the track of the shell, The breach of the wall! Steel to steel, gun to gun, One moment-and then Alone stood the victor, Alone with his men! "Of its sturdy defenders, Thy lady alone Saw the cross and the lilies Float over St. John." "Let the dastard look to it!" Cried fiery ESTIENNE, "Were DE AULNEY King Louis, I'd free her again!" "Alas, for thy lady! No service from thee Is needed by her Whom the Lord hath set free: Nine days, in stern silence, Her thraldom she bore, But the tenth morning came, And Death open'd her door!" As if suddenly smitten LA TOUR stagger'd back; Of his shallop again: Of the Huguenot's wrong, And from island and creek-side Her fishers shall throng! Pentagoet shall rue What its Papists have done, When its palisades echo The Puritan's gun!" O the loveliest of heavens The Huguenot on; And in blackness and ashes Behind was St. John! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. [Born, 1809.] DOCTOR HOLMES is a son of the late Reverend ABIEL HOLMES, D. D., and was born at Cambridge, in Massachusetts, on the twenty-ninth day of August, 1809. He received his early education at the Phillips Exeter Academy, and entered Harvard University in 1825. On being graduated he commenced the study of the law, but relinquished it after one year's application, for the more congenial pursuit of medicine, to which he devoted himself with much ardour and industry. For the more successful prosecution of his studies, he visited Europe in the spring of 1833, passing the principal portion of his residence abroad at Paris, where he attended the hospitals, acquired an intimate knowledge of the language, and became personally acquainted with many of the most eminent physicians of France. He returned to Boston near the close of the year 1835, and in the following spring commenced the practice of medicine in that city. In the autumn of the same year he delivered a poem before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard University, which was received with extraordinary and wellmerited applause. In 1838 he was elected Professor of Anatomy and Physiology in the medical institution connected with Dartmouth College; but, on being married, two years afterward, he resigned that office, and has since devoted himself entirely to the duties of his profession. The earlier poems of Doctor HOLMES appeared in "The Collegian." They were little less distinguished for correct and melodious versification than his more recent and most elaborate compositions. They attracted attention by their humour and originality, and were widely circulated and republished in contemporary periodicals. But a small portion of them have been printed under his proper signature. In 1831 a small volume appeared in Boston, entitled "Illustrations of the Athenæum Gallery of Paintings," and composed of metrical pieces, chiefly satirical, written by Doctor HOLMES and EPES SARGENT. It embraced many of our author's best humorous verses, afterward included in the edition of his acknowledged works. His principal production, "Poetry, a Metrical Essay," was delivered before a literary society at Cambridge. It is in the heroic measure, and in its versification it is not surpassed by any poem written in this country. "The Collegian" was a monthly miscellany published in 1830, by the undergraduates at Cambridge. Among the editors were HOLMES, the late WILLIAM H. SIMMONS, who will long be remembered for his admirable lectures on the great poets and orators of England, and JOHN O. SARGENT, Who distinguished himself as an able political writer in the long contest which resulted in the election of General HARRISON to the presidency, and is now engaged in the successful practice of the law in the city of New York. It relates to the nature and developments of poetry, He, whose thoughts differing not in shape, but dress, In another part of the essay he gives the following fine description of the different English measures: Poets, like painters, their machinery claim, For several years the attention of Doctor HOLMES, as I have before remarked, has been devoted to his professional business. He has obtained two or three prizes for dissertations on medical questions, and as a physician and as a lecturer on physiological subjects, he has become eminently popular in the city in which he resides. As a poet he has won an enduring reputation. He possesses a rich vein of humour, with learning and originality, and great skill as an artist. THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD. OUR ancient church! its lowly tower, Is shadow'd when the sunset hour Long ere the glittering vane, Like sentinel and nun, they keep Their vigil on the green; One seems to guard, and one to weep, And both roll out, so full and near, Their music's mingling waves, They shake the grass, whose pennon'd spear Leans on the narrow graves. The stranger parts the flaunting weeds, They shade the sculptured stone; But what to them the dirge, the knell? These were the mourner's share; Rung on the coffin's lid. The slumberer's mound grows fresh and green, Then slowly disappears; The mosses creep, the gray stones lean, Earth hides his date and years; But, long before the once-loved name Is sunk or worn away, No lip the silent dust may claim, That press'd the breathing clay. Go where the ancient pathway guides, See where our sires laid down Their smiling babes, their cherish'd brides, The patriarchs of the town; Hast thou a tear for buried love? Go, read it in an hour! The Indian's shaft, the Briton's ball, The hot shell, shattering in its fall, The bayonet's rending wedge,-- Who leave their children free! Look where the turbid rain-drops stand The knightly crest, the shield, the brand Of honour'd names were there; Alas! for every tear is dried Those blazon'd tablets knew, Save when the icy marble's side Drips with the evening dew. Or gaze upon yon pillar'd stone,* Whose ashes press that nameless bed? Lean o'er the slender western wall, May lift your floating curls, An exile'st date and doom; And sigh, for where his daughters dwell, They wreathe the stranger's tomb. And one amid these shades was born, Beneath this turf who lies, Once beaming as the summer's morn, That closed her gentle eyes; If sinless angels love as we, Who stood thy grave beside, I wander'd to thy buried mound, Choked to its gates with snow, And when with summer's flowery waves The lake of verdure roll'd, As if a sultan's white-robed slaves Had scatter'd pearls and gold. Nay, the soft pinions of the air, That lifts this trembling tone, May sweetest dews and warmest ray - When damps beneath, and storms above, *The tomb of the VASSALL family is marked by a freestone tablet, supported by five pillars, and bearing nothing but the sculptured reliefs of the goblet and the sun,-Fes Sol, which designated a powerful family, now almost forgotten. The exile referred to in this stanza was a native of Honfleur, in Normandy. |