SAMUEL G. GOODRICH. [Born, 1796.] SAMUEL GRISWOLD GOODRICH is a native of Ridgefield, on the western border of Connecticut, and was born about the year 1796. His father was a respectable clergyman, distinguished for his simplicity of character, strong common sense, and eloquence. Our author was educated in the common schools of his native town, and soon after he was twenty-one years old, engaged in the business of publishing, in Hartford, where he resided for several years. In 1824, being in ill health, he visited Europe, and travelled over England, France, Germany, and Holland, devoting his attention particularly to the institutions for education; and on his return, having determined to attempt an improvement in books for the young, established himself in Boston, and commenced the trade of authorship. Since that time he has produced from twenty to thirty volumes, under the signature of "Peter Parley," which have passed through a great number of editions in this country and in England, and been translated into several foreign languages. Of some of these works more than fifty thousand copies are circulated annually. In 1824 Mr. GOODRICH commenced "The Token," an annuary, of which he was the editor for fourteen years. In this series he published most of the poems of which he is known to be the author. They were all written while he was actively engaged in business. His "Fireside Education" was composed in sixty days, while he was discharging his duties as a member of the Massachusetts Senate, and superintending his publishing establishment; and his numerous other prose works were produced with equal rapidity. In 1837 he published a volume entitled "The Outcast, and other Poems," most of the contents of which had previously been printed; and, in 1841, "Sketches from a Student's Window," a collection of poems and prose writings that had originally appeared in "The Token" and other periodicals. Mr. GOODRICH has been a liberal patron of American authors and artists; and it is questionable whether any other person has done as much to improve the style of the book manufacture, or to promote the arts of engraving. It is believed that he has put in circulation more than two millions of volumes of his own productions; all of which inculcate pure morality, and cheerful views of life. His style is simple and unaffected; the flow of his verse melodious; and his subjects generally such as he is capable of treating most successfully. BIRTHNIGHT OF THE HUMMING-BIRDS. I. I'LL tell you a fairy tale that's new— How the merry elves o'er the ocean flew, From the Emerald isle to this far-off shore, As they were wont in the days of yoreAnd play'd their pranks one moonlit night, Where the zephyrs alone could see the sight. II. Ere the old world yet had found the new, The fairies oft in their frolics flew, To the fragrant isles of the CarribeeBright bosom-gems of a golden sea. Too dark was the film of the Indian's eye, These gossamer sprites to suspect or spy,So they danced mid the spicy groves unseen, And gay were their gambolings, I ween ; For the fairies, like other discreet little elves, Are freest and fondest when all by themselves. No thought had they that in after time The muse would echo their deeds in rhyme; So, gayly doffing light stocking and shoe, They tripp'd o'er the meadow all dappled in dew. I could tell, if I would, some right merry tales Of unslipper'd faïries that danced in the vales But the lovers of scandal I leave in the lurchAnd, besides, these elves don't belong to the church. If they danced-be it known-'twas not in the clime Of your MATHERS and HOOKERS, where laughter was crime; Where sentinel virtue kept guard o'er the lip, Though witchcraft stole into the heart by a slip! O, no! 't was the land of the fruit and the flowerWhere summer and spring both dwelt in one bower Where one hung the citron, all ripe from the bough, And the other with blossoms encircled its brow,— Where the mountains embosom'd rich tissues of gold, And the rivers o'er rubies and emeralds roll'd. wretch! But I learn by the legends of breezes and brooks, "Tis as true as the fairy tales told in the books. Or listen'd to mermaids that sang from the cave; Each seeming to think that the earth and the sea Not yet had those vessels from Palos been here, For they were to hold a revel that night, IV. Away sped the maskers like arrows of light, In emulous speed some sportive flew- V. The hour is come, and the fairies are seen Was the rose, or the ruby, or emerald now; VI. Of all that did chance, 't were a long tale to tell, Of the dresses and waltzes, and who was the belle; But each were so happy, and all were so fair, That night stole away and the dawn caught them there! Such a scampering never before was seen Content in our clime, and more blest than before! THE RIVER. O, TELL me, pretty river! "My birthplace was the mountain, "One morn I ran away, "And then, mid meadowy banks, "But these bright scenes are o'er, And darkly flows my wave I hear the ocean's roar, And there must be my grave!" THE LEAF. IT came with spring's soft sun and showers, But its companions pass'd away, And slumber'd in the ocean's breast. Thus life begins-its morning hours, LAKE SUPERIOR. "FATHER OF LAKES!" thy waters bend Boundless and deep, the forests weave Their twilight shade thy borders o'er, And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave Their rugged forms along thy shore. Pale Silence, mid thy hollow caves, With listening ear, in sadness broods; Or startled Echo, o'er thy waves, Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods. The spell of stillness reigning there. The gnarl'd and braided boughs, that show The very echoes round this shore Have caught a strange and gibbering tone; Wave of the wilderness, adieu! And fill these awful solitudes! God is thy theme. Ye sounding caves Whisper of Him, whose mighty plan Deems as a bubble all your waves! THE SPORTIVE SYLPHS. THE sportive sylphs that course the air, Unseen on wings that twilight weaves, Around the opening rose repair, And breathe sweet incense o'er its leaves. With sparkling cups of bubbles made, They catch the ruddy beams of day, And steal the rainbow's sweetest shade, Their blushing favourite to array. They gather gems with sunbeams bright, From floating clouds and falling showers; They rob Aurora's locks of light To grace their own fair queen of flowers. Thus, thus adorned, the speaking rose Becames a token fit to tell Of things that words can ne'er disclose, And naught but this reveal so well. Then, take my flower, and let its leaves Beside thy heart be cherish'd near, While that confiding heart receives The thought it whispers to thine ear. ISAAC CLASON. [Born about 1796. Died, 1830.] ISAAC CLASON wrote the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Cantos of Don Juan-a continuation of the poem of Lord BYRON-published in 1825. I have not been able to learn many particulars of his biography. He was born in the city of New York, where his father was a distinguished merchant, and graduated at Columbia College in 1813. He inherited a considerable fortune, but in the pursuit of pleasure he spent it all, and much besides, received from his relatives. He was in turn a gay roué in London and Paris, a writer for the public journals, an actor in the theatres, and a private NAPOLEON." I love no land so well as that of France- Nor fear'd the stroke he soon was doom'd to feel; NAPOLEON BONAPARTE! thy name shall live To space reverberation, round and round The lightning's flash shall blaze thy name on high, What though or. St. Helena's rocky shore From the Seventeenth Canto of Don Juan. tutor. A mystery hangs over his closing years. It has been stated that he was found dead in an obscure lodging-house in London, under circumstances that led to a belief that he committed suicide, about the year 1830. Besides his continuation of Don Juan, he wrote but little poetry. The two cantos which he left under that title, have much of the spirit and feeling, in thought and diction, which characterize the work of BYRON. He was a man of attractive manners and brilliant conversation. His fate is an unfavourable commentary on his character. To crush the bigot BOURBON, and restore Thy mouldering ashes ere they be consumed; Now sunk in slavery and shame again; No more earth trembles at thy dreaded name; Of Prussia, and which almost threw in fits Great FREDERICK WILLIAM; he who, at the board, Took all the Prussian uniform to bits; FREDERICK, the king of regimental tailors, AS HUDSON LOWE, the very prince of jailors. Farewell, NAPOLEON! couldst thou have died The coward scorpion's death, afraid, ashamed To meet adversity's advancing tide, The weak had praised thee, but the wise had But no! though torn from country, child, and bride, Beauty shall beckon to thee from the sky, And smiling seraphs open wide heaven's door; Around thy head the brightest stars shall meet, And rolling suns play sportive at thy feet. Farewell, NAPOLEON! a long farewell, A stranger's tongue, alas! must hymn thy worth; No craven Gaul dares wake his harp to tell, Or sound in song the spot that gave thee birth. No more thy name, that, with its magic spell, Aroused the slumbering nations of the earth, Echoes around thy land; 't is past—at length France sinks beneath the sway of CHARLES the Tenth. JEALOUSY. HE who has seen the red-fork'd lightnings flash From out some black and tempest-gather'd cloud, And heard the thunder's simultaneous crash, Bursting in peals, terrifically loud; He who has mark'd the madden'd ocean dash (Robed in its snow-white foam as in a shroud) Its giant billows on the groaning shore, While death seem'd echo'd in the deafening roar; He who has seen the wild tornado sweep (Its path destruction, and its progress death) The silent bosom of the smiling deep With the black besom of its boisterc us breath, Waking to strife the slumbering waves, that leap In battling surges from their beds beneath, Yawning and swelling from their liquid caves, Like buried giants from their restless graves:He who has gazed on sights and scenes like these, Hath look'd on nature in her maddest mood; But nature's warfare passes by degrees,— The thunder's voice is hush'd, however rude, The dying winds unclasp the raging seas, The scowling sky throws back her cloud-capt The infant lightnings to their cradles creep, Which owns no limit, and which knows no goal, Whose blast leaves joy a tomb, and hope a speck, Reason a blank, and happiness a wreck. EARLY LOVE. THE fond caress of beauty, O, that glow! Of waken'd passions, that but now impart Ah! where's the youth whose stoic heart ne'er knew The fires of joy, that burst through every vein, That burn forever bright, forever new, As passion rises o'er and o'er again? That, like the phoenix, die but to renew― Beat in the heart, and throb upon the brainSelf-kindling, quenchless as the eternal flame That sports in Etna's base. But I'm to blame Ignobly thus to yield to raptures past; To call my buried feelings from their shrouds, O'er which the deep funereal pall was castLike brightest skies entomb'd in darkest clouds; No matter, these, the latest and the last That rise, like spectres of the past, in crowds; The ebullitions of a heart not lost, But weary, wandering, worn, and tempest-toss'd. "T is vain, and worse than vain, to think on joys Which, like the hour that's gone, return no more; Bubbles of folly, blown by wanton boys Billows that swell, to burst upon the shorePlaythings of passion, manhood's gilded toys, (Deceitful as the shell that seems to roar, But proves the mimic mockery of the surge:) They sink in sorrow's sea, and ne'er emerge. ALL IS VANITY. I've compass'd every pleasure, Caught every joy before its bead could pass; I've loved without restriction, without measure— I've sipp'd enjoyment from each sparkling glassI've known what 't is, too, to "repent at leisure" I've sat at meeting, and I've served at mass:-And having roved through half the world's insanities, Cry, with the Preacher--Vanity of vanities! What constitutes man's chief enjoyment here? It smiles to-day, and weeps again to-morrow; Mere child of passion, that beguiles in youth, And flies from age, as falsehood flies from truth. Is 't glory? Pause beneath St. Helen's willow, Whose weeping branches wave above the spot; Ask him, whose head now rests upon its pillow, Its last, low pillow, there to rest, and rot. Is't fame? Ask her, who floats upon the billow, Untomb'd, uncoffin'd, and perchance forgot; The lovely, lovesick Lesbian, frail as fair, Victim of love, and emblem of despair. Is 't honour? Go, ask him whose ashes sleep Within the crypt of Paul's stupendous dome, Whose name once thunder'd victory o'er the deep, Far as his country's navies proudly roam; Above whose grave no patriot Dane shall weep," No Frank deplore the hour he found a home— A home, whence valour's voice from conquest's ca No more shall rouse the lord-of Trafalgar. |