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(Sleep, Richard of the lion heart !
Is England's friend and fast ally;
And on the Cross and altar-stone,
And Christendom looks tamely on,
And sees the Christian father die ;
By Europe's craven chivalry.
You'll ask if yet the Percy lives
In the armed pomp of feudal state..
Of Hotspur and his “gentle Kate”
A chambermaid, whose lip and eye,
Spoke nature's aristocracy ;
JOHN GARDNER CALKINS BRAINARD. [Born in 1796, died in 1828. In his brief career he was first called to the bar; then undertook the editorship of a weekly gazette ; and consumption closed a somewhat desultory and melancholy life].
SONNET TO THE SEA-SERPENT.
WELTER upon the waters, mighty one
And stretch thee in the ocean's trough of brine ;
And toss the billow from thy flashing fin;
Heave thy deep breathings to the ocean's din,
Or dive down to its lowest depths, and in
Or rest thee on that navel of the sea
The krakens sheltering under Norway's lee ;
GEORGE P. MORRIS. [Born in 1801, died towards 1865.1 A general in the army, dramatist, and miscellaneous writer; especially popular for his songs, one of which is the universally known “Woodman, spare that tree").
Wedded 'a maid of homespun habit;
She was playful as a rabbit.
Before her husband sought to make her
And prim and formal as a Quaker.
And simple Jenny sadly missed him ;
She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him.
And white his face alternate grew.
“Oh dear! I didn't know 'twas you!"
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. (Born in 1808 at Haverhill, Massachusetts, where his ancestors, of the Quaker denomination, had long been settled. Mr. Whittier was early engaged in farming operations; and afterwards as a political, and more especially a protectionist, journalist. In 1836 he became one of the secretaries of the Anti-Slavery Society: and some of his most vigorous and rousing poems are devoted to that noble cause. He has also written various prose works; one of the chief among which is Supernaturalism in New England, published in 1847. The bulk of Mr. Whittier's poetical writings is considerable. His name stands high in the United States, and ought in England to be better known than as yet it is. An upright manly energy, and the tenderness of a strong yet delicate nature, are constantly conspicuous in his writings. These fine qualities are mostly associated with a genuine poetic grace, and in many instances with art truly solid and fine).
THE DEMON OF THE STUDY.
And eats his meat and drinks his ale,
And the lazy lout with his idle flail ;
And hies him away ere the break of dawn. 1 In this case and another (see Park Benjamin), where I say “towards 1865" as the date of death, I have reason to infer that the authors were alive in 1863, but have died since then, though the precise year of death is uncertain to me: 1865 is named as an approximation.
The shade of Denmark fled from the sun,
And the Cocklane ghost from the barnloft cheer, The fiend of Faust was a faithful one,
Agrippa's demon wrought in fear,
Who seven times crossed the deep,
Like the nightmare in one's sleep.
To my quiet room and fireside nook,
On faded painting and ancient book,
No runner of errands like Ariel,
Without rap of knuckle or pull of bell ;
Slouched heavily down to his dark red nose,
Looking through glasses with iron bows. Read ye, and heed ye, and ye who can Guard well your doors from that old man ! He comes with a careless “How d'ye do ?”
And seats himself in my elbow-chair;
Fall forth with under his special care ;
In a low and husky asthmatic tone,
Of one who reads to himself alone :
The poet's song and the lover's glee,
The marriage list, and the jeu d'esprit,
O'er the mossy roots of some forest tree,
Or sound of flutes o’er a moonlight sea, Or the low soft music, perchance, which seems To float through the slumbering singer's dreams, – So sweet, so dear is the silvery tone
Of her in whose features I sometimes look, As I sit at eve by her side alone,
And we read by turns from the selfsame book,Some tale perhaps of the olden time, Some lover's romance or quaint old rhyme. Then when the story is one of woe,
Some prisoner's plaint through his dungeon-bar, Her blue eye glistens with tears, and low
Her voice sinks down like a moan afar ; And I seem to hear that prisoner's wail, And his face looks on me worn and pale. And, when she reads some merrier song,
Her voice is glad as an April bird's; And, when the tale is of war and wrong,
A trumpet's summons is in her words, And the rush of the hosts I seem to hear, And see the tossing of plume and spear !Oh pity me then, when, day by day,
The stout fiend darkens my parlour door ; And reads me perchance the selfsame lay
Which melted in music, the night before, From lips as the lips of Hylas sweet,
And moved like twin roses which zephyrs meet ! I cross my floor with a nervous tread,
I whistle and laugh and sing and shout, :
And stir up the fire to roast him out ;
And wizard black-letter tomes which treat
Which a Christian man is presumed to meet,
I've crossed the Psalter with Brady and Tate,
And laid the Primer above them all,
And hung a wig to my parlour wall,
Abire ad tuum locum !”-Still
The exorcism has lost its skill ;
With her sevenfold plagues,--to the wandering Jew,-
The furies his midnight curtains drew;
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. [Born in 1809. A Physician, and Professor of Anatomy in Harvard University. Well known as author of The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table and other prose writings, as well as poems-humorous, critical, or occasional, for the most part].
THE TREADMILL SONG.
The earth rolls on below,
Revolving as we go.
And make the axle fly;
Like planets in the sky?
And stir your solid pegs! -
And shake your spider legs;
There's time enough to learn,-
And take another turn.
To keep the vulgar out ;
But just to walk about ;