And whither this troubled life of thine Evermore doth tend? What daunts thee now ?-what shakes thee so? My sad soul, say. "I see a cloud like a curtain low Hang o'er my way. "Whither I go I cannot tell : That cloud hangs black, "I see its shadow coldly enwrap Sadly they enter it, step by step, To return no more! "They shrink, they shudder, dear God! they kneel To thee in prayer. They shut their eyes on the cloud, but feel That it still is there. "In vain they turn from the dread Before For while gazing behind them evermore, "Yet, at times, I see upon sweet, pale faces A light begin To tremble, as if from holy places And shrines within. "And at times methinks their cold lips move With hymn and prayer, As if somewhat of awe, but more of love "I call on the souls who have left the light, To reveal their lot; I bend mine ear to that wall of night, "But I hear around me sighs of pain And the cry of fear, And a sound like the slow, sad dropping of rain, Each drop a tear! "Ah, the cloud is dark, and, day by day, I am moving thither: I must pass beneath it on my way— Ah, soul of mine, so brave and wise Fronting so calmly all human eyes Now standing apart with God and me, Gazing vainly after the things to be Through Death's dread wall. But never for this, never for this Was thy being lent; For the craven's fear is but selfishness, Like his merriment. Folly and Fear are sisters twain: The other peopling the dark inane With spectral lies. Know well, my soul, God's hand controls Whate'er thou fearest: Round him in calmest music rolls Whate'er thou hearest. What to thee is shadow, to him is day, And not on a blind and aimless way Man sees no future-a phantom show Is alone before him; Past Time is dead, and the grasses grow, And flowers bloom o'er him. Nothing before, nothing behind : The steps of Faith Fall on the seeming void, and find The rock beneath. The Present, the Present is all thou hast For thy sure possessing; Like the patriarch's angel, hold it fast Till it gives its blessing. Why fear the night? why shrink from Death, That phantom wan? There is nothing in heaven, or earth beneath, Peopling the shadows, we turn from Him All is spectral, and vague, and dim, Like warp and woof, all destinies Linked in sympathy like the keys Of an organ vast. Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar; Break but one Of a thousand keys, and the paining jar Through all will run. Oh, restless spirit! wherefore strain Beyond thy sphere? Heaven and hell, with their joy and pain, Are now and here. Back to thyself is measured well All thou hast given; Thy neighbor's wrong is thy present hell, And in life, in death, in dark and light, Sound the black abyss, pierce the deep of night, All which is real now remaineth, The hand which upholds it now, sustaineth Leaning on Him, make with reverent meekness And with strength from him shall thy utter weakness And that cloud itself, which now before thee Shall with beams of light from the inner glory And like meadow-mist through Autumn's dawn Uprolling thin, Its thickest folds when about thee drawn Let sunlight in. Then of what is to be, and of what is done, The past and the time to be are one, TO A FRIEND, ON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER. THINE is a grief, the depth of which another Yet, o'er the waters, oh, my stricken brother! I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding With even the weakness of my soul upholding I never knew, like thee, the dear departed, When, in calin trust, the pure and tranquil-hearted And on thine ears my words of weak condoling The funeral-bell which in thy heart is tolling, I will not mock thee with the poor world's common Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman With silence only as their benediction, Where, in the shadow of a great affliction, Yet, would I say what thine own heart approveth Calling to him the dear one whom he loveth, Not upon thee or thine the solemn angel Her funeral-anthem is a glad evangel- God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly They live on earth, in thought and deed, as truly And she is with thee: in thy path of trial Still with the baptism of thy self-denial Up, then, my brother! Lo, the fields of harvest She lives and loves thee, and the God thou servest To both is true. Thrust in thy sickle! England's toil-worn peasants Thy call abide; And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy presence, Shall glean beside! GEORGE W. PATTEN. [Born, 1808.] should learn by experience the futility of such ar attempt; and he was as much surprised as pained when, after a few weeks, the credentials of a cadet were exhibited to him. JOHN C. CALHOUN, ASHER ROBBINS, WILLIAM HUNTER, and other powerfui friends, had willingly and successfully exerted their influence with the President in behalf of a member of the family of Dr. PATTEN. The excellent clergyman could not help saying now, I give you my consent, my son, because I promised it: my approbation I cannot give." Young PATTEN, nevertheless, proceeded to West Point, and soon acquired there the same brilliant reputation for talents which he had enjoyed at the university. He received his commission as lieutenant in the second regiment of infantry in 1830, was made a captain in 1846, and in 1848 was brevetted major, for his gallantry in the action of Cerro Gordo, where he lost his left hand. His reputation as an officer has always been very high; he is one of the best disciplinarians and bravest soldiers in the army. MAJOR PATTEN was born in Newport, Rhode | swered in the affirmative, willing that his sor Island, on the twenty-sixth of December, 1808. He was the third son of WILLIAM PATTEN, D.D., who was minister of the second Congregational church in that city for half a century. When only twelve years of age he entered Brown University, where he was distinguished rather for abilities than for application, being naturally averse to systematic study, and addicted to poetry and music. He was, however, preeminent in chemistry, as subsequently at West Point in mathematics. At fourteen he wrote a class poem, entitled "Logan," and when he was graduated, in 1825, recited a lyrical story called "The Maid of Scio." Both these pieces were warmly praised, as illustrations of an unfolding genius of a very high order. After leaving the university he remained a year in his father's house, at Newport, before deciding on the choice of a profession. Dr. PATTEN hoped this son at least would follow in the long line of his ancestors, who, since the landing of the Mayflower, had furnished an almost uninterrupted succession of pastors; but the young man felt no predilection for the pulpit, and rejected the profession of the law because his two elder brothers had already chosen it, and for want of nerve, that of medicine, to become a soldier. When he disclosed his wishes on this subject, Dr. PATTEN expressed regret that the son of a minister should think of a career so incompatible with the principles of the gospel, and declined aiding him to a cadet's appointment. To his inquiry, however, whether he would consent to his entering the Military Academy if he could himself obtain one, he an TO S. T. P. SHADOWS and clouds are o'er me; Which bear me from thy side; To charm the wandering wave. Along the fading main! Major PATTEN writes in verse with a rarely equalled fluency, and has probably been one of the most prolific of American poets. Led by the exigencies of the service into almost every part of our vast empire, his singularly impressible faculties have been kindled by the various charms of its scenery, by never-ending diversities of character, and by the always fresh and frequently romantic experiences of his profession. His writings display a fine vein of sentiment, and considerable fancy, but have the faults of evident haste and carelessness. I gaze upon thy face; Thy voice comes o'er me gladly, O'er ocean speed away! The burden of my lay: With passion's murmur'd word, Him of the lute and sword. And her, of dreams unclouded, The smile I may not see, FREDERICK W. THOMAS. 64 [Born 1808. Died 1881.] THE family of the author of Clinton Bradshaw," by the father's side, were among the early settlers of New England. ISAIAH THOMAS, founder of the American Antiquarian Society, of Worcester, Massachusetts, and author of the History of Printing," was his father's uncle. During the revolutionary war Mr. ISAIAH THOMAS conducted the Massachusetts Spy," and was a warm and sagacious whig. With him Mr. E. S. THOMAS, the father of FREDERICK WILLIAM, learned the printing business, and he afterward emigrated to Charleston, South Carolina, where he established himself as a bookseller. Here he met and married Miss ANN FORNERDEN, of Baltimore, who was then on a visit to the South. Shortly after this marriage Mr. THOMAS removed to Providence, where our author was born, en the twenty-fifth of October, 1808. He considers himself a Southerner, however, as he left Rhode Island for Charleston when a child in the nurse's arms, and never returned. When about four years of age he slipped from a furniture box on which he was playing, and injured his left leg. Little notice was taken of the accident at the time, and in a few weeks the limb became very painful, his health gradually declined, and it was thought advisable to send him to a more bracing climate. He was accordingly placed in charge of an aunt in Baltimore, where he grew robust, and had recovered from his lameness, with the exception of an occasional weakness in the limb, when a second fall, in his eighth or ninth year, had such an effect upon it that he was confined to the house for many months, and was compelled to resort to crutches, which he used until he grew up to manhood, when they were superseded by a more con venient support. In consequence of these acci dents, and his general debility, he went to school but seldom, and never long at a time; but his ardent mind busied itself in study at home, and he was noted for his contemplative habits. At seventeen he commenced reading in the law, and about the same period began his literary career by inditing a poetical satire on some fops about town, the result of which was that the office of the paper in which it was printed was mobbed and demolished. Soon after he was admitted to the bar, the family removed to Cincinnati, where, in the winter of 1834-5, Mr. THOMAS wrote his first novel, "Clinton Bradshaw," which was published in Philadelphia in the following autumn. It was followed in 1836 by East and West," and in 1840 by "Howard Pinckney." His last work was "Sketches of John Randolph, and other Public Characters," which appeared in Philadelphia in 1853. Mr. THOMAS has published two volumes of poems: "The Emigrant," descriptive of a wanderer's feelings while descending the Ohio, ir Cincinnati, in 1833, and The Beechen Tree and other Poems," in New York, in 1844. He has also written largely in verse as well as in prose for the periodicals. He has a nice discrimination of the peculiarities of character which give light and shade to the surface of society, and a hearty relish for that peculiar humor which abounds in that portion of our country which undoubtedly embraces most that is original and striking in manners and unrestrained in conduct. He must rank with the first illustrators of manners in the valley of the Mississippi, and deserves praise for many excellencies in general authorship. SONG. "Tis said that absence conquers love! But, O! believe it not; I've tried, alas! its power to prove, As when I clasp'd thee here. I plunge into the busy crowd, And smile to hear thy name; And yet, as if I thought aloud, They know me still the same. But when I ask my heart the sound, And when some other name I learu, In vain! I never can forget, And would not be forgot; E'en as the wounded bird will seek 'Tis said that absence conquers love! But, O! believe it not; I've tried, alas! its power to prove, But thou art not forgot. CINCINNATI, 1838. |