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ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH.

[Born 1822.]

ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH was born in East | Windsor, Connecticut, in November, 1822. His father was at that time a merchant, doing business in New York, in which city our author passed his boyhood until 1833, when the family retired to a farm, in his native town, where they have ever since resided, He was graduated at Amherst College, in 1844, and soon after commenced the study of the law, but a predilection for natural philosophy induced the devotion of much of his time to experimental studies, chiefly relating to machinery and mechanical inventions, and in 1845 he took out two patents, one for a drawing or copying instrument, and the other for a device for making a syphon discharge a portion of its contents at the highest point, or curve, thus making it available | or elevating water or other fluids. Both these inventions are now in practical though not extensive use; and their reception led him to abandon his legal studies, and to enter an extensive foundry and machine shop, where he remainel, among tools and machinery, until he acquired a competent knowledge of the art and mystery of making steam-engines. If his profession is now demanded, he calls himself a machinist, but he has never since the completion of his novitiate given the trade much attention

His first published poem, entitled "The Yan kee," appeared in 1849, and he has since been an occasional contributor to the literary journals. His best and longest poem, the finest structure in Eng lish verse from the suggestive materials furnished by the classical legend, is "Ariadne," originally printed in the "International Magazine" for 1852. It reminds us, in some passages, of "Comus,” but its peculiar merits as a specimen of poetical art are decided and conspicuous. In the spring of 1855 he published his first volume, containing not a complete collection, nor perhaps the best selection that might have been offered of his fugitive pieces, but such as exhibited in the most striking manner the variety of his tastes and talents. The leading poem is entitled “The Chimes,” the main idea of which is, that poets derive a portion of their inspiration from each others' songs, and for its illustration he pays Mr. LONGFELLOW a delicate compliment by imitating the melody of one of his beautiful productions. His success led to a ridi culous but offensively-stated charge of plagiarism. in one of the monthly magazines.

Of Mr. ELLSWORTH's shorter poems one of the most thoughtful and impressive is, "What is the Use?" It might be abridged without injury, but it is a performance to be pondered and remembered.

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who can guess?'

For some things said and done before their eyes, And so they grope, and grope, and grope, and cruise Quite overcast, and in a restless muse,

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On, on, till life is lost,

At blindman's with a ghost.

What is the use?

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"The strife for fame and the high praise of power, Seeing this man so heathenly inclined— Is as a man, who, panting up a tower, So wilted in the mood of a good mind,

Bears a great stone, then, straining all his thews, I felt a kind of heat of earnest thought; Heaves it, and sees it make

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And studying in reply,
Answered him, eye to eye:

Thou dost amaze me that thou dost mistake
The wandering rivers for the fountain lake.
What is the end of living?-happiness?

An end that none attain,
Argues a purpose vain.

Plainly, this world is not a scope for bliss,
But duty. Yet we see not all that is,
Or may be, some day, if we love the light.
What man is, in desires,

Whispers where man aspires.

But what and where are we? what now-to-day!
Souls on a globe that spins our lives away-
A multitudinous world, where Heaven and Hell
Strangely in battle met,

Their gonfalons have set.

Dust though we are, and shall return to dust,
Yet being born to battles, fight we must;
Under which ensign is our only choice.
We know to wage our best,
God only knows the rest.

Then since we see about us sin and dole,
And some things good, why not, with hand and soul
Wrestle and succor out of wrong and sorrow-

Grasping the swords of strife,
Making the most of life?

Yea, all that we can wield is worth the end,
If sought as God's and man's most loval friend
Naked we come into the world, and take
Weapons of various skill-

Let us not use them ill.

As for the creeds, Nature is dark at best;
And darker still is the deep human breast.
Therefore consider well of creeds and books,
Lest thou mayst somewhat fail
Of things beyond the vail.

Nature was dark to the dim starry age
Of wistful Job; and that Athenian sage,
Pensive in piteous thought of Faith's distress
For still she cried, with tears:
"More light, ye crystal spheres!"

But rouse thee, man! Shake off this hideous death
Be man! Stand up! Draw in a mighty breath
This world has quite enough emasculate hands
Dallying with doubt and sin.
Come-here is work-begin!
Come, here is work-and a rank field-begin.
Put thou thine edge to the great weeds of sin;
So shalt thou find the use of life, and see
Thy Lord, at set of sun,

Approach and say: "Well done!"
This at the last: They clutch the sapless fruit
Ashes and dust of the Dead Sea, who suit
Their course of life to compass happiness;
But be it understood

That, to be greatly good,
All is the use.

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

[Born, 1822.-Died, 1872.]

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already touched on this ground very successfully
in his "Stranger on the Sill," "The Deserted
Road," and other illustrations of country life, the
graphic and healthful sentiment of which was ge-
nerally recognised. In the "New Pastoral" he
has still further and more happily displayed
his capacities for this kind of writing. Its princi-
pal theatre is a neighborhood in one of the most
beautiful regions of Pennsylvania, beside the Sus-
quehanna. "I have seen," he says:

"In lands less free, less fair, but far more known,
The streams which flow through history.... and yet
Nor Rhine, like BACCHUS crowned, and reeling through
His hills, nor Danube, marred with tyranny,
His dull waves moaning on Hungarian shores;
Nor rapid Po, his opaque waters pouring
Athwart the fairest, fruitfullest, and worst
Enslaved of European lands; nor Seine,
Winding uncertain through inconstant France,
Are half so fair as thy broad stream, whose breast
Is gemmed with many isles, and whose proud name
Shall yet become among the names of rivers,
A synonym for beauty."

MR. READ was born in Chester county, Pennylvania, on the twelfth of March, 1822. His family having separated, in consequence of the death of his father, he in 1839 went to Cincinnati, where he was employed in the studio of CLEVENGER the sculptor, and here his attention was first directed to painting, which he chose for his profession, and soon practised with such skill as to arrest the favourable notice of some of the most eminent persons of the city and adjoining country, several of whom, including the late President HARRISON, sat to him for portraits, which he carried as specimens of his abilities to New York, when he settled in that city in 1841, while still under twenty years of age. After a few months he removed to Boston, where he remained until 1846, and then went to Philadelphia, where he practised his profession, occasionally writing for the periodicals, until 1850, in which year he made his first visit to Europe. After spending a few months in Great Britain and on the continent, he returned, in 1852, passed the following winter in Cincinnati, and in the summer of 1853 went abroad a second time, accompanied by his family, and settled in Florence, where he has since resided, in friendly intercourse with an agreeable society of artists and men of letters. Here, in July, 1855, his wife and Mr. READ's distinguishing characteristic is a de daughter died suddenly of a prevailing epidemic.licate and varied play of fancy. His more ambi Mr. READ's earliest literary performances were a series of lyrics published in the Boston Courier" in 1843 and 1844. In 1847 he printed in Boston the first collection of his "Poems;" in 1848, in Philadelphia, “ Lays and Ballads;" in 1849, in the same city, "The Pilgrims of the Great Saint Ber-parison, his muse most delights in common and nard," a prose romance, in the successive numbers of a magazine; in 1853 an illustrated edition of his "Poems," comprising, with some new pieces, all he wished to preserve of his other volumes; and in 1855 the longest of his works, "The New Pastoral," in thirty-seven books.

Familiar experiences enable him to invest his descriptions with a peculiar freshness. His recollections are of the country, and of the habits of the primitive Pennsylvania farmers, in many respects the most picturesque and truly pastoral to be found in these active and practical times. A school of American pastoral poetry is yet to be established. The fresh and luxuriant beauty of our inland scenery has been sung in noble verse by BRYANT and WHITTIER, and with less power in the sweet and plaintive strains of CARLOS WILCOX, and the striking productions of STREET and GALLAGHER; bat the life of an American farmer has not yet received a just degree of attention from our poets. Mr. READ has made it the subject of a work in every way creditable to his talents and taste. He had

The poem consists of a series of sketches of rustic and domestic life, mostly of primitive sim plicity, and so truthful as to be not less valuable as history than attractive as poetry.

tious productions display its higher exercise, rather than that of a distinct and creative imagination; he is a lark, flickering aloft in the pure air of song, not an eagle, courting its storms and undazzled by its meridian splendour. And, to extend the com

humble subjects. The flowers that spring by the dusty wayside, the cheerful murmur of the meadow brook, the village tavern, and rustic mill, and all quiet and tender impulses and affections, are his favourite sources of inspiration. He excels in homely description, marked frequently by quaintness of epithet and quiet and natural pathos.

His verse, though sometimes irregular, is always musical. Indeed, in the easy flow of his stanzas and in the melody of their cadences, he seems to follow some chime of sound within his brain. This is the pervading expression of his poems, many of which might more properly be called songs. Though he has written in the dramatic form with freedom and unaffected feeling, and extremely well in didactic and descriptive blank verse, his province is evidently the lyrical.

Like most of our poets, in his earlier poems Mr READ wrote from the inspiration of foreign song and story, and he seems but lately to have per ceived that the most appropriate field for the exer cise of his powers is to be found at home.

THE BRICKMAKER.

I.

LET the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground,
And no weary arins be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded.
In no stately structures skill'd,
What the temple we would build?
Now the massive kiln is risen-
Call it palace-call it prison:
View it well: from end to end
Narrow corridors extend-

Long, and dark, and smother'd aisles:
Choke its earthy vaults with piles

Of the resinous yellow pine;
Now thrust in the fetter'd Fire-
Hearken! how he stamps with ire,
Treading out the pitchy wine;
Wrought anon to wilder spells,

Hear him shout his loud alarms;
See him thrust his glowing arms
Through the windows of his cells.
But his chains at last shall sever;
Slavery lives not forever;
And the thickest prison wall
Into ruin yet must fall.
Whatsoever falls away
Springeth up again, they say;

Then, when this shall break asunder,
And the fire be freed from under,
Tell us what imperial thing
From the ruin shall upspring?

l'here shall grow a stately building—
Airy dome and column'd walls;
Mottoes writ in richest gilding

Blazing through its pillar'd hal's.

In those chambers, stern and dreaded,
They, the nighty ones, shall stand;
There shall sit the hoary-headed

Old defenders of the land.

There shall mighty words be spoken,
Which shall thrill a wondering world;
Then shall ancient bonds be broken,
And new banners be unfurl'd.

But anon those glorious uses

In these chambers shall lie dead,
And the world's antique abuses,
Hydra-headed, rise instead.

But this wrong not long shall linger-
The old capitol must fall;
For, behold! the fiery finger
Flames along the fated wall.

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But when break the walls asunder,
And the fire is freed from under,
Say again what stately thing
From the ruin shall upspring?

There shall grow a church whose steeple
To the heavens shall aspire;
And shall come the mighty people

To the music of the choir.

On the infant, robed in whiteness,
Shall baptismal waters fall,
While the child's angelic brightness
Sheds a halo over all.

There shall stand enwreathed in marriage
Forms that tremble-hearts that thrill--
To the door Death's sable carriage

Shall bring forms and hearts grown stilli Deck'd in garments richly glistening,

Rustling wealth shall walk the aisle;
And the poor without stand listening,
Praying in their hearts the while.
There the veteran shall come weekly
With his cane, oppress'd and poor,
Mid the horses standing meekly,
Gazing through the open door.

But these wrongs not long shall linger---
The presumptuous pile must fall;

For, behold! the fiery finger
Flames along the fated wall

111.

Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground;
And no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded:
Say again what stately thing
From the ruin shall upspring?

Not the hall with column'd chambers,
Starr'd with words of liberty,
Where the freedom-canting members
Feel no impulse of the free:
Not the pile where souls in error
Hear the words, "Go, sin no more
But a dusky thing of terror,
With its cells and grated door.
To its inmates each to-morrow
Shall bring in no tide of joy.
Born in darkness and in sorrow,
There shall stand the fated boy.
With a grief too loud to smother,

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With a throbbing, burning head, There shall groan some desperate mother Nor deny the stolen bread! There the veteran, a poor debtor, Mark'd with honourable scars, Listening to some clanking fetter, Shall gaze idly through the bars:

Shall gaze idly, not demurring,

Though with thick oppression bow'd, While the many, doubly erring,

Shall walk honour'd through the crowd.

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THE STRANGER ON THE SILL.
BETWEEN broad fields of wheat and corn
Is the lowly home where I was born;
The peach-tree leans against the wall,
And the woodbine wanders over all;
There is the shaded doorway still,
But a stranger's foot has cross'd the sill.
There is the barn-and, as of yore,
I can smell the hay from the open door,
And see the busy swallow's throng,
And hear the peewee's mournful song;
But the stranger comes-oh! painful proof-
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.
There is the orchard-the very trees
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,
And watch'd the shadowy moments run
Till my life imbibed more shade than sun;
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,
But the stranger's children are swinging there.
There bubbles the shady spring below,
With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow;
"I was there I found the calamus-root,
And watch'd the minnows poise and shoot,
And heard the robin lave his wing,
But the stranger's bucket is at the spring.
Oh, ye who daily cross the sill,
Step lightly, for I love it still;

And when you crowd the old barn eaves,
Then think what countless harvest sheaves
Have pass'd within that scented door
To gladden eyes that are no more!
Deal kindly with these orchard trees;
And when your children crowd their knees,
Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,
As if old memories stirr'd their heart:
To youthful sport still leave the swing,
And in sweet reverence hold the spring.
'T'he barn, the trees, the brook, the birds,
The meadows with their lowing herds,
The woodbine on the cottage wall-
My heart still lingers with them all.
Ye strangers on my native sill,
Step lightly, for I love it still!

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THE DESERTED ROAD. ANCIENT road, that wind'st deserted Through the level of the vale, Sweeping toward the crowded market Like a stream without a sail; Standing by thee, I look backward,

And, as in the light of dreams, See the years descend and vanishı Like thy whitely-tented teams. Here I stroll along the village

As in youth's departed morn;
But I miss the crowded coaches,
And the driver's bugle-horn-
Miss the crowd of jovial teamsters

Filling buckets at the wells,
With their wains from Conestoga,
And their orchestras of bells.
To the mossy wayside tavern
Comes the noisy throng no more;
And the faded sign, complaining,
Swings unnoticed at the door;
While the old, decrepit tollman,

Waiting for the few who pass,
Reads the melancholy story

In the thickly-springing grass. Ancient highway, thou art vanquish'd The usurper of the vale Rolls in fiery, iron rattle,

Exultations on the gale.

Thou art vanquish'd and neglected;
But the good which thou hast done,
Though by man it be forgotten,

Shall be deathless as the sun.
Though neglected, gray, and grassy,
Still I pray that my decline
May be through as vernal valleys
And as blest a calm as thine.

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