TO H THE firstlings of my simple song In worship rears its flame. No happier hours recall Yet may thy wandering thoughts restore To one who ever loved thee more Than fickle Fortune's all. And now, farewell!-and although here Men hate the source of pain, I hold thee and thy follies dear, Nor of thy faults complain. I will accuse thee not:- I reck of mine the less, because A doubtful question of its cause An ancient notion, that time flings Our pains and pleasures from his wings With much equality And that, in reason, happiness UNWISE, or most unfortunate, Thou art not, wert not mine! And envy may repine, How I have lived imports not now; Else I might chide thee that my life Yes, life; for times beyond the line Of vanity the crown, None shall attend a sadder strain, SERENADE. Look out upon the stars, my love, And shame them with thine eyes, On which, than on the lights above, There hang more destinies. Night's beauty is the harmony Of blending shades and light; Sleep not!-thine image wakes for aye Sleep not!-from her soft sleep should fly, Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break, With looks, whose brightness well might make THE WIDOW'S SONG. I BURN no incense, hang no wreath Such cannot cheer the place of death, But only mock its gloom. Here odorous smoke and breathing flower No grateful influence shed; They lose their perfume and their power, And if, as is the Afghaun's creed, A disembodied sense, to feed On fragrance, near its urn- SONG. I NEED not name thy thrilling name, I pledge thee in the grape's pure soul, With many bitter tears,--MARY- RALPH WALDO EMERSON [Born, 1803.] MR. EMERSON was born in Boston, and in 1820 received his bachelor's degree at Cambridge. He afterward studied theology, and was settled over the Second Unitarian Church in his native city; but left his charge on account of having adopted the Quaker opinion in regard to the sacrament of the Lord's supper. Since that time he has published a work entitled "Nature," and delivered various addresses, and written many essays, on subjects of literature, philosophy, and morals, a part of which were collected and printed in a volume, in Boston, and reprinted in London in 1841. The English edition was edited by Mr. CARLYLE, the author of "The French Revolution," etc. Mr. EMERSON has a poetical mind, and has written much true poetry besides his verses. His metrical productions are not very numerous. In 1839 he published a few pieces in "The Western Messenger," a periodical devoted to religion and letters, at Cincinnati, and in the last two years several others in "The Dial:" a quarterly magazine, of which he is editor, at Boston. EACH IN ALL. LITTLE thinks in the field yon red-cloak'd clown The sexton tolling his bell at noon Dreams not that great NAPOLEON Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Thy life to thy neighbour's creed hath lent, I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, I fetch'd my sea-born treasures home, But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore, With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar. The lover watch'd his graceful maid As mid the virgin train she stray'd, Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by that snow-white quire. At last, she came to his hermitage, Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage,The gay enchantment was undone, A gentle wife, but fairy none. Then, I said, "I covet truth; Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; I leave it behind with the games of youth;" The ground-pine curl'd its pretty wreath, I inhaled the violet's breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs: Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground. Over me soar'd the eternal sky Full of light and of deity; Again I saw-again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird: Beauty through my senses stole,-I yielded myself to the perfect whole. "GOOD-BYE, PROUD WORLD!" GOOD-BYE, proud world! I'm going home; Thou art not my friend; I am not thine: Too long through weary crowds I roam :-A river ark on the ocean brine, Too long I am toss'd like the driven foam: Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face; I go to seek my own hearth-stone A spot that is sacred to thought and GOD. O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. FINE humble-bee! fine humble-bee! Flower-bells, Honey'd cells, Which he frequents. Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion! Sailor of the atmosphere, Swimmer through the waves of air, Voyager of light and noon, Epicurean of June, Wait, I prithee, till I come When the south wind, in May days, Wiser far than human seer, Sipping only what is sweet Leave the chaff and take the wheat. When the fierce north-western blast Cools sea and land so far and fast,-Thou already slumberest deep, Wo and want thou canst outsleep; Want and wo which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous. THE RHODORA. LINES ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER? IN May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, Made the black waters with their beauty gay; Young RAPHAEL might covet such a school; The lively show beguiled me from my way. This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, Why, thou wert there, O, rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew, ANNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky Come see the north-wind's masonry. SUMNER LINCOLN FAIRFIELD. [Born, 1803.] THE author of "The Last Night of Pompeii" was born in Warwick, near the western border of Massachusetts, in the autumn of 1803. His father, a respectable physician, died in 1806, and his mother, on becoming a widow, returned, with her two children, to her paternal home in Worcester. In one of his "Songs to Clara," Mr. FAIRFIED narrates some of the sorrows which befell him in his early career: "My father died ere I could tell The love my young heart felt for him! Her cheek grew cold, her blue eye dim, When she was dearest unto me; And, one by one, the friends of youth Were few as flowers by mountain streams." He entered Harvard College when he was thirteen years old; but, after spending two years in that seminary, was compelled to leave it, to aid his mother in teaching a school in a neighbouring village. He subsequently spent two or three years in Georgia and South Carolina, and in 1824 went to Europe. He returned in 1826, was soon afterward married, and from that period, I believe, has resided in Philadelphia, where he conducted for several years "The North American Magazine," a monthly miscellany, in which appeared most of his poems and prose writings. Mr. FAIRFIELD commenced the business of authorship at a very early age, and has probably produced more in "the form of poetry" than any other American. "The Cities of the Plain," one of his earliest works, was first published while he was in England. It is founded on the history of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, in the eighteenth and nineteenth chapters of Genesis. The following apostrophe to Hope illustrates its style:— "O, Hope! creator of a fairy heaven, The "Heir of the World," written in 1828, is a poetical version of the history of ABRAHAM. It is in the Spenserian measure, and contains some fine passages, descriptive of scenery and feeling. The greatness of the patriarch's obedience and faith is shown in the following stanzas, from the introductory part of the poem:— "In the communion of young wedded love, Much evil have we seen, my GENEVIEVE! The fiend-like few, who slander while we strive, His next elaborate work, "The Spirit of Destruction," appeared in 1830. It is founded on the history of the deluge, and in style resembles "The Cities of the Plain." His longest poem, "The Last Night of Pompeii,"* was published in 1832. It was the result of two years' labour, and was written amid the cares and vexations usually attendant on poverty. The destruction of the cities of Herculaneum, Pompeii, Retina and Stabiæ, by an eruption of Vesuvius, in the summer of the year seventy-nine, is one of the finest subjects for poetry in modern history. Mr. FAIRFIELD's work exhibits a familiar acquaintance with the mind, manners, and events of the period, and its style is stately and melodious. His shorter pieces, though in some cases turgid and unpolished, are generally distinguished for vigour of thought and language. An edition of his principal writings was published in a closely-printed octavo volume at Philadelphia, in 1841. Mr. FAIRFIELD has been an unpopular man, and much injustice has been done to his works for this reason. Not wishing to enter into a particular examination of his claims to our personal regard, I must still express an opinion that he has been hardly dealt with; and that, even if the specific charges preferred against him are true, it is wrong to permit the reputation of the man to influence our judgment of his productions. He has written much,-often well,-and has generally devoted his literary abilities to noble purposes. If a spirit of selfishness and misanthropy pervades his later writings, the fault is not exclusively his own. *Mr. FAIRFIELD has accused Sir EDWARD L. BULWER of founding on this poem his "Last Days of Pompeii." DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII.* [here! A ROAR, as if a myriad thunders burst, Now hurtled o'er the heavens, and the deep earth Shudder'd, and a thick storm of lava hail Rush'd into air, to fall upon the world. And low the lion cower'd, with fearful moans And upturn'd eyes, and quivering limbs, and clutch'd The gory sand instinctively in fear. The very soul of silence died, and breath Through the ten thousand pallid lips, unfelt, Stole from the stricken bosoms; and there stood, With face uplifted, and eyes fix'd on air, (Which unto him was throng'd with angel forms,) The Christian-waiting the high will of Heaven. A wandering sound of wailing agony, A cry of coming horror, o'er the street Of tombs arose, and all the lurid air Echo'd the shrieks of hopelessness and death. "Hear ye not now?" said PANSA. Death is Ye saw the avalanche of fire descend Vesuvian steeps, and, in its giant strength Sweep on to Herculaneum; and ye cried, It threats not us: why should we lose the sport? Though thousands perish, why should we refrain?' Your sister city-the most beautiful— Gasps in the burning ocean-from her domes Fly the survivors of her people, driven Before the torrent-floods of molten earth, With desolation red-and o'er her grave Unearthly voices raise the heart's last criesFly, fly! O, horror! O, my son! my sire!' The hoarse shouts multiply; without the mount Are agony and death-within, such rage Of fossil fire as man may not behold! Hark! the destroyer slumbers not—and now, Be your theologies but true, your Jove, Mid all his thunders, would shrink back aghast, Listening the horrors of the Titan's strife. The lion trembles; will ye have my blood, Or flee, ere Herculaneum's fate is yours?" Vesuvius answer'd: from its pinnacles Clouds of far-flashing cinders, lava showers, And seas, drank up by the abyss of fire, To be hurl'd forth in boiling cataracts, Like midnight mountains, wrapp'd in lightnings, fell. O, then, the love of life! the struggling rush, The crushing conflict of escape! few, brief, And dire the words delirious fear spake now,— One thought, one action sway'd the tossing crowd. All through the vomitories madly sprung, And mass on mass of trembling beings press'd, Gasping and goading, with the savageness That is the child of danger, like the waves Charybdis from his jagged rocks throws down, Mingled in madness-warring in their wrath. Some swoon'd, and were trod down by legion feet; Some cried for mercy to the unanswering gods; Some shriek'd for parted friends, forever lost; And some, in passion's chaos, with the yells Of desperation, did blaspheme the heavens; *From "The Last Night of Pompeii." This scene follows the destruction of Herculaneum. PANSA, a Christian, condemned by DIOMEDE, is brought into the gladiatorial arena, when a new eruption from Vesuvius causes a suspension of the proceedings. And some were still in utterness of wo. Nature's quick instinct, in most savage beasts, From every cell shrieks burst; hyenas cried, Like lost child, wandering o'er the wilderness, That, in deep loneliness, mingles its voice With wailing winds and stunning waterfalls; The giant elephant, with matchless strength, Struggled against the portal of his tomb, And groan'd and panted; and the leopard's yell, And tiger's growl, with all surrounding cries Of human horror mingled; and in air, Spotting the lurid heavens and waiting prey, The evil birds of carnage hung and watch'd, As ravening heirs watch o'er the miser's couch. All awful sounds of heaven and earth met now; Darkness behind the sun-god's chariot roll'd, Shrouding destruction, save when volcan fires Lifted the folds, to glare on agony; And, when a moment's terrible repose Fell on the deep convulsions, all could hear The toppling cliffs explode and crash below,— While multitudinous waters from the sea In whirlpools through the channel'd mountain rocks Rush'd, and, with hisses like the damned's speech, Fell in the mighty furnace of the mount. |