Perchance he had no relative, No confidential friend, To say when summer months begin Unto his side a thorn, And who had basely thrust him forth To brave decorum's scorn. But no!-a smile was on his cheek; Then, unperceived, I followed him; To ascertain in what strange spot Where he could pass his days and nights, And where the peg could be on which He paused at White's-the white capote He passed the Athenæum Club, He stood a ballot once (alas! There sure was pique in that)Though they admit light-headed men, They blackballed the white hat! And on he went, self-satisfied, And now and then did stop, And look into the looking-glass That lines some trinket-shop, And smilingly adjusted it! 'Twas that which made me vexed"If this is borne," said I, "he'll wear His nankeen trousers next!" The wretched being I at length Compassionately stopped, And used the most persuasive words Entreaty could adopt. I said his hat was premature; I never left his side, Until he swore most solemnly The white hat should be dyed. John Finley. AMERICAN. Finley (1797-1866) was a native of Brownsburg, Rockbridge County, Va. He went to a country school, and learned "to read, write, and cipher as far as the rule of three." After serving an apprenticeship as a tanner and currier, he went West, and settled at Richmond, Wayne County, Ind., where he was mayor some dozen years. He published many short poems which had a wide circulation, and gave evidence of talents, which might have led to higher literary distinction if his early advantages of education had been greater. He belongs to the realistic school in verse, and his poems will hardly please those who deny to Pope the name of poct. His "Bachelor's Hall" has been widely circulated, and was long attributed to Moore, the Irish poet. BACHELOR'S HALL. Bachelor's Hall! what a quare-lookin' place it is! Kape me from sich all the days of my life! Sure, but I think what a burnin' disgrace it is Niver at all to be gettin' a wife. See the old bachelor, gloomy and sad enough, Then, like a hog in a mortar-bed wallowing, Awkward enough, see him knading his dough; Troth! if the bread he could ate widout swallowing, How it would favor his palate, you know! His dishcloth is missing; the pigs are devouring it ; His meal being over, the table's left setting so; Och! let him alone for a baste of a man! Pots, dishes, pans, and such grasy commodities, Late in the night, then, he goes to bed shiverin', He crapes, like a tarrapin, under the kiverin'- Herbert Knowles. Knowles (1798-1817), a native of Canterbury, England, and of the humblest parentage, was left an orphan when a mere lad. He excited attention by his abilities, however, and was helped in his education by Southey, Rogers, and others. The following lines, written when Knowles was eighteen, have been justly celebrated. He did not live long to avail himself of the generous aid of literary friends. LINES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCH-YARD OF RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE. "Lord, it is good for us to be here; if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles: one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias."-Matthew xvii. 4. Methinks it is good to be here; If thou wilt, let us build,—but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear; But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb. Shall we build to Ambition? Ah! no: Affrighted, he shrinketh away; For see, they would pin him below In a small narrow cave; and, begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. To Beauty? Ah! no: she forgets The charms that she wielded before; Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside; And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed, But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud. To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain : Who hid, in their turns have been hid; The treasures are squandered again; And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid, But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid. To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, Ah! here is a plentiful board, But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here. Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah! no: they have withered and died, Or fled with the spirit above: Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve; Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone, The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise; The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the Great Sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. John Banim. Banim (1798-1842) was a native of Kilkenny, Ireland, and received his education in its college. He wrote "Tales of the O'Hara Family" (1825-'6), in which he was assisted by his brother Michael (born 1796). As a novelist, John Banim's rank is among the best; and some of his poems are full of pathos and vigor. He was the author of the five-act play of "Damon and Pythias," brought out May, 1821, at the Covent Garden Theatre, London, and of which Leigh Hunt says he "never saw a more successful reception. The interest is strongly excited from the first, and increases to the last." Banim expresses his acknowledgments to Sheil, the gifted orator, for revising the play. The part of "Damon" was a favorite one both with Macready and Forrest. The extract we quote has been slightly abridged from the original. SOGGARTH AROON. Their slave no more to be, Soggarth aroon? 1 Priest dear. Why not her poorest man, Soggarth aroon, Try and do all he can, Soggarth aroon, Her commands to fulfil Loyal and brave to you, Soggarth aroon, Yet be no slave to you, Nor, out of fear to you, Stand up so near to you,— Och! out of fear to you, Soggarth aroon! Who, in the winter's night, When the cold blast did bite, Came to my cabin-door, Who, on the marriage-day, Made the poor cabin gay, Soggarth aroon,— And did both laugh and sing, Who, as friend only met, Soggarth aroon, Never did flout me yet, Soggarth aroon? And, when my hearth was dim, Gave, while his eye did brim, What I should give to him, Soggarth aroon? Och! you, and only you, Soggarth aroon! And for this I was true to you, In love they'll never shake, FROM "DAMON AND PYTHIAS," ACT V. Pythias. Calanthe here! My poor, fond girl! Thou art the first to meet me at the block; Thou'lt be the last to leave me at the grave! Calanthe. O my Pythias, he yet may come! Into the sinews of the horse that bears him Put swiftness, gods!--let him outrace and shame The galloping of clouds upon the storm! Blow, breezes, with him; lend every feeble aid Unto his motion!-and thou, thrice solid earth, Forget thy immutable fixedness-become Under his feet like flowing water, and Hither flow with him! Pyth. I have taken in All the horizon's vast circumference Cal. I say he is false! he is a murderer! In this great purpose, stay thy going down, He plunges down the precipice of heaven! And look your last upon the setting sun; Ah! what a cold transition it will be From this warm touch, all full of life and beauty!— Cal. Hush! Stand back there! There is a minute left: look there! look there! But mine can catch it! Yet, 'tis there! I see it! Pyth. Damon, I do forgive thee!-I but ask * A horse and horseman!-Far upon the hill, Damon (without). Where is he? (Rushes in.) Ha! he's alive, untouched! Pyth. Damon, dear friend Dam. I can but laugh-I cannot speak to thee! To have hit the very forehead of old Time! I should not feel this agony of joy This triumph over Dionysius! Ha, ha! But thou didst doubt me; come, thou didst Own it, and I'll forgive thee. Pyth. For a moment. Dam. O that false slave! Pythias, he slew my horse, In the base thought to save me. I'd have killed him, I did behold a traveller afar, Bestriding a good steed. I rushed upon him: David Macbeth Moir. Under the signature of "Delta," Moir (1798-1851) was a frequent contributor to Blackwood's Magazine. A native of Musselburgh, Scotland, he practised there as a surgeon, much beloved by all who knew him. His poetical works, edited by Thomas Aird, were published in 1852. Moir was a successful prose writer, and his "Autobiography of Mansie Wauch" (1828) is quite an amusing production. He published volumes of verse in 1818, 1824, and 1843. His "Sketches of the Poetical Literature of the last Half Century" appeared in 1851. LANGSYNE. Langsyne!-how doth the word come back From which hope's dreams were loath to part! No joy like by-past joy appears; For what is gone we fret and pine: Were life spun out a thousand years, It could not match Langsyne! Langsyne!-the days of childhood warm, How sweetly then life's sun did shine! Langsyne!--yes, in the sound I hear The rustling of the summer grove; And view those angel features near Which first awoke the heart to love. How sweet it is in pensive mood At windless midnight to recline, And fill the mental solitude With spectres from Langsyne! Langsyne!-ah, where are they who shared With us its pleasures bright and blithe? Kindly with some hath fortune fared, And some have bowed beneath the scythe Of death, while others scattered far O'er foreign lands at fate repine, Oft wandering forth, 'neath twilight's star, To muse on dear Langsyne! Langsyne!-the heart can never be Samuel Lover. Lover (1798-1868) was a native of Dublin. His first occupation was that of a miniature painter. In 1838 his best known novel, "Handy Andy," was commenced in Bentley's Miscellany. As a song-writer he won a high de gree of popularity. He also produced several pieces for the stage, among which are "The Beau Ideal," "The White Horse of the Peppers," and "Il Paddy Whack in Italy." With his short Irish sketches and his songs he made up a public entertainment, which he gave with much success in Ireland, but with less in the United States. His "Life," by Bayle Bernard, appeared in 1874 |