JAMES BAYARD TAYLOR.

Taylor was born in Kennett Square, Chester Co., Pa., January 11, 1825. In 1842, at the age of 17, he became an apprentice in a printing office, in Westchester, Pa., and about that time he began to contribute verses to the newspapers. A collection of his early poems, entitled Ximena, and other Poems, was published in 1844. In the same year he went to Europe, where he made an extensive tour, mostly as a pedestrian. He returned home in 1846, and published an account of his travels under the title of Views Afoot, or Europe seen with Knapsack and Staff. After editing a newspaper at Phonixville, Pa., for a short time, he removed to New York, where he wrote for the Literary World and the New York Tribune. He in time became one of the editors and proprietors of the Tribune, and contributed to its columns accounts of his many travels, in the course of which he visited almost every part of the world. He has published more than a dozen volumes of travels, and several novels. Of his novels, Hannah Thurston, The Fortunes of John Godfrey and The Story of Kennett are the most prominent. His poems have appeared as follows: Rhymes of Travels, Ballads, and other Poems, 1848; Book of Romances, Lyrics, and Songs, 1851; Poems of the Orient, 1854; Poems of

Home and Travel, 1855; The Poet's Journal, 1862; The Picture of St. John, 1866; The Mask of the Gods, 1872; Lars, a Pastoral of Norway, 1873; The Prophet, a Tragedy, 1874; Home Pastorals and other Poems, 1875. In 1870-71 he published a translation of the first and second parts of Goethe's Faust, which is said to be the best translation of it in existence.

As a writer his positive merits deserve recognition. His descriptions are clear, and scenes vividly portrayed, and his books of travels are interesting as mere narratives, and of permanent value for the records they contain. His translation of Faust testifies to his skill and mastery of expression.

Mr. Taylor was one of the most popular of our lyceum lecturers, and has appeared on the platform in every town of any size in the United States.

66

A Song of the Camp.

IVE us a song!" the soldiers cried,
The outer trenches guarding,

When the heated guns of the camp allied
Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,
Lay grim and threatening under;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said:

"We storm the forts to-morrow;

Sing while we may, another day

Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon,-

Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame,
Forgot was Britain's glory;

Each heart recalled a different name,

But all sang "Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song,

Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem rich and strong,

Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl! her name he dared not speak; But as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned

How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters,

With scream of shot and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim

For a singer dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of "Annie Laurie."

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing;
The bravest are the tenderest,-

The loving are the daring.