The Poets and Poetry of America

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

[Born, 1819.]

one of these, entitled "Dora Lee," the concindig verses display in a creditable manner his ablas for description:

"OH, cabin brown! low-roofed and fast decaying!
No kin of mine now dwell within your walls;
Around your ruins now the gray fox straying
His step arrests, and to his fellow calls.
The mountain, o'er whose top the winds are blowing
Still rears its form as loftily to the gaze:
The waterfall yet roars; the stream is flowing

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH was born in Phila- | but with freshness and apparent earnestness. delphia on the twenty-ninth of June, 1819; received the degree of Doctor of Medicine, from the University of Pennsylvania, in 1839; and afterwards studying the law, was admitted to the bar in 1842. He wrote " Walter Woolfe, or the Doom of the Drinker," a novel, in 1842; "MDCCCXLII. or the Power of the S. F.," a political romance, in 1846; and, with G. G. FOSTER, an octavo volume on the then recent European revolutions, in 1848. He has edited "The Aristidean," a monthly magazine; "The John Donkey," a comic weekly; "The Philadelphia Lancet," "The New York Aurora," and a few other journals, besides writing largely for "De Bow's Review," the "American Review," and "Sartain's Magazine." Since 1852 he has resided in south-western Virginia.

As wildly as it flowed in other days:
The eagle soars as he was wont; his screaming
Is heard o'erhead, as loudly as when I.
Shading my vision from the sun's hot beaming,

Looked up to note his dark form on the sky.
Yet I shall see him not; nor hill nor valley,
Nor waterfall, nor river rushing on:
Although they rise around continually,

Dr. ENGLISH published a collection of his "Tis that they are in constant memory drawn. "Poems," in New York, in 1855. Several of There are they figured, deeply as an etching them are written in a style of vigorous declamaWorked on soft metal by strong hand could be; tion, upon subjects to which such a style is suitAnd in the foreground of that life-like sketching She stands most life-like-long lost DORA LEZ" able. The stirring lyric of "The Gallows Goers," is the best of his productions, and there are few Dr. ENGLISH is of that large and busy class more effective examples of partisan verse. It was known as "reformers," and seldom writes without much quoted during the agitation of the deathsome other purpose than the making of verses punishment question in several of the states be- His poems commonly refer to the experiences of tween 1845 and 1850. Of a more poetical char-humble life, which they reflect with distinctaess acter are various love songs, written carelessly, and fidelity.

BEN BOLT.

Do N'T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?
Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown,

Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile,
And trembled with fear at your frown?
In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt,
In a corner obscure and alone,
They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray,
And Alice lies under the stone.

Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt,

Which stood at the foot of the hill,
Together we 've lain in the noonday shade,
And listened to Appleton's mill:

The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt,
The rafters have tumbled in,

And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you

In the preface to bis poems, Dr. ENGLISH notices quite unnecessarily an unfounded charge of plagiarism in connection with this popular song. No such charge ever de

Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt,
At the edge of the pathless wood,
And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs,
Which nigh by the door-step stood?
The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt,

The tree you would seek in vain;
And where once the lords of the forest wared,
Grows grass and the golden grain.

And do n't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
With the master so cruel and grim,
And the shaded nook in the running brook,
Where the children went to swim?
Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt,

The spring of the brook is dry,
And of all the boys who were schoolmates then,
There are only you and I.

There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt,

They have changed from the old to the new:
But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth,

There never was change in you.
Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt,
Since first we were friends-yet I hail

serves or receives attention unless accompanied by specifi-Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a truth,

cations and citations, such as were quite impossible in this

case.

Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale.

THANATOKALLOS.

I THINK We faint and weep more than is manly;
I think we more mistrust than Christians should.
Because the earth we cling to interposes
And hides the lower orbit of the sun,
We have no faith to know the circle perfect,
And that a day will follow on the night:
Nay, more, that when the sun we see, is setting,
He is but rising on another people,

And not his face but ours veil'd in darkness.
We are less wise than were the ancient heathen
Who temper'd feasting with a grisly moral.
With higher hope, we shrink from thoughts of
dying,

And dare not read, while yet of death unbidden,
As gipsies in the palm, those seams, and circles,
And time-worn lineaments, which kings in purple
Have trembled to behold, but holy men,
Interpreting aright, like martyr'd STEPHEN,
In singleness of heart have sunk to sleep;
Gop's children weary with an evening ramble.
Unthinking custom from our very cradle
Makes us most cowards where we should be bold.
The house is closed and hush'd; a gloom funereal
Pervades the rooms once cheerful with the light;
Sobs and outcries from those we love infect us
With strange disquiet, making play unsought
Before they take us on the knee and tell us
We must no more be joyful, for a dread
And terrible calamity has smitten one.

And then, poor innocents, with frighted hearts
Within the awful chamber are we led
To look on death; the hard, impassive face,
The formal shroud, which the stiff feet erect
Into the semblance of a second forehead,
Swathed and conceal'd; the tumbler whence he

drank

Who ne'er shall drink again; the various adjuncts
Of a sick room; the useless vials

Half emptied only, on the hearth the lamp,
Even the fly that buzzes round and settles
Upon the dead man's mouth, and walking thence
Into his nostril, starts him not from slumber.
All portions of the dreary, changeless scene

In the last drama, with unwholesome stillness
Succeeding to the weepings and complaints
Of Heaven's own justice, and loud cries for succour
That fill the dying ear not wholly dead,
Distract the fluttering spirit, and invest
A death-bed with a horror not its own.
I thought of these things sadly, and I wonder'd
If in this thanatopsis, soul as clay

Took part and sorrow'd. While I this debated,
I knew my soul was loosing from my hold,
And that the pines around, assuming shape
Of mournful draperies, shut out the day.
Then I lost sight and memory for a moment,
Then stood erect beside my usual couch,
And saw my longwhile tenement, a pallid
And helpless symbol of my former self.
The hands laid heavily across the breast,
The eyelids down, the mouth with final courage
That aim'd a smile for sake of her who watch'd,
But lapsed into a pang and so congeal'd,
Half sweet, half suffering: Aria to Caecinna.

Poor sinful clod, erewhile the spirit's master
Not less than servant, with desire keen
Alloying love, and oft with wants and achings
Leading the mind astray from noblest deeds
To sell its birthright for an ESAU's portion.
I all forgave, for I was all forgiven.
Phosphor had brought a day too broad for twilight
Or mist upon its confines. All the old
Sad mysteries that raise gigantic shadows
Betwixt our mortal faces and GoD's throne,
Had fainted in its splendour; pride and sin,
Sorrow and pain, and every mortal ill,
In the deserted tenement remain'd,
A palace outwardly, a vault within.
And so, because she thought it still a palace
And not a prison with the prisoner fled,
She stood before the gates accustom'd. Weeping,
Laid her moist cheek upon its breast, and cried,
"My lord! my life!" to what had ceased from living,
And could no more command with word or eyes.
It moved my pity sorely, for these fingers,
Now lock'd in agonizing prayer, once turn'd
Gently the pages of his life who slumber'd;
And this brave mouth, with words of faith and cheer

Strew'd flowers in the path he needs must tread;
That as a conqueror and not a captive,
Dragg'd at the heavy chariot-wheels of Time,
And through an arch triumphal, where for others
A narrow portal opens in the sod,
Silent, and sad, and void of outlet, he
The kingdom of his LORD might enter in.
Thus she made dying sweet and full of beauty
As life itself. There was no harsh transition;
He that slept twofold, woke a single nature
Beatified and glad. But she who stay'd,
Poor little Roman heart, no longer brave
Now that the eyes were shut forevermore,
Which made all virtues sweeter for their praise,
Saw not the joy and greatness of the change.
And I drew near her, as a spirit may
Not to the mortal ear, but that the words
Seem'd teachings of her bruised and lowly soul:
"Is this the poet of thy summer days,
The thoughtful husband of maturer years?
Are these the lips whose kindly words could reach
The deepness of thy nature? If they be,
Let them resume their own, nor tarry. Nay,
Thou knowest all that thou didst ever love
Is lifted out, and all that thou didst hate
Lived in the flesh, and with the flesh remains.
What matters it to thee if this decays,
And mingling with the sod, is trampled on
Of clownish feet, by gleaming share upturn'd,
Or feeds a rose, or roots a noisome weed!
How canst thou halve thy heart, half to the grave,
Half to high Heaven yield? Thank Gon instead,
That he who was so dear to thee, released
From sin and care, at length has found great peace."
While she thus mused, her silent tears were stay'd,
And kneeling down, with her sweet, patient face
Lifted toward heaven, itself sufficient prayer-
"LORD GOD!" she cried, "thou kuowest best how
weak

He holds one in his sturdy hands
Aloft, when at the threshold stands
(None noticed whence) a stranger. “Darr
The stranger said, as half with shame
He made request; "astray and poor,
By hunger guided to your door,
I"--"Hush," she answer'd, "say no more!"
The farmer set the prattler down-
(Soft heart, although his hands were brown')
With words of welcome brought and por
Cool water from the spring: the board
The wife set out. What mellow light
Made the mean hovel's walls as white
As snow! how sweet their bread that night!
Long while their humble lot had been
To dwell with poverty: between
Them all one pallet and a bed
Were shared. But to the latter led,
The guest in peaceful slumber lay,
While, with what broken sleep they may,
The dame and host await the day.
So pass'd the night. At length the dawn
Arrived, and show'd the stranger gone.
To none had e'er been closed their door
Who ask'd for alms; yet none before
Had so much lack'd in courtesy.
So spoke the wife. Her husband, he
Sat musing by most anxiously-
Of sterner need. A drought that year
Prevail'd, and though the corn in ear
Began to swell, must perish all
Unless a kindly rain should fall.
GoD send it straight!—or toil from morn
To eve, the hoard of buried corn,
Ay, food itself, were lost and gone.
Such thoughts now bring him to the door :
before
Perchance some cloud sails up
The morning breeze. None-none; in vain
His eyes explore the blue again:
With sighs to earth returns his gaze.
Ha! what is here ?-to God be praise!
See, see the glad drops on the maize!
No mist had dimm'd the night, and yet
The furrows all lay soft and wet,
As if with frequent showers; nay,
More-all bloom that shuns the day,
And tassel tall, and ear and blade,
With heavy drops were downward weighed,
And a swift stream the pathway fray'd.
Long while might I prolong this strain,
Relating thence how great his gain;
How he who held not from the poor,
Now saw his corncribs running o'er;
And how his riches grew amain,
And on his hillside ripen'd grain
When parch'd was that within the plain.
But who the guest was of that night
Conjecture thou-I dare not write.
We know that angels, with the mien
Of men, of men the guests have been;
That he who giveth to the poor,
Lends to the Lord. (I am not sure-)
The promise here deep meaning bore.

And frail I am, and faithless; give me strength
To take the rod thou sendest for a staff,
And falter never more in this lone journey!"
Then she went forth and gather'd freshest flowers,
And strew'd them on the dead: young violets
Upon the breast, verbena round the temples,
Loose rose-leaves o'er the mouth, to hide the pang,
And in his hand a lily newly open'd,

In token of her faith and his transition.
And in her eyes there reign'd such quietude,
That those who saw her, said, "An angel surely
Has spoken with her, or her reason's moved
By sufferings prolong'd." But none might say
She loved but lightly, or with levity
Look'd forward to the common lot of all.

MAIZE IN TASSEL.

THE blades of maize are broad and green,
The farm-roof scarcely shows between
The long and softly-rustling rows
Through which the farmer homeward goes.
The blue smoke curling through the trees,
The children round their mother's knees,
He sees, and thanks Gop while he sees.

in!

Eve

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 for 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 remained, 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.

WHAT IS THE USE?

I saw a man, by some accounted wise,

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 English 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 ridiculous 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.

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,

On, on, till life is lost,

At blindman's with a ghost.

What is the use?

"Love first, with most, then wealth, distinction, fame, Quicken the blood and spirit on the game. Some try them all, and all alike accuse

I have been all,' said one,

And find that all is none.'
What is the use?

"In woman's love we sweetly are undone;
Willing to attract, but harder to be won,
Harder to keep is she whose love we choose.
Loves are like flowers that grow
In soils on fire below.

What is the use?

"Some pray for wealth, and seem to pray aright; They heap until themselves are out of sight; Yet stand, in charities, not over shoes,

And ask of their old age

As an old ledger page,
What is the use?.

“The strife for fame and the high praise of power,
Is as a man, who, panting up a tower,
Bears a great stone, then, straining all his thews,
Heaves it, and sees it make

A splashing in a lake.

What is the use?....

"Should some new star, in the fair evening sky
Kindle a blaze, startling so keen an eye
Of flamings eminent, athwart the dews,
Our thoughts would say; No doubt
That star will soon burn out.

What is the use?

“Who'll care for me, when I am dead and gone?
Not many now, and surely, soon, not one;
And should I sing like an immortal Muse,

Men, if they read the line,

Read for their good, not mine;

What is the use?....

Spirit of Beauty! Breath of golden lyres!
Perpetual tremble of immortal wires!
Divinely torturing rapture of the Muse!
Conspicuous wretchedness!

Thou starry, sole success!

What is the use!

Doth not all struggle tell, upon its brow,

That he who makes it is not easy now,

But hopes to be? Vain hope that dost abuse!
Coquetting with thine eyes,

And fooling him who sighs.

What is the use?

"Go pry the lintels of the pyramids;
Lift the old kings' mysterious coffin lids—

This dust was theirs whose names these stones con-
fuse,

These mighty monuments
Of mighty discontents.

What is the use?

"Did not he sum it all, whose Gate of Pearls
Blazed royal Ophir, Tyre, and Syrian girls-
The great, wise, famous monarch of the Jews?
Though rolled in grandeur vast,

He said of all, at last :

What is the use?

"O! but to take, of life, the natural good,
Even as a hermit caverned in a wood,
More sweetly fills my sober-suited views,

Than sweating to attain
Any luxurious pain.

What is the use?

"Give me a hermit's life, without his beads-
His lantern-jawed, and moral-mouthing creeds;
Systems and creeds the natural heart abuse.
What need of any book,

Or spiritual crook?

What is the use?

I love, and God is love; and I behold
Man, Nature, God, one triple chain of gold-
Nature in all sole oracle and muse.

What should I seek, at all,

More than is natural?

What is the use?!"

Seeing this man so heathenly inclined-
So wilted in the mood of a good mind,
I felt a kind of heat of earnest thought;
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 loyal 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.

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