RICHARD H. DANA. RICHARD H. DANA, eminent alike as a poet and essayist, was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, on the 15th of November, 1787. His father, Francis Dana, was minister to Russia during the Revolution, and subsequently member of the Massachusetts Convention for adopting the United States Constitution, member of Congress, and chief-justice of his native State. At the age of ten, the son went to Newport, Rhode Island, the residence of his maternal grandfather, the Hon. William Ellery, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Here he remained till he entered Harvard College; on leaving which, he entered upon the study of the law. After admission to the Boston bar, he was for a time in the office of Gen. Robert Goodloe Harper, of Baltimore. Eventually, however, he concluded to return to his native town and there enter upon the practice of his profession. But he soon found it too laborious for his health and not congenial to his tastes: accordingly he gave it up, and made an arrangement with his relative, Prof. Edward T. Channing, to assist him in conducting the "North American Review," which had then been established about two years. In 1821, he published his Idle Man, in numbers, in which were some of his most admirable tales. But the general tone of it was too high to be popular, and the publication was relinquished. His first poem, The Dying Raven, he published in 1825, in the "New York Review," then edited by the poet Bryant. Two years after, he published The Buccaneer, and other Poems, and in 1833, his Poems and Prose Writings. His lectures on Shakspeare, which have been delivered in many cities of the Union, he has not given to the press. In 1850, Baker & Scribner published a complete edition of his Poems and Prose Writings, in two volumes.' Of late years Mr. Dana has given us nothing new; nor need he, to be secure of his immortality. He lives a life of quiet domestic retirement, his summer residence being a picturesque spot on the shores of Cape Ann, while during the winter months he lives in Boston. The longest poem of Mr. Dana is The Buccaneer. It is a tale of piracy and murder, and of a terrible supernatural retribution. The character of the Buecaneer, Matthew Lee, is drawn in a few bold and masterly lines. Disappointed in an effort to engage in honest trade, he makes up his mind to devote his life to piracy. A young bride, whose husband has fallen in the Spanish war, seeks a passage in his ship to some distant shore. The ship is at sea. The murderer is 1 "In Mr. Dana's poetry the moral and religious element is as strongly marked as in his prose, and constitutes that indwelling power which elevates the whole to so high a sphere. Inasmuch as religious truth touches the soul so closely, affects its most hidden and secret life, and excites its profoundest and loftiest emotions, no mind which has not been moved by such truths can fully appreciate the highest products of literature or art, much less produce them."-North American Review, January, 1851. "We admire Mr. Dana more than any other American poet, because he has aimed not merely to please the imagination, but to rouse up the soul to a solemn consideration of its future destinies. We admire him because his poetry is full of benevolent, domestic feeling; but, more than this, because it is full of religious feeling. The fountain which gushes here has mingled with the 'well of water springing up to everlasting life.'"-REV. GEORGE B. CHEEVER. meditating his deed of death. The fearful scene follows. How strong, distinct, and terrible is the description of the pirate's feelings, and THE SCENE OF DEATH. He cannot look on her mild eye, Her patient words his spirit quell. The hates and fears of hell. His speech is short; he wears a surly brow. There's none will hear the shriek. What fear ye now? The workings of the soul ye fear; Ye fear the power that goodness hath; Ye fear the Unseen One, ever near, Walking his ocean path. From out the silent void there comes a cry:- Nor dread of ever-during woe, Nor the sea's awful solitude, Can make thee, wretch, thy crime forego. The scud is driving wildly overhead; The stars burn dim; the ocean moans its dead. Moan for the living,-moan our sins,— The wrath of man, more fierce than thine. The crew glide down like shadows. Eye and hand Still as a tomb the ship keeps on; Hush! hark! as from the centre of the deep, Shrieks! fiendish yells! They stab them in their sleep! The scream of rage, the groan, the strife, The panting, throttled prayer for life, The dying's heaving sigh, The murderer's curse, the dead man's fix'd, still glare, On pale, dead men, on burning cheek, On quick, fierce eyes, brows hot and damp, Lee look'd. "They sleep so sound," he, laughing, said, A crash! They've forced the door; and then 'Tis hers! O God, redeem From worse than death thy suffering, helpless child! The waves have swept away the bubbling tide. Nor hears the loud, stern roar above, She soon has reach'd! They harm'd her not! Fair, unpolluted thing, Oh, no!-To live when joy was dead; Feeling what death had wrought; That he on things of earth should brood, To her was solitude, Oh, this was bitterness! Death came and press'd THE HUSBAND AND WIFE'S GRAVE. Husband and wife! No converse now ye hold, On what your children may be moves you not. Not like to that in which ye rested once Most happy, silence eloquent, when heart With heart held speech, and your mysterious frames, Touch'd the soft notes of love. Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love? Commingling spirits? Are thoughts that know no bounds, And do our loves all perish with our frames ? And their soft leaves unfolded in the warmth Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty, Then fade and fall, like fair, unconscious flowers? Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speech, That to the cheek do give its living glow, Oh, listen, man!1 Thick-clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, Oh, listen ye, our spirits; drink it in From all the air! Tis in the gentle moonlight; As one great mystic instrument, are touch'd By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls Why is it that I linger round this tomb? I thank thee, Father, Hast sent a sacred light, and that away "We scarcely know where, in the English language, we could point out a finer extract than this, of the same character. It has a softened grandeur worthy of the subject; especially in the noble paragraph commencing 'Oh, listen, man?" -REV. G. B. CHEEVER. From this green hillock, whither I had come In sorrow, thou art leading me in joy. THE DEATH OF SIN AND THE LIFE OF HOLINESS. Blinded by passion, man gives up his breath, In the self-torturing spirit. Fool, give o'er! Thy soul, as rain-drops mingle with the surge? As falls the tree, so lies it. So shalt thou. God's Book, rash doubter, holds the plain record. That Book shall judge thee when thou passest hence. Then shalt thou know, see, feel, what's life indeed. Bursting to life, thy dominant desire Shall upward flame, like a fierce forest fire; Come, listen to His voice who died to save Blest are the pure in heart. He'll cleanse thy spotted soul. Wouldst thou be blest? Wouldst thou find rest? Around thy toils and cares he'll breathe a calm, And to thy wounded spirit lay a balm, From fear draw love, and teach thee where to seek Come lowly; he will help thee. Lay aside That subtle, first of evils,-human pride. His forming, his creating power,—and bind |