FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. [Born, 1795.] THE author of "Fanny," "Burns," "Marco Bozzaris," etc., was born at Guilford in Connecticut, in August, 1795. In his eighteenth year he removed to the city of New York, where he has since resided. It is said that he evinced a taste for poetry, and wrote verses, at a very early period; but the oldest of his effusions that I have seen are those under the signatures of "Croaker," and "Croaker & Co.," published in the New York Evening Post, in 1819. In the production of these pleasant satires he was associated with Doctor DRAKE, the author of the “Culprit Fay,” | a man of brilliant wit and delicate fancy, with whom he was long intimate. DRAKE died in 1820, and his friend soon after wrote for the New York Review, then edited by BRYANT, the lines to his memory, beginning "Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days; Nor named thee but to praise." Near the close of the year 1819, HALLECK published "Fanny," his longest poem, which has since passed through numerous editions, though its authorship has never been publicly avowed. It is a humorous satire, containing from twelve to fifteen hundred lines, and was written and printed in three weeks from its commencement. In 1827 he published a small volume, containing "Alnwick Castle," "Marco Bozzaris," and a few other pieces, which had previously appeared in various miscellanies; and in 1836, an edition of all his serious poems then written, including "Burns," "Red Jacket," "The Field of the Grounded Arms," and those before alluded to. The last and most complete collection of his works appeared early in the present year. Mr. HALLECK is the only one of our poets who possesses a decided local popularity. With the subjects of "Fanny," the "Croakers," and some of his other pieces, every person in New York is in some degree acquainted, and his name is cherished in that city with fondness and enthusiasm. His humorous poems are marked with an uncommon ease of versification, a natural, unstudied flow of language, and a careless playfulness and felicity of jest. "Sometimes," remarks Mr. BRYANT, "in the midst of a strain of harmonious diction, and soft and tender imagery, he surprises by an irresistible stroke of ridicule, as if he took pleasure in showing the reader that the poetical vision he had raised was but a cheat. Sometimes, *The curiosity of the town was greatly excited to know by whom these pieces had been written, and they were ascribed, at different times, to various literary gentlemen, while the real authors proved, for a long while, entirely unsuspected.-WILLIAM LEGGETT.-The Critic. with that aerial facility which is his peculiar endowment, he accumulates graceful and agreeable images in a strain of irony so fine, that did not the subject compel the reader to receive it as irony, he would take it for a beautiful passage of serious poetry-so beautiful, that he is tempted to regret that he is not in earnest, and that phrases so exquisitely chosen, and poetic colouring so brilliant, should be employed to embellish subjects to which they do not properly belong. At other times, he produces the effect of wit by dexterous allusion to contemporaneous events, introduced as illustrations of the main subject, with all the unconscious gracefulness of the most animated and familiar conversation. He delights in ludicrous contrasts, produced by bringing the nobleness of the ideal world into comparison with the homeliness of the actual; the beauty and grace of nature with the awkwardness of art. He venerates the past and laughs at the present. He looks at them through a medium which lends to the former the charm of romance, and exaggerates the deformity of the latter. His poetry, whether serious or sprightly, is remarkable for the melody of the numbers. It is not the melody of monotonous and strictly regular measurement. His verse is constructed to please an ear naturally fine, and accustomed to a range of metrical modulation. It is as different from that painfully-balanced versification, that uniform succession of iambics, closing the scene with the couplet, which some writers practise, and some critics praise, as the note of the thrush is unlike that of the cuckoo. He is familiar with those general rules and principles which are the basis of metrical harmony; and his own unerring taste has taught him the exceptions which a proper attention to variety demands. He understands that the rivulet is made musical by obstructions in its channel. In no poet can be found passages which flow with more sweet and liquid smoothness; but he knows very well that to make this smoothness perceived, and to prevent it from degenerating into monotony, occasional roughness must be interposed." HALLECK's serious poems are as admirable as his satirical. There are few finer martial lyrics than "Marco Bozzaris;" "Burns" and "Red Jacket" are distinguished for manly vigour of thought and language; and several of his shorter pieces have rarely been excelled in melodiousness of versification or quiet beauty of imagery. HALLECK has generally been engaged in commercial pursuits. He was once in "the cotton trade, and sugar line;" but I believe he has for several years been the principal superintendent of the affairs of the great capitalist, Mr. ASTOR. He is a bachelor, and is as popular among his friends for his social qualities, as he is with the world as a poet. BURNS. TO A ROSE, BROUGHT FROM NEAR ALLOWAY KIRK, IN AYRSHIRE, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1822. WILD rose of Alloway! my thanks, Thou mindst me of that autumn noon, When first we met upon "the banks And braes o' bonny Doon." Like thine, beneath the thorn tree's bough, My sunny hour was glad and brief, We've cross'd the winter sea, and thou Art wither'd-flower and leaf. And will not thy death-doom be mine- Not so his memory, for whose sake My bosom bore thee far and long, The memory of BURNS-a name That calls, when brimm'd her festal cup, A nation's glory, and her shame, In silent sadness up. A nation's glory-be the rest I've stood beside the cottage-bed Where the bard-peasant first drew breath: A straw-thatch'd roof above his head, A straw-wrought couch beneath. And I have stood beside the pile, His monument-that tells to heaven Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot, A poet's pride and power. The pride that lifted BURNS from earth, The rich, the brave, the strong; Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, Despair-thy name is written on The roll of common men. There have been loftier themes than his, Purer and holier fires: Yet read the names that know not death; His is that language of the heart, In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek; And his that music, to whose tone In cold or sunny clime. And who hath heard his song, nor knelt O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm, O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers, O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm, O'er Reason's dark, cold hours; On fields where brave men "die or do," In halls where rings the banquet's mirth, Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, From throne to cottage hearth; What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed, What wild vows falter on the tongue, When "Scots wha hac wi' WALLACE bled," Or "Auld Lang Syne" is sung! Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise, And when he breathes his master-lay Imagination's world of air, And our own world, its gloom and glee, And BURNS-though brief the race he ran, The image of his God. Though care, and pain, and want, and wo, He kept his honesty and truth, His independent tongue and pen, And moved, in manhood and in youth, Pride of his fellow-men. Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, A love of right, a scorn of wrong, A kind, true heart, a spirit high, That could not fear and would not bow, Were written in his manly eye, And on his manly brow. Praise to the bard! his words are driven, Praise to the man! a nation stood And still, as on his funeral day, Men stand his cold earth-couch around, And consecrated ground it is, The last, the hallow'd home of one Who lives upon all memories, Though with the buried gone. Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines, Sages, with Wisdom's garland wreathed, And lowlier names, whose humble home Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have press'd All ask the cottage of his birth, Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, They linger by the Doon's low trees, But what to them the sculptor's art, RED JACKET, A CHIEF OF THE INDIAN TRIBES, THE TUSCARORAS. COOPER, whose name is with his country's woven, And beautiful as its green world of thought. And faithful to the act of Congress, quoted In Paris, full of song, and dance, and laugh; And that, from Orleans to the bay of Fundy, There's not a bailiff nor an epitaph. And, furthermore, in fifty years or sooner, Its brow, half-martial and half-diplomatic, Its eye, upsoaring, like an eagle's wings; For thou wert monarch born. Tradition's pages To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee. Thy name is princely. Though no poet's magic Could make RED JACKET grace an English Unless he had a genius for the tragic, [rhyme, And introduced it in a pantomime; Yet it is music in the language spoken Of thine own land; and on her herald-roll, Thy garb-though Austria's bosom-star would frighten That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine, And GEORGE the FOURTH wore, in the dance at Brighton, A more becoming evening dress than thine; Is eloquence? Her spell is thine that reaches Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded The road to death as to a festival; And minstrel minds, without a blush, have shrouded With banner-folds of glory their dark pall. Who will believe-not I-for in deceiving Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream; I cannot spare the luxury of believing That all things beautiful are what they seem. Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing Would, like the patriarch's, soothe a dying hour; With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlight bower; With look, like patient JoB's, eschewing evil; With motions graceful as a bird's in air; Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil That e'er clinch'd fingers in a captive's hair? That in thy veins there springs a poison fountain, Deadlier than that which bathes the upas-tree; And in thy wrath, a nursing cat o' mountain Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee? And underneath that face like summer's ocean's, Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions, Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow-all, save fear. Love for thy land, as if she were thy daughter, Her pipes in peace, her tomahawk in wars; Hatred of missionaries and cold water; Pride-in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars; Hope that thy wrongs will be by the Great Spirit Remember'd and revenged when thou art gone; Sorrow-that none are left thee to inherit Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne. CONNECTICUT. AND still her gray rocks tower above the sea That murmurs at their feet, a conquer'd wave; 'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree, Where breathes no castled lord or cabin'd slave; Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and free, And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave; And where none kneel, save when to Heaven they Nor even then, unless in their own way. [pray, Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong, A "fierce democracie," where all are true To what themselves have voted-right or wrongAnd to their laws, denominated blue; (If red, they might to Draco's code belong;) A vestal state, which power could not subdue, Nor promise win-like her own eagle's nest, Sacred-the San Marino of the west. A justice of the peace, for the time being, They bow to, but may turn him out next year: They reverence their priest, but, disagreeing In price or creed, dismiss him without fear; They have a natural talent for foreseeing And knowing all things; and should PARK appear From his long tour in Africa, to show [know. The Niger's source, they'd meet him with-We They love their land, because it is their own, A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. Such are they nurtured, such they live and die: All-but a few apostates, who are meddling With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling; Or, wandering through the southern countries, teaching The A B C from WEBSTER'S spelling-book; Gallant and godly, making love and preaching, And gaining, by what they call "hook and crook," And what the moralists call overreaching, A decent living. The Virginians look Upon them with as favourable eyes AS GABRIEL on the devil in Paradise. But these are but their outcasts. View them near At home, where all their worth and pride is placed; And there their hospitable fires burn clear, And there the lowliest farm-house hearth is graced With manly hearts, in piety sincere, Faithful in love, in honour stern and chaste, And minds have there been nurtured, whose control Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring, Of life's best angel, health, is on her gales Through sun and snow-and, in the autumn time, Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. Her clear, warm heaven at noon,-the mist that shrouds Her twilight hills,-her cool and starry eves, The glorious splendour of her sunset clouds, The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves, Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds, Where'er his web of song her poet weaves; And his mind's brightest vision but displays The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days. And when you dream of woman, and her love; Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power; The maiden, listening in the moonlight grove; The mother, smiling in her infant's bower; Forms, features, worshipp'd while we breathe or move, Be, by some spirit of your dreaming hour, Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air To the green land I sing, then wake; you'll find them there. Praise to the bard! his words are driven, The birds of fame have flown. Praise to the man! a nation stood And still, as on his funeral day, Men stand his cold earth-couch around, And consecrated ground it is, The last, the hallow'd home of one Who lives upon all memories, Though with the buried gone. Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines, Sages, with Wisdom's garland wreathed, And lowlier names, whose humble home Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have press'd All ask the cottage of his birth, Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, They linger by the Doon's low trees, But what to them the sculptor's art, RED JACKET, A CHIEF OF THE INDIAN TRIBES, THE TUSCARORAS. COOPER, whose name is with his country's woven, And beautiful as its green world of thought. And faithful to the act of Congress, quoted And, furthermore, in fifty years or sooner, If he were with me, King of Tuscarora, Its eye, upsoaring, like an eagle's wings; For thou wert monarch born. Tradition's pages To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee. Thy name is princely. Though no poet's magic Thy garb-though Austria's bosom-star would frighten That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine, And GEORGE the FOURTH wore, in the dance at Brighton, A more becoming evening dress than thine; Is eloquence? Her spell is thine that reaches |