JAMES KIRKE PAULDING. [Born 1779.] Mr. PAULDING is known by his numerous novels and other prose writings, much better than by his poetry; yet his early contributions to our poetical literature, if they do not bear witness that he possesses, in an eminent degree, "the vision and the faculty divine," are creditable for their patriotic spirit and moral purity. He was born in the town of Pawling,-the original mode of spelling his name,-in Duchess county, New York, on the 22d of August, 1779, and is descended from an old and honourable family, of Dutch extraction. His earliest literary productions were the papers entitled "Salmagundi," the first series of which, in two volumes, were written in conjunction with WASHINGTON IRVING, in 1807. These were succeeded, in the next thirty years, by the following works, in the order in which they are named: John Bull and Brother Jonathan, in one volume; The Lay of a Scotch Fiddle, a satirical poem, in one volume; The United States and England, in one volume; Second Series of Salmagundi, in two volumes; Letters from the South, in two volumes; The Backwoodsman, a poem, in one volume; Koningsmarke, or Old Times in the New World, a novel, in two volumes; John Bull in America, in one volume; Merry Tales of the Wise Men of Gotham, in one volume; The Traveller's Guide, or New Pilgrim's Progress, in one volume; The Dutchman's Fireside, in two volumes; Westward Ho! in two volumes; Slavery in the United States, in one volume; Life of Washington, in two volumes; The Book of St. Nicholas, in one volume; and Tales, Fables, and Allegories, originally published in various periodicals, in three volumes. | Beside these, and some less pretensive works, he has written much in the gazettes on political and other questions agitated in his time. Mr. PAULDING has held various honourable offices in his native state; and in the summer of 1838, he was appointed, by President VAN BUREN, Secretary of the Navy. He continued to be a member of the cabinet until the close of Mr. VAN BUREN's administration, in 1841. ODE TO JAMESTOWN. OLD cradle of an infant world, In which a nestling empire lay, Her gallant wing and soar'd away; All hail! thou birth-place of the glowing west, Thou seem'st the towering eagle's ruin'd nest! What solemn recollections throng, What touching visions rise, As, wandering these old stones among, And see the shadows of the dead flit round, The wonders of an age combined, In one short moment memory supplies; The volume of a hundred buried years, I hear the angry ocean rave, I see the lonely little barque As o'er the drowned earth 't was hurl'd, I see a train of exiles stand, Amid the desert, desolate, The fathers of my native land, The daring pioneers of fate, Who braved the perils of the sea and earth, I see the sovereign Indian range His woodland empire, free as air; I see the gloomy forest change, The shadowy earth laid bare; And, where the red man chased the bounding deer, The smiling labours of the white appear. I see the haughty warrior gaze In wonder or in scorn, Their scanty fields of corn, While he, the monarch of the boundless wood, By sport, or hair-brain'd rapine, wins his food. A moment, and the pageant's gone; The pale-faced strangers stand alone And the proud wood-king, who their arts disdain'd, The forest reels beneath the stroke Of sturdy woodman's axe; The earth receives the white man's yoke, And pays her willing tax Of fruits, and flowers, and golden harvest fields, And all that nature to blithe labour yields. Then growing hamlets rear their heads, And gathering crowds expand, Far as my fancy's vision spreads, O'er many a boundless land, Till what was once a world of savage strife, Teems with the richest gifts of social life. Empire to empire swift succeeds, Each happy, great, and free; One empires still another breeds, A giant progeny, Destined their daring race to run, Then, as I turn my thoughts to trace The fount whence these rich waters sprung, I glance towards this lonely place, And find it, these rude stones among. Their names have been forgotten long; As bright a crown as e'er was worn, No one that inspiration drinks; No one that loves his native land; No one that reasons, feels, or thinks, Can mid these lonely ruins stand, Without a moisten'd eye, a grateful tear Of reverent gratitude to those that moulder here. The mighty shade now hovers round Of HIM whose strange, yet bright career, In letters that no time shall sere; And she! the glorious Indian maid, The angel of the woodland shade, The miracle of God's own hand, Who join'd man's heart to woman's softest grace, And thrice redeem'd the scourges of her race. Sister of charity and love, Whose life-blood was soft Pity's tide, Flower of the forest, nature's pride, I care not who my themes may mock, I envy not the brute who here can stand, And if the recreant crawl her earth, Or, in New England claim his birth, He is a bastard, if he dare to mock Old Jamestown's shrine, or Plymouth's famous rock. PASSAGE DOWN THE OHIO.* As down Ohio's ever ebbing tide, Sent forth blithe labour's homely, rustic song; "T was evening now: the hour of toil was o'er, EVENING. "T WAS sunset's hallow'd time-and such an eve Might almost tempt an angel heaven to leave. Never did brighter glories greet the eye, Low in the warm and ruddy western sky: Nor the light clouds at summer eve unfold More varied tints of purple, red, and gold. Some in the pure, translucent, liquid breast Of crystal lake, fast anchor'd seem'd to rest, Like golden islets scatter'd far and wide, By elfin skill in fancy's fabled tide, Where, as wild eastern legends idly feign, Fairy, or genii, hold despotic reign. This, and the two following extracts, are from the "Backwoodsman." Others, like vessels gilt with burnish'd gold, CROSSING THE ALLEGHANIES. As look'd the traveller for the world below, The lively morning breeze began to blow; The magic curtain roll'd in mists away, And a gay landscape smiled upon the day. As light the fleeting vapours upward glide, Like sheeted spectres on the mountain side, New objects open to his wondering view Of various form, and combinations new. A rocky precipice, a waving wood, Deep, winding dell, and foaming mountain flood, Each after each, with coy and sweet delay, Broke on his sight, as at young dawn of day, Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold, Like giant capp'd with helm of burnish'd gold. So when the wandering grandsire of our race On Ararat had found a resting-place, At first a shoreless ocean met his eye, Mingling on every side with one blue sky; But as the waters, every passing day, Sunk in the earth or roll'd in mists away, Gradual, the lofty hills, like islands, peep From the rough bosom of the boundless deep, Then the round hillocks, and the meadows green, Each after each, in freshen'd bloom are seen, Till, at the last, a fair and finish'd whole Combined to win the gazing patriarch's soul. Yet, oft he look'd, I ween, with anxious eye, In lingering hope somewhere, perchance, to spy, Within the silent world, some living thing, A charnel-house, where all the human race THE OLD MAN'S CAROUSAL. DRINK! drink! to whom shall we drink? Go seek them in heaven, for there they abide. A bumper, my boys! to a gray-headed pair, LEVI FRISBIE. [Born 1781. Died 1822] PROFESSOR FRISBIE was the son of a respectable clergyman at Ipswich, Massachusetts. He entered Harvard University in 1798, and was graduated in 1802. His father, like most of the clergymen of New England, was a poor man, and unable fully to defray the costs of his son's education; and Mr. FRISBIE, while an under-graduate, provided in part for his support by teaching a school during vacations, and by writing as a clerk. His friend and biographer, Professor ANDREWS NORTON, alludes to this fact as a proof of the falsity of the opinion that wealth constitutes the only aristocracy in our country. Talents, united with correct morals, and good manners, pass unquestioned all the artificial barriers of society, and their claim to distinction is recognised more willingly than any other. Soon after leaving the university, Mr. FRISBIE commenced the study of the law; but an affection of the eyes depriving him of their use for the purposes of study, he abandoned his professional pursuits, and accepted the place of Latin tutor in Harvard University. In 1811, he was made Professor of the Latin Language, and in 1817, Professor of Moral Philosophy. The last office he held until he died, on the 19th of July, 1822. He was an excellent scholar, an original thinker, and a pure-minded man. An octavo volume, containing a memoir, some of his philosophical lectures, and a few poems, was published in 1823. A CASTLE IN THE AIR. I'LL tell you, friend, what sort of wife, Inspires my waking schemes, The rose its blushes need not lend, To captivate my eyes. Features, where, pensive, more than gay, A form, though not of finest mould, A modesty and ease. But still her air, her face, each charm And mind inform the whole; With mind her mantling cheek must glow, Ah! could I such a being find, To her myself, my all I'd give, For her alone delighted live, For her consent to die. Whene'er by anxious care oppress'd, My aching head I'd lay; At her sweet smile each care should cease, Her kiss infuse a balmy peace, And drive my griefs away. In turn, I'd soften all her care, Each thought, each wish, each feeling share; Should sickness e'er invade, My voice should soothe each rising sigh, Should gathering clouds our sky deform, My bosom to its bolts I'd bare; Together should our prayers ascend; To praise the Almighty name; My soul should catch the flame. Thus nothing should our hearts divide, But on our years serenely glide, And all to love be given; And, when life's little scene was o'er, We'd part to meet and part no more, But live and love in heaven. Others, like vessels gilt with burnish'd gold, CROSSING THE ALLEGHANIES. As look'd the traveller for the world below, The lively morning breeze began to blow; The magic curtain roll'd in mists away, And a gay landscape smiled upon the day. As light the fleeting vapours upward glide, Like sheeted spectres on the mountain side, New objects open to his wondering view Of various form, and combinations new. A rocky precipice, a waving wood, Deep, winding dell, and foaming mountain flood, Each after each, with coy and sweet delay, Broke on his sight, as at young dawn of day, Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold, Like giant capp'd with helm of burnish'd gold. So when the wandering grandsire of our race On Ararat had found a resting-place, At first a shoreless ocean met his eye, Mingling on every side with one blue sky; But as the waters, every passing day, Sunk in the earth or roll'd in mists away, Gradual, the lofty hills, like islands, peep From the rough bosom of the boundless deep, Then the round hillocks, and the meadows green, Each after each, in freshen'd bloom are seen, Till, at the last, a fair and finish'd whole Combined to win the gazing patriarch's soul. Yet, oft he look'd, I ween, with anxious eye, In lingering hope somewhere, perchance, to spy, Within the silent world, some living thing, A charnel-house, where all the human race THE OLD MAN'S CAROUSAL. DRINK! drink! to whom shall we drink? Go seek them in heaven, for there they abide. A bumper, my boys! to a gray-headed pair, On the head of their son, without tear, sigh, or frown! the dead, You will find both their names on the stone at their head. And here's-but, alas! the good wine is no more, With a health to our dead, since we've no living friends. |