Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food,
And kindle in thy heart a flame refined;
Pray Heaven with firmness thy whole soul to bind
To this thy purpose-to begin, pursue,
With thoughts all fix'd and feelings purely kind,
Strength to complete, and with delight review,
And grace to give the praise where all is ever due.
No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit
To light on man as from the passing air;
The lamp of genius, though by nature lit,
If not protected, pruned, and fed with care,
Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful glare;
And learning is a plant that spreads and towers
Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare,
That, mid gay thousands, with the suns and
showers
Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers.
Has immortality of name been given
To them that idly worship hills and groves,
And burn sweet incense to the queen of heaven?
Did NEWTON learn from fancy, as it roves,
To measure worlds, and follow where each moves?
Did HOWARD gain renown that shall not cease,
By wanderings wild that nature's pilgrim loves?
Or did PAUL gain heaven's glory and its peace,
By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles of
Greece?
Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would appear
But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim
Thy want of worth; a charge thou couldst not hear
From other lips, without a blush of shame,
Or pride indignant; then be thine the blame,
And make thyself of worth; and thus enlist
The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame;
"Tis infamy to die and not be miss'd,
Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist.
Rouse to some work of high and holy love,
And thou an angel's happiness shalt know,-
Shalt bless the earth while in the world above;
The good begun by thee shall onward flow
In many a branching stream, and wider grow;
The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours,
Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow,
Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers, And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers.
SIGHTS AND SOUNDS OF THE NIGHT.
ERE long the clouds were gone, the moon was set;
When deeply blue without a shade of gray,
The sky was fill'd with stars that almost met,
Their points prolong'd and sharpen'd to one ray;
Through their transparent air the milky-way
Seem'd one broad flame of pure resplendent white,
As if some globe on fire, turn'd far astray,
Had cross'd the wide arch with so swift a flight,
That for a moment shone its whole long track of
light.
At length in northern skies, at first but small, A sheet of light meteorous begun
To spread on either hand, and rise and fall In waves, that slowly first, then quickly run Along its edge, set thick but one by one With spiry beams, that all at once shot high, Like those through vapours from the setting sun; Then sidelong as before the wind they fly, Like streaking rain from clouds that flit along the sky.
Now all the mountain-tops and gulfs between Seem'd one dark plain; from forests, caves profound,
And rushing waters far below unseen, Rose a deep roar in one united sound, Alike pervading all the air around, And seeming e'en the azure dome to fill, And from it through soft ether to resound In low vibrations, sending a sweet thrill To every finger's end from rapture deep and still.
A BRIGHT or dark eternity in view, With all its fix'd, unutterable things, What madness in the living to pursue, As their chief portion, with the speed of wings, The joys that death-beds always turn to stings! Infatuated man, on earth's smooth waste To dance along the path that always brings Quick to an end, from which with tenfold haste Back would he gladly fly till all should be retraced'
Our life is like the hurrying on the eve Before we start, on some long journey bound, When fit preparing to the last we leave, Then run to every room the dwelling round, And sigh that nothing needed can be found; Yet go we must, and soon as day shall break; We snatch an hour's repose, when loud the sound For our departure calls; we rise and take A quick and sad farewell, and go ere well awake.
Rear'd in the sunshine, blasted by the storms Of changing time, scarce asking why or whence, Men come and go like vegetable forms, Though heaven appoints for them a work immense, Demanding constant thought and zeal intense, Awaked by hopes and fears that leave no room For rest to mortals in the dread suspense, While yet they know not if beyond the tomb A long, long life of bliss or wo shall be their doom.
What matter whether pain or pleasures fill The swelling heart one little moment here? From both alike how vain is every thrill, While an untried eternity is near! Think not of rest, fond man, in life's career; The joys and grief that meet thee, dash aside Like bubbles, and thy bark right onward steer Through calm and tempest, till it cross the tide, Shoot into port in triumph, or serenely glide.
MR. NEAL is a native of Portland. In 1815 he went to Baltimore, and was there associated several years with JOHN PIERPONT in mercantile transactions; but these resulting disastrously, he turned his attention to literature, commencing his career by writing for "The Portico," a monthly magazine, a series of critical essays on the works of BYRON. In 1818, he published "Keep Cool," a novel, and in the following year "The Battle of Niagara, Goldau the Maniac Harper, and other Poems, by Jehu O'Cataract,"* and "Otho," a tragedy. He also wrote a large portion of ALLEN'S History of the American Revolution," which appeared early in 1821. In 1822 he published in Philadelphia a second novel, entitled "Logan,' which was reprinted soon after in London. This was followed in 1823 by "Seventy-six," the most popular of his fictions; " Randolph," a story which attracted considerable attention at the time by the notices it contained of the most prominent politicians, authors, and artists then in the country; and "Errata, or the Works of Will Adams."
Near the close of the last-mentioned year Mr. NEAL went abroad. Soon after his arrival in London he became a contributor to various periodicals, for which he wrote, chiefly under the guise of an Englishman, numerous articles to correct erroneous opinions which prevailed in regard to the social and political condition of the United States. He made his first appearance in Blackwood's Magazine, in "Sketches of the Five American Presidents and the Five Candidates for the Presidency," a paper which was widely republished, and, with others, led to his introduction to many eminent persons, among whom was JEREMY BENTHAM, who continued until his death to be Mr. NEAL'S warm personal friend.
After passing four years in Great Britain and on the continent, in which time appeared his "Brother Jonathan," a novel, Mr. NEAL came back to his
"JEHU O'CATARACT" was a name given to NEAL by the Delphian Club of Baltimore, of which PAUL ALLEN, Gen. BYND, Rev. JoHN PIERPONT, Judge BRECKENRIDGE, NEAL, and other distinguished men, were then members. The second edition of the Battle of Niagara was published in 1819, and for "JEHU O'CATARACT" was substituted the real name of the author.
In this edition of "The Poets and Poetry of America" I have quoted from the "Battle of Niagara" as it appeared with the "last additions and corrections." I had seen only the first impression of it when this work was originally prepared for the press.
In a note in Blackwood's Magazine, Mr. NEAL says he wrote "Randolph" in thirty-six days, with an interval of about a week between the two volumes, in which he wrote nothing; "Errata" in less than thirty-nine days; and "Seventy-six" in twenty-seven days. During this time he was engaged in professional business.
native city of Portland, where he now resides. Since his return he has published" Rachel Dyer," "Authorship," "The Down Easters," and "Ruth Elder;" edited "The Yankee," a weekly gazette, two years, and contributed largely to other periodicals.
Mr. NEAL's novels contain numerous passages marked by brilliancy of sentiment and expression, and occasional scenes which show that he possesses dramatic ability. They are original; they are written from the impulses of his heart, and are pervaded by the peculiarities of his character; but most of them were produced rapidly and carelessly, and are without unity, aim, or continuous interest.
His poems have the unquestionable stamp of genius. He possesses imagination in a degree of sensibility and energy hardly surpassed in this age. The elements of poetry are poured forth in his verses with a prodigality and power altogether astonishing. But he is deficient in the constructive faculty. He has no just sense of proportion. No one with so rich and abundant materials had ever less skill in using them. Instead of bringing the fancy to adorn the structures of the imagination, he reverses the poetical law, giving to the imagination the secondary office, so that the points illustrated are quite forgotten in the accumulation and splendour of the imagery. The " Battle of Niagara," with its rapid and slow, gay and solemn movement, falls on the ear as if it were composed to martial music. It is marred, however, by his customary faults. The isthmus which bounds the beautiful is as narrow as that upon the borders of the sublime, and he crosses both without hesitation. Passages in it would be magnificent but for lines or single words which, if the reader were not confident that he had before him the author's own edition, he would think had been thrown in by some burlesquing enemy.
I have heard an anecdote which illustrates the rapidity with which he writes. When he lived in Baltimore, he went one evening to the rooms of PIERPONT, and read to him a poem which he had just completed. The author of " Airs of Palestine" was always a nice critic, and he frankly pointed out the faults of the performance. NEAL promised to revise it, and submit it again on the following morning. At the appointed time he repaired to the apartment of his friend, and read to him a new poem, of three or four hundred lines. He had tried to improve his first, but failing to do so, had chosen a new subject, a new measure, and produced an entirely new work, before retiring to sleep.
In the last edition of his Poems, Mr. NEAL presents some specimens of an intended epic on the conquest of Peru; and he has written many lyrical pieces, not included in his collections, which have been popular.
FROM THE CONQUEST OF PERU.
INVOCATION TO THE DEITY.
O THOг, from whom the rebel angels fled,
When thou didst rend thine everlasting veil,
And show thy countenance in wrath! O Thou,
Before whose brow, unclothed in light-put forth
In awful revelation-they that stood
Erect in heaven, they that walk'd sublime,
E'en in thy presence, Lord! and they that shone
Most glorious 'mid the host of glorious ones,
With Lucifer the Morning Star, the Terrible,
The chief of old immortals-with the sight
Were suddenly consumed! Almighty! Thou,
Whose face but shone upon the rebel host
Of warring constellations, and their crowns
Were quench'd for ever! and the mightiest fell,
And lo! innumerable wings went up,
And gather'd round about the Eternal's throne,
And all the solitudes of air were fill'd
With thunders and with voices! and the war
Fled from thy presence! And thy wrath was o'er,
And heaven again in peace!......
O Thou―our Inspiration-Thou, O God!
To whom the prophets and the crowned kings,
The bards of many years, who caught from Thee
Their blazing of the spirit! Thou, to whom
The Jewish monarchs, on their ivory thrones,
Flaming with jewelry, have fallen down
And rung their golden harps, age after age!
O Thou, to whom the gifted men of old,
Who stood among the mysteries of heaven,
Read the thick stars, and listened to the wind,
Interpreted the thunder, told the voice
Of Ocean tumbling in his caves, explained
The everlasting characters of flame
That burn upon the firmament, and saw
The face of him that sitteth in the sun,
And read the writing there, that comes and goes,
Revealing to the eyes the fate of men,
Of monarchs, and of empires!-men who stood
Amid the solitudes of heaven and earth, and heard
From the high mountain-top the silent Night
Give out her uninterpreted decrees!—
The venerable men! the old, and mighty,
Sublime and confident, and woman, up
From the sunshine of the Eternal rose,
All intellect and love! and all the hills
And all the vales were green, and all the trees in flower.
-O, bless our trembling harp!
FROM THE BATTLE OF NIAGARA.
A CAVALCADE SEEN AT SUNSET THROUGH A
GORGE.
Ан, now let us gaze! what a wonderful sky!
How the robe of the god, in its flame-colored dye,
Goes ruddily, flushingly, sweepingly by!....
Nay, speak! did you ever behold such a night?
While the winds blew about, and the waters were
The sun rolling home in an ocean of light! [bright,
But hush! there is music away in the sky;
Some creatures of magic are charioting by; [wild
Now it comes what a sound! 't is as cheerful and
As the echo of caves to the laugh of a child;
Ah yes, they are here! See, away to your left,
Where the sun has gone down, where the mountains
A troop of tall horsemen! How fearless they ride!
'Tis a perilous path o'er that steep mountain's side;
Careering they come, like a band of young knights,
That the trumpet of morn to the tilting invites;
With high-nodding plumes, and with sun-shiny vests;
With wide-tossing manes, and with mail-cover'd
breasts;
With arching of necks, and the plunge and the pride
Of their high-mettled steeds, as they galloping ride,
In glitter and pomp; with their housings of gold,
With their scarlet and blue, as their squadrons unfold
Flashing changeable light, like a banner unroll'd!
Now they burst on the eye in their martial array
And now they have gone, like a vision of day.
In a streaming of splendour they came-but they
wheel'd;
And instantly all the bright show was conceal’d—
As if 't were a tournament held in the sky,
Betray'd by some light passing suddenly by;
Some band by the flashing of torches reveal'd,
As it fell o'er the boss of an uplifted shield,
Prophets and bards and kings, whose souls were fill'd Or banners and blades in the darkness conceal'd With immortality, and visions, till
Their hearts have ached with weary supplication;
Till all the Future, rushing o'er their strings,
In tempest and in light, hath drown'd their prayers,
And left their mighty harps all ringing loud
With prophecy and wo! O Thou, to whom
Innumerable suns, and moons, and worlds,
The glorious elevations of the sky,
The choirs of cherubim and seraphim-
Immortal multitudes, that worship round
Thine echoing throne-upon their golden harps
And silver trumps, and organs of the air,
Pour everlasting melody! O Thou, to whom
All this hath been familiar from the hour
APPROACH OF EVENING.
A GLOW, like enchantment, is seen o'er the lake,
Like the flush of the sky, when the day heralds wake
And o'er its dull bosom their soft plumage shake.
Now the warmth of the heaven is fading away-
Young Evening comes up in pursuit of the Day-
The richness and mist of the tints that were there
Are melting away like the bow of the air-
The blue-bosom'd water heaves darker and bluer,
The cliffs and the trees are seen bolder and truer,
The landscape has less of enchantment and light:
When thou didst bow the heavens, and, at the sound But it lies the more steady and firm in the sight.
Of many thunders, pealing thy decree,
Creation sprang to light, when time began
And all the boundless sky was full of suns,
Rolling in symphony, and man was made
The lustre-crown'd peaks, while they dazzled the eye,
Seem'd loosen'd and passing away in the sky,
And the far-distant hills, in their tremulous blue,
But baffled the eye, as it dwelt on their hue.
The light of the hill, and the wave, and the sky Grow fainter, and fainter:-The wonders all die!
The visions have gone! they have vanish'd away, Unobserved in their change, like the bliss of a day. The rainbows of heaven were bent in our sight, And fountains were gushing like wine in its light, And seraphs were wheeling around in their flight— A moment: and all was enveloped in night! "Tis thus with the dreams of the high-heaving heart: They come but to blaze, and they blaze to departTheir gossamer wings are too thin to abide The chilling of sorrow, or burning of prideThey come, but to brush o'er its young gallant swell, Like bright birds over ocean-but never to dwell.
MOVEMENTS OF TROOPS AT NIGHT.
OBSERVED ye the cloud on that mountain's dim
So heavily hanging?-as if it had been [green
The tent of the Thunderer-the chariot of one
Who dare not appear in the blaze of the sun?
"T is descending to earth! and some horsemen are now,
In a line of dark mist, coming down from its brow.
"T is a helmeted band-from the hills they descend,
Like the monarchs of storm, when the forest trees bend.
No scimitars swing as they gallop along;
No clattering hoof falls sudden and strong;
No trumpet is fill'd, and no bugle is blown;
No banners abroad on the wind are thrown;
No shoutings are heard, and no cheerings are given;
No waving of red flowing plumage to heaven;
No flashing of blades, and no loosening of reins;
No neighing of steeds, and no tossing of manes;
No furniture trailing, or warrior helms bowing,
Or crimson and gold-spotted drapery flowing;
But they speed, like coursers whose hoofs are shod
With a silent shoe, from the loosen'd sod;
Like the steeds that career o'er the billowy surf,
Or stretch like the winds o'er the untrodden turf, [ing,
Where the willow and yew in their darkness are weep-
And young, gallant hearts are in sepulchres sleeping;
Like the squadrons, that on the pale light of the moon,
While the night's muffled horn plays a low windy tune,
Are seen to come down from the height of the skies,
By the warrior that on the red battle-field lies,
And wave their cloud-helmets, and charge o'er the field,
And career o'er the tracks where the living had wheeld,
When the dying half-raise themselves up in a trance,
And gaze on the show, as their thin banners glance,
And wonder to see the dread battle renew'd, [stood.
On the turf where themselves and their comrades had
Like these shadows, in swiftness and darkness they
ride,
O'er the thunder-reft mount-on its ruggedest side;
From the precipice top, they circle and leap,
Like the warriors of air, that are seen in our sleep;
Like the creatures that pass where a bleeding man lies,
Their heads muffled up to their white filmy eyes,
With gestures more threatening and fierce till he dies:
And away they have gone, with a motionless speed,
Like demons abroad on some terrible deed.
The last one has gone: they have all disappear'd;
Their dull-echoed trampings no longer are heard;
For still, though they pass'd like no steeds of the earth,
The fall of their tread gave some hollow-sounds birth;
Your heart would lie still till it number'd the last; And your breath would be held till the rear horsemen pass'd,
So swiftly, so mutely, so darkly they went,
Like the spectres of air to the sorcerer sent, [tent.
That ye felt their approach, and might guess their in-
Your hero's stern bosom will oftentimes quake,
Your gallant young warrior-plume oftentimes shake,
Before the cool marching that comes in the night,
Passing by, like a cloud in the dim troubled light;
Subduing the heart with a nameless affright,
When that would swell strongly, and this would ap-
If the sound of one trumpet saluted the ear, [pear,
Like some scarlet-wing'd bird, that is nurs'd in the day,
When she shakes her red plumage in wrath o'er her
prey.
For be they the horsemen of earth, or of heaven,
No blast that the trumpet of Slaughter hath given,
No roll of the drum, and no cry of the fife,
No neighing of steeds in the bloodiest strife,
Is half so terrific to full swelling hearts,
With echoless armour, with motionless plume,
As the still, pulseless tramp of a band that departs,
With ensigns all furl'd, in the trappings of gloom,
Parading, like those who came up from the tomb,
In silence and darkness-determined and slow,
And dreadfully calm, as the murderer's brow,
When his dagger is forth!—and ye see not the blow,
Till the gleam of the blade shows your heart in its flow!
When the night breeze is down, and the chill spirit O, say what ye will! the dull sound that awakes
With its measureless thought, is more dreadful by far,
Than the burst of the trump, when it peals for the war.
It is the cold summons that comes from the ground,
When a sepulchre answers your light youthful bound,
And loud joyous laugh, with its chill fearful sound,
Compared to the challenge that leaps on the ear,
And the free golden bugle sings freshly and clear!—
When the banners of death in their splendors appear,
The low, sullen moans, that so fecbly awake,
At midnight, when one is alone, on some lake,
Compared to the Thunderer's voice, when it rolls
From the bosom of space to the uttermost poles !—
Like something that stirs in the weight of a shroud,
To the cannon's full voice, when it wanders aloud!—
The talking of those who go by in a cloud,
"Tis the light that is seen to burst under the wave,
The pale, fitful omen, that plays o'er a grave,
And farewells are discharged o'era young soldier's bed,
To the rushing of flame, where the turf is all red,
To the lightnings that blaze o'er the mariner's way,
When the storm is in pomp, and the ocean in spray!
NOT like the airy god of moulded light, Just stepping from his chariot on the sight; Poising his beauties on a rolling cloud, With outstretch'd arm and bowstring twanging loud, And arrows singing as they pierce the air; With tinkling sandals, and with flaming hair; As if he paused upon his bounding way, And loosen'd his fierce arrows-all in play; But like that angry god, in blazing light
Bursting from space, and standing in his might-
Reveal'd in his omnipotent array,
Apollo of the skies, and deity of day,
In god-like wrath piercing his myriad-foe
With quenchless shafts, that lighten as they go!
-Not like that god, when up in air he springs,
With brightening mantle and with sunny wings,
When heavenly music murmurs from his strings-
A buoyant vision-an imbodied dream
Of dainty Poesy-and boyishly supreme!
-Not the thin spirit waked by young Desire,
Gazing o'er heaven until her thoughts take fire,
Panting and breathless; in her heart's wild trance,
Bright, shapeless forms, the godlings of Romance!
-Not that Apollo-not resembling him
Of silver bow and woman's nerveless limb-
But man-all man! the monarch of the wild!
-Not the faint spirit that corrupting smiled
On soft, lascivious Greece, but Nature's child,
Arrested in the chase, with piercing eye
Fix'd in its airy lightning on the sky,
Where some red bird goes languid, eddying, drooping,
Pierced by his arrows in her swiftest stooping.
Thus springing to the skies, a boy will stand
With arms uplifted and unconscious hand
Tracing his arrow in its loftiest flight,
And watch it kindling, as it cleaves the light
Of worlds unseen but by the Indian's sight-
His robe and hair upon the wind, at length-
A creature of the hills, all grace and strength,
All muscle and all flame-his eager eye
Fix'd on one spot, as if he could descry
His bleeding victim nestling in the sky!
-Not that Apollo !-not the heavenly one,
Voluptuous spirit of a setting sun-
But this, the offspring of young Solitude,
Child of the holy spot, where none intrude
But genii of the torrent, cliff, and wood-
Nurslings of cloud and storm, the desert's fiery brood.
Who thinks of battle now? The stirring sounds Spring lightly from the trumpet, yet who bounds On this sad, still, and melancholy morn, As he was wont to bound, when the fresh horn Came dancing on the winds, and peal'd to heaven, In gone-by hours, before the battle even? The very horses move with halting pace; No more they heave their manes with fiery grace, With plunge, and reach, and step that leaves no trace; No more they spurn the bit, and sudden fling Their light hoofs on the air. The bugles sing, And yet the meteor mane and rolling eye Lighten no longer at their minstrelsy ; No more their housings blaze, no more the gold Or purple flashes from the opening fold; No rich-wrought stars are glittering in their pride Of changing hues; all, all, is crimson-dyed. They move with slow, far step; they hear the tread That measures out the tombing of the dead; The cannon speaks, but now no longer rolls In heavy thunders to the answering poles;
But bursting suddenly, it calls, and flies,
At breathless intervals, along the skies,
As if some viewless sentinel were there
Whose challenge peals at midnight through the air.
Each sullen steed goes on, nor heeds its roar,
Nor pauses when its voice is heard no more;
But snuffs the tainted breeze, and lifts his head,
And slowly wheeling, with a cautious tread,
Shuns, as in reverence, the mighty dead;
Or, rearing suddenly, with flashing eye,
Where some young war-horse lies, he passes by;
Then, with unequal step, he smites the ground,
Utters a startling neigh, and gazes round,
And wonders that he hears no answering sound.
This, while his rider can go by the bier
Of slaughter'd men, and never drop a tear;
And only, when he meets a comrade there,
Stretch'd calmly out, with brow and bosom bare,
And stiffen'd hand uplifted in the air-
With lip still curl'd, and open, glassy eye,
Fix'd on the pageant that is passing by-
And only then-in decency will ride
Less stately in his strength, less lordly in his pride.
THERE are harps that complain to the presence of night, To the presence of night alone
In a near and unchangeable tone-
Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by,
As if some immortal had stoop'd from the sky,
And breathed out a blessing-and flown!
Yes! harps that complain to the breezes of night,
To the breezes of night alone;
Growing fainter and fainter, as ruddy and bright
The sun rolls aloft in his drapery of light,
Like a conqueror, shaking his brilliant hair
And flourishing robe, on the edge of the air!
Burning crimson and gold
On the clouds that unfold,
Breaking onward in flame, while an ocean divides On his right and his left-So the Thunderer rides, When he cuts a bright path through the heaving tides,
Rolling on, and erect, in a charioting throne! Yes! strings that lie still in the gushing of day,
That awake, all alive, to the breezes of night.
There are hautboys and flutes too, for ever at play,
When the evening is near, and the sun is away,
Breathing out the still hymn of delight.
These strings by invisible fingers are play'd—
By spirits, unseen, and unknown,
But thick as the stars, all this music is made;
And these flutes, alone,
In one sweet dreamy tone,
Are ever blown,
For ever and for ever.
The live-long night ye hear the sound,
Like distant waters flowing round
In ringing caves, while heaven is sweet
With crowding tunes, like halls
Where fountain-music falls,
And rival minstrels meet.
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