CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. THE DAY WAS DARK. The day was dark, save when the beam Of noon through darkness broke: In gloom I sat, as in a dream, Beneath my orchard oak, Lo, splendor, like a spirit, came! A shadow like a tree! While there I sat, and named her name Who once sat there with me. I started from the seat in fear, Though all that was I saw : The seat, the tree, where oft in tears She mourned her hopes o'erthrown, Her joys cut off in early years, Like gathered flowers half-blown. Again the bud and breeze were met, And e'en the rose which she had set The thrush proclaimed in accents sweet I think, I feel-but when will she A voice of comfort answers me, That God does naught in vain: He wastes nor flower, nor bud, nor leaf, Nor wind, nor cloud, nor wave; And will he waste the hope which grief Hath planted in the grave? A POET'S EPITAPH. Stop, Mortal! Here thy brother lies, His books were rivers, woods, and skies, His teachers were the torn heart's wail, The street, the factory, the jail, Sin met thy brother everywhere! And is thy brother blamed? From passion, danger, doubt, and care The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, He feared to scorn or hate; But, honoring in a peasant's form The equal of the great, He blessed the steward whose wealth makes The poor man's little more; Yet loathed the haughty wretch that takes From plundered labor's store. A hand to do, a head to plan, A heart to feel and dare- Henry Pickering. AMERICAN. Pickering (1781-1838) was a native of Newburgh, New York, where he was born in a house once the head-quarters of Washington. In 1801 his father, who was quartermaster-general of the army, and had been with Washington at the siege of Yorktown, returned to his native State, Massachusetts, and Henry engaged in mercantile pursuits at Salem. Unsuccessful in business, he removed to New York, and resided several years at Rondout and other places on the banks of the Hudson. An edition of "The Buckwheat Cake," a poem in blank verse, in the mock-heroic style, but of trifling merit, from his pen, was published in Boston in 1831. THE HOUSE IN WHICH I WAS BORN. (ONCE THE HEAD-QUARTERS OF WASHINGTON.) I. Square, and rough-hewn, and solid is the mass, And ancient, if aught ancient here appear Beside yon rock-ribbed hills: but many a year Hath into dim oblivion swept, alas! Since, bright in arms, the worthies of the land Were here assembled. Let me reverent tread; For now, meseems, the spirits of the dead Are slowly gathering round, while I am fanned By gales unearthly. Ay, they hover nearPatriots and Heroes-the august and great— The founders of a young and mighty State, Whose grandeur who shall tell? With holy fear, While tears unbidden my dim eyes suffuse, I mark them one by one, and, marvelling, muse. II. I gaze, but they have vanished! And the eye, Free now to roam from where I take my stand, Dwells on the hoary pile. Let no rash hand Attempt its desccration: for though I REGINALD Heber. Beneath the sod shall sleep, and memory's sigh Reginald Heber. Heber (1783-1826), the son of a clergyman, was born at Malpas, in Cheshire. A precocious youth, he was admitted of Brasenose College, Oxford, in 1800. After taking a prize for Latin hexameters, he wrote the best of University prize poems, "Palestine." Previous to its recitation in the theatre he read it to Sir Walter Scott, then at Oxford, who remarked that in the poem the fact was not mentioned that in the construction of Solomon's Temple no tools were used. Young Heber retired for a few minutes to the corner of the room, and returned with these beautiful lines, which were added: "No hammer fell, no ponderons axes rung; In 1807 Heber took orders in the Church, and in 1809 he married a daughter of the Dean of St. Asaph, and settled at Hodnet. Contrary to the advice of prudent friends, he accepted in 1823 the Bishopric of Calcutta. In April, 1826, a few days after his arrival at Trichinopoly, he died of an apoplectic attack while taking a bath. Heber was a man of exalted piety, earnest and faithful in the discharge of his clerical duties, and an industrious writer. There is a grace and finish in his poems, showing a high degree of literary culture as well as genuine poetical feeling. FROM BISHOP HEBER'S JOURNAL. If thou wert by my side, my love! How fast would evening fail In green Bengala's palmy grove, Listening the nightingale! If thou, my love! wert by my side, I miss thee at the dawning gray I miss thee when by Gunga's stream I spread my books, my pencil try, The lingering noon to cheer, But miss thy kind approving eye, Thy meek, attentive ear. But when of morn and eve the star Beholds me on my knee, I feel, though thou art distant far, Thy prayers ascend for me. Then on! then on! where duty leads, That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, Nor wild Malwah detain, For sweet the bliss us both awaits, By youder western main. 363 Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, But ne'er were hearts so light and gay, THE WIDOW OF NAIN. Wake not, O mother! sounds of lamentation! Weep not, O widow! weep not hopelessly! Strong is His arm, the Bringer of Salvation, Strong is the Word of God to succor thee! Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear him: Hide his pale features with the sable pall: Chide not the sad one wildly weeping near him: Widowed and childless, she has lost her all! Why pause the mourners? Who forbids our weeping? Who the dark pomp of sorrow has delayed? "Set down the bier, he is not dead, but sleeping! Young man, arise!"-He spake, and was obeyed! Change then, O sad one! grief to exultation: Worship and fall before Messiah's knee. Strong was His arm, the Bringer of Salvation; Strong was the Word of God to succor thee! REGINALD HEBER.-JANE TAYLOR. 365 They're lost, and gone-the moon is past, The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast; And fainter, fainter, fainter still The march is rising o'er the hill. Again, again, the pealing drum, The clashing horn,-they come; they come ! MAY-DAY. Queen of fresh flowers, Whom vernal stars obey, Bring thy genial ray. In nature's greenest livery dressed, Descend on earth's expectant breast, To earth and heaven a welcome guest, Thou merry month of May! Mark! how we meet thee At dawn of dewy day! With our roundelay! While all the goodly things that be Flocks on the mountains, And birds upon the spray, Tree, turf, and fountains All hold holiday; And love, the life of living things, Love waves his torch and claps his wings, Jane Taylor. Jane Taylor (1783-1824) was a native of London, but brought up chiefly at Larenham, in Suffolk. Her father, Isaac Taylor (1759-1829), was an engraver, and ultimately pastor of an Independent Congregation at Ongar, in Essex, and a voluminous author. Jane's mother (née Ann Martin) also wrote books. Jointly with her sister Ann (1782-1866), Jane produced "Original Poems for Infant Minds." The sisters also wrote "Hymns for Infant Minds," which were very popular. Their two little poems, "My Mother," and "Twinkle, twinkle, little star," will not readily become obsolete in the nursery. Jane was the author of "Display," a novel (1815), of "Essays in Rhyme" (1816), and “Contributions of Q Q." She had a brother, Isaac Taylor (1787-1865), who wrote "Physical Theory of Another Life," and other much esteemed works. TEACHING FROM THE STARS. Stars, that on your wondrous way Travel through the evening sky, Is there nothing you can say To such a little child as I? Tell me, for I long to know, Who has made you sparkle so? Yes, methinks I hear you say, "Child, as truly as we roll Through the dark and distant sky, You have an immortal soul, Born to live when we shall die. Suns and planets pass away: Spirits never can decay. "When some thousand years at most, "Yes, and God, who bade us roll, God, who hung us in the sky, Stoops to watch an infant's soul With a condescending eye; And esteems it dearer far, More in value than a star! "Oh, then, while your breath is given, John Kenyon. The son of a wealthy English West Indian merchant, Kenyon (1783-1856), a native of Jamaica, inherited a large fortune. He cultivated the society of literary men; and among his associates were Byron, Wordsworth, Procter, Browning, and other eminent poets. Dying, he bestowed more than £100,000 in legacies to his friends. He wrote "A Rhymed Plea for Tolerance" (1833); "Poems, for the most part Occasional" (1838); and "A Day at Tivoli, with other Poems" (1849). CHAMPAGNE ROSE. Lily on liquid roses floating So floats yon foam o'er pink champagne ;Fain would I join such pleasant boating, And prove that ruby main, And float away on wine! Those seas are dangerous, graybeards swear,— And true it is they cross in pain Who sober cross the Stygian ferry; But only make our Styx champagne, And we shall cross quite merry, Floating away in wine! Old Charon's self shall make him mellow, That dips itself in wine! Allan Cunningham. Poet, novelist, and miscellaneous writer, Cunningham (1784-1842) was born of humble parentage in Dumfriesshire, Scotland. He began life as a stone-mason: in 1810 he repaired to London, got an appointment of trust in the studio of the sculptor Chantrey, and there settled for life. He had early shown a taste for literature, and written for the magazines of the day. His taste and attainments in the fine arts were remarkable. His warm heart, his upright, independent character, attracted the affectionate esteem of all who enjoyed his acquaintance. He left four sons-Joseph D., Alexander, Peter, and Francis-all of whom have won distinction in literature. Cunningham was the author of "Paul Jones," a successful romance (1826); and from 1829 to 1833 he produced for "Murray's Family Library" his most esteemed prose work, "The Lives of the most eminent British Painters, Sculptors, and Architects," in six volumes. A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. A wind that follows fast, Oh for a soft and gentle wind! But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high, my boys, There's tempest in yon hornéd moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark, the music, mariners, The wind is piping loud! The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing freeWhile the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea. IT'S HAME, AND IT'S HAME. It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, the tree, The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie The green leaf o' loyalty's beginning for to fa', There's naught now frae ruin my country can save, But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave, |