and Harper's Weekly between 1853 and 1860. When news of the death of Kane reached New York, O'Brien was asked to write a poem on the subject for the next number of Harper's Weekly. It is a brilliant proof of his genius that he could produce to order such a poem as he did. Rude in places, and showing a lack of the labor limæ, it is yet a remarkable production. When the Civil War broke out, he enlisted in the New York Seventh Regiment, and marched with his company to the capital. In January, 1862, he got an appointment on the staff of Gen. Lander, and showed great bravery in several skirmishes. The following month, while heading a cavalry charge, he was shot in the shoulder. The wound was not at first thought dangerous, but from surgical maltreatment it became so. On the 4th of April he had to submit to an operation, of which he wrote: "All my shoulder-bone and a portion of my upper arm have been taken away. I nearly died. My breath ceased, heart ceased to beat, pulse stopped. *** There is a chance of my getting out of it; that's all. In case I don't, good-bye, old fellow, with all my love!" Two days after this was written, he died. ELISHA KENT KANE. DIED FEBRUARY 16, 1857. Aloft, upon an old basaltic crag, Which, scalped by keen winds that defend the Pole, Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll And underneath, upon the lifeless front Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced; Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt, Clung to the drifting floes, By want beleaguered, and by winter chased, Seeking the brother f amid that frozen waste. Not many months ago we greeted him, Crowned with the icy honors of the North. Across the land his hard-won fame went forth, And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb. His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim, Burst from its decorous quiet as he came. Hot Southern lips, with eloquence aflame, Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim, Proffered its horny hand. The large-lunged West, From out its giant breast In vain-in vain beneath his feet we flung Faded and faded. And the brave young heart Like to some shattered berg that, pale and lone, Till on some rosy even It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea, And melted into Heaven! He needs no tears, who lived a noble life! Such homage suits him well; What tale of peril and self-sacrifice! With Hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow! The lethargy of famine; the despair Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued; Yelled its frank welcome. And from main to main, That awful hour, when through the prostrate band Jubilant to the sky, Thundered the mighty cry, HONOR TO KANE. Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew. The whispers of rebellion, faint and few FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN.-CHARLES G. HALPINE.-FLORUS B. PLIMPTON. At first, but deepening ever till they grew Into black thoughts of murder: such the throng Of horrors round the Hero. High the song Should be that hymns the noble part he played! Sinking himself—yet ministering aid To all around him. By a mighty will He stands, until spring, tardy with relief, And the pale prisoners thread the world once more, Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold From royal hands, who wooed the knightly state; The knell of old formalities is tolled, And the world's knights are now self-consecrate. No grander episode doth chivalry hold In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, Than that long vigil of unceasing pain, Faithfully kept, through hunger and through cold, By the good Christian knight, ELISHA KANE! 833 But warmly and softly it loved to caress Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette, And they matched with your golden hair-my pet. Your lips but I have no words, Janette- And they suited your gold brown hair-my pet. Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette, With my fingers enmeshed in your hair-my pet. Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette, Charles Graham Halpine. Halpine (1829-1869) was a native of Ireland. Emigrating to America, he connected himself with the Press, and won distinction. Under the assumed name of Miles O'Reilly he wrote some of the most effective of the humorous poems that were produced during the Civil War. A major in the army of the Union, he wrote for the cause almost as well as he fought. Florus Beardsley Plimpton. AMERICAN. Plimpton was born in 1830, in Palmyra, Portage County, O. He was educated principally at Alleghany College, Meadville, Pa., and in 1851 connected himself editorially with a newspaper at Warren, Trumbull County. In 1857 he removed to Pittsburgh, Pa., and edited the Daily Despatch. JANETTE'S HAIR. "Oh, loosen the snood that you wear, Janette, It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette, It was finer than silk of the floss-my pet; "Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist, "Twas a thing to be braided, and jewelled, and kissed "Twas the loveliest hair in the world-my pet. My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette, TELL HER. O river Beautiful! the breezy hills That slope their green declivities to thee, To kindle in her smile and in her radiance shine. |