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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
Around the secret of the mystic zone,
A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag
Flutters alone.

And underneath, upon the lifeless front

Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced;

Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt,
But with a rocky purpose in his soul,
Breasted the gathering snows,

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
The reddening roses! All in vain we poured
The golden wine, and round the shining board
Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung
With the thrice-tripled houors of the feast!
Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased
Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes,
Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies,

Faded and faded. And the brave young heart
That the relentless Arctic winds had robbed
Of all its vital heat, in that long quest
For the lost Captain, now within his breast
More and more faintly throbbed.
His was the victory; but as his grasp
Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp,
Death launched a whistling dart;
And ere the thunders of applause were done
His bright eyes closed forever on the sun!
Too late too late the splendid prize he won
In the Olympic race of Science and of Art!

Like to some shattered berg that, pale and lone,
Drifts from the white North to a Tropic zone,
And in the burning day
Wastes peak by peak away,

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!
We will not weep for him who died so well;
But we will gather round the hearth, and tell
The story of his strife.

Such homage suits him well;
Better than funeral pomp or passing bell!

What tale of peril and self-sacrifice!
Prisoned amid the fastnesses of ice,

With Hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow!
Night lengthening into months; the ravenous floe
Crunching the massive ships, as the white-bear
Crunches his prey. The insufficient share
Of loathsome food;

The lethargy of famine; the despair

Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued;
Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued
Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind
Glimmered the fading embers of a mind!

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
Living defiant of the wants that kill,
Because his death would seal his comrades' fate;
Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill
Those Polar winters, dark and desolate.
Equal to every trial-every fate

He stands, until spring, tardy with relief,
Unlocks the icy gate,

And the pale prisoners thread the world once more,
To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore,
Bearing their dying chief!

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!

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But warmly and softly it loved to caress
Your round white neck and your wealth of tress,
Your beautiful plenty of hair—my pet.

Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette,
Revealing the old, dear story-my pet;
They were gray with that chastened tinge of the sky
When the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly,

And they matched with your golden hair-my pet.

Your lips but I have no words, Janette-
They were fresh as the twitter of birds-my pet,
When the spring is young, and roses are wet,
With the dew-drops in each red bosom set,

And they suited your gold brown hair-my pet.

Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette,
"Twas a silken and golden suare-my pet;
But, so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore
The right to continue your slave evermore,

With my fingers enmeshed in your hair-my pet.

Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette,
With your lips and your eyes and your hair-my pet ;
In the darkness of desolate years I moan,
And my tears fall bitterly over the stone
That covers your golden hair-my pet.

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,
Let me tangle a hand in your hair-my pet;"
For the world to me had no daintier sight [white.
Than your brown hair veiling your shoulder

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,
It was sinewy, bristled, and brown-my pet;

TELL HER.

O river Beautiful! the breezy hills

That slope their green declivities to thee,
In purple reaches hide my Life from me:—
Go, then, beyond the thunder of the mills,
And wheels that churn thy waters into foam,
And murmuring softly to the darling's ear,
And murmuring sweetly when my love shall hear,
Tell how I miss her presence in our home.
Say that it is as lonely as my heart;
The rooms deserted; all her pet birds mute;
The sweet geranium odorless; the flute,
Its stops untouched, while wondrous gems of art
Lie lustreless as diamonds in a mine,

To kindle in her smile and in her radiance shine.

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