TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again! Ye are the things that tower, that shine, whose smile THE ACTOR'S CRAFT. LINES ON A MINISTER (NOT AN AMERICAN) WHO PREACH- That gave it uniformity and power, And euphony and grace; and-more than thatTo thoughts that glow and shine with Heaven's own fire, He gave revealment unto millions That else had lived in darkness to Heaven's gift! Thy heart is no ascetic. Seat so soft The banquet!" Never mind! Thou dost not lack Strength greater than thine own. I knelt in soul. "We'll hear a preacher now." What didst thou preach? Thyself!! The little worm that God did make, But foreign to the Actor's proper art. Thy gesture measured to the word, not fitted; — Thy modulation, running mountains high, And further, know the Stage a preacher too- Is honest in the main!--Another word,- An Infidel!-"Judge not, lest ye be judged,” A man for faith some shade diverse from mine. Caroline Gilman. AMERICAN. Mrs. Gilman, daughter of Samuel Howard, a shipwright, was born in Boston, Mass., in 1794. She married Dr. Samuel Gilman, a graduate of Harvard College, and a Unitarian clergyman, who was born in Gloucester in 1791. He settled in Charleston, S. C., in 1819, and remained there till his death in 1858. Mrs. Gilman began to write and publish before her eighteenth year, and was the author of several volumes in prose and verse, showing much literary diligence and versatility. Her "Verses of a Lifetime" (Boston, 1848) is her principal collection. She was residing with a widowed daughter at Tiverton, R. I., as late as 1880. Dr. Gilman was the poet of his class at college, and the author of pieces much admired in their day. FROM "THE PLANTATION." Farewell awhile the city's hum Where busy footsteps fall; And welcome to my weary eye The planter's friendly hall! Here let me rise at early dawn, And list the mock-bird's lay, That, warbling near our lowland home, Sits on the waving spray ; Then tread the shading avenue Or gum-tree, with its flickered shade, The myrtle-tree, the orange wild, There, towering with imperial pride, The long gray moss hangs gracefully, Or stop to catch the fragrant air Life wakes around-the red-bird darts The frightened hare scuds by my path, The humming-bird, with busy wing, Triumphant to yon withered pine There builds her eyrie 'mid the clouds, ANNIE IN THE GRAVEYARD. She bounded o'er the graves With a buoyant step of mirth: She bounded o'er the graves, Where the weeping-willow waves,— Like a creature not of earth. Her hair was blown aside, And her eyes were glittering bright; Her hair was blown aside, And her little hands spread wide She spelled the lettered word That registers the dead; She spelled the lettered word, And her busy thoughts were stirred With pleasure as she read. She stopped and culled a leaf Left fluttering on a rose; She stopped and culled a leaf, Sweet monument of grief, That in our church-yard grows. She culled it with a smile- I did not chill her heart, Nor turn its gush to tears: I did not chill her heartOh, bitter drops will start Full soon in coming years! Then praise for the past and the present we sing, Henry Ware. AMERICAN. Ware (1794-1843), the fifth child and eldest son of a elergyman of the same name, was a native of Hingham, Mass. He became pastor of the Second Church in Boston in 1816, and remained there thirteen years, when the state of his health compelled him to resign, and accept a situation as Professor of Pulpit Eloquence in Harvard College. A memoir of his life, in two volumes, by his brother, John Ware, M.D., appeared in 1846. A selection from his writings (1846) by the Rev. Chandler Robbins, in four volumes 12mo, was also published. A THANKSGIVING SONG. Come, uncles and cousins; come, nieces and aunts; Come, nephews and brothers—no won'ts and no can'ts; Put business, and shopping, and school-books away; The year has rolled round—it is Thanksgiving-day. Come home from the college, ye ringlet-haired youth, Come home from your factories, Ann, Kate, and Ruth; From the anvil, the counter, the farm, come away; Home, home with you all-it is Thanksgiving-day. The table is spread, and the dinner is dressed; Pies, puddings, and custards; pigs, oysters, and nuts Come forward and seize them, without ifs and buts; Bring none of your slim little appetites hereThanksgiving-day comes only once in a year. Thrice welcome the day in its annual round! What treasures of love in its bosom are found! New England's high holiday, ancient and dear,-"Twould be twice as welcome, if twice in a year. Now children revisit the darling old place, And the same voices shout at the old cottage door. The grandfather smiles on the innocent mirth, day. RESURRECTION OF CHRIST. Lift your glad voices in triumph on high, For Jesus hath risen, and man cannot die; Vain were the terrors that gathered around him, And short the dominion of death and the grave; He burst from the fetters of darkness that bound him, Resplendent in glory to live and to save: Loud was the chorus of angels on high,"The Saviour hath risen, and man cannot die." Glory to God, in full anthems of joy! The being he gave us death cannot destroy! Sad were the life we must part with to-morrow, If tears were our birthright, and death were our end; But Jesus bath cheered the dark valley of sorrow, And bade us, immortal, to heaven ascend; Lift, then, your voices in triumph on high, Edward Everett. AMERICAN. Everett (1794-1865) was a native of Dorchester, Mass. Entering Harvard College at the age of thirteen, he was graduated with highest honors. He was appointed tutor in Greek, and spent four years in Europe qualifying himself. In all the various offices of Governor of Massachusetts, Member of Congress, United States Senator, President of Harvard University, Minister to England, and in several other well-known positions, he served with eminent fidelity. Little known as a poet, he was the author of one picce, at least, that entitles him to a place in the list. ALARIC THE VISIGOTH. When I am dead, no pageant train Ye shall not raise a marble bust Upon the spot where I repose; Ye shall not fawn before my dust, In hollow circumstance of woes; Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath, Insult the clay that moulds beneath. Ye shall not pile, with servile toil, Lay down the wreck of power to rest; Where man can boast that he has trod On him that was "the scourge of God." But ye the mountain stream shall turn, My gold and silver ye shall fling Back to the clods, that gave them birthThe captured crowns of many a king, The ransom of a conquered earth; For e'en though dead will I control The trophies of the Capitol. But when beneath the mountain tide Ye've laid your monarch down to rot, Ye shall not rear upon its side Pillar or mound to mark the spot: For long enough the world has shook Beneath the terrors of my look; And now that I have run my race, The astonished realms shall rest a space. My course was like a river deep, And from the Northern hills I burst, Across the world in wrath to sweep, And where I went the spot was cursed, Nor blade of grass again was seen Where Alaric and his hosts had been. See how their haughty barriers fail Before my ruthless sabaoth, And low the queen of empires kneels, And grovels at my chariot-wheels. Not for myself did I ascend In judgment my triumphal car; 'Twas God alone on high did send The avenging Scythian to the war, To shake abroad, with iron hand, The appointed scourge of his commaud. With iron hand that scourge I reared And Vengeance sat upon the helm, Across the everlasting Alp I poured the torrent of my powers, And feeble Cæsars shrieked for help In vain within their seven-hilled towers. And bade my Northern banners shine My course is run, my errand doneI go to Him from whom I came; But never yet shall set the sun Of glory that adorns my name; And Roman hearts shall long be sick, When men shall think of Alaric. My course is run, my errand done; And in the caves of Vengeance, wait; And soon mankind shall blench away Before the name of Attila. Carlos Wilcox. AMERICAN. Wilcox (1794-1827), the son of a farmer, was a native of Newport, N. H. He entered Middlebury College, and afterward studied theology at Andover. He commenced preaching in 1818; his discourses were eloquent and thoughtful; but he had to abandon the ministry on ac count of ill-health. His principal poem is "The Age of Benevolence," which he did not live to complete, and portions of which only have been published. Another incomplete poem, included in his "Remains," is "The Religion of Taste," republished in London in 1850. his minute and accurate descriptions of natural scenery he shows some of the highest qualities of the poet. He may lack the passionate fervor by which the most impressive effects are reached in concentrated expression and startling metaphor, but he deserved a higher fame than he ever reached among the literary men of his day. A volume of his "Remains" was published in Hartford, Conn., in 1828, by Edward Hopkins. And on its dark side, haply on the step A LATE SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND. FROM "THE AGE OF BENEVOLENCE." Long swollen in drenching rain, seeds, germs, and buds Start at the touch of vivifying beams. On the first morn, light as an open plain A VISION OF HEAVEN. FROM "THE RELIGION OF TASTE." Myself I found borne to a heavenly clime,- Even to my raiment! On the borders fair There walked the ransomed ones of earth, in white Safe landed on these shores, together hence That bright throng took their way to where insphered In a transparent cloud of light intense, All to one glassy surface smoothed and cleared, And while that host moved onward o'er a plain Of living verdure, oft they turned to greet Friends that on earth had taught them heaven to gain; Then hand-in-hand they went with quickened feet: And bright with immortality, and sweet With love ethereal, were the smiles they cast; I only wandered on with none to meet And call me dear, while pointing to the past, And forward to the joys that never reach their last. |