Richard Henry Wilde. Wilde (1789-1847), a native of Dublin, Ireland, came to America in 1797, and settled in Georgia. He became attorney-general of that State, and represented it in Congress most of the time from 1815 to 1835. He was a genial, noble-hearted gentleman, with decided literary tastes. We have pleasant recollections of our acquaintance with him in Washington. SONNET: TO THE MOCKING-BIRD. Winged mimic of the woods! thou motley fool! Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe? Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe: Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe, Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school; To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule! For such thou art by day,-but all night long Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain, As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song Like to the melancholy Jacques complain, Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong, And sighing for thy motley coat again. Alexander Hill Everett. AMERICAN. Everett (1790-1847) was a native of Boston, and a graduate of Harvard. He entered college at the age of twelve, and graduated the first in his class. He studied law with John Quincy Adams, went with him as secretary of legation to Russia in 1809, served as Minister to Spain in 1829, and on his return home edited the North American Review. He was President of Jefferson College, Louisiana, in 1841. In 1846 he went to Canton as United States Minister to the Chinese Empire, and died there at the age of fifty-seven. He was a frequent contributor to the Boston Miscellany, and in 1846 published two volumes of "Critical and Miscellaneous Essays, with Poems." He was a brother of Edward Everett and John, both of them writers of poetry. THE YOUNG AMERICAN. Scion of a mighty stock! Hands of iron-hearts of oakFollow with unflinching tread Where the noble fathers led. ALEXANDER HILL EVERETT.—THOMAS DOUBLEDAY.-CHARLES WOLFE. Craft and subtle treachery, Honesty with steady eye, Love that gently winneth hearts, — Prudent in the council train, Where the dews of night distil Thither turn the steady eye, Flashing with a purpose high; Thither, with devotion meet, Often turn the pilgrim feet! Let the noble motto be, Laugh at danger far or near! Spurn at baseness-spurn at fear! Still, with persevering might, Speak the truth, and do the right. So shall Peace, a charming guest, Happy if celestial favor Thomas Doubleday. Doubleday (1790-1870), a native of England, was the associate author of a little volume of verse published in 1818, and entitled "Sixty-five Sonnets: with Prefatory Remarks on the accordance of the Sonnet with the powers of the English Language. Also a few Miscellaneous 413 Poems" the joint production of Doubleday and his cousin, William Greene. Doubleday afterward rose to eminence as a writer on political, social, and financial subjects. THE WALLFLOWER. I will not praise the often-flattered rose, Or, virgin-like, with blushing charms half seen, As Genius does, and from thy rocky tower Charles Wolfe. On the Wolfe (1791-1823) was a native of Dublin. death of his father, his mother removed to England, and placed Charles at Hyde Abbey School, in Winchester, where he remained till 1808, when the family returned to Ireland. He then entered Trinity College, where he acquired distinction for scholarship and literary ability. In 1817 he obtained a curacy in Tyrone. His incessant attention to his parish duties undermined his delicate constitution, and he died young of consumption. His lines on the " Burial of Sir John Moore" were pronounced by Byron "the most perfect ode in the language." But Wolfe's song, "Go, forget me," is hardly less deserving of praise. It is unsurpassed in delicacy of pathos, and has been wedded to appropriate music. His "Remains" were published in 1826. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. He was killed at Corunna, where he fell in the arms of victory, 1809. With his dying breath he faltered out a message to his mother. Sir John Moore had often said that if he were killed in battle, he wished to be buried where he fell. The body was removed at midnight to the citadel of Corunna. A grave was dug for him on the rampart there by a party of the 9th Regiment, the aides-de-camp attending by turns. No coffin could be procured; and the officers of his staff wrapped the body, dressed as it was, in a military cloak and blankets. The interment was hastened, for about eight in the morning some firing was heard. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, Charles Sprague. AMERICAN. CHARLES SPRAGUE. Sprague (1791-1876) was a native of Boston, Mass., and entered upon mercantile pursuits at an early age. In 1825 he became cashier of the Globe Bank, an office he held thirty-nine years. He then retired from active life. His literary tastes were developed early. He wrote prize odes for the opening of theatres, and delivered a poem, entitled "Curiosity," before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard College. An edition of his collected poems was published in 1876. Upright, generous, and independent, few poets have been more respected for moral worth and nobility of character. His son, Charles J. Sprague (born 1823), seems to have inherited much of his father's genius and worth. THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS. "Twere heaven indeed Through fields of trackless light to soar, On nature's charms to feed, And nature's own great God adore. THE FOURTH OF JULY. 415 To the sages who spoke, to the heroes who bled, To the day and the deed, strike the harp-strings of glory! Let the song of the ransomed remember the dead, And the tongue of the eloquent hallow the story! O'er the bones of the bold Be that story long told, And on Fame's golden tablets their triumphs enrolled During the church service, two little birds flew in and perched Who on Freedom's green hills Freedom's banner upon the cornices. Gay, guiltless pair, What seek ye from the fields of heaven? Ye have no need of prayer, Ye have no sins to be forgiven. Why perch ye here, Where mortals to their Maker bend? Can your pure spirits fear The God ye never could offend? Ye never knew The crimes for which we come to weep; Penance is not for you, Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. To you 'tis given To wake sweet nature's untaught lays, Then spread each wing Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, In yon blue dome not reared with hands. Or, if ye stay To note the consecrated hour, And let me try your envied power. Above the crowd, On upward wings could I but fly, unfurled, And the beacon-fire raised that gave light to the world! They are gone-mighty men!-and they sleep in their fame: Shall we ever forget them? Oh, never! no, never! Let our sons learn from us to embalm each great name, And the anthem send down-"Independence forever!" Wake, wake, heart and tongue! Let their deeds through the long line of ages be sung Who on Freedom's green hills Freedom's banner unfurled, And the beacon-fire raised that gave light to the world! SHAKSPEARE. FROM AN ODE RECITED AT THE SHAKSPEARE CELEBRA- Then Shakspeare rose!— His daring hand he flings, And lo! a new creation glows! There, clustering round, submissive to his will, Madness, with his frightful scream; Vengeance, leaning on his lance; Avarice, with his blade and beam; Hatred, blasting with a glance; Remorse, that weeps; and Rage, that roars; And Jealousy, that dotes, but dooms and murders, yet adores. Mirth, his face with sunbeams lit, Waking Laughter's merry swell, That waves his tingling lash while Folly shakes his bell. Despair, that haunts the gurgling stream, Beneath the bubbling wave that shrouds her maniac breast. Young Love, with eye of tender gloom, Where beauty's child, the frowning world forgot, While fairies leave their cowslip cells, and guard the happy spot. Thus rise the phantom throng, Obedient to their master's song, And lead in willing chain the wondering soul along! I SEE THEE STILL. Remembrance, faithful to her trust, I see thee still In every hallowed token round: This little ring thy finger bound, This lock of hair thy forehead shaded, I see thee still! Here was thy summer noon's retreat, I see thee still! Thon art not in the grave confined-- Henry Hart Milman. Milman (1791-1868), the son of an eminent physician, was a native of London. At Oxford he distinguished himself as a classical scholar, and took a prize for his poem on the Apollo-Belvidere. Having studied for the Church, he was made dean of St. Paul's in 1849. He first appeared as an author in 1817, in his tragedy of “ Fazio," produced at Drury Lane, February 5th, 1818, and afterward revived with great success by the acting of Fanny Kemble both in England and the United States. Milman wrote other dramatic pieces: "Samor" (1818); "The Fall of Jerusalem" (1820); "Belshazzar" (1822); "The Martyr of Antioch" (1822); and “Anne Boleyn" (1826); also several minor poems. He was the author of a "History of the Jews" and a "History of Christianity," both highly esteemed works. As a poet he shows high culture and a refined literary taste. As a man he was greatly beloved by a large circle of acquaintances. His histories gave rise to controversy. He was accused of treating the Bible as a philosophical inquirer would treat any profane work of antiquity-as having ascribed to natural causes events which the Scriptures declare to be miraculous, and as having, therefore, unwittingly contributed to subvert the bulwarks of the faith he was bound to defend. |