EPHRAIM PEABODY. [Born, 1807.] TATE THE year in which EPHRAIM PEABODY was born, is remarkable in our annals for having proSeduced an extraordinary number of literary characters. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, NATHANIEL P. WILLIS, THEODORE S. FAY, GEORGE B. CHEEVER, GEORGE LUNT, THOMAS WARD, EDWARD SANDFORD, and some dozen other makers of American books, were born in that year. The native place of Mr. PEABODY is Wilton, in New Hampshire, where he passed his boyhood. He entered Bowdoin College, in Maine, when about sixteen years of age, and was graduated bachelor of arts in 1827. He studied theology at Cambridge, and in 1831 became pastor of a Unitarian church in Cincinnati; whence he removed in 1838 to New Bedford, Massachusetts, where he remained until 1846, since which time he has been minister of King's Chapel, in Boston. Mr. PEABODY's writings, in prose and verse, are marked by a charming freshness, and some of his descriptions have a truthfulness and picturesqueness which can have been derived only from a loving study of nature. Several of his best poems were produced while he was in college, and others, as their subjects indicate, while he was residing or travelling in the valley of the Mississippi. Mr. GALLAGHER, in his "Selections from the Poetical Literature of the West," published in Cincinnati in 1841, claims him as a western writer, and quotes him largely. Few western poets have written so frequently or so well of western themes. THE SKATER'S SONG. AWAY! away! our fires stream bright And their arrowy sparkles of frosty light, Away! away! for the stars are forth, And on the pure snows of the valley, Away! away! o'er the sheeted ice, On our steel-bound feet we move as fleet What though the sharp north winds are out, Midst the laugh and shout of the jocund rout, 'Tis a pleasant sight, the joyous throng, Let others choose more gentle sports, By the side of the winter hearth; But as for me, away! away! Where the fresh wind blows and the smooth ice glows, There is the place for me! LAKE ERIE. THESE lovely shores! how lone and still, The unbroken forest stood above, A hundred years! go back, and lo! His prow is westward set The lonely bird, that picks his food scream, Starts from the sandy brink; The fishhawk, hanging in mid sky, Floats o'er on level wing, And the savage from his covert looks, With arrow on the string. A hundred years are past and gone, Is turreted with shining towns, And the circuit of its mountains An empire's numbers fill! 387 EPHRAIM PEABODY. THE BACKWOODSMAN. THE silent wilderness for me! Where never sound is heard, Alone, (how glorious to be free!) Across the plains I chase; Now track the mountain stream to find I stand upon the mountain's top, Not even a woodman's smoke curls up The air's light currents run, I look around to where the sky And this imperial domain This kingdom-all is mine. This bending heaven, these floating clouds, And wilderness of glory, bring Their offerings to my soul. My palace, built by God's own hand, The world's fresh prime hath seen; Pillar'd and roof'd with green, Though when in this my lonely home, I hear no fond "good-night"-think not O, no! I see my father's house, The hill, the tree, the stream, And the looks and voices of my home And in these solitary haunts, I feel His presence in these shades, My heart is hush'd in prayer. RAFTING. AN August night was shutting down, A moving mass swept round the hills, The raft-fire with its flying light, Stooped forward in the blaze. And while it floated down the stream, Through the ancient woods and wide, And ever and anon they sung, Yo, heave ho! And loud and long the echo rung, And now the tones burst sharp and fast, As if the heavens to climb; The waters ceaseless chime. The plashing of the oar; heard Or the speech and laugh, half audible, We flung to them some words of cheer, But soon its loud notes on the ear, Fell faint and low; And we ceased to hear the hearty cheer, Thus quickly did the river pass, To the unknown, we sweep; Each other o'er the deep. Dre Dest JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. [Born, 1808.] THE ancestors of MR. WHITTIER settled at an early period in the town of Haverhill, on the banks of the Merrimack River, in Massachusetts. They were Quakers, and some of them suffered ed from the "sharp laws" which the fierce Independents enacted against those "devil-driven heretics," as they are styled in the "Magnalia" of CoTTON MATHER. The poet was born in the year 1808, and on a spot inhabited by his family during four or five generations; and until he was eighteen years of age, his time was chiefly passed in the district schools, and in aiding his father on the farm. His nineteenth year was spent in a Latin school, and in 1828 he went to Boston to conduct «The American Manufacturer," a gazette established to advocate a protective tariff. He had previously won some reputation as a writer by various contributions, in prose and verse, to the newspapers printed in his native town and in Newburyport, and the ability with which he managed the Manufacturer," now made his name familiar throughout the country. In 1830 he went to Hartford, in Connecticut, to take charge of the "New England Weekly Review." He remained here about two years, during which he was an ardent politician, of what was then called the National Republican party, and devoted but little attention to literature. He published, however, in this period his "Legends of New England," a collection of poems and prose sketches, founded on events in the early history of the country; wrote the memoir of his friend BRAINARD, prefixed to the collection of that author's works printed in 1830; and several poems which appeared in the "Weekly Review." " In 1831 Mr. WHITTIER returned to Haverhill, where he was five or six years engaged in agricultural pursuits. He represented that town in the legislature, in its sessions for 1835 and 1836, and declined a reelection in 1837. His longest poem, Mogg Megone," was first published in 1836. He regarded the story of the hero only as a framework for sketches of the scenery and of the primitive settlers of Massachusetts and the adjacent states. In portraying the Indian character, he followed as closely as was practicable the rough but natural delineations of CHURCH, MATHEW, CHARLEVOIX, and ROGER WILLIAMS, discarding much of the romance which more modern writers have thrown around the red-man's life. In this, as in the fine Dallad of Cassandra Southwick," and in some of his prose writings, he has exhibited in a very striking manner the intolerant spirit of the Puritans. It can excite no surprise that a New England Quaker refuses to join in the applause which it is the custom to bestow upon the persecutors of his ancestors. But our poet, by a very natural exaggeration, may have done them even less than justice. Impelled by that hatred of every species of oppression which perhaps is the most marked of his characteristics, Mr. WHITTIER entered at an early period upon the discussion of the abolition question, and since the year 1836, when he was elected one of the secretaries of the American Anti-Slavery Society, he has been among the most prominent and influential advocates of immediate emancipation. His poems on this subject are full of indignant and nervous remonstrance, invective and denunciation. Very few in this country express themselves with uniform freedom and sincerity. Nowhere else is there so common and degrading a servility. We have therefore comparatively little individuality, and of course less than we otherwise should have that is original. Mr. WHITTIER rates this tyranny of public opinion at its true value. Whatever may be its power he despises it. He gives to his mind and heart their true voice. His simple, direct and earnest appeals have produced deep and lasting impres sions. Their reception has happily shown that plain and unprejudiced speech is not less likely to be heard than the vapid self-praise and wearisome iteration of inoffensive commonplaces with which the great mass of those who address the public ply the drowsy ears of the hydra. Mr. WHITTIER published a volume of "Ballads" in 1838; "Lays of my Home, and other Poems," in 1845; a full collection of his "Poems" in 1849; "Songs of Labor," in 1851; and "The Chapel of the Hermits, and other Poems," in 1852. His prose works, besides "Legends of New England," before-mentioned, are "The Stranger in Lowell," a collection of prose essays, 1845; "Supernaturalism in New England," 1847; "Leaves from MARGARET SMITH'S Journal," illustrating the age of the Puritans, 1849; "Old Portraits and Modern Sketches," 1850; and "Literary Recreations and Miscellanies," in 1854. Although boldness and energy are WHITTIER'S leading characteristics, his works are not without passages scarcely less distinguished for tenderness and grace. He may reasonably be styled a national poet. His works breathe affection for and faith in our republican polity and unshackled religion, but an affection and a faith that do not blind him to our weakness or wickedness. He is of that class of authors whom we most need in America to build up a literature that shall elevate with itself the national feeling and character. He resides at Haverhill, and has been for several years a "corresponding editor of the "National Era," published in Washington. JOHN G. WHITTIER. THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise to-day, From the scoffer and the cruel he hath pluck'd the spoil away, Yea, He who cool'd the furnace around the faithful three, And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set his handmaid free! Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison bars, Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale gleam of stars; In the coldness and the darkness all through the long night time, My grated casement whitened with Autumn's early rime. Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by; Star after star looked palely in and sank adown the sky; No sound amid night's stillness, save that which seem'd to be The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea; All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the morrow murmur said, 66 Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra?-Bethink the with what mirth Thy happy schoolmates gather around the war bright hearth; How the crimson shadows tremble, on foreheads white and fair, On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hi "Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind words are spoken, Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by langhNo first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap an ing boys are broken; laid, For thee no flowers of Autumn the youthful hand ers braid. "Oh! weak, deluded maiden!--by crazy fancies led With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread; To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure and sound; And mate with maniac women, loose-hair'd and sackcloth-bound. "Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock at things divine, Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and wine; Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the pillory lame, Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in their shame. The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all!" ture's fears «Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavail maiden bed? Sabbath through Turn'd tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew? *This ballad has its foundation upon a somewhat remarkable event in the history of Puritan intolerance. Two young persons, son and daughter of Lawrence Southwick, of Salem, who had himself been imprisoned and deprived of all his property for having entertained two Quakers at his house, were fined ten pounds each for non-attendance at church, which they were unable to pay. The case being represented to the General Court, at Boston, that body issued an order which may still be seen on the court records, bearing the signature of Edward Rawson, Secretary, by which the treasurer of the County was "fully empowered to sell the said persons to any of the English nation at Virginia or Barba dues, to answer said fines." carry this barbarous order into execution, but no shipAn attempt was made to master was found willing to convey them to the West Indies. Vide SEWALL'S History, pp. 225-6, G. BISHOP. ing tears, I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in silent prayer To feel, oh, Helper of the weak!-that Thou in deed wert there! I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell, shackles fell, Till I seem'd to hear the trailing of an angel's robe of white, And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight. And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burn'd upon my cheek, Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling limbs grew weak; "O Lord! support thy handmaid; and from her soul cast out The fear of man, which brings a snare-the weakness and the doubt." Then the dreary shadows scatter'd like a cloud in morning's breeze, And a low deep voice within me seem'd whispering words like these: "Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven a brazen wall, Trust still His loving-kindness whose power is over all." We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit แ "Good people," quoth the white-lipp'd priest, "heed not her words so wild, Her master speaks within her-the Devil owns his child!" But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, the while the sheriff read That law the wicked rulers against the poor have made, Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood bring No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering. Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff turning said: "Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take this Quaker maid? In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia's shore, You may hold her at a higher price than Indian girl or Moor." Grim and silent stood the captains; and when again he cried, "Speak out, my worthy seamen !"-no voice or sign replied; But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words met my ear: "God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl and dear!" A weight seem'd lifted from my heart,-a pitying friend was nigh, I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in his eye; And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, so kind to me, Growl'd back its stormy answer like the roaring of the sea: "Pile my ship with bars of silver-pack with coins of Spanish gold, From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage of her hold, By the living God who made me !-I would sooner in your bay Sink ship and crew and cargo, than bear this child away!" "Well answer'd, worthy captain, shame on their cruel laws!" Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people's just applause. "Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old, Shall we see the poor and righteous again for silver sold?" I look'd on haughty Endicott; with weapon half way drawn, Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate and scorn; Fiercely he drew his bridle rein, and turn'd in silence back, And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode mur. muring in his track. Hard after them the sheriff look'd in bitterness of soul; Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crush'd his parchment roll. |