GEORGE W. CUTTER. [Born, 18-.] MR. CUTTER published at Cincinnati, in 1848, a volume entitled "Buena Vista, and other Poems," in the preface of which he says to the "gentle reader," "I desire that you will not for a moment suppose me insensible to their many and great imperfections, or deem me so vain as to expect that you will be startled by any sudden display of genius, or charmed by any imposing array of erudition. They were written, for the most part, amid the turmoil and excitement incident to the discharge of the duties of an arduous profession, in hours that were clouded by no ordinary toils, with no other object or end in view but to lighten the burden of existence, to dissipate the gloom of the moment." In the previous year, Mr. CUTTER had joined the army for the invasion of Mexico, as a captain of volunteers, and he participated in the victory of Buena Vista, and wrote upon the field his poem descriptive of that battle. The finest of his compo sitions is "The Song of Steam," which is worthy of the praise it has received, of being one of the best lyrics of the century. "The Song of Lightning," written more recently, is perhaps next to it in merit THE SONG OF STEAM. HARNESS me down with your iron bands; Or waiting the wayward breeze; Or tugg'd at the weary oar: When I measured the panting courser's speed, The flight of the courier-dove, As they bore the law a king decreed, Or the lines of impatient love I could not but think how the world would feel, As these were outstripp'd afar, When I should be bound to the rushing keel, Ha, ha, ha! they found me at last; The mountains steep decline; The rivers the sun hath earliest blest, The ocean pales where'er I sweep, To hear my strength rejoice, I carry the wealth and the lord of earth, In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine Where the rocks never saw the sun's decline, I bring earth's glittering jewels up I blow the bellows, I forge the steel, I hammer the ore and turn the wheel I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint- And all my doings I put into print I've no muscles to weary, no breast to decay, 66 go and play," While I manage this world myself. But harness me down with your iron bands; Be sure of your curb and rein: For I scorn the strength of your puny hands, As the tempest scorns a chain! 463 GEORGE W. CUTTER. THE SONG OF LIGHTNING. AWAY, away through the sightless air- Let it reach the world around, And the journey ye make in a hundred years I'll clear at a single bound! Though I cannot toil like the groaning slave To ferry you over the boundless wave, Let him sing his giant strength and speed: No, no! I'm the spirit of light and love: On the horizon far below, And deck the skies where storms expire The deepest recesses of earth are mine- My being is like a lovely thought That dwells in a sinless breast; A tone of music that ne'er was caught- I burn in the bright and burnish'd halls, Where the fountains of sunlight playWhere the curtain of gold and opal fulls O'er the scenes of the dying day. With a glance I cleave the sky in twain, I light it with a glare, When fall the boding drops of rain Through the darkly-curtain'd air; Before my glittering spears. From the Alps' or the highest Andes' crag, Gleam o'er the world below; The earthquake heralds my coming power, Ye tremble when my legions come- the seas, Ye quail on the land or upon Were all too blind to read. And kings no more shall blind, The forward march of mind; Shall rise upon the world. But away, away, through the sightless air— With the dust ye tamely tread. Let it circle the world around, And the journey ye make in a hundred years ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL WORTIL Arouse the morning ray, In echoes die away...... Ah! let them murmur low, The solemn notes of wo!...... At Chippewa and Lundy's Lane, The battle-thunder peal'd; Again his flag unroll'd, And when the grape-shot rent away He waved upon the air, But ah! the dreadful seal is broke- In death is sleeping now, ROBERT T. CONRAD. [Born, 1810.] ROBERT T. CONRAD was born in Philadelphia on the tenth of June, 1810. His first American ancestor was DENNIS CONRAD, an enlightened German pastor, who withdrew his flock from the religious intolerance of the father-land and settled with them in the neighborhood of Philadelphia during the residence of WILLIAM PENN in the colony. The family remained in the vicinity, and has furnished a succession of good citizens. The grandfather of our author, Mr. MICHAEL CONRAD, an eminent teacher of mathematics, discharged his class, on the breaking out of the revolution, and with his musket joined the army of WASHINGTON. His father, JOHN CONRAD, was from 1798 for many years the most extensive publisher and bookseller in this country, his main establishment being in Philadelphia, with branches in the principal cities of the South and West. He represented the city in the legislature, filled other offices of trust and His interest in public affairs soon led him to unhonor here, and for several years before his death dertake the leading articles of the "North Ameriwas mayor of the Northern Liberties, next to the can," and the editorial charge of " Graham's Magacity proper the most important of those munici- zine." More recently he has been president of palities which now constitute the consolidated one of the more important western railroad comtown. He possessed a vigorous and finely culti-panies, and on the union of the various municipavated understanding, gentle affections, and in all respects a perfect integrity of character. Mr. CONRAD's poems are in his best sonnet dedicated to his father. His maternal grandfather, JOHN WILKES KITTERA, was a learned lawyer, long at the head of the bar of Lancaster, which county he represented in Congress, and an intimate friend of the elder President ADAMS, who appointed him the federal attorney-general for the state. to the bench. He was the youngest man, with, perhaps, the exception of Judge WILSON, ever dignified with the ermine in Pennsylvania. In March, 1838, he was elected to a court of higher and more extended jurisdiction, and in 1840, by an executive of conflicting politics, and against the protests of the administration party, on the unanimous recommendation of the bar was appointed to a still more elevated judicial position. It became his duty to try many of the most important cases ever adjudicated in the commonwealth, arising from those mercantile convulsions which a few years ago crushed the most powerful corporations and threw their officers and dependants before the bar of justice. A change occurred in the judicial system of which he had been a minister, and declining a place in the newly constituted court, he resumed the place of a counsellor and advocate. lities of Philadelphia into one great city, was elected by an extraordinary majority its first chief magistrate. To the duties of this office, involving the establishment of a new and complicated system of administration, he has since devoted himself. The literary labors of Judge CONRAD have for the most part been but relaxations from more arduous and less congenial pursuits; yet in a career singularly various, and always laborious, he has probably written as much for the press as any man so young. Most of his productions, in prose or verse, have been occasional, and have not di Mr. CONRAD studied law with his uncle, Mr. THOMAS KITTERA, a distinguished jurist who represented Philadelphia several years in the national legislature, and was admitted to practice inverted him from what he may have conceived to 1830. While a student he wrote his first tragedy, "Conrad of Naples," which was successfully produced in the principal theatres of the country, and has been regarded by his friends as the best of his poems. He withdrew it from the stage, and with characteristic carelessness as to his literary productions, has suffered it to be lost. About the time of his early admission to the bar, being married, he connected himself with the press, and after having shared in the editorial duties of several journals, commenced in 1832 the publication of the Daily Intelligencer," some years afterwards united with the ancient "Philadelphia Gazette," in the management of which he was associated with CONDY RAGUET, the able economist, subsequently well known as our chivalric minis ter, during a stormy crisis, at Rio Janeiro. The arduous labors of the editor's room enfeebled his health, and in 1834 he resumed the practice of his profession, and in the following year was called be the paramount obligations of practical life. His "Aylmere" was written in intervals of leisure during a period in which he was not absent for a day from the bench. It was intended for Mr. FORREST, and has proved the most successful American drama yet written. After deriving a large amount of money from its popularity on the American stage, Mr. FORREST presented it with equal good fortune in the theatres of Great Britain and Ireland. Mr. DAVENPORT also played in it nearly every night for an entire season in London. At the request of Mr. FORREST the author wrote another tragedy for him; it is entitled "The Heretic," and is founded on the massacre of St. Bartholomew; but though accepted by the actor, and paid for with his usual liberality, it has not been produced on the stage. In 1852 Judge CONRAD published in one volume "Aylmere or the Bondman of Kent, and other Poems," and he has prepared for the press a work ROBERT T. CONRAD. under the title of "Bible Breathings," some por- illustrated in the different treatment which "Mr. JOHN AYLMERE, physician," as he is styled in The other principal poems of Judge COSA, of " Sonnets on the Lord's Prayer," marked alke are "The Sons of the Wilderness," and a series by earnestness, vigor, and pathos; and in his vo of which some of the most characteristic are here passion, and skill in the details of art, are undou copied. The finest examples of his imagination, these it is extremely difficult to make satisfactory edly to be found in his dramatic poems, but from extracts, so dependent for its effect is every sentence upon the lines to which it is in relation, or the cha racter or situation of the person speaking. ume are a considerable number of shorter pieces THE STRICKEN.* HEAVY! heavy! Oh, my heart Seems a cavern deep and drear, From whose dark recesses start, Flutteringly, like birds of night, Throes of passion, thoughts of fear, Screaming in their flight; Wildly o'er the gloom they sweep, Thrills thine own breast alone. As streams that Spreading a horror dim-a woe that cannot weep! glide Over the desert rock, whose sterile frown Weary! weary! What is life Away! Those tears unmarked, fall from thy And thoughts with vulture beak, and quick Pro sightless eye! Ay, get thee gone, benighted one! Away! This is no place for thee. The buzzing mart There is no heart To echo to their soft appeal:-depart! Go seek the noiseless glen, where shadows reign, Spreading a kindred gloom; and there, apart methean pain! From the cold world, breathe out thy pensive strain: At that deep earthquake voice-the earthquake Better to trees and rocks, than heartless man, complain! I pity thee! thy life a live-long night; not see! of the heart! Hopeless! hopeless! Every path We never more shall part! *Turn thou unto me, and have mercy upon me: for 1 am desolate and in misery."-PSALMS. MY BROTHER.* FOREVER gone! I am alone-alone! Yet my heart doubts; to me thou livest yet: Love's lingering twilight o'er my soul is thrown, E'en when the orb that lent that light is set. Thou minglest with my hopes-does Hope forget? I think of thee, as thou wert at my side; I grieve, a whisper-"he too will regret;" I doubt and ponder how will he decide?" I strive, but 'tis to win thy praises and thy pride. And thou to me wert e'en as honor dear! And will, till dust to dust shall mingle mine with thine. The sunshine of our boyhood! I bethink How we were wont to beat the briery wood; And how we plunged in Lackawana's wave; died! Bright dreams-forever past! I dream no more! * "He was asked whom he loved most, and he answered, 'His brother;' the person who put the question then asked bim, whom he loved next, and again he said his brother.' 'Whom in the third place?' and still it was 'My brother;' and so on till he put no more questions to him about it." -PLUTARCH'S CATO. "T was not by those who loved thee first and best. Now waves the billowy grass above the dead; The prairie-herd tread on thy throbless breast; Woe's me! I may not weep above thy place of rest. Now must I turn to stone! Fair virtue, truth, Faith, love, were living things when thou wert here; We shared a world, bright with the dew of youth, And spanned by rainbow thoughts. Our souls sincere Knew, in their love, nor selfish taint, nor fear: Must it be ever thus? The festive hour eye, The tear-drop trickling, turns my cup to gall; E'en as the hour that bade thee, brother, die, Mingles with all my days and poisons all, Mantling my life with gloom, as with a dead man's pall. Oh, may not men, like strings that chord in tone, One in their nature, in their being one? Ah me! with restless pain, THE PRIDE OF WORTH. THERE is a joy in worth, A high, mysterious, soul-pervading charm; It asks, it needs no aid; No fear to shake, no memory to upbraid, Power and wealth and fame A brow unshrinking and a soul of flame, The joy of conscious worth, its courage and its pride! |