The Poets and Poetry of America

His wife, to whom he was married in 1852, is the author of a work entitled "Stars of the Western World," and he has himself written much in

THE Reverend HENRY W. PARKER is a native of Danby, New York, and was born in 1825. His mother is a niece of the late NOAH WEBSTER, and This father, the Reverend SAMUEL PARKER, of Itha-"The North American Review" and other period

ca, travelled in Oregon, and published in 1837 an account of his tour, a very interesting book, in which the practicability of a railroad through the Rocky Mountains was first suggested.

Mr. PARKER passed his early years in Ithaca, a place of singular beauty, at the head of Cayuga Lake, and was graduated at Amherst College in 1843. He subsequently studied divinity, and is now pastor of a Presbyterian church in Brooklyn.

VISION OF SHELLEY'S DEATH.

THE wind had darkly touched the outer bay, A looming storm shut out the sultry day, And whiter grew the distant billows' play. The nearer calm a single sail beguiled, And at the helm, with features fair and mild, Sat one whom men have called the Eternal Child. A breath—a breeze-the tempest strikes the sail; It fills, it stoops, and, swift and free as frail, It flies a broad-winged arrow from the gale. A precious boat! may angels speed it right! The world, in shell so thin and form so slight, Hath all its hold upon a mind of might. He lay reclined in noonday dreams no more, He gazed no longer at the purple shore, Nor mused on roofing skies, and ocean's floor. The wizard storm invoked a truer dreamHad kindled in his eye its proudest gleam, And given his eagle soul a grander theme. No sign of craven fear his lips reveal; He only feels the joy that heroes feel, When lightnings flash and jarring thunders peal. The boat dipt low; his foot was on the helm; The deck a throne, the storm his genial realm, He dared the powers that nature's king o'erwhelm. The gentle eye that turned from man away, Now flashed in answer to the flashing spray, And glanced in triumph o'er the foaming bay. And as aloft the boat a moment hung, Then down the plunging wave was forward flung, His own wild song, "The Fugitives,” he sung: Said he, "And seest thou, and hearest thou?" Cried he, "And fearest thou, and fearest thou? A pilot bold, I trow, should follow now.' The sail was torn and trailing in the sea, The water flooded o'er the dipping lee, And clomb the mast in maddest revelry. It righted, with the liquid load, and fast Went down; the mariners afloat were cast, And louder roared and laughed the mocking blast.

....

icals, besides a volume of "Poems," published at Auburn, in 1850, and "The Story of a Soul," a poem read before the literary societies of Hamilton College, in 1851.

Mr. PARKER has a luxuriant fancy, a ready apprehension of the picturesque in nature, a meditative tenderness, and uncommon facility of versification. In some of his pieces there is humor, but this is a quality he does not seem to cherish.

A moment, and no trace of man or spar
Is left to strew the path that, near and far,

Is whirled in foam beneath the tempest's car. ....
A moment more, and one pale form appeared,
And faintly looked the eyes; no storm careered,
And all the place with mystic light was sphered.
Around him slept a circling space of wave;
It seemed the crystal pavement of a cave,
And all about he heard the waters rave.
He saw them waving like a silken tent-
Beheld them fall, as rocks of beryl rent,
And rage like lions from a martyr pent.
A sudden life began to thrill his veins;
A strange new force his sinking weight sustains,
Until he seemed released from mortal chains.
He looked above-a glory floating down-
A dazzling face and form-a kingly crown-
With blinding beauty all his senses drown.
As tearful eyes may see the light they shun,
As veiling mists reveal the clear-shaped sun,
He knew the crucified, transfigured ONE.
In that still pause of trembling, blissful sight,
He woke as from a wild and life-long night,
And through his soul there crept a holy light.
A blot seemed fading from his troubled brain,
A doubt of GOD-a madness and a pain-
Till upward welled his trustful youth again;
Till upward every feeling pure was drawn,
As nightly dews are claimed again at dawn,
And whence they gently come are gently gone.
Till recognition chased away surprise,
He gazed upon those mercy-beaming eyes,
And he had faith from heaven to slowly rise-
To rise and kneel upon the glassy tide,
While down the Vision floated to his side,
And stooped to hear what less he said than sighed:
"Oh Truth, Love, Gentleness! I wooed and won
Your essences, nor knew that ye are ONE;
Oh crowned Truth, receive thine erring son!"....
The gentle one, whose thought alone was wrong—
The Eternal Child amidst a cherub throng,
Was wafted to the Home of Love and Song.

THE DEAD-WATCH.

EACH saddened face is gone, and tearful eye
Of mother, brother, and of sisters fair;
With ghostly sound their distant footfalls die
Thro' whispering hall, and up the rustling stair.
In yonder room the newly dead doth sleep;
Begin we thus, my friend, our watch to keep.
And now both feed the fire and trim the lamp;
Pass cheerly, if we can, the slow-paced hours;
For, all without is cold, and drear, and damp,
And the wide air with storm and darkness lowers;
Pass cheerly, if we may, the live-long night,
And chase pale phantoms, paler fear, to flight.
We will not talk of death, of pall and knell-
Leave that, the mirth of brighter hours to check;
But tales of life, love, beauty, let us tell,

Or of stern battle, sea, and stormy wreck;
Call up the visions gay of other days-
Our boyhood's sports and merry youthful ways.
Hark to the distant bell!-an hour is gone!
Enter yon silent room with footsteps light;
Our brief, appointed duty must be done-

To bathe the face, and stay death's rapid blight:
To bare the rigid face, and dip the cloth
That hides a mortal, "crushed before the moth."
The bathing liquid scents the chilly room;

How spectral white are shroud and vailing lace
On yonder side-board, in the fearful gloom!

Take off the muffler from the sleeper's face-
You spoke, my friend, of sunken cheek and eye-
Ah, what a form of beauty here doth lie!

Never hath Art, from purest wax or stone,
So fair an image, and so lustrous, wrought;
It is as if a beam from heaven had shown

A weary angel in sweet slumber caught!-
The smiling lip, the warmly tinted cheek,
And all so calm, so saint-like, and so meek!
She softly sleeps, and yet how unlike sleep;
No fairy dreams flit o'er that marble face,
As ripples play along the breezy deep,

As shadows o'er the field each other chase;
The spirit dreams no more, but wakes in light,
And freely wings its flashing seraph flight.
She sweetly sleeps, her lips and eyelids sealed;
No ruby jewel heaves upon her breast,
With her quick breath now hidden, now revealed,
As setting stars long tremble in the west;
But white and still as drifts of moonlit snow,
Her folded cerements and her flushless brow.
Oh, there is beauty in the winter moon,

And beauty in the brilliant summer flower,
And in the liquid eye and luring tone

Of radiant Love's and rosy Laughter's hour;
But where is beauty, in this blooming world,
Like Death upon a maiden's lip impearled!
Vail we the dead, and close the open door;
Perhaps the spirit, ere it soar above,
Would watch its clay alone, and hover o'er
The face it once had kindled into love;
Commune we hence, oh friend, this wakeful night,
Of death made lovely by so blest a sight.

SONNETS.

SUMMER LIGHTS.

ор

NO MORE the tulips hold their torches And chestnuts silver candelabra bear. The spring, dethroned, has left her festive cup Of honey-dew, and other blossoms flare To light another feast with tinted glare. Summer has ta'en the sceptre, and the trees,

In low obeisance bow their weight of green; The locusts bloom with swarms of snowy less

That make the fragrant branches downwarde

Each snow-ball bush with full-blown moonsistar;

And all around, like red suns setting low, Large peonies shed a burning crimson glow, While, worlds of foliage on the shoulders swung Of Atlantean trunks, the orchards darkly grow.

SUMMER'S ESSENCE.

A TIDE of song and leaf, of bloom and feather-
A sea of summer's freshest, fullest splendet,
Has come with June's serenely crystal weather.

Whate'er of beauty, mornings clear and terdet.
And golden eves and dewy nights, engender,
Has met in one bewildering bliss together—
Delicious fragrance, foliage deep and mass,
Unfolding roses, silver locust flowers,

And darkling silences of waters glassy, Soft crescents, loving stars and nightly showers, Rich shades and lemon lights in vistas grassy, And sweetest twitterings through all the hours, And opal clouds that float in slumber bland, And distances that soften into fairy-land.

A STREET.

By day, soft clouded in a twilight gloom,

And letting sunlight through its arches pour,
The street is like a lofty banquet room,
And every sunny leaf a golden bloom,

And sunny spots upon the level floor,

As if with tiger-robes 't were covered o'er. By night, the gas-lights half in foliage hid,

Seem birds of flame that flutter silver wings
And shake in concert with the katydid.

It is a leafy palace made for kings
To meet their thousand lords in festivals-
A temple with its wreathed and pillared walls-
A street that slowly grew a Mammoth Cave
Stalagmited with trunks through all the nave.

SNOW IN THE VILLAGE.

Nor thus on street and garden, roof and spire,
The snow, for ages, here was yearly spread;
It tipt the Indian's plume of bloody red,
And melted, hissing, in his council-fire;

It gave an impress to the panther's tread,
And all the monster feet that filled the wood.

But now the snow of whiter towns and faces
Has drifted o'er the glorious solitude;
And death and silence, like a winter, brood

Upon the vanished brute and human races.
So let oblivion come, till it effaces,
Oh weary soul, thy summer's maddest mood,
Thus o'er thy woes let silence softly fall,
And Winter, with a holy beauty, vail them all!

JOHN ESTEN COOKE.

[Born, 1830.]

Virginia society just before the revolution. The book is thoroughly democratic and American, and abounds with natural delineations of character, brilliant dialogue, and graphic description. In the same year he produced "The Youth of Jefferson," in all respects, perhaps, his best novel. It is found

JOHN ESTEN COOKE, son of JOHN ROGERS and MARIA PENDLETON COOKE, and brother of the author of "Froissart Ballads," was born in Winchester, Frederic county, Virginia, on the third of November, 1830; was taken to Glengary, his father's estate, near that town, and lived there until the destruction of the house by fire, in 1839, whened on some of the statesman's early letters, and is the family removed to Richmond, which has ever since been his home. Having studied the law, in the office of his father, he was admitted to the bar, and continues in the practice of the profession.

Mr. COOKE's first work was "Leather Stocking and Silk," which appeared in 1853. It is a story of provincial life in Virginia, as it is represented in the traditions which cluster around Martinsburg. It is remarkable for picturesque grouping and dramatic situations, for simple touches of nature, and gentle pathos. This was followed in 1854 by "The Virginia Comedians, or the Qld Days of the Old Dominion," in which is presented a carefully studied and finely colored picture of

a graceful and romantic drama, the personages
of which are distinctly drawn, and in their differ-
ent ways all interesting.
In 1855 he published
"Ellie, or the Human Comedy."

Mr. COOKE's poems have appeared in the "Literary Messenger" and other southern periodicals. The longest and most remarkable of them has but the unexpressive title of "Stanzas," and its subject and style will remind the reader of a noble work of the most popular living poet of England. It is, however, an original performance, simple, natural, and touching, and every verse vindicates its genuineness as an expression of feeling. His minor pieces are cabinet pictures, executed with taste and skill.

EXTRACTS FROM "STANZAS."

FOR long I thought the dreadful day
Which robbed me of my joy and peace,
Had palsied me with such disease,
As never more could pass away:
But Nature whispered low and sweet:
"Oh heart! struck down with deep despair,
The goal is near, these trials are
But beckoning's to the SAVIOUR's feet."

And then, "Even put your grief in words,
The soul expends itself, as tears
Flow after storms; the hopes of years
Rise stronger than the binding cords.

"Oh Soul! these are the trials meet
To fit thee for the nobler strife
With Evil through the bounds of Life:
Pure steel is from the furnace-heat.

"Shrink not! a nobler self is wrought

From out the shock, more grand and fair: March on, oh Heart! through toil and careThe grand result is cheaply bought!"

The wagons rattling o'er the way

The drayman calling to his horse--
The auctioneer, with utterance hourse
Cry in yon house of dusky gray-
The clash of arméd minds, aloof,

Resound through legislative halls -
The indignant echo of the walls
The nothingness that shakes the roof;
And, near the bustle of the courts
Where law's condottieri wage
The fight, with passion, well-paid rage-
Below, the ships draw toward the ports.
From all I turn with weary heart

To that green mountain land of thine,
Where tranquil suns unclouded shine,
And to the abode where now thou art.

III.

The deep alarum of the drum

Resounds in yonder busy street,
The horses move on restless feet,
And every urchin cries, "They come!"
With which the trumpet blares aloud

And brazen-throated horns reply:
The incense of the melody
Floats upward like a golden cloud.
And like the boy's my soul is fired,

And half I grasp the empty air,
With dreams of lists and ladies fair,
As in the days when I aspired.

The trumpet dies, a distant roar,
The drum becomes a murmuring voice--
No more in battle I rejoice,
But fall to dreaming as before-

Of other skies and greener trees,

And mountain peaks of purple gloomAnd of the dim and shadowy tomb, Where that great spirit rests in peace.

IV.

The sunset died that tender day,

Across the mountains bright and pure,
And bathed with golden waves the shore
Of evening, and the fringed spray,
And stately ships which glided by,

With whitest sails toward the dim
Untravelled seas beyond the rim
Of peaks that melted in the sky.
He sat upon the trellised porch,

And still the conversation ranged
From olden things all gone or changed,
To grand, eternal Truth-a torch

That spread around a steady light,

And mocked the strength of hostile hands, And pointed man to other lands Of hope beyond Thought's farthest flight. That noble forehead, broad and calm,

Was flushed with evening's holy ray, His eye gave back the light of dayHis words poured out a soothing balm; His low sweet tones fell on the ear Like music in the quiet watch

Of midnight, when the spirits catch At golden memories, ever dear.

And now recalling that dim eve,

And him who spake those noble words, Though trembling still in all its chords, My heart is calmed, and I believe.

I thought to pass away from earth And join thee, with that other heart Loved even more than thee, a part Of other worlds, through heavenlier birthOf whom I do not speak my thought So dear she is, because the eye O'erflows with wo, and with a cry I tear the symbols I have wrought. No word shall be of that one grief, Because it lies too deep for words, And this sad trifling which affords Some respite, could be no relief.

VI.

Come from the fields, thy dwelling place,
Oh spirit of the Past! and steep
My wounded soul in dreamy sleep,
And fit its sandals for the race
Of flashing, hurrying life; and spread
A soft oblivion o'er the ills

With which the fainting bosom fills, And calm the throbbing heart and head:

So shall I gather strength again To stem the tide of worldly strife, To bear the weariness of life, And feel that all things are not vain.

CLOUDS.

I KNOW not whither past the crimson zone Of evening sail those ships of snow and goldThe beauteous clouds that seem to hover and Their wings-like birds that having all day for Against the blue sky, now at set of sun

Play for a moment gayly on their soft

And burnished pinions wide: then from alof Sink down below the horizon and are gone! I know not where they fold their shining wings In very truth; nor what far happy land They come together in-a radiant band, The brightest, purest, of all earthly things! But well I know that land lies broad and fair Beyond the evening: Oh! that I were there!

MAY.

HAS the old glory passed
From tender May-
That never the echoing blast
Of bugle horns merry, and fast
Dying away like the past,
Welcomes the day?

Has the old Beauty gone

From golden MayThat not any more at dawn Over the flowery lawn,

Or knolls of the forest withdrawn, Maids are at play?

Is the old freshness dead

Of the fairy May?— Ah! the sad tear-drops unshed! Ah! the young maidens unwed! Golden locks-cheeks rosy red! Ah! where are they?

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GREY CLIFF, NEWPORT.*

WHAT strivest thou for, oh thou most mighty ocean,
Rolling thy ceaseless sweeping surfs ashore?
Canst thou not stay that restless wild commotion?
Must that low murmur moan for evermore?
Yet thou art better than our hearts, though yearning
Still for some unattainéd, unknown land;
Thou still art constant, evermore returning,

With each fresh wind, to kiss our waiting strand.
Oh, heart! if restless, like the yearning ocean,
Like it be all thy waves, of one emotion!
Whither, with canvas wings, oh ship, art sailing-
Homeward or outward-bound, to shore or sea?
What thought within thy strong sides is prevailing,
Hope or despair, sorrow or careless glee?
Thou, too, art like our hearts, which gayly seeming,
With hope sails set, to catch each fresh'ning breeze,
In truth art sad, with tears and trials teeming-
Perhaps to sail no more on life's wild seas.
Oh, heart! while sailing, like a ship, remember,
Thou, too, may'st founder, in a rough December!
Why, your white arms, ye windmills, are ye crossing
In sad succession to the evening breeze,
As though within your gray old heads were tossing
Thoughts of fatigue, and longings after ease?-
But ye are better than our hearts, for grieving,
Over your cares, ye work your destined way,
While they, their solemn duties weakly leaving,
In helpless sorrow weep their lives away.
Oh, heart! if like those hoary giants mourning,
Why not be taught, by their instructive warning!

And as the tree that feels the gale
The fiercest and the first,
Glistens the soonest in the sun,

Through scattered storm-clouds burst,So, when the false world's strife is done And time has passed away,

The brightest beam of heaven's own light About thy head shall play!

SHELLS.

FAR out at sea a tiny boat
Has set its tiny sail,
And, swiftly, see it onward float,
As freshens still the gale.
A rainbow in it must have slept
To lend it tints so fair,
Or loveliest angel o'er it wept-
A pearl in every tear.
Fairer than pen of mine can tell
Sails on that fearless tiny shell.
Deep in the chambers of the sea,

Where storied mermaids dwell,
A palace stood: and seemed to me,
Its every stone a shell;

And oh, what glorious hues were they
That sparkled on my eyes,
Of blue and gold, and red and gray,

Like tints of western skies!

As violets sweet in loveliest dells,
So blushed unseen those beauteous shells.
Thus, on the sea, and 'neath its waves
Those tinctured sea-gems lie,
Like tombstones set to mark the graves
Of low-born men and high;
And, when they rest upon the shore,
In wealth's luxuriant ease,
They sound to us the solemn roar

They learned beneath the seas,—
As exiles, though afar they roam,
Still sing the songs they learned at home.*

"Pleased they remember their august abodes, And murmur, as the ocean murmurs there."

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

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