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POETS.

M

HENRY PETERSON.

R. PETERSON was born in Philadelphia, December 7, 1818, and has lived in that city and its vicinity all his life. He was early bred to business pursuits, for which training he is thankful; the knowledge thus acquired being very useful not only in the practical affairs of life, but in the consideration of important social theories.

At about the age of thirty he became half proprietor and sole editor of the Saturday Evening Post, which, under the joint management of Edmund Deacon and himself, was very successful, attaining a circulation of 80,000 copies. When, however, the anti-slavery agitation became the ruling question of the day, Mr. Peterson was so disgusted with the subserviency of the North to the slave power, that he wrote from time to time, during several years, certain editorials, which resulted in the loss of a very large portion of his subscription list. This was done with a full knowledge of what the effect would be, Mr. Deacon, his partner, concurring in the opinion that the cause of truth and freedom required the sacrifice.

Mr. Peterson had joined the anti-slavery movement when a boy of fifteen, and remained identified with it until the society took decided ground in favor of a dissolution of the Union. He never had much sympathy with the violent language and ultra principles of Mr. Garrison, but always favored moderate methods and measures. His opinion remains unchanged to this day, that Mr. Garrison was an unwise, intolerant and mischievous leader.

Mr. Peterson has written a number of novels, stories, dramas, essays, lectures, etc., some of which have been published. Among the novels is "Pemberton," of which "Helen; or, One Hundred Years Ago," is a partial dramatization. This drama was played at the Chestnut Street Theater, in Philadelphia, in April, 1876, with great success. In his published drama of “Cæsar,” that great man is pictured from the democratic point of view, as given by Mommsen and other late historians, in contrast with the aristocratic, as seen in Shakespeare.

Mr. Peterson has published two volumes of poems and has another ready for publication. He considers "The Modern Job," with an unpublished poem, "Deus in Natura" (some selections from which have been published), as his most noticeable productions, embracing, as they do, original views of some of the greatest problems of our existence. S. W. P.

ELOHIM (THE GODS).

PERHAPS the Book is wiser than men read;
The mighty "Elohim" made heaven and earth;
And "Sons of God,” a great and heavenly breed,
"Shouted for joy" at the creation's birth.

Such beings must exist, if we believe

The hallowed records of the ancient past;
Such beings must exist, if we conceive
What reason teaches of creation vast.

And such, existing, would not lounge supine
In the green vales of the eternal land;
With souls o'erflowed with energy divine,

They, too, must be creators, strong of hand.
Where then are their creations? Who can say
This wondrous universe shows not their skill?
Perfections, imperfections-grand array,
But yet not perfect,—of their god-like will!

Primarily for them as well as man,

For their development as well as ours, To try their mighty skill on some vast plan, Fit work for "Cherubim" and heavenly "Powers"!

Not free from interfering plague and blight

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Of mighty evil souls, for Satan came

'Among the Sons of God" as if of right;

He dwelt not then in dark abodes of flame.

Even the "Sons of God" must work and pray; See their plans baffled by an adverse host; Lose in the night what they have gained by day; Hear the good wailing and the wicked boast.

The One Almighty rules the eternal years!
But are not "Cherubs," "Powers," free agents,
too?

They have dominion also in their spheres,
With power to leave undone and power to do.

How else should they develop, also grow

To mightier wisdom, in their endless range? Not only here the winds of evil blow;

Not only here are constant flaw and change.

I say not this is certain; what I write
I know not if I write by power or will;
Who knows what moves the spirit to indite
The simplest lines that penetrate and thrill?

For me, I seek but Truth; the mind of man,
By reason led, the Truth at last must see;
For highest Wisdom must have framed the plan
Which, in its whole, must highest Goodness be.
-From "Deus In Natura."

THE CLOVER LEAF.

THEY wandered in the meadow,
The summer eve was brief;
Between the light and shadow,
She gave to him a leaf;
No ruddy bloom of clover
To him her faithful lover—
Only a clover leaf!

Oh! sweeter than red clover,
To ease a true love's smart,
The green leaf to a lover,

The leaf which bears a heart! The green leaf of the cloverFit gift when love runs over— The leaf that bears a heart!

ODE FOR DECORATION DAY.
BRING flowers to strew again
With fragrant purple rain

Of lilacs, and of roses white and red,
The dwellings of our dead, our glorious dead!
Let the bells ring a solemn funeral chime,
And wild war-music bring anew the time
When they, who sleep beneath,
Were full of vigorous breath,

And in their lusty manhood sallied forth,
Holding in strong right hand

The fortunes of the land,

The pride and power and safety of the North!

It seems but yesterday

The long and proud array

But yesterday, when ev'n the solid rock
Shook as with earthquake shock,

As North and South, like two huge icebergs, ground

Against each other with convulsive bound,
And the whole world stood still

To view the mighty war,

And hear the thunderous roar,

While sheeted lightnings wrapped each plain and hill.

Alas! how few came back,

From battle and from wrack!

Alas! how many lie

Beneath a Southern sky,

Who never heard the fearful fight was done,
And all they fought for won.

Sweeter, I think, their sleep,
More peaceful and more deep,

Could they but know their wounds were not in vain,

Could they but hear the grand triumphal strain,

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And see their homes unmarred by hostile tread.
Ah! let us trust it is so with our dead-
That they the thrilling joy of triumph feel,
And in that joy disdain the foeman's steel.

We mourn for all, but each doth think of one
More precious to the heart than aught beside-
Some father, brother, husband, or some son

Who came not back, or, coming, sank and died.—
In him the whole sad list is glorified!

"He fell 'fore Richmond, in the 'seven long days When battle raged from morn till blood-dewed eve,

And lies there," one pale, widowed mourner says,
And knows not most to triumph or to grieve.
"My boy fell at Fair Oaks," another sighs;
"And mine at Gettysburg!" his neighbor cries;
And that great name each sad-eyed listener thrills.
I think of one who vanished when the press
Of battle surged along the Wilderness,
And mourned the North upon her thousand hills.

Oh! gallant brothers of the generous South,
Foes for a day and brothers for all time,
I charge you by the memories of our youth,
By Yorktown's field and Montezuma's clime,
Hold our dead sacred-let them gently rest
In your unnumbered vales, where God thought

best.

Your vines and flowers learned long since to forgive,
And o'er their graves a 'broidered mantle weave;
Be you as kind as they are, and the word

Shall reach the Northland with each summer bird,
And thoughts as sweet as summer shall awake
Responsive to your kindness, and shall make
Our peace the peace of brothers once again,
And banish utterly the days of pain.

And ye, O Northmen! be ye not outdone

In generous thought and deed.

We all do need forgiveness, every one;

And they that give shall find it in their need. Spare of your flowers to deck the stranger's grave, Who died for a lost cause

A soul more daring, resolute and brave
Ne'er won a world's applause.

A brave man's hatred pauses at the tomb.

For him some Southern home was robed in gloom,
Some wife or mother looked with longing eyes
Through the sad days and nights with tears and
sighs,-

Hope slowly hardening into gaunt Despair.
Then let your foeman's grave remembrance share;
Pity a higher charm to Valor lends,

And in the realins of Sorrow all are friends.

Yes, bring fresh flowers and strew the soldier's

grave,

Whether he proudly lies

Beneath our Northern skies,

Or where the Southern palms their branches

wave.

Let the bells toll and wild war-music swell,

And for one day the thought of all the pastFull of those memories vast

Come back and haunt us with its mighty spell. Bring flowers, then, once again,

And strew with fragrant rain

Of lilacs, and of roses white and red,
The dwellings of our dead!

LYON.

SING, bird, on green Missouri's plain,
Thy saddest song of sorrow;
Drop tears, oh clouds, in gentlest rain
Ye from the winds can borrow;
Breathe out, ye winds, your softest sigh;
Weep, flowers, in dewy splendor,
For him who well knew how to die,
But never to surrender.

Uprose serene the August sun
Upon that day of glory;
Upcurled from musket and from gun
The war-cloud gray and hoary.
It gathered like a funeral pall,

Now broken and now blended,
Where rang the bugle's angry call,

And rank with rank contended.

Four thousand men, as brave and true
As e'er went forth in daring,
Upon the foe that morning threw
The strength of their despairing.

They feared not death-men bless the field
That patriot soldiers die on-

Fair Freedom's cause was sword and shield, And at their head was Lyon!

Their leader's troubled soul looked forth
From eyes of troubled brightness;
Sad soul! the burden of the North

Had pressed out all its lightness.
He gazed upon the unequal fight,
His ranks all rent and gory,
And saw the shadows close like night
Round his career of glory.

"General, come lead us!" loud the cry
From a brave band was ringing-
"Lead us, and we will stop, or die,
That battery's awful singing."

He spurred to where his heroes stood, Twice wounded-no wound knowingThe fire of battle in his blood

And on his forehead glowing.

Oh! cursed for aye the ruthless hand, And cursed that aim so deadly, Which smote the bravest of the land, And dyed his bosom redly;Serene he lay while past him prest

The battle's furious billow, As calmly as a babe may rest Upon its mother's pillow.

So Lyon died! and well may flowers His place of burial cover,

For never had this land of ours

A more devoted lover.

Living, his country was his bride,

His life he gave her dying;

Life, fortune, love-he naught denied To her and to her sighing.

Rest, Patriot, in thy hill-side grave,
Beside her form who bore thee!
Long may the land thou diedst to save
Her bannered stars wave o'er thee!
Upon her history's brightest page,
And on Fame's glowing portal,
She'll write thy grand, heroic rage,
And grave thy name immortal!

THE OPAL.

A PROEM.

I HAD a gem of priceless worth to me-
I wore it on my sleeve; the sky was lead.
"What charm in that base Opal can you see?"
A comrade cried, "so cold and gray and dead!”

Another day I wore that jewel strange

Upon my sleeve; the sky was bright and clear. "Ah," cried my friend, "you've made a fitting change;

This Opal wears the light of God's own sphere." One night, beneath the gas-light's dazzling gleam, I wore my jewel; soft eyes looked in mine. A sweet voice said: "With what a crimson beam That Opal glows, as if of Love divine."

And here I wear the Opal of my soul

Upon my sleeve, with all its dark and bright. Nor one hue is the Opal, but the whole;

And that whole nothing, save as God gives light.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

I HAVE no tears to shed upon thy grave,

For thou hast had of life a heaped-up measure, Gathering from every land and every wave Fresh stores of thought to add unto thy treas

ure.

I saw thee first in youth, with eyes of light,

And heart all eager for the world before thee: I marked thy upward course from height to height, Where thy strong will and gift of genius bore thee.

Then came the hour when, rising in her pride,
Thy country crowned with bays thy brilliant

story,

And sages gathered gladly to thy side,

To add their laurels to thy wreath of glory.

Finished at last thy work beneath the sun,

Ripened the fruit for which this life is given, I can not weep, thy course so nobly run, Thou takest a still higher flight to heaven.

TO ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

SONNET AND ACROSTIC.

A MAN raised up by Heaven, Oh Chief! art thou
Both bold and prudent, fitted for the hour!
Resolved to hold with iron hand the dower
And birthright of the Free, and keep thy vow!
He who ne'er bowed to kings to thee may bow,
As unto one anointed by God's power-
Man of the People! rising as a tower,
Like Saul, among thy brethren! Oh, be now
In soul our Samuel, hearkening to the Lord,
Nor spare the cursed Agag of our land!
Cut out that cancer with war's sure-edg'd sword!
Oh, mercifully cruel be thy hand!

Long centuries hence thy name shall shine as one No blame can cloud- our second Washington! 1862.

GOODNESS.

"Be good and you'll be happy!" endless chimes
Rung upon this. Pleasant to prosperous souls,
Read backwards. They are happy, therefore good!
But all forgot the other equal truth:
Be greatly good, and you'll be crucified,
In one way or another. Not so sweet
This latter truth, but bitter to the taste.
Yet quite as wholesome, taken in its turn.

-The Poets.