Richard Henry Dana was born at Cambridge, November 15, 1787. His early years were passed at Newport, in the midst of the associations of the Revolution and the enjoyments of the fine sea views and atmosphere of the spot. He entered Harvard, which he left in 1807. He studied law in the office of his cousin Francis Dana Channing, the eldest brother of Dr. Channing. After admission to the Boston bar he spent about three months in the office of Robert Goodloe Harper at Baltimore, where he was admitted to practice. He returned home in 1811 and became a member of the legislature, where he found a better field for the exercise of his federal politics and opinions. His first literary public appearance was as an orator on the Fourth of July celebration of 1814.

The North American Review was commenced in 1815. It grew out of an association of literary gentlemen composing the Anthology Club who for eight years, from 1803 to 1811, had published the miscellany entitled The Monthly Anthology. Dana was a member of the club. The first editor of the Review was William Tudor, from whose hands it soon passed to the care of Willard Phillips, and then to the charge of an association of gentlemen for whom Mr. Sparks was the active editor. In 1818 Edward T. Channing became editor of the Review, and associated with him his cousin Richard II. Dana, who had left the law for the more congenial pursuits of literature.*

When Channing was made Boylston professor of Rhetoric and Oratory at Harvard he reigned the editorship of the Review, and Dana, who was considered too unpopular to succeed him, left the club. Dana wrote in the period of two years five papers, one an essay on "Old Times," the others on literary topics, chiefly poetical.t In 1824 Dana began the publication of The Idle Man, a periodical in which he communicated to the public his Tales and Essays. Six numbers of it were issued when it was discontinued; the author acquiring the experience hitherto not uncommon in the higher American literature, that if he would write as a poet and philosopher, and publish as a gentleman, he must pay as well as compose.

Bryant, with whom Dana had become acquainted in the conduct of the North American Review, was a contributor of several poems to the Idle Man; and when this publication was discontinued Dana wrote for his journal, the New York Review of 1825, and afterwards the United States Review of 1826-7. In the latter he published ar

ances, were committed to them. This was not confessedly, but pretty nearly in fact, their idea of their position and its consequent responsibilities."

Edward Tyriel Channing was Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory in Harvard College from 1819 to 1851, where the exactness of his instruction, his cultivated taste and highly disciplined mental powers gave him an eminent reputation with his pupils. His editorship of the North American Review extended over the seventh, eighth, and ninth volumes in 1818 and 1819. The following are among his articles in the Review: On Thomas Moore and Lalla Rookh, vol. vi.: Rob Roy, vol. vii.; Charles Brockden Browne's Life and Writings, vol. ix.; Southey's Life of Cooper, vol. xliv.; Prior's Life of Goldsmith, vol. xlv.; Sir Richard Steele's Life and Writings, vol. xlvi.; Lord Cheste field's Letters to his Son, vol. 1. These papers show the author's refined culture and vigorous pen. Professor Channing also wrote the life of his grandfather, William Ellery, in Sparks's American Biography, First Series, vol. vi. It is understood that he is about sending to the press a volume of Lectures read to the classes in Cambridge.

+ They were "Old Times," 1817. Allston's Sylph of the SeaSons, 1817. Edgeworth's Readings on Poetry, 1818. Hazlitt's English Poets, 1819. The Sketch Book, 1819.

ticles on Mrs. Radcliffe and the novels of Brockden Brown. From 1828 to 1831 he contributed four papers to The Spirit of the Pilgrims.* An Essay on The Past and the Present in the American Quarterly Observer for 1833; and another on Law as suited to Man, in the Biblical Repository for 1835, conclude the list of our author's contributions to periodical literature.

The first volume of Dana's Poems, containing The Buccaneer, was published in 1827. In 1833 he published at Boston a volume of Poems and Prose Writings, reprinting his first volume with additions, and including his papers in the Idle Man. In 1889 he delivered a course of eight lectures on Shakespeare at Boston and New York, which he has subsequently repeated in those cities and delivered at Philadelphia and elsewhere. In 1850 he published an edition of his writings in two volumes at New York, adding several essays and his review articles, with the exception of a notice of the historical romance of Yorktown, in Bryant's United States Review, and the paper on Religious Controversy in the Spirit of the Pilgrims.t

These are the last public incidents of Mr. Dana's literary career; but in private the influence of his tastes, conversation, and choice literary correspondence, embraces a liberal field of activity. He passes his time between his town residence at Boston and his country retirement at Cape Ann,

where he enjoys a roof of his own in a neat marine villa, pleasantly situated in a niche of the rocky const. Constant to the untiring love of nature, he is one of the first to seek this haunt in spring and the last to leave it in autumn.

His writings possess kindred qualities in prose and verse; thought and rhythm, speculation and imagination being borrowed by each from the other.

The Buccaneer is a philosophical poem; a tale of the heart and the conscience. The villany of the hero, though in remote perspective to the imagination, appeals on that account the more powerfully to our own consciousness. His remorse is touched with consummate art as the rude

hard earthy nature steps into the region of the supernatural, and with unchanged rigidity embraces its new terrors. The machinery is at once objective and spiritual in the vision of the horse. The story is opened by glimpses to the reader in the only way in which modern art can attain, with cultivated minds, the effect of the old ballad directness. The visionary horror is relieved by simple touches of human feeling and sweet images, a in the opening, of the lovely, peaceful scenes of nature. The remaining poems are divided between the description of nature and a certain philosophical vein of thought which rises into the loftiest speculative region of religion, and is never long without indication of a pathetic sense of human life.

The prose of Dana has similar characteristics to his verse. It is close, elaborate, truthful in etymology; and, with a seeming plainness, musical in its expression. There is a rare use of figures, but when they occur they will be found inwrought with the life of the text; no sham or filigree work.

In the tales of Tom Thornton and Paul Felton there is much imaginative power in placing the mind on the extreme limits of sanity, under the influence of painful and engrossing passion. The story of the lovers, Edward and Mary, has its idyllic graces of the affections. In these writings the genius of our author is essentially dramatic.

The critical and philosophical essays, embracing the subtle and elaborate studies of human life in Shakespeare, show great skill in discrimination, guided by a certain logic of the heart and life, and not by mere artificial dialectic. They are not so much literary exercises as revelations of, and guides to character. This character is founded on calm reverence, a sleepless love of truth, a high sense of honor, and of individual worth. With these conditions are allied strong imagination, reaching to the ideal in art and virtue, and a corresponding sympathy with the humanity which falls short of it in life.

Tells of man's woe and fall, His sinless glory fled.

V.

Then turn thec, little bird, and take thy flight
Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring
Thy spirit never more.

Come, quit with me the shore,
For gladness and the light
Where birds of summer sing.

IMMORTALITY-FROM THE HUSBAND AND WIFE'S GRAVE.

And do our loves all perish with our frames?
Do those that took their root and put forth buds,
And their soft leaves unfolded in the warmth
Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty,
Then fade and fall, like fair, unconscious flowers?
Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give
speech,

And make it send forth winning harmonies,-
That to the cheek do give its living glow,
And vision in the eye the soul intense
With that for which there is no utterance-
Are these the bo ly's accidents-o more?-
To live in it, and when that dies, go out
Like the burnt taper's flame?

66

O, listen, man!
A voice within us speaks the startling word,
'Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial voices
Hymn it around our souls: according harps,
By angel fingers touched when the mild stars
Of morni. g sang together, sound forth still
The song of our great immortality:

Thick clustering or bs, and this our fair domain,
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas,
Join in this solemn, universal song.

-O, listen ye, our spirits; drink it in
From all the air! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight;
'Tis floating in day's setting glories; Night,
Wrapt in her sable robe, with silent step
Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears:
Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve,
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse,
As one vast mystic instrument, are touched
By an unseen, living Hand, the conscious chords
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee:
-The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls
To mingle in this heavenly harmony.

And inland rests the green, warm dell;
The brook comes tinkling down its side;
From out the trees the Sabbath bell

Rigs cheerful, far and wide,
Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks,
That feed about the vale among the rocks.

Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat,

In former days within the vale;
Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet;
Curses were on the gale;

Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men;
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then.

But calm, low voices, words of grace,
Now slowly fall upon the ear;
A quiet look is in each face,
Subdued and holy fear;

Each motion gentle; all is kindly done.-
Come, listen how from crime the isle was won.

Twelve years are gone since Matthew Lee
Held in this isle unquestioned sway;
A dark, low, brawny man was he;
His law,-"It is my way."

Beneath his thick-set brows a sharp light broke
From small gray eyes; his laugh a triumph spoke.

Cruel of heart, and strong of arm,
Loud in his sport, and keen for spoil,
He little recked of good or harm,
Fierce both in mirth and toil;

Yet like a dog could fawn, if need there were;
Speak mildly, when he would, or look in fear.

Amid the uproar of the storm,

And by the lightning's sharp, red glare,
Were seen Lee's face and sturdy form;
His axe glanced quick in air.

Whose corpse at morn lies swinging in the sedge?
There's blood and hair, Matt, on thy axe's edge.

"Ask him who floats there; let him tell;

I make the brute, not man, my mark.

Who walks the cliffs, needs heed him well!
Last night was fearful dark.

Think ye the lashing waves will spare or feel?
An ugly gash!-These rocks-they cut like steel."

He wiped his axe; and turning round,
Said with a cold and hardened smile,
"The hemp is saved; the man is drowned.
We'll let him float awhile?

Or give him Christian burial on the strand?
He'll find his fellows peaceful under sand."

Lee's waste was greater than his gain.
"I'll try the merchant's trade," he thought,
"Though less the toil to kill than feign,—
Things sweeter robbed than bought.
But, then, to circumvent them at their arts!"
Ship manned, and spoils for cargo, Lee departs.

"Tis fearful, on the broad-backed waves,
To feel them shake, and hear them roar:
Beneath, unsounded, dreadful caves;
Around, no cheerful shore.

Yet 'mid this solemn world what deeds are done!
The curse goes up, the deadly sea-fight's won:-

And wanton talk, and laughter heard,
Where sounds a deep and awful voice.
There's awe from that lone ocean-bird:
Pray ye, when ye rejoice!

"Leave prayers to priests," cries Lee: "I'm ruler

here!

These fellows know full well whom they should

fear!"

The ship works hard; the sens run high;
Their white tops, flashing through the night,
Give to the eager, straining eye

A wild and shitting light.

“Hard at the pumps!-The leak is gaining fast! Lighten the ship!-The devil rode that blast!"

Ocean has swallowed for its food

Spoils thou didst gain in murderous glee;
Matt, could its waters wash out blood,

It had been well for thee.

Crime fits for crime. And no repentant tear
Hast thou for sin ?-Then wait thine hour of fear.

The sea has like a plaything tost
That heavy hull the livelong night.
The man of sin,-he is not lost:
Soft breaks the morning light.

Torn spars and sails,-her lading in the deep,-
The ship makes port with slow and labouring sweep.

Within a Spanish port she rides.

Angry and soured, Lee walks her deck.
"So, peaceful trade a curse betides?-
And thou, good ship, a wreck!

Ill luck in charge!-Ho! cheer ye up, my men!
Rigged, and at sea, and then, old work again!"
A sound is in the Pyrenees!

Whirling and dark comes roaring down
A tide as of a thousand seas,
Sweeping both cowl and crown:

On field and vineyard, thick and red it stood;
Spain's streets and palaces are wet with blood.

And wrath and terror shake the land:
The peaks shine clear in watchfire lights;
Soon comes the tread of that stout band,-
Bold Arthur and his knights.

Awake ye, Merlin! Hear the shout from Spain !
The spell is broke!—Arthur is come again !—

Too late for thee, thou young, fair bride!
The lips are cold, the brow is pale,
That thou didst kiss in love and pride;

He cannot hear thy wail,

Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmured sound.
His couch is cold and lonely in the ground.

He fell for Spain,-her Spain no more;
For he was gone who made it dear;
And she would seek some distant shore,
Away from strife and fear,

And wait amid her sorrows till the day
His voice of love should call her thence away.

Lee feigned him grieved, and bowed him low,
"Twould joy his heart, could he but aid
So good a lady in her woe,

He meekly, smoothly said.

With wealth and servants she is soon aboard,
And that white steed she rode beside her lord.

The sun goes down upon the sen;
The shadows gather round her home.
"How like a pall are ye to me!

My home, how like a tomb!

O, blow, ye flowers of Spain, above his head!
Ye will not blow o'er me when I am dead."

And now the stars are burning bright;
Yet still she's looking toward the shore
Beyond the waters black in night.

"I ne'er shall see thee more!

Ye're many, waves, yet lonely seems your flow;
And I'm alone,-scarce know I where I go."

Sleep, sleep, thou sad one on the sea!
The wash of waters lulls thee now;

His arm no more will pillow thee,
Thy fingers on his brow.

He is not near, to hush thee, or to save.

The ground is his, the sea must be thy grave.

The moon comes up; the night goes on.
Why, in the shadow of the mast,
Stands that dark, thoughtful man alone?.
Thy pledge!-nay, keep it fast!
Bethink thee of her youth, and sorrows, Lee;'
Helpless, alone,—and, then, her trust in thee.

When told the hardships thou hadst borne,
Her words to thee were like a charm.
With uncheered grief her heart is worn;
Thou wilt not do her harm?

He looks out on the sea that sleeps in light,
And growls an oath,-" It is too still to-night!"

He sleeps; but dreams of massy gold
And heaps of pearl,-stretches his hands;
But hears a voice," Ill man, withhold!"
A pale one near him stands.

Her breath comes deathly cold upon his cheek;
Her touch is cold; he hears a piercing shriek;-

He wakes!-But no relentings wake
Within his angered, restless soul.
"What, shall a dream Matt's

purpose

The gold will make all whole.

shake?

Thy merchant trade had nigh unmanned thee, lad!
What, balk my chance because a woman's sad!".

He cannot look on her mild eye;
Her patient words his spirit quell.
Within that evil heart there lie
The hates and fears of hell.

His speech is short; he wears a surly brow.

There's none will hear the shriek. What fear ye now?

The workings of the soul ye fear;

Ye fear the power that goodness hath;
Ye fear the Unseen One ever near,
Walking his ocean path.

From out the silent void there comes a cry,-
"Vengeance is mine! Thou, murderer, too, shalt
die !"

Nor dread of ever-during woe,

Nor the sea's awful solitude,

Can make thee, wretch, thy crime forego.
Then, bloody hand,-to blood!

The scud is driving wildly overhead;
The stars burn dim; the ocean moans its dead.

Moan for the living; moan our sins,

The wrath of man more fierce than thine.
Hark! still thy waves!-The work begins,-
Lee makes the deadly sign.

The crew glide down like shadows. Eye and hand
Speak fearful meanings through the silent band.

They're gone. The helmsman stands alone;
And one leans idly o'er the bow.
Still as a tomb the ship keeps on;
Nor sound nor stirring now.

Hush, hark! as from the centre of the deep,
Shrieks, fiendish yells! They stab them in their
sleep!

The scream of rage, the groan, the strife,

The blow, the gasp, the horrid cry,

The panting throttled prayer for life,

The dying's heaving sigh,

The murderer's curse, the dead man's fixed, still

On pale, dead men, on burning cheek,

On quick, fierce eyes, brows hot and damp,
On hands that with the warm blood reek,
Shines the dim cabin lamp.

Lee looked. "They sleep so sound," he laughing, said,

"They'll scarcely wake for mistress or for maid."

A crash! They force the door, and then
One long, long, shrill, and piercing scream
Comes thrilling 'bove the growl of men.
"Tis hers! O God, redeem

From worse than death thy suffering, helpless child!
That dreadful shriek again,—sharp, sharp, and wild!

It ceased. With speed o' th' lightning's flash,
A loose-robed form, with streaming hair,
Shoots by.-A leap,—a quick, short splash!
"Tis gone!-and nothing there!

The waves have swept away the bubbling tide.
Bright-crested waves, how calmly on they ride!

She's sleeping in her silent cave,

Nor hears the loud, stern roar above,
Nor strife of man on land or wave.
Young thing! her home of love

She soon has reached! Fair, unpolluted thing!
They harmed her not!-Was dying suffering?
O no!-To live when joy was dead,
To go with one lone, pining thought,
To mournful love her being wed,
Feeling what death had wrought;
To live the child of woe, nor shed a tear,
Bear kindness, and yet share not joy or fear;
To look on man, and deem it strange
That he on things of earth should brood,
When all the thronged and busy range
To her was solitude,-

O, this was bitterness! Death came and pressed
Her wearied lids, and brought the sick heart rest.

Why look ye on each other so,

And speak no word?-Ay, shake the head!
gone where ye can never go.
What fear ye from the dead?

She's

They tell no tales; and ye are all true men ;-
But wash away that blood; then, home again!

'Tis on your souls; it will not out!
Lee, why so lost? "Tis not like thee!
Come, where thy revel, oath, and shout?
"That pale one in the sea!-

I mind not blood.-But she,-I cannot tell!
A spirit was't?-It flashed like fires of hell!

"And when it passed there was no tread!
It leaped the deck.-Who heard the sound?
I heard none!-Say, what was it fled?
Poor girl! and is she drowned?-

Went down these depths? How dark they look, and cold!

She's yonder! stop her!-Now!-there!-hold her!

And then the ribald laughed. The jest, Though old and foul, loud laughter drew; And fouler yet came from the rest

Of that infernal crew.

Note, Heaven, their blasphemy, their broken trust!
Lust panders murder: murder panders lust!

Now slowly up they bring the dead
From out the silent, dim-lit room.
No prayer at their quick burial said;
No friend to weep their doom.

The hungry waves have seized them one by one;
And, swallowing down their prey, go roaring on.

Cries Lee, "We must not be betrayed;
"Tis but to add another corse!

Strange words, we're told, an ass once brayed:
I'll never trust a horse!

Out! throw him on the waves alive!-he'll swim;
For once a horse shall ride; we all ride him."

Such sound to mortal ear ne'er came
As rang far o'er the waters wide.
It shook with fear the stoutest frame:
The horse is on the tide!

As the waves leave, or lift him up, his cry
Comes lower now, and now is near and high.

And through the swift waves' yesty crown
His scared eyes shoot a fiendish light,

And fear seems wrath. He now sinks down,
Now heaves again to sight,

Then drifts away; and through the night they hear
Far off that dreadful cry.—But morn is near.

O, hadst thou known what deeds were done,
When thou wast shining far away,
Wouldst thou let fall, calm-coming sun,
Thy warm and silent ray?

The good are in their graves; thou canst not cheer
Their dark, cold mansions: Ein alone is here.

"The deed's complete! The gold is ours!
There, wash away that bloody stain!
Pray, who'd refuse what fortune showers?
Now, lads, we lot our gain!

Must fairly share, you know, what's fairly got?
A truly good night's work! Who says 'twas not?"

There's song, and oath, and gaming deep,
Hot words, and laughter, mad carouse;
There's raught of prayer, and little sleep;
The devil keeps the house!

"Lee chents!" cried Jack. Lee struck him to the

"The fewer heirs, the richer, man!

Hold forth your palm, and keep your prate!
Our life, we read, is but a span.

What matters soon or late?"

And when on shore, and asked, Did many die?
"Near half my crew, poor lads!" he'd say, and sigh.

Within the bay, one stormy night,
The isle-men saw boats make for shore,
With here and there a dancing light,
That flashed on man and oar.

When hailed, the rowing stopped, and all was dark. "Ha! lantern-work!-We'll home! They're playing shark!"

He and his crew were flush of gold.
You did not lose your cargo, then ?"
Where all is fairly bought and sold,
Heaven prospers those true men.
Forsake your evil ways, as we forsook
Onr ways of sin, and honest courses took!
"Would see my log-book Fairly writ,
With pen of steel, and ink of blood!
How lightly doth the conscience sit!
Learn, truth's the only good."

And thus, with flout, and cold and impious jeer,
He fled repentance, if he scaped not fear.

Remorse and fear he drowns in drink.
"Come, pass the bowl, my jolly crew!
It thicks the blood to mope and think.
Here's merry days, though few!"
And then he quaffs. So riot reigns within;
So brawl and laughter shake that house of sin.
Matt lords it now throughout the isle;
His hand falls heavier than before;
All dread alike his frown or smile.
None come within his door,

Save those who dipped their hands in blood with him;

Save those who laughed to see the white horse swim.

"To-night's our anniversary;

And, mind me, lads, we have it kept
With royal state and special glee!
Better with those who slept

Their sleep that night would he be now, who slinks!
And health and wealth to him who bravely drinks."
The words they speak, we may not speak;
The tales they tell, we may not tell.

Mere mortal man, forbear to seek

The secrets of that hell!

Their shouts grow loud. "Tis near mid-hour of night!
What means upon the waters that red light?

Not bigger than a star it seems.
And now 'tis like the bloody moon,
And now it shoots in hairy streams!
It moves!-Twill reach us soon?

A ship! and all on fire!-hull, yard, and mast!
Her sails are sheets of flame!-she's nearing fast!
And now she rides upright and still,
Shedding a wild and lurid light,
Around the cove, on inland hill,
Waking the gloom of night.

All breathes of terror! men, in dumb amaze,
Gaze on each other in the horrid blaze.

It scares the sea-birds from their nests;
They dart and wheel with deafening screams;
Now dark, and now their wings and breasts
Flash back disastrous gleams.

Fair Light, thy looks strange alteration wear;-
The world's great comforter,-why now its fear?

And what comes up above the wave,
So ghastly white? A spectral head!
A horse's head! (May Heaven save
Those looking on the dead,-

The waking dead!) There, on the sea he stands,—
The Spectre-Horse! He moves! he gains the sands;

And on he speeds! His ghostly sides
Are streaming with a cold blue light.
Heaven keep the wits of him who rides
The Spectre-Horse to-night!

His path is shining like a swift ship's wake.
Before Lee's door he gleams like day's gray break

The revel now is high within;
It bursts upon the midnight air