THE DAYS OF YOUTH. FROM THE "PRELUDE TO FAUSTUS." Give me, oh give me back the days And felt, as they now feel, each coming hour Oh, happy, happy time, above all praise! Then thoughts on thoughts and crowding fancies sprung, And found a language in unbidden laysUnintermitted streams from fountains ever flowing. Then, as I wandered free, In every field for me Its thousand flowers were blowing! A veil through which I did not see, A thin veil o'er the world was thrown— Magic in everything unknown: The fields, the grove, the air was haunted, Yes! give me-give me back the days of youth, Give me, oh give youth's passions unconfined, The rush of joy that felt almost like pain, Its hate, its love, its own tumultuous mind ;Give me my youth again! JOHN ANSTER.-JOHN NEAL. THE SOUL OF ELOQUENCE. TRANSLATION FROM GOETHE'S "FAUSTUS." How shall we learn to sway the minds of men And when you speak in earnest, do you need These filagree ornaments,-are good for nothing! And blow, with puffing breath, a struggling light, By words which come not native from the heart. John Neal. AMERICAN. Neal (1793-1876) was a native of Portland, Maine. From his "Autobiography" (1869), written at the suggestion of the poet Longfellow, we learn that he was of Quaker descent, and could trace back his ancestry to the time of George Fox. He had a twin-sister, Rachel. "At the age of twelve," he says, "my education was completed. I never went to school another day." Thenceforth he was self-instructed. Quitting the retail shop where he had been placed as a boy, he taught drawing and penmanship for awhile; then became a dry-goods jobber successively in Boston, New York, and Baltimore, in the latter city going into partnership with the poet Pierpont. Failing in business (1815), he studied law; then tried literature, publishing (1817) his novel of "Keep Cool," "Goldau, and other Poems," "Otho: a Tragedy," besides supplying editorial matter for the Baltimore Telegraph. He wrote with great rapidity, and became one of the most voluminous of American authors. His novels "Seventy-six" and "Logan" were 443 republished in London. Of his poetry he himself says, "It is disfigured by extravagance, and overloaded with imagery;" and he tells us that he got the sobriquet of "John O'Cataract" because of his impetuosity, his fiery temper, and his Irish name. In 1824 Neal went to England, became domiciled with Jeremy Bentham, and wrote for Blackwood's Magazine up to 1826, when he returned to Portland. Here he opened a law-office, but in 1828 started The Yankee, a weekly paper, which he edited a year or two with much vigor. Of his contributions to magazines and reviews, it may be said their name is legion. At one time, by way of variety, he gave lessons in sparring and fencing, for he was an accomplished athlete. When eighty-two years old, being in a horse-car with some old gentlemen, they were insulted by a robust, ruffianly fellow, whereupon Neal grappled him, and pitched him out of the car. A firm friend, and a somewhat tenacious enemy, Neal was remembered as a warm-hearted, honorable man, and a delightful companion. GOLDAU. A small village of the same name in the valley of Goldau, Switzerland, was entirely destroyed, along with some adjoining villages, September 2d, 1806, by a landslip of the Rossberg, which then took place, and which also converted this once beautiful valley into a scene of desolation, covering it with enormous rocks and other débris. Upward of four hundred and fifty human beings were killed, one hundred and eleven houses destroyed, and whole herds of cattle swept away. The portion of the mountain that fell was about three miles long, a thousand feet broad, and a hundred feet thick. O Switzerland! my country! 'tis to thee Ye sleep beneath a mountain pall, Of the echoes that swim o'er thy bright blue lake, In the swell of thy peaceable sky. Their unanswered notes to the wave and the sky, For deep in that blue-bosomed water is laid As ever in cheerfulness carolled her song In the blithe mountain air as she bounded along.The heavens are all blue, and the billow's bright verge Is frothily laved by a whispering surge, To lull the pale forms that sleep below; O'er that sleepless tomb, where my loved ones float. Oh! cool and fresh is that bright blue lake, The basin of the rainbow stream, The sunset gush, the morning gleam, Land of proud hearts, where freedom broods Amid her home of echoing woods, The mother of the mountain floods, Dark, Goldau, is thy vale! The spirits of Rigi shall wail On their cloud-bosomed deep, as they sail In mist where thy children are lying: But the hour when the sun in his pride went down, While his parting hung rich o'er the world,— While abroad o'er the sky his flush mantle was blown, And his red-rushing streamers unfurled,An everlasting hill was torn From its perpetual base, and borne, In gold and crimson vapors dressed, To where a people are at rest! Slowly it came in its mountain wrath, And the forests vanished before its path; And the rude cliffs bowed, and the waters fled, And the living were buried, while over their head They heard the full march of the foe as he sped, And the valley of life was the tomb of the dead! The clouds were all bright; no lightnings flew; And over that valley no death-blast blew: No storm passed by on his cloudy wing; No twang was heard from the sky-archer's string; But the dark old hill in its strength came down, While the shedding of day on its summit was thrown, A glory all light, like a wind-wreathed crown; While the tame bird flew to the vulture's nest, And the vulture forbore in that hour to molest. The mountain sepulchre of all I loved! The secret of his power lies bare: His rocks in nakedness arise, Sweet vale, Goldau, farewell! As their thunders once paused in their headlong The mountain, thy pall and thy prison, may keep descent, And delayed their discharge, while thy desert was rent With the cries of thy sons who were dying. No chariots of fire on the clouds careered; No warrior-arm, with its falchion reared: No death-angel's trump o'er the ocean was blown; No mantle of wrath o'er the heaven was thrown; No armies of light, with their banners of flame, Or neighing steeds, through the sunset came, Or leaping from space appeared! No earthquakes reeled, no Thunderer stormed; No fetterless dead o'er the bright sky swarmed; No voices in heaven were heard! thee, I shall see thee no more, but till death I will weep thee; Of thy blue lake will dream, wherever I roam, And wish myself wrapped in its peaceful foam. Henry Francis Lyte. Lyte (1793-1847) was a native of Ednam, Scotland, where the poet Thomson was born. He entered Trinity College, Dublin, and carried off on three occasions the prize for English poetry. He studied for the ministry, and, after some changes, settled as a clergyman at Brixham, Devonshire. Here he labored successfully for twen HENRY FRANCIS LYTE.-NATHANIEL LANGDON FROTHINGHAM. ty years, and composed most of his hymns. His health failing, he went to Nice, where he died. His noble hymn, "Abide with Me," was written in 1847, in view of his approaching departure from earth. It was the last, as it was the best, of his productions. HYMN: "ABIDE WITH ME.” Abide with me! fast falls the even-tide; The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide! When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me! Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word; Come not in terrors as the King of kings; Thou on my head in early youth didst smile; I need thy presence every passing hour: I fear no foe, with thee at hand to bless : Hold, then, thy cross before my closing eyes! Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies! Heaven's morning breaks, and Earth's vain shadows flee; In life and death, O Lord, abide with me! FROM LINES ON "EVENING." Sweet evening hour! sweet evening hour! That calms the air, and shuts the flower; That brings the wild bird to her nest, The infant to its mother's breast. 445 Sweet hour! that bids the laborer cease, Oh season of soft sounds and hues, Yes, lovely hour! thou art the time Then, as the earth recedes from sight, Who has not felt that Evening's hour Draws forth devotion's tenderest power; That guardian spirits round us stand, And God himself seems most at hand? Sweet hour! for heavenly musing made- Nathaniel Langdon Frothingham. AMERICAN. A native of Boston, and a graduate of Harvard, Frothingham (1793-1870) studied for the ministry, and was settled over a parish in Boston several years. He published some excellent translations from the German, and made several visits to Europe. The latter part of his life he became blind; and he pathetically alludes, in the poem we quote, to the fact that the blind, when they dream, have no sense of their deprivation. His son, Octavius Brooks Frothingham (born in Boston, 1822), is a clergyman of the liberal school, and the author of some approved hymns. THE SIGHT OF THE BLIND. "I always see in dreams," she said, "Nor then believe that I am blind." That simple thought a shadowy pleasure shed Within my mind. In a like doom, the nights afford A like display of mercy done: How oft I've dreamed of sight as full restored! Not once as gone. Restored as with a flash! I gaze On open books with letters plain; And scenes and faces of the dearer days Are bright again. O sleep! in pity thou art made A double boon to such as we: Beneath closed lids and folds of deepest shade We think we see. O Providence! when all is dark Around our steps and o'er thy wil, The mercy-seat that hides the covenant-ark Has angels still. Thou who art light! illume the page Within; renew these respites sweet, And show, beyond the films and wear of age, Both walk and seat. O GOTT, DU FROMMER GOTT! Thou well-spring of all blessing! From whom we're all possessing;Give me a body sound; And in it, builded well, Afford me will and strength To do the work assigned me, Whereto, in my true place, Thy law may call and find me. Let it be timely done, With eager readiness; And what is done in thee Have ever good success. Help me to speak but that Which I can stand maintaining, And banish from my lips The word that's coarse and staining; And when the duty comes To speak with earnest stress, Then grant the needed force Unmixed with bitterness. When trouble shall break in, Let me not turn despairer; But give a steadfast heart, And make me a cross-bearer. When help and comfort fail, Send to my side the Friend, Who, closer than a brother, Shall watch the sorrow's end. William Maginn. Maginn (1793-1842), the "Odoherty" of Blackwood's Magazine, from 1819 to 1828, was a native of Cork. He received the degree of LL.D. in his twenty-fourth year. There was much scholarly wit and satirical power in his writings; but his literary career was irregular, and his intemperate habits made it a failure. He was often arrested, and lodged in jail. He was one of the chief supporters of Fraser's Magazine (1830), and for a time co-editor of the Standard newspaper. In 1838 he commenced a series of Homeric ballads in Blackwood's Magazine. He was also distinguished as a Shakspearian critic. THE IRISHMAN. I. There was a lady lived at Leith, A lady very stylish, man; A wild, tremendous Irishman A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman! II. His face was noways beautiful, For with small-pox 'twas scarred across; And the shoulders of the ugly dog Oh, the lump of an Irishman The whiskey-devouring Irishman— The great he-rogue, with his wonderful broguethe fighting, rioting Irishman! III. One of his eyes was bottle-green, And the other eye was out, my dear; And the calves of his wicked-looking legs Were more than two feet about, my dear! |