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GOLDEN and russet and golden,
Low-lying, lustrous, and still; As fair as the garden of olden,
That Adam was given to till!
Scarlet and purple and scarlet,
Emerald, amber, and pearl; As brilliant as sunset afar-lit,
And soft as a singing shell's whorl!
Autumn, the queen of the seasons!
Thou scatterest beauty like rain. And, lo! here we give thee allegiance,
And, vassals, fall into thy train!
PRINCESS Eyebright's seventeen,
EDWIN BOOTH. LET Shakespeare hold the mirror up to nature, Show scorn her image, virtue her own feature; 'Tis not enough without thy glorious part To hold the mirror up to Shakespeare's art.
Who is the poet ? Who is he
He sees too clear, and he sees too deep, Not to be laughing when others weep; And he sees too deep and clear by half, Not to be weeping when others laugh.
When Milton, bard of purity, was born,
His soul, descending, caught the sunrise glow, And, Aushed with beauty, reached the earth below.
There clad in flesh, whose features yet adorn
It sought again the skies it erst did know. () Milton, thou hast only half thy praise
In having lowered the heavens within man's ken;
Thine other, equal labor was to raise
So, underneath thy forehead's aureole blaze,
WORK AND WAGES.
In the Devil's reward,
For the work of the Lord;
But the common demand
Puts all on a level, -
For the work of the Devil.
THE THREE STAGES.
Which brought me small hilarity,
And now I live on charity.
BEAUTY Her voice is like the sound that comes when bells Have ended ringing. She has wondrous hands, Which can make all things beautiful to see. Her hair is like the darkness, and her eyes Shine like two deep and starlit mountain lakes, When the low moon is hid.
A Woman's Will.
BROWNELL. None e'er like him from war's resounding thong. Loosed the lean, rhyme-winged, thought-barbed
shaft of song.
W. T. W. BARBE.
It was not always so. There was a time when lameness leaped with joy At sight of these same smokes; and nakedness Was clad and sheltered in expectancy Before it reached these halls; nor only so, But found its hope of bounty realized, Even upon the threshold.
- Orestes, or The Avenger.
GREATNESS. Only when leagues of sea shut out the land, Do men discern what mountains highest stand.
The Great Admiral.
REST. The head-drawn arrow sleeping on the string; The sky-wrapt eagle hung on level wing.
Thou ill can make no less,
- To the May-Flower.
With unanointed eyes
- Swedenborg DANDELION. While, last of summer's tokens, new-born to feebler
glow, Like love in old age quickened, the dandelions blow.
--Ebeeme. LAND-LONGING. Oh! when I was a little boy I loved the country so; But now I've grown a big boy I may not thither go, But I must 'bide within the town, and toil and moil
and strive, For just enough of misery to keep myself alive. But when I get an old boy, maybe they'll send me
back, Away from tears and toil and sin, from hearts and
heavens black, And lay me down among the flowers, where long
ago I lay, Beside the shining waters,- as free from toil as they.
T. W. BARBE is one of the most prom. ising of the
younger generation of Americ can verse writers.
He is a West Virginian, born near Morgantown, in Monongalia County, and is now about twenty-five years of age. He gradu. ated in the class of 1884, in the West Virginia University, where his record is a creditable one and where he made many friends whose predic. tions of an honorable career have already been realized. In 1884 he took the Bachelor's degree, and three years later the Master's degree. Believ. ing in laying as broad and firm a basis as possible for future building, he is now devoting his spare hours to studying, under the direction of the university faculty, for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. Since Mr. Barbe's graduation he has been engaged in journalism, first at Morgantown for a short time, then in Cincinnati. He is now one of the editors of the Daily State Journal at Parkersburg, West Virginia. He is also the editor of the literary department of the West Virginia School Journal. While in Cincinnati he was invited to prepare and deliver a poem for the Centennial Celebration held at Morgantown in October, 1885, when that old college town completed its one hundredth year. This ode, which is now published in booklet form, was received with appreciation. Since the publication of this poem, "Song of a Century," Mr. Barbe has received a great many letters from prominent writers speaking of it in the most gratifying terms. He was elected to read the annual poem before the Alumni Association of his Alma Mater in June, 1887, and in the autumn of the same year he was elected Poet of the West Virginia Editorial Association.
Mr. Barbe is a diligent and appreciative student of Shakespeare, and cherishes a tender reverence for the life, character and poems of the great Southern poet, Sidney Lanier. He has had a number of poems published in leading periodicals, all striking for finish and originality of thought. Literature is with him a passion as well as a profession. Who would not wish to this leal young knight God-speed as he comes riding into the literary lists panoplied with high aims and pure desires, and the unsullied armor of a spotless life? May his good sword, the pen, win him many more bloodless victories and the guerdon of the laurel
A PILLOWED head on the cold, cold clay, And a love and a life that died away! Pray God the head that lies so low, Under the sleet and the shrouding snow,
II. The very strength of Nature thrilled
Through all his sinewed frame, But his love was like a broken reed
When the winds of testing came.
Has less of death and deathless care
AMID THE MOUNTAIN PINES.
The snows fall deep, the snows fall fast,
And the lights are' out of the sky; The moan, O the moan of the Winter wind,
And its wail as it skurries by!
The laurel-brake and maiden-hair
Seem dead as the hopes of May; I stand alone beneath the pines,
And the mountains stretch away.
The wolf's hoarse howl, the jackal's bay
Or the least of nature's signs, Would music, welcome music be
Amid these mountain pines.
LIBERTY. The City's great heart has a thousand full veins,
And it throbs with a strength all unknown; But the Fields with their harpers full-feathered in
gold, Have a thousand free hearts of their own.
– The City and the Field's.
As he tracked by the surging sea.
Have washed ashore for me!"
He tossed and skipped the shells
The billows moan their sad farewells;
Into the mouth of a hungry sea
Song of a Century.
CONTENT. How like that wondrous plant of a wondrous clime, The Century Plant, that takes its time with Time, And strikes its roots and lifts its leaves in blind Content a hundred years, before the wind Has scent of bud or breath of blooming flower.
-Ibid. THE LOVER AND THE BOOK. Thousands of men have fallen in love
With Books, and, as Knights of old, obeyed them And unto this day it has never been said
That their Mistress has ever betrayed them!
From the cold gray earth to the cold gray sky,
They reach like plummet-lines, And I am but an unseen speck
Amid these mountain pines.
THE WINDS. “ A FLOWER! a flower!” The South Wind cried; And the violet blushed and bloomed.
“A weed! a weed!” The North Wind sighed; And the violet's life was doomed.
Better things than summer flowers
NOT TO THE STRONG.
And her voice in whispers fell,
O'er the powers of earth and hell.
THE PLANE OF CLEAVAGE, Society cleaves at the stratum of gold,
And it matters nothing at all If the gold is washed in blood untold,
And tears as bitter as gall.
HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.
his cruise to the principal ports of Europe, enjoying, throughout all their intercourse, the warm personal friendship of the Admiral. In 1868 he resigned his position, and returned to East Hartford, where he died, of cancer, Oct. 31, 1872, in the maturity of his powers, with his best work still before him.
There is no exaggeration in Aldrich's tribute to the personal character of Brownell. A soul of fire and dew, brave and gentle, he was beloved by all. His fortitude was unflinching. He loved all that is best in art and literature, and read widely and deeply; but, if he had a supreme devotion, it was to Nature.
Brownell's literary fame has suffered from the forgetfulness in which, until lately, his countrymen have been content to bury all subjects pertaining to the Civil War; but, at what a loss they include his poetry in that general neglect, the following extracts, though of necessity but few and short, will show more convincingly than the strongest words of commendation.
H. L. K.
FROM THE BAY FIGHT.
ENRY HOWARD BROWNELL* was born in
Providence, R. I., Feb. 6, 1820. He was the second son of Dr. Pardon and Lucia Emilia D'Wolf Brownell; and a nephew of Bishop Thomas Church Brownell. His mother, a woman of rare qualities, and herself a poet, long survived him, dying in 1884 in her 8gth year. The family moved to East Hartford, Conn., when Henry was four years old. At the age of fourteen or fifteen he spent a year in a commercial house in New York. Later he entered Washington, now Trinity, College, at Hartford, where he was graduated in 1841.
He next taught for some months in Mobile, Ala., and then, returning home, began the study of law.
He was admitted to the bar in 1844, and opened practice in company with his brother, Charles D'Wolf Brownell. The winter of 1845-6 he spent in Cuba, going out in a sailing vessel. On this voyage and on others by steamer to New Orleans and Havana, between 1853 and 1860, he acquired that familiarity with the sea that is so conspicuous a feature of his poetry. About the year 1849 he gave up the practice of law, and thenceforth devoted himself to authorship.
His first literary venture had already been published in 1847, and contained poems written from his IŠth to his 28th years. During the next eighteen years Brownell published occasional poems in newspapers and magazines, which he gathered successirely into his“ Ephemeron,” “ Lyrics of a Day,”and " War Lyrics"; but for a time he gave most of his attention to the more profitable if somewhat less congenial form of literary work that he found in historical writing. His nistories are not mere compilations, but the subjects are freshly treated in a spirited and attractive style that won for the books wide popularity. Brownell took a deep interest in the political questions that led up to the Rebellion, and when the war came it set on fire his whole being: -- witness such poems as “Coming," "Annus Memorabilis," and "April Nineteenth.” Then followed “ The March of the Regiment," “ The Fall of Al-Accoub," and other pieces, struck out at a white heat.
But Brownell's ardent nature could not rest content with the trumpeter's office of inciting others to battle. The naval service was his natural choice, and, in 1863, a correspondence with Admiral Farragut occasioned by the poet's version of his General Orders, resulted in Brownell's accepting the position of a master mate on board the Hartford. He was afterwards promoted to ensign. In this capacity Brownell was present at the fight in Mobile Bay, and was commended by the Admiral, in his official report, for coolness and accuracy in taking notes of the action. After the war he attended Farragut on * Accented on the first syllable, like the names of the poets Tickell and Parnell.
Turee days through sapphire seas we sailed,
The steady Trade blew strong and free, The Northern Light his banners paled, The Ocean Stream our channels wet,
We rounded low Canaveral's lee, And passed the isles of emerald set
In blue Bahama's turquoise sea.
By reef and shoal obscurely mapped,
And hauntings of the gray sea-wolf, The palmy Western Key lay lapped
In the warm washing of the gulf.
But weary to the hearts of all
The burning glare, the barren reach Of Santa Rosa's withered beach
And Pensacola's ruined wall.
And weary was the long patrol,
The thousand miles of shapeless strand, From Brazos to San Blas that roll
Their drifting dunes of desert sand.
Yet, coast-wise as we cruised or lay,
The land-breeze still at nightfall bore, By beach and fortress-guarded bay,
Sweet odors from the enemy's shore.
Fresh from his forest solitudes,
Unchallenged of his sentry lines The bursting of his cypress buds,
And the warm fragrance of his pines.