A ALLEN EASTMAN CROSS. LLEN EASTMAN CROSS was born in Manchester, New Hampshire, December 30, 1864. He graduated from the Manchester high school with honors in 1881, and from Phillips Academy in 1882. He enterd Amherst College in 1882. The attention of his friends and college mates was first attracted to him, as a young poet of promise, by the appearance, in the Boston Journal (July 25, 1885), of a poem entitled "Mt. McGregor," on the death of Grant. Devoting much of his senior year to the course in English literature, his style was developed into one of considerable beauty and power. The publication, in the Amherst Literary Monthly and current magazines, of occasional poems and sonnets on the Madonna faces of certain of the old masters, led to his unanimous election as class poet. A part of his class poem "The Amherst Hills," was afterward published in the New England Magazine. After graduating at Amherst in 1886, Mr. Cross continued his studies in Andover. His poems exhibit a spontaneity in the subjects chosen as well as in their treatment. Back of all the mere expression of the thought and sentiment, there is in all his poetry a depth of purpose, a sincere enthusiasm, an earnest vitality, and a deep spirituality, which will do much to overcome any present crudities of expression and carelessness of rhythm. G. F. K. MT. MCGREGOR. I SEE a young Lieutenant, fresh from books The wailing bells salute a passing soul. Again the vision rises, and I see, A General mounted high in majesty; A man whom comrades love and traitors hate; And now they crown the hero, President, There is a nook, where blows the highland air He ne'er has met-'tis Death is calling low. And still in measured beat recurs the tollThe wailing bells salute a passing soul. But air and sympathy can ne'er control TO THE AMHERST HILLS. HILLS to the North! where, a slumbering lion, Tobey lies couched in his carven pride,— Unto eternity your inspiration For the beholder still shall abide. Oft have I wandered your mighty sides over, your gorges, Lived the sweet life that a dreamer lives. Hills to the East! where the early arbutus Tenderly trails o'er your pastured lands, Where, with its glory and crowning of spruces, High o'er the Orient, Pisgah stands. Hills to the South! your most beautiful ramparts Like a high soul, that from struggle and sorrow So hath this rampart, ice-worn and storm-riven, Grown to a lovliness more divine. Hills to the West! but a curtain of beauty For on the nearer and drearer horizon I can not look to those far away hill-tops, Lo! it is sunset; again I am standing On the high lookout of college tower; Over the meadows the bell of old Hadley Softly proclaimeth the twilight hour. Up to the North where Sugar-loaf mountain Raises its table-bluff stern and bold, Loneliest monarchs of light and of darkness. Seem to be laying their cloth of gold. By heroic hearts 'tis counted as a crown, While a love, no prince could borrow, Call a truce for sorrow, Freedom, in the fray! When a great courageous heart hath passed away. MATER DOLOROSA, OF GUIDO RENI. And their mute starry mirror have no speech Oh Grieving Mother, hath the earth no charm SISTINE MADONNA, OF RAPHAEL. A TWILIGHT star that rests above the steep O Virgin Mother, thou hast purity THE DEAD STATESMAN. On the Death of John Bright. LAY the laurel on his coffin, and a sword! Many a civil wrong he severed by his word, And, for human right defended, Though his battle now be ended, Wreathe the laurel for a soldier of the Lord. MATER AMABILIS. Mater Amabilis, thy dark, sweet eyes -Mater Amabilis of Sassoferrato. and work of Francis Saltus Saltus, whose silent form has just been laid at rest amid the cool greenness of the cemetery in Sleepy Hollow. Born in New York, Nov. 23, 1849, educated at a leading institute of that city, and also in Paris, France, he early evinced his literary gift, by winning prize after prize in those schools. At the completion of his studies, he traveled extensively in Europe, extending his journeyings to Siberia, the classic portions of Western Asia, and Egypt. During this time, he made himself familiar with the languages of the countries he visited, speaking and writing fluently in French, Italian, Spanish, German, Dutch, Danish, Swedish and Russian, as well as in many of the different dialects common to those nations, and he was also a thorough Greek, Latin and Hebrew scholar. Thus it will be seen that he was better equipped for the litetary life, both by acquaintance with other languages and literatures, and personal observations of the life and surroundings of different people, than are most authors; and the phenomenal amount of work that he left, shows that he made good use of his opportunities. His literary life may be said to begin with the appearance of his first volume of poems, "Honey and Gall," published in 1873, and since then he has written incessantly, the list of his unpublished work being simply immense. Here it is: Volumes of poetry ready for the press: "The Witch of Endor, and fifty long poems on Biblical Subjects;' Flask and Flagon;" "Poems of Places;" 46 Pastels and Profiles; Flower and Thorn;" Flesh and Spirit;" Moods of Madness;" Songs of Sin;"" Sonnets;" an un-named volume of French poetry, and two volumes of humorous poetry. In prose, he has written, and left ready for publication, "A Life of Donizetti," an exhaustive work that will make eight hundred printed pages; a "Life of Rossini;' 'Kings of Song; " monographs on Bellini and Mercadante; "Great Baritones;" "Romance of the Opera;" a musical dictionary, and over one thousand musical sketches. In humorous prose, comic histories of France, Greece, Germany, England and Rome, and a comic "Robinson Cruso," and more than one thousand comic sketches. His published works are "Honey and Gall," a volume of poems; a comic history of the United States; a large number of humorous poems over the pseudonym of Cupid Jones; many stories, sketches, novelettes, editorials and reviews; and innumerable skits of from three to five lines, such as are now so current in our light literature journals. 64 But while so fertile in literature, his brain was equally active in music, and as a pianist he was surpassed only by the great performers, while as an improvisatore he had no rival. His musical compositions, which follow the pure Italian school, are always melodious and touching, and often evince a grandeur and nobility that is indeed soulmoving. He wrote a grand opera in four acts, entitled "Joan of Arc;" a serious opera entitled "Marie Stuart; " four comic operas, and six hundred pieces of fugitive music. When it is considered that the real literary life of Saltus began in 1873, and that it ended June 25, 1889, when death's shadow fell across his path, the amount of work that he did was simply wonderful. His readiness in all branches of literary work, was astonishing. A half dozen sonnets at a sitting; fifty or one hundred witty skits in an afternoon; a poem of a thousand lines in a week, with stories, sketches, editorials and reviews thrown off during the time as rests. To give a full judgment of his work in any limited space is impossible, and a rapid summing up is all that can be accomplished. As a poet, it is not too much to say that his was the greatest poetic genius that America has produced. That it has not won to that recognition which this statement would seem to demand, is the result of circumstances easily explained. Educated in France, his mind early seized upon the strangely weird werk of Baudelaire and Gautier, and his strong imagination made his treatment of the themes he chose, antagonistic to the received thought of his native land. He had no reveration for the things known as sacred, but this must not be considered to imply that his poetry is not pure and noble. That he gave new and strange versions of the old Biblical records, did not prevent these melodious and imaginative poems from being as delightful in imagery and language as can be desired. His command of language was marvellous, and his use of rhythm was a revelation. Words, rhythms and melodies were as plastic in his hands, as is clay to the touch of the potter. If the poems of Saltus are ever published in complete form, they will win even greater praise than has been here accorded them, for while they run far beyond the ruts, and have an andacious originality of thought and theme that will awaken antagonism, the beauty of their workmanship, and the poetic fire that inspires them, will have to be acknowledged. But while the poetry of Saltus is undoubtedly his highest gift, the beauty and strength of his music is even as wonderful. Melody in word or tone was the ruling essence of his spirit. The operas, "Joan of Arc," and "Marie Stuart," are superb specimens of musical composition. There are solos, duets and choruses in them, as beautiful and harmonious as are those of the great masters of melody. T. S. C. THE CROSS SPEAKS. FOR years in towering stateliness I stood, Below me roamed the solemn, peace-eyed herds That craved my shade, and glorified by birds, In tranquil ways I breathed sweet life away: While the consoling, clover-scented breeze, Wafted in perfume from the Grecian seas, Caressed me at the sultry close of day. My life was one of sanctity and balm, And spires of Sidon when the sunlight gleamed. But on one eve, strange men with shining blades, Cried "Seek no further, this good tree must fall!" Then to the core they struck me with sharp steel; I felt the sap within my veins congeal, I writhed and moaned at every savage blow. And I whose strength had braved the fiercest storm, Tottered and fell, a mutilated form, While all the forest waved its leaves in woe! Then fashioning from my boughs with rough, swift hands, A cross colossal, girt with iron bands, They dragged me in my pitiful disgrace, Down to the holy town Jerusalem, There to give death to those the laws condemn, And placed me in a sad, accursed place. Defiled, I stood there, mourning for my leaves, Severe and constant were the dread decrees Of countless victims granted me no rest: My wood was soiled by blood and split by nails, Then came a dark and sacreligious day, Rude soldiers tore me from the hated ground, And brought me with foul oaths and many a jeer, Before one pale, sweet man, who without fear Did tower above them, godlike, nettle-crowned! Shrill voices, formed to curse and to abuse, Thrilled by his touch, a sense I never knew Sudden within my callous fibres grew, Warning my spirit he was pure and good. And I could feel that he was Christ divine, And that a deathless honor then was mine, In one dark instant I had understood! The raucous shouts of thousands rent the air, When on his outraged shoulders, scourged and bare, He bore to dismal Calvary and night My pondrous weight, my all-unhallowed mass, While I, God-strengthened, strove and strove, alas, Without a hope, to make the burden light. He perished on my heart, and heard the moan For me, in that wild hour on Calvary! When tender women's hands that sought to save, Had carried his sweet body to the grave, A streak of flame hissed forth from heaven and rent My trunk with one annihilating blow, But He who punished my sad sin with fire, Once more with resurrected leaves to thrive! |