MY WIFE AND CHILD. The tattoo beats, the lights are gone, The camp around in slumber lies; The night with solemn pace moves on, The shadows thicken o'er the skies; But sleep my weary eyes hath flown, And sad, uneasy thoughts arise. I think of thee, oh! dearest one, And hover gently, hover near To her, whose watchful eye is wet Frederick Locker. Locker, born in 1821, has published "London Lyrics' (1857), a volume of vers de société, which has passed through several editions. He has also edited a book of drawing-room poetry, called “Lyra Elegantiarum." His effusions at times seem to be colored somewhat by his reminiscences of Praed and Holmes; but he not unfrequently dashes into a style of his own. He assigns to Holmes the first place among living writers of vers de société. Locker may be read with pleasure, for his gayety is always sweet and genial. ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE. She passed up the aisle on the arm of her sire, A delicate lady in bridal attire, Fair emblem of virgin simplicity; Half London was there, and, my word, there were few Mrs. Welby (1821-1852) was born at St. Michael's, Md. Her maiden name was Coppuck. Her father removed to Louisville, Ky., in 1835, where, in 1838, she was married to Mr. Welby, a merchant of that city. She began to write for the Louisville Journal under the signature of "Amelia." Poe, not always an unbiassed judge, said of her: "As for our poetesses (an absurd but necessary word), few of them approach her." A volume of her poems was published in Boston in 1844, and went through four editions. Another appeared in New York in 1850. Cornelius George Fenner. AMERICAN. A modest little volume of eighty-seven pages, entitled "Poems of Many Moods," appeared in Boston in 1846, published by Little & Brown. It was from the pen of Fenner, of whom we know little except that he was born in Providence in 1822, and died in 1847 in Cincinnati, where he had been settled as a Unitarian minister. His "Gulf-Weed" shows that young as he was he had in him the elements of the true poet. TWILIGHT AT SEA:-A FRAGMENT. WINNIPISEOGEE LAKE. The blue waves gently kiss the strand, Then rippling leave the verdant land, And seek the lake's calm breast once more. No white sail gleams upon the wave, Nor motion hath it, save its own Bright flow of waters, and no sound Save its own gentle moan. And deep and pure the summer blue The thousand-tinted foliage dyes! Nature, kind mother! from this scene A soothing tone 'mid life's alarm:To bid each stormy passion rest, And lie in lake-like, calm repose, With sunshine sleeping on my breast, Till death-shades round me close. GULF-WEED. A weary weed, tossed to and fro, Lashed along without will of mine; Growth and grace in their place appear. I bear round berries, gray and red, My spangled leaves, when nicely spread, White and hard in apt array; Hearts there are on the sounding shore, The eternal type of the wondrous whole : Growth unfolding amid unrest, Grace informing with silent soul. Thomas Buchanan Read. AMERICAN. Read (1822-1872) was a native of Chester, Pa. His advantages of early education were limited. When fourteen, he went to Cincinnati, and became a pupil of the sculptor, Clevenger; but soon turned his attention to painting, in which he was financially successful. The poetical element was strong in his nature, as some of his shorter pieces show. He published three long poems, "The New Pastoral," "The House by the Sea," and "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies." In 1850, and again in 1853, he visited Italy. The last few years of his life were spent in Rome. Returning to New York, he died there after a short illness. Among his ballads "Sheridan's Ride" has been quite popular; but his "Drifting" (published 1859) is far the most memorable of his poems. DRIFTING. My soul to-day Is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; My winged boat, A bird afloat, Swims round the purple peaks remote: Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, A duplicated golden glow. Far, vague, and dim, The mountains swim; While on Vesuvius' misty brim, With outstretched hands, The gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands. Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates. I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;- Under the walls of Paradise. |