And how the messenger of fate- Pity look'd lovely in the maiden; That other bards should move her thus, And oft within myself had said, "Yea-I will strive to touch her heart With some fair songs of mine own art"And many days before the day Whereof I speak, I made assay At this bold labour. In the wells Of Froissart's life-like chronicles I dipp'd for moving truths of old. A thousand stories, soft and bold, Of stately dames, and gentlemen, Which good Lord Berners, with a pen Pompous in its simplicity, Yet tipt with charming courtesy, Had put in English words, I learn'd; And some of these I deftly turn'd Into the forms of minstrel verse. I know the good tales are the worseBut, sooth to say, it seems to me My verse has sense and melodyEven that its measure sometimes flows With the brave pomp of that old prose. Beneath our trysting tree, that day, With dubious face, I read one lay; Young Emily quite understood My fears, and gave me guerdon good In well-timed praise, and cheer'd me on, Into full flow of heart and tone. And when, in days of pleasant weather, Thereafter, we were met together, As our strong love oft made us meet, I always took my cosy seat, Just at the damsel's little feet, And read my tales. It was no friend To me that day that heard their end. It had become a play of love, To watch the swift expression rove Over the bright sky of her faceTo steal those upward looks, and trace In every change of check and eye, The influence of my poesy. I made my verse for Emily- The tales which I have toil'd to tell And, for they lived so long ago, Be careless of their mirth or wo? In words of ancient music told, An abstract virtue in the faith, That clung to truth, and courted death,- And smile at woes, because some years Reader! the minstrel brotherhood, And keen delight is in the proud swift chase! Go out what time the lark at heaven's red gate Soars joyously singing-quite infuriate With the high pride of his place; What time the unrisen sun arrays the morning In its first bright adorning. Hark! the quick horn— As sweet to hear as any clarion Piercing with silver call the ear of morn; And mark the steeds, stout Curtal and Topthorne Each one of them his fiery mood displaying Urge your swift horse, 1 EPES SARGENT. [Born, 1816.] THE author of "Velasco" is a native of Gloucester, a town on the sea-coast of Massachusetts, and was born on the twenty-seventh of September, 1816. His father, a respectable merchant, of the same name, is still living, and resides in Boston. The subject of this sketch was educated in the schools of that city and the neighbourhood, where he lived until his removal to New York, in 1837. His earliest metrical compositions were printed in "The Collegian," a monthly miscellany edited by several of the students of Harvard College, of the junior and senior classes of 1830. One of his contributions to that work, entitled "Twilight Sketches," exhibits the grace of style, ease of versification, and variety of description, which are characteristic of his more recent effusions. It was a sketch of the Summer Gardens of St. Petersburg, and was written during a visit to that capital in the spring of 1828. Mr. SARGENT's reputation rests principally on his dramas, which bear a greater value in the closet than on the stage. His first appearance as a dramatic author was in the winter of 1836, when his "Bride of Genoa" was brought out at the Tremont Theatre, in Boston. This was a five-act play, founded on incidents in the career of ANTONIO MONTALDO, a plebeian, who at the age of twentytwo, made himself doge of Genoa, in 1693, and who is described in the history of the times as a man of "forgiving temper," but daring and ambitious, with a genius adequate to the accomplishment of vast designs. In the delineation of his hero, the author has followed the historical record, though the other characters and incidents of the drama are entirely fictitious. It was successfully performed in Boston, and since in many of the first theatres of the country. His next production was of a much higher order, and as a specimen of dramatic art, has received warm commendation from the most competent judges. It was the tragedy of "Velasco," first performed at Boston, in November, 1837, Miss ELLEN TREE in the character of IZIDORA, and subsequently at the principal theatres in New York, Philadelphia, Washington, and New Orleans. It was published in New York in 1839. 66 The general action of the piece," says the author in his preface, "is derived from incidents in the career of RODRIGO DIAZ, the Cid, whose achievements constitute so considerable a portion of the historical and romantic literature of Spain." The subject had been variously treated by French and Spanish dramatists, among others, by CoRNEILLE, but Mr. SARGENT was the first to introduce it successfully upon the English stage. It is a chaste and elegant performance, and probably has not been surpassed by any similar work by so youthful an author. It was written before Mr. SARGENT was twenty-one years of age. In the beginning of 1847 Mr. SARGENT published in Boston a volume entitled "Songs of the Sea, and other Poems," and a new edition of his plays. The quutorzains written during a voyage to Cuba, in the spring of 1835, appear to be among the most elaborate of his sea pieces, but some of his nautical lyrics are more spirited. He has published anonymously several prose works, and in 1846 commenced the publication of the "Modern Acting Drama," of which several volumes have been issued under his editorial supervision. RECORDS OF A SUMMER-VOYAGE TO CUBA. I. THE DEPARTURE. AGAIN thy winds are pealing in mine ear! II. THE GALE. The night came down in terror. Through the Burst, in one loud explosion, far and wide, The meteors of the storm a ghastly radiance cast! III-MORNING AFTER THE GALE. Bravely our trim ship rode the tempest through; have been! IV. TO A LAND-BIRD. Thou wanderer from green fields and leafy nooks! Where blooms the flower and toils the honey-bee; Where odorous blossoms drift along the brooks, And woods and hills are very fair to seeWhy hast thou left thy native bough to roam, With drooping wing, far o'er the briny billow? Thou canst not, like the osprey, cleave the foam, Nor, like the petrel, make the wave thy pillow. Thou'rt like those fine-toned spirits, gentle bird, Which, from some better land, to this rude life Seem borne-they struggle, mid the common herd, With powers unfitted for the selfish strife! Haply, at length, some zephyr wafts them back To their own home of peace, across the world's dull track. V. A THOUGHT OF THE PAST. I woke from slumber at the dead of night, VI. TROPICAL WEATHER. We are afloat upon the tropic sea! VII-A CALM. O! for one draught of cooling northern air! Rock the fix'd hull and swell the clinging sail! VIII. A WISH. That I were in some forest's green retreat, Beneath a towering arch of proud old elms; Where a clear streamlet gurgled at my feetIts wavelets glittering in their tiny helms! Thick clustering vines, in many a rich festoon, From the high, rustling branches should depend; Weaving a net, through which the sultry noon Might stoop in vain its fiery beams to send. There, prostrate on some rock's gray sloping side, Upon whose tinted moss the dew yet lay, Would I catch glimpses of the clouds that ride Athwart the sky-and dream the hours away; While through the alleys of the sunless wood The fanning breeze might steal, with wild-flowers' breath imbued. IX. TROPICAL NIGHT. But, O! the night!-the cool, luxurious night, Which closes round us when the day grows din, And the sun sinks from his meridian height Behind the ocean's occidental rim! Clouds, in thin streaks of purple, green, and red, Lattice his parting glory, and absorb The last bright emanations that are shed In wide profusion, from his failing orb. And now the moon, her lids unclosing, deigns To smile serenely on the charmed sea, That shines as if inlaid with lightning-chains, From which it hardly struggled to be free. Swan-like, with motion unperceived, we glide, Touch'd by the downy breeze, and favour'd by the tide. X. THE PLANET JUPITER. Ever, at night, have I look'd first for thee, O'er all thy astral sisterhood supreme! Ever, at night, have I look'd up to see The diamond lustre of thy quivering beam; Shining sometimes through pillowy clouds serene. As they part from thee, like a loosen'd scroll; Sometimes unveil'd, in all thy native sheen, When no pale vapours underneath thee roll. Bright planet! that art but a single ray From our Creator's throne, illume my soul! Thy influence shed upon my doubtful way Through life's dark vista to the immortal goalGleam but as now upon my dying eyes [shall rise. And hope, from earth to thee, from thee to heaven, XI. TO EGERIA. Leagues of blue ocean are between us spread; He cannot know what rocks and quicksands may XII. CUBA. What sounds arouse me from my slumbers light? “Land ho! all hands ahoy!”—I'm on the deck. "Tis early dawn. The day-star yet is bright. A few white vapoury bars the zenith fleck. And lo! along the horizon, bold and high, The purple hills of Cuba! hail, all hail! Isle of undying verdure, with thy sky Of purest azure! Welcome, odorous gale! O! scene of life and joy! thou art array'd In hues of unimagined lovelinessSing louder, brave old mariner! and aid My swelling heart its rapture to express; For from enchanted memory never more [shore! Shall fade this dawn sublime, this bright, celestial THE DAYS THAT ARE PAST. WE will not deplore them, the days that are past; We have lived till we find them illusive as dreams; Wealth has melted like snow that is grasp'd in the hand, And the steps we have climb'd have departed like sand; Yet shall we despond while of health unbereft, In our spirits the impulse of gladness and praise? But, by faith unforsaken, unawed by mischance, On hope's waving banner still fix'd be our glance; And, should fortune prove cruel and false to the last, Let us look to the future and not to the past! THE MARTYR OF THE ARENA. HONOUR'D be the hero evermore, Who at mercy's call has nobly died! Bright the sky above, and soft the air! His eulogium to the future years! Shall deserve a greater fame than he! Which the Coliseum once beheld? Fill'd with gazing thousands were the tiers, With the city's chivalry and pride, When two gladiators, with their spears, Forward sprang from the arena's side. Rang the dome with plaudits loud and long, As, with shields advanced, the athletes stoodWas there no one in that eager throng To denounce the spectacle of blood? Aye, TELEMACHUS, with swelling frame, Saw the inhuman sport renew'd once more: Few among the crowd could tell his name— For a cross was all the badge he wore! Yet, with brow elate and godlike mien, Stepp'd he forth upon the circling sand; And, while all were wondering at the scene, Check'd the encounter with a daring hand. "Romans!" cried he-"Let this reeking sod Never more with human blood be stain'd! Let no image of the living GOD In unhallow'd combat be profaned! Ah! too long has this colossal dome Fail'd to sink and hide your brutal shows! Here I call upon assembled Rome Now to swear, they shall forever close!" Parted thus, the combatants, with joy, Mid the tumult, found the means to fly; In the arena stood the undaunted boy, And, with looks adoring, gazed on high. Every hand was eager to assail! Strains celestial, that the menace drown? Beckoning to him, with a martyr's crown? Fiercer swell'd the people's frantic shout! Launch'd against him flew the stones like rain! |