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David Barker.

AMERICAN.

Barker (1816-1874) was a native of Exeter, Me. When seven years old he lost his father, and thus carly learned the lesson of self-dependence. He was educated at the Foxcroft Academy, and became himself a teacher; then tried the trade of a blacksmith, but finally qualified himself as a lawyer, and was admitted to the Bar. Sympathy for the distressed was one of his prominent traits. While he repudiated dogmas, he had a firm faith in immortality and a divine Providence. Upright and charitable, he faithfully practised the good he preached in his unpretending verses. A collection of his poems, edited by his brother, was published in Bangor, Me., in 1876.

I know that the world-that the great big world-
Will never a moment stop

To see which dog may be in the fault,
But will shout for the dog on top.

But for me I never shall pause to ask
Which dog may be in the right-
For my heart will beat, while it beats at all,
For the under dog in the fight.

Perchance what I've said I had better not said, Or, 'twere better I had said it incog.,

But with heart and with glass filled chock to the brim,

Here is luck to the bottom dog!

THE COVERED BRIDGE.

Tell the fainting soul in the weary form,

There's a world of the purest bliss,

That is linked as that soul and form are linked, By a covered bridge with this.

Yet to reach that realm on the other shore, We must pass through a transient gloom, And must walk unseen, unhelped, and alone, Through that covered bridge-the tomb.

But we all pass over on equal terms,
For the universal toll

Is the outer garb, which the hand of God
Has flung around the soul.

Though the eye is dim, and the bridge is dark, And the river it spans is wide,

Yet Faith points through to a shining mount That looms on the other side.

To enable our feet, in the next day's march, To climb up that golden ridge,

We must all lie down for a one night's rest Inside of the covered bridge.

The Bronté Family.

Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Bronté were daughters of the Rev. Patrick Bronté, a native of Ireland, who in 1820 moved, with his wife and ten children, to the vil lage of Haworth, four miles from Keighley, England. His income was one hundred and seventy pounds a year. The three daughters showed remarkable literary abili ties. Charlotte (1816-1855) wrote the celebrated novel of "Jane Eyre" (1847), and became famous. Emily (1818-1848) wrote "Wuthering Heights" (1847), a novel; and Anne (1820-1849) wrote "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall," also published in 1847. The three sisters had published in 1846 "Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell "pseudonymes representing Charlotte, Emily, and Anne respectively. Of these Emily seems to have shown the most decided talent for poetry. Charlotte married (1854) her father's curate, Mr. Nicholls, but died the next year. An interesting memoir of her by Mrs. Gaskell appeared in 1857. The other two sisters died young and unmarried. "The bringing out our book of poems," writes Charlotte, "was hard work. As was to be expected, neither we nor our poems were at all wanted."

THE UNDER DOG IN THE FIGHT.

I know that the world-that the great big world—
From the peasant up to the king,

Has a different tale from the tale I tell,
And a different song to sing.

But for me, and I care not a single fig If they say I am wrong or am right,I shall always go in for the weaker dog, For the under dog in the fight.

LIFE.

CHARLOTTE BRONTÉ.

Life, believe, is not a dream,
So dark as sages say;

Oft a little morning rain

Foretells a pleasant day: Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, But these are transient all;

If the shower will make the roses bloom, Oh, why lament its fall?

Rapidly, merrily, Life's sunny hours flit by, Gratefully, cheerily, Enjoy them as they fly.

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Then his eyes began to weary,

Weighed beneath a mortal sleep; And their orbs grew strangely dreary, Clouded, even as they would weep.

But they wept not, but they changed not, Never moved, and never closed; Troubled still, and still they ranged notWandered not, nor yet reposed!

So I knew that he was dyingStooped and raised his languid head; Felt no breath, and heard no sighing,ན་ So I knew that he was dead!

William Ellery Channing.

AMERICAN.

A nephew of the eminent American preacher (17801842) of the same name, Channing, the son of Dr. Walter Channing, a well-known physician, was born in Boston, 1817. He has published: "Poems, First Series" (1843), "Second Series " (1847); "Youth of the Poet and Painter, Psychological Essays" (1844); "Conversations in Rome, between an Artist, a Catholic, and a Critic" (1847); "The Woodman, and other Poems" (1849). His productions are suggestive of reserved power. Emerson once characterized them as "poetry for poets."

IF THIS BE ALL.
ANNE BRONTÉ.1

O God! if this indeed be all
That Life can show to me;
If on my aching brow may fall

No freshening dew from Thee ;-
If with no brighter light than this
The lamp of Hope may glow,
And I may only dream of bliss,

And wake to weary woe;—
If friendship's solace must decay,
When other joys are gone,
And love must keep so far away,

While I go wandering on,—
Wandering and toiling without gain,
The slave of others' will,

With constant care and frequent pain,
Despised, forgotten still;
Grieving to look on vice and sin,
Yet powerless to quell
The silent current from within,

The outward torrent's swell:
While all the good I would impart,

The feelings I would share,
Are driven backward to my heart,

And turned to wormwood there;-
If clouds must ever keep from sight

The glories of the Sun,

And I must suffer Winter's blight
Ere Summer is begun;-

If Life must be so full of care,

Then call me soon to Thee!

Or give me strength enough to bear
My load of misery.

1 The poems of Anne, like those of her sisters, have a marked personal bearing.

TO MY COMPANIONS.

Ye heavy-hearted mariners

Who sail this shore!

Ye patient, ye who labor

Sitting at the sweeping oar,

And see afar the flashing sea-gulls play
On the free waters, and the glad bright day
Twine with his hand the spray!

From out your dreariness,
From your heart weariness,
I speak, for I am yours
On these gray shores.

Nay, nay, I know not, mariners!
What cliffs they are

That high uplift their smooth dark fronts,
And sadly round us bar;

I do imagine that the free clouds play
Above those eminent heights; that somewhere Day
Rides his triumphant way,

And hath secure dominion
Over our stern oblivion,-
But see no path thereout
To free from doubt.

A POET'S HOPE.

Lady, there is a hope that all men have,
Some mercy for their faults, a grassy place
To rest in, and a flower-strewn, gentle grave;
Another hope which purifies our race,
That when that fearful bourn forever past,
They may find rest,-and rest so long to last!

I seek it not, I ask no rest forever,

My path is onward to the farthest shores,Upbear me in your arms, unceasing river! That from the soul's clear fountain swiftly pours,

Motionless not, until the end is won,

Which now I feel hath scarcely felt the sun!

To feel, to know, to soar unlimited,

'Mid throngs of light-winged angels, sweeping far, And pore upon the realms unvisited,

That tesselate the unseen, unthought star, To be the thing that now I feebly dream Flashing within my faintest, deepest gleam!

Ah! caverns of my soul! how thick your shade,
Where flows that life by which I faintly see,-
Wave your bright torches, for I need your aid,

Golden-eyed demons of my ancestry!
Your son, though blinded, hath a light within,
A heavenly fire which ye from suns did win.

O Time! O Death! I clasp you in my arms,
For I can soothe an infinite cold sorrow,
And gaze contented on your icy charms,

And that wild snow-pile which we call to-morrow;
Sweep on, O soft and azure-lidded sky!
Earth's waters to your gentle gaze reply.

I am not earth-born, though I here delay;
Hope's child, I summon infiniter powers,
And laugh to see the mild and sunny day
Smile on the shrunk and thin autumnal hours;
I laugh, for hope hath happy place with me,—
If my bark sinks, 'tis to another sea.

Henry David Thoreau.

AMERICAN.

Thoreau (1817-1862) was a native of Boston, Mass., and was graduated at Harvard College in 1837. His father was a maker of lead - pencils at Concord. Henry supported himself by surveying, teaching school, carpentering, and other work. But the burdens and restrictions of society were intolerable to his free, unconventional nature. He remained single; he never attended church, never voted, and never paid a tax. The town-constable once attempted to collect a poll-tax of him, and took him to jail; but after a short imprisonment he was set at liberty. In 1845 he built for himself a wooden house, or hut, on the shore of Walden Pond, near Concord, and lived there several years. He gives this account of his expenses for a year: The house cost him $28 121; his crop of vegetables was valued at $23 44, and the outgoes were $14 72%. The cost of groceries for eight months was $8 74, and for clothing $8 40. Total expenses for the year, $61 994. Thoreau published "A Week on Concord and Merrimac Rivers" (1849); "Walden, or Life in the Woods" (1854); "Excursions" (1863); "Maine Woods, Cape Cod, A Yankee in Canada, Letters to various Persons" (1865). His poetry is for the most part scattered

through his prose writings. Some of it was contributed to The Dial. The thought in it is often too subtle and recondite to be traced without an effort. In a letter which Hawthorne wrote us, under date of Concord, October 21st, 1842, we find this pertinent passage: "There is a gentleman in this town by the name of Thoreau, a graduate of Cambridge, and a fine scholar, especially in old English literature-but withal a wild, irregular, Indian-like sort of fellow, who can find no occupation in life that suits him. He writes, and sometimes-often, for aught I know-very well indeed. He is somewhat tinctured with transcendentalism; but *** is a genuine and exquisite observer of nature-a character almost as rare as that of a true poet. He writes poetry also-for instance, 'To the Maiden in the East,' 'The Summer Rain,' and other pieces in The Dial for October, which seem to be very careless and imperfect, but as true as bird - notes. The man has stuff to make a reputation of, and I wish you would find it consistent with your interest to aid him in attaining that object."

SMOKE IN WINTER.

The sluggish smoke curls up from some deep dell,
The stiffened air exploring in the dawn,
And making slow acquaintance with the day;
Delaying now upon its heavenward course
In wreathéd loiterings dallying with itself,
With as uncertain purpose and slow deed,
As its half-wakened master by the hearth,
Whose mind still slumbering and sluggish thoughts
Have not yet swept into the onward current
Of the new day;—and now it streams afar,
The while the chopper goes with step direct,
And mind intent to swing the early axe!
First in the dusky dawn he sends abroad
His early scout, his emissary, smoke,
The earliest, latest pilgrim from the roof,
To feel the frosty air, inform the day;
And while he crouches still beside the hearth,
Nor musters courage to unbar the door,

It has gone down the glen with the light wind,
And o'er the plain unfurled its venturous wreath,
Draped the tree-tops, loitered upon the hill,
And warmed the pinions of the early bird;
And now, perchance, high in the crispy air,
Has caught sight of the day o'er the earth's edge,
And greets its master's eye at his low door,
As some refulgent cloud in the upper sky.

UPON THE BEACH.

My life is like a stroll upon the beach,
As near the ocean's edge as I can go;
My tardy steps its waves sometimes o'erreach,
Sometimes I stay to let them overflow.

My sole employment 'tis, and scrupulous care, To set my gains beyond the reach of tides,— Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare, Which ocean kindly to my hand confides.

I have but few companions on the shore,-
They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea;
Yet oft I think the ocean they've sailed o'er
Is deeper known upon the strand to me.

The middle sea contains no crimson dulse,

Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view; Along the shore my hand is on its pulse,

And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew.

Eliza Cook.

Born in Southwark, London, in 1817, the daughter of a tradesman, Miss Cook published in 1840 a volume enti tled "Melaia, and other Poems." She contributed a great variety of short poems to periodical works, and in 1849 established a weekly-Eliza Cook's Journal—which had a fair success from 1849 to 1853, when failing health compelled her to give it up. She seems to have had that "fatal facility" in rhyming which is a bar to excellence; but many of her poems are spirited and pleasing. In 1864 she received a literary pension of one hundred pounds a year. In 1874 an edition of her complete poetical works was published. The "Old Arm-chair" was set to music, and became quite a popular song.

Horace Binney Wallace.

AMERICAN.

Wallace (1817-1852) was a native of Philadelphia, a nephew of the eminent jurist, Horace Binney, and a cousin of Horace Binney Sargent. He graduated at Princeton in the class of 1835; studied both medicine and law, but practised neither. He travelled in Europe

between 1849 and 1852, and died in Paris. He had been intimate with the celebrated Comte, much of whose philosophy, however, he rejected. His first publication was "Stanley," a novel written at the age of twenty. After his death appeared "Art and Scenery in Europe,' 996 Literary Criticism, and other Papers." Daniel Webster said of him: "I doubt whether history displays a loftier nature, or one more usefully or profoundly cultivated, at thirty years of age."

ODE ON THE RHINE'S RETURNING INTO GERMANY FROM FRANCE.

Oh sweet is thy current by town and by tower, The green sunny vale and the dark linden bower; Thy waves as they dimple smile back on the plain, And Rhine, ancient river, thou'rt German again!

The roses are sweeter, the air is more free,
More blithe is the song of the bird on the tree;
The yoke of the mighty is broken in twain,
Aud Rhine, dearest river, thou'rt German again!

The land is at peace and breaks forth into song,
The hills, in their echoes, the cadence prolong,
The sons of the forest take up the glad strain,
"Our Rhine, our own river, is German again!"

Thy daughters, sweet river, thy daughters so fair,
With their eyes of dark azure and soft, sunny hair,
Repeat 'mid their dances at eve on the plain,
"Our Rhine, our own river, is German again!"

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

I love it, I love it, and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with
sighs;

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell? a mother sat there,
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give,
To fit me to die and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled;
I learned how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died;
And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

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