VOL. XXXII.

R

THE MAY.

O the May is here, with the blossoms white,
And the pink of the bergamot trees,
The fields of gold with the daisies bright,
And the redbird with his glees,

And his wings that flash in the golden light
As red as the sunset seas!

O the May is here, with the lilacs sweet
That scent all the morning air,

The primrose pale in the grass at our feet,
And the juniper-buds so fair;
The singing thrush in his green retreat,
And the sunshine everywhere!

There's a flash of gold, a flush of red,

And the oriole, bright as fire,
Shoots up to the highest bough o'erhead,
And sings to his heart's desire;
While his lady-bird, in her downy bed,
His silvery song doth admire.

There's a glint of gold in the flashing stream,
And a hint of gold on the hill,

And all the world, as if in a dream

Or sleep, in the sun lies still

Save only the whirr of a wing, and the gleam
Of a bird by the musical rill.

O the May is here, with the ferns and flowers,
The beautiful birds, and the bees-
The gorgeous colors, the fragrant bowers,

And the lisp of the lazy breeze—

The shine of the light, and the sheen of the showers, And the vivid green of the leas!

J. E. F. J.

Martial Poetry of the Revolution.

"Most wretched men

Are cradled into poetry by wrong; They learn in suffering what they teach in song." REVIOUS to the Revolution there was little genuine American poetry. There were many who made attempts at rhyming; who chose ponderous subjects, solemn as an Indian's love story, and made frantic appeals to the muse to guide their souls in the pathways of poetical feet. But they caught little of the sweetness of song, knew little of the beauty of versification, and possessed neither the ability or the genius to ensure their productions a permanent place in literature.

Life was lacking. There was plenty of body and no soul; plenty of substance and no variety, no energy, no beauty. The spirit, the inspiration, the air of song full of swaying forests, strange melodies and mystical grandeur, all were there, and no mind gifted enough to find the keynote of harmony. The people were dormant, literature was neglected, poetry de

No. 16.

spised. Shakespeare and Milton were dim recollections of other ages; Indians and dry powder, corn and coon skins were the all-important subjects of labor and recreation.

But the Revolution stirred the whole country to marvelous energy, to wild impulses, to fiery zeal and strength. A new feeling seized the people, a strange fire burned in their veins, and the silent, growing passions of years were brought into quick development. Orators spurred assemblies to action, rebellious pamphlets were called for, seditious speeches circulated, and everywhere the fury of war was in the air.

Then the peurile poetry of earlier days caught the impulses of the people, caught the defiance of resistance, the frenzy of war, the low-whispered breath of liberty. It had a vivid inspiration now, a duty, a necessity, a soul rough and stern, fierce and strong. The wrongs of the colonists were voiced in popular ballads, rights were demanded, and independence pictured with its multitudes of blessings. New York had its songs for the sons of liberty; Virginia its rebellious airs New England its ballads, rough and stern as its children; and all over the land poetical addresses to the armies and the nation advocated uncompromising rebellion, undying resistance. But these were ephemeral productions, without polish, without beauty, bombastic and passionless, with here and there a true note, a stray spark of genius. They were the wild, untuned outbursts of a wronged people voicing defiance rather than culture, and with an uncouthness little suited to the harmony of poetry.

But Trumbull's "McFingal" was something different from all these, something with energy and purpose, unity and strength, life and soul. More than any other poem this aided the patriot cause. It was a power in itself, with an influence far-reaching, penetrating and seductive. It had a distinctive Yankee personality; a humor light, playful, strong; a sarcasm keen and incisive, deep and humiliating. It placed the ludicrous side of the war in the foreground, laughed away the humane pretensions of the British, and gave the irregular colonials a mirthful contempt. of King George's boastful veterans. More than this, through its satirical humor it emphasized the rights of the colonists and strengthened their determination to resist all unjust demands and oppose all tyrannical

measures.

With more beauty and melody Freneau espoused the colonial cause. For literary merit we may easily rank him as chief of the Revolutionary bards and the first American poet worthy of more than ordinary attention. His patriotic ballads and songs have a certain rugged strength indicative of the sterling loyalty of the man, and many of his productions breathe the

sweetness of genuine poetry. His wit and satire are bright and keen, his style simple and pleasing. Everywhere his ballads were sung-in the camps, in the ranks, in the fields, in the homes and everywhere they breathed that same uncompromising patriotism. Now Freneau is almost forgotten. The necessities of the time and the wrongs of the people were his inspiration, and his songs did not outlive their needs. But his rebel Yankees are still living, staunch, true and brave.

"No climate for them is too cold or too warm;

They reef the broad canvas and fight with the storm, In war with the foremost their standards display, Or glut the loud cannon with death for the fray. No valor in fable their valor exceeds; Their spirits are fitted for desperate deeds.” Like those of Freneau, the war ballads of Timothy Dwight were immensely popular during the Revolution. All New England sang them, praised them, and then forgot them. They had beauty and strength, but their influence was temporary, their charm evanescent, their tone and feeling without attraction for posterity. The popularity of his "Columbia," however, has never died out. It has the breath of national greatness, the enthusiasm of national glory. All over the land these stirring words are remembered and loved :

Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise,

The queen of the world and the child of the skies; Thy genius commands thee: with rapture behold, While ages on ages thy splendors unfold. Thy reign is the last and the noblest of time; Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime; Let the crimes of the east ne'er encrimson thy name, Be freedom and science and virtue thy fame." There is the glad melody of a patriotic heart here, the hopefulness of one who has seen the war-clouds gather and break, and who has faith in the coming greatness of his native land.

The martial poems of the Revolution had a mission other than the enhancement of literature. They were born more from the necessities of the times than from true poetical fervor, and we best know and best love them for the influence they exercised upon the struggling colonists. Like the fiery speeches of the Revolutionary orators they were disseminated throughout the land, claiming from a necessarily uncouth mass of people love for liberty, hatred for oppression, and a determination to struggle to the bitter end. Not so much, then, for their intrinsic literary merit are they valued. Indeed, in this light the great mass of them are worthy of no more than pas ing attention. We may look in vain for anything of surpassing excellence, for anything that will live in literature on the merits of its power and beauty In all the colonies there was no Korner to sing an immortal sword song on the eve of a battle; no DeLisle to thrill the thousands of future ages with a Marseillaise; no Burns to put the lasting thunders of a battle-field in "Scots, wha ha' wi' Wallace bled." Later a Longfellow, a Bryant, a Whittier, caught up the martial spirit of the Revolution and immortalized it in ballad poetry beautiful beyond measure. With these we must be content. The beauty came after the storm, not in the storm, and the growing greatness of the country reflected continually increasing glory upon Revolulutionary deeds and achievements. The horrors of

N the tide of literature that is sweeping over the land one loves to pause and take up again the works of authors that have been read and laid aside. In many we can trace a similarity of style, of construct on, or even thought. The same things have been spread out before us many times, only to reappear again in a different garb. True, the constant study of an author will leave its impression. upon the student. Nowadays it is a task to be original, and even years back the same difficulty confronted most writers. Few, and very few, indeed, have left behind testimonials in which there cannot be traced some influence of those who preceded them in letters. The genius of Homer, of Dante, Chaucer or Shakespeare will be seen to peep out now and then only to show the author had the faculty of appreciating the beauty of his favorite. This is apparent not only in the works of American authors, but also in those of England. Yet America can point to one of her sons and say what he wrote, though weird and gloomy, was of his own creation. The works of Edgar Allan Poe, from the first line to the last, may be said to be original. His reading and study were extensive, but he so digested the matter that, instead of coming forth again in a new form, it served to stir up and enkindle the flame within his own breast.

Poe was born in Boston, on the 19th of January, 1809, and died on the 7th of October, 1849. His father and mother took to the stage as a means of livelihood, a profession which they abandoned on being reconciled to their parents after the birth of their first child. To this may be attributed the genius of our author as an elocutionist, for the youthful Edgar amused those about him with the "justness of his emphasis and his evident appreciation of the poems he recited." His parents died quite young, only a week intervening between the deaths of both, and to the orphaned family bequeathed their only legacy-poverty. Edgar was adopted by a wealthy gentleman named Allan, who spared neither time nor money to satisfy his young protege. Poe gives us the key to his life and actions when he declares: "I am the descendant of a race whose imaginative and easily excitable temperament has at all times rendered them remarkable, and in my earliest infancy I gave evidence of having fully inherited the family character. As I advanced in years it was more strongly developed. . . . I was left to the guidance of my own will, and became, in all but name, the master of my own actions.”

After Poe's adoption by the Allans he was taken on a tour through Europe, after which he was left in

England, at the old Manor School House. Here Poe spent five years, the only years of quiet and happiness that it was destined his troubled spirit should experience, for he speaks of it as a "dream-like and spirit-soothing place." In after life this boyhood existence seemed to him like a dream, for he tells of the church bell that broke the solemn stillness of the place, the daily studies, the walks, the games and sports, all he describes in such a mood as would lead one to think he fancifully pictured them in his mind, rather than that he really lived and enjoyed them.

After his five years' study in England he was recalled to his home in America, and there continued his studies in the University of Virginia. From this institution he entered the University at Charlottesville, and there, as in the other schools, distinguished himself as a classical scholar, taking first place in Latin, French and Poetry. There is no record of his graduating from either of these schools, and it must be taken for granted that his busy mind and peculiar disposition left him always in doubt as to which way he should turn or what he should do next; but when he is again heard from we find that he started for England, only to return eventually to the Allans. About this time Poe expressed a desire to enter upon a military career, and, through the influence of Mr. Allan, secured an appointment to West Point. The routine life and mathematical exactness of West Point was in no way fitted to please our poet, and on his own account he was tried and dismissed from the service of the United States.

Just previous to his military appointment Poe made his literary debut in a publication dedicated to "Helen." The volume was intended for private use, and the name of the person to whom it was dedicated recalls one of the peculiar traits of Poe's characteristic gratitude. In this, as in other characteristics of his nature, he was over-full. A word, a look, a helping hand to Poe left such an impression upon his delicate and sensitive mind that it was never forgotten. It might be said that in all his good qualities, as well as in the bad ones-and we can find but two we might condemn Poe bordered on the extreme.

From the day our bard was put upon his own resources fate seemed to follow at his heels. That he walked in such a shadow is evident in all his works. At times he seems to throw off this gloomy feeling and leaps in glee, always to return with renewed dread. This may be seen in his "Bells," by comparing the first and second stanzas with the last two. This poem has been the subject of much criticism as to its merit and originality. As a proof of its origin ality there is a copy of the manuscript to prove it came from the pen of Poe. It bears no resemblance that it has been plagiarized, but, on the contrary, it shows the burst of poetic genius of the anthor from the few corrections on the copy. This, like all his other poems, flowed from his soul. As to its merit, it speaks for itself. The meter is new, but nowhere in the English language can we find better harmony. The poem is a complete whole, taking in a span of life in a few brief strokes so characteristic of the author, while beneath it all we may see the spirit of the bard in his struggle with fate. Each stanza is a whole, bold, brief and striking, while his harmony of sound

to sense thrills the soul. Each musical cadence moves us onward, upward, till we listen to the tintinabulation that so musically wells," when we are again borne down by the "moaning and the groaning of the bells."

For many years after Poe's death it was a common belief among the people that he was a man devoid of all moral sense, and a bound slave to his passions. True, Poe was a victim to certain habits which may have hastened his death. But for these habits, and the irony of fate which seemed to pursue him everywhere, the world would be richer today, judging from the treasures he has left. Poe never merited the severe attack of his pretended biographer, Dr. Griswold, nor was there any foundation for many of the lines written by this mixer of physic on our author, not to speak of the exaggerations the honored doctor sought to make. An aspirant in the same field for literary honors as Poe, one of the doctor's works was unfortunate enough to claim the attention of our bard in a review. It was honestly but harshly criticized. This brought with it the enmity and everlasting hatred of the doctor. With such a feeling hidden in his breast Dr. Griswold, in the guise of a friend, gave to the world his biography of Pee, in which the reading public found many incidents that would, if true, reflect but little cr dit on our author. Poe's friends denied these statements, but not before they had taken a firm hold in the minds of our people. Articles were published, proofs set forth, and even debates were held as to Poe's character and life. The ground gained was small, but "truth crushed to earth will rise again," and now, after many decades of years, we find the name of our American bard, which was besmirched and trodden under foot, taking its place among those who received more but less deserving honor as authors in the field of letters.

Although our poet's name was dragged down and trampled upon his works have defied the calumnies of his enemies. Many of his contemporaries have endeavored to trace a connection between his poems and those of other authors, but they never succeeded in separating that life which the author breathed into all his work from the line itself. So closely allied are his lines with his life that without one we would not have the other. This may be said in reference to the "Raven." What prompted the poem will ever remain a mystery, unless we attribute it to a temporary aberration which is clearly manifest in the work. Shakespeare, in his Hamlet, King Lear, or Othello, does not surpass it in poetic frenzy, as when the author peers. into the gloomy future and in harsh sounding accents dashes off lines as weird as they are fascinating, vet with method and system so clear cut and bold. him all hopes were dead, and life a bitter struggle, with no assurance of a reward beyond the grave. He looks back upon the past and there sees

"unmerciful disaster

Το

Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden

bore

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,
Of never-nevermore."

Though Poe is known more by his poems than by his prose, yet the latter work would entitle him to a prominent place among prose writers. Poverty forced