Thus ends The Culprit Fay, of the beauty of which but a faint idea can be given by any extracts; for, to be fully enjoyed, it must be read and re-read as a whole. It is a poem remarkable not only as the richest creation of pure fancy in our literature, but for its great power and absorbing interest; for, though it is divested of every human element, it interests us as deeply as if its characters were real flesh and blood.



When Freedom from her mountain height

Unfurl'd her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,

And set the stars of glory there.
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure, celestial white,
With streakings of the morning light;
Then from his mansion in the sun
She call’d her eagle bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen land.


Majestic monarch of the cloud,

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
To hear the tempest-trumpings loud,
And see the lightning lances driven,

When strive the warriors of the storm,
And rolls the thunder-drum.of heaven,
Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given

To guard the banner of the free,
To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle-stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the cloud of war,

The harbingers of victory!


Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,

The sign of hope and triumph high,
When speaks the signal trumpet tone,

And the long line comes gleaming on.
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,

Has dimm’d the glistening bayonet,
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn

To where thy sky-born glories burn;
And as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from the glance.
And when the cannon-mouthings loud

Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud,
And gory sabres rise and fall
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall;

Then shall thy meteor glances glow,
And cowering foes shall sink beneath

Each gallant arm that strikes below
That lovely messenger of death.


Flag of the seas! on ocean wave

Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;
When death, careering on the gale,

Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
And frighted waves rush wildly back

Before the broadside's reeling rack,
Each dying wanderer of the sea

Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
And smile to see thy splendors fly
In triumph o'er his closing eye.


Flag of the free heart's hope and home!

By angel hands to valor given;
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,

And all thy hues were born in heaven.
Forever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe but falls before us,
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!

WILLIAM B. TAPPAN, 1795--1819.

WILLIAM BINGHAM TAPPAN, the son of Samuel Tappan, a teacher in Beverly, Massachusetts, was born in that town in 1795. At the age of ten, he had written several pieces, which gave promise of future excellence. Losing his father when but twelve years old, he was soon after apprenticed to a clockmaker in Boston. In 1816, he removed to Philadelphia, and established himself in business there; but he soon found that this was not his sphere, and determined to devote himself to a literary life. In 1819, he published a small volume of poems, entitled New England, and other Poems, which was well received. In 1822, he was married to Miss Amelia Colton, daughter of Major Luther Colton, of Longmeadow, Massachusetts, and soon after this he entered, as salesman, into the Depository of the American Sunday-School Union, to which cause he devoted the rest of his life, with great enthusiasm and energy. In 1829, he was transferred to Cincinnati, to take charge of the Depository in that city, but returned to Philadelphia in 1834; and in 1838 he went to Boston to superintend the affairs of the “S. S. Union" operations in New England. In 1841, he was licensed to preach, that he might with more effect present the cause of the Sunday-school to the churches.

At this time, he had published two or three volumes of poetry. In 1845 appeared Poetry of the Heart; in 1846, Sacred and Miscellaneous Poems ; in 1847, Poetry of Life; in 1848, The Sunday-School, and other Poems ; and in 1849, Late and Early Poems. While engaged in the preparation of a new volume, he fell a victim to the epidemic then prevailing in Boston,—the cholera,—on the 19th of June, 1849. His death was deeply and widely lamented; for it was felt that a good man, wbo was devoting to the cause of sacred literature the bigh gift God had given bim, had been taken away in the midst of his usefulness. “With the simplicity of a child, he combined the polish and dignity of the Christian gentleman; with the glowing fancy of the poet, the lowly spirit of the saint; with the severest scrutiny of his own heart, the largest charity for others."

The following pieces will give some idea of the pure and elevated Christian feeling that pervades his poetry.


There is an hour of peaceful rest,

To mourning wanderers given;
There is a joy for souls distress'd,
A balm for every wounded breast-

'Tis found above, in heaven.
There is a soft, a downy bed,

Far from these shades of even;
A couch for weary mortals spread,
Where they may rest the aching head,

And find repose in heaven.
There is a home for weary souls,

By sin and sorrow driven,
When toss'd on life's tempestuous shoals,
Where storms arise and ocean rolls,

And all is drear—'tis heaven.
There Faith lifts up her cheerful eye,

The heart no longer riven;
And views the tempest passing by,
The evening shadows quickly fly,

And all serene in heaven.
There fragrant flowers, immortal, bloom,

And joys supreme are given:
There rays divine disperse the gloom,-
Beyond the confines of the tomb

Appears the dawn of heaven.


'Tis midnight, and on Olive's brow

The star is dimm'd that lately shone;
'Tis midnight; in the garden now,

The suffering Saviour prays alone.
'Tis midnight, and, from all removed,

Immanuel wrestles, lone, with fears ;
E’en the disciple that he loved,

Heeds not his Master's grief and tears.

'Tis midnight, and for others' guilt

The Man of Sorrows weeps in blood;
Yet he that hath in anguish ảnelt,

Is not forsaken by his God.

'Tis midnight, from the heavenly plains

Is borne the song that angels know;
Unheard by mortals are the strains

That sweetly soothe the Saviour's woe.


Why should we sigh, when Fancy's dream,

The ray that shone ʼmid youthful tears, –
Departing, leaves no kindly gleam,

To cheer the lonely waste of years ?
Why should we sigh ?-The fairy charm

That bound each sense in folly's chain
Is broke, and Reason, clear and calm,

Resumes her holy rights again.

Why should we sigh that earth no more

Claims the devotion once approved ?
That joys endear’d, with us are o’er,

And gone are those these hearts have loved ?
Why should we sigh ?-Unfading bliss

Survives the narrow grasp of time;
And those that ask'd our tears in this,

Shall render smiles in yonder clime.


This well-known poet was born at Guilford, Connecticut, in August, 1795. In 1813, he entered a banking-house in New York, and remained in that city engaged in mercantile pursuits till 1849, when he returned to Connecticut, where he now resides. At an early age he showed a taste for poetry; but he first attracted public attention by a series of humorous and satirical odes published in the "Evening Post,” in 1819, and written in conjunction with his friend Drake, with the signature of “ Croaker.” Towards the close of the same year, he published Fanny, the longest of his satirical poems, which passed through several editions. In 1823, he went to Europe, and after bis return, in 1827, he published a small volume containing, among other pieces, Alnwick Castle, and that spirited, finished, and justly-admired ode, Marco Bozzaris,—the corner-stone of his glory. In 1847, Appleton & Co. published a beautifully-illustrated edition of all he had then written; and in 1852 a volume containing additional poems was published by Redfield. It has always been regretted by the public that one who writes 80 well should have written so little.?


At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,

Should tremble at his power :
In dreams, through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams, his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring:
Then pressed that monarch's throne—a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.
At midnight, in the forest shades,

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,

Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood

On old Platæa's day ;
And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquer'd there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far as they.
An hour pass'd on-the Turk awoke ;

That bright dream was his last ;

· This year (1859) bas appeared a new edition of his poems, in one small volume, in blue and gold, published by Appleton & Co.

2 “Mr. Halleck has written very little, but that little is of great excellence. His poetry is polished and graceful, and finished with great care under the guidance of a fastidious taste. A vein of sweet and delicate sentiment runs through all his serious productions, and he combines with this a power of humor of the most refined and exquisite cast. He bas the art of passing from grave to gay, or the reverse, by the most skilful and happily-managed transitions.”—G. S. HILLARD.

"The poems of Fitz-Greene Halleck, although limited in quantity, are perhaps the best known and most cherished, especially in the latitude of New York, of all American verses. All his verses have a vital meaning, and the clear ring of pure metal. They are few, but memorable. The school-boy and the old • Knickerbocker' both know them by heart. Burns, and the Lines on the Death of Drake,* bave the beautiful impressiveness of the highest elegiac verse. Marco Bozzaria is perhaps the best martial lyric in the language, Red Jacket the most effective Indian portrait, and Twilight an apt piece of contemplative verse; while Alna wick Castle combines his grave and gay style with inimitable art and admirable effect. As a versifier, he is an adept in that relation of sound to sense which enbalms thought in deathless melody.”—HENRY T. TUCKERUAN.

3 He fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp at Lapsi, the site of the ancient Platxa, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. The modern Greeks, like the Italians, pronounce a as in father, and zz like tz. This hero's name, therefore, is pronounced Bot-zah'ri.

# See p. 400.

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