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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.
THE AMERICAN FLAG.
When Freedom from her mountain height
Unfurl'd her standard to the air,
And set the stars of glory there.
Majestic monarch of the cloud,
Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
When strive the warriors of the storm,
To guard the banner of the free,
The harbingers of victory!
Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high,
And the long line comes gleaming on.
Has dimm’d the glistening bayonet,
To where thy sky-born glories burn;
Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud,
Then shall thy meteor glances glow,
Each gallant arm that strikes below
Flag of the seas! on ocean wave
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
Before the broadside's reeling rack,
Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
Flag of the free heart's hope and home!
By angel hands to valor given;
And all thy hues were born in heaven.
Where breathes the foe but falls before us,
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.
There is an hour of peaceful rest,
To mourning wanderers given;
'Tis found above, in heaven.
Far from these shades of even;
And find repose in heaven.
By sin and sorrow driven,
And all is drear—'tis heaven.
The heart no longer riven;
And all serene in heaven.
And joys supreme are given:
Appears the dawn of heaven.
'Tis midnight, and on Olive's brow
The star is dimm'd that lately shone;
The suffering Saviour prays alone.
Immanuel wrestles, lone, with fears ;
Heeds not his Master's grief and tears.
'Tis midnight, and for others' guilt
The Man of Sorrows weeps in blood;
Is not forsaken by his God.
'Tis midnight, from the heavenly plains
Is borne the song that angels know;
That sweetly soothe the Saviour's woe.
WHY SHOULD WE SIGH ?
Why should we sigh, when Fancy's dream,
The ray that shone ʼmid youthful tears, –
To cheer the lonely waste of years ?
That bound each sense in folly's chain
Resumes her holy rights again.
Why should we sigh that earth no more
Claims the devotion once approved ?
And gone are those these hearts have loved ?
Survives the narrow grasp of time;
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
Should tremble at his power :
In dreams, his song of triumph heard;
As Eden's garden bird.
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
Heroes in heart and hand.
On old Platæa's day ;
As quick, as far as they.
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.