Harper's Cyclopaedia of British and American Poetry

CHARLES DICKENS.-SAMUEL DOWSE ROBBINS.-FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,

And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant, in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past;

For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.

Samuel Dowse Robbins.

AMERICAN.

Dr. Robbins was born in Lynn, Mass., in 1812. He graduated at the Divinity School, Cambridge, in 1833, and commenced his ministry at Lynn the same year. In 1867 he was settled in Wayland; but gave up his parish in 1873, and retired to Concord. He has published but little. His "Euthanasia" is exquisite in melody, and full of a devout enthusiasm.

LEAD ME.

My Father, take my hand, for I am prone To danger, and I fear to go alone.

707

I trust thy guidance. Father, take my hand;
Lead thy child safely through the desert land.
The way is dark before me; take my hand,
For light can only come at thy command.
Clinging to thy dear love, no doubt I know,
That love will cheer my way where'er I go.
Father, the storm is breaking o'er me wild;
I feel its bitterness: protect thy child.
The tempest-clouds are flying through the air;
Oh, take my hand, and save me from despair.
Father, as I ascend the craggy steep
That leads me to thy temple, let me keep
My hand in thine, so I can conquer time,
And by thine aiding to thy bosom climb.
Father, I feel the damp upon my brow,
The chill of death is falling on me now.
Soon from earth's flitting shadows I must part;
My Father, take my hand, thou hast my heart.

EUTHANASIA.

"Let me go; for the day breaketh.”
The waves of light are drifting
From off the heavenly shore,
The shadows all are lifting
Away for evermore;
Truth, like another morning,
Is beaming on my way:

I bless the Power that poureth in
The coming of the day.

I feel a light within me

That years can never bring: My heart is full of blossoming,

It yearns to meet the spring. Love fills my soul in all its deeps, And harmony divine

Is sweetly sounding from above

A symphony sublime;

The earth is robed in richer green,
The sky in brighter blue;
And, with no cloud to intervene,

God's smile is shining through.

I hear the immortal harps that ring
Before the rainbow throne,
And a spirit from the heart of God
Is bearing up my own.

In silence on the Olivet

Of prayer my being bends, Till in the orison of heaven My voice seraphic blends.

Frances Sargent Osgood.

AMERICAN.

Mrs. Osgood (1812-1850) was a native of Boston, the daughter of Joseph Locke, a merchant. In 1834 she married S. S. Osgood, a portrait-painter. An edition of her poems, entitled "A Wreath of Wild Flowers from New England," was published in London in 1839, during her residence in that city. Another collection appeared in New York in 1846. She was a friend of Poe, and he addressed to her some graceful lines. She was largely endowed with the poetical temperament, and some of her poems have lost none of their popularity since her death.

"BOIS TON SANG, BEAUMANOIR.”1 Fierce raged the combat-the foemen pressed nigh, When from young Beaumanoir rose the wild cry,-Beaumanoir, 'mid them all, bravest and first"Give me to drink, for I perish of thirst!" Hark! at his side, in the deep tones of ire, "Bois ton SANG, Beaumanoir!" shouted his sire.

Deep had it pierced him, the foeman's swift sword; Deeper his soul felt the wound of that word! Back to the battle, with forehead all flushed, Stung to wild fury, the noble youth rushed!

1 "Drink thy blood, Beaumanoir." The incident is related in "Froissart's Chronicles."

Robert Browning.

ROBERT BROWNING.

709

"Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lockeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half
chime,

So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!"

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stont galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.

Browning was born at Cumberland, Surrey, England, in 1812, and educated at the London University. He was married in 1846 to the poetess, Elizabeth Barrett, and they were for several years resident in Italy. His "Paracelsus," remarkable for an author of twenty-four, was published in 1836; was followed by "Pippa Passes" and the tragedy of" Strafford," which even Macready could not make a success on the stage. Among Browning's other productions are "Sordello" (mystical and obscure); "The Blot in the Scutcheon," a play, produced with no success at Drury Lane in 1843; "A Soul's Tragedy;" "Dramatic Romances and Lyrics;" "The Ring and the Book;" ;" "The Inn Album;" "Sludge, the Medium" (a coarse and pointless attack on D. D. Home); and some half dozen other volumes. His longer poems are marred by obscurities and eccentricities of style, agrecable only to initiated admirers. He has never been a popular poet, though some of his shorter lyrics have won and kept the public ear. A writer of eminent genius, he seems to lack that care and patience of the artist which knows how to condense and blot. He has been called "the head of the psychological school," but it would be difficult to formulate his psychology. Referring to the obscurity of his style, he writes (1880) to a friend: "I can have little doubt that my writing has been in the main too hard for many I should have been pleased to communicate with; but I never designedly tried to puzzle people, as some of my By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, “Stay critics have supposed. On the other hand, I never pretended to offer such literature as should be a substitute for a cigar or game of dominoes to an idle man. So, perhaps, on the whole, I get my deserts and something over -not a crowd, but a few I value more."

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent
back

For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence-ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance !
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and

anon

His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.

spur!

Your Röss galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at Aix"-for one heard the quick wheeze

Of her chest, saw her stretched neck and staggering
knees,

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like

chaff;

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, “for Aix is in sight!”

"How they'll greet us!" and all in a moment his

roan

Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her
fate,

With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,

Perched him!" The chief's eyes flashed; his plans And just because I was thrice as old,

Soared up again like fire.

And our paths in the world diverged so wide,

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