ISAAC CLASON. [Born about 1796. Died, 1830.] ISAAC CLASON wrote the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Cantos of Don Juan-a continuation of the poem of Lord BYRON-published in 1825. I have not been able to learn many particulars of his biography. He was born in the city of New York, where his father was a distinguished merchant, and graduated at Columbia College in 1813. He inherited a considerable fortune, but in the pursuit of pleasure he spent it all, and much besides, received from his relatives. He was in turn a gay roué in London and Paris, a writer for the public journals, an actor in the theatres, and a private NAPOLEON.* I love no land so well as that of FranceLand of NAPOLEON and CHARLEMAGNE, Renown'd for valour, women, wit, and dance, For racy Burgundy, and bright Champagne, Whose only word in battle was, Advance; While that grand genius, who seem'd born to reign, Greater than AMMON's son, who boasted birth From heaven, and spurn'd all sons of earth; Greater than he who wore his buskins high, A VENUS arm'd, impress'd upon his seal; Who smiled at poor CALPHURNIA's prophecy, Nor fear'd the stroke he soon was doom'd to feel; Who on the ides of March breath'd his last sigh, AS BRUTUS pluck'd away his "cursed steel," Exclaiming, as he expired, "Et tu, BRUTE," But BRUTUS thought he only did his duty; Greater than he, who, at nine years of age, NAPOLEON BONAPARTE! thy name shall live To space reverberation, round and round The lightning's flash shall blaze thy name on high, Monarch of earth, now meteor of the sky! What though on St. Helena's rocky shore Thy head be pillow'd, and thy form entomb'd, Perhaps that son, the child thou didst adore, Fired with a father's fame, may yet be doom'd * From the Seventeenth Canto of Don Juan. tutor. A mystery hangs over his closing years. It has been stated that he was found dead in an obscure lodging-house in London, under circumstances that led to a belief that he committed suicide, about the year 1830. Besides his continuation of Don Juan, he wrote but little poetry. The two cantos which he left under that title, have much of the spirit and feeling, in thought and diction, which characterize the work of BYRON. He was a man of attractive manners and brilliant conversation. His fate is an unfavourable commentary on his character. To crush the bigot BOURBON, and restore Thy mouldering ashes ere they be consumed; Now sunk in slavery and shame again; No more earth trembles at thy dreaded name; Of Prussia, and which almost threw in fits Great FREDERICK WILLIAM; he who, at the board, Took all the Prussian uniform to bits; FREDERICK, the king of regimental tailors, AS HUDSON LOWE, the very prince of jailors. Farewell, NAPOLEON! couldst thou have died The coward scorpion's death, afraid, ashamed To meet adversity's advancing tide, The weak had praised thee, but the wise had But no! though torn from country, child, and bride, Pity, for thee, shall weep her fountains dry, Beauty shall beckon to thee from the sky, And smiling seraphs open wide heaven's door; Around thy head the brightest stars shall meet, And rolling suns play sportive at thy feet. Farewell, NAPOLEON! a long farewell, A stranger's tongue, alas! must hymn thy worth; No craven Gaul dares wake his harp to tell, Or sound in song the spot that gave thee birth. No more thy name, that, with its magic spell, Aroused the slumbering nations of the earth, Echoes around thy land; 'tis past—at length France sinks beneath the sway of CHARLES the Tenth. JEALOUSY. HE who has seen the red-fork'd lightnings flash From out some black and tempest-gather'd cloud, And heard the thunder's simultaneous crash, Bursting in peals, terrifically loud; He who has mark'd the madden'd ocean dash (Robed in its snow-white foam as in a shroud) Its giant billows on the groaning shore, While death seem'd echo'd in the deafening roar; He who has seen the wild tornado sweep (Its path destruction, and its progress death) The silent bosom of the smiling deep With the black besom of its boisterous breath, Waking to strife the slumbering waves, that leap In battling surges from their beds beneath, Yawning and swelling from their liquid caves, Like buried giants from their restless graves:He who has gazed on sights and scenes like these, Hath look'd on nature in her maddest mood; But nature's warfare passes by degrees, The thunder's voice is hush'd, however rude, The dying winds unclasp the raging seas, The scowling sky throws back her cloud-capt The infant lightnings to their cradles creep, EARLY LOVE. THE fond caress of beauty, O, that glow! Of waken'd passions, that but now impart That mould to madness, or in mildness melt. Ah! where's the youth whose stoic heart ne'er knew The fires of joy, that burst through every vein, That burn forever bright, forever new, As passion rises o'er and o'er again? That, like the phoenix, die but to renew Beat in the heart, and throb upon the brainSelf-kindling, quenchless as the eternal flame That sports in Etna's base. But I'm to blame Ignobly thus to yield to raptures past; To call my buried feelings from their shrouds, O'er which the deep funereal pall was castLike brightest skies entomb'd in darkest clouds; No matter, these, the latest and the last That rise, like spectres of the past, in crowds; The ebullitions of a heart not lost, But weary, wandering, worn, and tempest-toss'd. "Tis vain, and worse than vain, to think on joys Which, like the hour that's gone, return no more; Bubbles of folly, blown by wanton boys Billows that swell, to burst upon the shorePlaythings of passion, manhood's gilded toys, (Deceitful as the shell that seems to roar, But proves the mimic mockery of the surge:) They sink in sorrow's sea, and ne'er emerge. ALL IS VANITY. I've compass'd every pleasure, Caught every joy before its bead could pass; I've loved without restriction, without measureI've sipp'd enjoyment from each sparkling glass— I've known what 't is, too, to "repent at leisure" I've sat at meeting, and I've served at mass:-And having roved through half the world's insanities, Cry, with the Preacher--Vanity of vanities! What constitutes man's chief enjoyment here? It smiles to-day, and weeps again to-morrow; Mere child of passion, that beguiles in youth, And flies from age, as falsehood flies from truth. Is't glory? Pause beneath St. Helen's willow, Whose weeping branches wave above the spot; Ask him, whose head now rests upon its pillow, Its last, low pillow, there to rest, and rot. Is't fame? Ask her, who floats upon the billow, Untomb'd, uncoffin'd, and perchance forgot; The lovely, lovesick Lesbian, frail as fair, Victim of love, and emblem of despair. Is 't honour? Go, ask him whose ashes sleep Within the crypt of Paul's stupendous dome, Whose name once thunder'd victory o'er the deep, Far as his country's navies proudly roam; Above whose grave no patriot Dane shall weep, No Frank deplore the hour he found a home-A home, whence valour's voice from conquest's car No more shall rouse the lord-of Trafalgar. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. [Born about 1797.] LYDIA HUNTLEY, now Mrs. SIGOURNEY, was born at Norwich, in Connecticut, about the year 1797. From early childhood she was remarkable for her love of knowledge, and the facility with which she acquired it. She could read with fluency when but three years old, and at eight she wrote verses which gave promise of the eminence she has since attained. Some of her early contributions to the public journals attracted the attention of Mr. DANIEL WADSWORTH, a wealthy and intelligent gentleman of Hartford, who induced her to collect and publish them in a volume, which appeared in 1815, under the modest title of "Moral Pieces, by LYDIA HUNTLEY." About the same period she commenced a select school for young women, which she conducted for several years with much ability. In 1819 she was married to Mr. CHARLES SIGOURNEY, a leading merchant and banker, of Hartford. Their two children have been carefully educated by herself, and she has had the charge of a large household from the time of her marriage; but she has never for a single year omitted the literary pursuits to which she was so early devoted. Her visits to the tomb of the mother of Washington, to Niagara, and other places, have been fitly commemorated in her poems, while the splendid scenery and the history of New England have been celebrated in "Connecticut Forty Years Ago," a prose legend, and in stanzas inspired by the "Connecticut River," the "Charter Oak," and many kindred themes. Probably her "Letters to Young Ladies" should be ranked first in usefulness and ability among her prose works, though several others, intended, like that, to improve the minds and the hearts of her sex, have been much read, and generally praised. Mrs. SIGOURNEY has been a frequent contributor to the best periodicals of this country, and has occasionally written for the English annuaries. Six or seven volumes of her poetry have been published, of which the last appeared near the close of 1841. In the summer of 1840, she went to Europe, and remained there a year, visiting the principal cities of Great Britain and France, and Avon, Dryburgh Abbey, Grassmere, and Rydal Mount, and other Meccas of the literary pilgrim. While in London a collection of her writings was published in that city. Mrs. SIGOURNEY has surpassed any of the poets of her sex in this country in the extent of her productions; and their religious and domestic character has made them popular with the large classes who regard more than artistic merit the spirit and tendency of what they read. Her subjects are varied, and her diction generally melodious and free; but her works are written too carelessly; they lack vigour and condensation; and possess but few of the elements of enduring verse. Very little poetry, save that of scholars, finished with extreme care and skill, belongs to the permanent literature of any language. 66 THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. Ax axe rang sharply mid those forest shades Which from creation toward the sky had tower'd In unshorn beauty. There, with vigorous arm, Wrought a bold emigrant, and by his side His little son, with question and response, Beguiled the toil. Boy, thou hast never seen Such glorious trees. Hark, when their giant trunks Fall, how the firm earth groans. Rememberest thou The mighty river, on whose breast we sail'd, So many days, on toward the setting sun? Our own Connecticut, compared to that, Was but a creeping stream." "Father, the brook That by our door went singing, where I launch'd My tiny boat, with my young playmates round When school was o'er, is dearer far to me Than all these bold, broad waters. To my eye They are as strangers. And those little trees My mother nurtured in the garden bound Of our first home, from whence the fragrant peach Hung in its ripening gold, were fairer, sure, Than this dark forest, shutting out the day." 66 What, ho!-my little girl," and with light step A fairy creature hasted toward her sire, And, setting down the basket that contain'd His noon-repast, look'd upward to his face With sweet, confiding smile. See, dearest, see, That bright-wing'd paroquet, and hear the song Of yon gay red-bird, echoing through the trees, Making rich music. Didst thou ever hear, In far New England, such a mellow tone?" I had a robin that did take the crumbs Each night and morning, and his chirping voice Did make me joyful, as I went to tend My snow-drops. I was always laughing then In that first home. I should be happier now Methinks, if I could find among these dells The same fresh violets." Slow night drew on, And round the rude hut of the emigrant The wrathful spirit of the rising storm Spake bitter things. His weary children slept, And he, with head declined, sat listening long To the swoln waters of the Illinois, Dashing against their shores. Starting, he spake"Wife! did I see thee brush away a tear? "T was even so. Thy heart was with the halls Of shapeless logs, and this lone, hermit home." NIAGARA. FLow on, forever, in thy glorious robe Keep silence and upon thy rocky altar pour Dost rest not, night or day.-The morning stars, For they may sport unharm'd amid the cloud, WINTER. 1 I DEEM thee not unlovely, though thou comest On the smooth, frozen lake, as the first star To bless the lad." The timid infant learns NAPOLEON'S EPITAPH. "The moon of St. Helena shone out, and there we saw the face of NAPOLEON'S sepulchre, characterless, uninscribed." And who shall write thine epitaph! thou man Of mystery and might. Shall orphan hands Inscribe it with their father's broken swords? Or the warm trickling of the widow's tear Channel it slowly mid the rugged rock, As the keen torture of the water-drop Doth wear the sentenced brain? Shall countless Arise from Hades, and in lurid flame With shadowy finger trace thine effigy, Who sent them to their audit unanneal'd, And with but that brief space for shrift of prayer, Given at the cannon's mouth! Thou, who didst sit Like eagle on the apex of the globe, [ghosts And hear the murmur of its conquer'd tribes, throng Who pour'd thee incense, as Olympian Jove, -As the rein'd war-horse snuffs the trumpet-blast, THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.* LONG hast thou slept unnoted. Nature stole Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds, *On laying the corner-stone of her monument at Fredericksburg, Virginia. |