mously in Boston newspapers. The New York Evening Post in time began to publish his poems anonymously, much to his secret satisfaction.

When a banker "drops into poetry" he has something of the feeling confessed by Silas Wegg, that poetry is just a little too much to be expected of a man of affairs; but instead of charging double for poetry, as was Wegg's practice as a reader, Halleck gave away his verses. He was willing, if not eager, to own them after they had safely run through the literary clearinghouse, the press.

One of the most beautiful friendships among literary men is that which existed between Halleck and Joseph Rodman Drake, a friendship made memorable by Halleck's beautiful memorial

verse:

Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!

None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

Many an ex-school boy who in his time has recited Drake's "American Flag," will recall the best lines in the poem which read:

Forever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe that falls before us,

With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!

It is interesting to note that Drake, not at all pleased with his own concluding lines, said, “Fitz,

can't you suggest a better stanza?" Whereupon Halleck, on the spur of the moment, sat down and wrote the stirring lines just quoted.

The Greek simplicity and purity of the poet's early verse is perhaps best seen in "Alnwick Castle," a product of his tour abroad in 1822. Here is a sample stanza:

Wild roses by the Abbey towers

Are gay in their young bud and bloom-
They were born of a race of funeral-flowers
That garlanded, in long-gone hours,

A Templar's knightly tomb!

Poe, a merciless critic, pronounced this stanza "gloriously imaginative," and confessed himself "at loss to discover its parallel in American poetry."

I find in Halleck's biography a slender link connecting the venerable banker-poet of England with the young banker-poet of America.

In a letter to Halleck from his friend Cogswell, in which is related a conversation in 1849 with Rogers at one of his famous breakfasts, his host asked Lady Davy if she had read Halleck's poems, and when she answered no, responded, "Shame on you! He has written some things which no poet living has surpassed, and you shall not be ignorant of him any longer.” With that he read passages of "Alnwick Castle," "Marco Bozzaris," and several shorter poems.

As often happens in literature, the poem by which Halleck is best known may almost be termed a by-product! When written it was not held in high esteem by its author. One evening he left at the lodgings of a friend his "Marco Bozzaris," and on the margin were his words, "Will this do?" He little thought that the verse would rank as one of the best martial lyrics ever written; that it would be translated into many languages, and that millions of his countrymen thereafter would recall his words as among the most thrilling memories of their youth. Still vividly remembered is the thrill with which we early approached the climax in the stanza:

An hour passed on-the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;

He woke--to hear his sentries shriek,
To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!
He woke to die midst flame, and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:

"Strike-till the last armed foe expires;
Strike for your altars and your fires;
Strike-for the green graves of your sires;
God-and your native land!"

And then those solemn concluding words:

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death!

Come to the mother, when she feels,

For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet-song, and dance and wine;
And thou art terrible-the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier;
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.

In this connection occurs a pleasantry indulged by the facetious Halleck in a letter to General Wilson, afterwards his biographer. Speaking of the story printed in the papers that "Marco Bozzaris" had been written by him on a wager with his wife he being a confirmed bachelor-he

says:

"My position seems to be the reverse of that of the gentleman in 'Joe Miller,' who, when a friend said to him, 'I was not aware, until recently, of your having been horsewhipped by Mr. last June,' answered, 'Indeed, I knew it

at the time!" "

In a letter answering one of his critics, Halleck adds this sarcasm: