What Mr. Robinson Thinks. Parson Wilbur sez he never heard in his life That th' apostles rigged out in their swallow-tailed coats, An' marched round in tront of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes; But John P. Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee. Invocation to Peace. Where's Peace? I start. some clear-blown night, I hev been gladder o' sech things Than cocks o' spring or bees o' clover, Peaceful ez eyes o' pastur'd cattle, To rile me more with thoughts o' battle. In-doors an' out by spells I try; Ma'am Natur' keeps her spin-wheel goin', Ez fiel's o' clover arter mowin'; An' her jes' keepin' on the same, Calmer than clock-work, an' not carin', Is was than ef she took to swearin'. Snow-flakes come whisperin' on the pane The chimbleys shudder in the gale. Thet lulls, then suddin takes to flappin' Like a shot hawk, but all 's ez stale To me ez so much sperit-rappin'. Under the yaller-pines I house. When sunshine makes 'em all sweet-scented,'. The baskin' west-wind purr contented While 'way o'erhead, ez sweet an' low Ez distant bells thet ring for meetin', White feet ez snowdrops innercent, Why, han't I held 'em on my knee? Handsome an' brave, an' not to knowin'? Whose natur', jest like theirn, keeps climbin', Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways, An' half despise myself for rhymin'. Wut's words to them whose faith an' truth For the gret prize o' death in battle? Flashed on afore the charge's thunder, Tippin' with fire the bolt of men Thet rived the rebel line asunder? "Tan't right to hev the young go fast, All throbbin' full o' gifts an graces. Leavin' life's paupers dry ez dust To try an' make b'lieve fill their places; Ther' 's gaps our lives can't never fay in, My eyes cloud up for rain; my mouth I pity mothers, tu, down South, For all they sot among the scorners: I'd sooner take my chance to stan' At Jedgment where your meanest slave is, Than at God's bar hol' up a han' Ez drippin' red ez yourn, Jeff Davis ! Come, Peace! not like a mourner bowed. But proud, to meet a people proud, An' step that proves ye Victory's daughter! Like shipwrecked men's on raf's for water! Come, while our country feels the lift An' knows thet freedom an't a gift Thet tarries long in han's o' cowards ! Come, sech ez mothers prayed for, when They kissed their cross with lips thet quivered, An' bring fair wages for brave men, A nation saved, a race delivered! Zekle crep up, quite unbeknown, The Courtin'. Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung, The ole queen's arm that gran'ther Young The walnut logs shot sparkles out The very room, coz she was in, Ez the apples she wuz peelin'. She heerd a foot an' knowed it, tu, He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, MATTHEW ARNOLD. The eldest son of the celebrated Dr. Arnold of Rugby has inheri ted no small share of his father's critical talent and independent judgment. MATTHEW ARNOLD was born at Laleham, near Staines, in Middlesex, December 24, 1822. He won the Newdigate Prize at Oxford in 1843, by a poem on Cromwell, and was elected a Fellow of Oriel College in 1845. In 1847 the Marquis of Lansdowne nominated him his private secretary, and he held the post till 1851, when he was appointed one of the government school inspectors. Previous to this, Mr. Arnold published anonymously The Strayed Reveller, and other Poems;' in 1853 appeared Empedocles on Etna, and other Poems;' and in 1854, Poems,' the first volume to which his name was attached, and which consisted of selections from the previous two volumes, with the addition of some new pieces. In 1857 Mr. Arnold was elected Professor of Poetry at Oxford; and in the year following he published 'Merope,' a tragedy after the antique, with a preface, in which he explains and comments on the principles of the Greek tragedy. In 1861 he published Three Lectures On Translating Homer; and in 1867 a new volume of 'Poems.' In 1869 he issued a collected edition of his Poems' in two volumes, the first narrative and elegiac, the second dramatic and lyric. As a poet, Mr. Arnold may be ranked with Lord Lytton; he is a classic and elaborate versifier, often graceful, but without the energy and fire of the true poet. His prose works include 'Essays on Criticism,' 1865; On the Study of Celtic Literature' 1867; Culture and Anarchy,' 1869; ́ St. Paul and Protestantism,' 1870; &c. A somewhat haughty aristocratic spirit pervades these essays. Mr. Arnold has no patience with the middle-class Philistines the dullards and haters of light, who care only for what is material and practical. He is alsó a zealous Churchman, with little regard for Nonconformists or Puritans; yet in all these treatises are fine trains of thought and criticism, and original suggestive observations from which all sects may profit. Mr. Arnold has received the honorary degree of Doctor of Laws from both Edinburgh and Oxford universities. The following is a specimen of Mr. Arnold's blank verse: Mycerinus. [Mycerinus, son of Cheops, reigned over Egypt. He was a just king, according to Herodotus, but an oracle proclaimed that he was to live but six years longer, on which he abdicated his throne, and, accompanied by a band of revellers, retired to "the silence of the groves and woods.'] There by the river banks he wandered on From palm-grove on to palm-grove, happy trees, Flushed guests, and golden goblets, foamed with wine; It may be that sometimes his wondering soul Sighed out by winter's sad tranquillity: Nor, palled with its own fullness, ebbed and died Nor withered, when the palm-tree plumes, that roofed With their mild dark his grassy banquet hall, • Children Asleep-From 'Tristram and Isrult.” They sleep in sheltered rest, Full on their window the moon's ray Turned to each other-the eyes closed, One little wandering arm is thrown Lines written in Kensington Gardens. In this lone open glade I lie, Screened by deep boughs on either hand, Those dark-crowned, red boled pine-trees stand. Birds here make song; each bird has his Across the girdling city's hum; How green under the boughs it is! How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come! Sometimes a child will cross the glade Here at my feet what wonders pass! Scarce fresher is the mountain sod Where the tired angler lies, stretched out, And, eased of basket and of rod, Counts his day's spoil, his spotted trout. In the huge world which roars hard by But, in my helpless cradle. I Was breathed on by the rural Pan. I on men's impious uproar hurled Yet here is peace forever new! When I, who watch them, am away, Then to their happy rest they pass, The flowers close, the birds are fed Man did not make, and cannot mar! The will to neither strive nor cry. |