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What Mr. Robinson Thinks.
That th' apostles rigged out in their swallow-tailed coata,
But John P.
Invocation to Peace.
When gaunt stone walls grow numb an' number,
Walk the col' starlight into summer;
Thru the pale pastars silvers dimmer
O'love gone heaven ward in its shimmer.
Than cocks o' spring or bees o'clover,
But now they seem to freeze 'em over;
Peaceful ez eyes o' pastur'd catile,
To rile me more with thoughts o' battle.
Ma'am Natur' keeps her spin-wheel goin',
Er fiel's o'clover arter mowin';
Calmer than clock-work, and not carin',
Is wus than ef she took to swearin'.
With Grant or Sherman ollers present;
Thet lulls, then suddin takes to flappin'
To me ez so much sperit-rappin'.
When sunshine makes 'em all sweet-scented,'.
The baskin' west-wind part contented-
Ez distant bells thet ring for meetin',
Further an' further South retreatin'.
I hear the drummers makin' riot,
Thet follered once an' now are quiet,
White feet ez snowdrops innercent,
Thet never knowed the paths o' Satan, Whose comin' step ther''s ears thet won't
No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin'.
Why, han't I held 'em on my knee ?
Didn't I love to see 'em growin', Three likely lads ez wal could be,
Handsome an' brave, an' not to knowin'? I set an' look into the blaze
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
On war's red techstone rang true metal, Who ventured life an' love an' youth
For the gret prize o' death in battle ? To him who, deadly hart, agen
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 month
Will take to twitchin' roan' tbe corners; 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 elave is, Than at God's bar hol' up a han?
Ez drippin' red ez yourn, Jeff Davis !
Come, Peace! not like a mourner bowed.
For honor lost an' dear ones wasted, But proud, to meet a people prond,
With eyes that tell o' triumph tasted! Come, with ban' grippin' on the hilt,
An' step that proves ye Victory's daughter ! Longin' for you, our sperits wilt
Like shipwrecked men's on rat's for water!
Come, while our country feels the lift
Of a gret instinct shoutin' forwards,
Thet tarties long in han's o' cowards!
They kissed their cross with lips thet quivered,
A nation saved, a race delivered !
Looked warm from floor to ceilin',
An' she looked full ez rory agin 'ith no one nigh to hender.
Ez the apples she wuz peelin'.
Araspin' on the scraper-
Fetched back from Concord busted. Like sparks in burnt-up paper
Some doubtfle o' the seekle
His heart kep' goin' pitypat, The chiney on the dresser.
But hern went pity Zekle.
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 also 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 wbich 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 wondered on
It may be that sometimes his wondering soul
So six long years he revelled. night and day;
They sleep in sheltered rest, Fnl! on their window the moon's ray Like helpless birds in the warm nest, Makes their chamber as bright as day; On the castle's southern side;
It shines upon the blank white walls, Where feebly comes the monrnrni roar And on the snowy pillow falls, Of buffeting wind and surging tido And on two angel-heads doth play Through many a room and corridor,
Turned to each other--the eyes closed,
One little wandering arm is thrown
Lines written in Kensington Gardens.
Screened by deep boughs on either hand,
Those dark-crowned, red boled pine-trees stand.
Across the girdling city's hum;
How thick the tremulous shcep-cries come!
To take his nurse his broken toy ;
Deep in her unknown day's employ.
What endless. active life is here!
An air-stirred forest fresh and clear.
Where the sired angler lies, stretched out,
Counts his day's spoil, his spotted trout.
Be others happy if they can;
Was breathed on by the rural Pan.
Think often, as I hear them rave
And now keeps only in the grave.
When I, who watch them, am away,
The changes of their quiet day.
The Powers close, the birds are fede
The child sleeps warmly in his bed.
'l'o fel, amid the city's jur,
Map did not make, and cannot mar!
The power to feel with others. give!
Before I have begun to live.