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Ebook has 1015 lines and 42704 words, and 21 pages

"'A Rock in the Wilderness' is an ode that any poet might be proud to own. It is much in the style of Campbell--chaste, devotional, 'beautiful exceedingly.' I know nothing of the kind more musically sweet than the serenade ''Tis now the promised hour'--the first line in especial--

'The fountains serenade the flowers, Upon their silver lute-- And nestled in their leafy bowers, The forest birds are mute.'

"Many an absent lover must have blessed our lyrist for giving voice to his own yearning affection, half sad with that delicate jealousy which is no wrong to the loved one, in the song 'When other friends are round thee.'

"'The Bacchanal'--if our language boasts a lovelier ballad than this, it has never met my eye. The story of the winning, the betraying and the breaking of a woman's heart, was never told more touchingly. 'The Dismissed' is in a peculiar vein of rich and quiet humor. I would commend it to the entire class of rejected lovers as containing the truest philosophy. 'Lines after the manner of the olden time' remind one of Sir John Suckling. They are 'sunned o'er with love'--their subject, by the way. 'I never have been false to thee' was an emanation from the FEMININE nature of the minstrel alone. Who does not believe the poet gifted with duality of soul? 'Think of me, my own beloved,' and 'Rosabel,' are the throbbings of a lover's breast, set to music; and 'One balmy summer night, Mary,' 'The heart that owns thy tyrant sway,' and 'When I was in my teens,' the distillation of the subtlest sweets lodged in the innermost cells of all flowers dedicated to love.

"I come now to my favorite, 'Where Hudson's wave;' a poem which I never read but that it glows upon my lip and heart, and leaves the air of my thoughts tremulous with musical vibrations. What a delicious gush of parental feeling! How daintily and delicately move the 'fitly chose words,' tripping along like silver sandaled fairies.

"'Land-Ho!' and the 'Western Refrain' thrill one gloriously. 'The Cottager's Welcome' would of itself carry the poet's name to the next age, and the 'Croton Ode' keep his bays green with a perpetual baptism. The last-mentioned is fresh and sparkling as its subject, and displays much of the imaginative faculty.

"'Oh, a merry life does the hunter lead,' rolled up the tenth wave of Morris-ian popularity at the West. It stirs the hunter's heart like a bugle blast--it rings out clear as a rifle-crack on a hunting morning.

"General Morris has recently published some songs, which have all the grace, melody, and touching sweetness of his earlier lays. But as these have been artistically set to music, and are yet in the first season of popularity--are lying on the pianos and 'rolling over the bright lip' of all song-dom, they call for no further mention here.

"I think I cannot better close this somewhat broken and imperfect notice, than by referring to one of the earlier songs of Morris, which, more than all others, perhaps, has endeared him to his native land. 'Home from travel' is a simple, hearty, manly embodiment of the true spirit of patriotism, a sentiment which throbs like a strong pulse beneath our poet's light and graceful verse, and needs but the inspiration of 'stirring times' to prompt to deeds of heroic valor, like the lays of the ancient bards, or the 'Chansons' of Beranger."

The biography of Morris would not be complete without a word from Willis. We have a dash of his pencil in the following letter to the editor of "Graham's Magazine":--

"My Dear Sir: To ask me for my idea of General Morris, is like asking the left hand's opinion of the dexterity of the right. I have lived so long with the 'Brigadier'--know him so intimately--worked so constantly at the same rope, and thought so little of ever separating from him , that it is hard to shove him from me to the perspective distance--hard to shut my own partial eyes, and look at him through other people's. I will try, however; and, as it is done with but one foot off from the treadmill of my ceaseless vocation, you will excuse both abruptness and brevity.

"Morris is the best-known poet of the country, by acclamation, not by criticism. He is just what poets would be if they sang, like birds, without criticism; and it is a peculiarity of his fame, that it seems as regardless of criticism, as a bird in the air. Nothing can stop a song of his. It is very easy to say that they are easy to do. They have a momentum, somehow, that it is difficult for others to give, and that speeds them to the far goal of popularity--the best proof consisting in the fact that he can, at any moment, get fifty dollars for a song unread, when the whole remainder of the American Parnassus could not sell one to the same buyer for a shilling.

"It may, or may not, be one secret of his popularity, but it is the truth--that Morris's heart is at the level of most other people's, and his poetry flows out by that door. He stands breast-high in the common stream of sympathy, and the fine oil of his poetic feeling goes from him upon an element it is its nature to float upon, and which carries it safe to other bosoms, with little need of deep diving or high flying. His sentiments are simple, honest, truthful, and familiar; his language is pure and eminently musical, and he is prodigally full of the poetry of every-day feeling. These are days when poets try experiments; and while others succeed by taking the world's breath away with flights and plunges, Morris uses his feet to walk quietly with nature. Ninety-nine people in a hundred, taken as they come in the census, would find more to admire in Morris's songs, than in the writings of any other American poet; and that is a parish in the poetical episcopate, well worthy a wise man's nurture and prizing.

"As for the man--Morris, my friend--I can hardly venture to 'burn incense on his moustache,' as the French say--write his praises under his very nose--but as far off as Philadelphia, you may pay the proper tribute to his loyal nature and manly excellencies. His personal qualities have made him universally popular; but this overflow upon the world does not impoverish him for his friends. I have outlined a true poet, and a fine fellow--fill up the picture to your liking. Yours, very truly,

"N. P. Willis."

In 1825, General Morris wrote the drama of "Briercliff," a play, in five acts, founded upon events of the American Revolution. It was performed forty nights in succession; and the manager paid him for it ,500--a solid proof of its attractive popularity. It has never been published. Prior, and subsequent to this period, his pen was actively engaged upon various literary and dramatic works.

He wrote a number of the "Welcomes to Lafayette," and songs and ballads, which were universally popular, besides many prologues and addresses.

In 1842, he wrote an opera for Mr. C. E. Horn, called the "Maid of Saxony," which was performed fourteen nights, with great success, at the Park Theatre. The press of the city, generally, awarded to this opera the highest commendation.

From the period when General Morris commenced his career as a writer, his pen has been constantly employed in writing poems, songs, ballads, and prose sketches.

In 1840, the Appletons published an edition of his poems, beautifully illustrated by Weir & Chapman; in 1842, Paine & Burgess published his songs and ballads; and in 1853, Scribner's edition, illustrated by Weir and Darley, appeared. This last beautiful work has had an immense sale.

They were highly commended by the press throughout the country, and these and other editions have had large sales. A portion of his prose writings, under the title of "The Little Frenchman and his Water-Lots," were published by Lea & Blanchard, which edition has been followed by others, enlarged by the author.

General Morris has edited a number of works; among them are the "Atlantic Club Book," published by the Harpers; "The Song-Writers of America," by Linen & Ferin; "National Melodies," by Horn & Davis; and, in connection with Mr. Willis, "The Prose and Poetry of Europe and America," a standard work of great value.

In 1844, in connection with Mr. Willis, he established a beautiful weekly paper, called the "New Mirror," which, in consequence of the cover and engravings, was taxed by the post-office department a postage equal to the subscription price; and not being able to obtain a just reduction from Mr. Wickliffe, then post-master-general, the proprietors discontinued its publication, after a year and a half, notwithstanding it had attained a circulation of ten thousand copies.

The daily "Evening Mirror" was next commenced, and continued for one year by Morris & Willis.

A few months after withdrawing from the "Evening Mirror," General Morris began the publication of the "National Press and Home Journal;" but as many mistook its object from its name, the first part of its title was discontinued; and in November, 1846 , appeared the first number of the "Home Journal," a weekly paper, published in New York every Saturday, which is edited with taste, spirit, and ability, and which has a circulation of many thousand copies.

General Morris is still in the prime and vigor of life, and it is not unlikely that the public will yet have much to admire from his pen, and which will, without doubt, place him still higher in the niche of fame. His residence is chiefly at Undercliff, his country seat, on the banks of the Hudson, near Cold Spring, surrounded by the most lovely and beautiful scenery in nature, which can not fail to keep the muse alive within him, and tune the minstrel to further and still higher efforts.

Although he possesses abilities which eminently qualify him for public station, his literary taste and habits have, in spite of the strenuous solicitations of his friends, led him to prefer the retirement of private life. This, however, does not prevent his taking an active interest in all questions of public good; and the city of New York is greatly indebted to his vigorous aid for many of her most beautiful and permanent improvements.

We can not close this sketch without adverting to the following incident, which occurred in the British House of Commons:--

"Mr. Cagley, a member from Yorkshire," says the "London Times," "Concluded a long speech in favor of protection, by quoting the ballad of 'Woodman, spare that tree' , the 'tree' according to Mr. Cagley, being the 'Constitution,' and Sir Robert Peel the 'woodman,' about to cut it down."

What poet could desire a more gratifying compliment to his genius?

Poems and Ballads.

Poems.

The Deserted Bride.

Suggested by a scene in the play of the hunchback.

Inscribed to James Sheridan Knowles.

"Love me!--No.--He never loved me!" Else he'd sooner die than stain One so fond as he has proved me With the hollow world's disdain. False one, go--my doom is spoken, And the spell that bound me broken.

Wed him!--Never.--He has lost me!-- Tears!--Well, let them flow!--His bride? No.--The struggle life may cost me! But he'll find that I have pride! Love is not an idle flower, Blooms and dies the self-same hour.

Title, land, and broad dominion, With himself to me he gave; Stooped to earth his spirit's pinion, And became my willing slave! Knelt and prayed until he won me-- Looks he coldly upon me?

Love I him?--Thus scorned and slighted-- Thrown, like worthless weed, apart-- Hopes and feelings seared and blighted-- Love him?--Yes, with all my heart! With a passion superhuman-- Constancy, "thy name is woman."

Love, nor time, nor mood, can fashion-- Love?--Idolatry's the word To speak the broadest, deepest passion, Ever woman's heart hath stirred! Vain to still the mind's desires, Which consume like hidden fires!

Wrecked and wretched, lost and lonely, Crushed by grief's oppressive weight With a prayer for Clifford only, I resign me to my fate. Chains that bind the soul I've proven Strong as they were iron woven.

Deep the wo that fast is sending From my cheek its healthful bloom; Sad my thoughts as willows bending O'er the borders of the tomb! Without Clifford, not a blessing In the world is worth possessing.

Wealth!--a straw within the balance Opposed to love, 'twill strike the beam: Kindred, friendship, beauty, talents?-- All to love as nothing seem; Weigh love against all else together, And solid gold against a feather.

Hope is flown--away disguises Naught but death relief can give-- For the love he little prizes Can not cease, and Julia live! Soon my thread of life will sever-- Clifford, fare thee well--for ever!

The Main-Truck; Or, A Leap for Life

A Nautical Ballad.

Old Ironsides at anchor lay, In the harbor of Mahon; A dead calm rested on the bay-- The waves to sleep had gone; When little Jack, the captain's son, With gallant hardihood, Climbed shroud and spar--and then upon The main-truck rose and stood!

A shudder ran through every vein-- All eyes were turned on high! There stood the boy, with dizzy brain, Between the sea and sky! No hold had he above--below, Alone he stood in air! At that far height none dared to go-- No aid could reach him there.

We gazed--but not a man could speak!-- With horror all aghast In groups, with pallid brow and cheek, We watched the quivering mast. The atmosphere grew thick and hot, And of a lurid hue, As, riveted unto the spot, Stood officers and crew.

The father came on deck--He gasped, "O, God, Thy will be done!" Then suddenly a rifle grasped, And aimed it at his son! "Jump far out, boy! into the wave! Jump, or I fire!" he said: "That only chance your life can save! Jump--jump, boy!"--He obeyed.

He sank--he rose--he lived--he moved-- He for the ship struck out! On board we hailed the lad beloved With many a manly shout. His father drew, in silent joy, Those wet arms round his neck, Then folded to his heart the boy And fainted on the deck!

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