Yet their country long shall mourn In that fierce and fatal charge, George Washington Cutter. AMERICAN. Cutter (1814-1865) was a native of Kentucky. He was a lawyer by profession, resident at Covington, Ky., and at one time a member of the Indiana Legislature. In the Mexican war he joined the army as a captain of volunteers, and served bravely. He wrote a poem of two hundred and fifty-six lines, entitled "Buena Vista," said to have been penned on the field after the battle, and interesting as giving the experiences of one who took part in the fight. He published in Philadelphia, in 1857, a volume of two hundred and seventy-nine pages, entitled "Poems, National and Patriotic." His "Song of Steam," though rude and unpolished, is the best of his productions. In an Indian poem, entitled "Tecumseh," he represents the old chief as somewhat better versed in classical mythology than savages usually are; for he refers to the time, "When softly rose the Queen of Love, SONG OF STEAM. Harness me down with your iron bands, For I scorn the power of your puny hands, How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight At the childish boast of human might, When I saw an army upon the land, Or waiting the wayward breeze ;-- When I measured the panting courser's speed, As they bore the law a King decreed, I could not but think how the world would feel, When I should be bound to the rushing keel, Or chained to the flying car. Ha ha ha! they found me at last; They invited me forth at length; Oh, then ye saw a wondrous change Hurrah! hurrah! the waters o'er The mountain's steep decline; Time-space-have yielded to my power The world-the world is mine! The rivers the sun hath earliest blessed, Or those where his last beams shine; The giant streams of the queenly West, Or the Orient floods divine! The ocean pales where'er I sweep, To hear my strength rejoice; I carry the wealth and the lord of earth, In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine My tireless arm doth play; Where the rocks never saw the sun decline, I bring earth's glittering jewels up I blow the bellows, I forge the steel, I hammer the ore, and turn the wheel, I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint; And all my doings I put into print, I've no muscle to weary, no breast to decay, John Lothrop Motley. AMERICAN. Motley (1814-1877), though far better known as an historian than a poet, was yet the author of verses of no ordinary promise. He was a native of Dorchester, now a part of Boston, Mass., and entered Harvard College at the early age of thirteen. He began to write, and to write well, both in prose and verse, before his fifteenth year. In 1832 he went to Germany, met Bismarck (afterward Prince Bismarck) at Göttingen, and in 1833 was his fellow-lodger, fellow-student, and boon companion at Berlin. 'We lived," writes Bismarck (1878), "in the closest intimacy, sharing meals and out-door exercise. *** The most striking feature of his handsome and delicate appearance was uncommonly large and beautiful eyes. He never entered a drawing-room without exciting the curiosity and sympathy of the ladies." Having returned to America and married (1837), Motley put forth a novel, "Morton's Hope," which was not a success. It was followed by "Merry-Mount," also a failure. "It was a matter of course," he writes, "that I should he attacked by the poetic mania. I took the infection at the usual time, went through its various stages, and recovered as soon as could be expected." In 1841 Motley was Secretary of Legation to the Russian Mission. In 1850 he commenced those historical studies, the fruits of which gave him a wide and still flourishing reputation. His "History of the Rise of the Dutch Republic" at once established his literary fame both in Europe and America. It was translated into all the principal languages of Europe, and was followed by a "History of the United Netherlands." In 1861 he was appointed by President Lincoln Minister to Austria, and, soon after the election of Grant, became Minister to England, a post he resigned in 1870. In 1876 his health began to fail, and there were symptoms of paralysis, though his intellectual powers kept bright. He died the following year. From a tribute to his memory by William W. Story (Oct., 1877), we quote the following lines: "Farewell, dear friend! For us the grief and pain, For us the sad yet noble memories Of lofty thoughts, of upward-looking eyes, Nothing of this can fade while life shall last, Motley's departure from this life took place near Dorehester, England; and, by his own wish, only the dates of his birth and death appear upon his gravestone, with the text chosen by himself, "In God is light, and in Him is no darkness at all." An appreciative and interesting memoir of Motley by his early friend, Dr. O. W. Holmes, appeared in Boston in 1879. LINES WRITTEN AT SYRACUSE. Is this the stately Syracuse, And Carthage's compeer,- And art thou mouldering here? Still Syracuse's cloudless sun Shines brightly day by day, And, as 'twas Tully's boast, on none Seems to withhold his ray; Still blooms her myrtle in the vale, Her olive on the hill, And Flora's gifts perfume the gale With countless odors stillThe myrtle decks no hero's sword, But ah! the olive waves, Type of inglorious peace, adored By hosts of supple slaves! Round broken shaft and mouldering tombs, And desecrated shrine, The wild goat bounds, the wild rose blooms, And mark that loitering shepherd-boy, His listless summer hours employ In piping to his flock! Ah! Daphnis here, in earlier day, By laughing nymphs was taught, Upon these flowery plains With sweeter, loftier strains. I stood on Acradina's height, Whose marble heart supplied The bulwarks, hewn with matchless might, Of Syracuse's pride, Where Dionysins built his cave, And, crouching, crept to hear The unconscious curses of his slave Poured in the "Tyrant's Ear;" The prison where the Athenians wept, And hapless Nicias fell With citrons now and flowers entwined The friar's quiet cell! The fragrant garden there is warm, The lizard basking lies, I stood on Acradina's height, And, spread for miles around, Vast sculptured fragments met my sight, The city's whitening bones, they seemed, I gazed along the purple sea, O'er Læstrygonia's plain, And nourished giants:-proudly sweep Brightly in yonder azure sky Old Etna lifts his head, Around whose glittering shoulders fly Say, rises still that ceaseless smoke, Where Cyclops forged, with sturdy stroke, Mark, where the gloomy King of Hell Descended with his bride; By Cyané her girdle fell, Yon reedy fountain's side; By storied cliff, by fabled fount, Alas! how idle to recall Bright myths forever fled, Or turn where starry Science weeps, In vain, sweet Sicily! the fate Fallow thy fertile plains— Through earthquake, fire, and storm,- Charles Mackay. The son of an army-officer, Mackay was born in Perth, Scotland, in 1814. His first volume of poems appeared in 1834; since which he has put forth some twelve more. For several years he was editor of the Illustrated London News. In 1852 he travelled in America. His Autobiography appeared in 1877. THE WATCHER ON THE TOWER. "What dost thou see, lone watcher on the tower? Is the day breaking? Comes the wished-for hour? Tell us the signs, and stretch abroad thy hand, If the bright morning dawns upon the land." "The stars are clear above me; scarcely one |