SONNETS,
ON PICTURES IN THE HUNTINGTON GALLERY.
———
BY MRS. ELIZABETH J. EAMES.
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I.—ST. JOHN.I stood within the glowing, graceful ringOf pictures hung upon the gallery’s wall:—The admiring murmur of the crowd did bringMy step to pause before a shape, in allThe thoughtful grace of artist-skill designed,The sense of Beautyfelt—but not defined.Thou face, serene in solemn tenderness—In the uplifting of those calm, deep eyes;On the rapt brow of holy earnestnessThe light of prophecy reflected lies.The mystic vision of the ApocalypseThy pen of fire sublimely did record:But most we love His lessons from thy lips—John, thou beloved disciple of the Lord!II.—MERCY’S DREAM.Like thee to dream, by angel-wings unshaded!The starry crown hangs o’er thy meek young head,Flinging a glory round thee, like the braidedAnd brilliant tints by a rich sunset shed.O loveliest vision of the painter’s thought—Born in his happiest hour of inspiration,How more than fair the exquisite creationHis genius-gifted pencil here hath wrought!How wondrously is charmed the “Pilgrim” storyThat made my childhood’s ever new delight:Sweet Mercy!now, in tenderest grace and glory,Thy pale, bright picture floats before my sight.Thrice blesséd! and thrice beautiful! mightweBut inourdreams some guardian-angel see!III.—THE MARYS AT THE SEPULCHRE.The first faint crimson of the early morningDawned on the tomb where the loved Master lay;And on the Marys, who for His adorningCame bearing spices sweet, at break of day.In meek, mute reverence, near the sepulchreThe mourners drew, as round a sacred shrine—And gazing down for the dear form divine—The unsealed stone—the white-robed messenger—Met their affrighted view! In awe they fled,And she, the Magdalen! the tidings spread,“Christ is arisen!” O, woman! in that hourWell might a solemn rapture fill thy mind—Thou, earth’s poor outcast, honored with high powerTo bear such joyful tidings to mankind.IV.—PIETY.Meek list’ner! on whose purely virgin browIs set the beauty of submissive thought:Oh! blest beyond Earth’s favored ones art thou,Whose earnest eyes so reverently caughtThe Teacher’s look, with mild, grave wisdom fraught.How was the awakened soul within thee stirredTo suppliant or adoring tones, as fellThe quickening power of the Eternal Word,Like the winged seed, on thy young heart; to dwellA germ not lost! A heavenly light serene,Unclouded, sits on thy soft, spiritual mien—I call thee Blest, for thou hast chosen well,Daughter of Christ! O, happy to have givenThe bloom of thy unblighted years to Heaven!V.—FOLLY.Andthisis Folly! Like a flaunting flowerHer red lips part half wanton, half in scorn:Over the wreck of many a squandered hourThis poor frail child of Pleasure well might mourn.But with the consciousness of beauty born,Exulting in her youth’s superior brightness—(Not yet the rose-leaves from her garland torn)—She moves along to scenes of festal lightness.The aged teacher’s solemn, sacred lessonIs a dead letter to her worldly spirit—The Word of Life—its Promise, and its Blessing,The world’s gay votary cares not to inherit!No claims upon a heritage divine—This lot, O Folly! this sad lot is thine.
I.—ST. JOHN.I stood within the glowing, graceful ringOf pictures hung upon the gallery’s wall:—The admiring murmur of the crowd did bringMy step to pause before a shape, in allThe thoughtful grace of artist-skill designed,The sense of Beautyfelt—but not defined.Thou face, serene in solemn tenderness—In the uplifting of those calm, deep eyes;On the rapt brow of holy earnestnessThe light of prophecy reflected lies.The mystic vision of the ApocalypseThy pen of fire sublimely did record:But most we love His lessons from thy lips—John, thou beloved disciple of the Lord!II.—MERCY’S DREAM.Like thee to dream, by angel-wings unshaded!The starry crown hangs o’er thy meek young head,Flinging a glory round thee, like the braidedAnd brilliant tints by a rich sunset shed.O loveliest vision of the painter’s thought—Born in his happiest hour of inspiration,How more than fair the exquisite creationHis genius-gifted pencil here hath wrought!How wondrously is charmed the “Pilgrim” storyThat made my childhood’s ever new delight:Sweet Mercy!now, in tenderest grace and glory,Thy pale, bright picture floats before my sight.Thrice blesséd! and thrice beautiful! mightweBut inourdreams some guardian-angel see!III.—THE MARYS AT THE SEPULCHRE.The first faint crimson of the early morningDawned on the tomb where the loved Master lay;And on the Marys, who for His adorningCame bearing spices sweet, at break of day.In meek, mute reverence, near the sepulchreThe mourners drew, as round a sacred shrine—And gazing down for the dear form divine—The unsealed stone—the white-robed messenger—Met their affrighted view! In awe they fled,And she, the Magdalen! the tidings spread,“Christ is arisen!” O, woman! in that hourWell might a solemn rapture fill thy mind—Thou, earth’s poor outcast, honored with high powerTo bear such joyful tidings to mankind.IV.—PIETY.Meek list’ner! on whose purely virgin browIs set the beauty of submissive thought:Oh! blest beyond Earth’s favored ones art thou,Whose earnest eyes so reverently caughtThe Teacher’s look, with mild, grave wisdom fraught.How was the awakened soul within thee stirredTo suppliant or adoring tones, as fellThe quickening power of the Eternal Word,Like the winged seed, on thy young heart; to dwellA germ not lost! A heavenly light serene,Unclouded, sits on thy soft, spiritual mien—I call thee Blest, for thou hast chosen well,Daughter of Christ! O, happy to have givenThe bloom of thy unblighted years to Heaven!V.—FOLLY.Andthisis Folly! Like a flaunting flowerHer red lips part half wanton, half in scorn:Over the wreck of many a squandered hourThis poor frail child of Pleasure well might mourn.But with the consciousness of beauty born,Exulting in her youth’s superior brightness—(Not yet the rose-leaves from her garland torn)—She moves along to scenes of festal lightness.The aged teacher’s solemn, sacred lessonIs a dead letter to her worldly spirit—The Word of Life—its Promise, and its Blessing,The world’s gay votary cares not to inherit!No claims upon a heritage divine—This lot, O Folly! this sad lot is thine.
I.—ST. JOHN.
I stood within the glowing, graceful ring
Of pictures hung upon the gallery’s wall:—
The admiring murmur of the crowd did bring
My step to pause before a shape, in all
The thoughtful grace of artist-skill designed,
The sense of Beautyfelt—but not defined.
Thou face, serene in solemn tenderness—
In the uplifting of those calm, deep eyes;
On the rapt brow of holy earnestness
The light of prophecy reflected lies.
The mystic vision of the Apocalypse
Thy pen of fire sublimely did record:
But most we love His lessons from thy lips—
John, thou beloved disciple of the Lord!
II.—MERCY’S DREAM.
Like thee to dream, by angel-wings unshaded!
The starry crown hangs o’er thy meek young head,
Flinging a glory round thee, like the braided
And brilliant tints by a rich sunset shed.
O loveliest vision of the painter’s thought—
Born in his happiest hour of inspiration,
How more than fair the exquisite creation
His genius-gifted pencil here hath wrought!
How wondrously is charmed the “Pilgrim” story
That made my childhood’s ever new delight:
Sweet Mercy!now, in tenderest grace and glory,
Thy pale, bright picture floats before my sight.
Thrice blesséd! and thrice beautiful! mightwe
But inourdreams some guardian-angel see!
III.—THE MARYS AT THE SEPULCHRE.
The first faint crimson of the early morning
Dawned on the tomb where the loved Master lay;
And on the Marys, who for His adorning
Came bearing spices sweet, at break of day.
In meek, mute reverence, near the sepulchre
The mourners drew, as round a sacred shrine—
And gazing down for the dear form divine—
The unsealed stone—the white-robed messenger—
Met their affrighted view! In awe they fled,
And she, the Magdalen! the tidings spread,
“Christ is arisen!” O, woman! in that hour
Well might a solemn rapture fill thy mind—
Thou, earth’s poor outcast, honored with high power
To bear such joyful tidings to mankind.
IV.—PIETY.
Meek list’ner! on whose purely virgin brow
Is set the beauty of submissive thought:
Oh! blest beyond Earth’s favored ones art thou,
Whose earnest eyes so reverently caught
The Teacher’s look, with mild, grave wisdom fraught.
How was the awakened soul within thee stirred
To suppliant or adoring tones, as fell
The quickening power of the Eternal Word,
Like the winged seed, on thy young heart; to dwell
A germ not lost! A heavenly light serene,
Unclouded, sits on thy soft, spiritual mien—
I call thee Blest, for thou hast chosen well,
Daughter of Christ! O, happy to have given
The bloom of thy unblighted years to Heaven!
V.—FOLLY.
Andthisis Folly! Like a flaunting flower
Her red lips part half wanton, half in scorn:
Over the wreck of many a squandered hour
This poor frail child of Pleasure well might mourn.
But with the consciousness of beauty born,
Exulting in her youth’s superior brightness—
(Not yet the rose-leaves from her garland torn)—
She moves along to scenes of festal lightness.
The aged teacher’s solemn, sacred lesson
Is a dead letter to her worldly spirit—
The Word of Life—its Promise, and its Blessing,
The world’s gay votary cares not to inherit!
No claims upon a heritage divine—
This lot, O Folly! this sad lot is thine.
THINKING OF MINNA.
———
BY ELLIS MARTYN.
———
What though my way unblissful careTo weary solitudes incline!I feel thy beauty everywhere;Thy spirit brightens mine.On all the dewy leaves that crowdThe moon-lit trees, I read thy name;From every crimson morning cloud,It flows through all my frame.And when the spiritual eve advances,To bathe the weary world in rest,Thou comest near, with loving glances,And leanest on my breast.In all the ages, young or olden,Was ever life so blest as mine!Where’er I go the clime is golden,And all the air divine!
What though my way unblissful careTo weary solitudes incline!I feel thy beauty everywhere;Thy spirit brightens mine.On all the dewy leaves that crowdThe moon-lit trees, I read thy name;From every crimson morning cloud,It flows through all my frame.And when the spiritual eve advances,To bathe the weary world in rest,Thou comest near, with loving glances,And leanest on my breast.In all the ages, young or olden,Was ever life so blest as mine!Where’er I go the clime is golden,And all the air divine!
What though my way unblissful care
To weary solitudes incline!
I feel thy beauty everywhere;
Thy spirit brightens mine.
On all the dewy leaves that crowd
The moon-lit trees, I read thy name;
From every crimson morning cloud,
It flows through all my frame.
And when the spiritual eve advances,
To bathe the weary world in rest,
Thou comest near, with loving glances,
And leanest on my breast.
In all the ages, young or olden,
Was ever life so blest as mine!
Where’er I go the clime is golden,
And all the air divine!
THOMAS JOHNSON.
THE LAST SURVIVOR OF THE CREW OF “THE BONHOMME RICHARD.”
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BY THOMAS WYATT, A. M.
———
This venerable sailor is in the 92d year of his age; nearly sixty of which he has spent on the ocean, and thirty-five under the stars and stripes of his adopted country. Although almost helpless from age, his mind is clear and his memory retentive. He remembers distinctly many interesting incidents during his cruisings with that eccentric but intrepid officer, John Paul Jones, and narrates many of the daring exploits in which he was a participator under the direction of this extraordinary man.
Thomas Johnson is a Norwegian by birth, the son of a pilot at Mandal, a seaport on the coast of Norway, where he was born in the year 1758. Having been engaged in that occupation for nearly twenty years, he was consequently accustomed to a seafaring life; and in the absence of his father towed the first American vessel into the harbor of Mandal. This vessel was theRanger, from Boston, carrying eighteen guns, under the command of Captain Jones. The sight of a ship from a country which was at this time struggling for independence, and of which they knew so little, caused no little sensation among the inhabitants of that town. After their arrival in port, Jones sent for the young pilot, and presenting him with a piece of gold, expressed his pleasure at his expert seamanship, which he had minutely watched during the towing of his ship into the harbor.
He also observed that he had made the port of Mandal, in order to enlarge his crew, not having sufficient men for the long cruise he was about to make; and added, that if the father of the young pilot would permit, he would be glad to engage him. Satisfactory arrangements were made, and Johnson was received as a seaman on board theRanger. It will be remembered that Captain Jones had been cruising the last two years as first lieutenant of theAlfredflag ship, the first privateer fitted out by Congress to cruise against British commerce.
In this ship he hoisted with his own hands the American flag, the first time it was ever displayed on the ocean; its emblems were a pine-tree, with a rattle-snake coiled at its root, as if about to strike.
TheAlfredwas very successful, and had brought homeseveral valuable prizes. Congress, therefore, determined on the purchase of three other ships for the same purpose, and Captain Jones was permitted to make choice of either; he chose theRanger, and was invested with the command by the following resolutions:
Resolved, “That Captain John Paul Jones be appointed to command the shipRanger, and that William Whipple, Esq., member of Congress, and of the Marine Committee, John Langdon, Esq., continental agent, and the said John Paul Jones be authorized to appoint lieutenants and other officers and men necessary for the said ship; and that blank commissions and warrants be sent them to be filled up with the names of the persons they appoint, returns whereof to be made to the Navy Board in the eastern department.”
“Resolved, That the flag of the thirteen United States, henceforth be thirteen stripes, alternate red and white; and the union be thirteen stars, white in a blue field, representing a new constellation.”
Jones immediately commissioned theRanger, and, singular to say, was the first to display the new flag of the republic, as he did the original one on board theAlfred, about two years previous. TheRangerwas intended to carry twenty-six guns; but Jones begged to exercise his own judgment, believing that she would be more serviceable with only eighteen, and accordingly mounted that number, for which he had often occasion to congratulate himself on his judicious forethought; for the ship proved to be exceedingly crank, and with the whole number, would have been nearly useless.
His first cruise with his new ship was to the coast of France, and on his voyage there he chased a fleet of ten sail, under a strong convoy, took two prizes, and carried them safely into Nantes.
From thence he took a short cruise on the coast of Norway, and putting into the port of Mandal, as we before stated, engaged the services of Thomas Johnson, the subject of this sketch.
After completing his arrangement, Jones returned to Nantes, and from thence proceeded to Quiberon Bay, giving convoy to some American vessels which were desirous of joining the French fleet commanded by Admiral La Mott Piquet, who had been ordered to keep the coast of France clear of British cruisers. Writing to the Marine Committee on the 22d February, 1778, he says, “I am happy in having it in my power to congratulate you on seeing the American flag, for the first time, recognized in the fullest and most complete manner by the flag of France; and as it is my greatest desire to render useful services to the American cause, I would suggest that, as the field of cruising being thus extended, and the British navy, in numbers, so superior to ours, it would be well to surprise their defenceless places, and thereby divert their attention, and draw it from our coasts.” These suggestions contained the plan of annoyance which was eventually adopted in Paul Jones’s cruisings in the European seas. It was about the middle of April, 1778, so our hero relates, that they found themselves on the coast of Scotland, immediately in the vicinity of the birth-place of Jones, and in sight of the port of Whitehaven, upon which he had determined to make his first descent.
It was near the break of day, when Jones ordered two boats, and a plentiful supply of combustibles to be prepared, with thirty-one men, to leave theRangerand make for the outer pier. Jones commanded the first boat himself, the other was under the command of Simpson, his first lieutenant, conveying the combustible matter, and charged with firing the vessels, about seventy in number, lying on the north side of the pier, while he undertook the rest. They found two batteries at Whitehaven, which Jones, with ten of his men, Johnson being one of the number, scaled, taking the soldiers prisoners, and spiking the guns. He then, with his party, started for the other battery, about a quarter of a mile distant, which he served in the same way.
On his return he met his lieutenant, with the remainder of the sailors, who stated that he had not done as he had requested him, having a reluctance to destroy the undefended property of poor people, he had hesitated until his candles had burned out, and then found it impossible to execute his orders.
Jones was exceedingly angry, and vented his rage in the most insulting language, saying at the same time, “that if the accomplished Lord Howe would commit deeds of burning, pillage, and slaughter, upon the persons and property of Americans, the right of retaliation belonged to us.” In making such hasty remarks, he forgot that this enterprise was one of an entirely different nature; the scheme, if it may be so called, was one of his own forming, the American government not being apprised of any thing of the kind, neither had he received any order to that effect. The whole affair must be allowed to be one of the most audacious of its kind, and will ever attach a lasting stain upon the memory of its originator.
It was now daylight and the frightened inhabitants were beginning to collect; still Jones was unwilling to depart without carrying any of his intended depredations into effect, after surmounting so many difficulties.
He posted to the nearest house and demanded a light, which, having obtained, he deliberately kindled a fire in the steerage of a large ship which was surrounded by others lying dry upon the shore, pouring a barrel of tar into the flames; during this operation, Johnson, with several other sailors, stood sentinel against any surprise he might receive from the inhabitants, who by this time were attracted by the flames, and had assembled to the pier in great numbers. On seeing them approach in such formidable numbers, he seized his pistols, one in each hand, and standing between them and the ship on fire, ordered them to retire to their homes, which they did with precipitation. At length he and his party entered their boats and rowed quietly to their ship, where, from the deck, he could see the panic-stricken inhabitants running in vast numbers to their forts, which was no little amusement to him, as he had spiked their guns.
Jones afterward ascertained, much to his chagrin, that only the ship which he himself had fired was destroyed, the surrounding ones were saved by the exertions of the people. He consoled himself by saying, “that he had done enough to show England that not all her boasted navy could protect her own coasts, and that the scenes of distress which she had caused the Americans to pass through, might soon be brought home to her own doors.” On his return to theRanger, Jones informed his officers and men that he had not yet done with Scotland, that he had another project in his head, which he intended to carry into effect; that was, to obtain possession of the person of the Earl of Selkirk, a nobleman residing at Selkirk Abbey, on a beautiful promontory called St. Mary’s Isle, running out into the river Dee, and not more than two miles distant from where they then were.
Jones conceived that if he could obtain possession of this nobleman’s person, he could demand an exchange for some distinguished American prisoner. He remained in the bay of Kirkcudbright till the following morning, when he started with two boats and about twenty men, among whom was Johnson, who relates the particulars of this singular adventure. Johnson was in the first boat with Jones, who commanded it himself; the other was commanded by Simpson, his first lieutenant. They landed onpart of the grounds, not more than two hundred yards from the house; some laborers were at work near by, of whom they inquired if Lord Selkirk was at home; they were informed that he was in London, consequently, his end was frustrated. On receiving this information they prepared to return to their boats, when his officers, of whom there were four, expressed a wish to repair to the Abbey and demand the family plate, pleading as an excuse, that it was the universal custom of the English on the American coast. Jones, in his official report, says, after some hesitation, he reluctantly consented, charging them to insult no person on the premises, especially Lady Selkirk. During this delicate embassy, Jones withdrew behind some trees, where he could perceive what was going on. Simpson, with ten of his sailors, went to the house. Lady Selkirk was at breakfast when they presented themselves at the window, and supposing them to be the crew of a revenue cutter, sent a servant to inquire their business, and to offer them some refreshment. Simpson entered the room on the return of the servant, and stated his errand to Lady Selkirk.
Her ladyship made no resistance, but sent the servant to collect the remainder of the plate, requesting that the teapot, which was then on the table, might be emptied and placed with it. After being collected, it was carefully packed in baskets, and the party, having performed their errand, withdrew to their boats, where Paul Jones met them. They soon regained their ship, when the prize they had made was safely repacked, and they set sail for the coast of France.
During their voyage from Scotland to France he fell in with an English vessel called theDrake; a sharp conflict ensued, which lasted more than an hour, when theDrakesurrendered, and was towed in safety into Brest, a seaport of France. On the very day of his arrival at Brest, Jones wrote the following eccentric epistle to Lady Selkirk, which one of his biographers calls “the queerest piece of epistolary correspondence extant.”
“Madam,—It cannot be too much lamented, that in the profession of arms, the officer of fine feelings and real sensibility, should be under the necessity of winking at any action of persons under his command which his heart cannot approve; but the reflection is doubly severe, when he finds himself obliged, in appearance, to countenance such actions by his authority. This hard case was mine, when, on the 23d of April last, I landed on St. Mary’s Isle.
“Knowing Lord Selkirk’s interest with his king, and esteeming as I do his private character, I wished to make him the happy instrument of alleviating the horrors of hopeless captivity, when the brave are overpowered and made prisoners of war. It was, perhaps, fortunate for you, madam, that he was from home, for it was my intention to have taken him on board theRanger, and detained him until, through his means, a general and fair exchange of prisoners, as well in Europe as in America, had been effected.
“When I was informed by some men whom I met at landing, that his lordship was absent, I walked back to my boat, determined to leave the island. By the way, however, some officers who were with me could not forbear expressing their discontent, observing that in America no delicacy was shown by the English, who took away all sorts of moveable property, setting fire not only to towns and to the houses of the rich, without distinction, but not even sparing the wretched hamlets and milch-cows of the poor and helpless, at the approach of an inclement winter.
“That party had been with me at Whitehaven; some complaisance, therefore, was their due. I had but a moment to think how I might gratify them, and at the same time do your ladyship the least injury. I charged the officers to permit none of the seamen to enter the house, or to hurt any thing about it; to treat you, madam, with the utmost respect; to accept of the plate which was offered, and to come away without making a search, or demanding any thing else. I am induced to believe that I was punctually obeyed, since I am informed that the plate which they brought away is far short of the quantity expressed in the inventory which accompanied it. I have gratified my men; and when the plate is sold, I shall become the purchaser, and will gratify my own feelings in restoring it, by such conveyance as you may please to direct.
“Had the earl been on board theRangerthe following evening, he would have seen the awful pomp and dreadful carnage of a sea engagement; both affording ample subject for the pencil as well as melancholy reflection for the contemplative mind. Humanity starts back from such scenes of horror, and cannot sufficiently execrate the vile promoters of this detestable war;
For they, ’twas they unsheathed the ruthless blade,And Heaven shall ask the havoc it has made.
For they, ’twas they unsheathed the ruthless blade,And Heaven shall ask the havoc it has made.
For they, ’twas they unsheathed the ruthless blade,And Heaven shall ask the havoc it has made.
For they, ’twas they unsheathed the ruthless blade,
And Heaven shall ask the havoc it has made.
“The British ship of warDrake, mounting twenty guns, with more than her full complement of officers and men, was our opponent. The ships met, and the advantage was disputed with great fortitude on each side for an hour and four minutes, when the gallant commander of theDrakefell, and victory declared in favor of theRanger. The amiable lieutenant lay mortally wounded, besides near forty of the inferior officers and crew killed and wounded; a melancholy demonstration of the uncertainty of human prospects, and of the sad reverses of fortune, which an hour can produce. I buried them in a spacious grave, with the honors due to the memory of the brave.
“Though I have drawn my sword in the present generous struggle for the rights of men, yet I am not in arms as an American, nor am I in pursuit of riches. My fortune is liberal, having no wife nor family, and having lived long enough to know that riches cannot secure happiness. I profess myself a citizen of the world, totally unfettered by the little, mean distinctions of climate or of country, which diminish the benevolence of the heart and set bounds to philanthropy. Before this war was begun, I had, at an early time of life, withdrawn from sea-service in favor of ‘calm contemplation and poetic ease.’ I have sacrificed not only my favorite scheme of life, but the softer affections of the heart, and my prospects of domestic happiness; and I am ready to sacrifice my life also with cheerfulness, if that forfeiture could restore peace among mankind.
“As the feelings of your gentle bosom cannot but be congenial with mine, let me entreat you, madam, to use your persuasive art with your husband, to endeavor to stop this cruel and destructive war, in which Britain can never succeed. Heaven can never countenance the barbarous and unmanly practice of Britons in America, which savages would blush at, and which, if not discontinued, will soon be retaliated on Britain by a justly enraged people.
“Should you fail in this, and I am persuaded you will attempt it, (and who can resist the power of such an advocate,) your endeavors to effect a general exchange of prisoners, will be an act of humanity, which will afford you golden feelings on your death-bed.
“I hope this cruel contest will soon be closed; but should it continue, I wage no war with the fair. I acknowledge their force, and bend before it with submission. Let not, therefore, the amiable Countess of Selkirk regard me as an enemy; I am ambitious of her esteem and friendship,and would do any thing consistent with my duty to merit it.
“The honor of a line from your fair hand, in answer to this, will lay me under singular obligation; and if I can render you any acceptable service in France or elsewhere, I hope you see into my character so far as to command me, without the least grain of reserve. I wish to know the exact behaviour of my people, as I am determined to punish them if they have exceeded their liberty.”
This vain, Quixotic, and inexplicable epistle, is a perfect illustration of the character of the writer; but with all its egotism and chivalry, it did not produce the wished for answer from the “fair hand of his amiable countess.”
It could not be for one moment supposed that Lady Selkirk would condescend to answer a letter couched in such terms of gross familiarity. The plate, after many difficulties and delays, was finally restored, some seven or eight years after it was taken. The French government being at this time on the eve of embracing the American cause, overwhelmed Jones with congratulations upon his late achievements. He received a letter from the French Minister, offering him the command of theBonhomme Richard, with permission to choose his own cruising ground, either in the European or American seas, and to cruise under the flag of the United States. Jones accepted the offer, and accordingly prepared to form his crew by enlisting raw French peasants and volunteers, having only thirty Americans in the whole, these he transferred from theRanger, with Johnson, our veteran sailor. He commenced his cruising on the coast of Norway, from thence to the west coast of Ireland, during which he made many valuable prizes.
He now determined to cruise around the English coasts, to intercept the colliers bound to London, many of which he destroyed. It was during this cruise that he was joined by theAlliance, thePallas, and theVengeance, these, with theRichard, formed the squadron of which he was commander. On the 23d of September the squadron was standing to the northward, toward Flamboro Head, with a light breeze, when they discovered a fleet of forty-one sail running down the coast, very close in with the land. Jones soon discovered that this was the Baltic fleet which he had been so anxious to encounter, but had never before had the chance. This fleet was under convoy of theSerapis, a new ship, mounting forty-four guns, and theCountess of Scarborough, of twenty guns. Early in the evening theSerapiswas observed to haul round and place herself between her convoy and theRichard, as if preparing to engage her; she soon came within pistol-shot, when the captain of theSerapisdemanded, “What ship is that?” and in reply, a shot was fired from theRichard. This was the commencement of a battle more famous for stubborn courage and heroic daring than perhaps the world ever knew. The biographers of this eccentric but gallant officer have so often described this triumphant conflict, that we shall content ourselves with a few incidents with which our veteran sailor was more immediately connected. He relates that theRichardsuffered severely at the first of the battle, till Jones ordered his ship to be laid across the hawse of the enemy; in doing so the two ships swung broadside and broadside, the muzzles of the guns touching each other. Jones sent one of his men to lash the two ships together, and commenced with his own hand in making fast the jib-stay of theSerapisto theRichard’smizenmast; when the sailors saw what he was about to do, Johnson, with two others, ran to his assistance, and soon performed the task. The firing continued from the starboard sides of both vessels for more than an hour, the effect of which was terrible to both ships. There was much skirmishing with pistols and pikes through the ports, but no effort was made from theSerapisto board theRichard, although they must have observed her crippled condition, she had begun to leak fast.
It was near ten o’clock when theRichardhad sunk considerably from the water she had received through the shot-holes, which was now below the surface. Some of the subordinate officers believing that she was sinking, cried out lustily for “Quarter!” when Jones, in great anger, threw a pistol at one of them, which he had just discharged at the enemy, fractured the poor fellow’s skull, and sent him reeling down the hatchway. Jones ordered all the hands that could be spared to the pumps, and shortly after theSerapissurrendered. At this moment there was much confusion, as several of the crew, who were Englishmen, and near their homes, took advantage of themêléeto desert in a small boat towardScarborough. Our hero well remembers seeing one of the lieutenants of theRichardappear on the deck and present several of the officers of theSerapisto Commodore Jones as prisoners.
The action had now ceased, all hands were ordered to assist in separating the two ships which had been so long in deadly embrace, and to extinguish the flames which were now raging in both vessels. It was daylight in the morning when the carpenters were ordered to examine theRichard. After a deliberate examination, they were of opinion that she could not be kept afloat sufficiently long to reach any port. Jones was not willing to abandon her till the last moment, and kept a lieutenant with a party of sailors at the pumps for twenty-four hours; Johnson says he worked for nine successive hours, and at last, when all hopes were extinguished, they commenced removing the wounded and the stores to theSerapis. They had not finished their operations more than half an hour, when she sunk to rise no more.
The next cruise was to the Texel, and from thence to Amsterdam, where they received great kindness from the Dutch. Jones still continued his cruising with satisfaction to the American government until the beginning of the year 1781, when he was sent with the shipArielto Philadelphia with stores for the army which had been waiting in France for more than a year, no suitable conveyance having been provided. They arrived in Philadelphia in February, 1781, the first time Johnson had seen the land of his adoption. Here he received his prize money, and having disengaged himself from theAriel, determined to remain a short time in order to become master of the English language, of which at that time he knew but little.
At this time Congress was sitting in Philadelphia, and several of the members were about removing their families to that city. Application was made to Captain Jones to furnish a man to take charge of a sloop to Boston, to convey the furniture of John Adams to Philadelphia; he accordingly appointed Johnson, and he brought the furniture safely to that city.
This circumstance often brought Johnson in contact with Mr. Adams, who knew that he was one of the crew of Captain Jones, and consequently must have been in the conflict of theSerapisandRichard, which having occurred so recently, was a subject of general conversation. Many of the sailors frequented the hall of Congress, and Johnson became interested in listening and observing what was so new to him that he was a daily visiter. When the members found that the sailors were part of the crew of Captain Jones, they frequently left their seats, and came over to them to inquire the particulars of the recent engagement. Mr. Adams particularly engaged the attention of Johnson; to use the veteran’s own words, he says, “a nervous sensation seemed to pervade the patriot as helistened to the description of the battle given by the sailors, fire flashed from his eyes, and his hair seemed perfectly erect;” he would clasp his hands, and exclaim, “What a scene!”
During the time they remained in Philadelphia, General Washington arrived, and was presented to Congress; Johnson was present and listened to the introduction by President Hancock, and the reply by the general. Some days after, when the sailors were in the hall, Mr. Adams brought General Washington to them, who kindly shook each by the hand, calling them “Our gallant tars!” and asking them questions relative to the many successful adventures they had recently achieved.
Johnson soon after left the navy, and engaged in the merchant service for some years, but eventually returned to it again, where he remained till, near the end of his life’s voyage, age obliged him to ask repose and protection in that asylum provided for the grateful and worn-out mariner.
THE MAIDEN’S LAMENT FOR HER SHIPWRECKED LOVER.
———
BY WM. ALBERT SUTLIFFE.
———
I heard a maiden by the tumid ocean—The day had gone and night came on apace—Chanting a hymn to the spray’s chiming motion,Starlight and moonlight, and the sea’s dim face.And, as the moon looked down, her song up-stealingFell thus upon my ear: “Hope of my hope,Gone o’er the swelling waters, whence this feelingThat thou art dead? I give my fancy scope,And see thee hideous, with Death’s image o’erThose features I have loved, but know no more.Hope of my hope, gone o’er the swelling ocean,What cavern holds thy form—Cast by the furious storm?“Hope of my hope, gone o’er the swelling ocean!I weep for thee when night is on the sea:My bosom bursteth with its deep emotion—My spirit stretcheth out its arms but finds not thee.O misery! and then itself within itself retires,And weeps away a night that has no morn;And lights forever up fierce funeral pyres—Dreaming of cypress wreaths, and things forlorn.“What sea-nymph made thy bedBeneath the briny waves?Thetis with golden hair?Panopea wondrous fair,Lone virgin of the ocean’s deepest caves,With filmy garments shredAbout thy form,Mock of the brumal storm?Ho! mourn with me, ye nymphs, he is no more!Go sound it, Triton, o’er the humid waters!Go weep for him again, ye misty daughters!Re-echo it, ye cliffs, along our shore!And I myself will take the sad refrainOf the elegiac strain,And tune my lyre to a symphonious streamFloating along with many a moony gleam,Soft as an angel’s dream,Over the foamy summit of each wave,That rolleth o’er his grave.“Well do I know the dayThat bore him hence away!I watched him from yon cliff, in joy departing:I, with the tear-drops starting,Wept that he thus should go.He, hopeful of the future, saw not woIn the dim cloud that gathered, and the sprayLeaped joyful up about his seaward way—Leaped up the vessel’s sides with treacherous kiss;Deceitful waves, that now in the abyssHave whelmed my love’s proud form,Play of the pitiless storm.“I’ve wept until my tearsHave worn with furrows deep my pallid cheek;Have gazed until my poor eyes, worn and weak,Like age’s eyes, seem faded with long years.Oh! the long, dreary nights I’ve passed alone!Would Reason from her throneMight flee, and bear with her this dim, dull grief—This memory’s haunting tone!Then might I have relief.Receive me, ocean! lo, to thee I come!I, too, will share thy home:Our bridal bed shall be of pearls and diamonds,First loved, last loved, and fondly loved forever.No distance e’er shall sever—”The voice was hushed; I sped me to the strand.Only the moonlight fell; and o’er the sandA fountain gushed, pure as our holiest dreams.Perchance ’twas she, thus changed; how could I tell?And gone, as Arethusa once, beneath the deep,Had sought her lover in his quiet sleep.
I heard a maiden by the tumid ocean—The day had gone and night came on apace—Chanting a hymn to the spray’s chiming motion,Starlight and moonlight, and the sea’s dim face.And, as the moon looked down, her song up-stealingFell thus upon my ear: “Hope of my hope,Gone o’er the swelling waters, whence this feelingThat thou art dead? I give my fancy scope,And see thee hideous, with Death’s image o’erThose features I have loved, but know no more.Hope of my hope, gone o’er the swelling ocean,What cavern holds thy form—Cast by the furious storm?“Hope of my hope, gone o’er the swelling ocean!I weep for thee when night is on the sea:My bosom bursteth with its deep emotion—My spirit stretcheth out its arms but finds not thee.O misery! and then itself within itself retires,And weeps away a night that has no morn;And lights forever up fierce funeral pyres—Dreaming of cypress wreaths, and things forlorn.“What sea-nymph made thy bedBeneath the briny waves?Thetis with golden hair?Panopea wondrous fair,Lone virgin of the ocean’s deepest caves,With filmy garments shredAbout thy form,Mock of the brumal storm?Ho! mourn with me, ye nymphs, he is no more!Go sound it, Triton, o’er the humid waters!Go weep for him again, ye misty daughters!Re-echo it, ye cliffs, along our shore!And I myself will take the sad refrainOf the elegiac strain,And tune my lyre to a symphonious streamFloating along with many a moony gleam,Soft as an angel’s dream,Over the foamy summit of each wave,That rolleth o’er his grave.“Well do I know the dayThat bore him hence away!I watched him from yon cliff, in joy departing:I, with the tear-drops starting,Wept that he thus should go.He, hopeful of the future, saw not woIn the dim cloud that gathered, and the sprayLeaped joyful up about his seaward way—Leaped up the vessel’s sides with treacherous kiss;Deceitful waves, that now in the abyssHave whelmed my love’s proud form,Play of the pitiless storm.“I’ve wept until my tearsHave worn with furrows deep my pallid cheek;Have gazed until my poor eyes, worn and weak,Like age’s eyes, seem faded with long years.Oh! the long, dreary nights I’ve passed alone!Would Reason from her throneMight flee, and bear with her this dim, dull grief—This memory’s haunting tone!Then might I have relief.Receive me, ocean! lo, to thee I come!I, too, will share thy home:Our bridal bed shall be of pearls and diamonds,First loved, last loved, and fondly loved forever.No distance e’er shall sever—”The voice was hushed; I sped me to the strand.Only the moonlight fell; and o’er the sandA fountain gushed, pure as our holiest dreams.Perchance ’twas she, thus changed; how could I tell?And gone, as Arethusa once, beneath the deep,Had sought her lover in his quiet sleep.
I heard a maiden by the tumid ocean—
The day had gone and night came on apace—
Chanting a hymn to the spray’s chiming motion,
Starlight and moonlight, and the sea’s dim face.
And, as the moon looked down, her song up-stealing
Fell thus upon my ear: “Hope of my hope,
Gone o’er the swelling waters, whence this feeling
That thou art dead? I give my fancy scope,
And see thee hideous, with Death’s image o’er
Those features I have loved, but know no more.
Hope of my hope, gone o’er the swelling ocean,
What cavern holds thy form—
Cast by the furious storm?
“Hope of my hope, gone o’er the swelling ocean!
I weep for thee when night is on the sea:
My bosom bursteth with its deep emotion—
My spirit stretcheth out its arms but finds not thee.
O misery! and then itself within itself retires,
And weeps away a night that has no morn;
And lights forever up fierce funeral pyres—
Dreaming of cypress wreaths, and things forlorn.
“What sea-nymph made thy bed
Beneath the briny waves?
Thetis with golden hair?
Panopea wondrous fair,
Lone virgin of the ocean’s deepest caves,
With filmy garments shred
About thy form,
Mock of the brumal storm?
Ho! mourn with me, ye nymphs, he is no more!
Go sound it, Triton, o’er the humid waters!
Go weep for him again, ye misty daughters!
Re-echo it, ye cliffs, along our shore!
And I myself will take the sad refrain
Of the elegiac strain,
And tune my lyre to a symphonious stream
Floating along with many a moony gleam,
Soft as an angel’s dream,
Over the foamy summit of each wave,
That rolleth o’er his grave.
“Well do I know the day
That bore him hence away!
I watched him from yon cliff, in joy departing:
I, with the tear-drops starting,
Wept that he thus should go.
He, hopeful of the future, saw not wo
In the dim cloud that gathered, and the spray
Leaped joyful up about his seaward way—
Leaped up the vessel’s sides with treacherous kiss;
Deceitful waves, that now in the abyss
Have whelmed my love’s proud form,
Play of the pitiless storm.
“I’ve wept until my tears
Have worn with furrows deep my pallid cheek;
Have gazed until my poor eyes, worn and weak,
Like age’s eyes, seem faded with long years.
Oh! the long, dreary nights I’ve passed alone!
Would Reason from her throne
Might flee, and bear with her this dim, dull grief—
This memory’s haunting tone!
Then might I have relief.
Receive me, ocean! lo, to thee I come!
I, too, will share thy home:
Our bridal bed shall be of pearls and diamonds,
First loved, last loved, and fondly loved forever.
No distance e’er shall sever—”
The voice was hushed; I sped me to the strand.
Only the moonlight fell; and o’er the sand
A fountain gushed, pure as our holiest dreams.
Perchance ’twas she, thus changed; how could I tell?
And gone, as Arethusa once, beneath the deep,
Had sought her lover in his quiet sleep.
THE YEARS OF LOVE.
For Love there’s no oblivion. I have cherishedAn idol beautiful, but in this hour,Hopes that had bloomed for years have wholly perished,And left me but the fragrance of the flower:But be the hopes of love like blossoms blighted,Wherever in the temples of the heartHath stood an altar with their splendor lighted,The glory will not utterly depart;Still as we enter life’s forgetful haven,And every form of beauty disappears,The pictures on the memory engravenOf early love, win our last smiles and tears;The inspiration of the first endeavorAfter the love of woman dwells forever.
For Love there’s no oblivion. I have cherishedAn idol beautiful, but in this hour,Hopes that had bloomed for years have wholly perished,And left me but the fragrance of the flower:But be the hopes of love like blossoms blighted,Wherever in the temples of the heartHath stood an altar with their splendor lighted,The glory will not utterly depart;Still as we enter life’s forgetful haven,And every form of beauty disappears,The pictures on the memory engravenOf early love, win our last smiles and tears;The inspiration of the first endeavorAfter the love of woman dwells forever.
For Love there’s no oblivion. I have cherished
An idol beautiful, but in this hour,
Hopes that had bloomed for years have wholly perished,
And left me but the fragrance of the flower:
But be the hopes of love like blossoms blighted,
Wherever in the temples of the heart
Hath stood an altar with their splendor lighted,
The glory will not utterly depart;
Still as we enter life’s forgetful haven,
And every form of beauty disappears,
The pictures on the memory engraven
Of early love, win our last smiles and tears;
The inspiration of the first endeavor
After the love of woman dwells forever.
EARLY ENGLISH POETS.
GEORGE HERBERT.
———
BY JAMES W. WALL.
———
How few in our day have read the pious verses of George Herbert, “the sweet singer of The Temple,” as his biographer, old Walton, so loves to call him—verses overflowing with the sensibilities of a heart consecrated to pious uses, all aglow with love for humanity, and an ardent desire to bring it nearer to Him who so freely gave himself for it.
Sweet George Herbert! Who that has ever read the rich outpourings of your warm and pious spirit, but has felt how poor and cold in the comparison were the promptings of his own? Who that has ever pondered over your verse, radiant with the praises of that sanctuary in whose hallowed courts you so loved to tread, but has felt the full force of your own sweet words?
A verse may find him who a sermon flies,And turn delight into a sacrifice.
A verse may find him who a sermon flies,And turn delight into a sacrifice.
A verse may find him who a sermon flies,And turn delight into a sacrifice.
A verse may find him who a sermon flies,
And turn delight into a sacrifice.
George Herbert, the author of “The Temple,” a collection of sacred poems, was of a most noble, generous, and ancient family. His brother was the famous Edward Lord Herbert, of Cherbury, who was himself a poet, but attained higher distinction as a statesman and historian, having filled, during the reign of James I., the responsible posts of privy counselor, and ambassador to France; it was while engaged in the duties of this embassy that he composed his famous history of Henry the Eighth, so often quoted and referred to by the modern English historian.
The subject of our sketch was born at Montgomery Castle, in Wales, April 3, 1593. He was educated at Westminster school, and being a king’s scholar, was elected to Trinity College, Cambridge, about the year 1608. He took both degrees in the Arts, and became a Fellow in the college. In 1619 he was chosen orator for the University, which post he held eight years. This office he is said to have filled with great honor to himself and to the University. And this was no wonder, for, to use the quaint language of his biographer, old Izaak Walton, “he had acquired great learning, and was blessed with a high fancy, a civil and sharp wit, and with a natural elegance both in his behaviour, his tongue, and his pew.” When that royal pedant, King James, published his “Basilicon Doron,” he sent a copy to the University of Cambridge. Herbert, in his capacity as orator, was called upon to acknowledge its receipt on behalf of the institution, which he did in a most elegant manner, by a letter written in Latin, closing with the following lines:
Quid vaticanamBodleianamque objicis hospes!Unicusest nobis Bibliotheca Liber.
Quid vaticanamBodleianamque objicis hospes!Unicusest nobis Bibliotheca Liber.
Quid vaticanamBodleianamque objicis hospes!Unicusest nobis Bibliotheca Liber.
Quid vaticanamBodleianamque objicis hospes!
Unicusest nobis Bibliotheca Liber.
The excellence of its Latinity, and the complimentary allusions plentifully sprinkled through it, so pleased the vanity of the king, that he inquired of the Earl of Pembroke if he knew the learned scholar who penned the epistle. His answer was, “That he knew him very well, and that he was his kinsman; but that he loved him more for his learning and virtue, than that he was of his name and family.” At which answer the king smiled, and asked the earl leave that he might love him too, for he took him to be the jewel of that University.
The complimentary remark of the king, coming to the ears of Herbert, no doubt first turned his thoughts toward court preferment; for about this time we find him applying himself to the study of the Italian, French, and Spanish languages, in which he is said to have attained great proficiency; and by means of the attainment of which, to use his own language, “he hoped to secure the place of Secretary of State, as his predecessor, Sir Francis Nethersole had done.” This, and the love of court conversation, with the laudable ambition to be something more than he then was, drew him often from Cambridge to attend his majesty, King James.
Shortly after this the king visited Cambridge in state, and was received on behalf of the University by Herbert, in a most elegant oration in Latin, stuffed full, as the manner of the time then was, of most fulsome adulation. In his progress he was attended by the great Sir Francis Bacon, Lord Verulam, and by the learned Dr. Andrews, Bishop of Winchester; and Herbert, by his learning and suavity, soon captivated these distinguished men. Bacon seems afterward to have put such value upon his judgment, that he usually desired his approbation before he would expose any of his books to be printed, and thought him so worthy of his friendship, that having translated many of the Prophet David’s Psalms into English verse, he made George Herbert his Patron, by a public dedication of them to him as the “best judge of divine poetry.” In 1620, the king gave Herbert a sinecure, formerly conferred upon Sir Philip Sydney by Queen Elizabeth, worth some twelve hundred pounds per annum.
His ambitious views of further court preferment seem never to have been realized. The character of his mind, perhaps, did not fit him for the responsible duties of a statesman, or he might have been deficient in those arts of the courtier, so necessary, and such ready aid to court preferment. It may be that he had too independent a spirit, and could not “crook the pregnant hinges of the knee, that thrift might follow fawning.” But be this as it may, we think, in the sentiment contained in some verses written by our poet about the period of his leaving the court and entering holy orders, we have a readier solution for the sudden relinquishment of his hopes of court preferment. These verses were written upon the famous saying of Cardinal Wolsey, uttered by that proud churchman when his spirit was crushed, and the fruits of his ambition had turned to ashes on his lips. “Oh, that I had served my God with half the zeal with which I have served my king, he would not thus, in my old age, have placed me in the power of mine enemies.”
No doubt the wholesome reflections inspired by the contemplation of those touching words, awakened the sensitive mind of our poet to a full appreciation of the vanity of all earthly ambition. He discovered in time, that pleasures springing from honor and grandeur of condition, are soon faded; that the mind nauseates, and soon begins to feel their emptiness. In the words of one of England’s most gifted divines, “Those who are so fond of public honor while they pursue it, how little do they taste it when they have it? Like lightning it only flashes on the face, and it is well if it do not hurt the man.”
Without further speculating as to the reasons that induced our poet to fly from the court circles into the quietretreat of the pastor’s life, most certain it is, about the year 1629, we find him renouncing the pomp and vanities of earthly ambition, and entering into holy orders. Previous to his induction, we find him using the following language in a letter to a friend: “I now look back upon my aspiring thoughts, and think myself more happy than if I had attained what then I so ambitiously thirsted for; and now I can behold the court with an impartial eye, and see plainly that it is made up of graced titles, and flattery, and many other such empty imaginary painted pleasures—pleasures that are so empty as not to satisfy where they are enjoyed. But in God and his service is a fullness of all joy and pleasure, but no satiety.” Of the fervency of his piety we have a most beautiful exemplification in some of his poems published about this time, especially in that styled “The Odor,” in which he seems to rejoice in the thought of the word “Jesus,” and say that the adding of these words “my master,” to it “seemed to perfume his mind, and leave an oriental fragrance in his very breath.” Alluding, in another poem, to his “unforced choice to serve at God’s altar,” he says,