JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. [Born, 1767. Died, 1848.] WHEN Mr. ADAMS took a degree at Harvard College, in 1787, he had already seen much of the world, in foreign schools, or travelling in the suite of his father, or in the official life upon which he had entered, at this early age, as secretary to the American legation at St. Petersburg. In 1790 he was admitted to the bar; in 1791 he wrote a reply to PAINE'S "Rights of Man;" in 1794 he was appointed minister to the Hague, in 1796 minister to Lisbon, in 1797 minister to Berlin; in 1801 he returned to the United States, in 1803 was chosen to the senate, in 1806 was made professor of rhetoric at Cambridge, in 1809 went to Russia as minister, in 1814 was a member of the peace commission at Ghent, in 1815 became envoy at the court of London, in 1817 was recalled to enter the office of Secretary of State, and in 1824 was elected President. After the close of his administration, in 1829, he was for a short period in private life, but in 1831 he reëntered Congress, as the representative of his native district, and by successive elections held his seat there until he died, on the twenty-third of February, 1848. The merits of Mr. ADAMS as a poet are not great, but he wrote much in verse, and frequently with good sense, humour, and scholarly polish. Among his earlier productions are translations of the sev enth and thirteenth satires of JUVENAL, written for DENNIE'S "Port Folio," and he once showed me a translation of WIELAND'S "Oberon," which he made while residing officially at Berlin, in 1798. It would have been printed at the time, had not WIELAND informed a friend of Mr. ADAMS, who exhibited to him the manuscript, of the English version of his poem then just published by Mr. SOTHEBY, of the existence of which Mr. ADAMS had not been aware. of some events nearer home, and that the chron icle of GIRALDUS CAMBRENSIS, which he refers to as an authority, had not half as much to do with the suggestion of his theme and its treatment as certain scandalous chronicles respecting his own successful competitor for the presidency, and the wife of one of his leading partizans. This suspicion was not lessened by the disclaimer in the opening stanzas of the poem: "I SING of DERMOT, Erin's early pride; The pious patriot of the Emerald strand; The man who thinks of aught but what's in hand. ""Tis strange how often readers will indulge Their wits a mystic meaning to discover; Detect a tyrant, when he draws a lover:- DERMOT MAC MORROGH shows my hero's face; Permit another to usurp his place; "Dermot Mac Morrogh" added very little to Mr. ADAMS's literary fame. Reviewers of all parties condemned it as an utter failure in poetry, philosophy, and wit. It is probable that the eminent position of the author was as injurious to him with the critics, as it was advantageous to his booksellers with the public. devotional lyrics in our language." This praise is not altogether undeserved, but perhaps it may be discovered that they are more remarkable for the quality of piety than for that of poetry. The longest of Mr. ADAMS's original poems is "Dermot Mac Morrogh, or the Conquest of Ire- A collection of his shorter effusions appeared land, an Historical Tale of the Twelfth Century, soon after his death under the title of "Poems of in Four Cantos," which appeared in 1832. It is Religion and Society," and the editor expresses an a story of various profligacy and brutality, in which opinion that many of them "are informed with it is difficult to see any poetical elements; but Mr. wisdom and various learning," and that some of the ADAMS deemed the subject suitable for an histori-illustrious writer's hymns "are among the finest cal tale, and to give it "an interest which might invite readers," it appeared "advisable to present it in the garb of poetry." He says, it is intended also as a moral tale, teaching the citizens of these United States the virtues of conjugal fidelity, of genuine piety, and of devotion to their country, by pointing the finger of scorn at the example six hundred years since exhibited, of a country sold to a foreign invader by the joint agency of violated marriage vows, unprincipled ambition, and religious imposture." It was suspected by shrewd critics that the distinguished bard was thinking Of the intellectual activity of Mr. ADAMS, his erudition, temper, and general literary character, I have given some account in "The Prose Writers of America." Though one of our most voluminous authors, and possessed of abilities by which he might have been among the most distinguished, he will probably be longer remembered as a states man than as a man of letters. THE WANTS OF MAN. Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.-GOLDSMITH. "MAN wants but little here below, Would muster many a score; I still should long for more. What first I want is daily bread, And canvas-backs and wine; Before me when I dine; With four choice cooks from France, beside, To dress my dinner well; Four courses scarcely can provide What next I want, at heavy cost, Black sable furs for winter's frost, And silks for summer's fire, My bosom's front to deck, And rubies for my neck. And then I want a mansion fair, I want a garden and a park, A thousand acres, (bless the mark!) And flowers and fruits commingled grow, I want, when summer's foliage falls, And autumn strips the trees, For comfort and for ease; But here, as space is somewhat scant, And acres somewhat rare, I want a steward, butler, cooks; A coachman, footman, grooms; And picture-garnished rooms, I want a cabinet profuse Of medals, coins, and gems; A printing-press, for private use, Of fifty thousand EMS; And plants, and minerals, and shells; Worms, insects, fishes, birds; And every beast on earth that dwells, In solitude or herds. I want a board of burnished plate, Tureens, of twenty pounds in weight, And maples, of fair glossy stain, Must form my chamber doors, And mirrors of the largest pane From Venice must be brought; And sandal-wood and bamboo-cane, For chairs and tables bought; On all the mantel-pieces, clocks Of thrice-gilt bronze must stand, And screens of ebony and box Invite the stranger's hand. I want (who does not want?) a wife, Affectionate and fair, To solace all the woes of life, And all its joys to share; And as Time's car incessant runs, Such bliss on earth to crave?) And when my bosom's darling sings, With melody divine, A pedal harp of many strings My wife and daughters will desire The civet fragrance shall dispense, And when at night my weary head With blankets, counterpanes, and sheet, I want a warm and faithful friend, Nor bend the knee to power; A friend to chide me when I'm wrong, And that my friendship prove as strong I want a kind and tender heart, A soul secure from Fortune's dart, I want a keen, observing eye, The truth through all disguise to spy, I want uninterrupted health, Throughout my long career, Free bounty to bestow, I want the genius to conceive, Of human hearts to mould the will, I want the seals of power and place, Charged by the people's unbought grace, Nor crown, nor sceptre would I ask, By day, by night, to ply the task I want the voice of honest praise And to be thought, in future days, Exulting may proclaim, In choral union to the skies, Their blessings on my name. These are the wants of mortal man; And earthly bliss a song. And oh! while circles in my veins Of life the purple stream, Of nature's transient dream, THE PLAGUE IN THE FOREST. TIME was, when round the lion's den, A peopled city raised its head; 'T was not inhabited by men, But by four-footed beasts instead. The hoof-defended steed; And all the canine breed. In social compact thus combined, Together dwelt the beasts of prey; Their murderous weapons all resigned, And vowed each other not to slay. Among them Reynard thrust his phiz; Not hoof, nor horn, nor tusk was his, For warfare all unfit; He whispered to the royal dunce, And gained a settlement at once; His weapon was,-his wit. One summer, by some fatal spell, (Phoebus was peevish for some scoff,) The plague upon that city fell, And swept the beasts by thousands off. The lion, as became his part, Loved his own people from his heart, And taking counsel sage, His peerage summoned to advise And offer up a sacrifice, To soothe Apollo's rage. Quoth Lion, "We are sinners all, To me the sight of lamb is curst, Poor innocent! his blood so sweet! I find resistance vain. "Now to be candid, I must own The sheep are weak and I am strong, The sheep have never done me wrong. One trespass from your view; "Then let us all our sins confess, The council with applauses rung, To hear the Codrus of the wood; Though still some doubt suspended hung, If he would make his promise good,-- Let us like subjects true That paltry, poltroon, sheepish race; And howsoe'er I tax my mind, "And as for eating now and then, Expect with you the peace to keep? And now the noble peers begin, And, cheered with such examples bright, Disclosing each his secret sin, Some midnight murder brought to light; Reynard was counsel for them all, No crime the assembly could appal, But he could botch with paint: Hark, as his honeyed accents roll: Each tiger is a gentle soul, Each blood-hound is a saint. When each had told his tale in turn, The long-eared beast of burden came, And meekly said, "My bowels yearn To make confession of my shame; I passed, not thinking of a crime, SURE, to the mansions of the blest When infant innocence ascends, Some angel, brighter than the rest, The spotless spirit's flight attends. On wings of ecstasy they rise, Beyond where worlds material roll; Till some fair sister of the skies Receives the unpolluted soul. With dust united at our birth, Which speeds an infant to the tomb No passion fierce, nor low desire, Has quenched the radiance of the flame; Back, to its GOD, the living fire Reverts, unclouded as it came. Fond mourner! be that solace thine! The anguish of a mother's heart. Bask in the bosom of their God. . . . O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend; For thee the LORD of life implore; And oft, from sainted bliss descend, Thy wounded quiet to restore. Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear; Their part and thine inverted see: Thou wert their guardian angel here, They guardian angels now to thee. JOSEPH HOPKINSON. [Born, 1770. Died, 1842.] JOSEPH HOPKINSON, LL. D., son of FRANCIS HOPKINSON, author of "The Battle of the Kegs," &c., was born in Philadelphia in 1770, and educated for the bar in the office of his father. He wrote verses with fluency, but had little claim to be regarded as a poet. His "Hail Columbia!" is, however, one of our very few national songs, and is likely to be looked for in all collections of American poetry. In his old age Judge HOPKINSON wrote me a letter, in which the history of this song is thus given: ... "It was written in the summer of 1798, when war with France was thought to be inevitable. Congress was then in session in Philadelphia, deliberating upon that important subject, and acts of hostility had actually taken place. The contest between England and France was raging, and the people of the United States were divided into parties for the one side or the other, some thinking that policy and duty required us to espouse the cause of repub lican France, as she was called; while others were for connecting ourselves with England, under the belief that she was the great preservative power of good principles and safe government. The violation of our rights by both belligerents was forcing us from the just and wise policy of President WASHINGTON, which was to do equal justice to both, to take part with neither, but to preserve a strict and honest neutrality between them. The prospect of a rupture with France was exceedingly offensive to the portion of the people who espoused her cause; and the violence of the spirit of party has never risen higher, I think not so high, in our country, as it did at that time, upon that question. The theatre was then open in our city. A young man belonging to it, whose talent was as a singer, was about to take his benefit. I had known him when he was at school. On this acquaintance, he called on me one Saturday afternoon, his benefit being announced for the fol lowing Monday. His prospects were very disheartening; but he said that if he could get a patriotic song adapted to the tune of the President's March,' he did not doubt of a full house; that the poets of the theatrical corps had been trying to accomplish it, but had not succeeded. I told him I would try what I could do for him. He came the next afternoon; and the song, such as it is, was ready for him. "The object of the author was to get up an American spirit, which should be independent of, and above the inter ests, passions, and policy of both belligerents; and look and feel exclusively for our own honour and rights. No allusion is made to France or England, or the quarrel between them; or to the question, which was most in fault in their treat ment of us: of course the song found favour with both parties, for both were Americans; at least neither could disavow the sentiments and feelings it inculcated. Such is the history of this song, which has endured infinitely beyond the expectation of the author, as it is beyond any merit it can boast of, except that of being truly and exclu sively patriotic in its sentiments and spirit." At the time of his death, which occurred on the fifteenth of January, 1842, the author was Presi dent of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, one of the Vice-Presidents of the American Philosophical Society, and a Judge of the District Court of the United States. HAIL COLUMBIA. HAIL, Columbia! happy land! Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, And when the storm of war was gone, Enjoy'd the peace your valour won! Let independence be our boast, Immortal patriots! rise once more; Defend your rights, defend your shore; Let no rude foe, with impious hand, Let no rude foe, with impious hand, Invade the shrine where sacred lies Of toil and blood the well-earned prize. While offering peace sincere and just, In Heaven we place a manly trust, That truth and justice will prevail, Sound, sound the trump of Fame! Ring through the world with loud applause, Ring through the world with loud applause: Let every clime to Freedom dear Listen with a joyful ear. With equal skill and godlike power, Of horrid war; or guides with ease, Behold the chief who now commands, The rock on which the storm will beat, Firm-united, &c. |