Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,-the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods,-rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and poured round all,
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Joseph Rodman Drake (1795-1820)

Drake was born in and died in New York City. He is best known nationally as the author of The American Flag. His early life was difficult, but he graduated in medicine in 1816. He married and traveled abroad in 1818, went to New Orleans the next year, hoping to mend his health, and died of consumption two years later. He wrote his first poem when fourteen years old. His collaboration with Halleck in "The Croakers" has already been noted. "The Culprit Fay" was Drake's longest poem. Certain cronies had assured him that there was no use trying to put American rivers into poetry because they lacked truly romantic associations. Drake answered them with "The Culprit Fay." It was published with other poems in book form in 1836, by the poet's daughter.

If you go back as far as the latter part of Queen Elizabeth's reign in England you will come to an English poet, Michael Drayton, who wrote a long fairy poem, "Nimphidia," published in 1627. Whether or not Drake, nearly two centuries later, had Drayton's poem in mind, he has fancifully peopled American rivers with sprites as Drayton fancifully peopled English dells. Halleck wrote a eulogy on the death of his friend which contains some famous lines.

Green be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days,

None knew thee but to love thee,
None named thee but to praise.

FROM "THE CULPRIT FAY"

SOFT and pale is the moony beam,
Moveless still the glassy stream,

The wave is clear, the beach is bright
With snowy shells and sparkling stones;

The shore-surge comes in ripples light,
In murmurings faint and distant moans;
And ever afar in the silence deep

Is heard the splash of the sturgeon's leap,
And the bend of his graceful bow is seen-
A glittering arch of silver sheen,

Spanning the wave of burnished blue,
And dripping with gems of the river dew.

The elfin cast a glance around,

As he lighted down from his courser toad,
Then round his breast his wings he wound,
And close to the river's brink he strode;
He sprang on a rock, he breathed a prayer,
Above his head his arms he threw,
Then tossed a tiny curve in air,

And headlong plunged in the waters blue.

Up sprung the spirits of the waves,
From sea-silk beds in their coral caves;

With snail-plate armor snatched in haste,

They speed their way through the liquid waste; Some are rapidly borne along

On the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong,

Some on the blood-red leeches glide,

Some on the stony star-fish ride,

Some on the back of the lancing squab,

Some on the sideling soldier-crab,
And some on the jellied quarl, that flings
At once a thousand streamy stings,-
They cut the wave with the living oar

And hurry on to the moonlight shore,
To guard their realms and chase away
The footsteps of the invading Fay.

Fearlessly he skims along,

His hope is high, and his limbs are strong,
He spreads his arms like the swallow's wing,
And throws his feet with a frog-like fling;
His locks of gold on the waters shine,

At his breast the tiny foam-beads rise,
His back gleams bright above the brine,

And the wake-line foam behind him lies. But the water-sprites are gathering near To check his course along the tide; Their warriors come in swift career

And hem him round on every side; On his thigh the leech has fixed his hold, The quarl's long arms are round him rolled, The prickly prong has pierced his skin, And the squab has thrown his javelin, The gritty star has rubbed him raw,

And the crab has struck with his giant claw; He howls with rage, and he shrieks with pain, He strikes around, but his blows are vain; Hopeless is the unequal fight,

Fairy! naught is left but flight.

He turned him round and fled amain
With hurry and dash to the beach again;
He twisted over from side to side,

And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide.
The strokes of his plunging arms are fleet,

And with all his might he flings his feet,
But the water-sprites are round him still,
To cross his path and work him ill.
They bade the wave before him rise;
They flung the sea-fire in his eyes,

And they stunned his ears with the scallop stroke,
With the porpoise heave and the drum-fish croak.

Oh! but a weary wight was he

When he reached the foot of the dog-wood tree;
-Gashed and wounded, and stiff and sore,
He laid him down on the sandy shore;
He blessed the force of the charmëd line,
And he banned the water-goblins' spite,
For he saw around in the sweet moonshine,
Their little wee faces above the brine,

Giggling and laughing with all their might
At the piteous hap of the Fairy wight.