The following poem touches on the mind and character of young Hallam; and, if a true picture, the world, as well as the poet, has reason for regret at his early death: Heart-affluence in discursive talk From household fountains never dry; The critic clearness of an eye, That saw through all the Muses’ walk; Seraphic intellect and force To seize and throw the doubts of man; Impassioned logic, which outran The hearer in its fiery course; High nature amorous of the good, But touched with no ascetic gloom; And passion pure in snowy bloom Through all the years of April blood; A love of freedom rarely felt, Of freedom in her regal seat Of England, not the school-boy heat, The blind hysterics of the Celt; And manhood fused with female grace In such a sort, the child would twine A trustful hand, unasked, in thine, And find his comfort in thy face; All these have been, and thee mine eyes Have looked on: if they looked in vain My shame is greater who remain, Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. In the poem which we now extract, we think our readers will recognize the force which pathos receives by its connection with intense and excursive thought: One writes, that “Other friends remain,” That “Loss is common to the race,”— And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain. That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break. O father, wheresoe’er thou be, That pledgest now thy gallant son; A shot, ere half thy draught be done, Hath stilled the life that beat from thee. O mother, praying God will save Thy sailor, while thy head is bowed, His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud Drops in his vast and wandering grave. Ye know no more than I who wrought At that last hour to please him well; Who mused on all I had to tell, And something written, something thought. Expecting still his advent home; And ever met him on his way With wishes, thinking, here to-day, Or here to-morrow will he come. O, somewhere, meek, unconscious dove, That sittest ’ranging golden hair; And glad to find thyself so fair, Poor child, that waitest for thy love! For now her father’s chimney glows In expectation of a guest; And thinking “this will please him best,” She takes a ribbon or a rose; For he will see them on to-night; And with the thought her color burns; And, having left the glass, she turns Once more to set a ringlet right;