472 WILLIAM W. FOSDICK, [1850-60. He is at present editor of The Sketch Club, an illustrated paper, supported by the artists of Cincinnati and their friends. Mr. Fosdick's poems have so long flown through the West, like winged seed, and taken root in so many hearts, that we need not produce here many specimens. He has written with spirit and beauty, a number of poems which could not have been in- spired elsewhere than in his native West — of which " The Maize," " The Catawba,'* and " The Pawj)aw," are specimens. His songs have set the pulses of nature to music, and, as wedded to melody by Vincent Wallace and others, have made many a room grow stiller, and many an eye moisten. The verses " Light and Night," pub- lished May, 1860, in The Dial, a monthly magazine of Cincinnati, are a fine indica- tion of a deeper mood. The poem " Lute and Love," is a fair specimen of our author's lyric grace. THE MAIZE. A SONG for the plant of my own native West, Where nature and freedom reside. By plenty still crowned, and by peace ever bless'd. To the com ! the green corn of her pride ! In the climes of the East has the olive been sung ; And the grape been the theme of their lays, But for thee slmll a harp of the backwoods be strung. Thou bright, ever-beautiful Maize ! Afar in the forest where rude cabins rise. And send up their pillars of smoke. And the tops of their columns are lost in the skies, O'er the heads of the cloud-kissing oak — Near the skirt of the grove, where the sturdy arm swings The ax till the old giant sways, And echo repeats every blow as it rings. Shoots the green and the glorious Maize ! There buds of the buckeye in Spring are the first. And the willow's gold hair then appears, And snowy the cups of the dogwood that burst By the red-bud, with pink tinted tears ; And striped the bowls which the poplar holds up For the dew and the sun's yellow rays. And brown is the pawpaw's shade-blossom- ing cup. In the wood, near the sun-loving Maize ! When through the dark soil the bright steel of the plow Turns the mould from its unbroken bed. The plowman is cheered by the finch on the bough. And the black-bird doth follow his tread. And idle, afar on the landscape descried, The deep-lowing kine slowly graze. And nibbling the grass on the sunny hill- side Are the sheep, hedged away from the Maize. With spring-time, and culture, in martial array It waves its green broad swords on high. And fights with the gale, in a fluttering fray, And the sunbeams, which fall from the sky—
