WILLIAM P. BRANNAN. William Penn Brannan is the only poet-painter, native to Ohio, of whom we have knowledge. He was born at Cincinnati, on the twenty-second day of March, in the year 1825. His father was a farmer, and his early opportunities for education were limited. He is not only self-instructed as a scholar, but as a portrait and land- scape painter, and he has good reason not to be ashamed of his teacher. Mr. Bran- nan is a regular poetical contributor to several leading literary journals, and is the author of humorous sketches in prose, which have been read wherever American newspapers are circulated. He is at present practicing his art in Chicago. It is understood that he is preparing an elaborate poem for publication in a volume. THE SOUL'S HERMITAGE. I HAVE a hermitage of common clay, Wherein are treasures neither rich nor rare. Yet sacred relics to my life are they, And hoarded up in secret caskets there. My pilgrim soul resides there all alone, — Its weary years of wild unrest are o'er ; Now soiled and travel-worn from many a zone, And vain researches on the sea and shore. No prying eyes look through the portals there — No shameless pleasure tempts the soul within ; Despair without, must still remain despair; I have no room for any pleading sin. In dim past shadows of a distant morn, I still can see the budding of my years, Still hear my hopeful songs or sighs for- lorn, Still see the rainbow in life's morning tears. Within this hermitage my sleepless soul Lives o'er again the stormy years of life, And nerves itself for that eternal goal Where puny man ends all his petty strife ; — Lives o'er again the wild, enchanting prime That played with golden gladness through my brain. And swept with dire alarms, or thrills sub- lime The diapason of all joy and pain. I entertain no stranger unaware Within my soul's most secret solitude ; No guest but Death may ever enter there — No vandal foot shall ever dare intrude. No one can share in all my bliss or woe ; No eye may see my rapture or despair ; On beggar palms no alms can I bestow Of sacred relics, or of treasui'es rare. My house of clay stands midway on a slope; Oblivion's stream mejmders at its base ; Upon the summit of this mount of Hope The sons of Fame have found a dwell- ing-place. (486)
