Memphis daily appeal. [volume] (Memphis, Tenn.) 1847-1886, 1872-09-15
j. SIGNAIGO.

place, made by Colonel j. T. Irrelevant
j. AUGUSTINE SIGNAIGO.
From the Mobile Register,l
At the pleasant little city of Grenada
in the State of Mississippi, there lives
quiet gentleman who answers to the
name written above. He is an italian
by birth, but he came to this country
when a small boy-not over five years
of age, perhaps-consequently he may
be considered as much an American as
any of us. His name must have a IA
miliaT ring to most of our readers, but q
large number of them will, no doubt, be
unable to tell why, and therefore will
ind themselves alta loss touching where
to place him. Some may remember
him as Italian NiCe-COnsul at Memphis,
a position which he held for several
years; others may remember him as a
! newspaper man who has had no little to
do with the newspaper press, particular
~ in Memphis; but few, We fear, will
| recognize in him that which ne really
is-one among the truest poets of the
South.
Its often asserted that genius will in
yariably lift its pcssessOT to that posi-
ton in fame which be justly merits,
even though he makes not a struggle
himself with an eye-sIngle to such a re-
suit shut we have hundreds of instances
which stand to prove that the assertion
is false, and the case Of Mr.. Signaigu
presents one of them. A little care
full wire-pulling, as the politicians call
it, and alittle healthy advertising is not
to be despised by al author who has re-
solved to become famous, and to his
praise be it said, Mr.. SignaigO never had
a taste for any of these. AS a result he
has not kept pace with many who, in
justice to genius, ought this day to be
very far behind them.
Ofcourse we do not presume to take
the position that the subject of our
Talk is wholly unknown as a poet
on the other hand it may be said that
he is lCeU kRO9Cn to that class of readers
who make the study of authors a spe-
cialty; still, it is not unfair TO set forth
that to the masses he is comparatively a
stranger. We say comparatively be-
cause we have in mind such writers as
J. r. Lowell, Alfred B. Street, Bayard
Taylor and William Ross Wallace.
These names are as familiar as house
hold wOrdsn in every section of the
country where "literary" periodicals
circulate, and yet we will venture to say
not n Of these men ever gave the world
a more beautiful production than the
following from the pen of J. Augustine
Signaigo:
on THE Nights OF MISSION RIDGE.
When the foes, in ondict heated,
Battled over road and bridge,
While Bragg sullenly retreated
From the nights Of Mission Ridge
There, amid the pines and wildwood,
Two opposing COlOne fell,
Who had SchoOlmateS been in childhood,
And had loved each other well.
There, amid the roar and rattle,
Facing Havoc's fiery breath,
Met the wounded two in battle,
In the agOuies of death.
But they saw each other recline
On the dead n dying men,
And the old time, full of feeling.
Came upon them once again.
When that night the moon came creeping.
With its gold streaks, DER the slain,
n heheid two soldiers leeping
Free from every earthly pain.
Close beside the mOuntatn heather,
Where the rocks obscure the sand,
They had died, il seems, together,
rs they elasped each others hand.
Little need be said with reference to
this power, for its force must be felt
alike in every section of the couRtry,
regardless of side OF sympathy. 1t il
what might be termed a national effort,
and but the fact that its author was a
man too modest to blow his OWL horn
Mt the right time, it might have been
made as successful a name-earrier as
ever was the famous ballad of Ben Bolt.
As a descriptive poet Mr.. Signaigo
possesses no inferior powers. We have
this well demonstrated in a poem be-
fore us entitled mount Cenis,u and
narrztiug the adventures of four Italians
who were passing over the mountains
from the North-cOuntry to Italy, their
own beautiful Land of Flowers. We
have only space for the opening and
closing ~stanZas:
Twas growing night upon the hills.
Mount Cents rose in swells;
We heard the murmur of the rills,
And tinkle of the bells.
Far up we drove through lights,
Earth covered white with snow,
While peaks rose higher On the nights,
And eregs grew dark below.
We stood upon Mount Cents hight,
The sun tinged all aglow,
As we saw Suza in the light.
Far down the steep below.
And once more OF these grand old hills,
We made the morning ring.
With shouts that echoed through the rills.
italia and the Kingi'
There is q class Of poetry in which we
never claim any stOck-we call it me-
ehanicl poetry; it is poetry written for
some special occasion, or to fill some
particular order, as it were. Under this
head comes the obituary poems and
tributes to the memory of distinguished
personages. We seldom find much of
real poetry in effusions of this kind
they are mere talks in measure and
rhyme, but here is one by Mr.. Signaigo,
that may be taken as an exception to
the general rule, for it certainly contains
many very pretty e~onceits. We give it
entire, feeling confident that our readers
will make up a verdict to the effect that
the writer who can work so much poetry
into an effort Of this character, must
have a rich fount from which to draw /: