The Arkansaw traveler., 1883-10-06

were taken to New York and inferred with military honors. in Greenwood cemetery. After life of storm and trouble, he sleeps just out oi the roar of the great city, which had oeen a rough, yet not unkind mother 10 him. The following lines to his memory, so ,enderly beautiful, were written by his friend, the gentle Charles Dawson Shanly:
 Toll, bell
 With solemn kHell.
 For him who fell
 In the galloping fight,
 Trumpets. ring
 To the dirge we sing
 In our hearts that cling
 Round the spirit so bright.
 koll drum.
 As the yaulted tomb
 For his early doom
 Is gaping dredrily
 Cold and dead
 In his stony bed
 Lay hiH. ho .a;ely sang ss eseer3.y
 Hush, hush.
 The memories rush
 With impetaous gush
 On heart and head
 Speak ioW.
 None of Is know
 Half We iorego
 In the gallant dead.
 Plant flowers
 Not where Aprii showers.
 But tears. like ours.
 >hai! make them bloom,
 And thelr breath impan
 To each kindred heart
 In the crypt of winch
 Is the poets tomb
 Fitz- James Brien was a man wild and wayward; but all his defects. all the asperi,ies that had been aroused against him were forgotten when his shattered body that had bled and died for his adopted country vas laid to rest. His faults were many and serious, yet there was about him so much that was truly gentle and noble, that his name will always remain gracious memory William Winter. who knew him bes; when trouble and sorrow had lett their mark upon him, has shown us the real man:
 Mental ,oil and bodily priva,ion, the hardships of gipsy life, the reactionary sense of being in false positions and of being misunderstood, which will often embitter natural sweetness and turn suitability to proud and glttering de- tiance, had done their work upon his nature, and made him in some of his moods as lawless, arrogant and ,rucu- lent, as in others he was gentle, resigned. affectionate and almost forlorn. In his face and carriage there was a strong and splendid freedom of the woods He was like giant oak, responsive to the midnight gale and exultant in its rage. He was like the ocean, swept by the tempest, that answers with clarion tumult and savage delight. He never paltered with life nor fawned upon the tedious little self-constituted potentates, with whom the avenues of society are in- fested. He did not approach literature with timid depreciation, but he fronted his work royalty and he performed it. He spoke his mind, and he neither val ued life nor feared death."
 As we have said before Frank Wood and Thomas F.. Davis were O'Brien's literary executors. Wood was a young man of ability, and it seemed certain that his companions dying bequest would be well-carried out. but his health failed him, and he soon followed O'Brien over the silent sea. Davis, not being by pro- fession man ot letters, hesita,ed to un- dertake the task. and for a long time it
 
 ever be performed. At last the work was undertaken by William Winter, the one best fitted for 1t, and in 1881 appeared O 'Brien's stories and poems, carefully selected and edited, pIefaced with a sketch by Winter, in which, as Aldrich says, he tells the whole story" of O'Brien's life, and the "reminiscences of Fiske, Davis and others. It is withal delightful book, and though il probably contains all that O'Brier, had he lived, would have cared to keep, there is noth- ing we should not regret to have Jeff out. It is not as a poe, that O'Brien will be best remembered but his first successes were won in verse, and in that form of expression his genius always found the freest utterance. The volume opens with Sir BrasiPs Falcon," poem in blank verse, which, though faulty, is the most powerful of his poetic efforts It is. with one or two exceptions, well sustained and filled with brilliant passages; while the poets morbid imagination is given full play, and we have a conception repellant but beautiful, developed with high skill. In the difficult art of commemorating passing events in enduring verse, O'Brien was very successful. His ode to Kane is a generous tribute to the memory of the young commander, whose bearing and unselhsh fortitude won the plaudits of an admiring world. What beauty of thought and fancy-native only to the true part-are shown in these lines: Like to some shattered being, tha, pale and lone,
 Drift from the white nss,A to a ,ropic zone, And in the burning day, Wastes peak by peak away,