Arnold, George (1834-1865)
Arnold was an essayist and journalist as well as poet. He was born in New York City, moved to Illinois, then to NJ. When he moved back to New York City, he painted for a bit, but made writing his career and wrote for the major publications of his day: Harpers, Atlantic Monthly and Vanity Fair, for example.
He was also a regular, along with many other literary figures of the day, at a Manhattan bar called Pfaff’s Beer Cellar. The most famous patron of Pfaff’s was Walt Whitman. According to an article by Lehigh University (https://pfaffs.web.lehigh.edu/node/54114), Arnold helped drive Whitman from Pfaff’s. Apparently, what began as a friendly discussion, turned ugly when Arnold and Whitman took opposite sides over the southern rebellion (Civil War), Arnold being for the rebellion and Whitman being against it. The discussion became so heated that voices were raised, bottles took flight and beer was spilled. Eventually, they shook hands, but Whitman stopped showing up at Pfaff’s.
He had many friends among the Bohemians of the day, and, despite his indifference for literary reputation, his work was well received. He fought in the army during the Civil War, but his health failed and he died at age 33. Some friends wrote that he felt his life was wasted, but, but in his obituary, it was noted that he was friendly, genuine of character, good-humored and beloved by everyone he met. An excellent brief biography is included in The Poems of George Arnold (1880), edited by William Winter and the author of Arnold’s obituary.
Though not known for his Nature poetry, he wrote several beautiful poems that show his love of the outdoors. I’m guessing that these impressions come from memories of his early years growing up in the country in Illinois rather than his time at Pfaff’s in Manhattan. The following poems are from the above-mentioned collection of his poetry.
"September"
Sweet is the voice that calls
From babbling waterfalls
In meadows where the downy seeds are flying;
And soft the breezes blow
And eddying come and go
In faded gardens where the rose is dying.
Among the stubbled corn
The blithe quail pipes at morn,
The merry partridge drums in hidden places,
And glittering insects gleam
Above the reedy stream
Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces.
At eve, cool shadows fall
Across the garden wall,
And on the clustered grapes to purple turning,
And pearly vapors lie
Along the eastern sky
Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning.
Ah, soon on field and hill
The winds shall whistle chill,
And patriarch swallows call their flocks together
To fly from frost and snow,
And seek for lands where blow
The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather.
The pollen-dusted bees
Search for the honey-lees
That linger in the last flowers of September,
While plaintive mourning doves
Coo sadly to their loves
Of the dead summer they so well remember.
The cricket chirps all day,
'O, fairest summer, stay!'
The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning;
The wild-fowl fly afar
Above the foamy bar
And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning.
Now comes a fragrant breeze
Through the dark cedar-trees
And round about my temples fondly lingers,
In gentle playfulness
Like to the soft caress
Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers.
Yet, though a sense of grief
Comes with the falling leaf,
And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant,
In all my autumn dreams
A future summer gleams
Passing the fairest glories of the present!
"October"
On hill and field October’s glories fade;
O’er hill and field the blackbirds southward fly;
The brown leaves rustle down the forest glade,
Where naked branches make a fitful shade,
And the last blooms of Autumn withered lie.
The berries on the hedgerow ripen well—
Holly and cedar, burning-bush and brier;
The partridge drums in some half-hidden dell,
Where all the ground is gemmed with leaves that fell
Last storm from the tall maple’s crown of fire.
The chirp of crickets and the hum of bees
Come faintly up from marsh and meadow-land,
Where reeds and rushes whisper in the breeze,
And sunbeams slant between the moss-grown trees,
Green on the grass and golden on the sand.
From many a tree whose tangled boughs are hare
Lean the rich clusters of the clambering vine:
October’s mellow hazes dim the air
Along the uplands and the valley, where
The distant steeples of the village shine.
Adown the brook the dead leaves whirling go;
Above the brook the scarlet sumacs^ burn;
The lonely heron sounds his note of woe
In gloomy forest-swamps, where rankly grow
The crimson cardinal and feathery fern.
Autumn is sad: a cold blue horizon
Darkly encircles checkered fields and farms,
Where late the gold of ripening harvests shone;
But bearded grain and fragrant hay are gone,
And Autumn mourns the loss of Summer’s charms.
Yet, though our Summers change and pass away—
Though dies the beauty of the hill and plain—
Though warmth and color fade with every day—
Hope passes not, and something seems to say
That all our hrightest joys shall come again.
And if the flowers we nurture with such care
Must wither, though bedewed with many tears,
They shall arise in some diviner air,
To bloom again, more fragrant and more fair,
And gladden us through all the coming years.
The sun sinks slowly toward the far-off west
The breeze is freshening from the far-off shore:
So come, fair eve, and bring each weary breast
That sense of tranquil joy, of gentle rest,
Felt in the happy Autumns gone before!