Christopher Pearse Cranch
Biography of Christopher Pearse Cranch
Christopher Pearse Cranch (March 8, 1815 – January 20, 1892) was an American writer and artist.
Cranch was born in the District of Columbia. He attended Columbian College and Harvard Divinity School. He briefly held a position as a Unitarian minister. Later, he pursued various occupations: a magazine editor, caricaturist, children's fantasy writer (the Huggermugger books), poet (The Bird and the Bell with Other Poems in 1875), translator, and landscape painter. He lived most of his life in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
Though not one of its founding members, Cranch became associated with the Transcendental Club; his connection with the Transcendentalists ultimately diminished his demand as a minister. Cranch's caricatures of Ralph Waldo Emerson were later collected as Illustrations of the New Philosophy: Guide. His poetry was published in The Harbinger and The Dial among other publications.
As a painter, Cranch painted landscapes along the lines of Thomas Cole, the Hudson River school, and the Barbizon school in France. In one foray into historical painting, Cranch depicted the burning of P. T. Barnum's American Museum in New York City. Later in life, Cranch painted scenes from Venice and Italy.
Christopher Pearse Cranch's Works:
* Poems (1844)
* The Last of the Huggermuggers, A Giant Story (1855)
* Kobboltozo (1857)
* The Aeneid of Virgil (translation, 1872}
* The Bird and the Bell with Other Poems (1875)
* Ariel and Caliban with Other Poems (1886)
This page is based on the copyrighted Wikipedia Christopher Pearse Cranch; it is used under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. You may redistribute it, verbatim or modified, providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.
Christopher Pearse Cranch Poems
Thought is deeper than all speech, Feeling deeper than all thought: Souls to souls never can teach What unto themselves was taught.
Across the sea the swift sad message darts And beats with sudden pang against our hearts. Under the elm-trees in his homestead old
A Word To Philosophers
COLD philosophers, so apt With your formulas exacting, In your problems so enwrapt, And your theories distracting;
Ormuzd And Ahriman. Part I
YE interstellar spaces, serene and still and clear. Above, below, around!
A Poet's Soliloquy
ON a time — not of old — When a poet had sent out his soul and no welcome had found Where the heart of the nation in prose stood fettered and
As once I sat upon the shore There came to me a fairy boat, A bark I never saw before, Whose coming I had failed to note,
Sonnet Xxx. Life And Death. 2.
OR endless sleep 't will be, — and that is rest, Freedom forever from life's weary cares — Or else a life beyond the climbing stairs
Sonnet Xi. The Printing-Press.
IN boyhood's days we read with keen delight How young Aladdin rubbed his lamp and raised The towering Djin whose form his soul amazed,
Sonnet Xxiii. Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony...
THE mind's deep history here in tones is wrought, The faith, the struggles of the aspiring soul, The confidence of youth, the chill control
Frederick Henry Hedge D. D. On His 80th...
WHAT lapse or accident of time Can dull that soul's sonorous chime Which owns the priceless heritage —
Ralph Waldo Emerson
OUT of the cloud that dimmed his sunset light, Into the unknown firmament withdrawn Beyond the mists and shadows of the night,
At The Grave Of Keats
To G. W. C. LONG, long ago, in the sweet Roman spring Through the bright morning air we slowly strolled,
One day in the bluest of summer weather, Sketching under a whispering oak, I heard five bobolinks laughing together
Sonnet Xliii. London.
BLACK in the midnight lies the City vast. Its dim horizon from my window high I see shut in beneath a misty sky
A Poet's Soliloquy
ON a time — not of old —
When a poet had sent out his soul and no welcome had found
Where the heart of the nation in prose stood fettered and bound
In fold upon fold —
He called back his soul who had pined for an answer afloat;
And thus in the silence of night and the pride of his spirit he wrote.
Come back, poet-thought!
For they honor thee not in thy vesture of verse and of song.