Thomas Buchanan Read
The name T. Buchanan Read is identified with the war period at Cincinnati. He was born in Chester county, Pa., March 12, 1822. His mother, then a widow, apprenticed him to a tailor, but he ran away to Philadelphia, learned to make cigars, and at fifteen years of age came to Cincinnati, found here a home with the sculptor Clevenger, painted signs, and at intervals went to school. Through the liberality of Nicholas Longworth he was enabled to open a studio and painted portraits. Not finding many sitters, after a little he led a wandering life, by turns painting portraits, painting signs and making cigars. At nineteen he went East to New York and Boston, and at the age of twenty-one published several lyric poems. In 1843 he first visited Europe and again in 1853, where he passed five years as a painter in Florence. He afterwards passed much time in Philadelphia and Cincinnati, but in the last years of his life made Rome his principal residence; but He regarded Cincinnati as more especially his home, where he is pleasantly remembered as a gentleman, small in person, delicate and refined in aspect. During the civil war he gave public readings for the benefit of the soldiers, and recited his war songs. The most famous of these was “Sheridan’s Ride,” which was written in Cincinnati the details of its production are given under the head of Perry county. He died in New York city, May 11, 1872, aged fifty years. His “Complete Poetical Works” were published in Boston in 1860. Later he wrote his “Wagoner of the Alleghenies,” and in 1865—1867 were issued at Philadelphia a quite full edition of his poetical works in three volumes.
“His paintings, most of which deal with allegorical and mythological subjects, are full of poetic and graceful fancies, but the technical treatment betrays his lack of early training. He possessed a much more thorough mastery in the art of poetry than in painting. His poems express fervent patriotism and artistic power, with a delicate fancy for the scenes of nature.” Nothing can be more pathetically sweet than these lines:
THE WAYSIDE SPRING. Fair dweller by the dusty way. Bright saint within a mossy shrine,The tribute of a heart to-day,Weary and worn, is thine. The earliest blossoms of the year,The sweetbrier arid the violet,The pious hand of spring has hereUpon thy altar set. And not to thee alone is givenThe homage of the pilgrim’s kneeBut oft the sweetest birds of heavenGlide down and sing to thee. Here daily from his beechen cellThe hermit squirrel steals to drinkAnd flocks, which cluster to their bell,Recline along thy brink. And here the wagoner blocks his wheels, To quaff the cool and generous boon:Here, from the sultry harvest fields, The reapers rest at noon. And oft the beggar masked with tan, In rusty garments gray with dust,Here sips and dips his little can, And breaks his scanty crust. And lulled beside thy whispering stream, Oft drops to slumber unawares,And sees the angels of his dream Upon celestial stairs. Dear dweller by the dusty way. Thou saint within a mossy shrine,The tribute of a heart to-day, Weary and worn, is thine.
From Historical Collections of Ohio: By Henry Howe; Pub. 1888