The steed is dreaming, in his stall,
Of one long breathless leap and fall : The hawk hath dreamt him thrice of wings Wide as the skies he may not cleave: But waking, feels them clipt, and clings Mad to the perch, 'twere mad to leave : The child is dreaming of its toys- The murderer of calm home joys; The weak are dreaming endless fears- The proud of how their pride appears : The poor enthusiast who dies,
Of his life dreams the sacrifice- Sees, as enthusiast only can,
The truth that made him more than man; And hears once more, in vision'd trance, That voice commanding to advance, Where wealth is gain'd-love, wisdom won, Or deeds of anger dared and done. The mother dreamneth of her child- The maid of him who hath beguiled- The youth of her he loves too well; The good of God-the ill of Hell,— Who live of death-of life who die- The dead of immorality.
If all written poetry, except Festus, was blotted out, in Festus there would still remain sufficient thought to rekindle in other poets what was lost. We feel that Festus is not sufficiently understood-that Mr. Bailey is not suffi ciently known, although he is the greatest grasper of poetic symbols, and poetic passion, that the age has produced.-Critic.
WASHINGTON ALLSTON, THE AMERICAN PAINTER, BORN IN SOUTH CAROLINA, IN 1779.
As, thinking of the mighty dead,
The young from slothful couch will start, And vow, with lifted hands outspread, Like them to act a noble part!
O, who shall lightly say that fame Is nothing but an empty name, When, but for those our mighty dead, All ages past a blank would be, Sunk in oblivion's murky bed- A desert bare--a shipless sea? They are the distant objects seen, The lofty marks of what hath been.
O, who shall lightly say that fame Is nothing but an empty name, When memory of the mighty dead To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye The brightest rays of cheering shed, That point to immortality.
GEORGE SMITH. FROM THE CITY MUSE," 1853.
CHILD of the Lyre, 'tis hard of thee to sing When stern reverses bind thy soaring wing, Bind it to earth-and yet there's beauty there, Food for the mind, as delicate and rare As poets need to banquet on; a store Thou may'st partake until the soul runs o'er. And yet 'tis sad for Genius to behold
The eyes of soulless men, all calm and cold, Pass o'er the beauties of his written thought, So feelingly, so musically wrought, Woven and interwoven with each change Of the blest seasons, in their varied range Of bud, and flower, and fruit of many hues Pendant above the fructifying dews;
Of cloudless noon, of crimson sunset fair, Of twilight's hallow'd hour, of silent prayer; When his serene, aspiring thoughts ascend From purest source of worship, thence to blend With all that's beautiful in earth and skies, Shrined in his soul, and mirror'd in his eyes.
Retard his dreamy flight, he back recoils To sordid earth's contaminating toils;
A space too narrow, his aspiring mind
Would leap the clouds, and grapple with the wind, Mix with the rainbow, revel in the storm,
And mould its power to every hue and form: Would chase the moon and stars athwart the night, And then emerging from the dreamy light
Of clustering clouds, like snowdrifts tinged with gold, Still yearn new charms and wonders to behold; Bathe in the fountains of celestial fire
And wake to louder voice the music of his lyre. Inspiring hope bursts into loftier song, More cheering, more exalting, and more strong In thought poetic, or in pathos fine,
Than e'er was breathed from lowly lyre of mine. How thrilling, throbbing, piercing, yet refined His boundless genius rushes like the wind Through mountain passes, deep, dark, lone, and wild, Then sinks to quiet, like a weary child. Still in his soul a plaintive voice is heard, Ascending from the depths of hope deferr'd By the cold world's neglect, or scornful look
Of men who see no beauty in the book
Of nature or of poet; men who find
More glory in their gold than all the realms of mind. Gloomy incentives to a soul embued
With all the poetry of gratitude,
That spiritual music of his lyre,
Which, but for hope, in silence would expire;
Now that lone harp, in many a bitter pang,
Wails in its master's woe, where once it sweetly sang.
FROM FROISSART BALLADS, AND OTHER POEMS," BY PHILIP PENDLETON COKE, OF WINCHESTER, VIRGINIA.
I LOVED thee long and dearly Florence Vane;
My life's bright dream and early Hath come again;
I renew in my fond vision
My heart's dear pain,
My hope and thy derision, Florence Vane.
The ruin lone and hoary,
The ruin old,
Where thou didst hark my story
That spot-the hues Elysian
Of sky and plain
I treasure in my vision,
Florence Vane.
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