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painful emotions, that it is not only very possible, but sometimes a relief and a luxury, to compose.
We do not dispute that there inay have been monodies and elegies written very soon after-immediately after an afflictive bereavement; because there are men, and alas! poets too, who have very superficial and very transitory feelings, and whose imagination readily supplies them with consolation amid any of the ills of life that do not press very hard upon their personal convenience,-in the very trappings of grief, the pomp and consequence of sorrow, and the brief notoriety, or at least attention, which is conceded to the sufferer. There are cold egotists who are happier in the sympathy they awaken, than they were in the possession they are pitied for having lost. And there are those whose grief is altogether a fiction, whose sensibility is purely the sensibility of taste.
The present Writer, we feel convinced, is not of this class. He has borrowed one motto from Young, and another from Lord Byron; but we will not wrong him by imagining that his sorrow is either the theatric grief of the Night Thoughts, or the hollow sentimental pretence of the consummate actor who wrote the • Farewell. If the circumstances described are not fictitious, they must have produced in the inind of the most unimpassioned parent, all the agony which the poem describes. The only question that can arise, is, how he could love to dwell upon them. This we have attempted to answer; and the reader will have in recollection a case very much in point, in the affecting and elegant • Monument of Parental Affection,' written by an excellent clergyman as a solace under a loss that was bowing him to the grave.
But what pleasure, it may be asked, can a man feel in laying bare his heart to strangers ? Does not real sorrow shrink even from sympathy? We suppose that no person possessing the slightest portion of sensibility, ever sate down to give vent to his feelings, with the intent, at the time, to publish what he wrote. From the public as a presence, the mourner would shrink, perhaps, with morbid sensations of proud reserve, at the very time that to that same public as an abstruction he was entrusting the preservation of the fond memorial reared in secret to the object departed. There is no contradiction in this. There are moods in which one can impart more of one's inmost feelings to a stranger than to an inmate; partly, because that stranger has do opportunity of knowing more than we choose to impart of our feelings and our history; partly, too, because we do not daily live under bis eye, and are not subject, having vented our hearts, to encounter the scrutiny of the look that bespeaks a knowledge of our feelings, when we would conceal, or forget, or disown them. The poct can fancy this unknown Public bis friend, with
out being subject to its intrusion, and enjoy an imaginary sympathy which does not hurt, but rather soothes his pride. And who has not pride to be soothed, even at the moment that he seems laid in the dust?
The chief motive to publishing such works, however, we take to be, the wish to perpetuate the memorial, and to give it a chance even of surviving its author. A vain wish, doubtless, in most cases, and a delusive consolation; but in this respect, a poem and a grave-stone speak the same language, and are the efforts of the same instinct, which says of what once was ours, 6 shall not all die.'
We shall attempt no analysis of the narrative of the present poem, but merely lay before our readers a specimen.
• There is a scene, which memory in her mood
is closed :
• Rock of St. Vincent! I revisit thee
Not unaccompanied; and pausing now
Midway the cliff, how desolate the change!
Of its own subtle spirit to the forms
In his decline-the earnest of his rise.' The fugitive pieces are of various merit and interest. The following verses to a young lady, combine the simple elegance of a song with the point of
Where health and pleasure smile :
Å bosom pure from guile :
Thy manner's timid grace :
So angel-fair thy face;
Sweet Marianne, to me :
And therefore love I thee.' The most pleasing specimen of the Author's powers, however, in every respect, is the poem entitled Sabbath Musings :' the sentiment and the diction are alike elevated, and will strongly remind the reader of Coleridge.
• It is the sabbath morn. The landscape sleeps
" Oh native isle beloved! by rounding waves
2 Z 2
It whispers hope ; it breathes the secret pledge
* • Hail scene of beauty! scene of sabbath calm ! Thou greenest earth, thou blue and boundless heaven ! Thou sea reposing like the stillest lake! Hail ye, that blend your silence with the soul !
• Around the unimaginable God Moves, visible to faith, but unconfused With these, the works and wonders of his hand : These intercept his presence: they are his But not himself: the veil before his throne : The symbol and the shadow of th’ unseen. He sojourns not in clouds, nor is the light His essence, mingled with the common mass Of elements, as ancient sages dream’d, God and his creatures one. Beyond the scope Of sense che incommunicable mind Dwelleth ; and they that with corporeal eye, Adoring nature's beauteous forms, discern Intelligence in colours and in shades, In sunlight and the glimmer of the moon; Who deem their worship holy, when they hear A God in empty winds and in the sounds Of waters, they have raised an altar up To their own idol of material things : They in the temple of the Deity See but the temple : in the rocks and trees, In
every blade and flower, in every bird That wings the yielding air, they find or feel Their godhead energy, their mindless God : The universe its cause. Away from us This heathen's wisdom and this poet's creed : Away from us the dim philosophy Whose mole-eyed opties scrutinize a God Sever'd in parts, dissected in his powers And attributes, and with unballow'd zeal Torn from himself: be thine alone the praise And love and wonder, God! whose name is One: God of the Sabbath!'