OH! come at this hour, love! the daylight is gone, And the spirit of loneliness steals, with a moan, And her curtain is drawn in the sky; And the gale, as it wantons along the young buds, Falls faint on the ear-like a sigh! The summer-day sun is too gaudy and bright For a heart that has suffered like mine; And, methinks, there were pain, in the noon of its light, en respective authors. Yet half a century ago, a large proportion of them would have been received with favour, and have conferred repute. The public is usually correct in its judgment: few recent poetical productions are addressed to the heart; and the mere act of dealing with a subject in verse, although it may have the aid of knowledge and fancy, is insufficient to render a poem popular. It would, however, be easy to select from the numerous poetical productions to which we refer, and which have been consigned to unmerited oblivion, specimens of merit sufficient to form a valuable and interesting volume; and the Editor who undertakes such a task, will render good service to literature. That which Mr. Sergeant Talfourd describes as the "freezing effect of the scientific spirit of the age," has had its depressing influence upon the best and greatest of our Poets: it has completely destroyed the ambitious hopes of those who were seeking after distinction. We trust, nevertheless, that a time will come when in poetry, as in art, some portion of celebrity may be attained by all who deserve it. If we must place Mr. Hervey somewhat below the great "makers," whose names precede his in this volume, we must class him considerably above the host of minor Poets, of whom our age has been so amazingly fertile. Some of his productions, indeed, OH! come at this hour, love! the daylight is gone, And the gale, as it wantons along the young buds, The summer-day sun is too gaudy and bright For a heart that has suffered like mine; And, methinks, there were pain, in the noon of its light, The birds, as they mingled their music of joy, Would but tell us of feelings for ever gone by, And the moonlight,-pale spirit! would speak of the time Along the green meadows, when life was in prime, When our hopes were as sweet, and our life-path as bright, As the star-spangled course of that phantom of light, Then come in this hour, love! when twilight has hung Its shadowy mantle around; And no sound, save the murmurs that breathe from thy tongue, Or thy footfall-scarce heard on the ground! Shall steal on the silence, to waken a fear, THE CONVICT SHIP. MORN on the waters!-and, purple and bright, Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail, And her pennant streams onward, like hope, in the gale! Night on the waves!—and the moon is on high, Bright and alone on the shadowy main, Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain! "Tis thus with our life, while it passes along, As the smiles we put on-just to cover our tears; And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know, Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below; While the vessel drives on to that desolate shore Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er. I AM ALL ALONE. I AM all alone!—and the visions that play And the hopes that I cherished have made them wings; |