pair, he threw his communication into the fire. He watched, with a sigh, the devouring element, as it stole faster and faster over the cherished labors of many a sleepless night; and having at last seen the ghost of his departed hopes, in the form of shadowy cinders of paper, fly up the chimney in a volume of smoke, he wiped away a tear that bedewed his cheek, and entered immediately upon the task of a new composition. This time he was determined to write upon a subject that should commend itself to the moderns. In a few days he produced a highly finished performance, entitled "A dissertation on the necessity of cultivating the personal graces, with a due attention to dress, as a means of promotion in the world." He gained the first premium; and the wisdom he displayed in the choice of his subject, as well as the very able manner in which he acquitted himself, earned for him an enviable distinction.

In conclusion, should the reader not be of our mind in relation to the advantages of a good external appearance, we would nevertheless beg him to remember, whether he be rich or poor, high or low, learned or unlearned, wise or foolish, that a handsome, neat-fitting coat, is a thing by no means to be despised; the truth of this proposition those obliging gentlemen, Messieurs the tailors, will confirm by their oaths, if he will take the trouble to call them. upon

D.

VOL. VII.

THOUGHT.

A FRAGMENT.

OH! thou mysterious, formless thing of life,
Thou traceless seraph of the human breast,

Thou voiceless echo of the soul of man,
Thou noiseless tenant of the restless brain,
Thou viewless, yet immortal, boundless thought,
Denied a voice thy nature to proclaim,

What ever-living, changing thing art thou?

What but the deathless energy of mind,

The eternal working of the soul within ;

Yet something too impalpable to grasp
Or chain within expression!

31

ΤΟ

THEY tell me, gentle lady, that thou art a girlish thing;
That thy life is but the flower-shoot-the earliest of Spring;
That all thy thoughts are wilder, too, than reason can control,
And that thy softer feelings lie imprisoned in the soul.
But I can ne'er believe it thus beneath thy flashing eye,

Nor when amid the mazy dance I see thee tremble by.

They tell me that within thy heart no voice hath whispered yet,
Nor hath the light of love illumed thy sparkling eyes of jet;
That thy fancies are capricious and forever on the wing,
And that, at best, thou art indeed a wild and thoughtless thing.
But I never heard thy gentle voice break on the listening air,
But that it seemed a seraph breathed its wildest passion there.

They tell me that the gentle glow which mantled on thy cheek,
When first I pressed thy trembling hand and tried in vain to speak,
Was but the flash of some such thought as in our younger years
Comes eloquently burning up-the herald of our fears.
But though I've met thee often since, yet will my fever'd brain
As often on thy cheek detect that crimson flush again.

They tell me that, when years have past, thy voice will then impart
No thrilling tones that find, as now, an echo in the heart;
That though a glorious gift is thine, yet soon the giddy throng
Will cease to hover round thy path, bewildered by thy song.
And that my burning thoughts of thee, though living with the past,
Will prove like morn's ethereal tints-too heavenly to last!

But though another's heart may claim, in after years, thy love,
And choicer friends may be around, and brighter skies above;
Though then, perchance, the flower-wreath which decks thy lofty brow,
Thou may'st not wear amidst the throng as peerlessly as now;
Yet know, sweet girl, howe'er thou art, or e'er thy fortune be,

My thoughts from this wide, jarring world shall oft return to thee.

It may be that this harp of mine is yet to thee unknown,
Or that the wire my hand hath waked gives forth too sad a tone;
Or it may be my fancy seems to take her 'wildered flight,
As o'er the face of day is flung the drapery of night.

If so, this moving hand shall cease-each chord shall be unstrung,
And the sad instrument I've seized, on some lone willow hung.

THE POETRY OF LONGFELLOW.

SMALL as is the number of Longfellow's productions, no one can with justice deny that his poems, especially those which have emanated from his pen at a later period, marked as they are with true poetic genius and imagery, justly entitle him to a high rank among the poets of the present day.

True it is, that if real merit, as has hitherto been too often the case, is to be estimated by quartos and octavos alone, our author would fall far short of the standard. His claim to im

mortality is not to be measured by lines and volumes; but rather by the beautiful simplicity and elegance of his style, and the true language of the heart which he utters.

The fugitive pieces of his younger days, it must be admitted, do not possess a high degree of poetic merit. They are marked neither by the animation and impassioned cadence of a Byron, or the sweet and beautiful expression of a Moore;-they are indeed like the trembling and uncertain steps of infancy, before its sinews have been matured and strengthened, or its spirit emboldened by success. But even here we can discern the workings of that genius, which, though its budding beauties did not startle or amaze, its blossomings command respect and

admiration.

We speak not now of all the original productions of his earlier days, for there are some that are unworthy a name like his. He has indeed his failings. In some he is imperfect both in style and sentiment; yet in others he is truly chaste and beautiful;—and while some of his minor poems, to borrow an illustration, seem in reality to have been modeled in style upon the gait of a tired dromedary, and in sentiment are almost as indigestable as the filberds of Berdaæ, there are others so rich and beautiful, that they should be prized as literary gems, which, although seemingly scattered with a miser's hand, amply make up in richness and in beauty, that which they lack in magnitude and number.

If we were to enter into a critical examination of his earlier works, we should be compelled to admit, that the metrical harmony of versification is not always preserved; that there is not always a proper observance of the correct measurement of verse, or the position of accentuated syllables. This is indeed, if not his only, yet his greatest failing; and of what minor consideration is it, when we reflect how small the number, even among those who have done honor to the name of poet, are

exempt wholly from this common imperfection. But even if it were not so-if Longfellow stood alone in this his only errorour admiration of his genius would by no means be diminished. Gold is to be valued, though shapeless and unpolished, and the diamond to be prized, though set in brass.

Let it not be inferred, however, from these remarks, that this error is observable in all his poetry; it is but in a few instances that the slightest error in versification appears; and even the major part, if not all of them, must be perused with pleasure by the true lover of poetry.

Who, for example, can read our poet's description of the "Spirit of Poetry"-a piece in which there are undoubtedly imperfections in style and metre-without seeing before him a tangible reality, as it were, of the subject of his poem.

"The sweet spirit, that doth fill

The world,"

seems to inspire his breast, and though in the wayward days of youth, he feels its influence and power.

My busy fancy oft embodies it,

As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature,-of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams,-and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her eye

The heaven of April, with its changing light,

And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,

And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair

Is like the summer tresses of the trees,

When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek

Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,

With ever-shifting beauty.-Then her breath,

It is so like the gentle air of Spring,

As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes

Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy

To have it round us,-and her silver voice

Is the rich music of a summer bird,

Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence."

This may be considered a fair specimen of our author's earlier poetry; and although it is not of the highest order, yet the production as it is, if it would not honor, would, in our opinion, by no means disgrace a more illustrious name.

Objections have been made to the style and versification of

Longfellow's translations. Now let it be remembered, that the duty of translator is not that of composer; for while the latter selects his sentiments at pleasure, and adopts his own mode of versification, the former must not only transcribe the ideas of another, but, in our opinion, is bound as far as possible to adopt the metrical construction of the original. This, then, in his various translations from the Spanish, French, and German, it should be supposed our author had in view. In becoming the transcriber or copyist of ideas, he could not but deem himself the copyist of style; and with this understanding, in instituting a comparison between the translations and the original pieces from which they are taken, we cannot fail to observe the skill and fidelity of the translator, and award the meed due to his merit, both as a poet and scholar.

What we have said hitherto has been confined chiefly to our poet's earlier productions. We now pass to the consideration of his later writings; and it should be observed, we look in vain for those imperfections and deficiencies here, that are apparent in his earlier pieces. The themes of these poems are altogether of a different nature; and it may be said his style is invariably well adapted to his subject. He seems to have heard the voice of the spirit:

"The land of Song within thee lies,
Watered by living springs;

The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes

Are gates unto that Paradise,

Holy thoughts, like stars, arise,

Its clouds are angel's wings.

"Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be,
Not mountains capped with snow,
Nor forests sounding like the sea,

Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly,
Where the woodlands bend to see
The bending heavens below."

And to have obeyed its useful inculcation:

"Look, then, into thine heart, and write!

Yes, into Life's deep stream!

All forms of sorrow and delight,

All solemn voices of the night,

That can soothe thee, or affright,

Be these henceforth thy theme."

In his later productions, our author seems not only to have avoided with care the deficiencies and imperfections of his