The quiet lake, the balmy air, The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,- Or is the dreary change in me?" Of this, the original idea was naive before it was worn out, and, for new illustration, listless look, silver current, holy fane, ruined pride, quiet lake, balmy air, and dreary change, are common-place enough. The original illustration is reserved for the next verse, which contains, omitting the common-place allusion to Araby and Eden, in the two first thoughts wit, and in the third something more allied to poetry. "Alas, the warped and broken board, How can it bear the painter's dye! And Araby's or Eden's bowers Were barren as this moorland hill." There are many who would have been first-rate essayists that have totally gone astray as to the aim and nature of divine poesy. They might have been right welcome, if they preferred the pains, to indite their tales and thoughts in verse; but pray let them forbear to call them poems. One of these is Crabbe, a writer of great eloquence and force, but than whom no man ever more completely misunderstood what is intended by the name of poetry. If the reader has acceded to our views, what will he call this?— 66 Something one day occurred about a bill That was not drawn with true mercantile skill, And I was asked and authorized to go To seek the firm of Clutterbuck and Co.; Their hour was past-but when I urged the case, I might the man of occupation find I found, though not with ease, this private seat Still more offensive to the muses is the offering that follows; a description of the slovenly maid that answered to the call of the door knocker. We find that we have been betrayed by the foregoing observations, into a greater length than was originally intended. It was our desire to have communicated to the reader certain views with regard to forms of poetry, and more especially the dramatic, which have won very much upon our own respect; but as their illustration would occupy more space than the limits of an already long article will allow, we pause at once, to spare the frowns of an incensed editor, or the yawns of an already weary reader. HAL. THE HONEST WOOER. I WOOED my mistress with a love as true Since ne'er to Beauty had I bowed before: I did not tell her that her eyes were stars; Why should I wrong those peerless orbs of night? Why should my private wounds be brought to light? I did not prate of mine own lack of birth, Why should I scandalize mine own fair fame? I did not speak of her exalted worth, Hearts linked together needs must be the same. I did not boast what great things I would do, Since that I breathed of poesy no line. Into her ear I poured no polished tale ; I simply whispered her, "Sweet maid, I love ;" Time past and time to come alike must prove. VOL. II.-NO. IX. 2 P C. H. H. THE SPIRIT OF THE ICE. WHITHER is wending the maiden alone, As it driveth the waves in silver foam, Till they sprinkle the cliffs with their salt sea spray? Why doth her voice with the mountain gale Mingle in high and solemn wail; And then burst forth with a stranger sound, Wild, yet sweet as the voice of the dove, But hush! she is still. No sound is heard, And the dashing waves of the restless sea; The night is cold, for Winter old, In his chilly mantle, doth earth enfold. He hath spread his white vesture over the plain, Till she cometh the bride of the spring-sun warm; On the cold, cold ground doth the maiden rest, "I have wandered far on this beautiful earth, I have seen bright flowers, Blossom, then wither and die; But I did not deem That my heart's bright dream Would so soon have all passed by. "Oh Spirit, that rideth in vesture of white, On thy cloud so gloomy and grey; Whose wheels far scatter the snow-flake's light, As thou passest on thy way: Who throwest o'er all A deadly pall, And robest earth for the tomb; Who flingest thy blight On all that was bright, And changest it all to gloom : "To thee, with a heart almost driven to madness, A maiden in sorrow doth plead; Oh stay and give heed to her story of sadness, And, if thou canst, pity her need. By the charm of mightier power, That can break thine icy chain, And bid nature bloom again; By this Power, that thou, Fiend, dost fear, I bid thee, SPIRIT OF THE ICE, appear, appear! Why doth the maiden in terror start? But the white waves seem in their path to stay. Just now were dancing all about, The bright-eyed spirits of the sea, Gliding gracefully in and out, To the sound of the mermaid's melody. But now in terror they fly from the might Of the Spirit that cometh in this sad light. The Spirit is coming, the Spirit of dread,— The waters have frozen beneath his tread, He comes on the path where the pale moonbeam A diadem resteth on his head, Set around with jewels red Each of a frozen blood-drop made. The sceptre cold, That his hand doth hold, Is a human bone, that for years hath laid, The Spirit is near, the Spirit doth speak, |