Lines: "Sleep on, thou dear maiden" [pp. 604]

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
that we have done much in poetry. We have been
in existence as a nation for upwards of half a century, and yet we have produced nothing that is certain
to reach posterity, or that can be classed higher
than the minor productions of Moore, (Campbell,
or Byron, of the present day. There is an apparent want of originality, and too great an appearance of imitation in the poetical efforts of our native bards to carry them far down the stream of
time, though it must be conceded that they have
discovered in these efforts no ordinary portion of
genius. There would seem to be something either
in the nature of our political institutions, or in the
general character of our pursuits, which is inimical
to the developement of high poetical power. We
are not a very imaginative people; we prefer the
reality to the ideal; we pursue the substance
rather than the shadow. Our ambition is early
fired by political distinction, or our exertions are
directed to the attainment of competency or wealth.
The public mind has been led into a train of thinking somewhat adverse to the indulgence of poetical enthusiasm, and not calculated to render it
susceptible of deep and intense delight from the
contemplation of poetical beauty. It has been led
to consider that the highest efforts of genius are
those which are displayed at the bar or in the senate, and to regard the power of forensic and parliamentary eloquence as the loftiest exhibition of
intellectual excellence. To that which the mind
is early taught to respect and admire its greatest
exertions will be directed, and hence the number of
those who resort to the profession of law, the career
of legislation, or the pursuits of commerce," &c.
It is unquestionably true, that no great original
poetical work of distinguished merit has yet made
its appearance in the United States, but it cannot
at the same time be denied, that the individuals
this writer has named, with Bryant, Sigourney,
Willis, and several others, possess a fine poetical
vein, the mens divinior of Horace. Some of their
effusions contain passages of great beauty and
splendor, and may be fairly classed with those of
the first poets of our country. Most of them
however, have merely what Mad. De Genlis calls
the " art of making verses;" and either from the
want of encouragement, the stimulus of praise, or
continued enthusiasm, wing their flight briefly
into the regions of poetic fancy, and seldom afterwards attempt any more lofty or daring excursions. But I must pause. I will endeavor in my
next to bring my remarks on the science and literature of the United States to a close.
FINE PASSAGE IN HOOKER.
Hooker in his Ecclesiastical Polity says, " The
time will come when three words, uttered with
charity and meekness, shall receive a far more
blessed reward, than three thousand volumes written with disdainful sharpness of wit."
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO
The dial marks the sunny hour,
Every brilliant moment noting,
But it loses all its power
When a cloud is o'er it floating,
As if gloom should be forgot!
Thus on Time has Mem'ry dwelt,
Tracing every fleeting minute,
When thy radiant smiles were felt
Courting each, if they were in it,
Noting none if they were not!
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
PARAPHRASE
Of a figure in the first volume of Eugene Aram.
Tho' the Moon o'er yonder river
Seems a partial glance to throw,
Kissing waves that brightly quiver
Whilst the rest in darkness flow,
There's not a ripple of that stream
Unsilvered by some hallowed beam.
Thus in life the bliss that mellows
Ills, that else the soul would blight,
Seems to fall upon our fellows
Like that glance of partial light;
Yet each spirit sunk in sadness,
Feels in turn its ray of gladness!
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO MY SISTERS.
Tho' I have sworn in other ears,
And kissing, sealed the oath in tears,
Have owned a little world divine,
Between my Sarah's lips and mine,
And more than mortal blessed have felt,
While there in Heav'nly bliss we dwelt,
Yet I loved not.
But when I look, dear girls on ye,
E'en in the look my worlds I see;
No vow has passed-our years have proved
That we have ever truly lovedAnd in your every prayer I hear,
My name so kindly whispered there,
Oh! then I love. ROSICRUCIUS.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
LINES.
Sleep on, thou dear maiden, I'll guard thee from harm,
No foe shall come nigh thee while strength's in this arm;
As thy sweet breath comes o'er me wild wishes may rise,
But honor still whispers-Remember the ties
Which bind her to one to whom she is dear
As his hopes of a heaven, she's all he has here.
Yes, far be it from me my friend to betrayTo gain thy affections, whilst he, far away,
But little suspects me, or dreams I would dare
To deceive his heart's treasure-so lovely, so fair:
Then sleep on, thou dear maiden, I'll guard thee from
harm,
No foe shall come nigh thee while rength's in this arm.
J. M. C. D.
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