English Language in America [pp. 110-111]

SOUTHERN LITERARY MIESSENGER.
They made her a grave by our love's lone shore,
And I laughed in strange mirth, sweet Leonore.
Leon. Alas!
Lover. Yet a burning and restless pain
Lived evermo' at my heart and brain.
What balm sought I?-Forgetfulness.
Ah!-wo is me! I hac none to bless
My desolate heart: no soothing tone
To cheer my spirit seared and lone:
No hand of love to clasp mine own.
And anguish-great anguish dogged my step,
Till I did swear me that a fiend
Spake in mine ear with a hissing lip.
I bared my brow to the haunted wind
On wintry hills; and then in fear
Would seek my couch most lone and drear,
And mutter a name for the dead to hear.
And in my mad dreams, sweet Lconore,
I shuddered and moaned-" Pain evermore!"
Leon. Alas!
Lover. But time wore fleetly on,
And the lines were less deep on my forehead wan.
I sought to bury my wrongs in wvine;
And I sought in the crowd where star-eyes shine
For my thwarted heart a second shrine:Yet this in vain! I found it not,
For naught from the book of Time mote blot
The one black page, and Memory ever
Dwelt, till my temples throbbed with fever,
On that stained page and its letters wild.
Leon. And yet thou lovedst!
Lover. A dream beguiled
My life from anguish. Leonore!
Canst thou unlock the mystic lore
Of sleep and its visions dim and bright?
I slumbered-in pain: the lingering blight
Still lay on my spirit. I dreamed a dream!
Like motes on the swell of a noonday beam,
A thousand vague forms passed me by,
Wheeling and circling hurriedly.
These passed, and methought a lady bright
Leant on my arm, and clasped my hand:
Her chiselled temples were high and white;
But her life did seem as a name in sand,
With the waters near:-For her eyes were wild,
And her long teeth glittered as she smiled,
And her cheek was sunken. I ne'er had seen
That lofty brow with its lily sheen,
In my waking hours, and ne'er till then
Had I heard what I yearned to hear againThat lady's voice!-Sweet Leonore,
'Twas a gentle joy to linger o'er
That dying one so fair and meek.
While I gazed in love on her faded cheek,
She shuddered and-died! I sprang, aghast,
From my couch, and moaned.
The strange dream passedPassed from its seat on my troubled brain.
I awoke to the forms of earth again.
Time flew his soar, as Time aye flies;
And I basked in the light of earthly eyes,
Till, joyous of heart, and light of mood,
1 fled from naught save solitude.
I laughed, and many a hoary head
Shook thoughtfully, and wise men said
As stole vague fears of a stormy morrow"Naught knoweth yon gallant yet of sorrow."
In a crowded hall, on a festive nightAloof from the fears of dotard eldI spake in the ear of a Lady bright,
Whom-awake-I had ne'er, till then, beheld.
Thine was that ear: and much it moved
The chords of my spirit, best beloved,
To gaze on the peerless Leonore.
Thou-thou wast the Lady of the dream;
And I unriddled the mystic lore
Which mortal men a madness deem,
And said, while my heart leapt joyously,
"The dream was the voice of destiny.
Kind Heaven hath sent this gentle oneThis being of beauty-of beauty to atone
For the viper's tooth: and she will be
Through sorrow and joy, mine faithfully,
Till the days of her life on earth are o'er"And I wooed and won thee, Leonore.
He ceased. The Lady turned her head,
Hler soft cheek flushed with a ruby feverBut she gazed in his face and meekly said,
"As I love thee nowv will I love thee ever."
Then passion came to the Lover's eye,
And as he bowed him, tenderly,
To kiss the brow of his Leonore,
These words spake he-" Bliss evermore!"
But constancy dwelleth not on earth,
And this worl(i's joy is of little worth,
For wve know that ere the birth of morrow,
The cup may be changed for one of sorrow.
This is a truth my heart hath learned,
From one who loved, and then falsely spurned:
This is a truth which all must know
Whose lots are cast in this world of wo.
A poet's thanks for thy courtesy,
Thou gentle one, whose step with me
Hath kindly been!
One fytte is doneYet sith thus far we twain have gone,
I'll "ply my wrest,"* then tell thee more
Of the loves of the Lady Leonore.
ENGLISH LANGUAGE IN AMERICA.
The preservation of a pure English diction is not sufficiently aimed at in America. Some are so entirely
Britannic, as to receive every thing for legal tender in
letters, which comes across the water. This is thenceforward duly' marqui au coin.' Others are so patriotically republican, as to set about the task of nursing the
countless brood of cis-Atlantic words, into literary respeetability. Both are in error. It is not enough to
avoid Amercanisms; nor is it expedient to manuiacture
a pye-bald dialect, of vulgarisms and provincialisms,
for the mere satisfaction of calling it our own. In England, no less than here, the language is growing to an
unhealthy exuberance, and many of the words which
* Wrest was the name of the key used in tuning his harp by
the ancient Songleur or minstrel. "Ply my wrest" is an expression to be met with frequently in the early English poets.
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