Readings with My Pencil, No. III [pp. 312]

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
But when affection weeps for one,
Whose daily life new charms imparted,
Alas! what power beneath the sun
Can cheer the lone-the broken-hearted!
Friendship and love must ever mourn
The faded wreath of promised pleasure,
And though the flow'ers of hope lie torn
Fond menm'ry hoards the heart's lost treasure.
Oh! cherish then, that vestal flow'r!
Simplicity, dear maiden, cherish!
'Twill shed a fragrance o'er the hour
When all thy mortal charms shall perish!
READINGS WITH MY PENCIL.
No. IIl.
Legere sine calamo est dormire.-Quintilian.
21. " There is a pride, in being left behind, to find resources
within, which others seek without." —Washington Irving.
I have powered a good deal on this passage, and
find a beautiful moral in what, when I first read it, I
was fain to fancy but a misanthropic, or, at the least,
an unsocial sentiment. I now feel and acknowledge its
truths "There is a pride in being left behind, to find
resources witlhin, which others seek without." What
concern have I in the greater brightness that another's
name is shedding? Let - them shine on whose honor is
greater. Their orbit cannot interfere with mine. There
may be something very grand and sublime in the wide
sweep of Herschel and Saturn: but planets, whlose
path is smaller, are more cheered by the rays of light
and warmth from the sun, which is the cenrtre of their
revolutions.
22. " Oh the hopeless misery of March in America. Poetry,
taste, fancy, feeling, —all are chilled by that ever-snowing sky,
that ever snow clad earth. Man were happy could he be a mole
for the nonce, and so sleep out this death-in-life, an American
six months' winter."-Subaltern in.smerica.
What a querulous noodle! He is one of those who
can "travel front Dan to Beersheba, and cry, All is
barren!" It is March, and "'March in America," while
I write. The air is bracing and full of reviving springlike influences. I disagree with the would-be mole from
whom t quote. I love to watch every month's sweep
of the sun, —while he is performing his low wintry arc,
as if almost ashamed to revolve around the cheerless
earth, and while he daily performs a wider and wider
circle, until at length he comes to stand nearly over my
head at noon. I enjoy the result the more intensely for
watching its progress. I love to watch him gradually
calling out the green on the black hills around me,
whose only beauty now are the narrow stripes of fading
snow, forming white borders that intersect each other,
thus dividing the mould into something not altogether
void of the picturesque. So, on yonder field, where the
sun now shines quite cheeringly, there is a remnant of
beauty. The dead grass, with its yellow and reddish
tinge, is divided by small crystal ponds and canals,
glistening in the bright ray, and seeming like the gratitude of the poor,-able to return but little, yet determined to return that little gladly.
23. "1 There is no motion so graceful as that of a beautiful girl
in the mazy meanderings of the dance. Nature cannot furnish
a more perfect illustration of the poetry of motion than this.",,
Ibid.
Yes she can. I wvill give the traveller two far more
perfect illustrations. The on deggiando movement of a
light breeze, as it passes, wave upon wave, over high
grass: and the gradual and rapid passing away of a
shadow, when the sun leaves a cloud, from a hill side of
rich foliage.
24. "I have been thinking, more and more, of the probability
of departed friends' watching over those whom they have left
behind."-Henry Kirk White.
I have often done so; and whether the idea be a
delusive one or not, there is no delusion in believing
that the Deity sees them and us at the same instant.
They turn, and we turn, at the same moment, to him,
and thus through him we enjoy a communion. If two
hearts were once preserved in reciprocal love by contemplating, when parted from each other, the same star,
how close will be the bond with those who have gone
before us, wlhen, at such a distance, we are worshipping
the same God!
25. " When one is angry, and edits apaper, I should think the
temptation too strong for literary, which is not always human nature."-Lord Byreon.
There is a couple of young Irishmen who "edit a
paper" not far from the place of this present writing,
who might furnish a striking corroboration of this opinion of the noble poet. Think of a couple of boobies,
pretending to be oracles in literature, wreaking their
petty vengeance upon the productions of one against
whom they have a personal pique! Such and so contemptible are some of the "critics!" God save the
mark! of this generation! J. F. 0.
LINES TO
Lady!-afar yet loved the more My spirit ever hovers near,
And haunts in dreams the distant shore
That prints at eve thy footstep dear.
And say-when mlusing by the tide,
Beneath the quiet twilight sky,
Wilt thou forget all earth beside
And markl my memory with a sigh?
The wind that wantons in thy hair The wave that murmurs at thy feet,
Shall whisper to thy dreaming ear
An answer-loving-true and meet.
Oh! fancy not if from thy bower
I tarry now a weary while,
My heart e'er owns another's power
Or sighs to win a stranger's smile.
Those gentle eyes, which in my dream,
With unforgotten love still shineShall never glance a sadder beam
Nor dim with tcars for change of mine.
I gaze not on a cloud, nor flower
That is not eloquent of theeThe very calm of twilight's hour
Seems voiceless with thy memory.
Likie waves that dimple o'er the stream
And ripple to the shores around,
Each wanderinig wvish-each hope-each dream
Steals tunto theec-ttheir utmost bound.
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