Poets and Poetry [pp. 310-313]

310 Pendlling8 on Poet. [APRIL,
Of the far southern sun, reflecting through
The strange " internal regions" of the earth
Upon the frozen northern atmosphere.
I do not like such prosing theories,For I believe that ye're the lambent flames
That Poet's souls are made of. There's a hue
For every grade of genius, and a shade
For every tuneful fancy. And ye seem
So undefinable, so beautiful,
So strange, so grand, so fearfill, as ye move
Between the earth and heaven; mysterious lights
Which earthborn spirits cannot comprehend.
Perchance the aerial powers
Are holding some grand festival to-night,
With mystic rites which mortals may not see;
And they have curtain'd their high galleries
With this yet unembodied intellect,
Fearfully wrought, and gloriously festoon'd
Before the lighted concave. Lo! I see,
Though dimly, through the half-transparent veil,
Bright moving forms, parading to and fro,
In august ceremonies. It may be
The bridal of some bright and loving star;
Or possibly the spirits of the air,
Are met in a mnasonic lodge to-night:
And though these flames possess not yet the forms
Of active intellect, still I believe
That the impressions of these mystic scenes
Remain forever with them; flitting oft
With undefined and thrilling imagery
Along the darken'd mirror of the mind
Within its clay-built temple; filling it
With bright unearthly hopes, and visions blest,
Of love and joy and beauty. Gushing oft
In high and wondrous harpings, fitful lays,
And wild and strange conceits, which other minds
Approach not in their dreamings. Whence the thrill
-The indescribable electric thrillThat rushes through the spirit, as some tone
Of nature's melody awakes the ear;
Or when some balmy zephyr bathes the brow;
Or as the wandering eye marks some rich tint
In summer's rosy garland, when the wind
Bends the elastic grain and slender flow'r;
Or when the rich old forest gently waves
His dark green plumes, answering in majesty
To its impassion'd whisper? When the clouds
Heave up in glorious forms arnd dazzling hues;
Or lie like sleeping beauty, softly bright;
Or sometimes when the trembling star of eve
Looks lovingly upon us? Is it not
That these things touch some half-unconscious chord
That vibrates with the memories of the past
Ere earth enshrined the spirit? It must be
That in the secret treasury of the mind,
There lies a blazon'd volume, of the scenes,
The'trancing beauty and rich hymns of heaven,
With which the spirit was familiar once,
And which it longs for, ever; wandering on
Amid the mazes of earth, sense and sin,
Catching at every shadow which appears
In Fancy's magic mirror, like the form
Of some bright bliss which Memory's piercing eye,
Sees in that hidden volume; wailing still
In bitter disappointment, as it grasps
The vain and empty shade, or sees it flit
In smiling scorn away. Just as your wreaths
Of bright Aurorean tints, ye Northern Lights,
Are fading from the Borealean gates
Of heaven's immense cathedral.
POETS AND POETRY.
[We are governed, in the publication of our Magazine,
by the most Catholic spirit, and hence we do not erect our
own opinions into a standard by which to decide upon the
rejection or admissibility of articles, otherwise deemed
worthy to appear in its pages. Nor are we in the habit
generally of marking our dissent to the sentiments and
views of our contributors, in which it is not possible that
we should always concur. Nevertheless, we cannot insert
the subjoined critique, without saying that we differ, toto
crelo, from the writer, in his appreciation of the poetical
writings of Mrs. Sigourney, Bryant and Willis, and especially that we protest against the harsh and offensive language of the writer, which savors more of personal ill-will,
(though we really believe our friend incapable of any
such feeling,) than of sound, discriminating and impartial
criticism. We might, indeed, demonstrate the injustice of
that criticism, in reference to each of these writers, if we
had space to select a few of the many brilliant gems with
which they have adorned American literature-or if it
were seemly tothrow down to our correspondent the controversial gage. But this we will not do. The fame of the
three writers referred to is so firmly established, and their
exalted genius so universally acknowledged, that the task
would not be less ungracious than superfluous. The prejudiced critic may find indeed defects in theirwritings-but
so does the astronomer detect, by the aid of his telescope,
spots in the sun's disc. We have felt constrained to say
thus much, in order to disclaim even a seeming concurrence in the writer's opinions. We will add, that our correspondent is not less unjust, in his omission of the names
of several distinguished American poets, than in his slashing condemnation of the distinguished trio above referred
to. Among these we may mention Rufus Dawes, Sands,
Pierpont, and Mrs. Lydia Jane Pierson-all of them bright
stars in the galaxy of American literature-of the three
first of whom it were supererogatory to say any thing, and of
the last of whom we may justly say, that, although she be
less known to fame, she does not less deserve to be known,
if all the qualities which go to constitute the poet entitle
her to a place in that shining constellation. We need only
refer to several contributions from her pen which have appeared in previous numbers of the Messenger, "Michal,
Saul's Daughter," "Voice of the Lord," "Ocean Melodies," &e. &c.; and "To the Northern Light," in the present number, to vindicate the correctness of our opinion.]
Ed. Mess.
PENCILLINGS ON POETRY.
There is a pleasure in poetic pains
Which only poets know.- Wordsworth.
"Here you are again with your books of poetry; I shouli
think you would get sick of these rhyming authors!" Such
was the insipid remark of a friend who entered my room
a few evenings since, while I was reading from the magic
page of Coleridge. I did not answer him, for I hear such
remarks so often that they pass by me "like the idle wind,
which I regard not." The truth is, comparatively few
men are acquainted with the meaning or influence of poetry. If youw speak of the exquisite charms of the great
poets of the past, you will be laughed at, and most likely
be called an imaginative or love-sick being. Poor narrowminded and sordid creatures of time! surely your taste and
feelings are far from being enviable. Ye are the persons
who can look upon the green and beautiful earth, and say,
there is no poetry save in the rhyme of harmonious words;
ye think all rhyme must be poetry, and all poetry rhyme.
Poetry is that something which is seen, heard and felt in
every thing around us; as well in the singing bird or sum
Pencillings on Poe".
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