Chapter II (1)

But such! ah! such is not my theme—
Illumined by a grosser fire
Than that which some will truly deem
Befitting well the patriot’s lyre.
And yet how could I pass thee by—
Thou of the fearless soul and eye?—
Thou who hast watched my boyhood’s hours
Amid thy sacred rocks and rills,
Where liberty with glory towers
Unshaken on her thousand hills!

Genius of freedom! let me stand
With thee upon my native land;
Still let me hear thy thunder-voice
Bid every child of thine rejoice;
Still let me see on yonder mast
The banner of the heart unfurl’d—
The playmate of the ocean-blast,
The hope or terror of the world.
And when the minstrel’s form is cold,
His brightest meed of praise shall be,
As o’er his grave yon starry fold
By wind and tempest is unroll’d,
“Freedom! thy minstrel sang of thee!”

——

’Tis dark around! yet darker still
Within that melancholy clime,
Where tireless, sleepless vulture-ill
Sits blackly brooding over crime;
The tempest has a deeper moan;
The night-wind has a wilder tone;
The thunder glares his troubled eye
Amid the hollows of the sky;
And sheeted lightnings swiftly stream
From yonder cloud’s tremendous rack,
And then with swifter stride they seem
In pallid horror hurrying back.

Groans in the dark tide of the air:
Groans in the withered space around:
Groans in the tempest’s sickly glare:
Groans struggling under ground!
And look! Lo! blacker clouds are swelling
Around the thunder’s opened dwelling,
Which with a Vulcan-torch illumes
This realm of everlasting glooms;
Set in the distance—see it stand
Above that melancholy land—
Wild, gloomy, solitary, grand!
Heckla of spirits—placed afar,
The lamp of ghastly heath and rill,
As if like some malignant star
’Twould make them all more ghastly still.

ROSANI.

“Fit time!”—he cried with quivering brow,
Tale such as mine was uttered now;
When all the elements are stirred
To hear a spirit’s fearful word.
Let lightnings flash—let thunders roll,
What terrors have they for the soul
That flees the golden eye of day,
And hates its beams e’en more than they!
I’ve revell’d in their light before
In many a sea, on many a shore—
On many a rock—on many a deck—
Yes! challenged them amid the wreck—
When they and the remorseless sea
Seem’d smiling on my agony.

Yet! have I loved a milder glow
Than yonder lurid fires bestow:
There was a moment! glorious time!
When I, amid my native bow’rs,
Unmoved by care—unsoiled by crime—
Would watch the sunshine beam for hours;
It glowed of my own self a part,
For all was sunshine in the heart,
Which seemed an angel who had left,
He knew not how, the stainless blue,
And smiled, so long of light bereft,
To find an angel wandering, too.

But when I saw the bannered storm—
Like giant rousing from his sleep—
Uplift o’er heaven his awful form,
And from the thunder-chamber sweep
To his dread bridal with the flame
Before their altar of the cloud,
While all his minstrel-tempests came
Around the shrine, in terror bowed,—
I’ve smiled with other smile than this,
For then, I, leaping from the sod,
Saw, in their rude but meaning bliss,
The wondrous glory of a God:—
Yes! e’en when others quailed to see
The red volcano light our clime,
I’ve joyed, for in its ministry
I only saw a torch sublime,
Lighting with its tremendous glare
The glorious pages of His book,
Which men might read if they would dare
Upon those awful leaves to look.

Like thee I joyed alone to range
Amid the beautiful and bright,
A thing like them of love and light—
Like thee my spirit had its change.
The spell was wove! It thundered out
In many a wild and bitter curse—
And thenceforth I was hurl’d about
Hopeless amid the universe.

Long years! oh! how your shadows press
My brow in very weariness:
Here! here ye stretch and ever gloom
Like funeral-foliage of the tomb,
Whose leaves—the favorites of pain
Must ever life from sorrow gain.
Long years! long years! I feel again
Your star-eyed hopes around me glow
Bright as the plumage of a train
Of pilgrim-angels furled below.

We are together: Ila, see
The light of heaven’s own heraldry—
And hark!—the evening breeze is here;
His silver lips no longer mute,—
He breathes—a minstrel-worshipper—
An avè from his leafy lute:
Shall we not join him? Dearest, press
Thy lip to mine, while, as of old,
We hear with love’s sweet tenderness
That glorious vesper music rolled.
We are together in those bowers
Glad as the rosy-footed hours
And all as pure.—I see her now
A creature less of earth than skies,
With day’s pure sunshine on her brow
And heaven’s own midnight in her eyes.
And thus we trod the path of life,
Without nor cloud, nor grief, nor strife—
Like pensile stars whose golden light
Meets on the sable bridge of night
And glows with such a wedded beam
In calm or stormy weather,
That men when looking upwards deem
They are but one, for thus they seem,
So close they shine together.

Ha! whence this change? My Ila! why
That icy mien and tearful eye?
No more for me thou cullest the flow’r;—
No more with me thou seekest the bow’r;—
No more thy sweet lips press my own;—
No more thy warm hands link with mine,
When Daylight, stooping from his throne,
Has furl’d his wing by evening’s shrine.

She answered not! yet sorrow there
Has held a bridal with despair,
And pale her cheek as if with wo
Which none but she must ever know.
In vain I questioned—her reply
A sad reproachfulness of eye,
So firm yet tender in its look,
It ever, sorrowing, seemed to say
“Why torture me!”—I could not brook
Such gaze, but gladly turned away,
Leaving my Ila to her mood
In our old castle’s solitude.
Days rolled away!—And who art thou
With princely step and lofty brow?
What dost thou here within our halls,
Sir knight! unwelcome to these walls?
Days roll’d away!—I sought my sire;
He met me but with glance of ire,
And freezing mystery of air,
Which seemed to say—“Ila?—beware!”
And then he cried, “away! away!
Mad boy, she weds the knight to-day!”
I spoke not; slowly round me came
A wavering sheet of cloud and flame,
Which seem’d to sear my very brain:
How long ’twas thus I cannot say,
Nor when I woke to life again.
They called me mad: I heard the chain
Clanking around my limbs, and near
The hum of voices meet my ear,
And eyes amid the darkness shone
So bright, so angry and so lone—
Methought they were the eyes of those
Whom men have named their demon-foes,
Drawing a life from human woes.
Yes! I was mad, and in my strength
I spurned the dungeon’s hated ground,
Hurled from my limbs the chain, at length,
And thus my birth-right freedom found.
I saw the glorious stars again—
Once more I gazed upon the main
Whose billows e’en in boyhood were
My playmates, when their crested forms
Rushed up like ministers of Fear
Amid their temple of the storms.
Once more I heard the Ocean’s shock
Against the castellated rock;
And saw, oh! gallant, blessed sight!
My barque along the heaving tide,
Like lover resting through the night
Upon the bosom of his bride.
The sail’s unfurl’d! How free! How brave!
On! on my vessel, o’er the wave!
The night-winds kiss thee, as in joy
To meet once more their ocean-boy.
Oh! I had loved thee, glorious sea,
And oft thy waters laved my brow,
But never have I gazed on thee
With such a bounding heart as now.
Roll on! Roll on! thy dark blue foam
Shall henceforth be to me a home.
For days I skimmed the ocean blue,
And deeper still my gladness grew;
And oft my joy was uttered out
To heaven in that delirious shout
Which only he can swell whose life
Is passed amid the ocean’s strife.
And others soon around me came;
And men soon shook before my name.
What trophies glittered on our deck,
How foemen sank with many a wreck,
Let that old ocean’s caverns tell,—
In sooth our spirits loved them well—
They lay beneath us like a spell.

A sail! How looks she in the dark?
“Bravely! She is a royal barque!”
Give thanks! Hurrah! I ween the wave
Before the morn shall be her grave!
Out with the guns!—“Ho, sir! she veers!—
Again! again! Hurrah! she nears!”
She came so nigh, that we could see
The pilot’s lonely ministry.
Sudden as lightning from its lair
Fire glowed around her deck;—
Ha! ship, that rode so proudly there—
Thou art a very wreck!
Once more the frowning guns were out;
Their thunder told in shriek and shout!
“The barque’s on fire!”—with one wild cry!
That pierced the very wave and sky,
Her crew leaped in the tide;
But as she heavily floated by—
Oh! God what met my startled eye?
The chieftain and his bride!
Yes, he and Ila shrined in flame
Were wildly calling on my name:—
At one mad bound I cleared my deck,
And stood upon that burning wreck:
Through flame and smoke I fearless flew!
A moment—I have reached the two!
I grasped him! and the lurid wave
Revenged me well—it was his grave.
I bore her in my arms—the smoke
And flame in vain around me broke,—
I felt them curling o’er my brow,
As fierce they swept from stern to plow;—
I struggled on!—one effort more—
I leaped upon my vessel’s side!
Thank God! the final strife was o’er,
And I had won my ocean-bride!
In one dread shock the crackling mast
Came thundering down beneath the blast:—
The flaming wreck slow drives away—
Dim and more dim we marked the ray;
And now unloosing every sail—
We feel our vessel, like a steed
Gladdening to serve his rider’s need,
Dart out before the gale.

Slowly the thrill of feeling came
Along my Ila’s pallid frame;
I marked the rising crimson swell
Upon the cheek I loved too well,
And heard, how joyously! the sigh
Which told me that she could not die,
At least not then:—she rose at last;
One piercing look around she cast,
And shrieked!—her memory, ah! too soon
Had lighted up those scenes of old,
When I, beneath far different moon
Than that which brightly rose aboon,
My love so passionately told.
She spake not still; but day by day
I saw her calmly sink away
Like some sweet flower or rainbow-form
Whose life is withered by the storm.
But when I saw her pallid lips
Darkling beneath the death-eclipse,
She waved me to her side and said—
I cannot speak her words—the dead
Would stir within their very tomb
To hear such tale!—Enough! she died,
And I beheld in that sea-room
A sister in my ocean-bride.
Oh! how I blessed the God above,
That she went down unsoiled by love
Whose reckless and unholy fire
Springs from the heart of low desire.
My sire had framed a cunning tale
—To shroud his crime, and this the baal!
He brought her to our castle’s hall—
Saying she was a homeless child,
Whom he had found beneath the wall
In all her orphan-freedom wild.
Of that she told me, on the day
She died, thus much I dared to say.

And Ila sleeps within the wave,
And round her peaceful ocean-tomb
The pale flowers of the coral-grave
In all their quiet beauty bloom.
Sleep on! sleep on in that deep rest—
Thou of the stainless brow and breast,—
Oh! holy as the stars that shine
In all their seraph splendor set,
Like torches of a templed-shrine
In midnight’s azure coronet.
She was avenged! That very hour
In which the tide received her form,
The deep-blue sky began to lour
Beneath the scowling of the storm;
And soon the thunder, vast and dark,
Shook his red arm above our barque,
Whose deck deserted—sails all rent
And loose around the shivered mast,
Like reeling clouds were blindly sent
Before the fury of the blast.
“The boats! the boats!”
They’re riding well
Along that billow’s crested swell.
“Save! save yourselves,” I sternly cried,
Undaunted on the plunging deck,
“I go to seek my ocean-bride,
But comrades ye must leave the wreck!”
An instant—they were safe! and I
Alone stood challenging the sky
And rolling waves.
With fearless form
I dared the spirit of the storm:
His red lips answered me—the flame
Leaped burning through my blackened frame!—
And I was here.—
“No more! No more!”
He cried, “that agony was o’er:—
But this!”
He darkly gazed around,
Then quivering sank upon the ground;
And Lorro on his dread distress
Gazed sorrowing—mute and motionless.

The tempest with his train has fled,
And yet no moon hath lit her fire;
Nought lights the darkness, deep and dread,
Save that dim-burning Vulcan-pyre.
With its drear, wavering, ghastly light,
Still heavier than the heavy night:
Most terrible!
The task is done!
How gladly mounts the trembling soul,
Like light returning to its sun,
When Heaven’s own streams of glory roll!
Joy, spirit! joy! I’ve broke the spell;
Land of the lost! dread land, farewell.

——

Soul of that shadowy realm, where Time
Hath thrown his last-expiring wave,
When the Immortal glooms sublime
And terrible above the grave,—
Dread image o’er whose phantasm we
Have hung a shroud of mystery,
And then for countless ages shook
Before its dark, eternal look.
Bold scorner of the groan or tear—
Swaying between the star and storm—
Thou art a mighty thing of fear,
Yet glory crowns thy mystic form.
Vast, potent, melancholy, dim,
Past ruler of the cherubim,
And king-like in thy ruin still,
Thou livest despite of sleepless ill.
Oh! once all splendid in that time,
Ere thy great banners were unfurl’d
Like thunder flashes in the clime
From which the rebel hosts were hurl’d,
How art thou fallen—fallen now!—
The burning seal upon thy brow
Which towered in its own glory bright—
A mighty pyramid of light.
And battling still? Thine essence gleams
Like the dim flashing of a cloud;
Oh! how unlike its heavenly beams
Ere sin that angel-beauty bowed,
And changed thee to a giant curse
Breathed through the shuddering universe—
A deathless, hopeless agony—
An aching immortality.

* * * * *

THE HEAVENLY VISION.

BY THOMAS HOLLEY CHIVERS, M. D.

If I be sure I am not dreaming now,
I should not doubt to say it was a dream.
_Shelley._

I met her in the spring-time of my years,
When suns set golden in the azure west;
The sight of her dissolved my heart to tears—
It seemed she came from heaven to make me blest.

A golden harp was in her snow-white hand,
And when she touched the strings, so softly prest,
The music seemed as from some heavenly band,
As though she came from heaven to make me blest.

Her eyes were of that soft, celestial hue,
Which heaven puts on when Day is in the west;
Whose words were soft as drops of evening dew—
It seemed she came from heaven to make me blest.

Long had we parted—long had she been dead—
When late one night, when all had gone to rest,
Her spirit stood before me—near my bed—
She came from heaven to tell me she was blest.

As some fond dove unto her own mate sings,
So sang she unto me, in my unrest—
Who lay beneath the shadow of her wings—
Of heaven, wherein she told me she was blest.

My spirit had been longing here for years
To know if that dear creature was at rest;
When, just as my poor heart lost all its tears,
She came from heaven to tell me she was blest.

I then grew happy—for with mine own eyes
I had beheld that being whom my breast
Had pillowed here for years—fresh from the skies—
Who came from heaven to tell me she was blest.

I wept no more—from that sad day to this,
I have been longing for the same sweet rest,
When my fond soul shall dwell with her in bliss,
Who came from heaven to tell me she was blest.

* * * * *

MRS. WARE’S POEMS.[1]

Averse, as we have declared ourselves, to any severe criticisms upon the productions of female poets, we are constrained, in the case before us, to speak with a plainness, savoring less of gallantry than truth. If only “_some_ female errors” fell to the lot of Mrs. Katharine Augusta Ware, we might, perhaps, “look in her face” and “forget them all;” but so many are the faults of which she is guilty, that she must have a face as beautiful as Raphael’s Fornarina, to cause us to forget or forgive a tithe of the number. The lady, however, is neither beautiful nor juvenile; she goes so far in her preface as to confess that she cannot plead “_youthful_ diffidence” for her indiscretion in writing and publishing a volume of verses. That she is not beautiful, we state on positive intelligence. On this score, therefore, her sins of metrical commission cannot be pardoned any more than because of her juvenility—an excuse which she so magnanimously disclaims.

On the second leaf of Mrs. Ware’s book, which is not really as well as figuratively _blank_, we perceive, paraded in capital letters, the words “Copyright secured in America.” Now, if the copyright has in fact been secured in America; if it has been entered at the office of the District Clerk of New York or of any other State, as the law directs, it strikes us that the dollar, charged as a fee in such cases, has been absurdly and ridiculously thrown away. The proceeding was altogether supererogatory. Booksellers are not particularly partial to publishing collections of poetry at the best; but that any one of them should be so insane as to re-publish a farrago like this, to enter into rivalry and competition for such a cause, is an hypothesis which never could have been engendered, except in the brain of a rhymster, dizzy with self-conceit. From the fact, however, of a copyright having been secured in America, we are well assured that the author is an American; even this was unnecessary, because Mrs. Katharine Augusta Ware has, in times past, written her name to so many patches of poetry, that it is not unfamiliar to pains-taking readers, at least on our side of the water. She first made herself known to the literary world here as the Editor of a monthly magazine, exquisitely christened “The Bower of Taste.” That any work, with so Rosa-Matildaish a title, could have existed for a year was marvellous; still more marvellous was it, that it survived the merciless visitings of the Muse of Mrs. Ware. With the failure of this undertaking, her literary biography, brief as the posy of a ring, would terminate, were it not for the fact that, during some four years past, she has resided in England, and manufactured, to order, occasional lyrics for the Liverpool Newspapers. By some fatuity, which she has provokingly left unexplained, in a preface written in the worst possible taste, she has been impelled to the perpetration of the volume before us. But, previous to exemplifications of its component properties, let us give the preface entire, by way of showing how very unlike ladies, and how very foolishly, feminine bards can behave on paper. If our readers of both sexes do not laugh at the following outbreak of egotism and vanity, they are less easily amused than we conjecture.

-----

[1] Power of the Passions and other Poems. By Mrs. Katharine Augusta Ware. London: William Pickering, 1842. 1 vol. 12mo. pp. 148

COURTEOUS READER,

I should like to write a Preface, if I could.—Such an ample
field is afforded, for appealing to the sympathy and generosity
of the “Liberal Public.” Such emphatic words as “youthful
diffidence,” “consciousness of errors,” “request of friends,”
“leisure hours,” “relief in solitude,”—all these once attracted
my delighted attention, and I resolved, if _I_ ever should write
a book, to present therewith a very sentimental Preface. But
upon this subject my opinions are changed. Negatively speaking
of my volume—“youthful diffidence” I cannot plead;
“consciousness of errors,” I might, which I own I have had time
to correct. I do not publish at the “request of friends,” for no
friends, to my knowledge, were ever particularly anxious for
such an event. Nor for the amusement of my “leisure hours,” for,
since my remembrance, I never had any. Nor as a “relief in
solitude,” for I am never alone. And permit me to add, not for
gold, for my muse will never become a Crœsus. Lastly, not for
Fame, for light is my regard for her vain breath.

A Preface is an article which I am by no means prepared to
attempt, being apprehensive that my labors might terminate like
those of a certain venerable individual, of spelling-book
celebrity, who, in companionship with his son, and a long-eared
fellow-traveller, by his anxiety to please everybody, found, to
his mortification, that he could please nobody. Now, with the
very moderate desire of pleasing somebody, I have determined to
write no preface to my book, because I am not prepared to make a
single fashionable apology for its publication. At the present
era of book-making, all prefatory introductions seem to be
disregarded as superfluous by the reading community, except to
works of deep erudition, or on subjects which may require
preliminary elucidations from the author. All others are merely
glanced over like the “programme of an entertainment,” or a
“bill of the play,” and obtain no further notice. Scarcely one
reader out of ten has the least interest or curiosity to learn
what motive induced the author to write the volume, which he has
either bought or borrowed for his entertainment. He certainly
has a right to expect it will contain some matter either to
improve, inform, or amuse the mind. If disappointed, no apology,
however gracefully made, will effect a change in his opinion;
and the author may expect to receive the same compliment which a
certain learned doctor (more famed for candor than politeness)
once paid to his delinquent pupil, who made an elaborate apology
for his errors, that he who was good at making “a handsome
apology, was generally good for nothing else.”

Thine respectfully,
K. A. W.

Since we have suffered our author to speak for herself, nobody can accuse us of unfairness, since that captious gentleman, Nobody, is not obliged to think as we do, but can, if he so pleases, pronounce Mrs. Katharine Augusta Ware to be the most modest, unassuming, charming pilgrim, that ever journeyed to the fountain of Helicon, or toiled up the steeps of Parnassus.

We have, in our time, been constrained by our vocation, to spell out a good many pieces of bombast; but we can safely say that, in our serious belief, no rhetorician was ever better furnished with an illustration for that not very rare quality of style, than in the effusion with which we begin to be overwhelmed on page one, under the imposing title “The Power of the Passions.” We had thought of turning the whole into prose, but as we have not the space to spare, and the readers can easily do it for themselves, whenever we shall have occasion to cite a passage, we content ourselves with a cursory description, and no very acute analysis, since the philosophy is quite as incomprehensible as the lines are vapid, and the ideas commonplace. _Imprimis_, we are favored with the strikingly novel information that there was a time, a good while ago, when man stood in God’s own image communing with angels in a bower,

“When first creation dawned upon his view.”

This fair world, we are next agreeably astonished to learn, was given to man by high Omnipotence. At this interesting period, Creation owned her Lord, and all that moved confessed his reign, and the forest monarch bowed down before him, beside the young lamb; (bah!) moreover, birds hailed the rising day, and there were flowers and trees and fruits _cum multis aliis_ of the sort.

Such was fair Paradise! When Woman smiled,
All Eden brightened with a richer glow!
Led by the hand of Deity, she came
To dwell in kind companionship with man,
A sharer of his pleasures and his toils,
Which nature’s genial bosom richly paid:
Love, joy, and harmony, and peace, were there—
God saw his glorious work, and it was good.

These lines are cited, because they are the only good ones in the poem, and because it occurs to us that we have seen something rather like them in the works of a respectable poet of the middle ages—one Milton. In the remainder of the effusion, Mrs. Ware is unquestionably original.

Brief hour of human purity and truth!
Malignant Envy, in the bland disguise
Of friendship, stole, yea, twined his serpent folds
Around fair Wisdom’s consecrated Tree.
“Eat, woman, eat—ye shall _not_ surely die!”
Thus spake the tempter of mankind. _They ate_—
A sudden darkness gathered o’er the sky.
_Wild raged the storm, earth’s firm foundations shook,_
_While ocean trembled from her deepest cells;_
_Blue, livid lightnings flashed with lurid glare,_
_Wreathing in flames the blackened arch of heaven;_
While the loud thunder’s deep, continuous roar
Proclaimed, in God’s _own voice_, that Man was _lost_!

The four verses we have italicised are fiercely grand; more terrible than any we ever saw, except those by which they are succeeded. After the thunder-clap, lions roared, tigers yelled, hyenas cried, wolves howled, leviathans drifted ashore, birds of ill omen shrieked, and there was a dreadful rumpus in general among beasts, such as are usually to be seen in a Zoological Garden. The Arch-Enemy chuckles over this sport, rives his chain, and stalks over the globe, taking the precaution, however, to veil his hideous form and smile demoniac, (why, we cannot well perceive,) and finally speaks. His observations are left to the ingenuity of the reader; but he had no sooner “concluded his remarks,” than

“Wild spirits filled the air, the earth,
The sea.”

These we suppose are the Passions, mentioned in the title. Taking them as they are introduced, they are the most outrageous set of ill-behaved monsters that ever were seen, and are as dissimilar to those polite entities, classified under the same names, and said by the Fourrierists to be easily subjected to the domination of reason and the affections, as can well be imagined. It must be noted, however, that Mrs. Ware is more original in the individuals she recommends to our attention as the Passions, than she is in her figures of speech.

First, Murder came, his right hand red
With the pure blood of his young brother’s heart,
For which his own, in every clime and age,
Hath deeply paid. “_Cursed art thou!_” said God,
And set his mark upon the murderer’s brow.

We were not, until now, aware that _Murder_ was a Passion, considering it rather as a deed, consequent upon some one of the Passions. Next in order comes Remorse, “whose step is followed by Despair.” “Next comes Revenge.” And what _Passion_, reader, do you imagine follows next? “’Tis War, insatiate War.” Another new Passion. Afterwards “pale Jealousy is seen,” in an awful taking because “the treasured ideal of his soul is false;” accordingly, he rushes _blindly_ forth, meets his haughty foe, and, though he is blind, “their _eyes_ have met,” and

The fierce volcano’s flame
Ne’er flashed more wildly than his furious glance!
No more. ’Tis done—the double deed of death.
The reeking steel, red from his rival’s heart,
Is quivering now within her heaving breast.

Here is murder in the first degree once more. Now some people may call this strong writing; we call it fustian run mad. Next come Riot and Folly and Theft and Love and Misery and Guilt, of which we do not recognise any one but Love as belonging to the Passions. Just here there occurs a passage, which is so clearly applicable to the “divine Fanny Elssler,” that, “in the opinion of this court,” an action on the case for heavy damages will lie. Although the _danseuse_ alluded to figures under no name whatsoever, and is merely described as “Another,” we beg leave to put it to the immense jury, consisting of the subscribers to this Magazine, what other than the “splendiferous Madam,” above named, can possibly be signified? Read the remarkable passage, and record your verdicts.

Another, too, in tinselled garb, is near,
’Mid scenic splendor, like a thing of light—
With limbs scarce veiled, and gestures wild and strange,
She gaily bounds in the lascivious dance,
Moving as if her element were air,
And music was the echo of her step.
Around her bold, unblushing brow are twined
The deadly nightshade and the curling vine,
Enwreathed with flowers luxuriant and fair,
Yet poisonous as the Upas in their breath.
Her sparkling eye, keen as the basilisk’s,
Who marks his prey, beams with a flashing light—
False as the flame which hovers o’er the gulf
Of dark oblivion—tempting to destroy.
Mysterious power! men shudder while they gaze—
Despise, yet own her fascinating spell.

As bursts the “deafening thunder of applause,”
’Mid showers of votive wreaths, and _parfum vif_—
Descending like bright Juno from her cloud,
With glance erratic round th’ enchanted ring—
She smiles on all above, and all below,
With regal condescension, and accepts
The worthless homage offered at her shrine.

Let not the reader hastily conclude that he has yet ascended with Mrs. Katharine A. Ware to the cloud-capped summit of turgidity. In the concluding passages of her perfectly ferocious poem, she excels herself. A higher Alp of nonsense towers above the smaller Alps we have already passed. To change the metaphor, all the former passages are mere rattling musket shot, compared to this concentrated, thundering discharge of the artillery of bombast:—

Last in the train of human misery,
Unconscious Madness rushed. The storm that beat
On his unsheltered head and naked breast,
Was calm to that which wildly raged within:
All the dark passions that deform the soul
By turns usurped departed Reason’s throne.

His rolling eye, red as the meteor’s flash,
In fierce defiance wildly glanced around;
While his Herculean frame dilated rose,
As if exulting in its giant strength!
Uprooted trees were strewn across his path—
The remnants of his sanguinary meal,
Still warm with life, lay quivering at his feet;
They caught his eye. Not Etna’s wildest roar
E’er came more deep than his demoniac laugh!
As rolls the distant thunder on—it ceased.

And we cease; but not altogether. Cry not, oh reader, with king-killing Macbeth, “hold, enough!” till we shall have at least ferreted out some stanzas worth commendation, in the one hundred and forty “mortal pages,” which drag their slow length after “The Power of the Passions”—which title, we beg leave to suggest, should be changed to the somewhat Hibernian one of “A Power of Passions,” which would be more expressive of the number of new ones “making their first appearance on any stage.”

All the gross errors of persons who deem themselves poets, but are not—who make verses, to which neither gods, men nor columns can yield applause—are displayed, not only in the effusion which we have too tenderly handled, but in most of the remaining rubbish of metre, which this mistaken lady has raked together and piled up for the diversion of the public in England. It is said of those, who make constant efforts to utter happy repartees and smart jokes, that it would be a wonder if they did not now and then stumble upon a clever hit. The remark may with truth be applied to the indefatigable concoctor of rhymes. Desperate must be his condition, if, at large intervals, good couplets did not slip from his pen. Poor as most of Mrs. Ware’s poems are, stanzas are scattered through them which are really beautiful, and have the air of being in their present position by mistake. Occasionally, also, when the subject is dictated by feeling; when the thoughts well from the heart, and are like those which are entertained by the author in common with other people of sensibility; when she does not strive to be very fine, very grand and very fascinating, her lines run smoothly and gracefully along. Take as a favorable example of her versification one stanza, from a poem called “Diamond Island,” which, as we are told, is a delightful little island, situated in Lake George, and well known to the Northern tourists for its picturesque beauty, and the brilliant crystals to be found on its shores:—

How sweet to stray along thy flowery shore,
Where crystals sparkle in the sunny ray;
While the red boatman plies his silvery oar
To the wild measure of some rustic lay.

As a specimen of the sometimes able and sometimes slovenly mode in which Mrs. Ware poetizes, take the following couplets as an example. In describing what scenes are beheld by “The Genius of Græcia,” she finely writes:—

“Views the broad Stadium, where the Gymnic art
Nerved the young arm and energized the heart.”

A little further on, our ears are tortured with—

“Where Scio’s isle blushes with Christian gore,
And hostile fiends still yell around the shore.”

Well nigh tired of animadversion, let us employ the remainder of this article with selections that will be read with satisfaction, and which may strike some sympathetic and responsive chords. We need not bestow any higher praise upon the following pieces, chosen with care, as by far the best in the volume, (though we will venture to assert that the author considers them the poorest,) than to remark that we consider them worthy of the space they occupy in this magazine.

LOSS OF THE FIRST BORN.

“A grief that passeth show.”

I saw a pale young mother, bending o’er
Her first born hope. Its soft blue eyes were closed—
Not in the balmy dream of downy rest;
In Death’s embrace the shrouded babe reposed,
It slept the dreamless sleep that wakes no more!
A low sigh struggled in her heaving breast,
But yet she wept not—hers was the deep grief
The heart in its dark desolation feels;
Which breathes not in impassioned accents wild,
But slowly the warm pulse of life congeals:
A grief, which from the world seeks no relief—
A mother’s sorrow o’er her first-born child!

She gazed upon it with a steadfast eye,
Which seemed to say—Oh! would I were with thee.
As if her every earthly hope were fled
With that departed cherub. Even he—
Her young heart’s choice, who breathed a father’s sigh
Of bitter anguish o’er the unconscious dead—
Felt not, while weeping by its funeral bier,
One pang so deep as hers, who shed _no tear_!

THE HEBREW MOTHER.

(A PAINTING.)

Bright glowed the sun on Nile’s resplendent tide,
Reflecting the rich landscape far and wide;
The verdant hills, with lofty cedars crowned,
Those heights sublime, where, in stern glory, frowned
Egypt’s proud battlements, stretched forth on high,
Like a dark cloud athwart the summer sky!
But softer shadows claimed a birth-place there;
The pensile willow, and the lotus fair,
And flowers of richest bloom, their perfume gave,
To wreathe the margin of the azure wave.

’Twas to this calm and beautiful retreat,
With wildly throbbing heart and trembling feet,
The Hebrew Mother came. To her sad breast,
Her youngest hope, a lovely boy, she prest,—
He whom a tyrant’s voice had doomed to die!
With anguish-riven soul and tearful eye,
She looked on his bright cheek and cherub smile,
Then gently hushed him to repose; and while
Within his fragile barque she laid him, gazed
Her last upon the sleeping babe! then raised
To the Almighty one a fervent prayer,
Confiding her soul’s treasure to his care:
Then, as with firmer step she homeward trod,
With faith renewed, she left him to his God!

BLOWING BUBBLES.

It was a lovely picture! A young boy,
Of scarce five summers, on a terrace stood,
Which overlooked a region of sweet flowers,
As fresh and blooming as his own bright cheeks;
While from a pipe, wiled from his ancient nurse
With many a kiss, the rosy urchin blew
Those air-created globes, which, as they soared
Through the blue space, caught the gay tints of morn.
Buoyant and bright as youthful hopes they seemed,
And radiant as those visioned forms of bliss
That hover in the dreams of innocence.

I watched the rapturous gaze of that young boy,
And heard his joyous shout, as rising high
Upon the breeze, those fragile orbs were borne.
But when they sank, and vanished from his view,
A cloud of sadness came o’er his fair brow.

This picture read a lesson to my heart.
Oh—how like these, thought I, are half the hopes
And pleasures of this life. No sooner do
They smile upon our view—than they are gone!

NEW YEAR WISH.

TO ANNA MARIA, AGED FIVE YEARS.

Dear one, while bending o’er thy couch of rest,
I’ve looked on thee as thou wert calmly sleeping,
And wished—Oh! couldst thou ever be as blest
As now—when haply all thy cause of weeping
Is, for a truant bird, or faded rose;
Though these light griefs call forth the ready tear,
They cast no shadow o’er thy soft repose,
No trace of care, or sorrow, lingers here.

With rosy cheek, upon the pillow prest,
To me thou seemest a cherub, pure and fair,
With thy sweet smile, and gently heaving breast,
And the bright ringlets of thy clustering hair;
What shall I wish thee, little one? Smile on
Through childhood’s morn—through life’s gay spring—
For oh—too soon will those bright hours be gone!
In youth time flies upon a silken wing.

May thy young mind, beneath the bland control
Of education, lasting worth acquire;
May virtue stamp her signet on thy soul,
Direct thy steps, and every thought inspire!
Thy parents’ earliest hope—be it their care
To guide thee through youth’s path of shade and flowers,
And teach thee to avoid false pleasure’s snare;
Be thine—to smile upon their evening hours.

There are some graceful translations from the French; but, besides the above, we should find it difficult to quote an original poem, good as a whole. We have now and then some spirited lines, and frequently some weak ones; but the latter outnumber the former.

Strange as it may seem, the same hand wrote both of the following passages—the one, with the exception of its concluding verse, vigorous, free, correct—the other, puerile, silly, commonplace.

Sculpture! oh what a triumph o’er the grave
Hath thy proud Art!—thy powerful hand can save
From the destroyer’s grasp the noble form,
As if the spirit dwelt, still thrilling warm,
In every line and feature of the face;
The air majestic, and the simple grace
Of flowing robes, which shade, but not conceal,
All that the classic chisel would reveal.
In thy supremacy thou stand’st sublime,
Bidding defiance to the scythe of time!

The thought of thee is like the breath of morn,
Which whispers gently through the blooming trees;
Like music o’er the sparkling waters borne,
When the blue waves heave in the summer breeze.

We have faithfully performed our unpleasant duty in the foregoing criticism. A high standard has been set up by us, and it must be defended. Censure is far less agreeable to us than commendation; but the last would be wholly valueless, when flowing from our pen, were we always to withhold the first. Poetry, to be acceptable, must have higher qualities than those which the mere habit and practice of writing confers. A man may play very well on the piano and not be a musician; he may sketch very well and not be a painter; he may model very well and have no just claim to be called a sculptor. The maker of graceful stanzas is not a poet; he is at best entitled only to be called a person of accomplishments. He is inexcusable when he brings himself prominently before the public and claims to be ranked among artists. Women, more than men, cultivate their powers of taste. We know many of the sex who not only sing and sketch, but write very nice verses. They would, however, shrink from publicity with a sensitive dread of ridicule. For the sake of a pure literature this apprehension should be kept alive by an occasional article, like the one which we have felt ourselves impelled to present on the effusions of Mrs. Katharine Augusta Ware.

B.

* * * * *

LOVE AND PIQUE;

OR, SCENES AT A WATERING-PLACE.

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

THE VENTILATOR.

It was one of the most sultry days of an intensely hot summer, the thermometer stood at eighty-five in the shade, every thing was parched with fervent heat, and, as if to show their powers of endurance, half the world, leaving the quiet comfort of luxurious homes, were inhaling the close and unhealthful atmosphere of a crowded watering-place. Cecil Forrester had mingled with the throng, and, bidding adieu to his father’s beautiful country-seat, where the murmur of a rushing stream mingled its cool refreshing sound with the whisper of the summer breeze, had obtained, for a certain consideration, the privilege of occupying an apartment, some eight feet by ten, in the great hotel which stretches its huge length along the sands at ——. But Cecil had other motives than simple obedience to the dictates of fashion. He was in love, deeply and earnestly in love, and the lady on whom he had bestowed his affections seemed to him one of those exquisite creatures, equally well fitted to be the gem of a ball-room or the ornament of domestic life. He had met her in the sequestered village of Norwood, whither he repaired every summer to visit a favorite sister, and where the lovely Miss Oriel had come to repair the ravages which a winter’s dissipation had made in her fresh complexion. They had enjoyed a flirtation of the most delightful kind, because it had been purely sentimental, and such is, after all, the most agreeable variety of that very common species of amusement. Laura Oriel had laid aside all her usual gaiety of apparel, her dress was the very perfection of elegant simplicity; her raven hair was braided, without a single ringlet, around her well turned head, and, in short, nothing could be more attractive than the city belle so suddenly transformed into _la jolie paysanne_ of a country village. Many a moonlit walk had Cecil Forrester enjoyed with her, many a beautiful fancy had been pictured out during their rambles in the summer woods, many a noble sentiment had been uttered beneath the deep shadow of the rocky cliff, many a delicate thought had been evolved amid the beauty and sublimity of nature. The time passed like a dream. The genial breezes of flowery June had been exchanged for the fervent heats of July, and these had again been forgotten in the more oppressive sultriness of August before their happiness was disturbed by a single thought of the future. But Miss Oriel was then obliged to accompany her mother to ——. It was a most disagreeable necessity, for she did not love a crowd, and though her fortune and station in society compelled her to appear among the multitude, yet she was only happy in the seclusion of domestic life. But duty to her only parent was the ruling principle of her existence. Her mother’s wishes had forced her into society during the past winter, and now the same irresistible power drew her to the turbulent scenes of a fashionable watering-place. Poor thing! she was certainly to be pitied, and so thought Cecil Forrester. He was upon the point of expressing his ardent admiration, and offering his heart and hand to her whose tender friendship had made him bankrupt in all that was worthy of her acceptance. But, somehow or other, no opportunity occurred for any such explanation. The lady rather avoided those delicious walks which, though favorable to the growth of affection, might afford chances for an unseasonable declaration. So Cecil was only able to inform her of his intention to meet her at ——, and contented himself, for the present, with offering her a splendid copy of Rogers’ Poems, in which he had inscribed her name in the most delicate of Italian writing, and where she found, on further examination, the words “To her who will understand me,” written over the pretty pastoral poem entitled “The Wish.”

“Mine be a cot beside a hill;
A beehive’s hum shall soothe mine ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
To share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing,
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church, amid the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze
And point, with taper spire, to Heaven.”

It was certainly a most appropriate and delicately expressed choice for such a lover of natural beauty and quiet happiness as Miss Laura Oriel.

But to return to ——. Mr. Forrester knew that Miss Oriel was expected to arrive there on a certain morning, and, as he had gone down several days previous, he was, of course, on the watch for her. Most impassioned admirers would have rushed out to welcome the object of their thoughts at the very first glimpse of her green veil. But Cecil was no vulgar lover, his taste was excessively refined, and for his own sake, no less than out of regard to the lady’s feelings, he did not choose to behold her in travelling dishabille after a long and dusty ride. He therefore contented himself with watching from an upper window her descent from the stage coach, and then retired to his apartment until the preparatory dinner-bell should summon the _élite_ to the saloon. As I have said before, the day was excessively warm, and all the ventilators (which had been mercifully placed over each door to prevent suffocation) stood wide open, as if the rooms, like their heated occupants, were gasping for breath. Cecil, who had a tolerably correct notion of comfort, had loosed his boot-straps, unbraced his stays, and flung himself upon the bed to indulge a pleasant reverie before he commenced his toilet, when he was suddenly recalled to the scenes of actual life by the sound of a well-known voice.

The apartments to which Miss Oriel and her mother had been conducted (the privilege of selection would be a most unheard-of innovation of the rights of hotel-keepers at such a season) happened to be immediately opposite to the one already occupied by Mr. Forrester. The ventilators of both were open, and, as he heard her voice, he felt a sweet satisfaction in the thought, that the soft southern breeze which was cooling his brow also fanned the ringlets of his beautiful mistress. But really there was no excuse for his listening to her conversation; it was most ungentlemanlike, but at the same time, I am sorry to say, most natural; and though heartily ashamed of him for so doing, I am obliged to confess that he paid the closest attention to every word of their discourse.

“How long do you want to stay here, Laura?” said the mother, in that wheezing sort of voice which belongs to fat, pursy old ladies when over-fatigued.

“That will depend upon circumstances,” was the short and rather crusty reply.

“Do you know they charge twelve dollars a week, and every bath is an extra expense?”

“What of that? We must risk something in all speculations, and mine is a pretty safe venture.”

“I wish we had left Ellen Grey at home.”

“I don’t agree with you; we owe her some return for staying nearly three months with her at Norwood, and I cannot bear to be under an obligation to such mighty good sort of people, for they never forget it.”

“But her board will be expensive, and I do not see why it would not have been as well to invite her to our house in the winter.”

“You don’t seem to understand my plans, Mamma. Ellen Grey is pretty, and modest, and sentimental, and all that; she is just the kind of person to be very attractive to gentlemen when seen in domestic life, but she is too timid to appear well in a place like this. She will scarcely dare to raise her eyes in such a crowd, and therefore there can be no rivalry between us. Besides, she has a great deal of taste, and her assistance at my toilet enables me to dispense with a dressing maid.”

“I cannot see much force in your argument.”

“Perhaps not; what would you say if I tell you I want her as a foil?”

“She is too pretty to serve such a purpose.”

“You are greatly mistaken; any body would look well beside an ugly girl, but one must be exceedingly beautiful to bear a comparison with as pretty a creature as Ellen Grey. Her delicate complexion, which is continually suffused with blushes, her fair hair and blue eyes would appear lovelier any where else than they will beside me.”

“Such beauty as yours requires no foil, Laura.”

“I choose to employ one, notwithstanding; I have come here for the express purpose of attracting Fitzroy Beauchamp, and I mean to neglect nothing, however trifling, to compass my schemes.”

“What will Cecil Forrester say?”

“If I succeed, he may say what he pleases. I mean to play off my present lover against the future one; and Cecil will be of use to me by exciting the jealousy of Beauchamp.”

“I declare you are too bad, Laura.”

“I only mean to study your interest and my own, Mamma. Cecil Forrester was a delightful companion in the country, his enthusiasm was so well adapted to the time and place, that it seemed to give charms to the dull and stupid village, which it could not otherwise have possessed. I certainly played my part to perfection, indeed, I almost began to fancy that there was really some feeling in my acting; at any rate he has the most implicit faith in my sensibility. How often I have laughed over the love-sick youth’s rural wish! I think I see myself as

‘Lucy at her spinning-wheel,
In russet gown and apron blue.’”

“I wonder how you kept up the farce so long, Laura; even Ellen thinks you a most exemplary sentimentalist.”

“Oh, it was a pleasant mode of getting rid of time; nothing sharpens one’s wits like a flirtation with a real lover—I have learned twenty new stratagems from my ‘_country practice_.’”

“Are you sure Mr. Beauchamp is rich?”

“He drives blood-horses, sports a tiger in livery, lives at the Astor, drinks wine at $8 a bottle, and, what is more, pays his bills.”

“How did you learn this?”

“From very good authority; he is said to have $200,000 in bank stocks besides a sugar plantation worth $12,000 per annum, and slaves enough to stock a colony; so you see he is a prize worth winning. As for Cecil Forrester, I am sorry he is here, but I must manage to turn him over to the unsophisticated little rustic for the present. I do not wish to give him a downright dismissal, because if I should fail to secure the millionaire it would be as well to fall back upon Forrester’s $30,000. The game will be a difficult one, but the glory of success will be the greater.”

“I hope you will reap some of the spoils of victory, Laura, for our legacy is rapidly diminishing, and when it is gone you know there will be no further chance.”

“Never fear, Mamma; my stock in trade is very good—beauty, tact, and five thousand dollars form a very excellent capital, and I think I can afford to speculate rather largely.”

“But more than half of the most essential part of your capital is already gone, and you have not as yet succeeded.”

“You forget that I have gained a footing in society by its expenditure; leave every thing to me, and if I am not married before next season, then write me down a fool.”

Cecil Forrester heard every word of this dialogue. At its commencement he had started to his feet, and if any one could have witnessed his gestures and contortions he would have been deemed a madman. His face flushed and paled, his eyes dilated with anger and flashed with contempt, his lip curled in bitter scorn, and narrowly escaped being bitten through as he gnashed his teeth in impotent rage; he clenched his hands, he tore off the turquoise ring which he had hitherto worn on his little finger as a _gage d’amitié_ from the false beauty, and finally, after exhausting his angry emotions, he flung himself into a seat, with a calm and determined expression of countenance which augured ill for some of the schemes of Miss Laura Oriel.

THE DINING-ROOM.