Chapter VII: Front Matter (7)

"The road to your farm is rather intricate, my good sir," said the colonel, as he took his seat, "and though I had a pretty good chart of the country, (here he looked at Caroline and smiled one of those winning smiles, but Caroline did not, or would not see him,) I was so stupid as to miss the way, for when I reached the cross roads, instead of taking the right I directed the servant to the left, and moved on some time in the wrong direction without meeting a human being of whom to make inquiry. At length I had the good fortune to encounter a gentleman on horseback, who corrected my error, adding the satisfactory assurance, that I had gone at least four miles in the opposite direction to that which I desired to go; so that, though I set out betimes, it was thus late before I reached here."

"Well, I wonder!" cried my mother.

"Then colonel you must be sadly in want of refreshment," said my father. "My dear"--

"Not at all so, my dear sir. I beg you will give yourselves no trouble on my account. I assure you"--

"Sit still, colonel, I beg of you," interrupted my father, as the former rose to urge his remonstrance.--"Sit still, sir; trouble indeed; we'll have supper directly, and I don't care if I nibble a little myself."

So the colonel gave up the contest, but when he reseated himself, he perceived Caroline was gone; she had slipped out of the room with my mother. The colonel had a very nice supper that night, and he did it justice. Who prepared it, think you? my mother? No, for she returned to the room in two minutes after she left it. I knew who prepared it, and so did the colonel, or he made a shrewd guess; for, when Caroline returned, he gave her a look that spoke volumes of thankfulness, and of such exquisite fondness that it made the blood mount to her very forehead.

A week passed away, and colonel H----d remained a constant guest at my father's; and though I could not but like and admire him, his conduct was a source of great annoyance to me, for no sooner did Caroline make her appearance in the breakfast room in the morning {48} than he posted himself next to her; and then they took such long walks together, and would spend so many hours in riding about the country, and they never asked me to accompany them, so that Caroline had as well have been in town again, for the opportunity I had of conversing with her. The result of all this is, of course, plain to the reader; and it was soon formally announced that on the third day of the succeeding month Caroline was to become the bride of the wealthy and gallant Colonel H----d, and accompany him forthwith to his distant home, for his residence was in the state of Georgia. I wept bitter tears, and sobbed as if my heart would break as I laid all lonely in my bed that night on which this latter piece of intelligence had been communicated by my father, until sleep, the comforter of the wretched, extended to me the bliss of oblivion. "Blessings on the man who invented sleep," says friend Sancho--blessings, aye blessings indeed, on all bountiful nature who, while she gives rest to the wearied body bestows consolation on the grieving heart, lulls into gentle calm the storm of the passions, plucks from power its ability and even its wish to oppress, and hushes in poverty the sense of its weakness and its degradation. My fate has not been more adverse than that of the generality of men, but "take it all in all," the happiest portion of my existence has been spent in sleep. Why did I weep? The being whom I loved best on earth was about to be wedded to the worthy object of her choice,--a choice that affection sanctioned and reason might well approve; and even to my young observation it was apparent that while she gave, she was enjoying happiness. There was pleasure in the beaming of her sparkling eyes, there was joy in the dimples of her rosy smile. The very earth on which she trod seemed springing to her step, and the air she breathed to be pure and balmy. Could she be happy and I feel miserable? and that misery growing too, out of the very source of her happiness. Yes; even so unmixed, so absorbing was my selfishness. _My_ selfishness! the selfishness of humanity; for even as the rest of my fellow men so was, and so am I. I thought of the many hours of delight I had enjoyed in her presence, of the thousand daily kindnesses I had experienced at her hand. She alone was wont to partake of my youthful joys, to sympathize with my boyish griefs; it was her praise that urged me to exertion, the fear of her censure that restrained me from mischief. And all this was to pass away, and to pass with her presence too. Never more was my heart to drink in the sweet light of her eyes; never more would her soft voice breathe its music in my ear. I felt that I dwelt no longer in her thoughts; I believed my very image would soon perish from her memory. Such were the bitter thoughts that weighed down my mind.

I go on spinning out this portion of my tale, no doubt very tediously, and my readers will perhaps despair of my ever arriving at the end; but patience, I shall get there by and by. "Bear with me yet a little while." It is that I shrink from what I have undertaken to narrate, that I wander into digression; for whatever effect it may have on others, whose only interest in it will arise from momentary excitement, on me the fearful casualty I shall describe, has imposed "the grief of years." Many a pang has my heart experienced in my pilgrimage through this weary world, and some grievous enough to sustain; time and occupation, however, have afforded their accustomed remedy, and scars only are left to mark where the wounds have been. But this, though inflicted in boyhood's springy days, is festering now; aye now, when the very autumn of manhood is passed, and the winter of age is congealing the sources of feeling and of life.

The wedding day was drawing nigh. One little week remained of the appointed time; and a joyous man, no doubt, was colonel H----d, as hour after hour winged its flight, and each diminished the space that lay betwixt him and his assured felicity. Poor weak creatures that we are, whose brief history is but a record of hope and disappointment, ever deceived by the mirage of happiness that glitters afar in the desert of life, and recedes from before us as we pursue, till outworn, we sink into death with our thirst unslaked, our desires ungratified. One little week remained. What matters the brevity of time when a moment is fraught with power to destroy. Behold the gallant ship with tightened cordage and outspread sails, dashing from her prow the glittering spray as she dances on the leaping wave to the music of the breeze; cheerful faces crowd her deck, for she is homeward bound from a distant land; and now her port is almost reached, a hidden rock has pierced her side, the eternal sea rolls over the sunken wreck. The warrior has charged and broken the foe; the shout of victory rings in his ears, and fancy twines the laurel round his brow; but treachery lurks in his armed array, and the clarion of conquest sounds the note of defeat. The mighty city with its thousand domes, its marble palaces, and its crowded marts, over which ages have urged their onward flight, and still it grew in wealth and strength, has felt the earthquake's shock. Black mouldering ruins and a sullen sulphurous lake are left to mark the spot where once its "splendors shone." And the heart, the human heart, with its high aspirations, and its treacherous whisperings of unmixed joys, its blindness of trust in coming events, its strange forgetfulness of the hours gone by, its sunny morning of boundless hope, its stormy night of dark despair.

My father's house was situated on an elevated spot, commanding an extensive view of the broad Potomac; from its front to the bank of the river, a distance of some hundred yards, the ground descended in a gentle slope terminating in a sheer precipice, and down, down "a fearful depth below," rolled on the rapid waters. The bank was composed of vast masses of rock, between the crevices of which pushed forth gnarled and jagged trees of various kinds, shooting their moss-covered branches in every direction, and hugged in strict and stifling embrace by huge vines, that looked like the monster boas, of a preadamate world. The summit was lined with a dense growth of underwood, that hid from the passer by the awful chasm upon whose very margin he might be unconciously standing. As the main road (which ran parallel to the course of the river) laid upwards of a mile from the rear of the dwelling house, and was, besides being generally in very bad order, very uninteresting in its character, we were in the habit of using for the purpose of visiting some of our neighbors, a path that ran along and was dangerously near to the verge of the precipice, but which had been travelled so long and so often without accident, that we {49} had ceased to think of even the possibility of any occurring. It was a bright sunshiny morning, the blue sky studded with those massy rolling clouds whose purple shades give such strong relief to the fleecy white, and cheat the fancy into portraying a thousand resemblances; ancient castles with frowning battlements, mighty ships resting beneath their crowded canvass, bright fairy isles, where a poet's soul would delight to wander, dark yawning caverns, in whose undreamt of depths the pent up spirits of the damned might be "imagined howling." Pardon, pardon! but sea and sky have always set me raving. It was at the breakfast table that I informed my father I would ride over to aunt Diana's and see if they were all well.--"The weather is so fine, and I have not seen our good aunt for some time. I will ride with you; that is, if you'll let me, cousin Harry," said Caroline, as if it were not a delight to me to have her company. The colonel, too, proposed to join us, and we went to get ourselves in readiness. We were soon on the road, and away we cantered, full of health and youth and spirits. The breeze came fresh and soft from the surface of the waters, and played among Caroline's curls and revelled on her cheek, as if to gather the odors of the rose, where its beauteous hue was so richly spread. We paid our visit, partook of aunt Diana's good things, and set off on our return, amid her protestations against our hurry. Caroline was riding on a nice little mare that had been bred on the farm, and had always been the pet of the family; as gentle and as playful as a lamb, but at the same time full of spirit. We had arrived at a part of the road where the precipice (now on our right hand) was highest. I was in front, Caroline next to and behind me; a hare crossed my path: "take care my boy," cried Colonel H----d, "that, you know, is said to be a bad omen." Scarcely had he spoken when my horse started, and wheeled short round; the mare partook of his fright, swerved half to the left, and reared bolt upright. "Slack your rein and seize the mane, Caroline," I screamed in agony. It was too late; the mare struggled, and fell backwards. Oh, God! A shriek, a rushing sound

* * * * *

I entered the chamber where innocence and beauty had been wont to repose; around me were the trappings of the grave; the cold white curtains with their black crape knots, the shrouded mirror, the scattered herbs--and stretched upon the bed motionless, lay a form--the form of her whose living excellence was unsurpassed. My father came in; he took my hand, led me to the bed, and gently removed the sheet from the marble face. Oh, death, thou art indeed a conqueror!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET,

WRITTEN ON THE BLUE RIDGE IN VIRGINIA.

Gigantic sov'reign of this mountain-chain,
Proud Otter Peak! as gazing on thee now
I mark the sun its parting splendor throw
Athwart thy summit hoar--I sigh with pain
To think thus soon I needs must turn again
And seek man's bustling haunts! What if my brow
No longer wear the signs of sorrow's plough,
Doth not my heart its traces still retain,
And I still hate the crowd?--Yes! it is so,
And scenes alone such as surround me here--
These deep'ning shades--thy torrents loud and clear--
Yon half-hid cot--the cattle's plaintive low--
The raven's cry, and the soft whispering breeze,
Have now the pow'r this aching breast to please.

* * *

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

STANZAS,

WRITTEN AT THE WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA.

With spirits like the slacken'd strings
Of some neglected instrument--
Or rather like the wearied wings
Of a lone bird by travel spent;
Ah! how should I expect to find
Midst scenes of constant revelry,
A solace for a troubled mind,
A cure for my despondency?--

There was a time when mirth's glad tone
And pleasure's smile had charms for me--
But disappointment had not strown
My pathway then with misery:
Health then was mine--and friends sincere--
Requited love--and prospects bright--
Nor dreamt I that a day so clear
Could ever set in such a night!

* * *

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ---- ---- OF THE U. S. NAVY.

Tell me--for thou hast stood on classic ground,
If there the waters flow more bright and clear,
And if the trees with thicker foliage crowned,
Are lovelier far than those which blossom here?

Say is it true, in green unfading bowers,
That there the wild bird sings her sweetest lay?
And that a light, more beautiful than ours,
Lends richer glories to expiring day?

Wooed by Italian airs, does woman's cheek
With purer color glow, than in our land?
Or does her eye more eloquently speak,
Or with a softer grace her form expand?

Does music there, with power to us unknown,
Breathe o'er the heart a far diviner spell?
And with a sweeter, more entrancing tone,
The thrilling strains of love and glory swell?

Tell me if thou in thought didst dearer prize
Thy home, than all that Italy could give?
Didst thou regret that her resplendent skies
Should smile on men as slaves content to live?

Didst thou, when straying in her cities fair,
Or in her groves of bloom, regret that here
No perfumes mingle with the passing air?
And was thine own, thy native land, less dear?

Or didst thou turn where proudly in the breeze
America's star-spangled flag was flying?
The flag that o'er thee waved on the high seas;
With conscious heart exultingly replying,

"No slothful land of dreaming ease is ours,
Her soil is only trodden by the free--
Less rich in music, poetry, and flowers,
Still, still she is the land of all for me!"

E. A. S.

_Lombardy, Va._

{50}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MUSINGS II--_By the Author of Vyvyan_.

The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets
Ebbing and flowing.--------_Rogers_.

I loved her from my boyhood--she to me
Was as a fairy city of the heart,
Rising like water columns from the sea.
_Childe Harold_, Canto IV. Stanza xviii.

There is, far in a foreign clime,
Alas! no longer free--
A city famed in olden time
As queen of all the sea;
Still fair but fallen from her prime--
For such is destiny.

There motley masque and princely ball
Make gay the merry carnival,
And all the night some serenade
Steals sweetly from the calm Lagune,
While many a dark eyed loving maid
Is wooed in secret neath the moon.

And swiftly o'er the noiseless tide
Gondolas dark, like spectres, glide
Neath archways deep and bridges fair,
Temples and marble palaces,
Adorned with jutting balconies,
And dim arcades of beauty rare.

There's naught that meets the wondering eye,
From the wave that kisses the landing stair
To the sculptured range in the azure sky,[1]
But wears a wild unearthly air,
And every voice that echoes among
Those phantomlike halls, breathes the spell of song.

The rudest Barcarolli's cry,
Heard faint and far o'er Adria's waves,
Might cheat the listener of a sigh--
So sad the farewell which it leaves,
When sinking on the ear it dies
Along the borders of the skies.

Oh! Venice! Venice! couldst thou be
Still wond'rous fair and even as free!
How peerless were thy regal halls!--
How glorious were thy seagirt walls!--
But foreign banners flaunt thy tide,
And chains have tamed thy lion's pride.

Thy flag is furled upon the sea,
Thy sceptre shivered on the land,
And many a spirit mourns for thee
Beyond the Lido's barren strand:
Better thy towers were sunk below
The level of Old Ocean's flow.

Fair city of the fairest clime,
Sad change hath come o'er thee--
The spirit voice of olden time
Is wailing o'er thy sea;
And matin bell and vesper chime
Seem knelling for the free
Who reared thy standard o'er the wave
And spurned the chains that now enslave.

[Footnote 1: The tops of many of the buildings are ornamented with a range of statues.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE GENIUS OF COLUMBIA TO HER NATIVE MUSE.

A parent's eye, sweet mountain maid,
Hath seen thee rise in Sylvan shade;
And patient, lent attentive ear
Thy first, wild minstrelsy to hear:
And thou hast breathed some artless lays,
That well deserve the meed of praise;
For, nursed by spirits bold and free,
Thy notes should breathe of Liberty.
Yet some who scan thy numbers wild,
Inquire if thou art Fancy's child,
Or some impostor, duly taught
To weave with skill the borrow'd thought.
Then list, my child! Experience sage
May well direct thy guileless age.

Breathe not thy notes with spirit tame,
Nor pilfer, from an honor'd name,
The praise that crowns the sons of fame.
Be not by imitation taught,
To blend with thine, the vagrant thought,
From Britain's polish'd minstrels caught.
Full oft my mountain echoes tell,
How Byron's genius fram'd a spell,
Which reason vainly seeks to quell:
Did not his spirit cast a gloom
On all who shared his adverse doom,
E'en from the cradle to the tomb?
With intellectual treasures bless'd,
With misanthropic thoughts possess'd,
Their sway alternate fired his breast.
He pour'd the lava stream alone,
In torrents from that burning zone,
Which girt his bosom's fiery throne.
Enough! on his untimely bier
Affection shed no hallow'd tear--
He claim'd no love--he own'd no fear.

And she,[1] whose light poetic tread
Scarce sways the dewdrop newly shed
Upon the rose-bud's infant head;
Most meet to be the tender nurse
Of virtue, wounded by the curse
Of passion's fierce and lawless verse,
Whose dulcet strain, with soothing pow'r,
Can calm the soul in sorrow's hour,
And scatter many a thornless flow'r:
The thoughts that breathe in each soft line,
Seem spirits from a purer shrine
Than earth can in her realms confine.
Yet mayst thou not, in mimic lay,
Such lofty arts of verse essay?
'Twere but a vain and weak display.
Be Freedom's bold, unfetter'd child,
And roam thy native forests wild,
Where, on thy birth, all nature smil'd;
Dwell on the mountain's sylvan crest,
Where fair Hygeia roams confest,
Bright Fancy's ever honor'd guest:
Mark the proud streams that onward sweep,
And to old Ocean's bosom leap--
Majestic offspring of the deep.
Their inspiration shall be thine,
And nature, from that mighty shrine, {51}
Shall prompt thee with a voice divine!
When thy free spirit is reveal'd,
The spells within its depths conceal'd
Will soon a golden tribute yield.
In numbers free, by nature taught,
Breathe forth the wild poetic thought,
And let thy strains be Fancy fraught.

Enough! my child! a parent's voice
Would fain direct thy youthful choice
To themes, majestic and sublime,
The fruits of Freedom's favor'd clime.
Enough! For thee has nature thrown
O'er the wild stream a curb of stone,
Whose pendant arch in verdure dress'd,
Binds the tall mountain's cloven crest.[2]
For thee the volum'd waters sweep
Through riven mountains to the deep.[3]
For thee the mighty cataract pours
In thunder, through opposing shores;
And rushing with delirious leap,
Bursts the full fountains of the deep;
A billowy phlegethon--whose waves
Rend the strong walls of Ocean's caves.

C.

[Footnote 1: Mrs. Hemans.]

[Footnote 2: The Natural Bridge.]

[Footnote 3: Harper's Ferry.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DEATH AMONG THE TREES.

Death walketh in the forest. The tall Pines
Do woo the lightning-flash,--and thro' their veins
The fire-cup darting, leaves their blacken'd trunks
A tablet, where Ambition's sons may read
Their destiny. The Oak that centuries spar'd,
Grows grey at last, and like some time-scath'd man
Stretching out palsied arms, doth feebly cope
With the destroyer, while its gnarled roots
Betray their trust. The towering Elm turns pale,
And faintly strews the sere and yellow leaf,
While from its dead arms falls the wedded vine.
The Sycamore uplifts a beacon-brow,
Denuded of its honors,--while the blast
That sways the wither'd Willow, rudely asks
For its lost grace, and for its tissued leaf
Of silvery hue.

I knew that blight might check
The sapling, ere kind nature's hand could weave
Its first spring-coronal, and that the worm
Coiling itself amid our garden-plants
Did make their unborn buds its sepulchre.
And well I knew, how wild and wrecking winds
May take the forest-monarchs by the crown,
And lay them with the lowliest vassal-herb;
And that the axe, with its sharp ministry,
Might in one hour, such revolution work,
That all earth's boasted power could never hope
To reinstate. And I had seen the flame
Go crackling up, amid yon verdant boughs,
And with a tyrant's insolence dissolve
Their interlacing,--and I felt that man
For sordid gain, would make the forest's pomp
Its heaven-rear'd arch, and living tracery
A funeral pyre. But yet I did not deem
That pale disease amid those shades would steal
As to a sickly maiden's cheek, and waste
The plenitude of those majestic ranks,
Which in their peerage and nobility,
Unrivall'd and unchronicled, had reign'd.
And then I said, if in this world of knells,
And open graves, there lingereth one, whose dream
Is of aught permanent below the skies,
Even let him come, and muse among the trees,
For they shall be his teachers,--they shall bow
To their meek lessons his forgetful ear,
And by the whispering of their faded leaves,
Soften to his sad heart, the thought of death.

L. H. S.

_Hartford, Con. Sept. 10, 1834_.

ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.

AMIR KHAN, AND OTHER POEMS: the remains of Lucretia Maria Davidson, who died at Plattsburg, N. Y. August 27, 1825, aged 16 years and 11 months. With a Biographical Sketch, by Samuel F. B. Morse, A. M. _New York: G. & C. & H. Carvill_--1829.

We believe that this little volume, although published several years since, has but recently found its way to this side of the Potomac. Our attention has been attracted towards it by some notice of its contents in the Richmond Enquirer, whose principal editor we will do him the justice to say, has always manifested a lively interest in the productions of American genius. Mr. Ritchie is entitled to the more praise for his efforts in behalf of domestic literature, not only on account of his active and absorbing labors as a political writer, but because, also, we are sorry to add, the subject is one in which southern taste and intelligence have, for the most part, evinced but little concern. It is but too common for our leading men, professional as well as others, to affect something like a sneer at every native attempt in the walks of polite literature. Their example, we fear, has imparted a tone to the reading circles generally, and has served to beget that inordinate appetite for every thing _foreign_ which has either obtained a fashionable currency abroad--or occasioned some _excitement_ in that busy, noisy, gossipping class of society, whose merit is so vastly disproportioned to its influence. We have often known the sentimental trash and profane ribaldry of some popular Englishman eagerly sought after, and as eagerly devoured, whilst the pure and genuine productions of native genius have remained neglected on the bookseller's shelf, and quietly surrendered to oblivion. That this does, in some measure, proceed from an unenlightened and uncultivated public taste, we do not doubt; but it is much more the fruit of a slavish and inglorious dependence upon accidental circumstances,--a spiritless, and we might add, a cowardly apprehension of appearing _singular_--that is, of not chiming in with the shallow, vain and heartless tittle-tattle of the self-styled _beau monde_ and _corps elite_ of society. It is not the fault of the bookseller. The undertaker, who prepares the coffin and shroud, has as little participation in the death of the person for whom they are intended. The bookseller is but the caterer of the public palate; and if that palate is diseased, he is no more answerable for it, than the milliners and mantuamakers who are busily occupied in deforming the fairest part of creation, are censurable for the false taste of their customers.

We did not intend by the foregoing observations, to bespeak any extraordinary share of public favor {52} towards the poems of Miss Davidson. What we have said in relation to the neglect of American talent, was designed to have a general and not particular application. Notwithstanding we hear that the poems before us have been extravagantly praised beyond the Atlantic, we are not so intoxicated by a little foreign flattery as to believe that they are destined to immortality. Some may console themselves, if they please, for the whole ocean of obloquy and contempt cast upon us from the British press, by regarding with favorable eyes this little rivulet of praise bestowed upon the juvenile efforts of a lovely and interesting girl. We are not of that number; we shall endeavor to decide upon the work before us, unbiassed by trans-atlantic opinion--and we shall render precisely that judgment which we would have done if that opinion had been pronounced in the usual tone of British arrogance and contumely.

Regarding the volume before us as a literary production merely, and supposing it to have been the offspring of a matured mind, we do not think that it possesses any considerable merit. Estimating its contents, however, as the first lispings of a child of genius,--as furnishing proofs of the existence of that ethereal spark which, under favorable circumstances, might have been kindled into a brilliant flame, we do consider it as altogether extraordinary. We do not say that these poems are equal to the early productions of Chatterton, Henry Kirke White, or Dermody, those prodigies of precocious talent,--but we entertain not a shadow of doubt if Miss Davidson had lived, that she would have ranked among the highest of her own sex in poetical excellence. In forming a correct judgment upon the offspring of her muse, her youth is not alone to be considered. She had also to contend with those remorseless enemies of mental effort,--poverty, sorrow, and ill health; and it is, perhaps, a circumstance in her history not unworthy of notice, that possessing a high degree of personal beauty, and being on that account the object of much admiration and attention, she did not suffer herself to be withdrawn from the purer sources of intellectual enjoyment. Love indeed, seems to have found no permanent lodgment in her heart. It might have stolen to the threshold and infused some of its gentle influences, but she seems to have been resolved to cast off the silken cord before it was too firmly bound around her. Thus in the piece which bears the title of _Cupid's Bower_, written in her fifteenth year.

"Am I in fairy land?--or tell me, pray,
To what love-lighted bower I've found my way?
Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled
In woodland maze, or closely-tangled wild.

And is this Cupid's realm?--if so, good by!
Cupid, and Cupid's votaries, I fly;
No offering to his altar do I bring,
No bleeding heart--or hymeneal ring."

The longest, most elaborate, and perhaps best of her poems, is that which gives the principal title to the volume. _Amir Khan_ is a simple oriental tale, written in her sixteenth year, and is worked up with surprising power of imagery for one so young. The most fastidious and critical reader could not fail to be struck with its resemblance to the gorgeous magnificence of Lalla Rookh; a resemblance, to be sure, which no more implies equality of merit than does the brilliancy of the mock diamond establish its value with that of the real gem. We give the opening passage from the poem as a fair specimen of the rest, and from which the reader may form a correct opinion of the style and composition.

"Brightly o'er spire, and dome, and tower,
The pale moon shone at midnight hour,
While all beneath her smile of light
Was resting there in calm delight;
Evening with robe of stars appears,
Bright as repentant Peri's tears,
And o'er her turban's fleecy fold
Night's crescent streamed its rays of gold,
While every chrystal cloud of heaven,
Bowed as it passed the queen of even.
Beneath--calm Cashmere's lovely vale
Breathed perfumes to the sighing gale;
The amaranth and tuberose,
Convolvulus in deep repose,
Bent to each breeze which swept their bed,
Or scarcely kissed the dew and fled;
The bulbul, with his lay of love;
Sang mid the stillness of the grove;
The gulnare blushed a deeper hue,
And trembling shed a shower of dew,
Which perfumed e'er it kiss'd the ground,
Each zephyr's pinion hovering round.
The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow
Glitter'd beneath the moon's pale glow;
And wide the plantain's arms were spread,
The guardian of its native bed."

We venture to assert that if Thomas Moore had written Amir Khan at the age of sixteen, there are thousands by whom it would be read and admired who would hardly condescend to open Miss Davidson's volume; and that too, without being able to assign any other or better reason than that Moore is a distinguished and popular British bard, whereas the other was an obscure country girl, who lived and died in the state of New York.

The lines to the memory of Henry Kirk White, which were composed at thirteen, are much superior to many elegiac stanzas written by poets of some reputation at twenty-five or thirty. Of all her minor pieces however, those which were written at fifteen seem to us to possess the greatest merit, if we except the _Coquette_, a very spirited production in imitation of the Scottish dialect, composed in her fourteenth year. The following are the two first stanzas:

"I hae nae sleep, I hae nae rest,
My Ellen's lost for aye;
My heart is sair and much distressed,
I surely soon must die.

I canna think o' wark at a',
My eyes still wander far,
_I see her neck like driven snaw,
I see her flaxen hair._"

The image of the snowy neck and flaxen hair of the beautiful but unkind fair one, presented so strongly to the rejected lover, as to prevent his performing his daily work, strikes us as highly poetical and true to nature, as we doubt not all genuine lovers will testify. Burns wrote many, very many verses, which were much superior, but Burns wrote some also, which were not so good. _Ruth's answer to Naomi_, must be allowed, we think, to be a good paraphrase of that most affecting passage of scripture. We must give the whole to the reader.

"Entreat me not, I must not hear,
Mark but this sorrow-beaming tear;
Thy answer's written deeply now
On this warm cheek and clouded brow; {53}
'Tis gleaming o'er this eye of sadness
Which only near _thee_ sparkles gladness.

The hearts _most_ dear to us are gone,
And _thou_ and _I_ are left alone;
Where'er thou wanderest, I will go,
I'll follow thee through joy or wo;
Shouldst thou to other countries fly,
Where'er thou lodgest, there will I.

Thy people shall my people be,
And to thy God, I'll bend the knee;
Whither thou fliest, will I fly,
And where thou diest, I will die;
And the same sod which pillows thee
Shall freshly, sweetly bloom for me."[1]

[Footnote 1: We subjoin the passage of scripture paraphrased by Miss Davidson, and also another paraphrase which has been ascribed to the Hon. R. H. Wilde of Georgia. Our readers can compare and decide between them.

"And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go: and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried."

Nay, do not ask!--entreat not--no!
O no! I will not leave thy side,
Whither thou goest--I will go--
Where thou abidest--I'll abide.

Through life--in death--my soul to thine
Shall cleave as fond, as first it clave--
Thy home--thy people--shall be mine--
Thy God my God--thy grave my grave.]

We present an extract from a piece called "_Woman's Love_," as a specimen of Miss Davidson's management of blank verse, a form of poetic diction which Montgomery thinks the most unmanageable of any. The fair authoress might not herself have experienced that holy passion, but she certainly knew how deep and imperishable it is when once planted in the female bosom.

"Love is
A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart,
When felt, as only woman love _can_ feel!
_Pure, as the snow-fall, when its latest shower_
_Sinks on spring-flowers; deep, as a cave-locked fountain;_
_And changeless as the cypress' green leaves;_
_And like them, sad!_--She nourished
Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed
A passion unconfessed, till he she loved
Was wedded to another. Then she grew
Moody and melancholy; one alone
Had power to soothe her in her wanderings,
Her gentle sister;--but that sister died,
And the unhappy girl was left alone,
A _maniac_. She would wander far, and shunned
Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt
Was that dead sister's grave: and that to her
Was as a home."

We have italicised such of the lines as we think breathe the air and spirit of genuine poetry. The snow flake has often been used as the emblem of purity; but the snow flake reposing on beds of vernal blossoms, is to us original as well as highly poetical. The "cave-locked fountain" too, with its lone, deep, and quiet waters, seems to us to express with force that profound and melancholy sentiment which the writer intended to illustrate.

We shall conclude our selections with the one addressed _to a lady whose singing resembled that of an absent sister_.

"Oh! touch the chord yet once again,
Nor chide me, though I weep the while;
Believe me, that deep, seraph strain
Bore with it memory's moonlight smile.

It murmured of an absent friend;
The voice, the air, 'twas all her own;
And hers those wild, sweet notes, which blend
In one mild, murmuring, touching tone.

And days and months have darkly passed,
Since last I listened to her lay;
And sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast,
Since then, across my weary way.

Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear,
Like seraph-whispers, lightly breathing;
Hush, busy memory,--sorrow's tear
Will blight the garland thou art wreathing.

'Tis sweet, though sad--yes, I will stay,
I cannot tear myself away.
I thank thee, lady, for the strain,
The tempest of my soul is still;
Then touch the chord yet once again,
For thou canst calm the storm at will."

We beg the reader to bear it in mind that these are the productions of a young, inexperienced, and almost uneducated girl, and that they are not to be tried by the tests which are usually applied to more matured efforts. In conclusion, we will say in the language of Dr. Morse, her biographer, "that her defects will be perceived to be those of youth and inexperience, while in invention, and in that mysterious power of exciting deep interest, of enchaining the attention, and keeping it alive to the end of the story; in that adaptation of the measure to the sentiment, and in the sudden change of measure to suit a sudden change of sentiment, in wild and romantic description, and in the congruity of the accompaniments to her characters, all conceived with great purity and delicacy, she will be allowed to have discovered uncommon maturity of mind; and her friends to have been warranted in forming very high expectations of her future distinction."

We are pleased to learn that it is in contemplation by Miss Davidson's friends, to publish a new and improved edition of her works, with various additions from her unpublished manuscripts.

THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE; by the author of Pelham, Eugene Aram, &c. _New York: Published by Harper & Brothers_--1834.

Mr. Bulwer's novels have acquired no inconsiderable degree of popularity in the circles of fashionable literature. Whether they are destined to survive the temporary admiration bestowed on them, is at this time a subject of speculation; but in the next generation, will become matter of fact. We are among those who think that they will quietly glide into that oblivious ocean, which is destined to receive a large proportion of the ever multiplying productions of this prolific age. We do not say this either, in disparagement of many of those labors of the mind which even intrinsic excellence cannot save from perishing. Great and valuable as some of them undoubtedly are, such is the onward march of intellect, and such the endless creations which fancy and genius are continually rearing for man's gratification and improvement,--to say nothing of the almost illimitable progress of science, that posterity will find no room for the thousandth part of our present stock of literature. We do not anticipate that {54} Mr. Bulwer's writings will be among the select few which will outlive the general wreck; because, unless we are much mistaken, he is one of those authors who write more for present than permanent fame. This is emphatically the age of great moral and mental excitability. It is a period of incessant restlessness and activity; and he who would expect to command much attention, must seek to gratify the appetite for novelty and variety, even at the expense of good sense, sound morality and correct taste. We incline to the opinion that Mr. Bulwer has forgotten, that society in the aggregate, frequently resembles the individual man; and that whilst it often experiences paroxysms of unnatural excitement, there are long lucid intervals of returning reason and sober simplicity. The volume before us is not calculated, we think, to leave any lasting impression, either of good or evil. Whilst it certainly abounds in felicitous language, and contains passages of fine sentiment, it is grossly defective both in plot and machinery; and if it were worth while to descend to minute criticism, it would be easy to point out many examples of false morality as well as false taste. Mr. Bulwer seems to have been aware, in his preface, that he was making a bold experiment upon popular favor, and accordingly he claims the reader's "indulgence for the superstitions he has incorporated with his tale--for the floridity of his style, and the redundance of his descriptions." As if somewhat apprehensive, however, that that indulgence might not possibly be granted, he assures the public that "various reasons have conspired to make this the work, above all others that he has written, which has given him the most delight (though not unmixed with melancholy,) in producing, and in which his mind, for the time, has been the most completely absorbed." A popular writer, thus bespeaking the public approbation in advance, by stamping his last production with his own decided preference, could not expect to be treated uncourteously by his readers. In the first sentence of the second chapter too, the author declares as follows: "I wish only for such readers as give themselves heart and soul up to me: if they begin to cavil, I have done with them; their fancy should put itself entirely under my management." Now whether it proceeded from a spirit of perverseness or not, we cannot tell; but we resolved when we read this passage, neither to surrender our heart, fancy or judgment to Mr. Bulwer's guidance. On the contrary, we determined to read the book and decide on its merits, in the spirit of perfect impartiality and entire independence. The story upon which the work is founded--at least that part of it which treats of mortal affairs, consists of the simplest materials. Trevylyan, a gentleman of "a wild, resolute and active nature, who had been thrown upon the world at the age of sixteen, and had passed his youth in alternate pleasure, travel and solitary study," falls in love with Gertrude Vane, a young girl, described as "the loveliest person that ever dawned upon a poet's vision." A fatal disease, "consumption in its most beautiful shape," had set its seal upon her, and yet Trevylyan loved with an irresistible passion. With the consent, rather than by the advice of the faculty and her friends, the young and interesting invalid, attended by her father and lover, goes upon a pilgrimage up the beautiful and romantic Rhine. From that pilgrimage she never returned; but in one of those wild and legendary spots which impart such interest to that celebrated stream--a spot selected by herself as her last grassy couch, she breathed out her gentle spirit, and quietly sunk to her lasting repose. Such is the simple thread upon which Mr. Bulwer has contrived to weave a variety of German legends and fairy fictions, having no necessary connection with the main story, except that the principal episodes were suggested by some remarkable scenery or some castellated ruin on the banks of the Rhine. The _underplot_, if it may be so called, or the adventures of Nymphalin, queen of the fairies, and her Elfin court, is altogether unworthy of Mr. Bulwer's genius. It is rather a bungling attempt to revive the exploded machinery of supernatural agency; and we moreover do not perceive any possible connection or sympathy between these imaginary beings and the principal personages of the tale. Apart from other considerations, the actions and conversations of these roving elves are destitute of all interest and attraction; and nothing in our eyes appears more preposterous than the introduction of the Lord Treasurer into Queen Nymphalin's train. We always thought that the fairies were mischievous spirits--sometimes a little wicked, and often very benevolent; but never before did we suspect that this ideal population of the world of fancy, manifested any concern in the dry subject of finance, or in the _unfairy-like_ establishment of a regular exchequer. The story of "The Wooing of Master Fox," related for the amusement of Queen Nymphalin, making every allowance for the author's design in introducing it, is to our taste unutterably disgusting and ridiculous.

We have no objection to the occasional use of the fairy superstition in tales of fancy; no more than we have to the frequent classical allusions to heathen mythology which distinguish the best writers. They are pleasing and beautiful illustrations, when happily introduced. But we do protest against lifting the veil from the world of imagination, and investing its shadowy beings with the common place attributes, the vulgar actions and frivolous dialogue of mere mortals. It is in truth dispelling the illusion in which the spirit of poetry delights to indulge. It takes away the most powerful charm from the cool and sequestered grotto, the shady grove or moonlit bower. It vulgarises the world of romance, and reduces the region of mind to a level with brute sense, or even coarser matter.

Condemning as we do, in perfect good faith, these exceptionable portions of Mr. Bulwer's volume, we take pleasure in awarding due praise to some of the legends and stories introduced into the work, and which are for the most part related by Trevylyan for the amusement of Gertrude. Of these, we give the decided preference to "The Brothers" and "The Maid of Malines." The latter indeed, strikes us as so finished an illustration of some of the noble qualities of woman kind, that we have determined to present it entire for the benefit of our readers.

THE MAID OF MALINES.

It was noonday in the town of Malines, or Mechlin, as the English usually term it: the Sabbath bell had summoned the inhabitants to divine worship; and the crowd that had loitered round the Church of St. Rembauld, had gradually emptied itself within the spacious aisles of the sacred edifice.

{55} A young man was standing in the street, with his eyes bent on the ground, and apparently listening for some sound; for, without raising his looks from the rude pavement, he turned to every corner of it with an intent and anxious expression of countenance; he held in one hand a staff, in the other a long slender cord, the end of which trailed on the ground; every now and then he called, with a plaintive voice, "Fido, Fido, come back! Why hast thou deserted me?" Fido returned not: the dog, wearied of confinement, had slipped from the string, and was at play with his kind in a distant quarter of the town, leaving the blind man to seek his way as he might to his solitary inn.

By and by a light step passed through the street, and the young stranger's face brightened--

"Pardon me," said he, turning to the spot where his quick ear had caught the sound, "and direct me, if you are not by chance much pressed for a few moment's time, to the hotel _Mortier d'or_."

It was a young woman, whose dress betokened that she belonged to the middling class of life, whom he thus addressed. "It is some distance hence, sir," said she, "but if you continue your way straight on for about a hundred yards, and then take the second turn to your right hand--"

"Alas!" interrupted the stranger, with a melancholy smile, "your direction will avail me little; my dog has deserted me, and I am blind!"

There was something in these words, and in the stranger's voice, which went irresistibly to the heart of the young woman. "Pray forgive me," she said, almost with tears in her eyes, "I did not perceive your--" misfortune, she was about to say, but she checked herself with an instinctive delicacy. "Lean upon me, I will conduct you to the door; nay, sir," observing that he hesitated, "I have time enough to spare, I assure you."

The stranger placed his hand on the young woman's arm, and though Lucille was naturally so bashful that even her mother would laughingly reproach her for the excess of a maiden virtue, she felt not the least pang of shame, as she found herself thus suddenly walking through the streets of Malines, alone with a young stranger, whose dress and air betokened him of a rank superior to her own.

"Your voice is very gentle," said he, after a pause, "and that," he added, with a slight sigh, "is the criterion by which I only know the young and the beautiful." Lucille now blushed, and with a slight mixture of pain in the blush, for she knew well that to beauty she had no pretension. "Are you a native of this town?" continued he. "Yes, sir; my father holds a small office in the customs, and my mother and I eke out his salary by making lace. We are called poor, but we do not feel it, sir."

"You are fortunate: there is no wealth like the heart's wealth, content," answered the blind man mournfully.

"And Monsieur," said Lucille, feeling angry with herself that she had awakened a natural envy in the stranger's mind, and anxious to change the subject--"and Monsieur, has he been long at Malines?"

"But yesterday. I am passing through the Low Countries on a tour; perhaps you smile at the tour of a blind man--but it is wearisome even to the blind to rest always in the same place. I thought during church time, when the streets were empty, that I might, by the help of my dog, enjoy safely, at least the air, if not the sight of the town; but there are some persons, methinks, who cannot even have a dog for a friend."

The blind man spoke bitterly,--the desertion of his dog had touched him to the core. Lucille wiped her eyes. "And does Monsieur travel then alone?" said she; and looking at his face more attentively than she had yet ventured to do, she saw that he was scarcely above two-and-twenty. "His father, his _mother_," she added, with an emphasis on the last word, "are they not with him?"

"I am an orphan," answered the stranger; "and I have neither brother nor sister."

The desolate condition of the blind man quite melted Lucille; never had she been so strongly affected. She felt a strange flutter at the heart--a secret and earnest sympathy, that attracted her at once towards him. She wished that heaven had suffered her to be his sister.

The contrast between the youth and the form of the stranger, and the affliction which took hope from the one, and activity from the other, increased the compassion he excited. His features were remarkably regular, and had a certain nobleness in their outline; and his frame was gracefully and firmly knit, though he moved cautiously and with no cheerful step.

They had now passed into a narrow street leading towards the hotel, when they heard behind them the clatter of hoofs; and Lucille, looking hastily back, saw that a troop of the Belgian horse was passing thro' town.

She drew her charge close by the wall, and trembling with fear for him, she stationed herself by his side. The troop passed at a full trot through the street; and at the sound of their clanging arms, and the ringing hoofs of their heavy chargers, Lucille might have seen, had she looked at the blind man's face, that its sad features kindled with enthusiasm, and his head was raised proudly from its wonted and melancholy bend. "Thank heaven," she said, as the troop had nearly passed them, "the danger is over!" Not so. One of the last two soldiers who rode abreast, was unfortunately mounted on a young and unmanageable horse. The rider's oaths and digging spur only increased the fire and impatience of the charger; he plunged from side to side of the narrow street.

"_Gardez vous_," cried the horseman, as he was borne on to the place where Lucille and the stranger stood against the wall; "are ye mad--why do you not run?"

"For heaven's sake, for mercy sake, he is blind!" cried Lucille, clinging to the stranger's side.

"Save yourself, my kind guide!" said the stranger. But Lucille dreamt not of such desertion. The trooper wrested the horse's head from the spot where they stood; with a snort, as he felt the spur, the enraged animal lashed out with its hind legs; and Lucille, unable to save _both_, threw herself before the blind man, and received the shock directed against him; her slight and delicate arm fell shattered by her side--the horseman was borne onward. "Thank God, _you_ are saved!" was poor Lucille's exclamation; and she fell, overcome with pain and terror, into the arms which the stranger mechanically opened to receive her.

"My guide, my friend!" cried he, "you are hurt, you--"

"No, sir," interrupted Lucille, faintly, "I am better, I am well. _This_ arm, if you please--we are not far from your hotel now."

But the stranger's ear, tutored to every inflection of voice, told him at once of the pain she suffered; he drew from her by degrees the confession of the injury she had sustained; but the generous girl did not tell him it had been incurred solely in his protection. He now insisted on reversing their duties, and accompanying _her_ to her home; and Lucille, almost fainting with pain, and hardly able to move, was forced to consent. But a few steps down the next turning stood the humble mansion of her father--they reached it--and Lucille scarcely crossed the threshold, before she sank down, and for some minutes was insensible to pain. It was left to the stranger to explain, and to beseech them immediately to send for a surgeon, "the most skilful--the most practised in town," said he. "See, I am rich, and this is the least I can do to atone to your generous daughter for not forsaking even a stranger in peril."