We will give a remarkable instance of this want of power to rouse the feelings. It is some verses he has written on the death of a little child. Surely, few things are so susceptible of pathos as this; but mark how hard, dry, and metaphysical the poet is. "Returned this day, the south wind searches, Nature who lost him, cannot remake him, An American critic well observes on this, "that the voice of lamentation is lost in a vague speculation on fate, interesting only to the intellect." It is difficult to find a subject more capable of touching regrets than the death of a child, and still more difficult to find a poet who has so completely failed in awaking one tender memory. We shall take advantage of this circumstance to contrast several poets under the same inspiration, and mark how dif ferent are all their moods. Nevertheless, all except Emerson have the chief weight on the human heart. Wordsworth, in his lament for a daughter "Dead and gone," puts the regrets of memory into an old man's mouth. Although years have passed since the blow fell, how fresh the wound still remains ! "Our work, said I, was well begun, Then from thy breast what thought, So sad a sigh has brought. "A second time did Matthew stop, "Yon cloud with that long purple cleft "With rod and line I 'sued the sport, Which that sweet season gave, And coming to the church, stopped short, "Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale, And then she sang-she would have been A very nightingale. "Six feet in earth my Emma lay, And yet I loved her more, For so it seemed, than till that day I e'er had loved before." And in another poem, how truly he touches the tenderest portion of the heart, when he says: "If there is one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The household hearts that were his own, It is the man of mirth." We turn from this strain of pure musical pathos, "Bringing the tears to the dim eyes," to another fine burst of natural sorrow; more sorrowful, inasmuch as Byron mixed up less natural objects than Wordsworth in his laments. "There have been tears, and breaking hearts for thee, And mine were nothing had I such to give; But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, With fruits and fertile promise, and the spring With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turned from all she brought, to all she could not bring." An English poet has touched upon the same subject; as another illustration of the subject we quote it. We cannot here avoid remarking, that a very interesting volume might be made of selections from the works of the most eminent poets containing the expression of parallel feelings. "ON A WITHERED FLOWER. "Oh, wondrous power of thought, This faded flower has brought, Full on my mind one pleasant day in spring. Once more the wind's sweet breath Wakes from its silent death, And that long-perished bird once more I hear it sing. "I feel a bright form stand, One of the seraph band, Close at my side as in the times gone by. Once more his little feet With my long steps compete, I walk along, nor turn aside mine eye. "And now a mist of light Grows stronger in my sight, Shaping itself into a form most dear. Features I deemed had gone Once more I gaze upon, My child-my buried child-I know that you are here." In subjects partaking of a more artificial nature our poet is more at home, and there we can award him high praise. There is a spirit in the following worthy Herrick, we had almost said Anacreon. 66 THE HUMBLE BEE. "Burly, dozing, humble bee, Thou animated torrid zone! Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, "Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion; Sailor of the atmosphere; Swimmer thro' the waves of air; Voyager of light and noon, Wait, I prithee, till I come Within earshot of thy hum, When the south wind in May days, With a net of shining haze, Silvers the horizon wall, And with softness touching all, Tints the human countenance With the color of romance, And infusing subtle heats, Turns the sod to violets, Thou in sunny solitudes, |