Song.* FROM YAMOYDEN. SLEEP, child of my love! be thy slumber as light As the dew drops that sparkle around with the ray. O, soft flows the breath from thine innocent breast; He forsakes, or surrounds with his phantoms of dread. I fear for thy father! why stays he so long On the shores where the wife of the giant was thrown, And the sailor oft lingered to hearken her song, So sad o'er the wave, e'er she hardened to stone. He skims the blue tide in his birchen canoe, Where the foe in the moon-beams his path may descry; The ball to its scope may speed rapid and true, And lost in the wave be thy father's death cry! 3--whose presence is near, The Power that is round us--w In the gloom and the solitude felt by the soul Protect that lone bark in its lonely career, And shield thee, when roughly life's billows shall roll! Solitude.-MRS. SIGOURNEY. DEEP solitude I sought. There was a dell While, towering near, the rugged mountains made We cannot determine whether the authorship of this beautiful song belongs to Mr. Eastburn or Mr. Sands. From a comparison of its charac ter with that of some other pieces by Mr. Eastburn, which the reader will find in this volume, we should be inclined to attribute it to him. He and his friend were but youthful poets when Yamoyden was composed; the former being but twenty-two, the latter only eighteen.-ED. There without witness. But the violet's eye Its history;-up came the singing breeze, Yet I strangely thought Spirit of life and love! It might not be! There is no solitude in thy domains, Save what man makes, when, in his selfish breast, He locks his joys, and bars out others' grief. Thou hast not left thyself to Nature's round Without a witness. Trees, and flowers, and streams, Are social and benevolent; and he Who oft communeth in their language pure, Shall find, like him who Eden's garden dressed, Bishop Ravenscroft.-GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE. THE good old man is gone! And the work that he loved the best. But the dead in the Lord are blessed! I stood in the holy aisle, When he spake the solemn word, That bound him, through care and toil, And I saw how the depths of his manly soul And nobly his pledge he kept- Oh! deeply and long shall his loss be wept, There were heralds of the cross, By his bed of death that stood, And heard how he counted all but loss, For the gain of his Savior's blood; And patiently waited his Master's voice, Let it call him when it would. The good old man is gone! An apostle chair is void; There is dust on his mitre thrown, And the fold of his love he has left alone, To account for its care to God. The wise old man is gone! His honored head lies low, And his thoughts of power are done, And his voice's manly flow, And the pen that, for truth, like a sword was drawn, Is still and soulless now. The brave old man is gone! With his armor on, he fell ;* Nor a groan nor a sigh was drawn, When his spirit fled, to tell; For mortal sufferings, keen and long, Had no power his heart to quell. The good old man is gone! He is gone to his saintly rest, And no trouble can molest: For his crown of life is won, And the dead in Christ are blessed! The bishop was at that time (ten days before his death) employing the little strength he had in revising his MSS. for publication. By them, though dead, he will yet speak. I The Life of God in the Soul of Man.-DANA.* COME, brother, turn with me from pining thought, Canst guess what deep content, in turn, they give? More than thou e'er canst sum. Thou'lt nothing lack, E'en let it flow, and make the places glad Where dwell thy fellow men. Should'st thou be sad, *We are disposed to rank Mr. Dana at the head of all the American poets, not excepting Bryant; and we think this is the judgment which posterity will pass upon his writings. Not because he is superior to all others in the elegance of his language, and in the polished beauty and Snish of his compositions: in these respects, Bryant has, in this country, no equal and Mr. Dana is often careless in the dress of his thoughts. Not because, in the same kind and class of composition to which Bryant has principally confined his genius, he would be superior, or even equal to this delightful writer: for the genius and style of Bryant are peculiarly suited to the accurate and exquisite description of what is beautiful in nature; and, what is more, he unites with this power the spirit of gentle human feeling, and sometimes a rich, grand, and solemn philosophy: it will be long ere any one breathes forth the soul of poetry in a finer strain than that to the evening wind; and Coleridge himself could hardly have written a nobler "Thanatopsis." But Mr. Dana has attempted and proved successful in a higher and more difficult range of poetry; he exhibits loftier powers, and his compositions agitate the soul with a deeper emotion. His language, without being so beautiful and finished, is yet more vivid, concise, and alive and informed with meaning. His descriptions of natural objects may not pass before the mind with such sweet harmony, but they often present, in a single line, a whole picture before the imagination, with a vividness and power of compression which are astonishing. For instance; And again; "But when the light winds lie at rest, And, on the glassy, heaving sea, "The ship works hard; the seas run high; Their white tops, flashing through the night, That now, upon the water, dances, now, Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell And if, indeed, 'tis not the outward state, Our sins our nobler faculties debase, And make the earth a spiritual waste Unto the soul's dimmed eye :-'tis man, not earth- Give to the eager, straining eye, A wild and shifting light." Again, as a more general instance, and a more sublime one; speaking of the prospect of immortality : ""Tis in the gentle moonlight; 'Tis floating 'midst day's setting glories; Night, Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step, Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears: Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, As one vast mystic instrument, are touched By an unseen living hand, and conscious chords In these respects,-in the power of giving in one word, as it were, a whole picture, in his admirable skill in the perspective, and in the faculty of chaining down the vast and the infinite to the mind's observation,-he reminds us both of Collins and of Milton. We have not space hero, in a note, to illustrate the resemblance, by instances which would show our meaning, and his merits, better than a whole chapter of criticism. But, above all, we admire Mr. Dana, more than any other American poet, because he has aimed not merely to please the imagination, but to rouse up the soul to a solemn consideration of its future destinies. We admire him, because his poetry is full of benevolent, affectionate, domestic feeling; but, more than this, because it is full of religious feeling. The fountain which gushes here has mingled with the "well of water springing up to everfusting life." The aspirations breathed forth in this poetry are humble, earnest desires after that holiness, "without which no man shall see God." It speaks of a better land of rest, "but bids us turn to God, and seek our rest in Him."-ED. |