PREFACE. Ir is a trite and common observation, that the Poet is a being pre-eminent for his sorrows; denied the luxuries of life; unfortunate in his attachments, and signal in his bereavements. This is generally true: but few perceive the beautiful philosophy slumbering under this sad category of woes. These are the things that fit him for his mission; for this cause came he into the world, namely, to suffer that through him others might rejoice. The iron must first enter his own soul, ere he can understand the low wailings of humanityits "groanings that cannot be uttered." The Poet is the interpreter of the human heart - the expounder of its mysteries. An utterance is given to him, which is denied to others, even although their feelings may be akin to his own. Through him Truth speaks; and wild or wayward as may seem her revelations, yet it is the common sentiment, the universal emotion, she speaks; she gives the germ of a nobler principle, the incentive to a higher hope. In times of bereavement, the mind often becomes utterly depressed and bewildered at its inability of expression, and it turns instinctively to the language of another; to "the deep, sad harmonies that haunt the breast of the Poet," who has foreshadowed a portraiture of our own hearts; and we are comforted by the assurance it gives, that our state is not peculiar. In our weakness of grief, we are apt to feel as if alone; as if set apart as a mark for the shafts of adversity; but we now learn the fact, that we are only one of the great brotherhood of sorrow. These truths have been very strongly impressed upon the Editor, in making this little compilation, quickened at a moment of intense family bereavement, when he felt himself impelled to the relief herein suggested. In moments of affliction, we often shrink from the incompetence of those who, from their genuine kindliness of heart, obtrude their sympathy upon us. The commonplace generalities to which such persons resort, revolt us, as heartless and hackneyed; the human voice, even, assumes a dissonance, when it urges us to forget a grief over which the heart yearns with a devoted tenderness, feeling as if relief were a treason to the beloved object. Few can afford consolation in periods like these - few should attempt it. But here the Poet comes in to fulfil his mission - to assert his divine ministry; and we are amazed to find every where scattered over his pages, like grave-strewn flowers, the truest offerings of affection. We weep over his words, relieved by a strange sympathy; he touches those mysterious chords of the human heart, so rarely harmoniously put in motion: "Few are the hearts where one same touch His sufferings have been greater than ours; therefore he is able to open the very secrets of our hearts - to penetrate to the depths of our emotions. He beguiles us from the things we are, by giving definiteness to our thoughts, and by his warm human nature. He has felt as we feel he has thought as we think - and has been able to give voice to thought and emotion. We are bound by a new bond to the heart of the Poet; "for, whereas we were before dumb, we now speak," through him. -- Impressed with sentiments such as these with emotions chastened by grief, and a heart tranquillized through the utterance of these expounders of the human heart the Editor binds together these Gems of Consolation, assured they will be "words fitly spoken" to those who mourn. BROOKLYN, August, 1844. |