The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,-
Are they still such as once they were,

Or is the dreary change in me?"

Of this, the original idea was naive before it was worn out, and, for new illustration, listless look, silver current, holy fane, ruined pride, quiet lake, balmy air, and dreary change, are common-place enough. The original illustration is reserved for the next verse, which contains, omitting the common-place allusion to Araby and Eden, in the two first thoughts wit, and in the third something more allied to poetry.

"Alas, the warped and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye!
The harp of strained and tuneless chord,
How to the minstrel's skill reply!
To aching eyes each landscape lowers,
To feverish pulse each gale blows chill;

And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill."

There are many who would have been first-rate essayists that have totally gone astray as to the aim and nature of divine poesy. They might have been right welcome, if they preferred the pains, to indite their tales and thoughts in verse; but pray let them forbear to call them poems. One of these is Crabbe, a writer of great eloquence and force, but than whom no man ever more completely misunderstood what is intended by the name of poetry. If the reader has acceded to our views, what will he call this?—

66

Something one day occurred about a bill

That was not drawn with true mercantile skill,

And I was asked and authorized to go

To seek the firm of Clutterbuck and Co.;

Their hour was past-but when I urged the case,
There was a youth who named a second place;
Where, on occasions of important kind,

I might the man of occupation find
In his retirement, where he found repose
From the vexations that in business rose.

I found, though not with ease, this private seat
Of soothing quiet, wisdom's still retreat."

Still more offensive to the muses is the offering that follows; a

description of the slovenly maid that answered to the call of the

door knocker.

We find that we have been betrayed by the foregoing observations, into a greater length than was originally intended. It was our desire to have communicated to the reader certain views with regard to forms of poetry, and more especially the dramatic, which have won very much upon our own respect; but as their illustration would occupy more space than the limits of an already long article will allow, we pause at once, to spare the frowns of an incensed editor, or the yawns of an already weary reader.

HAL.

THE HONEST WOOER.

I WOOED my mistress with a love as true
As e'en the bosom of the truest bore,
And yet methinks I lacked the skill to woo,

Since ne'er to Beauty had I bowed before:
Perchance my tongue did sound uncouth and rude,
Since not one word of flattery did it bring;
And yet my heart in its own language sued
As never yet it sued to living thing.

I did not tell her that her eyes were stars;

Why should I wrong those peerless orbs of night?
I did not rave of mine internal scars;

Why should my private wounds be brought to light?

I did not prate of mine own lack of birth,

Why should I scandalize mine own fair fame?

I did not speak of her exalted worth,

Hearts linked together needs must be the same.

I did not boast what great things I would do,
When that, my wooing o'er, she should be mine;
Methinks I somewhat lacked the skill to woo,

Since that I breathed of poesy no line.

Into her ear I poured no polished tale ;

I simply whispered her, "Sweet maid, I love ;"
But that which to express my words did fail

Time past and time to come alike must prove.

VOL. II.-NO. IX.

2 P

C. H. H.

THE SPIRIT OF THE ICE.

WHITHER is wending the maiden alone,
By the shores of the gloomy bay?
Doth she not list to the wild wind's moan,

As it driveth the waves in silver foam,

Till they sprinkle the cliffs with their salt sea spray? Why doth her voice with the mountain gale

Mingle in high and solemn wail;

And then burst forth with a stranger sound,
Wakening the mountain echoes round;
A sound that hath music in its tone,

Wild, yet sweet as the voice of the dove,
As though her spirit had found its home,
Its home of heart, its home of love?

But hush! she is still. No sound is heard,
But the shriek of the flying ocean bird,
As it wheeleth in its midnight flight
Around the mountain, whose snowy height
Gleameth pale in the sad moonlight;

And the dashing waves of the restless sea;
And the wind's mysterious melody.

The night is cold, for Winter old,

In his chilly mantle, doth earth enfold.

He hath spread his white vesture over the plain,
He hath bound the streams with an icy chain.
He hath robed the earth in a veil of white,
As though to hide her from mortal sight;
That none may look on her sacred form,

Till she cometh the bride of the spring-sun warm;
Till decked in her garland of early flowers,
Borne on the wings of the fairy hours,
She cometh in beauty, she cometh in pride,
The sun and the summer's blossoming bride.

On the cold, cold ground doth the maiden rest,
Her snowy hand to her brow is prest;

"I have wandered far on this beautiful earth,
O'er mountain, and valley, and plain;
And my spirit hath known that thing of worth
It never may know again.

I have seen bright flowers,
In sunniest hours,

Blossom, then wither and die;

But I did not deem

That my heart's bright dream

Would so soon have all passed by.

"Oh Spirit, that rideth in vesture of white, On thy cloud so gloomy and grey;

Whose wheels far scatter the snow-flake's light, As thou passest on thy way:

Who throwest o'er all

A deadly pall,

And robest earth for the tomb;

Who flingest thy blight

On all that was bright,

And changest it all to gloom :

"To thee, with a heart almost driven to madness,

A maiden in sorrow doth plead;

Oh stay and give heed to her story of sadness, And, if thou canst, pity her need.

By the charm of mightier power,
Magic of a brighter hour,
Spirit, at whose gentle voice
All creation doth rejoice,

That can break thine icy chain,

And bid nature bloom again;

By this Power, that thou, Fiend, dost fear,

I bid thee, SPIRIT OF THE ICE, appear, appear!

Why doth the maiden in terror start?
Why is there beating at her heart?
The air grows dim, the air grows grey,
There gleams a light, not the light of day.
The moonbeams still on the ocean play,

But the white waves seem in their path to stay.
The wave was swelling, but now it is still,
It standeth like a crystal hill.

Just now were dancing all about,

The bright-eyed spirits of the sea, Gliding gracefully in and out,

To the sound of the mermaid's melody. But now in terror they fly from the might Of the Spirit that cometh in this sad light.

The Spirit is coming, the Spirit of dread,—
His pathway is on the ocean;

The waters have frozen beneath his tread,
All stilled is their restless motion.

He comes on the path where the pale moonbeam
Afar on the ocean doth faintly gleam.

A diadem resteth on his head,

Set around with jewels red

Each of a frozen blood-drop made.

The sceptre cold,

That his hand doth hold,

Is a human bone, that for years hath laid,
To rest in a chilly and desolate sleep,
Grown white beneath the salt waves deep.

The Spirit is near, the Spirit doth speak,
And his voice is like to the wild wind's shriek,