Part 6

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, 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 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; '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.