Part 18

Within the cot where dwelt the maid PEACE ever reign'd, with mild dominion, And LOVE, reform'd, no longer stray'd, But loos'd his bow, and furl'd his pinion.

There PLENTY crown'd each savory meal With simple food from NATURE'S bounty; And HEALTH contemn'd the boasted skill Of all the Doctors in the county.

One morning PRIDE, a city belle, In FASHION'S gaudiest trappings glaring, The fragrant meads for once to smell, That way had driven to take an airing.

By chance, a vagrant cloud sent down A shower to cool the sultry weather, When PRIDE protested with a frown, 'Twould spoil her riding-hat and feather.

CONTENT'S snug dwelling stood hard by, And thither PRIDE her car directed: Welcomed with homely courtesy, She smiled to find her dress protected.

The first brief salutations o'er, PRIDE view'd with scorn the humble cottage, Its narrow rooms, its sanded floor-- And turn'd her nose up at the pottage.

Then thus, to meek CONTENT she spoke: "I wonder so genteel a maiden Should dwell in this secluded nook, As dull as ever hermit pray'd in.

'Tis shameful such a form and face Should hide themselves in this mean hovel: That so much loveliness and grace Should with such stupid people grovel.

How would you grace those splendid halls Where I and PLEASURE lead the million! There you would shine at routes and balls, Queen of the _waltz_ and gay _cotillion_.

These humdrum folks you live with now Are _cut_ by all who aim at fashion: To see you so beset, I vow, It puts me quite into a passion.

Here's PEACE, a tiresome, dowdy thing, Fit only for the chimney corner, To listen while the crickets sing, And teach the brats their _Jacky Horner_.

PLENTY is well enough 'tis true, Where hungry peasants gorge their rations; But her rude fare would never do, For FASHION'S delicate collations.

And LOVE,--who once was all the rage, And turn'd the heads of half the city, Dealing his shafts on youth and age, As you have learnt from many a ditty--

Has long been voted quite a bore, He made so many a sad miscarriage; And now, the part he play'd before, CONVENIENCE takes at every marriage.

This rustic-looking, sheepish boy I ne'er should dream was master CUPID,-- Whom once I knew so full of joy-- He looks so quiet and so stupid.

I cannot bear that you should dwell In such a lonely sequestration, When you might reign a city belle, And taste the sweets of admiration.

Come then, nor longer tarry here In this retreat so lone and dreary: In PLEASURE'S brilliant throng appear, Where TIME'S bright pinions never weary."

The artless nymph, ta'en unawares, Was dazzled by PRIDE'S invitation; But still she fear'd the City's snares, And answer'd with great hesitation.

She said a happy life she led, That care had ne'er her bosom enter'd Tho' tenant of an humble shed, Here all the joys she ask'd for centred.

But PRIDE protested 'twas a sin, That so perversely she should prattle, When HOPE, (the jade) who just dropp'd in That moment--closed the wordy battle.

HOPE whisper'd in the maiden's ear-- What 'twas I never could discover,-- But from her beaming eye, 'twas clear CONTENT'S resistance all was over.

Suffice to say, the car was brought, The ladies in it soon were seated: PRIDE took the reins, and quick as thought, The valley from their vision fleeted.

'Tis true CONTENT some sorrow felt At leaving PEACE and LOVE behind her; But HOPE sat by, and fondly dwelt On all the happiness design'd her.

* * * * *

Soon by Dame FASHION'S mystic aid CONTENT became another creature; Such _art_ was in her form display'd, She needed not the charms of nature.

* * * * *

Behold our country maiden now! In PLEASURE'S train a gay attendant; Before her throng'd admirers bow; Her beauty was pronounced transcendent.

In every scene where PLEASURE reign'd CONTENT was found, a radiant charmer; And while the novelty remain'd, Her wild career did not alarm her.

Months pass'd in one continued round Of parties, balls, and routes and levees, And tired CONTENT at length had found No happiness in PLEASURE'S bevies.

Jaded in this unceasing maze, Her eye grew dim, her cheek grew pallid: PRIDE only could her spirits raise, And oft her melancholy rallied.

But long even PRIDE could not hold out; Sorely the maid her change repented-- Her dreams had all been put to route-- CONTENT was sadly discontented.

One morning HOPE, who scarce had seen The maiden since she sought the City, To make a flying call, popp'd in,-- And saw her alter'd looks with pity.

"Ah faithless HOPE!" exclaim'd CONTENT: "Why did you flatter and deceive me-- Why urge the step I now repent, And be the first to scorn and leave me.

Oh, but for you, deceitful friend, I still had lived untouched by SORROW, Where beauteous flowers their fragrance blend, Nor blushes from cosmetics borrow.

I might have dwelt, a happy maid, With PEACE and LOVE, in blest seclusion, Afar from FASHION'S dull parade, Her endless throngs of gay confusion.

Fain would I to my cottage fly, But PRIDE resists, and SHAME upbraids me; And PLEASURE, ever hovering nigh With some delusive tale dissuades me."

HOPE, with a woman's ready wit, From all reproach herself defended; And forced her listner to admit Her counsel "_for the best_" intended.

* * * * *

CONTENT at length "made up her mind" ('Gainst PRIDE'S usurp'd control rebelling,) To leave the bustling town behind, And seek again her humble dwelling.

'Twas a bright morn in early Spring, When, HOPE her languid steps attending, Through vales where birds were on the wing, To that lone cot the maid was wending.

The sun shone bright on hill and lea, The flowers from leafy shades were peeping; The brook ran murmuring merrily, And flocks were in the valleys leaping.

The Cottage reach'd, she met once more The smile of PEACE, and LOVE'S embraces; JOY lit the maiden's eye again, And from her brow chased sorrow's traces.

Soon HEALTH return'd, with genial glow, Her languid frame with strength induing, The blood resumed its wonted flow, The roses on her cheeks renewing.

HOPE views the change with fond delight; Vows from CONTENT she ne'er will sever; Controls each wild impassion'd flight, And points where mercy beams forever.

What more could Providence bestow To yield CONTENT an added blessing? Each hour her heart's pure offerings flow, To Heaven its gratitude addressing.

And ever since, CONTENT has dwelt From the gay crowd, in vale secluded:-- Their joyless strife she once has felt, And cannot be again deluded.

Oft have I seen the humble roof, Where, with PEACE, LOVE and HOPE uniting, She dwells, from worldly cares aloof, Even while her story I am writing.

The following beautiful reply to the stanzas of Mr. Wilde, published in the first number of the Messenger, is attributed to Mrs. Buckley, the wife of a distinguished physician of Baltimore, a lady whose fine taste and poetic capacity are most happily displayed in these touching lines. The answer is a very perfect counterpart of Mr. Wilde's stanzas, and if we were called on to decide upon their relative merits, we do not know which of the two would most demand our admiration.

ANSWER

To "_My Life is Like the Summer Rose_."

The dews of night may fall from Heaven, Upon the wither'd _rose's_ bed, And tears of fond regret be given, To mourn the virtues of the dead: Yet morning's sun the dews will dry, And tears will fade from sorrow's eye, Affection's pangs be lull'd to sleep, And even love forget to _weep_.

The _tree_ may mourn its fallen _leaf_, And autumn winds bewail its bloom, And friends may heave the sigh of grief, O'er those who sleep within the tomb: Yet soon will spring renew the flowers, And time will bring more smiling hours; In friendship's heart all grief will die, And even love forget to _sigh_.

The _sea_ may on the desert _shore_ Lament each _trace_ it bears away; The lonely heart its grief may pour O'er cherish'd friendship's fast decay: Yet when all trace is lost and gone, The waves dance bright and gaily on; Thus soon affection's bonds are torn, And even love forgets to _mourn_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ---- ----

We parted--not as lovers part-- No tear was in thine eye; No mantling blush was on thy cheek, Thy bosom heaved no sigh; Yet there was something in thine air That seemed to all unmoved,-- Something that told my bursting heart, Dearest, that I was loved.

For, when I took thy gentle hand To bid a short adieu, Methought within my trembling clasp, That white hand trembled too; And when too, from my faltering tongue The parting accents fell, Thou didst not, dearest--can it be Thou couldst not say farewell!

Forgive, if I have boldly erred-- If fancy 'twere alone, That check'd thy voice, and lent thy hand The tremors of my own. Forgive, forgive the daring thought-- Forgive the hopes--the love-- That bids me seek thee soon again, My bliss or wo to prove.

T. H. T.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WHAT I LOVE.

I love to stray at early morn, 'Mid flowers along the verdant dale, Inhale the fragrance of the thorn, And hear the Dove's low plaintive wail.

I love within some forest deep, At sultry noon reclined to lie, And watch the fleecy clouds that creep, With quiet pace along the sky.

I love at quiet eve to go, Far from the noisy crowd, and dream Of all the glorious hopes which throw Their sunshine o'er life's gloomy stream.

But more than all, at silent night, I love with one fair form to rove, Beneath the pale moon's pensive light, And whisper burning words of love.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ---- ----

Let not your heart be troubled.--_John_ 14: 1.

Let Ocean swell with angry spite, And yawn and lash the heedless shore; And billows rage with mount'nous height, As if they'd be at peace no more. Let storm 'gainst storm their fury hurl, And loudly roar with fearful might, Till sea and land--yea, all the world-- May seem to grope in trouble's night.

But let _thy heart_ thy Saviour know, Whose word once calmed the troubled deep, Who spake to winds that dared to blow, And _hushed_ them in the lap of sleep. Tis He can quell each rising sigh, And calm thy heart from cruel fears, As when the storms in silence lie, And not a wave the Ocean mars.

SIWEL.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AN ITALIAN EXTRAVAGANZA.

Addressed to a beautiful lady.

Se tutti gli alberi del mondo Fossero penne-- Il cielo fosse carta, Il mare, inchiostro-- Non basterebbero a descrivere La minima parte della vostra perfexione!

AN ATTEMPT AT TRANSLATION.

Could we the sky's unbounded range, To paper all convert-- And had we power, miraculous, to change, To _pens_, the _trees_, To _ink_, the _seas_-- These would not all suffice to paint, in part, The rich perfections of thy mind and heart-- Thy _graces_--thy _desert_!

ELLA.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WHERE IS MY HEART?

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD.

Where is my heart? Its place of rest is not within this aching breast;-- Where does it dwell? It is not in the glittering hall, Where sunbright glances gaily fall 'Neath pleasure's spell.

Where is my heart? Not in the crowd 'mid mirth and wine and revel loud;-- It is not there. Nor is it where the summer's sky Gives birth to flowers of brightest dye And balmy air.

Where is my heart? Upon the sea, where dwell the joyous and the free, It has not gone. My withered heart, it has not flown Where love or hope or joy is known, Or pleasures dawn.

Where is my heart? To the cold grave, where yew and cypress darkly wave, My heart has fled. Yes, where the form it worshipped sleeps, My blighted heart its vigil keeps, Beside the dead.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

INVOCATION.

Come my love--O! come with me, We will wander wild and free,-- Where the pale moon sheds her light, And the dew-drops glisten bright;-- Where is heard the gurgling flow Of the streamlet, we will go, And our joyous feet shall tread, Near the humble violets bed. We will breathe the rich perfume, Born of fragrant flowers in bloom; All that's sweet and all that's fair, From green earth or scented air, Nature brings in vesture gay, Laughing strews around our way.

We will seek the shady grove, Through its mazes we will rove, Sit upon the moss-grown seat, And our youthful vows repeat. Years have passed since we were there, Still thy cheeks are fresh and fair, Not a single care-worn line, Mars that lovely brow of thine. Many gay and gladsome hours, We have spent in sunny bowers; Not one cloud of care or strife, E'er has dimmed our path thro' life,-- And our pilgrimage doth seem As one long and happy dream.

Come my love the Moon's on high, Sailing o'er the summer sky, And the stars are twinkling through Boundless fields of azure-blue-- Faintly from the leafy trees, Sighs the balmy southern breeze. Down the valley we will stray, Where the night-flowers scent the way; Arm in arm we'll wander o'er Many a scene beloved of yore; Tell the oft repeated tale, By the fountain in the vale,-- Talk of deep, confiding love, And of hearts that never rove.

ALEX. LACEY BEARD.

_Aldie, Va._

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AUTUMN.

Come to the forests, while the leaves are falling In rustling showers from every yielding bough-- Seek the wild haunts, where, save some lone bird calling Its mate departed, all is silence now.

Leave the bright hearth, where love and peace are smiling, To dream awhile 'midst Autumn's falling leaves, To watch her power the Summer's charms despoiling As time of early joys the heart bereaves.

There, as the year's bright glories fade around thee Bring home the lesson to thy saddened heart; Muse on the loves and friendships that have bound thee, Which thou hast seen like autumn leaves depart.

Or if the Past yield no sad recollection, Upon the Future let thy thoughts be cast; Nor check the current of the sad reflection That whispers, human life is fleeting fast.

Then bow to Him, in meek and low contrition, Whose Wisdom, full of Mercy, doth ordain To man a second spring in realms elysian, Where the bright hues of Summer ever reign.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

NAPOLEON.

Aye! there he lies,--the mighty one! Death's hand is on him now; And fearfully he puts his seal Upon that haughty brow.

What boots it that his own proud name In foreign lands has rung? That orators his fame have spoke, That bards his deeds have sung?

What boots it that the hills of Spain Shook 'neath his lordly tread-- That with the blood of her best sons, Her vallies' streams ran red?

That over Moscow's battlements, His flag-folds he shook out-- That e'en the lofty pyramids Rang with his charging shout?

He who subdu'd so many lands, Must now from England crave (Although she is his deadliest foe) What man last wants--a grave!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--You have published at page 199 of your January number, four outlandish-looking lines, with a hope that some one of your numerous readers may not only be able to inform your correspondent who furnished them, in what language they are written, but let him still further into the secret by giving their meaning. Happening to know a little of the Gaelic, I have no hesitation in saying that that is the tongue in which they are written; and further, I think I have succeeded, after a good deal of trouble, in discovering to a certainty that they are a translation of the first stanza of Sappho's celebrated Ode addressed "_To the Beloved Pair_," and commented upon at some length by Longinus, in the tenth section of his De Sublimitate. The stanza in question runs thus:

[For want of proper type we cannot give it in the Greek.--_Ed._]

Videtur mihi ille æqualis Diis Esse Vir, qui oppositus tibi Sedet, et prope te dulce loquentem audit Et rides amabiliter.

Blest as the immortal Gods is he The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak and sweetly smile.

An interesting critique upon the Ode, with the whole of Ambrose Philips' spirited translation of it, is to be met with in the two hundred and twenty-ninth number of the Spectator. Yours, &c.

UDOCH.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FINE ARTS.

No. II.

----If the painter saw Naught but the prose of things, and dared but draw The literal, aged, uninspiring truth, And saw not nature in her winged youth Her rainbow aspect, when she stands array'd In floods of sunshine and in nights of shade, What would he gain?--_Barry Cornwall_.

In my last number, I undertook to show, that "uncultivated taste, is incapable of estimating excellence in art" and that, "the beautiful in nature, like philosophy and science, can only be comprehended by those who study it profoundly and observe it habitually." But those who think nature an unveiled beauty to be gazed upon by every wanton eye, or that the arts aspire no higher than the "prose of things;" those who are resolved to admire what they like, rather than learn to like that which is admirable, may spare themselves the trouble of reading this article,--as my object is, to instruct the teachable, to ramble with the lover of nature amidst the shades of rural life, and converse with the amateur of art, about all that is excellent in ancient or modern works.

Before we can perceive what is beautiful in art, we must comprehend what is beautiful in nature; and without entering into the abstruse question of _beauty_, which has so much divided the erudite in all ages, we may say, that every thing from the hand of the Creator is beautiful in its _proper place_: and it is precisely this, that is beautiful in art. But to know the place where beauteous nature lurks, and to trace the harmony and fitness of every object to the part it supplies in the picturesque of scenery, requires a mind

"----by nature's charms impress'd, An ardor ever burning in the breast, A zeal for truth, a power of thought intense; A fancy, flowering on the stems of sense; A mem'ry as the grave retentive, vast That holds to rise again, the imprison'd past."

Beauty is not confined to the waving line of Hogarth, or to objects smooth and soft, as Mr. Burke thought, but is multiform in nature, and therefore admits of a diversity of tastes; yet it is not an arbitrary principle subject to the fancy of every individual, but like harmony in music, it vibrates on the imagination and affections of a cultivated mind, as doth the octave in a well tuned instrument;--the tutored ear perceives the slightest discordance in sounds, and the cultivated eye detects with equal facility the want of harmony in art or nature. It has been said "that the peasant youth, would require more red in the cheek of his beauty, than would be agreeable to a man of cultivated taste," and the inference was, "that the delicate is more beautiful than the florid," but in fact, they are each beautiful in their _place_. In rustic life, amidst the scenes of the vintage, in the hay field, or milking the cow--how beauteous is the flush and healthful bloom of the cottage maiden! The ruby lip and liquid laughing eye bespeak the joyous heart, pleased with its vocation. Here, the delicate and courtly dame of polished life would appear unequal to the task; would be incongruous to the scene, and as much out of place as epic verse in pastoral poetry;--yet in her proper sphere

"----those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet Those looks demure, that deeply pierce the soul, Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mix'd Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart,"

she moves the attractive star of cultivated taste.

The choice of these subjects, constitutes the difference between the Dutch and the Italian schools of art. The former painted pastoral scenery with a fidelity incomparably superior to the Italians, yet greatly inferior in the higher excellencies of art. They are justly admired for their attention to detail, to exact finish, and all the results of "mere mechanic pains," but are void of classical taste, of moral instruction, and the poetry of the imagination, that highest effort of genius. Their works may therefore be beautiful, but never sublime, and their attempts at historic painting degrade it to something worse than caricature. I remember to have seen in the Louvre, a little painting of this school, designed for "Peter denying his Lord in Pilate's house." The interior was a _Holland kitchen_; boors _were smoking_ before a _chimney_ place, or _playing at cards_ on a tub reversed; a coarse looking woman held Peter by his collar, and chanticleer sat perched on a beam of the house. The costume and furniture were equally out of keeping, but executed with the most harmonious tone and finest touch of the pencil. Now the same subject in the schools of Italy would represent a hall becoming the governor of Judea, soldiers in Roman costume would be grouped around an antique vase of embers, placed upon a tripod, and Peter would quail under the pert recognition of a beautiful damsel; the grey dawn would appear through the intercolumniations of the portico, and the warning clarion of the cock would be expressed on the brow of the conscience-stricken Apostle.

This may not be considered a fair comparison, but rather the antithesis of the two schools. What then shall we take as the highest effort of Dutch genius? The Bull of Paul Potter![1] As well might we compare a wax figure of Tecumseh with the Apollo Belvidere, or the Sleeping Beauty with the Venus de Medicis. But, if indeed, it be the highest effort of genius to produce an _exact representation_ of things, the modeller in wax, is superior to the sculptor in marble, and the Bull at the Hague, to the Transfiguration in the Vatican. As no one of any pretension to taste will ever assent to this conclusion, I must again insist, that art aspires to a higher attainment than the mere portraiture of nature, and claims poetic honors; it is the poetry of form and color: it selects the agreeable from the discordant parts of the great prototype--combines and disposes them--and without changing the features, elevates and ennobles them; it seizes upon incidental effects to cast a shadow over the asperities of objects, and throws a broad and brilliant light on the more beautiful parts. When Dominichino was asked what obscured a part of his picture, "_una neblia si passa_," was his reply; and by thus imagining a passing cloud, he was enabled to preserve that breadth of light and shade so remarkable in the English school at present. The Italians however, did not often seek after _effect_; they did not address themselves so much to the eye, as to the judgment; and their distinguishing excellence is _correctness_ of _design_ and _dignity of character_. It was this that acquired for them the praise of a "grand gusto," or sublimity of style, superior to all other artists.

[Footnote 1: This is esteemed the greatest of the Dutch school.]

G. C.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ETYMOLOGY.