Part 11

The cheerful songsters of the verdant grove, Are trilling forth their merry morning lays-- Their matin songs of warm impassioned love, Which sweetly strike the ear of him who strays Through the green paths and shady woodland ways, Drinking deep pleasure from old Nature's wells, Where the wild cat'ract in the sunlight plays, Or seated lone, mid dark and mossy dells-- Or on some rocky mount yields to her magic spells.

The red-breast, mounted on some tow'ring tree, Is chanting loud his merry, mirthful strain; And the sweet lark's melodious notes of glee, Are softly floating o'er the dewy plain. From the broad fields which wave with golden grain, Echoes the whistle of the timid quail; And the loud laughter of the reaper train Sweeps wildly by, borne on the passing gale O'er woodland hill afar, and flowery-vested vale.

I hear the tuneful sound of humming bees, And gently blows the soothing summer wind With murmuring sound among the wavy trees, And where gay flowers, in wild luxuriance twined, Shed fragrance on its wings. How dull, how blind To nature and her charms is he who sleeps Through the glad morn, nor feels the fragrant wind That o'er the hills and verdant valleys sweeps, 'Till with wild joy the heart of Nature's lover leaps!

O'er hill and valley far away I've strayed, And gathered roses wet with morning dew, To deck the grave where sleeps a gentle maid Whose tender heart no change nor coldness knew, But throbbed with love, which warmer, holier grew As waxed more dim life's faint and flickering light, And to the close remained unchanged and true-- A holy flame that burned, amid the blight, Of fell disease and anguish, more divinely bright.

The sun climbs higher in the azure sky-- More fiercely on the earth descend his beams-- The tender flowers hang low their heads and die, And wearied cattle seek the cooling streams. Faint grow the ploughmen and their toil-worn teams; The reapers too have ceased their strains of mirth; No more the air with sounds of pleasure teems; And now the shadows traced upon the earth, And the fierce heat, proclaim the sultry noon-day's birth.

O'er the wide fields the herds have ceased to rove, The tuneful birds have hushed their morning song, Silent and lone is the deserted grove Which late re-echoed to the warbling throng. Hark! hark! I hear, sounding the vales along, The mellow horn--the pleasant sound which calls From the hot fields, the wearied harvest throng To seek, where the old oak tree's shadow falls, Their noon-day meal hard by the flowery cottage walls.

Within a green and trellised bower I lie, Securely sheltered from the solar rays, And on the bright and glowing summer sky In contemplation rapt, I fix my gaze, And scan each fleecy cloud which slowly strays Like some pure spirit o'er the azure dome, Making amid its wild and trackless ways, Its boundless depths, a bright ethereal home Where lone and airy forms in silent grandeur roam.

And here at noon-day hour I often dream Of the fair hopes which light life's gloomy waste-- A desart plain o'er which a laughing stream, Has found a way, its banks with wild flowers graced. But ah! alas! when the fair stream is traced, Amid lone sands we find its darksome goal. O dreary life! in death's cold grasp embraced-- A withered thing, a dark and blotted scroll, O'er which oblivion's deep and sluggish waters roll.

In early youth upon the sea of life, We spread our sails, nor dream of pain nor care, Nor the fierce tempest, nor the raging strife Which gathers round our bark where'er we steer, But on we rush, heedless and without fear, Till, shipwrecked all our hopes, we helpless lie And feel the bitter pangs of black despair-- Or from the demon strive in vain to fly, Or rush into the arms of Death and madly die.

The sun is sinking down the western skies-- A holy calm is reigning o'er the earth-- From the green valleys cheerful sounds arise-- The tinkling sheep-bell, and the merry mirth Of happy children--laughing at the birth Of some new pleasure. Now the setting sun, More brightly gleaming o'er the virent earth, Casts a rich glow of golden light upon The fleecy clouds, which line the western horizon.

Along yon valley where (a silent grove!) Those dark green pines in loneliness arise; With a sad heart in solitude I'll rove, And darkly muse upon the broken ties {38} Of happier days--the bright and smiling eyes, Whose gentle light gave life a summer bloom, And made this earth seem like a Paradise-- Now cold and rayless in the starless gloom, Which darkly hovers o'er and shrouds the loathsome tomb.

The twilight shades are gathering o'er the land-- Shrouding the valleys in the gloom of night, While I beside a murmuring streamlet stand, And see depart the last faint rays of light Which linger round yon mountain's topmost height. 'Tis the lone night--another day has gone, And Time who speeds with never tiring flight, Beheld a thousand laughing eyes this morn, That now are sleeping where no day shall ever dawn.

GREEK SONG.

The exploit of Harmodius and Aristogiton, in slaying Hipparchus, tyrant of Athens, on the festal day of Minerva--hiding their poniards in myrtle wreaths, which they pretended to carry in honor of the Goddess, was celebrated in an Ode, the unsurpassed strength and beauty of which, it has utterly baffled the skill of all English versifiers to transfuse into our language. The learned are not agreed as to the author of this noble specimen of classic minstrelsy; though by most, it is ascribed to Callistratus. Some have set it down to Alcæus; misled, perhaps, by the tyrant-hating spirit it breathes,--so fully in unison with the deep, trumpet tones of his "golden lyre." Unhappily for the paternity of this ode, he died _eighty years_ before the event it celebrates. Of no other relic of antiquity, probably, have so many translations been attempted. I have seen seven or eight. If the following be added to so many woful failures, the author will not be greatly troubled. It never was in print before--I believe.

HYMN,

IN HONOR OF HARMODIUS AND ARISTOGITON.

[En myrtou kladi to Chiphos phorêsô Ôsper Armodios k' Aristogeitôn, &c.]

TRANSLATION.

Wreath'd in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal, Like those champions, devoted and brave, When they plunged in the tyrant their steel, And to Athens deliverance gave.

Belov'd heroes! your deathless souls roam, In the joy-breathing isles of the blest; Where the mighty of old have their home-- Where Achilles and Diomed rest.

In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine, Like Harmodius, the gallant and good, When he made, at the tutelar shrine, A libation of Tyranny's blood.

Ye deliverers of Athens from shame-- Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs! Endless ages shall cherish your fame, Embalmed in their echoing songs.

Amongst other translations of this exquisite ode, is one by _Charles Abraham Elton_, a translator of Hesiod, and of several other Grecian poems; all of which are in a London edition of two elegant 8vo. volumes. The first stanza of his version is as follows:

"In myrtle veiled will I my falchion wear; For thus the patriot sword Harmodius and Aristogeiton bare, When they the tyrant's bosom gored, And bade the men of Athens be Regenerate in equality."

It is a proof of the fairness with which Mr. Elton has aimed at a literal rendering of his author, that he has made even the name of ARISTOGEITON retain its place; as inharmonious a one, perhaps, as ever "filled the trump of future fame." In the Edinburgh Review for January, 1833, we find a translation of considerable merit, in the stanza of "Bruce's Address:" less literal than Mr. Elton's, yet more brief and simple, and partaking more of the thrilling energy of the original. In its arrangement, the edition of Ilgen is followed. It is due to the author of the foregoing translation to say, that it was written long before the year in which this one was published; and before he had seen the seven or eight others above mentioned.

"Wreathed with myrtles be my glaive,[1] Like the falchion of the brave, Death to Athens' lord that gave, Death to Tyranny!

Yes! let myrtle wreaths be round, Such as then the falchion bound, When with deeds the feast was crown'd, Done for Liberty!

Voiced by Fame eternally, Noble pair! your names shall be, For the stroke that made us free, When the tyrant fell!

Death, Harmodius! came not near thee, Isles of bliss and brightness cheer thee, There heroic breasts revere thee, There the mighty dwell!"

[Footnote 1: Sword.]

P.

SONNET.

O fairest flow'r; no sooner blown than blasted, Soft silken primrose faded timelessly.--_Milton_.

It was an infant dying! and I stood Watching beside its couch, to mark how Death, His hour being come, would steal away the breath Of one so young, so innocent, so good. Friends also waited near--and now the blood 'Gan leave the tender cheek, and the dark eye To lose its wonted lustre. Suddenly Slight tremblings o'er him came; anon, subdued To utter passiveness, the sufferer lay, Far, far more beautiful in his decay Than e'er methought before! I held his hand Fast lock'd in mine, and felt more feebly flow The pulse already faint and fluttering. Lo! It ceased; I turn'd, and bow'd to God's command.[1]

[Footnote 1: Samuel II. Chap. xii.--22, 23.]

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SPECIMENS OF LOVELETTERS

IN THE REIGN OF EDWARD IV.

From the second volume of a Collection of Original Letters written during the reigns of Henry VI, Edward IV, and Richard III. By John Fenn, Esq., M.A. and F. R. S.

I.

Right reverend and worshipful, and my right well beloved Valentine, I recommend me unto you, full heartilie desiring to hear of your welfare, which I beseech Almighty God long for to preserve unto his pleasure, and your heart's desire.

And if it please you to hear of my welfare, I am not in good heele (_health_) of bodie, nor of heart, nor shall be till I hear from you

For there wottes (_knows_) no creature that pain I endure And for to be dead (_for my life_), I dare it not discur (_discover_)

And my lady my mother hath labored the matter to my father full diligently, but she can no more get than ye know of, for the which God knoweth I am full sorry. But if that ye love me, as I trust verily that ye do, ye will not leave me therefore; for if that ye had not half the livelihood that ye have, for to do the greatest labour that any woman alive might, I would not forsake you.

And if ye command me to keep me true wherever I go, I wis I will do all my might you to love, and never no mo, And if my friends say, that I do amiss They shall not me let (_hinder_) so for to do, Mine heart me bids ever more to love you-- Truly over all earthlie thing And if they be never so wrath I trust it shall be better in time coming

No more to you at this time, but the Holy Trinity have you in keeping; and I beseech you that this bill be not seen of none earthlie creature save only yourself.

And this letter was endited at Topcroft, with full heavy heart &c.

By your own MARGERY BREWS.

II.

Right worshipful and well beloved Valentine, in my most humble wise, I recommend me unto you &c.

And heartilie I thank you for the letter, which that ye send me by John Beckerton, whereby I understand and know that ye be purposed to come to Topcroft in short time, and without any errand or matter, but only to have a conclusion of the matter betwixt my father and you; I would be the most glad of any creature alive, so that the matter might grow to effect. And thereas (_whereas_) ye say, an (_if_) ye come and find the matter no more towards you than ye did aforetime, ye would no more put my father and my lady my mother to no cost nor business for that cause a good while after, which causeth my heart to be full heavie; and if that ye come, and the matter take to none effect, then should I be much more sorry, and full of heaviness.

And as for myself I have done, and understand in the matter that I can or may, as God knoweth; and I let you plainly understand, that my father will no more money part withal in that behalf, but an 100_l_. and 50 marks (33_l_. 6_s_. 8_d_.) which is right far from the accomplishment of your desire.

Wherefore, if that ye could be content with that good, and my poor person, I would be the merriest maiden on ground; and if ye think not yourself so satisfyed, or that ye might have much more good, as I have understood by you afore; good, true, and loving Valentine, that ye take no such labor upon you, as to come more for that matter, but let what is, pass and never more be spoken of, as I may be your true lover and beadwoman during my life.

No more unto you at this time, but Almighty Jesu preserve you both bodie and soul &c.

By your Valentine MARGERY BREWS.

Topcroft 1476.7.

MARCELIA.

Then she is drown'd? --------Drown'd--Drown'd. Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia! And therefore I forbid my tears.--_Hamlet_.

It was a solitary spot!-- The shallow brook that ran throughout the forest, (Aye chattering as it went,) there took a turn And widened;--all its music died away, And in the place, a silent eddy told That there the stream grew deeper. There dark trees Funereal (cypress, yew, and shadowy pine, And spicy cedar,) cluster'd; and at night Shook from their melancholy branches sounds And sighs like death!--'Twas strange, for thro' the day They stood quite motionless, and looked, methought, Like monumental things, which the sad earth From its green bosom had cast out in pity, To mark a young girl's grave. The very leaves Disown'd their natural green, and took a black And mournful hue: and the rough brier had stretch'd His straggling arms across the water, and Lay like an armed sentinel there, catching With his tenacious leaf, straws, wither'd boughs, Moss that the banks had lost, coarse grasses which Swam with the current--and with these it hid The poor Marcelia's death-bed! Never may net Of vent'rous fisher be cast in with hope, For not a fish abides there. The slim deer Snorts, as he ruffles with his shorten'd breath The brook, and, panting, flies th' unholy place-- And the wild heifer lows and passes on; The foaming hound laps not, and winter birds Go higher up the stream. And yet _I_ love To loiter there; and when the rising moon Flames down the avenue of pines, and looks Red and dilated through the evening mists, And chequer'd as the heavy branches sway To and fro with the wind, I listen, and Can fancy to myself that voices there Plain, and low prayers come moaning thro' the leaves For some misdeed! The story goes, that a Neglected girl (an orphan whom the world Frown'd upon,) once strayed thither, and 'twas thought Did cast her in the stream. You may have heard Of one Marcelia, poor Molini's daughter, who Fell ill, and came to want in youth? No?--Oh! She loved a man who marked her not. He wed, And then the girl grew sick, and pin'd away, And drown'd herself for love!--Some day or other I'll tell you all the story.

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TO MIRA.

BY L. A. WILMER.

Far from the gaudy scenes my earliest youth Loved to inhabit, which Hope's rising sun Lent every grace and charm--save that of Truth, And made me happy but to be undone, (My joys expectant blasted ere begun,) Far from those pleasing scenes 'tis mine to roam. Friendless, forlorn, my idle course I run, While Disappointment, a malignant gnome, Still tortures, and the grave appears my happiest home.

Ere yet I bid a long, a last farewell To the sweet Muse, reluctant to forego The sacred solace and enchanting spell Which charm'd my solitude, and sooth'd my woe-- Ere I renounce my harp, and cease to know The poet's rapture, when his eye surveys The heavenly visions fancy doth bestow, On which her favored sons alone may gaze, Once more I lift my voice to sing in Mira's praise.

While sickly flattery heaps the unhallowed shrine Of pomp and pride with praise that palls the sense, Let spotless candor, Heaven-born truth be mine: Base are the praises sold at truth's expense: Mira! thy name all falsehood drives from hence! Accept this tribute due to worth like thine-- Accept this offering of a heart from whence No guile shall rise to taint this verse of mine, But friendship's holy signet sanctify each line.

O might I deem my verse could live beyond The petty confines of the dreary tomb-- Might I believe my wishes not too fond, That point to fame beyond the eternal gloom-- When this frail form shall in the grave consume, That future ages shall my works behold-- Then, Mira, on this page thy name's perfume Should breathe a fragrance, when the hand is cold And crumbled into dust which here that name enrolled.

As long as years revolved, and seasons came, Tho' other flowers should fade away and die, An ever-blooming flower should be thy name, Dipped in the radiance of the evening sky: When marble monuments in ruins lie, And sculptured pillars from their bases fall, Could I but place fair Mira's name on high In Fame's eternal, adamantine hall, Then would my lot be blessed, my hopes accomplished all.

Tho' placed by Fate in this ungenial clime, Where scarce the sacred Muse hath deigned to tread-- These Western lands, where Song appears a crime, And Genius rears a sad and sickly head-- And tho' malignant stars their influence shed-- Yet might I boast thy friendship, I would bend No more when black misfortunes round me spread; But my last breath in thankfulness would send, And tell to future times thou wast my only friend.

I have seen womankind in all their charms-- Yea! all that beauty, wealth, and wit bestow-- With all that strikes the eye, or fancy warms, In festal halls, where gold and diamonds glow, And gay costumes that mock the painted bow Of Iris hanging on Heaven's battlements: Yet not all these could bid my bosom know Such admiration, or such joys dispense, As when the maiden smiled in heavenly innocence.

Then, Mira, not to pride my harp is strung-- Not to the measures of the giddy dance-- The boasted beauty shall remain unsung, For I, unmoved, can meet her fatal glance. Not in the fairy regions of romance My footsteps stray--but _Truth_ directs my song: To _Truth's_ eternal portals I advance, Deserted by the rhyming crew so long, And Virtue, Worth, and Thou shall still employ my tongue.

With thee, sweet Modesty and Truth reside-- Sincerity from courts and crowds exiled-- Virtue, that shuns the haughty brow of Pride-- And Charity, Heaven's first-born, favorite child,-- As if the skies upon thy birth had smiled, And given thee all to make a woman dear. Yes! thou couldst humanize the savage wild, Make tigers pause thy soothing voice to hear, Melt marble hearts, and smooth the brow of cankering care.

When the last echoes of my harp expire, In mournful breathings on Patapsco's shore-- When the unpractised hand that struck the wire, Shall wake those wild and artless notes no more-- When the green meadow and the torrent's roar-- The woody walk, so long my dear delight, With all that charmed my fancy most before-- When Death shall veil these objects from my sight, O say, wilt thou my name in thy remembrance write?

Then let the world its malice all combine-- Its hate I reck not, and its wrongs despise: A bliss they dream not of shall still be mine-- A bliss untold, yet worthy of the skies, Which all their curs'd malevolence defies. Even in the anguish of the mortal hour, My soul superior to the gloom shall rise, And smile on Death when all his terrors lower, And the grim tyrant stalks full panoplied in power.

STANZAS.

Oh! never, never, until now, Seem'd happiness so near me-- Hope never wore a brighter brow To flatter or to cheer me: Yet while I listen to her voice, Sad memory is chiding-- And I must tremble to rejoice, And weep while I'm confiding.

I thought my spirit had grown old, While counting years by sorrow, And that the future could unfold For me no happier morrow; But ah! I find myself a child Of newly waken'd feeling, As full of dreams, as bright and wild, As fancy's first revealing.

LEILA.

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_Critical Notices_.

THE HEROINE.

_The Heroine: or Adventures of Cherubina. By Eaton Stannard Barrett, Esq. New Edition. Richmond: Published by P. D. Bernard._

Cherubina! Who has not heard of Cherubina? Who has not heard of that most spiritual, that most ill-treated, that most accomplished of women--of that most consummate, most sublimated, most fantastic, most unappreciated, and most inappreciable of heroines? Exquisite and delicate creation of a mind overflowing with fun, frolic, farce, wit, humor, song, sentiment, and sense, what mortal is there so dead to every thing graceful and glorious as not to have devoured thy adventures? Who is there so unfortunate as not to have taken thee by the hand?--who so lost as not to have cultivated thy acquaintance?--who so stupid, as not to have enjoyed thy companionship?--who so much of a log, as not to have laughed until he has wept for very laughter in the perusal of thine incomparable, inimitable, and inestimable eccentricities? But we are becoming pathetic to no purpose, and supererogatively oratorical. _Every body_ has read Cherubina. There is no one so superlatively unhappy as not to have done this thing. But if such there be--if by any possibility such person should exist, we have only a few words to say to him. Go, silly man, and purchase forthwith "_The Heroine: or Adventures of Cherubina_."