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that although States rise and fall, temples are upreared, and topple to their bases, an earthquake may render useless a "century's toil," Poetry can make a name reverberate through the world during its existence. Terpsichore, contains much wit, humour, and sound judgment. It is written in a strictly classical spirit. A Rhymed Lesson, commences in a humorous vein, and goes on to show that God brought us into the world, not that he might tyrannize over us, but that we might possess the world for our enjoyment, having evinced our gratitude to him by our obedience to his laws, thus giving us an opportunity of working out our welfare.
The poem is especially intended for the uneducated poor, whom it instructs in those essential moral principles, and social virtues, with which, from their utter ignorance, they are necessarily unacquainted; it points out the necessity of holding our passions in check, inculcates christian toleration, and recommends dispassionate judgment: it winds up with a patriotic eulogium on America, well adapted to the poor and uneducated youth. The instruction is given in a vein, semi serious and semi comic, and is consequently most likely to be generally read.
How beautifully Holmes can indite a ballad, may be judged from,
THE STAR AND THE WATER LILY.
The sun stepped down from his golden throne,
And lay in the silent sea,
And the Lily had folded her satin leaves,
See, see, she is lifting her varnished lid!
That would lie by the Rose's side;
He would love her better than all the rest,
"Oh the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold,
"But the Star is fair and he lives in the air, And he shall my bridegroom be."
But what if the stormy cloud should come,
Would he turn his eye from the distant sky,
O no, fair Lily, he will not send
One ray from his far-off throne; The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow,
And thou wilt be left alone.
There is not a leaf on the mountain top,
That he has not cheered with his fickle sunile
Alas for the Lily! she would not heed,
The cloud came over the darkened sky,
She looked in vain through the beating rain,
The Last Leaf, is decidedly the oddest of his productions,
and the one perhaps which is most calculated to display his idiosyncrasies: we here insert it :—
THE LAST LEAF.
I saw him once before,
The pavement stones resound,
They say that in his prime,
Not a better man was found
Through the town.
But now he walks the streets,
And he shakes his feeble head,
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he had pressed
And the names he loved to hear
On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said,-
That he had a Roman nose,
But now his nose is thin,
And a crook is in his back,
I know it is a sin
But the old three-cornered hat,
And if I should live to be
Let them smile, as I do now,
Exquisite satire, and marvellous fidelity, are evidenced in the following:
My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!
I know it hurts her,-though she looks
Her waist is ampler than her life,
My aunt! my poor deluded aunt!
He sent her to a stylish school;
"Twas in her thirteenth June ; And with her, as the rules required, "Two towels and a spoon."
They braced my aunt against a board,
O never mortal suffered more
So, when my precious aunt was done,
"Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook
Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche,
Tore from the trembling father's arms,
In the next quotation, we are furnished with a most extraordinary instance of appropriate imagery: we are astonished at the happy manner in which every line bears reference to the Tailor's calling, and by the wonderful facility with which all external objects, be they great or small, are compared to the humble technicalities which characterize his profession.
The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads,
Do make a music like to rustling satin,
Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout,
I have a scar upon my thimble finger, Which chronicles the hour of young ambition.
My father was a tailor, and his father, And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors;
They had an ancient goose,-it was an heirloom
From some remoter tailor of our race.
It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs,
And all the needles that do wound the spirit, For such a pensive hour of soothing silence. Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress, Lays bare her shady bosom ;-I can feel With all around me;-I can hail the flowers That sprig earth's mantle, -and yon quiet bird,
That rides the stream, is to me as a brother. The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets, Where Nature stows away her loveliness. But this unnatural posture of the legs Cramps my extended calves, and I must go Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion.
The following is in Holmes' best style :
THE STETHOSCOPE SONG.
All mounted and finished and polished down,
This fine young man then up stepped he,
Then out his Stethoscope he took,
Amphorie buzzing, as I am alive!
They tapped the patient: so he died.
Now such as hate new-fashioned toys
Began to look extremely glum; They said that rattles were made for boys, And vowed that his buzzing was all a
There was an old lady had long been sick,
And what was the matter none did know; Her pulse was slow, though her tongue was quick;
To her this knowing youth must go.
So there the nice old lady sat,
With phials and boxes all in a row;
Now, when the Stethoscope came out,
The bruit de rape and the bruit de scie
If he a case like this could find!
Now, when the neighbouring doctors found
And short of breath on mounting stairs. They all made rhymes with "sighs" and "skies,
And loathed their puddings and buttered rolls,
And dicted, much to their friends' surprise,
So fast their little hearts did bound,
He shook his head;-there's grave disease,
The six young damsels wept alond,
This poor young man was all aghast;
To practise in a country town.
A Stethoscope they did devise,
Now use your ears, all you that can,
We close this first paper on American Poets, and our second, and concluding, portion, shall be devoted to a review of the works of Dana, Willis, Lowell, Poe, Whittier, and Read. We have not in this, our present division of the subject, written critically of the poets specially noticed, or of the probable effects which their productions may have upon the literature of America; we consider that such a disquisition belongs to the concluding section of our paper.
ART. II.-JOHN BANIM.
ANXIETY FOR FAME AS A DRAMATIC POET.
AND OLD STORIES RECALLED. THE BEAUTIES AND ART OF
REMOVAL TO THE FRENCH COAST ADVISED BY PHYSICIANS.
It will have been remarked by the attentive student of Banim's mind, as exhibited in his letters, that the old love of poetry and of dramatic composition, recurs frequently in evident forms. It was indeed never entirely lost, and he seems to have cherished hopes of brilliant and steady success in that most difficult of all literary labors, the production of a really poetical,
He was ever, in his leisure hours, and these, truly, were few, engaged in poetic composition; he had no pleasures, save