« PreviousContinue »
Who could endure the horrid thought!-What makes
Had. Dark imaginations haunt me
Tam. O, tell them not-I would not hear them.
Had. But v;hy contemn a Spirit's love? so high,
Had. N0—0, no—
Tam. Why dost thou speak so sadly now ?-and lo!
[He appears lost in thought.] Tell me,
ascribʼst thou influence to the stars? Had. (starting.) The stars ! What know'st thou of the
Tam. Speak not so wildly:-
Had. Eternity !-
Tam. What ails thee, Hadad ?-Draw me not so close.
Tam. Thy cheek is wet with tears—Nay, let us part'Tis late-I cannot, must not linger:
[Breaks from him, and exit.] Had. Loved and abhorred !--Still, still accursed !
[He paces, twice or thrice, up and down, with
passionate gestures ; then turns his face to the sky, and stands a moment in silence.]
Hadad's Description of the City of David.-HILLHOUSE.
'Tis so;—the hoary harper sings aright;
The Song at Twilight.-LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON.*
WHEN evening spreads her shades around,
And darkness fills the arch of heaven;
To Fancy's sportive ear is given;
* The remains and a biographical sketch of this remarkable girl were published last year by Mr. Samuel F. B. Morse. An interesting review f the volume appeared soon after in the London Quarterly : we are int When the broad orb of heaven is bright,
And looks around with golden eye ;
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ;
Then, when our thoughts are raised above
This world, and all this world can give,
And tears of gratitude receive.
And, hovering, trembles half afraid,
'Twere almost sacrilege to sing
Those notes amid the glare of day;
And wafted by their breath away.
When, sleeping in my grass-grown bed,
Shouldst thou still linger here above,
And, sister, sing the song I love?
aware that it has been noticed in any periodical in this country. Southey has rendered himself distinguished for his attention to youthful genius. Except the cases of Chatterton and Henry Kirke White, he thinks there is no instance on record of “ so early, so ardent, and so fatal a pursuit of intellectual advancement, as is exhibited in the history of this young lady. “In these poems, there is enough of originality, enough of aspiration, enough of conscious energy, enough of growing power, to warrant any expectations, however sanguine, which the patron, and the friends and parents of the deceased, could have formed; nor can any person rise from the perusal of such a volume without feeling the vanity of human hopes.”
“She was peculiarly sensitive to music. There was one song (it was Moore's Farewell to his Harp) to which she took a special fancy; she wished to hear it only at twilight ; thus, with that same perilous love of excitement which made her place the windharp in the window when she was composing, seeking to increase the effect which the song produced upon a nervous system, already diseasedly susceptible ; for it is said, that, whenever she heard this song, she became cold, pale, and almost fainting; yet it was her favorite of all songs, and gave occasion to these verses, addressed, in her fifteenth year, to her sister.
“ To young readers it might be useful to observe, that these verses, in one place, approach the verge of meaning, but are on the wrong side of the line : to none can it be necessary to say, that they breathe the deep feeling of a mind essentially poetical.” The piece here referred to, is that extracted above. ED,
Hagar in the Wilderness.-N. P. Willis.
The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty. Earth received again Its garment of a thousand dies; and leaves, And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, And every thing that bendeth to the dew, And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn.
All things are dark to sorrow; and the light,
Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now
13 passing fair and beautiful, he breathes
He gave to her the water and the bread,
Should Hagar weep? May slighted woman turn, And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, Bend lightly to her tendencies again? O no! by all her loveliness, by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no! Make her a slave; steal from her rosy cheek By needless jealousies; let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain; Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all That makes her cup a bitterness—yet give One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devotedness like hers. But, oh! estrange her once, it boots not how, By wrong or silence, any thing that tells A change has come upon your tenderness, And there is not a high thing out of heaven Her pride o'ermastereth not.
She went her way with a strong step and slow; Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed, As it had been a diamond, and her form Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through. Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed His hand till it was pained; for he had caught, As I have said, her spirit, and the seed Of a stern nation had been breathed upon.
The morning past, and Asia's sun rode up