The Sun.
London, England, 1826-11-16 00:00:00

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4
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No. 10,666.

LITERATURE.

FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING, ISM
Another—and yet another," of these graceful an-
nuals comes before us for 1827, recommended by the
usual abundance of talent. The name of J. K.
Hervey indeed, distinguished as it is in the world of
Poetic. Literature, gives a strong assurance of merit to
any work of which he is professedly the Editor; and
the publication before us in no respect disappoints ex-
pectation. There is, however, one fault which we
find with this, in common with the Souvenir, Amulet,
and others of the same stamp, namely, the distressing
abundance of mere poetry that is scattered lavishly
throughout it. In an age when this talent is so rife that
it abounds in every quarter where literature can exert in-
fluence, poetry should be either surpassingly goat& be
not inserted at aii. Every One in the present day is a
poet, so much so that if in a crowd one man happens
to run against another, ten to one that other is a poet.
Mr. Croly's lines on the Contadina, however, have
both " mark and likelihood" to distinguish them from
the more ignoble herd of rhymeders, and we therefore
select them fin insertion.
The CONTADINA DICTATING HER LOVE-LETTER.

SY THE RIM GIORGI CROLY.
Come, thou old unloving Scribe,
ThOu shalt have a noble bribe;
Vhoose it,—medal, coin, or gem,
U pas ring, or coral stem;
like thy pen and tell my love,
to earth, and heaven above;
to every sainted maid,
watelid, and wept, and pray'd—
him, with their wings, to stoop,
ere he steers his bold chaloupe ;
or him, in the sullen night,
When the storm is in his might ;
O'er him, in the fearful day,
When the lance and sabre play;
And the soldier's hour is knolled,
Stretched upon the sanguine mould ;
Him on surge, or him on steed,
Still to spare, and still to speed !
Listen now. !-ITis vain, 'tis vain ;
What can read the burning brain ?
What can tell the thousandth part
Of the agonies of heart,
Secrets, that the spirit keeps,
Thoughts on which it wakes and weeps;
To the mortal ear unknown,
Kept for night and heaven alone !
Old man, tell him of the tale
Written in this cheek so pale ;
Wild, and often, has the tear
Washed the rose that once was there.
Tell him of my heavy sigh,
Deep as from the lips that die;
Of ray eyes' decaying beam ;
Life departing like a stream.
Tell him of my weary day.
1)4 him, Oh,* all but stay ;
if he would not see my tomb,
Bid him come, and—swiftly cpme!
" Floranthe," by T. K. Hervey, is an exquisite
poem, fraught with feeling, taste, and all that charac-
twins and adorns good poetry; from it we quote the
following lovely passage, which no writer of the present
day, we think, can surpass :--
Our love hath perish'd, like the sound Mat dies,
And leaves no echo ; like the eastern day
That has no twilight—like the lonely dower
Flung forth to wither on the wind, that wastes
Even it's perfume—dead, Ploranthe, dead,
With all the precious thoughts on which it fed,
And all the hopes which made it beautiful—
Sound, light, and perfume gone—and gone for ever.
And art thou come again ? It may not be.
Oh ! beautiful thou art ; but on thy brow
Sits the dim shadowy thing which only haunts
Where hearts are wafted ; and thine eye is sad
As moonlieht when it sleeps upon a grave.
• The last simile, 'for depth of tenderness and wild-
,
• • • hiess of fancy, is perfect. The pictorial part of this
elegant annual deserves almost equal credit with the
literary portion. The' splendid engraving of ,g Alex-
ander and Diogenes," (executed, we conceive, with
more spirit than the one in the Souvenir) is alone
worth the price of the volume, and as we hare been
giien td understand, will be bold alone at the same
rate. Altogether, we may say of " Friendship's Offer-
ing" what old Paoli said some time since of the free-
dom of Corsica, " Sato perpetua."