Thomas's Massachusetts spy, or, Worcester gazette. [volume] (Worcester, Mass.) 1811-1821, 1821-05-16
And kinsly pride, that IN could brook

And mid a chosen festive ring,
Play as1g part but that Of KING
Nor forfeit by such frolick mirth,
Such foorries Of ephemeral birth,
Aught of respect, or influence, due
/ To his high rank and merit true.
Next to the King, his only son,
1 Heir to his honours and his throne,
Sat Ruric, ardent, bold and young,
| Ready of hand and free of tongue,
Adventurous, needless, rashly brave,
| Born to command, and yet slave
To ev'ry upstart passions sway
That chanc'd to seize him for the day
| Fortunes spoil,d child, his sole employ
Had been to wish and t enjoy;
And manhood came, and saw his frame,
Such as Apollo's self might claim,
Graceful and vigorous, light and free,
/ While his mind slept in infancy -
Yet Ruric was his fathers pride,
Who, like most fathers, seldom spied
A fault in one so dearly lov'd;
Or, if he spied il, half approved"
The first canto contains two episodes, which
are sung at the feast for the entertainment OF
the King and his guests, by rival scalds, or
minstrels. One Of the ballads is entitled The
Wiich Of Hssleggen, and the other The JMer-
maid. Both are full of the terriick supersti-
ton and legendary lore of the north.-From
the former of these pieces, we select the two
following stanzas, as containing more elevat-
ed fight of the authors muse, and a different
and more difficult kind Of versifcation -
"a twelve-month had pass'd, when galliot
brave,
From the island of Yer, bounded light DER the
wave:
On its deck sat fair Ella, Lord Harold's young
bride,
And Dermid, his frst-born, his heir and his
pride,
Enjoying the zephyr, that balmy and free
Just kiss'd, without moving, the face of the sea:
Lord Harold impatiently wateh'd, from the
strand,
Near the base of Hesleggen, that galliot ca
reering -
The rowers were strong bow-shot
from land
They piled TO the shore they were rapidly
nearing
When sudden and black, from Hesleggen's
high brow,
Shot tempest-fraught cloud to the ocean be-
low:
1t swept past Lord Harold, all angry and dark,
And in whirlwind it burst DER the sea-circl'd
While borne on its pinions, the demon-like
OF the witch of Hesleggen directed the storm
From the galliot's deck, a short death-shriek
was heard
With soul-piercing shrillness, one moment to
culver;
0nn ,,,r,,,oof oil brox,o Hot
Then Sunk to its grave in the pillows forey
From these extracts our readers will be able
to form an opinion of Escalala !; and we doubt
not they will coincide with us in thinking it a
poen of no ordinary merit, and creditable to
the genius and taste of the author. Ii it has
some blemishes, it has also many beauties
and, ia our opinion, the latter more than bal
ance the former. We understand Mr. Beach
has not yet decided whether to publish or not.
There is as much truth as poetry IN the follow
ing lines from the close of his introduction
and if he shall determine to publish, under
circumstances so inauspicious to the most cred
table efforts Of the American muse, we can
only express hope that he may be more for
tunate than his predecessors, and that his poem
may meet with a patronage proportioned to its
merits -
Distinguished thus for every gen'rohs art
That can expand the mind, or mend the heart,
Born with mans rarest blessing-to be free,
And freedoms richest gift, a soul of energy;
Why shun Columbia's sons to wake the Tyre,
With all the fervour of poetick fire?
Why gaze on charms the stranger muse hath,
shown,
Nor make such charms, such beauties al their
own
I blush the seeming riddle to unfold;
But truth demands the tale-and truth must
aye be told.
If British genius WOO the tuneful nine
Shape the smooth verse, and point the polish'd
line,
With prompt acclaim we hail the heavenly
lays,
Lavish unscann'd applause and needless praise.
But if some luckless native. minstrel Irvine
A votive chaplet for Apoilo's shrine,
Tho every fow'r on high Pamassus grew,
Heav'n-born, and nourish'd with Castalian
II dew,
Tho harmony hath breath'd her soul around
The mystick zone in which their stems are
bound,
We catch no fragrance, prefer no regard,
And cold disdam repels the hapless bard.
Oh my soul sickens at the niggard need,
By apathy, to native worth decreed--
Scorns the perverted taste that still must roam
In quest Of dainties which abound at home
Longs for the days to come-and come they
must
To Others lib'ral, to ourselves more just
When my lov'd countrymen shall learn to
prize
The wild. wood flowers that bloom beneath
their native skies