The Portland gazette. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1818-1824, 1821-03-08

the smoke Of our fire hustled and crammed to-
gether like scared sheep; or scattered hither and
thu Their. like routed militia smothered with dust
and deaiened with the clamorous reverberations
Of our musick every flourish 10 which WE tread
falling upon their ears, with a cadence aud regu-
larity, like a cathunt with dogs and apprentices
among crockery ware. But eaour have
only done up this sortof intrrodac to con
vince you that am what | pretenpsye be. an
honest, downright and palpabIe critick; hunter
after notoriety; and one who would ransack
heaven and earth to make himself ridiculous
as a Reviewer.
And now for the poem. Here il is, love it,
love the unciouded beauty of the thought the
sweet and pure tenderness Of mspAr-the bro
ken, palpitating and passionate 5ersifcation-l
love it all. 1t has its fauts--sfiS wo 10 the
workmanship Of man that hath them not
Read it--read il, as it deserves to be read
pity the man, yea from my soul pity him, who
can read il. aud not feel . sense Ok dssolsiion
and loneliness about him--a somcthlDg rs OF GUS
who ha, Just ertertwin~i for INC s-xt -tine--his
fingers. with the cold and selaxans fingers OF sone
loved one for the last time breathed broken
and inarticulate prayer upon her half opened
mouth and for the hart time, sealed her delicate
eyelids to their slumber with kiss--and long
trembling and reluctant blessing Yea do pity
him-the man that cannot relish the tender mel.
apcholy of such poetry as this But a woman !,
! o should hate the woman who could read it,
90 beautiful and passionate as it is, without
weeping Yea, without feeling too, that there
was luxury in tears"
1t remains now for us to say something Of this
poetry in the language of criticism. We almost
tremble in approaching it. 1t is, to be sure not
the first time We have laid our unconsecrated
hands upon the offerings of our countrymen but
IL 1ax, 81 H.
when about brandihing our knife, and tucking
up our sleeves for the sacrifice. But, the work
is be done, and, as the Edinburg Reviewers so
modestly, sometimes say, g We know Of nobody
so well qualified as ourselves to do it genteelly.n
The first stanza has natural and captivating
| simplicity in the first four lines, that wins the
heart away, and we are not a little sorry to see
tina. simplicity exchanged for the dim and artif-
oial character of the next three; the last line
returns little, however.
The same fault exists in the second stapza.
To the last line, all Is the low melancholy voice
of complaint, the language Of love, left alone, to
tear away, in darkness and in solitude, the cypres
that had been woven into his marriage chaplet,
by death, while he was away. This last line is
very bad; it j. awkward and boyish, and is,
undoubtedly, an oversight. 1t is poetcal lam
guase, but not poetical thought a common ia ult.
| The third stanza has the same fault. The first
line is good, the next wonderfully beautiful, and
the two following so happy, that we defy any
poet that lives to suggest an improvement. Ii
if, so far, combination, Of thought, genius and
| felicity, like what we see in some extemporane-
Gus bu ST of eloquence. No labpur, no effort, but
one word serves SO naturally 10 bring another
after it, that we see a kind OF sympathy in their
association, a self arranging power, that seems
| always to exist in language when it comes upon
the full strong lice % thu heart Bot what mean
the sixth line' To brare the tempest is very well
but to brave the tempest, when IL wtngs me
hour is, to say the best Of it, mighty common
lpace, as zee say in Virginia.
But look at the fourth stanza. There. we dwell
upon that we place our hands, and from it, we
dare to lift our eyes to heaven, confident of ap-
proval, when we say that that stanza partakes OF
the divinity Of mans nature. We dare to say
nhaf Away with criticism Away with the pal
try, dwelling cant Of the trade There is not,
| there never has been, flow Of purer inspiration
than that. We speak Of the thought, particular
ly of that most beautiful and touching one. the
golden seal that stamps loves letter. Who would
| believe that so familiar thing as seal, could
have supplied SO charming an idea There is one
| thing, however, of which we take this epportuni-
ty to speak, once for all we hope, to our native
writers and particularly to our native poets and
that is OF their strange dislike to relatives. An
American never uses that nor icitich, if he can
possibly help II, and particularly in poetry. The
consequence often is, great obscrrity; and we
assure Mi. Walter the author of this poem) that
mas omission OF relative in this very stanza puz
zied ~ confoundedly at first but we forgive
hlm now, and punish him emily, by saying how we
think At might be improved. Suppose it were
thus: