Literary cadet and Rhode-Island statesman. [volume] (Providence, R.I.) 1827-1829, 1827-06-09

GALLERY.-This is the title of small volume
of Poems, recently issued from the press Of
Messrs. True & Greene, Boston; and the effii-
sons it contains, were elected on beholding
various paintings in the Atheneum Gallery.
Thus far, we have not had time to give the vol
ume an attentive perusal, and have simply glan-
| ced over its pages in those moments, when lit
tie leisure is allowed US. What we have read,
we have been much pleased with; and as our
columns cannot be better occupied, we shall
make an occasional extract. The first poem
in the collection, is written on the painting OF
Washington by Peale, and we think that our
readers will agree with us, when we say, that
it is a chaste production, and highly creditsbls
to the talents Of its author.
| Hail to thee, monarch Of peoples love!
Imperial regent Of the heart. all hail!
How doth the regal coronet grow pale,
Before the wreath, which freedoms hand hath
| wove
Around thy brow - ch flower that blossoms
there,
| Was nurtured in the soil Of liberty
Each leaf was gathered from the sacred tree,
| anu DlcssCu, anu hulioNCu uutiol
Thine is the throne impcrshable-
! The crown, whose lustrc time can never dim:
| Thine is the priceless offering, the hymn
Poured forth by gratitude at virtues shrine.
| Millions are worshipping on bended knee,
! Once more they bid thee, hail, sole mon ar ch
Of the free!
We think, that no one can read with any
other feelings, than those of delight and salts
| faction, the "THE Boy WITH THE GOLDEN
| LOCKS"
Aye, fold thy mantle round thy tiny form,
And bid the lightning of thy kindlmg eye,
Paint burning vengeance on the darkcned
sky,
Where thou alone art monarch of the storm.
Look proudly down, young emperor, on the
worm,
That creeps upon thy footstool what to
Amid thy pride, and pomp and majesty,
Is all the anguish of that reptile form'
Aye frown him into dust WHY is he near
The purple garments, and the regal gems,
The PROSTATE host Of glttering diadems,
That bend before thee! Wherefore is he
| Hence, trembling slave, and tread lowIer
path,
Hence, orc it's thine too late to feel a mon
arch's wrath!
Yet who can tell, image of nobler man,
What pomp awaits thee in thy proud ca
reer,
How many sigh, how many burning
tear
| May mark the pathway of thy little span.
| That feeble arm. in Heavens bchest, may be
| The weight to crush tyrant in his pow
| err
| That voice, perchance, een in its darkest
hour,
May wake the diving song of liberty!
And thine, sweet boy, may be happier lot
| The peaceful slumber meath the green
| wood tree!
And memory's hand may wake song for
thee,
Whose strains can never be like mine forgot.
Away sad dreamer! Heavens benson
Shall wait around thy path, thou young and
| lovely one!
| The lines entitled Postum, contain as much
of tho genuine spirit of poesy, as if often en-
bodied in the same space. We think they are
decidedly superior to most Of the illusions con-
tanned in the work.
| stood alone,
| Amid the ruins of departed pride,
| And saw above the wreck of glories gone,
The shrouded genius Of oblivion glide.
| asked of TIME:-
Whose was this shrine, this towering monu-
| ment,
This proud msmento of golden cline!
Time spread his wings, and hurrying ON he
| went
| asked Of FAME
Why do the echoes Of thy trumpet sleep,
And wake no more, its glories to proclaim?
Her eyes were raised, but only raised to
| weep.
OBLIVION caine:--
Again ] asked, whose was this PROSTATE
shrine,
| Tell me thou conqueror Of time and fame!
Oblivion only murmured, "n is mine
The poem, illustrative of the Notch of the
White Mountains, Now-Hampshire, is an en-
cellcnt production; and we should be gratified
if we could always grace our columns, with ef-
fusons ofso much merit
How sweetly meath the pale moonlight,
| That sumbers on the woodland height,
| Yon little cot appears:-scarce seen
Amid the twnng evergreen,
That fondly clings around IFS form,
To shield it from the midnight storm.
Poor trembler, l have seen like thee,
Fond woman in her constancy,
| Fen when the stormiest hour came on,
| Cling closer TO the much loved one,
Nor dream till every tic was parted,
| That all within was hollow-hcared.
Yon little cot looks wondrous fair,
But yet no taper glimmors there!
| Uh fhoro tie 1x.al1