The spirit of the age. [volume] (Woodstock, Vt.) 1840-1844, 1843-02-17
From the Lady's WorH Of Fashion
SONG WRITER'S OF AMERICA.

any thing that links us to the angels it is our long
ing for supernal heauty-a longing which we seek
10 crafty in music, in printing in earthly lowell
ness, but most Of all in poetry TO apPease this
wild ihirs, for things brighter than are afforded ny
our present state Of existence, we invest mortal be-
ings with the attributes of the celestial world, sur
rounding them with beauty which is part OF the
cherubini, and dgnirying them with II purity that
blooms only by the rivers OF Paradise. To the
eye orthe poet, the commoncst things OF lite have
n loveliness greater than the oveest things Of
earth to the eye Of the unnspred. Ills own lori
Gus spirit ba,hes every Thing he looks upon in an
eiulgence like that which the arch angels counle-
nance sheds round whatever he behods.
The Song writer is us much poet us The com
poser Of an Epic, aud in his peculiar department,
may evince an equal genius. The nobility of SEN
timent, the beauty OF the imagery, the finish and
purity of the style, which constitutes the merits OF
the epic are essential to The song; and the true po-
ct viii infase them into The lyric as fully and lri-
umphanly as into longer poem. Genius balhes
whatever II touches with go'y. 1t matters not
whether Apollo sweeps his own celestial Tyre, or
touches The rude fbres of the shell on the sea-
shore; he brings music alike from either; for it is
the fingers of the gol and not the instrument in
wheel, the harmony resides. In Judging Of II song,
therefore, we must not ahnte one whit the rigid
canons by which we Judge an epic; indeed, If Ell
Their requires the highest polish 1t IS the song, just
rs in painting, the lines Of miniature ought to be
more exqu'si,ely peucillcd than those of full
length portrait. The great old masters have left
US nothing which is not rs deliberately flushed in
its detail it is simple in lis general effect,
The song.wiiers Of our country are but little, if
Mt all inferior to those of England, We have no
Shakespeare, nor Million, nor Spencer; butw have
our Ierrick and our Waller. We number among
our sons many who have asserted for lhcmseIvesa
high station in the sacerdoal lhrong, and who have
waited at the altar in robes only less resplendent
than those Of the high priests Of Poesy. Noble
and worthy are these children Of our common
country, and long shall they be held in renem-
nance among us. TO some have been given the
highest powers Of song, and svectly have they
sung far up and ont Of sight in heaven On others
a less bealiic inspiration has descended, and they
have warLled their lays along the hedge rows,and
by the scdgy margins Of streams. Blu. all have
had more or less of the divine faculty, have given
us brighter or DINNER gnPses Of Paradise. have
lifted our souls above the bitterness and sorows Of
this world, and thrilled with celestial sights and
sounds. TO spend an hour with the Sc NG-WRI-
TIERS OF AMERICA is to hold delightful comnlun-
ion with some Of the sweetest ministers unto Poe.
sy. From crowd lyrics on our table, we shall
select few Of the most choice.
Foremos, in the group, both on account Of its
merit and the period At which It was written, we
quote the exquisite sony of DIR Shaw. This GEN
leman died in 1909, and the song that follows was
written many years before. 1t has touches in it
that equal Shakespeare, and is, perhaps, surpassed
BY few lyrics of the kind in the language
SONG.
Who has robb'd the ocean cave,
TO lngc thy lips with coral hue
Who Gron lnda's distant wave,
For thee, those pearl treasures drew?
Who from yOnder orient sky,
Stole the morning Of thine eye'
Thousand charms, Thy form % deck,
From sea, and earth, and air. are torn;
Roses bloom upon thy cheek,
On thy breath their fragrance horne.
Guard thy bosom fon. the day,
Lest thy SHOWS should lnct away.
But one charm remains behind,
Which mute earth can ne'er mpart;
Nor in ocean wilt thou lnd,
Nor in the circling air u heart:
Faircs, would'st thou perfect be,
Take, D take that heart from inc.
This, however, is the only song Of high meri,
written by DIR Shaw, and as u song-wriler he is
decidedly inferior TO Pnkney, who, by his fertility
as well as by the rare merit of his sonss, has rails
ed himself TO pinnacle where, as yet, he sits
without rival pinkney died in 1928, at the
carly age Of twenty six but he has left behind him
several pieces which will, if possible, ou,ise the
language. lie had much Of The exquisite sinplici-
~ and high finish comLned-lhat rare union of
the two highest merits Of n sons-which disin-
gushed the old writers. Few poets have equal
led Pinkney in their lighter pieces. Here is one
of remarkable simplicity, yet, when you come to
examine ii, how elaborate in every part. Mark
how exquisite is the turn Of the seniiment-and
yet with what an easy grace it is managed
SONG.
We break the glass. whose sacred wine,
To some beloved health we drain,
Lest future pledges, less divine,
Should ger the hallowd toy proranc;
And thus broke heart that pour'd
IT. tide of feelings ont for thee,
In drlughls, by afer times deplored,
Yet dear TO memory.
But still the old, impasson'd ways
And habits of my mind remain,
And still unhappy Iigh. displays
Thine image chamber d in NY brain,