Spirit of the age. [volume] (Woodstock, Vt.) 1845-1913, 1845-08-07


sunset on the opposite bank Of the fell and
rapid stream. 1t fell like a smlle OF hcav-
cnIy 10y: the white sails on the stream
gIidcd along like angel thoughts the town
itself looked like fair nest, whence vir-
tue and happiness might soar with sweetest
song. So looked the scent from above;
aud that hin was the scene Of many an as
pira,on and many an effort to attain as
high point OF view for the mental pros
pcct, in the hope that lille discrepancies, or
what seemed SO when on level with them,
might also, from above, be sollened into
beauty and found subservient to noble
design IN the whole.
This town boosted few books, and the
accident which threw Hoods poems n|
the way of the watcher from the hill, was
very fortunate one. They afforded IA
true companionship to hours which kne"
no other, and, perhaps, have since
been overrated from association with what
thew answered to or suggested
Yet there are passages in them which
ought to be generally known aud highly
priced, And if their highest value be for
a few individuals with whom they are es-
peciaIly in concord, unlike the really great
podmc which bring something to all, yet
those whom they please will be very
much pleased.
These few remarks we will add and then
to the poems.
Hood never became corrupted into a
hack writer. This shows great strength
under his circumstance. Dickens has
fallen and Sue is falling, for few men can
sell themselves by inches without losing Il
cubl from their stature, But Hood re-
sisted tbs danger. He never wrote when
he had nothing to say, he stopped when
he had done, and never hashrd for a Sec
oud meal old thoughts which had been
drained Of their choicest juices, His heart
is trucy human, tender and brave. From
the 0bsurdiics Of human nature he argues
the possibility Of its perfection, His
black is admirably contrastcd with his
white, but his love has no converse of hate,
His descriptions ofnaure, if not accurate
Iy or profoundly eyidencing insight are
unstudied, fond, revereuiiaI, They are
fine rcyerics about nature.
lie has tiled his powers on themes " here
he had great rivaIs--in The plea of the
Midsummer Fairies and Hero and Lean.
der The latter is one Of the finest sub
ccts in the world, and Que, too, which can
never wear out us long as each mind shall
have its separate ideal Of what meeting
wouId be between two perfect lovers, in the
full bloom Of beauty and youth, under
circumstances the most eXaIliug to passion,
because the most trying, and with the most
romantic accomplishments Of scenery
There is room here for the finest cypress
ion ollove and grief, for the widest re-
monstrance against fate. Why are they
made so lovely and 50 beloved why was a
flower brought to such perfection, and then
culled for no use? One of the Older
English writers has written an exquisite
poem on this subject, printing youth
lul pair, fitted to be not only a heaven
but a world to one another. Hood had
not power to paint or to conceive such
lnlness of character; bat, in lesser
style, he has written fine poem. The
best dart Oft, however, is the innocent
cruelty aud grief o. the Sea Syren.
"Lycus the Centaur" is also poem
once read never to be forgotten. The
haSty trot olthe versifcation, unfit for an
Y other theme, on this betokens well the
the frightened horse. Its may and be-
wIdcred imagery, with its countless
gIancngs and glmnpscS expresses power
fully the working Of the CIrcesn spell,
while the note orhuman sadness, yearn-
ing and condemned human love- thrills
the whole and gives it unity,
This is passaGe from Lycus' wander
ings after the witch had transformed him
from man to Centaur:
OH ! once had haunt near a cot where mother, |
Daily sat in the shade with her child, and would
smother
It's oyeIids in kisses, and then in its sleep
Sang dreams in IT'S cal Of its manhood while deep
In thiclcl of willows ga2rd DER The brooks,
That murmured between Us and kissed them with
looks;
Blu, the willows unbosomed their secret and never
returned TO a spot had startled forever
Though oft Iougod to know, but could as! it of
none,
Was the mother still lar,and how big was her SON
For the haunters of fields they all stunned me by
flight,
The men in their horror the women in fright;
None ever remained save Il child once that sported
Among the wild bluebells, and payfuIv courted
The breeze; and beside hm Il speckled snake lay
Fight strangIed, because it had kissed him away
rom the flower at his finger; he rose and drew
near;
like d Son Of Immortal, one born to no fear,
}nt with strength Of black locks and with eyes
azure bright,
70 grow TO large manhood Of mercirul might.
lie came with his face of bold wonder, TO feel
The hair Of my side and to lift up my keel
Snd questioned my face with wide eyes;b when :
under !
Iy lids he saw 'ears,-ror wept at his wonder, '
lie stroked me- and uttered such kindness then,
hat the once love Of woman, the friendship Of
men ,
n past sorrow, no kindness e'cr came like kiss
IN my heart in its desoIae day such as this t
Md yearncd at his cheeks in my love, and down
bent
nd lifted hun up in my arms with intent ,
o kiss him, but he, cruel kindly alas!
leId out 10 my lips plucked handful of grass!
hen dropt him in horror, but felt as fed t
he Stnnp he iuhirr,u,I, hal ,l, 1.