Anti-slavery bugle. [volume] (New-Lisbon, Ohio) 1845-1861, 1856-03-29
al miscellaneous.
MARY HOWITT.

~ Wv ''H'N'
MARY HOWITT.
That is n very superficial kind Of patriotism
which leads us to prefer a thing simply because 1t
is American, and to reject that which is foreign
simply because Of its alien origin. No less shall
low is that love of novelty which induces us to pro
fer the new simply for its ncwness while we reject
the old and tried merely on account Of our flmil-
iarity with its excellence. This trait which we
must regard as one Of the most striking in the
American character is the means, nevertheless
whereby a host Of charlatans in all departments Of
society ne filing their pockets; while through the
medium particularly Of what is facotiously called
literature, they are filling the minds of the rising
generation with a hitherto uncomfortable amount Of
worthless aud vicious trash.
We were led into these reflections upon taking
up a volume containing the 'Poetical Works of
Mary Hewitt" one Of the most charming of mod
en English authors whose writings, though widely
appreciated in this country, arc read to a much
less extent than a true regard for our own welfare
renders desirable. We know of no author whose
works are better calculated to inspire a genuine
and heartfelt love of nature than those Of this most
genuine and delightful writer. There is an exqui
site idyllian beauty in her poetry which has never
been surpassed and seldom equailed. Of this
the poem entitled Summer Woods" which we
copied into the Bugio SOM months ago is an admi-
rable example, and to which her volume entitled
"Birds, Flowers and other Country Things" fur
nishes scarcely an exception.
Then there is that delicious volume "The Book
Of the Seasons" (the joint production of Mr.. and
Mrs. Hewitt unquestionably the finest production
of its kind in the whole range of literature, the
four principal poems of which, on the four seas.
ons are, in our estimation, altogether matchless
Who is there who has not lilgerod over the FIRST
of these commencing,
"The spring, she is a blessed thing"
until its simple melody has subdued his whole
soul into perfect harmony with nature ? How
graphic and pictu rescue. too, is the poem entitled
The Heron in the little volume before mentioned,
40! the re the hermit of the waste,
The ghost Of ages dim,
The fisher of the solitndes 4,
Stands by the rivers brim ~
And how one is transported to its,
SOLITARY haunts
BY stream and sedgy mere"
back to the feudal times when it was startled by
hawk and hunter from its dream, by the moorlund
waters"
Scarcely less beautiful is the following from the
same volume, which, we cannot help thinking sug-
gestcd to AifrelTennyson his Song of the Brook"
which many Of our readers will remember;
LITTLE STREAMS.
Little streams. in light and shadow
Flowing through the pasture meadow;
Towering by the green way side;
Through the forest dim and wide;
Through the hamlet still and small;
By the cottage; by the hall;
BY the ruined abbey still;
Turning, here and there a mill;
Bearing tribute to the river;
Little streams, | love you ever!
Summer music is there flowing;
Flowing plants are in them are growing;
Happy life is in them all,
Creatures innocent and small;
Little birds com down to drink
Fearless on their leafy brink;
Noble trees beside them grow,
Glooming there with branches low;
And between the sunshine glancing
In their little waves is dancing.
Little streams have flowers a many,
Beautiful and fair as any;
Typha strong, and green bur-reed;
Willow herb with cotton seed;
Arrow had with eye of jet,
And the water violet;
There the Towering rush you meet,
And the plumy meadow sweet;
Aud in places deep and Silly.
Marble like, the water lily.
Little streams, their voices CHEEKY
Sound forth welcomes to the weary
Flowing on from day to day
Without stint and without stay.
Here, upon their howery bank;
In the GA times Pilgrims drank;
Here hava seen, rs now, pass by
King-fsher and dragou-fy;
Those bright things that have their dwelling
Where the little streams are yelling.
Down in valleys green and !owly,
Marmuring net and gliding slowly;
Up in mountain hoiiows wild,
Frotting like a peeFish child,
Through the hamlet, where all day
In their waves the children play
Running west, or running east,
Doing good to man and beast,
Always giving weary never
Little streams lave you ever.
There is nothing which we know OF better calcu-
lated tn infuse into the minds Of children that pro-
found love of nature and those genial and humani
tAry influences which we, as a nation need above
all other things, than this unpretendiBg minstreisy
which though spprecia9ie in childhood never loses
Is charming freshness eyento the advanced sta
dent Of literature.
Heartily ~disgusted with the whole tribe Of Fanny
Ferns and Fanny FoFesters. Mlnnie Myrties and
Susan S~suGOwers one farms 20 these delicious books
as to the fresh well-spring in the forest FROM the
ha~~ao .r1 at. .-.-.,A.