The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1859-08-20
For The Cecil Wing.
ncmDStcad,s Poems

For The Cecil Wing
ncmpStead's Poems.'
New poets arc no rare things in these latter
days. They spring up on every hand, and
Haunt their gaudy, common blooms in our
faces at every step. But to find a man in
this work a day, busy, driving world, who
looks down into his own hearts experiences,
and lifting strata after strata, reveals to US
the April joys and grief Of childhood-how
the sun shone, the trees waved the scent Of
grass and flowers fell on the scenes and the
shadows Gated across the view. and how
sometimes the soul stood in awe, as vision
of manhood stared full in the face of youth
with its unknown and unimagncd gricfS and
responsibilities how in maturcr Yeas Il
mysterious Providence has lead the blind
By paths they have not known, "--this we
say is Iare. But when we ask ourselves,
what is poetry! Is it the mere jingle of
words, or the stringing together Of common
places, with no matter how much accuracy
of rhyme or rythm Is it not rather the
revelation OF the grand and beautiful in nature
in the aptest words and purcst style? Shall
we not say that such an one as we have men
tioned, however rare, is alone worthy to be
hailed by the sacred name Of poet
Such being the standard, We doubt if any
volume Of pens issued in this country ior
many years, so fully deserves the title, as the
one now under notice. Not only is 1t marked
by that classic purity of style aud thorough
scholarship, to rare in American books, but
every page, no matter how abstrusc the subject
is rcplele with the richest poetic beauties
Take the lode to the Crocodile" and 'Coal,"
which, in themselves, are studies for the
GcocgiSt and yet where shall we find more
splendid poetic imagery! Take as an in
stance the following:
90 thou ar older than the tombs and hills
Than this ripe harvest of dusk pines that fills
The valley lands and up the mountain sides,
Rolls in green and p&!platiug tides,
Grand with the vast ccnurIa "rsmn-muan
From all lis lordly fluctuations blown
Thou art b. tore the binds. the flowers and rocks
Or Andes with their SHOWS and long cioud-locl:5
llur. back and streaming down the clarion STORM
Their eyes upturned to search the radiant form
OF the star,hnil'lins God, the Happy, who
Ncavcth His palace roof Of golden blue.
Or this:
"Thus sat and watched the tocrs from my
cavern day by day.
1.ongcd to hep them. ycarned to tel them of the
futures grccncr way.
longed to tell them what prophet meath the
roots slert unrcveaed.
What n silvcr-woricd poet dreamed beneath the
leaves. concealed,
What right-arm of a giant lay imprisoned in
rock,
Waiting ill the key of fate should thunder in the
hnty lock,
Heard The waxcn pnc-cone falling on the brown
leave. overhead,
Felt the small birds pluckug moses round their
ca,low young to spread,
Tried to breathe into their the wonlrous
mystery of the hills.
Tried to- tell it to the blossoms to the thistle umes
and rls.
Hoping they would bear my secret to the watchers
on the wall
Some one has said Of these poems, in sub
stance. that they do not appeal to the tendcrcr
sympathios OF our nature, and lack simplicity;
that the matter is too deep and the manner
too polished, that they want feeling and do
not touch the heart The fact is, it is hard
matter 10 touch the heart of some people
An aimess life, seasoned only with Il little
mock sentiment or morbid dreaming, destitute
of single earnest thought or act, has so frt-
tered away that important organ, if indeed 1t
had ever an existence, that they are unable to
appreciate, or even understand, anything
beyond the nambypamby ism, which adorns
the poets corner of the New York Ledger. =
Aching hearts and quivering darts, pangs,
throbs and heaving sobs, tears and groans
and dreadful means, tleeting joy and lasting
SORROW, here to-day and gone tomorrow this
is heart, this is feeling, now It whispers
gently stealing, these are things that you
had or rwrite about aud nothing shorter -
Another class of these sentimental critics are
creatures of imitation. They write rhymes
because others have done so, and It's very
fine to be poet. They fall in love because
they have read in some novel love markings
of Eugene Adolphus and Euphraria Ameie,
and for men of feeling It's quite the thing to
be in love. To-day the stern probabilities of
life are the objects of their study, tomorrow
they arc bent on taking care of the beautiful,
leaving the useful to take care of l'self: while
the truth is, that they are as innocent of
of poetry, love, or taste for the beautiful, as
it is possible for human beings to be. Turn
them out in world where there was nothing
to initiate and they would roll themselves in
tortoise shells. They are the critics whose
peculiar mission is to slash every thing
Every production which bears the slightest
evidence of thought is character Used as des-
titute of feeling-souless and heart.ess ::
while things within their own range are
denounced as thash.
Mr.. Hampstead has not included in his book
many love poems, though his Red River
Scene" shows ability Of Il very high order,
even in that line, but to say that it lacks heart
or feeling is libel apparent to every appre-
ciatlve reader. 1t is almost impossible to
read "Old Max without tears, and My
Wife," Mary Dead" "My Unknown
Wife,, -" Our First Born" THE Voyagers !"
and several others are full Of the most touch
ing pahos and beautiful sentiment.
Another striking feature of these poems is
their fidelity to nature. Nothing is strained
from beginning to end there is not a sentence
that CRATES on the ear most delicately scnsi-