Arkansas true Democrat., 1859-11-09

From the Washington Telegraph. Autumn Reveries-Poetry and Poets.
 BY vIRGINIUs HUTcHEN.
 Moprnfuy o, mournfuly,
 This midnight wind doth sigh
 Like some quait, plaintiye minstrelsy
 Ofages long gone by.
 l seldom rest ill bed, in the melancholy days of Autumn, dear reader, and hear the cadcnt wind soughing through the bare, brown branches of the fading wood. when the above sweet-rhymed lines of almost forgotten Motherwell do not come like a loved ones blessing to my mind. There is a peculiar music in them which my verbal art cannot convey-a melody that can be felt, but not described: and how tender is the authors sentiment of the wind that breathes "dirge of the flowers" at the solemn noon of the night, when the astral lamps are burning in the wekin dome, and Orion, Arctmus, Sirius, and the sister Pleiades " blossoms like lilies on the tomb of day!''
 It tells tale of other years.
 Oih)pes that bl0omel to d's
 Of sunny smiles that set in tears And loves that mouldering lie. The music alone in my quotation is remark abie-at least 50 in my conceit-but surely the words must be suggestive to every in- telligent mind-they must rouse in vour heart, reader, emotions, in which, to use the phrase of George D. Prentice,
 ''TAere is mounful ioy." How often have you listened "at atmidnight's holy hour," to the far wind-harp's touch ing vail, and imagined you heard in its mingled cadences the unforeotten voices of loved ones who were borne, long years ago, to ' the garden of the siumberers. .''-who were laid beneath the sod where violets lie, long, long ago, when you knew not that in the midst of many seeming bliss there was concealed a sorrow like the serpent in the pertumed heart of the otol tlowerl | never was an aGmircr of the n,ysticM school of poets. love the poet whose love of nature leads him to choose his tropes and | figures and similes from her inexhaustible stores. What man or woman, in whose breast throbs heart susceptible to the touch of sympathy, does not admire the tender ballads of the Ayrshire plowman. whose "Cotter's Saturday Night will ex. ist in print "while morning brings the sm? Why is the spot where stood the rude clay biggin' Mecca of the mind? The world is better that Burns tuned his Caledonian pipe on the gay green banks ot :" bonnie Doun," and wandered "Where maniac Winter rages OCT, l1..-1,a Motherwell was a poet of Nature, and SC was Burns; and never call to mind the al fusion so musically made by the latter tc his interview with his "sweet Highland Mary" when "fowers sprang wanton tc be pressed" and
 '" Ayr, gurglng, kissed his pebbed shore,, without experiencing sincere regret that l never saw ballad from the former on q similar theme. He Is known among the literati of this and every other enlightened land but the great mass of the popuIace o the world, whose lips pronounce inferior names at many a :" feast of reason and flow of soul" know nothing of him-of modes Motherwell, who shrank, like
 the violet flower,
 hat shines they say beneath its broad leaves hid from the public gaze, the harmonies O whose spirit harp are the sweetest sounding in the cadcnt "halls of memory" An many who strive for that eilded bauble fame, must feel 1t erumble in their eage1 graspl
 Yet the true poet is immortal. His nam will finger enshrined in the core of many { pure heart while rivers run and the noun tam nils flow, seething, to the plain Hi song IS mental statue, hewn from the concrete of intellection, and will mock tn, elements that destroy the carnal casket O his indestructible spirit, and successfully {" resist the empire of Decay"
 "The true poet" says Carlyle, [" mal in whose heart resides some efAuence O wisdom, some tone of the Eternal Melo dies, Is the most precious gift that can b bestowed upon generation" But tn world agrees not with Albion's charmin, essayist and truly is it sung in the match less "Elegy'' of Gray
 Full many gem of purest ray serene
 The dark, uniathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many flower is born to blush unseen.
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air" And 1t is equally true that in our own Ian in this broad and beautiful land of our. extending form Arostook to the Everglade. and from Virginia to where
 ''Far-off Oregon hears but the sound of his ow daslIing,"
 there are unknown poets whose dreams ar beautiful as the parterres of Proserpine, an whose feet have pressed the emerald sod O the lofty apex of Parnasus; and they wi pass away as silently as an evening shado, from the hills, but their songs, full of tone of ' the Eternal Melodies" will finger i the ears of generations yet unborn, long long after time had trodden down the greer sods that swelled like waves of emeralC above their clay-cold bosoms.
 Truly the poet lives in his work. Greer Erin's poet, Moore, is sensless as the mann mate clod that hides his mortal remains from human gaze, but the halo light cast around the castles, and mountains, and over the streams of his Hybernian Isle, vii glow with diamond radiance tlll the eartt shall be shrouded in the Cimmerlan shadows of elemental dissolution.
 The ashes of Byron, urned with those O his mother, are buried in the kirkyard O Hucknall, and his spirit-where isit? H. is gone to .that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns;" kinc reader, in charity let us trust to-
 "A land where all is deathless,
 The sunny waves repose,
 The wood with it's rich melodies,
 The summer and its rose.'
 He is gone; but Juan is yet an outlaw; the Corsair sails the sea; the prisoner of Chil lon still clanks his iron chain, and proud Childe Harold walks the world abroad.- What strange being was Byron! To-day