Worcester daily spy. [volume] (Worcester [Mass.]) 1850-1888, 1871-12-06

I vine" can not be created by culture, nor by am
bilious efforts of will. 1t was known, long ago.
that the poet is born not made. The following
short piece from the volume before us is fair
specimen of the most commendable portion of
| its contents, being neither the worst nor quite
the best that might be selected
'Like goddess on her azure hill,
The star of mine ambition,
The mistress Of my dream;
thing apart
That We can worship, but not touch
\ wild desire,
That in the madness of the thought,
Scars higher in its dignity,
And leaves me weeping in the dust"
Years ago, there was Il Young man who
suffered badly from the fever of this ambition TO
write poetry. He covered many qnires of paper
with carefully measured lines whose Emusic"
was a little declamatory. Finally, he published
a thin volume like this, and looked eagerly to
see it create sensation. But the world went
on as usual; there was no earthquake; no flash
ing of marvellous brilliancy through the sky;
no unusual display of auroral lights or tidal
waves; no thrill of new emotion anywhere in
the great mass of struggling human life. The
little book went quietly to quiet grave; and the
"poet, - having learned a wholesome lesson, was
restored 10 his right mind. He afterwards made
his life healthful and noble by making diligent
and conscientious use of his really superior
faculty for other work. Nevertheless this
young man, while trying to be poet wrote
some things which seem TO us much better and
much more nearly like poetry, than anything
we can find in this volume Of "Imogen, and
Other PoemS.' Here is one of them, which is
somewhat kindred to that which We have already
quoted from the volume under consideration,
being a little in the so-caed "spooney" vein,
although the mood is diferent:-
What though my way unblissfu care
To cherries sohtudes incline!
Fly brightness charms me everywhere,
Thy spirit gladdens mine.
"on all the dewy leaves that crowd
The morn lit trees read thy name,
From every crimson morning cloud
1t flows through all my frame
We dwell apart but are not parted;
We challenge fate and overcome;
For love exalts the faithful-hearted
And gives their life home.
In all the ages young or olden,
Was ever life so best as mine?
Wher'er go the cline is golden
And all the air divine!"
We cannot doubt that the author of "Imogen
and Other Poems" has fine faculty for work
of a different kind; and the sole purpose of this
criticism is to persuade him to quit attempting
what he cannot do well, and devote himself to
other work which he can do nobly. 1t is Il mis-
cradle mistake to waste ones life in misdirected
literary efforts orb by ignoring ones special fac
ulty IN any way. True poets are rare and to
the rest of us life offers something grander than
Yerse-writiug, something more elevating to mind
and character, and better adapted TO satisfy an
honest ambition. Even the hack writer who
manufactures books to sell, as the quack manu-
features pills and sirups, and finds favor with the
publishing companies" has an advantage over
the poetastcr who tries in vain TO manufacture
poetry; for he sometimes makes little money
by his poor business. Yes, he sometimes makes
money; while the poetaster, who goes about
trying to roll his eyes in the most approved
style Of " fine frenzy protesting 10 live in the
" land of dreams, and talking ike medium"
Of pains, tears, heart strings, silver moon,
moanss signs, and all that, thinking in this way
to become poet, only makes himself ridden
lous. This unpleasant disease is more common
than it should be. Effective means should be
employed to cure it, or, ut least, to limit its
oper alton.