Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burden'd bee Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers; And lovely pa.s.sions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns,-- The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers.

I fill'd this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle s.e.x The seeming paragon-- Her health! and would on earth there stood, Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name.

It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have been born too far south.

Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been ranked as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting the thing called 'The North American Review'. The poem just cited is especially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm. We pardon his hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.

It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the _merits_ of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves.

Boccalina, in his 'Advertis.e.m.e.nts from Parna.s.sus', tells us that Zoilus once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable book:--whereupon the G.o.d asked him for the beauties of the work. He replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this, Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out _all the chaff_ for his reward.

Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics--but I am by no means sure that the G.o.d was in the right. I am by no means certain that the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.

Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an axiom, which need only be properly _put_, to become self-evident. It is _not_ excellence if it require to be demonstrated its such:--and thus to point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit that they are _not_ merits altogether.

Among the "Melodies" of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of view. I allude to his lines beginning--"Come, rest in this bosom." The intense energy of their expression is not surpa.s.sed by anything in Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that embodies the _all in all_ of the divine pa.s.sion of Love--a sentiment which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more pa.s.sionate, human hearts that any other single sentiment ever embodied in words:

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?

I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I'll be,'mid the horrors of this,-- Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too!

It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while granting him Fancy--a distinction originating with Coleridge--than whom no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is, that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very naturally, the idea that he is fanciful _only._ But never was there a greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet.

In the compa.s.s of the English language I can call to mind no poem more profoundly--more weirdly _imaginative,_ in the best sense, than the lines commencing--"I would I were by that dim lake"--which are the composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them.

One of the n.o.blest--and, speaking of Fancy--one of the most singularly fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His "Fair Ines" had always for me an inexpressible charm:

O saw ye not fair Ines?

She's gone into the West, To dazzle when the sun is down And rob the world of rest She took our daylight with her, The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek, And pearls upon her breast.

O turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night, For fear the moon should shine alone, And stars unrivall'd bright; And blessed will the lover be That walks beneath their light, And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write!

Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier, Who rode so gaily by thy side, And whisper'd thee so near!

Were there no bonny dames at home, Or no true lovers here, That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the sh.o.r.e, With bands of n.o.ble gentlemen, And banners-waved before; And gentle youth and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore; It would have been a beauteous dream, If it had been no more!

Alas, alas, fair Ines, She went away with song, With Music waiting on her steps, And shoutings of the throng; But some were sad and felt no mirth, But only Music's wrong, In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell, To her you've loved so long.

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines, That vessel never bore So fair a lady on its deck, Nor danced so light before,-- Alas for pleasure on the sea, And sorrow on the sh.o.r.e!

The smile that blest one lover's heart Has broken many more!

"The Haunted House," by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever written,--one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of the most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is, moreover, powerfully ideal--imaginative. I regret that its length renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it permit me to offer the universally appreciated "Bridge of Sighs:"

One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care;-- Fashion'd so slenderly, Young and so fair!

Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful; Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.

Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and cas.e.m.e.nt, From garret to bas.e.m.e.nt, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river: Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurl'd-- Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran,-- Over the brink of it, Picture it,--think of it, Dissolute Man!

Lave in it, drink of it Then, if you can!

Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family-- Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily, Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?

Who was her father?

Who was her mother!

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!

Oh! it was pitiful!

Near a whole city full, Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly, Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even G.o.d's providence Seeming estranged.

Take her up tenderly; Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently,--kindly,-- Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity.

Perishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest,-- Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Over her breast!

Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour!

The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which is the thesis of the poem.

Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:

Though the day of my destiny's over, And the star of my fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, It shrunk not to share it with me, And the love which my spirit hath painted It never hath found but in _thee._