Page:Peterson's Magazine 1842, Volume I.pdf/254

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and sounds. “To spend an honr with re Sowc-Wanr- reus of Americé’is to hold delightfufeommunion with some of the sweetest ministers unto Poesy, From a crowd of Iyries on our table we shull sclect a few of th most choice.

Foremost in the group, both on account .of its merit and the potiod at which it was written, we quote the exquisite song of Dr. Shaw. This gentleman died in 1809, and the song that follows was written many years before. It has touches in it that equal Shakypeare, and is, perhaps, surpassed by few lyrics of the kind in the language.

sono,

Woo has robb'd the acean eavo, ‘To tinge thy lips with coral hue? Who from India’s distant wave, For thee, those pearly treasures drow? Who, from yonder urient uky, ‘Stole the morning of thine eye?

‘Thousand charms, thy form te deck, For sea, and varth, and air are torn; Rases oom upow thy check, ‘On thy breath their Cragrance bame. Guard thy boxom feom the day, Lest thy snows should melt away.

But one charm remains behind, — - : Which mute earth can ne'er impart Nor in ocean wilt thou find, Nor in the circling air « heart: Fairest, wouldst thou perfect be, ‘Take, Q take that heart from ine.

This, however, is the only wong of high merit written by Dr. Shaw, and as n song-writer be is decidedly infe- riot to Pinkney, who, by hia fertility o3 well a¢ by the high merit of his songs, has raised himself to a pinnacle where, aa yet, he sits witout «rival. Pinkney died in 1828, at the early age of twenty-six, but be hes left behind him several pieggs which will, if possible, outlive tho language. Ho had such of the exquisite simplicity and high finish combined—that rare union of the two highest merits of a song—which distinguished the old writers, Few poete have equalled*Pinkney in their lighter pieces, Here’ ia one of remarkable simplicity, yet, when you come to examine it, hug claborate in every part. Mark bow exquisite is the turn uf the sen- timent—and yet with what an easy grace it ja managed!

sonc,

We break the glass, whose sacred wine, ‘To some beloved health we drain. Lest future pledges, teas divine, Should e’er the hallow'd toy profane; ‘And thus I broke a heart that pour'd Kis tide of feelings out For thee, In deaughts, by atter-times deplored, ‘Yet dear to memory.

Bat atill the old, imipassion'd was And habits of my min! rema

And atill unhappy fig displays ‘Thine image ehamber'd in my bra

And still it looks as when the houra ‘Went by like flights of singing birds,

Or that sof chaiu of spoken ilowers, And airy geins—thy words.

There is w very Ge song of five stanzas, entitled “ A Health,” but it must give place to that most beautiful of all Pinkney’s shorter poems, “A Picture Song.” We know of no song of equol length, writteu hy any Ame~ rican poet, whiclgcan at all compere with this inimitable piece; and we might search long among the writings of England's sweetest bards before we. could discover any thing to equal it.

aA PICTURE sone.

How may thie little tablet feign ‘The features of a taco,

Which o'er informa with loveliness, Its proper share of »pace;

Or human hands on ivory, Enable us te see

‘The charms, thut all must wonder at, ‘Thou work of gods in thee?

But yet,'rethinks, that sunny smilo Familiar stories toils,

Aud I should know those placid eyes, ‘Teo shaded erystal wells

Nor can my aoul, the litauer’s art Attesting with’a sigh,

Forget the blood that deck'd thy cheek, ‘AG rosy clouds the sky,

‘They conld not semble what thou art, fore oxcollent than fai Ax soft us sleep or pity ‘And pure as mountain-air; But here are common, earthly hues, ‘To such ou aspect wrought, ‘That nove, save thine, ean seem so like ‘The beautiful of thought.

‘The song I sing, thy likeness like,

Ts painful mimicry + OF something better, which ie now

‘A memory to me,

Who have ipon life's frozen sea Arrived the iey spot,

Where man’s magnetic (clings alow ‘Their guiding task forgot.

‘The sportive hopes, that used to chase ‘Their shifung shadows on,

Like chilirou playing in the wun, ‘Are gune—forever gone;

Anil ana careless, sullen peace, My double-fruated wind,

Like Janua when his gates were shut, Looks forward and behind,

Arotto placed his harp, of old, A while upon a stone,

Which has resounded since, when struck, A brouking hiarp-string’s tone ;

And thus may heart, though wholly now, From early soitnoss free,

If couch’d, will yield the masic yet,” It frst received of thee.

‘We cannot disiniss Pinkney without giting place to hie “ Serenade,” a vong which is oply not faultless, be- cause it is so studded with’ beauties, so crowded with brrilliants, that the eye is dazzled in contemplating it,

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