Page:Peterson's Magazine 1842, Volume I.pdf/93

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"How admirably your horse goes !" said Mandeville to Creed.

"Do you wish to buy him ?" replied Creed.

"What, are you thinking of parting with him ?"

"Yes ; I have been thinking very seriously about myself, and I am about to reduce my expenses." 66 And I have been thinking of doing the same." "That which we have seen this evening has induced 1 you to do so. Is it not so ?" "Yes. Poor Alfred ! What a life! But this is the end of the follies of youth. I have seen break-downs in the world. I saw Stanley abandon his name, and enlist as a common soldier ; and yet it did not make me reflect. I saw Williams blow out his brains ; and yet I have gone on fearlessly ; but the example of Alfred has made a complete convert of me. I certainly do not wish to expose ' myself to the chance of a similar fate. I certainly will not ruin myself."

"Nor I, either."

BAILLIE. TO A CHILD. WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, And curly pate, and merry eye, And arm and shoulders round and sleek, And soft and fair, thou urchin sly ? What boots it, who, with sweet caresses, First called thee his, or squire or hind ? For thou in every wight that passes, Dost now a friendly playmate find. Thy downcast glances,-grave, but cunning, As fringed eyelids rise and fall ; Thy shyness swiftly from me running,"Tis infantine coquetry all! But far a-field thou hast not flown, With mocks and threats, half lisped, half spoken ; I feel thee pulling at my gown,— Of right good will thy simple token. And thou must laugh, and wrestle too, A mimic warfare with me waging! To make, as wily lovers do, Thy after kindness more engaging! The wilding rose-sweet as thyselfAnd new-cropt daisies are thy treasure ; I'd gladly part with wordly pelf, To taste again thy youthful pleasure.

But yet, for all thy merry look, Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook, The weary spell or hornbook thumbing. Well, let it be ! Through weal and wo, Thou know'st not now thy future range ; Life is a motley shifting show,— And thou a thing of hope and change.

LONGFELLOW'S POEMS .* No poet has yet appeared in America whose success, when we consider the time that has elapsed since his advent, will at all compare with that of Longfellow. He made his debût, some two years since, in a volume of poems which was quaintly called " The Voices of the Night," and he has since followed this up with a collection of other ballads, poems, and translations. The former volume has already passed through five editions. The latter, if we may argue from its excellence, will rival its predecessor in popularity. To Mr. Longfellow, indeed, must be awarded the merit of having been the first American poet whose works were patronised in a manner commensurate with their worth. He is nearly the only one of the " irritabile genus" who has paid, from the sale of his books, the cost of their binding. He alone has filled his pocket with the proceeds of his pen. He is either a very lucky or a very meritorious man. Mr. Longfellow is unquestionably possessed of genius. His imagination is of the highest order, he has a singular command of language, and his soul is as alive to feeling as is the sensitive, tremulous aspen. Then his taste is refined and his acquirements solid. No one can read his "Hyperion" without feeling that the writer was born a poet. The imagination scattered throughout this fantastic prose work is sufficient to fit out a dozen poems of the order of the Giaour, and fairly puts to shame the elaborate piece of arabesque which Moore has facetiously called " Lalla Rookh, a poem." Yet " Hyperion" is full of faults. It is neither a tale, a rhapsody, a poem, nor even a readable book. We never saw the man who perused its pages seriatim, and we are sure, if such a man exists, he must be crazed. And yet " Hyperion" glimmers with genius as a lake at midnight glimmers with the stars of heaven. It has not the melody of numbers, and yet it is full of music. You cannot rustle a leaf without waking a most delicious harmony. It is a magnificent prose poem, if such a thing as a prosepoem can be. Possessing an imagination of so high an order, it is no wonder that Longfellow became instantly popular when he clothed his thoughts in numbers. His " Voices of the Night" found an echo in every heart. Their grandeur, their simplicity, the nerve of the language, as well as the imagination which shone over all, recommended them to both the popular and critical ear. The author was just sufficiently known to give his productions the prestige of excellence. The bank had the reputation of being good, and whatever notes it issued John Owen, Cambridge, 1839. Ballads and other poems. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. John Owen, Cambridge, 1842.
 * Voices of the Night. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.