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GIRL.

GIRL.

GIRL.

er."

As a wave bursts in spray. She corered me But few request my prayers.

With her wild sorrow, as an April cloud

With dim dishevelled tresses hides the hill
WALTER.

On which its heart is breaking. She clung to me

I request them. With piteous arms, and shook me with her sobs ; Por ne'er did a dishevelled woman cling

For shie had lost her world, her heaven, her God, So earnest-pale to a stern conqueror's knees,

And now had nought but me and her great Pleading for a dear life, as did my prayer

wrong. Cling to the knees of God. He shook it off,

She did not kill me with a single word,
And went upon His way. Wilt pray for me?

But once she lifted her tear-dabbled face -
Had hell gaped at my feet I would have leapt
Into its burning throat, from that pale look.

Still it pursues me like a haunting fiend :
Sin crusts me o'er as limpets crust the rocks.

It drives me out to the black moors at night, I would be thrust from every human door ;

Where I am smitten by the hissing rain ; I dare not knock at Heaven's.

And ruffian winds, dislodging from their troops,

Hustle me shrieking, then with sudden turn
WALTER,
Poor homeless one!

Go laughing to their fellows. Merciful God !

It comes that face again, that white, white There is a door stands wide for thee and me

face, The door of hell. Methinks we are well met.

Set in a night of hair ; reproachful eyes, I saw a little girl three years ago,

That make me mad. 0, save me from those With eyes of azure and with cheeks of red,

eyes ! A crowd of sunbeams hanging down her face ;

They will torment me even in the grave,
Sweet laughter round her, dancing like a breeze. And burn on me in Tophet.
I'd rather lair me with a fiend in fire
Than look on such a face as bers to-night.
But I can look on thee, and such as thee !

Where are you going? I'll call thee “Sister ;'' do thou call me “ Broth

WALTER. A thousand years hence, when we both are damned,

My heart 's on fire by hell, and on I drive We'll sit like ghosts upon the wailing shore,

To outer blackness, like a blazing ship. And read our lives by the red light of hell.

[He rushes away. Will we not, Sister?

These extracts will induce every lover of

poetry to read the volume for himself; and GIRL.

we do not think that after such reading any 0, thou strange wild man, one will be disposed to doubt that Alexander Let me alone : what would you seek with me?

Smith promises to be a greater poet than

any emergent genius of the last few years. Your ear, my sister. I have that within Which urges me to utterance. I could accost

From the Critic. A pensive angel, singing to himself

A NEW POET IN GLASGOW.
Upon a hill in heaven, and leave his mind
As dark and turbid as a trampled pool,

DISCOVERERS are often a much-injured class To purify at leisure. I have none

of men. Sometimes the worth of their object To listen to me, save a sinful woman

is denied, sometimes their claim to the fact Upon a midnight bridge. — She was so fair, God's eye could rest with pleasure on her face.

of finding it out is contested, and sometimes, O God, she was so happy! Her short life

in the brilliance of the star, the astronomer As full of music as the crowded June

who has first observed it is utterly eclipsed! Or an unfallen orb. What is it now?

Nevertheless it is a pleasant thing, “ when a She gave me her young heart, full, full of love: new planet swims into our ken," or when, to My return - was to break it. Worse, fur worse ; pursue the quotation, we happen to resemI crept into the chambers of her soul,

ble Like a foul toad, polluting as I went.

Stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes

He stared at the Pacific, and all his men I pity her — not you. Man trusts in God;

Gathered around him with a wild surmise, He is eternal. Woman trusts in man ;

Sileut upon a peak in Darien. And he is shifting sand,

This quotation is suggested, partly by the

thought it embodies, and partly by the recol. Poor child, poor

child !

lection of its author, both relevant to the We snt in dreadful silence with our sin,

subject before us. We — we first — we alone, Looking ench other wildly in the eyes :

claim the merit of discovering a new Poet in Methought I heard the gates of heaven close ; Glasgow, and a Poet, too, who in genius, She flung herself against me, burst in tears, circumstances, and present position, is not

WALTER,

GIRL.

WALTER.

unlike Jonn Kears. God forbid he should Of one, whose naked soul stood clad in love, resemble him in his future destiny!

Like a pale martyr in his shirt of fire. Some four months ago we received a packet of poetry from Glasgow, accompanied with a

There is not a finer line than this last in very modest note, signed " Alex. Switu." literature! The combination of the thought, Encumbered with many duties, and with an the image, and the picture formed from both, immense mass of MS., good, bad, and indif- is perfect. ferent, we allowed the volume to lie by us

Let Mr. Smith be permitted again to speak for a long time, till at last, lifting it up care of the Poet -- of such as himself! legsly, we lighted upon some lines that pleased The Poet was as far 'bove common men us, were tempted to read on — did so - and

As a sun-steel, wild-eyed, and meteor-maned, ere the end, were all but certain we had found Neighing the reeling stars, is 'bove a dray, a Poet - a new and real star in those barren With mud in its veins. Northern skies. We told the Poet our impreg Shaken with joy or sadness, tremulous sions; he in reply sent us two later effusions, As the soft star which in the azure East which completely confirmed us.

Trembles with pity o'er bright bleeding Day. Poor fellow ! at the age of ten he was sent froin school to a commercial employment,

But here is a higher voice : where he has been engaged, ever since, ten The soliloquy with which God broke hours a day, for the last eleven years. He is The silence of the dead Eternities -- At which now, consequently, twenty-one. His princi ancient words, pal, though not his best poem, was written with showery tresses like a child from sleep, two years ago. It is entitled a "Life Drama," Uprose the splendid, mooned, and long-haired and is, it seems, an attempt to set his own Night, life to music.”

The loveliest born of God. We may, without analyzing the story, quote a few extracts from this powerful though

To this the lady well answers — unequal, poem. These will speak for them Doubtless your first chorus selves, for their author, and for us! Hear Shall be the shoutings of the morning stars ! this of certain books :

What martial music is to marching men,

Should Song be to Humanity. In bright Song They mingle gloom and splendor, as I've oft The Infant Ages born and swathed are. In thund'rous sunsets seen the thunder piles Seamed with dull fire, and fiercest glory rents. Thus he opens the Second Part ; and is is They awe him to his knees, as if he stood not like the sound of a trumpet? In presence of a King. They give him tears, Buch glorious tears as Eve's fair daughters shed Curl not thy grand lip with that scorn, 0 World ! When first they clasped a son of God, all bright Nor men with eyes of cold and cruel blue With burning plumes and splendors of the sky

Wither my heart-strings with contemptuous In zoning hearen of their milky arms.

“ Pooh!” How few read books aright ! Most souls are shut Alas, my spirit sails not yet upfurled, By sense from their grandeurs, as the man who Flap idly 'gainst the mast of my intent. snores,

Bagged Ledger men, with souls by Mammon Nightcapped and wrapt in blankets to the nose,

churled, Is shut out from the Night, which, like a sea,

What need of mocks or jeers from you or yours, Breaketh forever on a strand of stars.

Since hope of Song is by Scorn's arrow shent !

O Poesy, the glory of the lands, Again, of a Poet

Or thee no more my thirsty spirit drinks !

I seek the look of Fame! poor fool, so tries
His was not that love

Some lonely wand'rer 'mong the desert sands, That comes on men with their beards ; his soul By shouts to gain the notice of the Sphynx, was rich,

Staring right on with calm eternal eyes. And this his book unveils it, as the Night Her panting wealth of stars. The world was cold, This last line should have been in Hyperion. And he went down like a lone ship at sea ; It reminds us of And now the fame which scorned him in life Waits on him like a menial.

Sate gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone. When the dark dumb Earth Lay on her back and watched the shining stars. &c.

With solemn step an awful Goddess came! Ilear this, too, of a Song - the Song itself we do not give :

And plunged all noiseless into the deep Night; I'll sing it to thee, 't is a song of one, An image warm in his soul's caress, but is, perhaps, finer than any of them. It is Like a sweet thought within a Poet's heart, one of those lines which are worlds of selfEre it is boru in joy and golden words - contained power and harmony !

Or

Or,

We give another labored and very splendid The following passage has obvious faults of passage :

rhythm and diction, but is quite equal to any.

thing in Festus on the same theme. It is a Ev'n as I write the ghost of one bright hour Comes from its grare and stands before me now. picture of the poet of the coming time: 'T was at the close of a long summer's day,

When ages flower, ages and bards are born ; As we were standing on a grassy slope,

My friend, a Poet must ere long arise, The sunset hung before us like a dream

And with a regal song sun-crown the age, That shakes a demon in his fiery lair.

As a saint's head is with a glory crowned ; The clouds were standing round the setting sun

One who shall hallow Poetry to God Like gaping caves, fantastic pinnacles ; Wide castles throbbing in their own fierce light; The grandest chariot in which king-thoughts ride :

And to its own high uses — for poetry is Tall spires that went and came like spires of One who shall fervent grasp the sword of song,

flame, Cliffs quivering with fire-snow, and sunset-peaks To gain the quickest passage to the heart.

As a stern swordsman grasps his keenest blade Of piled gorgeousness, and rocks of fire

A mighty Poet, whom this age shall choose
A-tilt and poised ; bare beaches, crimson seas :
All these were huddled in that dreadful west ;

To be its spokesman to all coming times.
All shook and trembled in unsteadfast light,

In the ripe, full-blown season of his soul And from the centre blazed the angry Sun,

He shall go forward in his spirit's strength Stern as the unlashed eye of God, a glare

And grapple with the questions of all time

And wring from them their meanings. As King O'er ev'ning city with its boom of sin.

Saul Dost thou remember as we journeyed home

Called up the buried prophet from his grare (That dreadful sunset burnt into our brain),

To speak his doom; so shall this Poei-King With what a soothing came the naked Moon ; She, like a swimmer that has found his ground, Call up the dead Past from its awful grave

To tell him of our future. As the air Came rippling up a silver strand of clouds, And plunged from the other side into the Night. Doth sphere the world, so shall his heart of love

Loving mankind, not peoples. As the lake Here is a fine thought in a softer vein :

Reflects the flower, tree, rock, and bending heav'n,

Shall he reflect our great humanity.
O my Friend,

And as the young Spring breathes with living If thy rich heart is like a palace shattered,

breath Stand up amid the ruins of thy heart,

On a dead branch till it sprouts fragrantly, And with a calm brow front the solemn stars.

Green leaves and sunny flowers, shall he breathe 'Tis four o'clock already, see the Moon

life llas climbed the eastern sky,

Through every theme he touch, making all Beauty And sits and tarries for the coming Night. And Poetry forever like the Stars. So let thy soul be up and ready-armed, In waiting till occasion comes like night ;

There follows a noble rhapsody on the As night to moons to souls occasioni comes.

Stars, for which we bave not room. We quote Take another sweet image (perhaps sug. the closing passage of this “Life-Fragment." gested by that line in Festus, which David Scott pronounced the best in the poem,

As he wrote, his task the lovelier grew,

Like April into May, or as a child I'riendship has passed me like a ship at sea.) - A smile in the lap of life, by fine degrees We twain have met like ships upon the sea,

Orbs to a maiden walking with meek eyes Who hold an hour's converse, so short, so sweet ; Over his work he flushed and paled in room

In atmosphere of beauty round her breathed, One little hour, and then away they speed On lonely paths through mist and cloud and Hallowed with glooms and books. Priests which

have wed foam

Their makers unto Fame. Moons which hare To meet no more.

shed Again, he says —

Eternal halos around England's head ;

Books dusky and thumbed without, within 3 God is a worker. He has thickly sown

sphere, Wide space with rolling grandeurs. God is Love: Smelling of Spring, as genial, fresh, and clear, He yet shall wipe away Creation's tears,

And beautiful as is the rainbowed air And all the worlds shall summer in his smile. After May showers. Within this warm lair Why work I not? the veriest mote that sports He spent in writing all the winter moonis. Its one day life within the sunny beam,

But when May came with train of sunny noont, Hath its stern duties. Wherefore have I none ?

He chose a leafy summer house within Listen, O world, to this picture of thy Ort å fine thought his face would flush dirine,

The greenest nook of all his garden green.

As he had quaffed a cup of golden wine, Methinks our darkened world doth wander lone, which deifies the drinker : oft his face A Cain-world, outcast from her peers in light; Gleamed “like a spirit's” in that shady place, Wild and curse-driven. A poor maniac world, When he saw smiling upwarils from the scro!! Homeless and sobbing, through the deep she goes. The image of the thought within his soul,

weary self:

tone:

As mid the waving shadows of the trees, from the “ Page and the Lady," which we
Mid garden odors and the hum of becs, deem bis finest artistic production,
He wrote the last and closing passages.

The story of the Page and the Lady is sim'Tis truly a noble fragment of a “ Life" ple — A lady of bigh birth and great beauty, this — the chip of a colossal block. We fer

hath an Indian Page, who falls in love with yently trust that Mr. Smith's " life” may be her, which love is betrayed in the course of a long extended, bis delicate health strength-tion is the Poem. This confession she is at

The Conversaened, and his circumstances so ameliorated, first disposed to treat with disdain, but ultithat he may fulfil the beautiful promise he has so unequivocally given.

mately she finds, by a very brief process of We quote three tine specimens of his Son- self-inquiry, that it is but the counterpart of neteering vein. The first, though “ All in a feeling towards him, which bas long lurked Ilonor” is perhaps a little too luxurious in in her own bosom. Let us take first the.

opening of the poem : Last night my check was wetted with warm tears, on balcony, all summer, roofed with vines, Lach worth a world. They fell from eyes divine. A lady half-reclined amid the light,

Golden and green, soft showering through the Last night a silken lip was pressed to mine,

leaves, And at its touch fled all the barren years.

Silent she sat one half the silent noon;
And golden-couched on a bosom white,

At last she sank luxurious on her couch,
Which came and went beneath me like a sea,
An Emperor I lay, in empire bright,

Purple and golden-fringed like the sun's,

And stretched her white arms on the warıned air, Lord of the beating heart! while tenderly Love-words were glutting my love-greedy ears.

As if to take some object where withal Kind Love, I thank thee for that happy night ;

To ease the empty aching of her heart. Richer this cheek for those warm tears of thine,

She is weary, because, although she has Than the vast midnight with its gleaming spheres ; plenty of rich and noble suitors she has nune Leander toiling through the midnight brive,

she can love; and exclaims Kingdomless Antony, were scarce my peers.

O empty heart ! Like clouds or streams we wandered on at will,

O palace ! rich and purple-chambered, Three glorious days, when, near our journey's When will thy Lord come home?

end, As down the moorland road we straight did wend, Then she bethinks herself in her weariness To Wordsworth’s “ Inversneyd,” talking to kill of her Page : The cold and cheerless drizzle in the air.

My cub of Ind 'Bove me I saw, at pointing of my friend,

My sweetest plaything! He is bright and wild, An old fort, like a ghost upon the hill,

As is a gleaming panther of the hills. Stare in blank misery through the blinding rain ; Lovely as lightning beautiful as wild ! So human-like it seemed in its despair,

His sports and laughters are with fierceness So stunned with grief, long gazed at it we twain. edged, Weary and damp we reached our poor abode, As I were toying with a naked sword I, warmly seated in the chimney nook,

Which starts within my veins the blood of Earls. Still saw that old fort on the moorland road, I fain would have the service of his voice, Stare through the rain with strange woe-wildered To kill with music this most languid noon.

look. Beauty still walketh on the earth and air,

She summons him accordingly to her pregOur present sunsets are as rich in gold

ence and bids him sing a battle song, or bet-. As ere the Iliad's numbers were outrolled ;

ter still The roses of the spring are ever fair ;

Some hungry lay of love, 'Mong branches green still ring-doves coo and Like that you sung me on the ere you told pair ;

How poor our English to your Indian darks. And the deep seas foam their music old.

Shaken from od'rous hills what tender smells So if we are at all divinely souled,

Pass like fine pulses through the mellow nights ; This Beauty will unloose our bonds of care. Your large round Moon, more beautiful than 'T is pleasant, when blue skies are o'er us bending,

The showered stars — each hanging luminous, Within old starry-gated Poesy,

Like golden dew-drops in the Indian air.
To meet a soul set to no earthly tune,
Like thine, sweet friend ! O dearer thou to me

IIe sings, as she bids, a very sweet love, Than are the dewy trees, the sun, the moon,

song.

At the closeOr noble music with a golden ending!

Queenly the lady lay ; We have culled the previous extracts, and of ringlets, reeling down upon her couch,

One white hand hidden in a golden shoal even the Sonnets, alniost at random, and And heaving on the heavings of her brenst, could easily have multiplied them by dozens The while her thoughts rose in her eyes like stars, But we proceed now to give some extracts Rising and setting in the blue of night.

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Thus luxuriously rested, she begins to tell | His soul stood like a moon within his eyes, her Page of a rhywing cousin she had once. Suddenly orbed, his passionate voice was shook A strange person, truly :

By trembles into music Thee I love !" He went to his grave, nor told what man he was ; (Each silver throb went through him like a

Thou!” and the lady with a cruel laugh He was unlanguaged, like the earnest sea, Which strives to gain an utterance on the shore ; Flang herself back upon her fringed couch,

sword) But ne'er can shape unto the listening hills

From which she rose, upon him, like a queen, The lore it gathered in its awful age,

She rose, and stabbed him with her angry eyes. The crime for which 't is lashed by cruel winds, To shrieks and spoomings to the frighted stars, We do not quote what she then says

in The thought, pain, grief within its lab’ring breast. words, unknowing her own heart; her laughMany strange things have been said about ter's." silver throbs” (what an exquisite es

It has been called the “ far-resound pression !) had said it more eloquently being Main ;" it has by an author of the day fore. Suffice it, she dismisses the crestfallen been boldly called "The Shadow and Mad page — Sister of the Earth." Thomson figures it

With arm sweep superb, the “ melancholy Main ;” and well may it The light of scorn was cold within her eyes, be both mad and melancholy, for Mr. Smith And withered his bloomed heart, which like a rose

Had opened timid to the noon of Love. proclaims it a tongueless penitent, carrying in its bosom the memory of some Crime of

But mark now! After sitting alone for a Ages ; lashed for its penance by the eternal season, she thus communes with her own soul, winds and yet unable to relieve itself by ex- in a soliloquy worthy of any poet or dramapressing its guilt, save in inarticulate shrieks, tist: 8obs, and "gpoomings to the frighted stars."

It was my father's blood We think that we remember a similar thought That bore me, as a red and wrathful stream in Mr. Gilbllan's “Second Gallery of Portraits,'

Bears a shed leaf. I would recall my words, where he describes Mrs. Shelley, after her And yet I would not. husband's death, wandering along the shore What lips : What splendid eyes ! 't was pitiful

Into what angry beauty rushed his face ! and asking vain questions at the sea, which, To see siich splendors ebb in utter woe. like a dumb murderer, had done the deed, His eyes halt won me! Tush ! I am a fool ; but was not able to utter the confession."

The blood that purples in these azure veins, Mr. Smith, however, improves upon this by Riched with its long course through an hundred making the crime a profound, old and general Earls, one, worthy of those long and fearful moan- Were fouled and mudded if I stooped to him. ings which, even in calm, never altogether My father loves him for his free wild wit, subside, and which in storm seem to express I for his beauty and sun-lighted eyes. a divine desperation, as of a whole Synod of - To bring him to my feet, to lip my hand, Gods planged into Tartarus, and feeling the Had I it in my gift, I'd give the world virgin fires on their immortal limbs.

Its panting fire - heart, diamonds, veins of gold, The Lady, in her turn, condescends to sing Its rich strands, oceans, belts of cedared hills, a song, and proceeds in various measure to re

Whence summer smells are struck by all the count the history and character of those who But, whether I might lance him through the brain

winds. in vain had loved her. She asks him, then, With a proud look, or whether sternly kill if he thinks that the power of Beauty is 80 Him with a single deadly word of scorn, great as is usually supposed, and he, in very Or - whether — yield me up, glowing terms, affirms that it is.

And sink all tears and weakness in his arna, The lady dowered him with her richest look,

And strike him blind with a strong shock of joy Her arch head half-aside, her liquid eyes

Alas! I feel I could do each and all. From 'neath their dim lids drooping, slumbrous

I will be kind when next he brings me flowers, Stood full on his, and called the wild blood up

Plucked from the shining forehead of the morn, All in a tumult to his sun-kissed cheek,

Ere they have ope'd their rich cores to the bee. As if it wished to see her beauty too.

His wild heart with a ringlet will I chain, Then asked in dulcet tones, Dost think me

And o'er him I will lean me like a beav'n, fair ?"

And feed him with sweet looks and dew-soft

words, We must onit his very eloquent reply, And benuty that might make a monarch pale ; which is, of course, in the affirmative. She

And thrill him to the heart's core with a toush begins to suspect, from his language, that he Smile him to Paradise at close of eve, has known by experience what love is. She To hang upon my lip in silver dreams. asks him –

And thus is the story “ left untold;" and My lustrous Leopard, hast thou been in love ?

yet what more is needed to tell us, that Lore What follows is admirable :

bas triumphed over Rank, that the Lady has The Page's dark face fushed the hue of wine become the “ Puge" to the Page, and the la crystal goblet, stricken by the sun,

Page the Lord to the Lady.

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