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Words: 28874 in 8 pages
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flowing robes, which shade, but not conceal, All that the classic chisel would reveal. In thy supremacy thou stand'st sublime, Bidding defiance to the scythe of time!
The thought of thee is like the breath of morn, Which whispers gently through the blooming trees; Like music o'er the sparkling waters borne, When the blue waves heave in the summer breeze.
We have faithfully performed our unpleasant duty in the foregoing criticism. A high standard has been set up by us, and it must be defended. Censure is far less agreeable to us than commendation; but the last would be wholly valueless, when flowing from our pen, were we always to withhold the first. Poetry, to be acceptable, must have higher qualities than those which the mere habit and practice of writing confers. A man may play very well on the piano and not be a musician; he may sketch very well and not be a painter; he may model very well and have no just claim to be called a sculptor. The maker of graceful stanzas is not a poet; he is at best entitled only to be called a person of accomplishments. He is inexcusable when he brings himself prominently before the public and claims to be ranked among artists. Women, more than men, cultivate their powers of taste. We know many of the sex who not only sing and sketch, but write very nice verses. They would, however, shrink from publicity with a sensitive dread of ridicule. For the sake of a pure literature this apprehension should be kept alive by an occasional article, like the one which we have felt ourselves impelled to present on the effusions of Mrs. Katharine Augusta Ware.
B.
LOVE AND PIQUE;
OR, SCENES AT A WATERING-PLACE.
BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.
THE VENTILATOR.
"Mine be a cot beside a hill; A beehive's hum shall soothe mine ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, To share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing, In russet gown and apron blue.
The village church, amid the trees, Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point, with taper spire, to Heaven."
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