them to the world. There are many things in Holmes' humorous pieces which bear strong resemblance to the similar productions of our English satirists, Swift, Pope, and Thomas Hood. He possesses Swift's quaintness and motley merriment, Pope's polish and graceful point, and the solemn pathos and allied excruciating mirth of Hood. In addition to these he has a certain originality of his own, which would be difficult to define, but which would seem to consist in freedom and facility, engrafted on the broad, hearty nature of Brother Jonathan. No matter how earnestly the mock philanthropist may deprecate his irony, or how gravely the sanctimonious sophist may censure his light-hearted and innocuous mirth, Holmes may reasonably console himself with the reflection, that his objects have been for the promotion of good, and that the results of his labors have been duly and generously appreciated by his countrymen at home, and by all his benevolent readers in the mother country. Poetry contains many fine passages: taking a retrospective glance, the author alludes to the universality of the object of his panegyric; he points out how all human beings are either more or less embued with poetic feelings: The poem contains two excellent lyrics, a fine eulogium on Shakspere, and a scathing denunciation of the poetry of Despair. The poet most beautifully shews us how all things afford us subjects for poetry. The warrior is incited to battle by song, and the sweets of peace are chaunted by the muse. He evidently cherishes the theory regarding Homer and the old poets, namely, that they have conceived all the poetical ideas which it was possible for man to originate, and concludes by shewing that although States rise and fall, temples are upreared, and topple to their bases, an earthquake may render useless a "century's toil," Poetry can make a name reverberate through the world during its existence. Terpsichore, contains much wit, humour, and sound judgment. It is written in a strictly classical spirit. A Rhymed Lesson, commences in a humorous vein, and goes on to show that God brought us into the world, not that he might tyrannize over us, but that we might possess the world for our enjoyment, having evinced our gratitude to him by our obedience to his laws, thus giving us an opportunity of working out our welfare. The poem is especially intended for the uneducated poor, whom it instructs in those essential moral principles, and social virtues, with which, from their utter ignorance, they are necessarily unacquainted; it points out the necessity of holding our passions in check, inculcates christian toleration, and recommends dispassionate judgment: it winds up with a patriotic eulogium on America, well adapted to the poor and uneducated youth. The instruction is given in a vein, semi serious and semi comic, and is consequently most likely to be generally read. How beautifully Holmes can indite a ballad, may be judged from, THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY. The sun stepped down from his golden throne, And lay in the silent sea, And the Lily had folded her satin leaves, See, see, she is lifting her varnished lid! That would lie by the Rose's side; But what if the stormy cloud should come, Would he turn his eye from the distant sky, O no, fair Lily, he will not send One ray from his far-off throne; The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow, And thou wilt be left alone. There is not a leaf on the mountain top, Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore, Alas for the Lily! she would not heed, She looked in vain through the beating rain, The Last Leaf, is decidedly the oddest of his productions, and the one perhaps which is most calculated to display his idiosyncrasies: we here insert it : THE LAST LEAF. I saw him once before, And again The pavement stones resound, They say that in his prime, Not a better man was found But now he walks the streets, And he shakes his feeble head, The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he had pressed And the names he loved to hear On the tomb. But now his nose is thin, And a crook is in his back, I know it is a sin But the old three-cornered hat, And if I should live to be Let them smile, as I do now, Exquisite satire, and marvellous fidelity, are evidenced in the following: MY AUNT. My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt! I know it hurts her, though she looks Iler waist is ampler than her life, My aunt my poor deluded aunt! Why will she train that winter curl He sent her to a stylish school; They braced my aunt against a board, They laced her up, they starved her down, They pinched her feet, they singed her hair, O never mortal suffered more In penance for her sins. So, when my precious aunt was done, "Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche, Tore from the trembling father's arms, In the next quotation, we are furnished with a most extraordinary instance of appropriate imagery: we are astonished at the happy manner in which every line bears reference to the Tailor's calling, and by the wonderful facility with which all external objects, be they great or small, are compared to the humble technicalities which characterize his profession. EVENING, BY A TAILOR. Day hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, That is like padding to earth's meagre ribs, And hold communion with the things about me. Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid, That binds the skirt of night's descending robe! The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads, Do make a music like to rustling satin, Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout, I have a scar upon my thimble finger, Which chronicles the hour of young ambition. My father was a tailor, and his father, And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors; They had an ancient goose,—it was an heirloom From some remoter tailor of our race. It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs, And all the needles that do wound the spirit, For such a pensive hour of soothing silence. Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress, Lays bare her shady bosom :-I can feel With all around me;-I can hail the flowers That sprig earth's mantle, and yon quiet bird, That rides the stream, is to me as a brother. The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets, Where Nature stows away her loveliness. But this unnatural posture of the legs Cramps my extended calves, and I must go Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion. The following is in Holmes' best style : THE STETHOSCOPE SONG. There was a young man in Boston town, All mounted and finished and polished down, This fine young man would show his skill; This fine young man then up stepped he, Then out his Stethoscope he took, And on it placed his curious ear; Mon Dieu! said he, with a knowing look, Why here is a sound that's mighty queer! The bourdonnement is very clear, Amphorie buzzing, as I am alive! Five Doctors took their turn to hear; Amphorie buzzing, said all the five. There's empyema beyond a doubt; We'll plunge a trocar in his side,The diagnosis was made out, They tapped the patient: so he died Now such as hate new-fashioned toys hum. There was an old lady had long been sick, And what was the matter none did know: Her pulse was slow, though her tongue was quick; To her this knowing youth must go. So there the nice old lady sat, With phials and boxes all in a row; Now, when the Stethoscope came out, The bruit de rape and the bruit de scie If he a case like this could find! In squads of twenty; so she died. And short of breath on mounting stairs. They all made rhymes with "sighs" and "skies," And loathed their puddings and buttered rolls, And dieted, much to their friends' surprise, On pickles, and pencils, and chalk, and coals. So fast their little hearts did bound, The frightened insects buzzed the more; He shook his head;-there's grave disease, The six young damsels wept aloud, This poor young man was all aghast; To practise in a country town. A Stethoscope they did devise, Now use your ears, all you that can, We close this first paper on American Poets, and our second, and concluding, portion, shall be devoted to a review of the works of Dana, Willis, Lowell, Poe, Whittier, and Read. We have not in this, our present division of the subject, written critically of the poets specially noticed, or of the probable effects which their productions may have upon the literature of America; we consider that such a disquisition belongs to the concluding section of our paper. |