the happy idlers. He sees but the children just escaped from school, running and leaping, and romping in their innocent glee. Happy himself, he fastens upon whatever in nature around him seems to sympathise with him, and dwelling fondly upon it, casts away from his thoughts every thing that can obstruct the full, free flow of his joyous emotions.
We may remark in passing, what has probably been before remarked by the attentive reader, that both Gray and Goldsmith, excited as they are by different passions, refer to the ‘lowing herd’ as raising on the one hand a cheerful, and on the other a melancholy feeling. To our thought, the associations connected with the return of the herds from the fields at sunset are best fitted to awaken that quiet, reflective state of mind which is most congenial to the mood of the elegiac poet. To another, these associations may be of such a character as to produce a directly opposite effect.
The writer of prose who should describe scenes like these, would aim to give us a distinct and accurate picture by presenting all their prominent features, omitting nothing, and grouping them as Nature herself had grouped them. Such descriptions we daily see in all books of voyages and travels. Or if the descriptions be of scenes wholly imaginary, their essential character is not changed. Although they cease to be real, they do not become poetical. The extract which we have made from Irving is not poetical. Accurate, vivid, life-like, it is. We cannot read it without a feeling of pleasure. We admire the genius of the writer; we wonder at the magnificence of the spectacle which, by a few masterly touches, he has raised up before us. But there is no more poetry in it than in his description of Herr Van Tassel’s supper table, covered with all the luxuries of Dutch housewifery. It is true, there may be more of beauty and sublimity in the scenery of the Hudson, in the gathering clouds and muttering thunder, than in the sight of dough-nuts and crullers, sweet-cakes and short-cakes, peach pies and pumpkin pies, slices of ham and slices of smoked beef; yet the spirit of poetry exists no more in the one than in the other. Poetry has its abode in the heart of man; not in the winds, in the clouds, in the mountains, or in the vales. It does not derive its power from the outward world, but breathes into it its own breath of life, investing the earth with a beauty which has no existence but in the human soul, and filling the air with sweet harmonies, which are unheard save by the inspired ear of the poet.
We have now, we think, sufficiently answered the question, why so many who read descriptive poetry with pleasure, look with indifference upon what is beautiful or sublime in nature. The poet is to them like one who gives sight to the blind. The landscape which formerly lay before their eyes unregarded, almost unseen, is now ‘beautiful exceedingly.’ Nature has not changed; they themselves have not changed; yet there is a change. There is a glory unseen before, cast over the earth. It is, as it were, transfigured before them, and made radiant with celestial light. This is the poet’s work. With a keener perception of the beautiful and sublime than other men; with a greater facility of association, and with the power to give to language the hue and intensity of his own feelings, he clothes lifeless nature with the attributes of humanity, making it instinct with human sentiment and passion. Like Burns, he pours forth his lament over the mountain-daisy cut down in its bloom, in a few simple words that find a response in the hearts of all men; and henceforth it is embalmed in our memories, and shall be as immortal as the star that shines in the far depths of the heavens. Like Wordsworth, he wanders upon the banks of his native lakes, and mingles his song with the noise of their waters, until the faintest whisper of the rippling waves seems but the echo of his voice. Wherever he goes fruits, flowers, and herbage spring up in his footsteps. A divine Presence goes with him; Nature speaks to him with her thousand voices, and he hears, and answers, making sweet music in the joy of his heart. Nothing is so inconsiderable as to be without the pale of his sympathy; nothing too humble to stir the fountains of love in his breast. The solitary flower that blossoms by the way-side, the rivulet far away amid the hills, is but the starting point of that wondrous chain of thick-coming fancies, that fill his eyes with light, and his ear with harmony; as if multitudes of angels were hovering around, and he heard on every side the rustling of their wings.
Such are the gifts of the poet. They are God’s gifts, and are indeed ‘wonderful in our eyes.’
VICISSITUDES
Hast thou not been where wild winds, freshly blowing,
Brought odorous gladness on each passing gale;
Hast thou not been where the pure streamlet flowing,
In each soft murmur told a gentle tale:
As the bright flashing of its gushing water,
Glad as the tones of merriment and glee
That joyous burst from children in their laughter,
Swift dashes onward to the boundless sea?
Hast thou not been where the enamelled mead
Its beauty gave to the enraptured sense,
And the crushed lily, from the elastic tread,
Yielded its life in breath of sweets intense?
Hast thou not been in spring-time’s early hours,
Where the lone bird its short sweet carol gave
To the young bursting leaves and budding flowers,
Beside some wildly-rushing mountain wave?
Not such the lay it sings in summer hours,
When love beats high within its little breast,
And its exulting song it joyous pours,
Where thick embowering leaves conceal its nest.
Hast thou not marked, when autumn’s gorgeous glory
Fled in the rushing of the hurrying blast,
The deep’ning pathos of the moral story
Sighed in each cadence, as it onward passed.
Hast thou not heard the ancient forests, bending
To the far sweeping of the mighty wind,
Send forth a solemn sound, as though responding
To voices deep that secret powers unbind?
Hast thou not stood where ocean madly raging,
Rolled onward as with overmastering shock:
‘Till hushed the storm, the chaféd surge assuaging,
It gently laved the firm-opposing rock?
Hast thou not gleaned a lesson to thy reason
From winter’s fostering power and spring’s awakening reign;
Summer’s brief heat, autumn’s maturing season,
And learned vicissitudes are not in vain?
But from the varied page outspread before thee,
Garner’d of wisdom for thy fleeting days,
Whether the sunshine or the storm be o’er thee,
Forward to look with hope, and trust, and praise?
THE IDLEBERG PAPERS
A CHRISTMAS YARN
At Christmas every body is or should be happy. The genial influence of the season lightens alike the lofty hall and the lowly cottage. It is the same at home or abroad, on the land or the billow, in royal purple or in ragged poverty; here and every where, to one and to all, it is always ‘merrie Christmas.’ At such a time there is an obligation due from every man to society, to be happy, and the more cheerfully it is paid, the better. The man who would be found scowling and glowering like a thunder-cloud,
