NEW YEAR WISH.

TO ANNA MARIA, AGED FIVE YEARS.

Dear one, while bending o’er thy couch of rest,

I’ve looked on thee as thou wert calmly sleeping,

And wished—Oh! couldst thou ever be as blest

As now—when haply all thy cause of weeping

Is, for a truant bird, or faded rose;

Though these light griefs call forth the ready tear,

They cast no shadow o’er thy soft repose,

No trace of care, or sorrow, lingers here.

With rosy cheek, upon the pillow prest,

To me thou seemest a cherub, pure and fair,

With thy sweet smile, and gently heaving breast,

And the bright ringlets of thy clustering hair;

What shall I wish thee, little one? Smile on

Through childhood’s morn—through life’s gay spring⁠—

For oh—too soon will those bright hours be gone!

In youth time flies upon a silken wing.

May thy young mind, beneath the bland control

Of education, lasting worth acquire;

May virtue stamp her signet on thy soul,

Direct thy steps, and every thought inspire!

Thy parents’ earliest hope—be it their care

To guide thee through youth’s path of shade and flowers,

And teach thee to avoid false pleasure’s snare;

Be thine—to smile upon their evening hours.

There are some graceful translations from the French; but, besides the above, we should find it difficult to quote an original poem, good as a whole. We have now and then some spirited lines, and frequently some weak ones; but the latter outnumber the former.

Strange as it may seem, the same hand wrote both of the following passages—the one, with the exception of its concluding verse, vigorous, free, correct—the other, puerile, silly, commonplace.

Sculpture! oh what a triumph o’er the grave

Hath thy proud Art!—thy powerful hand can save

From the destroyer’s grasp the noble form,

As if the spirit dwelt, still thrilling warm,

In every line and feature of the face;

The air majestic, and the simple grace

Of 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.

LOVE AND PIQUE;

OR, SCENES AT A WATERING-PLACE.

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BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

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