Aught save a self-consuming, wasted fire:
“Bring these anew, and set me once again
In the delusion of Life’s Infancy—
I was not happy, but I knew not then
That happy I was never doom’d to be.
“Till these things are, and powers divine descend—
Love, kindness, joy, and hope, to gild my day,
In vain the emblem leaves towards me bend,
Thy Spirit, Heart’s-Ease, is too far away!”
We would fain have given two poems entitled “Bessy” and “Youth and Age.” Everything in this little volume is select and good. Sensibility and sense in right measure and proportion and keeping, and in pure, strong classical language; no intemperance of thought or phrase. Why does not “V.” write more?