GEORGE W. DEWEY.
Of our younger and minor poets no one has more natural grace and tenderness than George W. Dewey. The son of a painter, and himself the Secretary of the Philadelphia Art Union, it may be supposed that he is well instructed in the principles upon which effect depends; but while native genius, as it is called, is of little value without art, no man was ever made a poet by art alone, and it is impossible to read "Blind Louise," "A Memory," or "A Blighted May," without perceiving that Mr. Dewey's commission has both the sign and the countersign, in due form, so that his right to the title of poet is in every respect unquestionable. He has not written much, but whatever he has given to the public is written well, and all his compositions have the signs of a genuineness that never fails to please. There is no collection of his poems, but from the journals to which he contributes we have selected the following specimens:
A MEMORY.
It was a bright October day—
Ah, well do I remember!
One rose yet bore the bloom of May,
Down toward the dark December.
One rose that near the lattice grew,
With fragrance floating round it:
Incarnardined, it blooms anew
In dreams of her who found it.
Pale, withered rose, bereft and shorn
Of all thy primal glory,
All leafless now, thy piercing thorn
Reveals a sadder story.
It was a dreary winter day;
Too well do I remember!
They bore her frozen form away,
And gave her to December!
There were no perfumes on the air,
No bridal blossoms round her,
Save one pale lily in her hair
To tell how pure Death found her.
The thistle on the summer air
Hath shed its iris glory,
And thrice the willows weeping there
Have told the seasons' story,