NEWSPAPER POETS: CHARLES WELDON.
Some of the best poetry in America makes its appearance in the newspapers, without pretension, and often without the names of its authors. It is enough for them to write, and publish, whoever will may take the fame. This indifference to public opinion does not arise from any want of autorial vanity perhaps, but in most cases from that modesty which an acquaintance with and self-measurement by the best standards never fails to produce in sincere lovers of art.
Recently a series of noticeable poems has from time to time appeared in the Tribune, without any name or clue to their authorship except the enigmatical initials O. O. They are by Mr. Charles Weldon; he is still a young man, and the poems below, we have been told, are the first that he wrote. Their niceties of rhythm in many cases would reflect credit on the recognized masters of the poetic art. In this respect they are remarkable; but perhaps their greatest charm is a certain kind of subtle but masculine thought. They embody what most men feel, but lack words to express; strange facts of impression and consciousness, half-formed philosophies, and those glimpses of truth which are revealed to the mind in certain moods, as stray rays of the moon on a cloudy night. In this respect they resemble the best pieces of Emerson, who seems to be a favorite with Mr. Weldon. In others they remind us of the simplicity of "In Memoriam." By this we intend a compliment rather than a charge of imitation. Mr. Weldon's thoughts are too peculiar to come from any one but himself, and too original to be cast in other moulds. We shall watch his progress with interest, and are mistaken if he does not do something worthy to be long remembered.
Mysterious interpreter,
Dear Aid that God has given to me!
Instruct me, for I meanly err;
Inform me, for I dimly see.
I know thee not: How can I know?—
I sought thee long, and lately found,
Wearing the sable weeds of wo,
A figure cast upon the ground.
Thou wert that figure. Face to face
We have not stood: I dare not see
Thy features. We did once embrace,
And all my being went to thee.
Henceforward never more apart
We wander. All thy steps are mine.
Thou hast my brain: thou hast my heart:
Thou hast my soul. And I am thine.
...*...*...*...*
The Sun has his appointed place,
He never rests, and never tires;
And ever in serenest space
Burn the celestial, upper fires.