In Wordsworth:
And many a brook shall murmur in my verse;
And many an ocean join his cloudy bass;
And many a mountain tower aloft, whereon
The black storm crouches, with his deep-red eyes
Glaring upon the valleys stretch'd below;
And many a green wood rock the small, bright birds
To musical sleep beneath the large, full moon;
And many a star shall lift on high her cup
Of luminous cold chrysolite, set in gold
Chased subtilely over by angelic art;
To catch the odorous dews which poets drink
In their wide wanderings; and many a sun
Shall press the pale lips of the timorous morn
Couch'd in the bridal east: and over all
Will brood the visible presence of the One
To whom my life has been a solemn chant.
In the Last Words of Washington:
There is an awful stillness in the sky,
When after wondrous deeds and light supreme,
A star goes out in golden prophecy.
There is an awful stillness in the world,
When after wondrous deeds and light supreme,
Sceptres refused and forehead crowned with truth,
A Hero dies, with all the future clear
Before him, and his voice made jubilant
By coming glories, and his nation hushed,
As though they heard the farewell of a god.
A great man is to earth as God to Heaven.
In Greenwood Cemetery:
O, ye whose mouldering frames were brought and placed
By pious hands within these flowery slopes
And gentle hills, where are ye dwelling now?
For man is more than element! The soul
Lives in the body as the sunbeam lives
In trees or flowers that were but clay without.
Then where are ye, lost sunbeams of the mind?
Are ye where great Orion towers and holds
Eternity on his stupendous front?
Or where pale Neptune in the distant space
Shows us how far, in his creative mood,
With pomp of silence and concentred brows,
The Almighty walked? Or haply ye have gone
Where other matter roundeth into shapes
Of bright beatitude: Or do ye know
Aught of dull space or time, and its dark load
Of aching weariness?
Mr. Wallace is somewhat too much of a rhetorician, and he has a few defects of manner which, from this frequent repetition, he seems to regard as beauties. Peculiar phrases, of doubtful propriety, but which have a musical roll, occur in many of his poems, so that they become very prominent; this fault, however, belongs chiefly to his earlier pieces; the extracts we have given, we think will amply vindicate to the most critical judgments, the praise here awarded to him as a poet of singular and unusual powers, original, earnest, and in a remarkable degree national. It can scarcely be said of any of our bards that they have caught their inspiration more directly from observation and experience, or that their effusions, whatever the distinction they have in art, are more genuine in feeling.