The full heart lies,
And dreams, Forgetfulness!
‘The Shepherd of King Admetus’ is exceedingly graceful and delicate, but it is too long to be quoted entire, and too perfect to be disjointed. We must reluctantly skip ‘Fatherland,’ ‘The Inheritance,’ ‘The Moon,’ ‘Rhœcus,’ and other favorites, until we come to ‘L’Envoi,’ where our author once more throws his arms aloft, free from the incumbrance of rhyme. This poem is inscribed to ‘M. W.,’ his heart’s idol. The warm affection which radiates from its lines, it is not to be mistaken, is an out-flowing of pure human love. Among these personal feelings, touching which we have ‘said our say,’ we find the following; which in one respect so forcibly illustrates what we have written within these two weeks to a western correspondent, that we cannot forbear to quote it here:
Thou art not of those niggard souls, who deem
That poesy is but to jingle words,
To string sweet sorrows for apologies
To hide the barrenness of unfurnished hearts,
To prate about the surfaces of things,
And make more thread-bare what was quite worn out:
Our common thoughts are deepest, and to give