The poem, with which the volume opens, "To My Country," contains many brilliant passages;—and throughout the work, the reader will linger at almost every page to dwell upon something which must please his fancy. Indeed the extracts that we intended to have made have so multiplied upon our hands, that we have not now space to give place to them all. We trust, however, that what we have given will suffice not only to show that our own opinions are correct, but to bring the public, and especially the Virginia public, better acquainted with the author and his work. In a future number we may adorn the columns of the Messenger with further extracts from the POEMS BY A COLLEGIAN.
In the preface, the author states that his motive for preserving his poems in their present form, was his desire "to leave among those who have taken an interest in his welfare, and with whom he has been in habits of daily intercourse, a slight memorial of himself, ere more important duties urge their claims to consideration." We know that his Alma Mater will always be proud of such a son, and that his friends, with him, under her instruction will long cherish the "memorial." A favorable opinion of it will, however, not be confined to them alone. A discerning public will see and appreciate its excellence.
MY NATIVE LAND, AND OTHER POEMS. By Frederick Speece. Philadelphia: Printed for Augustine Leftwich, Lynchburg, Virginia. 1832.
Having been obligingly furnished with a copy of these poems, we take pleasure in introducing them to the notice of the public. We are somewhat surprised to learn that although published two years since in Lynchburg, they have attracted no notice in that quarter, either of applause or censure. It is perhaps, more agreeable to an author, that his works should come under the lash of satire, than that they should pass altogether without observation. The chilling neglect of the public however, furnishes no stronger proof of a writer's demerit, than do the too frequent carpings of illiberal criticism. Some of the greatest poets have been doomed whilst living, to indigence and obscurity, and owe all their honors to posthumous fame; and it is asserted of Homer especially, that seven cities claimed the honor of his birth, not one of which perhaps would have furnished a morsel to save him from starving.
We design not to raise extravagant expectations respecting Mr. Speece's poems—nor can we hazard the conjecture that the praise of future times will compensate him for contemporary injustice. We do not hesitate however, to recommend his work as incomparably superior to much of that glittering trash which passes under the name of poetry. There is a vein of good sense,—of just and honest feeling—of tender melancholy—and sometimes of rich imagination—which runs through his volume, and which cannot fail to delight such readers as have any soul for poetical composition. His versification for the most part, is sweet and melodious—though occasionally there is a little inattention to syllabick quantity, which produces rather an unpleasant effect upon the ear. There are other faults too—but they are inconsiderable when compared with the many redeeming beauties which shine through the volume. The poem of "My Native Land," in its general tone and harmony of verse, brings to recollection Goldsmith's Deserted Village—and the "Sketches," which are also descriptive of the pleasures of juvenile life and the picturesque scenery of his native hills—contain many fine passages. In the "Juvenalis Redivivus"—the author has pointed the arrows of satire against men and manners with no little severity—so much so, that he has found it necessary in his preface to acknowledge that time had softened much of the harsh coloring which he had thrown into his pictures. Many of his minor pieces abound in beautiful thoughts, expressed in smooth and flowing numbers—and upon the whole we think if Mr. Speece had been sufficiently encouraged in early life to persevere in the delightful but unprofitable task of poetical authorship—he might have reached a highly respectable rank. The following passage from "My Native Land," will probably remind the reader of Cowper's touching address to his mother's picture.
| "My mother! Melancholy was the morn That found me orphaned, and almost forlorn. My friend! My guide! Oh, could not mercy save Her for her child, or lay me in her grave! Why cheer my drooping and unsheltered head, When to the skies her gentle spirit fled? Why bid me live, since riper years must pay Their long arrears to that lamented day? I had a mother, tender, kind and true, Her virtues many and her failings few; With warm solicitude and watchful eye, She taught me what to follow, what to fly; And warned me disappointment and distress In life must be my portion, more or less; That fierce disease would often banish health; Pride point the insolence of power and wealth; Folly and vice allure; pretended friends Abuse my confidence for private ends; And fears and sorrows, hovering round my head, Pursue me to my last and narrow bed. Yet would she say, in Virtue's path was found A balm to heal the bosom's deepest wound: Winged my young thoughts to better worlds above, There to repose my confidence and love. Her fond affection never would deceive, But these were things I could not then believe. Yet though her warnings vanished from my mind, Her precepts left a faithful trace behind;— In memory's careful records still remain, And long experience proves they were not vain." |
The same poem concludes in the following lines—being a farewell tribute to the place of his nativity.
| "Adieu! Perhaps forever! Should it be,— 'Land of my Fathers! I will think of thee,' Long as its motions last, and vital heat, Within my heart, thy lovely name shall beat.— Tho' rude thy piny hills, a thankless soil, Whence scanty products meet the tiller's toil, Tho' thy wild scenery, and thy fickle clime, Exhibit little beauteous or sublime;— And timid Superstition's witching tales, And Gothic ignorance linger in thy vales; The charms that could my infant love engage, Have fixed the feelings of maturer age. So strongly linked to joys and sorrows past— I loved thee first—loved long—will love thee last. Whether, where Beauty taught me first to feel, And mutual passion fixed the sacred seal On treasures, Heaven reserved for me alone, A friend, a bosom dearer than my own, On Staunton's banks my wandering feet shall rest, Or in some Eden of the rosy West, In Alabama's ever verdant clime, Or where the wild Missouri rolls sublime; Or, 'mid the Bedford hills, whose limpid streams, Pay scanty tribute to the mighty James.— Land of my birth! and where my fathers sleep, Oft shall remembrance turn to thee and weep, And though my steps be doomed to wander far, Affection tremble to her Polar Star, Till the last throb shall lay this bosom low, Where Memory and Affection cease to glow." |