For the Southern Literary Messenger.
APOSTROPHE
Of the Æolian Harp to the Wind.
| "Wind of the dark blue mountains, Thou dost but sweep my strings, Into wild gusts of mournfulness, With the rushing of thy wings. When the gale is freshly blowing My notes responsive swell, And over music's power, Their triumphs seem to tell. But when the breeze is sighing, Then comes 'a dying fall,' Less—less indeed exalting, But sweeter far than all. It sighs, like hapless mortals, For youthful pleasures fled, For hopes and friends once cherished, Now mingled with the dead. And oh! how sweetly touching, Is the sad and plaintive strain, Recalling former pleasures, That ne'er can live again. Once more thy breezes freshen, And sweep the Æolian strings, And again their notes are swelling, With the rushing of thy wings. They seem to cheer the drooping, To bid the wretched live, And with their sounds ecstatic, His withering hopes revive." Alas! and in life's drama, Howe'er we play our part, Hope is forever breathing, On the Lyre of the Heart. Hope is forever touching Some chord that vibrates there, While bitter disappointment Mars the delusive air. Alternate joys and sorrows, Obedient to her call, Now breathe a strain that's flatt'ring, And now "a dying fall." Yet how unlike the measures Of the sweet Æolian string! These soothe the heart that's wounded, Those plant a deeper sting. Then wind of the dark blue mountains, Still sweep these trembling strings Into sweet strains of mournfulness, With the flutter of thy wings. |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
ENGLISH POETRY.
CHAP. I.
"Every modification of a society, at all lettered, works out for itself a correspondent literature, bearing the stamp of its character and exhibiting all its peculiarities."1