| Sleep, sleep! be thine the sleep that throws Elysium o'er the soul's repose, Without a dream, save such as wind Like midnight angels, through the mind; While I am watching on the hill I, and the wailing whippoorwill. Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill! Sleep, sleep! and once again I'll tell The oft pronounced yet vain farewell: Such should his word, oh maiden, be Who lifts the fated eye to thee; Such should it be, before the chain That wraps his spirit, binds his brain. Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill! Sleep, sleep! the ship hath left the shore, The steed awaits his lord no more; His lord still madly lingers by, The fatal maid he cannot fly— And thrids the wood, and climbs the hill— He and the wailing whippoorwill. Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill! Sleep, sleep! the morrow hastens on; Then shall the wailing slave be gone, Flitting the hill-top far for fear The sounds of joy may reach his ear; The sounds of joy!—the hollow knell Pealed from the mocking chapel bell. Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill! |
In conclusion: The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, if it add a single bay to the already green wreath of Dr. Bird's popular reputation, will not, at all events, among men whose decisions are entitled to consideration, advance the high opinion previously entertained of his abilities. It has no pretensions to originality of manner, or of style—for we insist upon the distinction—and very few to originality of matter. It is, in many respects, a bad imitation of Sir Walter Scott. Some of its characters, and one or two of its incidents, have seldom been surpassed, for force, fidelity to nature, and power of exciting interest in the reader. It is altogether more worthy of its author in its scenes of hurry, of tumult, and confusion, than in those of a more quiet and philosophical nature. Like Calavar and The Infidel, it excels in the drama of action and passion, and fails in the drama of colloquy. It is inferior, as a whole, to the Infidel, and vastly inferior to Calavar.
PEERAGE AND PEASANTRY.
Tales of the Peerage and the Peasantry, Edited by Lady Dacre. New York: Harper & Brothers.
We had been looking with much impatience for the republication of these volumes, and henceforward we shall look with still greater anxiety for any thing announced as under the editorial supervision of Lady Dacre. But why, Lady Dacre, this excessive show of modesty, or rather this most unpardonable piece of affectation? Why deny having written volumes whose authorship would be an enviable and an honorable distinction to the proudest literati of your land? And why, above all, announce yourself as editor in a title-page, merely to proclaim yourself author in a preface?
The Tales of the Peerage and the Peasantry are three in number. The first and the longest is Winifred, Countess of Nithsdale, (have a care, Messieurs Harpers, you have spelt it Nithsadle in the very heading of the very initial chapter) a thrilling, and spirited story, rich with imagination, pathos, and passion, and in which the successful termination of a long series of exertions, and trials, whereby the devoted Winifred finally rescues her husband, the Earl of Nithsdale, from tyranny, prison, and death, inspires the reader with scarcely less heartfelt joy and exultation than we can conceive experienced by the happy pair themselves. But the absolute conclusion of this tale speaks volumes for the artist-like skill of the fair authoress. An every day writer would have ended a story of continued sorrow and suffering, with a bright gleam of unalloyed happiness, and sunshine—thus destroying, at a single blow, that indispensable unity which has been rightly called the unity of effect, and throwing down, as it were, in a paragraph what, perhaps, an entire volume has been laboring to establish. We repeat that Lady Dacre has given conclusive evidence of talent and skill, in the final sentences of the Countess of Nithsdale—evidence, however, which will not be generally appreciated, or even very extensively understood. We will transcribe the passages alluded to.
"'And dearer to my ears'—said Lady Nithsdale 'the simple ballad of a Scottish maiden, than even these sounds as they are wafted to us over the waters!'
"They stopped to listen to the song as it died away; and, as they listened, another and more awful sound struck upon their ears. The bell of one of the small chapels often constructed on the shores of Catholic countries, was tolled for the soul of a departed mariner. As it happened, the tone was not unlike one of which they both retained only too vivid and painful a recollection. The Countess felt her husband's frame quiver beneath the stroke. There was no need of words. With a mutual pressure of the arm they returned upon their steps and sought their home. Unconsciously their pace quickened. They seemed to fly before the stroke of that bell! Such suffering as they had both experienced, leaves traces in the soul which time itself can never wholly efface."