In the Friends of Man, (a poem originally published in our own Messenger,) the versification throughout is of the first order of excellence. We select an example.
| The youth at midnight sought his bed, But ere he closed his eyes, Two forms drew near with gentle tread, In meek and saintly guise; One struck a lyre of wondrous power, With thrilling music fraught, That chained the flying summer hour, And charmed the listener's thought— For still would its tender cadence be Follow me! follow me! And every morn a smile shall bring, Sweet as the merry lay I sing. |
The lines entitled Filial Grief, at page 199, are worthy of high praise. Their commencement is chaste, simple, and altogether exquisite. The verse italicized contains an unjust metaphor, but we are forced to pardon it for the sonorous beauty of its expression.
| The love that blest our infant dream, That dried our earliest tear, The tender voice, the winning smile, That made our home so dear, The hand that urged our youthful thought O'er low delights to soar, Whose pencil wrote upon our souls, Alas, is ours no more. |
We will conclude our extracts with "Poetry" from page 57. The burden of the song finds a ready echo in our bosoms.
| Morn on her rosy couch awoke, Enchantment led the hour, And Mirth and Music drank the dews That freshened Beauty's flower— Then from her bower of deep delight I heard a young girl sing, "Oh, speak no ill of Poetry, For 'tis a holy thing!" The sun in noon-day heat rose high, And on with heaving breast I saw a weary pilgrim toil, Unpitied and unblest— Yet still in trembling measures flow'd Forth from a broken string, "Oh, speak no ill of Poetry, For 'tis a holy thing!" 'Twas night, and Death the curtains drew, Mid agony severe, While there a willing spirit went Home to a glorious sphere— Yet still it sighed, even when was spread The waiting Angel's wing, "Oh, speak no ill of Poetry, For 'tis a holy thing!" |
We now bid adieu to Mrs. Sigourney—yet we trust only for a time. We shall behold her again. When that period arrives, having thrown aside the petty shackles which have hitherto enchained her, she will assume, at once, that highest station among the poets of our land which her noble talents so well qualify her for attaining.
The remarks which we made in the beginning of our critique on Mrs. Sigourney, will apply, in an equal degree, to Miss Gould. Her reputation has been greatly assisted by the frequency of her appeals to the attention of the public. The poems (one hundred and seventeen in number,) included in the volume now before us have all, we believe, appeared, from time to time, in the periodicals of the day. Yet in no other point of view, can we trace the remotest similarity between the two poetesses. We have already pointed out the prevailing characteristics of Mrs. Sigourney. In Miss Gould we recognize, first, a disposition, like that of Wordsworth, to seek beauty where it is not usually sought—in the homelinesses (if we may be permitted the word,) and in the most familiar realities of existence—secondly abandon of manner—thirdly a phraseology sparkling with antithesis, yet, strange to say, perfectly simple and unaffected.