For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE AGE OF REPTILES.
| Poets affect, that when the Earth was young All Nature's works were beautiful and bright, That Planets in their spheres harmonious sung Like Seraphs—joining in celestial flight; That flowers bloomed in one eternal spring, Scenting with luscious sweets the ambient air, That life was luxury, and pain a thing Not meant for man, but spirits of despair. Lady! it was not so—the world was rude— Behold the proof in Mantell's strange narration:1 Its form, and elements, and fabric crude, And REPTILES were the "Lords of the Creation:" O! ingrate man! bethink thee of thy fate, Had thy Creator called thee then to being And left thee to the chances of a fate Beyond all bearing—hearing—feeling—seeing! Then lumbered o'er the rugged Earth strange forms, Misshapen—huge—gigantic—living wonders— Howling fit chorus to discordant storms, That, like a thousand Ætnas, crashed in thunders. Cleaving the dismal sky, with rushing sound Appalling monsters hurl their cumbrous length, And through the murky sea, in depths profound, Gambolled Leviathans in mighty strength. What thinks Philoclea of the pristine Earth? Believ'st thou Nature smiled at such beginning? If those huge occupants inclined to mirth, Their's was an age of awful ugly grinning! The seaman's figure of a seventy-four Showing her teeth—her guns in triple tiers— Were no hyperbole in days of yore, Howe'er extravagant it now appears. |
1 See the Edinburg Philosophical Journal and the 21st No. of Silliman's Journal, for some account of the Geological Age of Reptiles, by Gideon Mantell, Esq. F.R.S. &c. &c.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
ANSWER
To Willis's "They may talk of your Love in a Cottage."
| You may talk of your sly flirtation By the light of a chandelier; With music to play in the pauses, And nobody over near: Or boast of your seat on the sofa, With a glass of especial wine, And Mamma too blind to discover The small white hand in thine. Give me the green turf and the river— The soul-shine of love-lit eyes— A breeze and the aspen leaf's quiver, A sunset and GEORGIAN skies! Or give me the moon for an astral, The stars for a chandelier, And a maiden to warble a past'ral, With a musical voice in my ear. Your vision with wine being doubled, You take twice the liberties due, And early next morning are troubled With "Parson or pistols for two!" Unfit for this world or another, You're forced to be married or killed— The lady you choose—or her brother— And a grave—or a paragraph's filled. True Love is at home among flowers, And if he would dine at his ease, A capon's as good in his bowers As in rooms heated ninety degrees: On sighs intermingled he hovers, He foots it as light as he flies, His arrows, the glances of lovers, Are shot to the heart from the eyes! |