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THE MAY FLOWER. DOWN in the bleak December bay
The ghostly vessel stands away;
And now the day begins to dip,
For now the day begins to dip,
For now the day begins to dip;
(When now the day began to dip, The night began to lower Over the bay, and over the ship
When now the day began to dip,
A POT POURRI OF POETRY AND PARODY.
YLARIBEL.--Zoe, may I ask why, in kinds. Of the former, many admirable
spite of the promise that you carly specimens may be found in modern fiction. gave of poetical ability, no one has seen of "" Isabel,' he exclaimed, in a voice that late any of the productions of your pen? ran through her heart like ice”—is an in
ZOE with animation.) - Pretty good stance I read recently in a popular work. poetry is like a pretty good egg. Who But the richest preserve of striking pasever relished an egg that was at all doubt sages of " bosh” is to be found, I think, in ful ?
the works of a modern Bard, called the CLARIBEL.— True: poetry is a luxury; “Poet of the West” by his admirers. one must have it of the best, or not at all. IIcar him describing the sensations of a
ZOE.-I have been looking this even bridegroom. ing through this volume. 'Tis one of the
IIe stood before the altar; and a shade old Annuals so popular in England, when Of darkness flashed one moment o'er his brow, poetical glow-wo
worms were treated as great Then melted into beauty on his lip. lights, and shams of every kind were in fashion, for Royal Turveydrop was "first
And by the same author is a poem callgentleman of Europe,” and England is too
ed the “Wreck at Sea ” of which the first loyal not to follow the example of her
verse and the last are printed and pubkings. In those days poetastering was at
lished as follows: its height, and society was alllicted with The sun was low-a flood of light a flux of rhyme.
Slept on the glittering ocean
And night's dark robes were journeying up
With slow and solemn motion.
Gaped wide the deep-down plunged the waeol,
Up roso a fearful yell
Deuth's wings flapped o'er that sinking deck, True poetry ought to be tonic-strength
A shudder -all was still. ening, refreshing, and stimulating. Such Zoe.— To write “twaddle" is so easy, things as this honored "little
and the public grew so tolerant, that I am shroud,” do not even rise to the dignity
astonished donkeys did not learn to bray of bosh:-they are mere twaddle, —the
in rhyme. Select a well-known incident; paper baskets of poetry; trumpery no
historical should be preferred. Carefully things, made out of materials the most
cut off the point, strip it of individuality, flimsy which become in the making flim
lard it with “prithees," "mayhaps" and sier still.
“perchances." Don't flavor it with any CLARIBEL.-Bosh! What is bosh ?
thing. Serve it in lines of six and eight, Zor.—The Turkish word for nothing.
with manners of romance, and moral sauce Bosh is a wind-bag composition, whether
in the concluding line. in poctry or prose.
MargareT.-It is surprising that some MARGARET.—There is great distinction
of our best modern authors have occasionto be drawn between “twaddle" and - bosh.” Of the former any poet's-cornerally degenerated into this kind of compo
sition. Byron's Ilours of Idleness, and in Annual, or Country Newspaper, will
half the IIebrew Melodies, are twaddle, surnish us a prompt example--some af
and Campbell's works contain poems in fecting historical or familiar incident done
the most approved poetastical style. You into fluent rnyme. The latter is less com
know his Adelgitha, It has sound and fury--but not sense. It partakes of galimalias and
The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded,
And sad, palo Adelgitha came, phébus.* It soars into the regions of
When forth a valiant champion bounded the incomprehensibly sublime. It has
And slew the slanderer of her fame, varieties. The Bosh grandiloquent, and Sho wept delivered from the danger; the Bosh transcendental being prominent But when he knelt to claim her glove,
* La galimatias renferme uno obscurité profonde, ot n'a de soi-même nul sens raisonable. Le phébus n'est pas si obscur et a un brillant qui signifie ou semble signifier quelque chose, lo soleil y entre d'ordinaire et c'est ce qui a donné lieu en notre langue nn nom de phiébus, ce n'est pas que quelque fois le phébus ne devienne obsonr jusqu'à n'être pas entendu, mais alors lo galimatias s' on joint, ce ne sont que brillans et ténèbres de tous cotós. Boviom. Entretien d'Ariste et d'Eugène.
“Seek not,” she cried “oh gallant stranger,
For bapless Adelgitha's love.
Whose arm should now have set me free,
For him who's dead or false to me."-
IIe raised his vizor.-At the sight
It was indeed her own true knight. ZOE.—This from the man who wrote “The Rainbow,” the “Last Man," “ IIOhenlinden,” “Lord Ullin's Daughter," "O'Connor's Child !" Oh! the corruptive influences of second-rate adulation. One wonders in what frame of mind he could have been, to sit
down and write any thing in this strain. Perhaps it was penned after the excitement of some great effort, and so served the purpose of the blockheads whose society was a relief to Madame du Barry, " J'aimais à leur voir," said she, “car me reposait l'imagination." It needs no tax upon one's wits to write verses of that kind. Trepan me, and I could compose you portfolis of such stuff without a brain.
Zoe.-Don't you know, my dear Claribel, that the criticisms of an amateur are sharper than those written by the everpointed pencil, or sharpest steel pen of a critic by profession? Just as in speech and private correspondence, we say a thousand things more cutting than any we should choose to print and publish to a friend's disadvantage. In private life we are all of the family of Bludyer. We may not, indeed, cut up a three-volumed book, and take a dinner and pint of sherry out of it at a coffee-room, but we make ourselves agreeable guests at the expense of the victim we discuss, and amass conversational capital out of the weakness of our associates. Bludyer would go dinnerless if authors had no faults, and some of us would be unwelcome company enough but for our little talent in exposing the least foibles of a friend. But to prove to you the worth of my recipe—the facility of "doing” an incident into fluent rhymelet us each take a pen, and see how many of such things we can strike off this evening.
MARGARET.-On what subjects. ZOE.—On any; "The Fall of Wolfe,” “ The Death of Guatamozin”—any of the stock subjects to be found in every book of history, or amongst the "examples” in any grammar.
(A pause of five minutes, during which the scratching of pens is heard.)
ZOE. I have done.
MARGARET.-And so have I. Read yours first, Zoe.
Tho dying IIero lay,
Was ebbing fast away ;
Of sudden triumph ran:
Along the struggling van.-
“ The French !” was the reply;
The bird of Victory.”
“I am content to die."
Ilis spirit soared on high. MARGARET.-Mine is by no means so successful. I attempted a different style ; the imitation of a Poetess guiltless of either “bosh” or twaddle.” She affects the rugged grief style of composition. My sympathies cannot follow her through
"Vale of Misery.” Indeed, I see no necessity for inviting me to the journey. But some women prefer walking abroad in storm and rain, when they had better be at home; forgetting what Archbishop Leighton has so beautifully said, That like the bees " when there is foul weather abroad we should be busy in the hive."
CLARIBEL.—Your temperament, Margaret, disposes you to make yourself comfortable. IIad you been here, you would have put up an umbrella to break the fury of the storm. Something in mitigation of the ills of life, always turns up for such as you.
Zoe.—But the poem.
ONE MOMENT'S CONSOLATION.
Why was my soaring spirit linked to thine ?
The tender tones that used to answer winc. Come blackness- come despair-sweep o'er my brow,
Sad night, thou gazest on a shivered soul, Tears-tears unsluiced my spirit overflow,
The big drops slow adown my sad face roll. Mescemeth that I stand on yon lone shore
Where once we stood together-thou and ICanst thou recall the place? No inore-no more!
Away sad thoughts !--weak waters dim mine eye. Come storm-come darkness—hide ye in mine heart, Make there your nest-nurse there your sable
brood, Undaunted yet my soul shall bear her part, And reap-aye reap-her heritage of good.
CLARIBEL.—I am ashamed of you, Margaret. Have you never read her lines on
Absence”—lines which ring through my memory a daily chime, calling me apart from worldly things to better thoughts, and those brave deeds which are the complement of better thoughts, and ought always to succeed them.
Oh! how and by what means may I contrive broad-sheets, and scattered by colporteurs To bring the hour that calls thee back more near;
throughout the length and breadth of these Hlow may I teach my drooping hope to live
United States, till a copy were in the hands Until that blessed time--and thou art here? I'll tell thee : for thy sake I will lay hold
of every individual tainted or taintable Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee
with the prevailing heresies on the posiIn worthy deeds each moment that is tole,
tion of woman. While thou beloved one art far from me.
If woe by thee So may this dooméd time build up in me
Had issue to the world, thou shalt go forth A thousand graces which shall yet be thine;
An angel of the woe thou didst achieve; So may my love and longing hallowed be,
Found acceptable to the world instead And thy dear thought an intluence divine.
Of others of that name, of whose bright steps MARGARET.-- Nobody can appreciate the
Thy deed made bare the hills. Be satisfied;
Something thou hast 10 bear through womanhoodbeauty of that poem more entirely than I,
Peculiar suffering answering to the sin; nor that of the other little gem, which a
Some pans pail down for each new human life Christian Minerva might inscribe upon her Some weariness in guarding such a life; ægis, and carrying it before her into the Some coldness from the guardeil; some mistrust battle of life, keep herself unspotted from
From those thou hast too well serred; from those the world.
Too loyally some treason: feebleness Better trust all and be deceived,
Within thy heart, and cruelty without, And weep that trust and that deceiving,
And pressures of an wien tyranny Than doubt one heart which if believed
With its dynastic reasons of larger bones Ilad blessed one's life with true believing.
And stronger sin.ws. But go to! thy lore
Shall chaunt itselt its own beatitudes Zoe.—It is a question of taste, and not After its own life-working. A child's kiss of appreciation. Margaret does not like Set on thy sighing lips shall make thee glad; to see grief bowing at the foot-lights, and
A poor man, served by thee, shall make thee rich; will not throw her a bouquet. But see
An old man, helped by thee, shall make the strong;
Thou shalt be served triell by every sense what I have done while you were talking.
Of service which thou renderest.
Zoe.-The tears are in our eyes, MarDeep hidden in the clouds of circumstance,
garet. I too propose to benefit my sex by My captive spirit pined its strength away,
å speech I shall have the questionable Waiting the coming of the glory ray,
honor to deliver some day at Syracuse, Wrapt in a fixed Immutability,
"FellowAn awful deathliko trance
the capital of the Amazons. Till the faint spirit tones came rushing by
women,” I shall say, "did it ever chance And actuated by its own Intensity
to you to find yourselves singly or in pairs My spirit soared on bigh!
in the midst of a wide solitary field, surFar out into the Dread
rounded by moderately excited cattle ? Their mighty pinions spread,
and did you render a philosophical account Crowned with the lightnings--and the unceasing roll
to yourselves of the relief you experienced of the immeasurable in our track!
on seeing a small boy advancing towards Till whirling echoing back,
Tell me, fellow-women, has not Pealed the great spirit-minor o'er my head, nature implanted in us a conscious sense Striking the knell of earthly hopes and fears, of difference on some points—may I not While the pale glister of an Angel's tears
say inferiority ?” Slone o'er the conquered soul!
MARGARET.—Zoe, do you imagine that There! I maintain that that produc a woman, who has stood unmoved for tion is not one whit inore incomprehensi hours on a platform before a raging asble than the song of the Morning Star to sembly of the other sex, is to be daunted, Lucifer in the "Drama of Exile."
as you or I would be, by a drove of cattle MARGARET (hesitatingly).--I do not de CLARIBEL.
You are more severe on fend the "Song of the Morning Star," nor them than Zoe is. She gave them credit many other things in the “Drama of Ex for retaining some of the most natural ilo,” but I think that there are admira feelings of womanhood. But I have heard ble beauties in that poem, which should that some of those who wish to create have kept it sacred from your satiric perfect equality between the sexes are pen. The moment that the author's muse very exigeantes in society, where they comes down from the shadowy into the are great sticklers for the present code of human, leaving the 6 Desertness and Ladies' Rights, en attendant the redress
spectral Dread,” the poem becomes full of of the Wrongs of Women. a beauty and pathos unequalled as I think MARGARET.-It seems to me that if you by any other poem by a woman's pen. make the solution of the question to conThere is a passage in Adam's blessing to sist, as some do, in “ignoring the habitual the Woman, which ought to be printed on discrimination of men and women as form
ing separate classes, and, regarding all once the wide-spread feeling of a want, alike as simply persons-human beings,” and the insufficiency of the new faith for its that the argument becomes in danger from satisfaction. Transcendental poetry was both horns of a dilemma. Once place the never of much account. It was mero sexes on all points on an equality as prose snipped into verse and metre, tagged “simply persons—as human beings,” and with indifferent rhyme. the
CLARIBEL. I have been reading MarDynastic reasons of larger bones
garet Fuller's Life, of late, and have been
disappointed very much. Its defect is in destroy the equality at once, by creating its plan. It is like a “ Long Thursday” the relation of protector and protected. London opera night, distracting one with
Zoe (catching a moth, which has acts from half a dozen operas. Margaret been fluttering about the light, and shak
was eminently a progressive person. The ing him from her handkerchief into the interest of the first thirty-five years of her open air).-If I never speak at Syracuse on Woman's Rights, at least I will aspire velopment of her character.
lifo consists almost entirely in the de
Either of to the presidency of a society for the pro the three distinguished gentlemen, Clarke, per regulation of insect suicide.
Gray Emerson, and Channing, who wrote the millers shall not grill themselves at an book, might have written her biography ; expense of human feelings in our lights, and
but from the system pursued of a plurality flies shall be restricted to the use of water, and not cream or milk, for purposes of felo
of authors, it is entirely impossible to fol
low out her development. As soon as we de se. By the way, “to the great mind
fancy we have gained a certain insight every thing becomes an incident.” Is not
into her character, the clew is broken off that in Emerson?
and another fastened on. MARGARET.-I never found it in his
MARGARET. — She died with Vanitas works,
Vanitatum inscribed on all her labor, with CLARIBEL.—Margarct, you once owned
no wish granted her on earth except that a very capital imitation of transcendental
touching prayer for death with her husband versery.
and her child. And in the hour of shipMARGARET.—Yes; in the days of the wreck her pride of intellect—her habit of Dial. “Ecstasy the law of Nature.” It
command, may have been fatal to herself contained all the catch words of the sect, and those she loved. She had not learned and was written by a witty friend.
her woman's lesson of implicit obedience Single, multiform creation ! in time of danger, especially at sca.
An Soul-dissolving ecstasy!
ignorant emigrant mother might, with a How shall our souls come full circle,
kiss of agony--a prayer of trust, have If we dwell not orbed in thee?
given up her baby into the hands of the Strife of kings and crime of nations,
good steward who pledged his life to save Weakness, wickedness of heart,
the boy, and have re-embraced her little All are adjuncts to this power,
one on the sand-hills of Fire Island; but All in ecstasy have part.
nothing would induce Margaret to part All-pervading, ever-flowing,
from her husband and her child.
CLARIBEL.—It is a touching fact, that
the only papers of any value which escaped
the wreck, were the love letters that had CLARIBEL.—That is not more incom
passed between her and Ossoli. prehensible than the usual run of trans
MARGARET.—Yes; and these records cendental poetry. I remember a few lines
of a late but tender married love, and the of "The Sphynx," a poem much admired
marble form of her dead infant, seem like by the understanding few when it came
a mute plea for sisterhood and gentle out in the Dial.
judgment made by this woman, so beloved The journeying atoms
yet so calumniated, whose own mind, like Primordial wholes,
a troubled sea, cast up mire, and dirt, and Firmly draw, firmly drive
gold, and gems. "Walking through dry By their animate poles.
places, seeking rest, and finding none, MARGARET.—Transcendentalism is as a might be the motto for her biography. lamp gone out. It was a protest against The book, such as it is, is the saddest Unitarianism, which in the preceding gen thing I ever read, not only from the cireration had been a protest against Puri cumstances of her life, which were of tanism. It cast a wide glare over New themselves sufficiently trying, but from England, but the smoky flame died out as her entire and constant disappointment in speedily as it had kindled, attesting at her own theories. She constantly ex