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head, to tell that he died for the republic, yet on the hearts of his countrymen his name is engraved, in living characters. Let his memory be cherished. Let it be transmitted to the latest posterity. crumbled into dust, his story shall survive.
F. W. S. Xud brass shall have
P I PE.
The lady who has kindly presented the author of 'Ship and Shore' with a KNICKERBOCKER Pipe, will accept, as a slight token of his gratitude, the following lines, in eulogy of its beauty and breath.
And aid this once my bold, adventurous strain;
Full and o'erflowing, as through Egypt's plain
Thy purple wreaths, in solemn ringlets curled,
Float on the breeze to join that pall of cloud,
Will lie at last, in its unheaving shroud.
Away, poor trifle ! what with thee is death ?
Only the spark put out, that lit thy bowl,
With man, it is a summons for his soul
BACON'S POEMS. *
Perhaps no young writer in this country has produced a more promising volume of poetry than the one before us.
There is a great deal more than ordinary merit in it; and hence it is deserving of cordial commendation. The reception which some of our critics have given this book, is not a little to be wondered at. Although it is, as we have said, a volume of poetry evincing undoubted genius, yet there has been an attempt, as it seems to us, to depreciate it, and that too without intelligence or justice. Some of the critics have seemed to shut their eyes, and with a book in their hands, on almost every page of which there is much of genuine poetry, they have thought fit to denounce the author; accusing him of faults which he does not possess, and denying him excellencies of which his book bears abundant testimony. There are some passages in this volume which would do credit to any American poet. They have a vigor of thought, a delicacy of sentiment, a siniplicity and strength of diction, and withal a moral dignity, worthy of all praise.
The reception of young American writers among us is by no means always what it should be. There is not sufficient attention given them. Their faults are not kindly pointed out, and their excellences commended; and they have too often no other way but to get along as they can, and find at last, that if success does crown their efforts, it is so embittered, that they would almost as soon do without it. In support of this position, we might adduce the reception of Mr. Bacon. He has not been without liberal supporters ; still, one or two critics of reputation bave come down upon him with such ponderous bludgeons, as might well have beaten his brains out. We trust, however, that his brains are safe, and we are glad of it; for, in our opinion, such brains as his should not be scattered, unless he makes a worse use of them than appears in this volume. As a first effort, the work, as might well be expected, has not the uniformity and finish of older writers; still there is such manifest ability in it, as makes us confident the author can do much in future. There is a soundness in his thoughts; the language evinces much taste and talent; while the great moral independence of the volume gives it an additional claim upon our attention.
* Poems by WILLIAM Thompson Bacos. Bostou: WEEKS, JORDAN AND COMPANY.
One of the first requisites for the production of good poetry, is a good understanding; we mean by this, common sense. We give Mr. Bacon credit here. Indeed, the mind that could produce the essay at the end of the volume, would leave prettinesses, affectations, and languishings, to moon-struck lovers. The subject there discussed is one about which many young poets have made themselves ridiculous; but the last sin of that very sensible and elegant essay, is a poetic mania. Mr. Bacon writes with enthusiasm, yet as if he thought the world had at times something else to do, beside read verses; and though our admiration of Wordsworth is not of the same temperature as our author's, yet bis views are propounded in such a manly style, that we will praise his sense, though we like not his system. Some of the critics have seized this to his disadvantage ; yet they have certainly failed. Not one twentieth of the book is at all Wordsworthian, either good or bad ; and the pieces selected as such, and censured, are altogether of another school. The following poem has been censured as tinctured with the Lake Spirit.' man who has a heart, read it :
'LESSON OF LIFE.
The fancies of our early years,
Can thus melt manhood into tears!
No matter what they were, we loved,
And those the last to be removed.
A bird, a bce, a leaf, a flower;
And all of them they have this power;
Their memories -- a potent spell!
And must, yet cannot say, farewell.
As much to see, and feel, and love;
The sky is just as blue above;
Music is of the world a part,
And heart beats fondly unto heart.
Its finer feelings will not glow;
We once did love and cherish so;
At things of Life's young morning-hour,
Have not as soft and sweet a power.
If thus, in ruvning out life's span,
That cold, care-fretted creature, man?
'If earth must change as on we go,
If life, and loveliness, and truth
With the delightful days of youth?
If thus the heart from bliss must sever,
Better we children be for ever!'
The only thing like Wordsworth here, is that it is poetry. It would be well for some of the writer's critics, if they were tinctured' with a little of the same folly.
We give Mr. Bacon great credit, likewise, for the vividness and power of his imagination. We would select the last half of. Thanatos,' a poem of much power and beauty, and the Vision of War,' as undeniable proofs of his claims, in this regard, to general admiration.
We give Mr. Bacon credit, also, for that which is the best test of poetic genius ; power of description. Ilere he must speak for himself. The following is from “A Forest Noon Scene :'
• This is indeed a sacred solitude,
, their bed for centuries,
Of rifted rocks, and, welling 'mid the roots
To satisfy its thirst for happiness.'
"The Indian summer has come again,
"And hither and thither, an ash leaf sear
* And over the hill to his patch of grain,
The reaper goes with his empty wain-
And here where late the dog-wood threw
"The daisy low on the bank is lying,
The following passage from 'A Fragment of an Epistle,' we offer with unaffected pleasure. There is painting by words in it, which will win all suffrages : 'I sat me where the window threw And, as the flashing sun rose bright, The distant landscape into view.
They seemed like crystals in the light. The snow was on each living thing, Where wound the maple colonnade, The birds were mute nor moved a wing, The leafless boughs still cast a shade, And 'neath a garment clear and cold, Curious, for on the crust of snow Each flower slept locked in frozen mould. They vipers seemed toss'd to and fro. Here long drawn vales in silver white Where ran the rill in early spring, Glistening, were offered to the sight. Beneath those maples glittering, Where ran the hedge, or old stone wall, Singing and dancing as the wave The icy sheet had covered all,
Went bickering o'er its sandy pave, And all along the rails and hung
And catching on it, shadows dim Downward, the icicles were strung, Of violets along its brim,