Imatges de pàgina
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As if it had a way to fuse

The golden sunlight into juice.

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(But stay,
for fear the sun should set afore
You manage to unmix my metaphor,-
I grant it desperately minus,
Tried by Quintilian or Longinus.)
Hopeless my mental pump I try;
The boxes hiss, the tube is dry;
As those petroleum wells that spout
Awhile like M. C.s, then give out,
My spring, once full as Arethusa,
Is a mere bore as dry 's Creusa ;
And yet you ask me why I'm glum,
And why my graver Muse is dumb.
Ah me! I've reasons manifold
Condensed in one, -I'm getting old!

When life, once past its fortieth year,
Wheels up its evening hemisphere,
The mind's own shadow, which the boy
Saw onward point to hope and joy,
Shifts round, irrevocably set

Tow'rd morning's loss and vain regret,

And, argue with it as we will,
The clock is unconverted still.

"But count the gains," I hear you say,
"Which far the seeming loss outweigh;
Friendships built firm 'gainst flood and wind
On rock-foundations of the mind;
Knowledge, instead of scheming hope;
For wild adventure, settled scope;
Talents, from surface-ore profuse,
Tempered and edged to tools for use;
Judgment, for passion's headlong whirls;
Old sorrows crystalled into pearls ;
Losses by patience turned to gains,
Possessions now that once were pains;
Joy's blossom gone, as go it must,
To ripen seeds of faith and trust;
Why heed a snow-flake on the roof

If fire within keep Age aloof,

Though blundering north-winds push and strain With clumsy palms against the pane?"

My dear old Friend, you 're very wise;

We always are with others' eyes,

And see (so clear !) our neighbor's deck on
What reef the idiot 's sure to wreck on;

Folks when they see how life has quizzed 'em

Are fain to make a shift with Wisdom,

And, finding she nor breaks nor bends,

Give her a letter to their friends.

Draw passion's torrent whoso will
Through sluices smooth to turn a mill,
And, taking solid toll of grist,
Forget the rainbow in the mist,
The exulting leap, the aimless haste
Scattered in iridescent waste;

Prefer who likes the sure esteem

To cheated youth's midsummer dream,
When every friend was more than Damon,
Each quicksand safe to build a fame on;
Believe that prudence snug excels
Youth's gross of verdant spectacles,
Through which earth's withered stubble seen
Looks autumn-proof as painted green,
I side with Moses 'gainst the masses,
Take you the drudge, give me the glasses!
And, for your talents shaped with practice,
Convince me first that such the fact is;
Let whoso likes be beat, poor fool,

On life's hard stithy to a tool,

Be whoso will a ploughshare made,

Let me remain a jolly blade!

What's Knowledge, with her stocks and lands,

To gay Conjecture's yellow strands,

Sitting to watch her flock's increase

To ventures for the golden fleece?

Her full-fraught ships, safe under lee,

To youth's light craft, that drinks the sea,

For Flying Islands making sail,

And failing where 't is gain to fail?
Ah me! Experience, (so we 're told,)
Time's crucible, turns lead to gold;
Yet what's experience won but dross,
Cloud-gold transmuted to our loss?
What but base coin the best event
To the untried experiment?

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A sort of finer Mister Pope,)
Apollo but the Muse forbids;
At his approach, cast down thy lids,
And think it joy enough to hear
Far off his arrows singing clear;
He knows enough who silent knows
The quiver chiming as he goes;
He tells too much who e'er betrays
The shining Archer's secret ways.

Dear Friend, you 're right and I am wrong;
My quibbles are not worth a song,

And I sophistically tease

My fancy sad to tricks like these.
I could not cheat you if I would;
You know me and my jesting mood,
Mere surface-foam for pride concealing
The purpose of my deeper feeling.
I have not spilt one drop of joy
Poured in the senses of the boy,
Nor Nature fails my walks to bless
With all her golden inwardness;
And as blind nestlings, unafraid,
Stretch up wide-mouthed to every shade
By which their downy dream is stirred,
Taking it for the mother-bird,

So, when God's shadow, which is light,
Unheralded, by day or night,

My wakening instincts falls across,
Silent as sunbeams over moss,

In my heart's nest half-conscious things
Stir with a helpless sense of wings,
Lift themselves up, and tremble long
With premonitions sweet of song.

Be patient, and perhaps (who knows?)
These may be winged one day like those;
If thrushes, close-embowered to sing,
Pierced through with June's delicious sting;
If swallows, their half-hour to run
Star-breasted in the setting sun.

At first they're but the unfledged proem,

Or songless schedule of a poem ;

When from the shell they 're hardly dry

If some folks thrust them forth, must I?

But let me end with a comparison

Never yet hit upon by e'er a son

Of our American Apollo

(And there's where I shall beat them hollow,

If he is not a courtly St. John,

But, as West said, a Mohawk Injun).

A poem 's like a cruise for whales :
Through untried seas the hunter sails,
His prow dividing waters known
To the blue iceberg's hulk alone;
At last, on far-off edge of day,
He marks the smoky puff of spray;
Then with bent oars the shallop flies
To where the basking quarry lies;
Then the excitement of the strife,
The crimsoned waves, - ah, this is life!

But the dead plunder once secured
And safe beside the vessel moored,
All that had stirred the blood before
Is so much blubber, - nothing more,
(I mean no pun, nor image so
Mere sentimental verse, you know,) -
And all is tedium, smoke, and soil,
In trying out the noisome oil.

Yes, this is life; and so the bard
Through briny deserts, never scarred
Since Noah's keel, a subject seeks,
And lies upon the watch for weeks;
That once harpooned and helpless lying,
What follows is but weary trying.

Now I've a notion, if a poet

Beat up for themes, his verse will show it;
I wait for subjects that hunt me,
By day or night won't let me be,
And hang about me like a curse,
Till they have made me into verse,
From line to line my fingers tease
Beyond my knowledge, as the bees
Build no new cell till those before
With limpid summer-sweet run o'er;
Then, if I neither sing nor shine,
Is it the subject's fault, or mine?

ADELAIDE RISTORI.

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Lady. Is she young or old?

Page. Neither, if I right guess; but she is fair. For Time has laid his hand so gently on her, As he too had been awed.

"Lady. The foolish stripling!

She has bewitched thee. Is she large in stature ?
"Page. So stately and so graceful in her form,
I thought at first her stature was gigantic;
But on a near approach I found in truth
She scarcely does surpass the middle size."

Ristori the woman, however, is as unlike Ristori the artist, as her real character differs from that of Elisabetta or Medea. If we may credit the assertions of biography and tradition, Mrs. Siddons was always, though unintentionally, more or less of a tragedy queen. She "stabbed the potatoes," astounded shopkeepers by the majesty with which she inquired whether material for clothing would wash, and frightened her dressing-maid by the sepulchral intensity of her exclamations. The awe which Ristori frequently excites is confined entirely to the theatre. Away from it she is the most human, and humane, - the most simple, the most unaffected, the most sympathetic of women. So strongly is the line drawn between reality and fiction, that in Ristori's presence it requires a mental effort to recall her histrionic greatness, though you have a sense of her power, and you feel persuaded that whatever such a woman earnestly willed would be accomplished.

The large friendliness in Ristori's nature creates a fellow-feeling, making you wondrous kind toward your own personality, and razing those barriers

with which genius often surrounds itself. To excite love as well as admiration is not always in the power of greatness. There is frequently an intolerance of manner, an assertion of superiority, a species of intellectual scorn for the dead level of humanity, that preclude the possibility of sympathy. Yet there is no surer test of grandeur of character than a readiness to acknowledge and respect the individuality of all God's creatures. This is the crowning grace that brings Ristori so near to the hearts of her friends. Her social ease makes you wonder how she can ever be transformed into the classic statue of Mirra. Rachel was so complete a Pagan princess"Elle pose toujours," said her best friends that she never succeeded in being herself. Both she and Siddons were first artists, and then women. Ristori is first a woman, and then an artist. Which is more satisfactory to the world admits of argument, but for ourselves we believe it better to step from nature to art than from art to nature. In acting, the common should precede the uncommon; one must be a creature of every day, and walk upon the earth, in order to be a complete master of the heart. It is not enough that an actor know how to wear a toga. To live in his own age, and love and laugh with his contemporaries, is as necessary as to suffer, hate, and murder after the fashion of the past.

It is not often that Nature does her

work equally. She gives us beauty without wit, and then again wit without beauty. She fashions a distorted mouth, and demands that a fine eye make amends for all short-comings. She places a beautiful head on a diminutive, unattractive body, as in the case of Junius Brutus Booth. She gave the erratic Edmund Kean a bad voice, and breathed a Greek fire into the fragile form of Rachel. Garrick

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