Poilok, Morris, Rogers, Boies, Campbell, Osgood, Hood, Maclean, Eastman, Elliott, Blanchard, Muir, Spencer, Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, Whittier, Keble, Burbidge, Eliza Cook, Milman, Swain, Mrs. Norton, Hervey, Tuckerman, Mackay, Vedder, Cooke, Willis, Clarke, Smith. The solitude of vast extent, untouched By hand of art, where Nature sowed herself, And reaped her crops; whose garments were the clouds; Whose minstrels, brooks; whose lamps, the moon and stars; Whose organ-choir, the voice of many waters; Whose banquets, morning dews; whose heroes, storms; Whose warriors, mighty winds; whose lovers, flowers; The lovely bard enjoyed, when forth he walked- And sought-sought neither heaven nor earth-sought naught; Of visionary things; fairer than aught That was; and saw the distant tops of thoughts, Which men of common stature never saw, Greater than aught that largest worlds could hold, Or give idea of, to those who read. This bold and beautiful conception of Nature, and her influences upon a heart and intellect attuned to her ministries, is from POLLOK's Course of Time. The author, like Kirke White, became an early victim of his devotion to the Muse; for the same year that he gave his epic to the world, he had himself to bid adieu to it. MORRIS'S Song, Woodman, spare that Tree! has not only taken its place among our household lyrics, but is not unknown abroad. It owes its existence to the following incident :-The author, some years since, was riding out with a friend in the suburbs of New York city, and when near Bloomingdale, they observed a cottager in the act of sharpening his axe under the shadow of a noble ancestral tree. His friend, who was once the proprietor of the estate on which the tree stood, suspecting that the woodman intended to cut it down, remonstrated against the act, and accompanying the protest with a ten-dollar note, succeeded in preserving from destruction this legendary memorial of his earlier and better days. Now for the song: Woodman, spare that tree!-touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, and I'll protect it now. Are spread o'er land and sea,-and wouldst thou cut it down? When but an idle boy, I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy, here, too, my sisters played; My heart-strings round thee cling, close as thy bark, old friend! Old tree! the storm still brave; and, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, thy axe shall harm it not, This lyric is also by the same author :— To me the world's an open book, of sweet and pleasant poetry ; grass, And in the cool, fresh evening breeze, that crisps the wavelets as they pass. |