Here is religion, which is not of the Church of England, nor of the
Church of Boston. Here is the good wise heart, which sees that the
end of culture is strength and cheerfulness. In an age too which
tends with so strong an inclination to the philosophical muse, here
is poetry more purely intellectual than any American verses we have
yet seen, distinguished from all competition by two merits; the
fineness of perception; and the poet's trust in his own genius to
that degree, that there is an absence of all conventional imagery,
and a bold use of that which the moment's mood had made sacred to
him, quite careless that it might be sacred to no other, and might
even be slightly ludicrous to the first reader.
We proceed to give our readers some selections, taken without
much order from this rich pile of manuscript. We first find the poet
in his boat.
BOAT SONG
THE RIVER calmly flows,
Through shining banks, through lonely glen,
Where the owl shrieks, though ne'er the cheer of men
Has stirred its mute repose,
Still if you should walk there, you would go there again.
Pages:
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92