What humanity is robbed of, What we lose because we honor And dispirit living merit, Or perchance, when kinder grown, LITTLE AT FIRSI—BUI GREAT AT LAST A TRAVELLER through a dusty road, Strewed acorns on the lea, And one took root and sprouted up, And grew into a tree. Love sought its shade at evening time, To breathe its early vows, And Age was pleased, in heats of noon, The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, It stood a glory in its place, A little spring had lost its way A passing stranger scoop'd a well, He thought not of the deed he did, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, And saved a life beside! A dreamer dropp'd a random thought; "Twas old, and yet was new A simple fancy of the brain, It shone upon a genial mind, A lamp of life, a beacon ray, The thought was small-its issue great: A watch-fire on the hill, It sheds its radiance far adown, A nameless man, amid a crowd Let fall a word of Hope and Love, A whisper on the tumult thrown- It raised a brother from the dust, O germ! O fount! O word of love! But mighty at the last! ALEXANDER SMITH. As this volume was going through the press, a new and brilliant star in the poetical firmament has appeared, one, too, which fairly dazzles with its brightness. Smith (dubious name) is, we understand, a clerk in a mercantile house in Glasgow, but it is not likely that a person of such marked genius will long continue a business man. The volume now published consists of one long poem, full of passages of rare beauty, entitled the "Drama of Life," and a few short poems and sonnets. The press, both of Britain and America, have been enthusiastic in its praise. The London "Leader," in a recent number, says: "Our readers know the chariness with which we use the terms genius and poet, terms so prodigally scattered through the periodicals of the day that they almost lose their significance-like an old piece of money fingered through miscellaneous commerce till the effigies be scarcely traceable—when, therefore, we say that Alexander Smith is a poet and a man of unmistakable genius, we are giving praise beyond the power of epithets. That he has many faults and shortcomings we admit; but these are so obvious, they lie so on the surface of his writing, that we do not care to dwell on them; and we shall better consult the reader's pleasure by reserving our space for extracts that will display the luxuriant imagery and exquisite felicity of expression which herald in him the great poet he will be when age and ripe experience lend their graver accents to his verse. "At present the subjects he delights to paint are the stars, the sea, the rivulets, and boyish love. Full as his poems are of love, however, the love is only that of young desire quickened by an aesthetic sense of beauty; companionship of spirits he does not yet conceive. This it is which the young poet sings of, because this, and this only has he felt. He is but one-and-twenty! "One cannot say much for the substance of his poems; but their form is exquisitely poetical. He has nothing to sing of but Nature and his own emotions. He makes his Muse a harpsichord whereon he plays fragments of melody, practising his hand till some great symphony of song be born within him'" |