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Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Have you met the honey bee,
'Round the angler's trysting-tree?
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing!
Are the fountains gushing free?
Through the angler's trysting-tree?
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing !
Wile us with a merry glee;
To the angler's trysting-tree.
I feel a newer life in every gale;
The winds that fan the flowers,
Tell of serener hours-
The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls
From his blue throne of air;
Beauty is budding there.
The waving verdure rolls along the plain,
And the wide forest weaves,
A canopy of leaves ;
A gush of trembling notes.
The tresses of the woods,
And the full-brimming floods,
JAMES G. PERCIVAL
" days, has found warm admirers among the great poets of England. Akenside once remarked that he should regulate his opinion of the public taste by the reception of “ The Fleece ;" for if it were not to succeed," he should think it no longer reasonable to expect fame from excellence.” And Mr. Wordsworth appears to have been very much of the same opinion :
“ Bard of · The Fleece,' whose skillful genius made
That work a living landscape, fair and bright,
Though party Fame hath many a chaplet culled
Dyer is one of those writers whose higher efforts have been little heeded, while his lesser works have been much liked. Grongar Hill” and “ The Country Walk” have been always read with pleasure, while the “Ruins of Rome” and “ The Fleece" lie on the shelf unopened. The saucy critic, who on hearing, shortly after the publication of “The
Fleece,” that Dyer was growing old, exclaimed, “ He will be buried in woolen !" has proved at least a true seer.
The world never forgives a man of approved talent, who, having once fixed its attention agreeably, fails in some higher and later aim. The game of authorship is, in this sense, like many other games, where, if the last throw is a blank, you lose all that has been previously won from the pool of fame and fortune. The public has very little patience. But, on the other hand, we can not always adhere implicitly to the opinion of some wiser judge, though he be of the higher court, who
desire to revoke the earlier general decision. The literary man usually makes up his mind regarding a book upon very different grounds from the general reader; the public decides rapidly, from first impressions, from general views; it has neither time nor ability to waste on analysis; the critic delights in looking very closely at his subject, and his enjoyment of perfection of detail is often too great. The public is, no doubt, the best judge of the interest of a work, since it considers little else. The man of letters holds the best guage of talent; he appreciates more justly excellency of workmanship and accuracy of finish. But a really great book is not written for one class only—it should satisfy the best of all classes ; it must have more than one kind of merit -it must possess interest for the careless reader, skill and good workmanship for the critic, power and inspiration to strike the spark from kindred genius. There is quite a large class of poetical works especially, which, while they meet with more or less approbation from the critic, fail to please generally ; they lack interest; the writer has had talent enough to introduce much that is good, or, perhaps, even admirable passages, at intervals ; but he has not been endowed with the genius which grasps, and controls, and shapes, and vivifies every subject which it handles. Among this class may be placed “ The Fleece.” The writer, John Dyer, was a Welshman of respectable parentage, born in 1700, who first studied law, then became a painter, and finally took orders in the Church of England. The extract we have given from “ The Fleece” scarcely does justice to the merits of the poem, but we have selected it from its predictions regarding our own country; not only do Virginia and Massachusetts appear on the scene, but even California figures in these verses, written more than a hundred years ago.
ON A RURAL IMAGE OF PAN.
FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.
Sleep, ye rude winds! Be every murmur dead
Translation of J. H. MERIVALE.
PASTORAL SCENE FROM "THE ARCADIA.”
There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers ; meadows enameled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers; thickets which, being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep feeding with sober security, while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dam's comfort; here a shepherd's boy piping, as though he should never be old; there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal singing, and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voicemusic.
Sir PHILIP SIDNEY. 1554-1586.