of a poem called "O'Connor's Child?" What will posterity, thinks he, think of it? At the risk of being reckoned purblind and stone-deaf by posterity, we predict that posterity will love and admire and worship the genius enshrined there—till posterity ceases to have posterity—and
"Earth's cities have no sound or tread,
And ships are drifting with the dead
To shores where all are dumb!"
We must now part with Mr Campbell and his critic. Maga, at least, will survive for ever—and should it so happen that all editions of the works of the Bard of Hope—one after the other—at intervals of a century or so—drop into oblivion—remotest posterity may see here as beautiful stanzas of his as any that even then may have been written—and be grateful to Christopher the Embalmer.
STANZAS TO PAINTING.
"O thou by whose expressive art
Her perfect image Nature sees
In union with the Graces start,
And sweeter by reflection please!
"In whose creative hand the hues
Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine;
I bless thee, Promethéan Muse!
And call thee brightest of the Nine!
"Possessing more than vocal power,
Persuasive more than poet's tongue;
Whose lineage, in a raptured hour,
From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung;
"Does Hope her high possession meet?
Is joy triumphant—sorrow flown?
Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet,
When all we love is all our own.
"But, oh! thou pulse of pleasure dear,
Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part;
Lone absence plants a pang severe,
Or death inflicts a keener dart.
"Then for a beam of joy to light
In Memory's sad and wakeful eye!
Or banish from the noon of night
Her dreams of deeper agony.
"Shall Song its witching cadence roll?
Yea, even the tenderest air repeat,
That breathed when soul was knit to soul,
And heart to heart responsive beat!
"What visions rise! to charm, to melt!
The lost, the loved, the dead are near!
Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt!
And cease that solace too severe!
"But thou, serenely silent art!
By Heaven and Love wast taught to lend
A milder solace to the heart,
The sacred image of a friend.
"All is not lost! if, yet possest,
To me that sweet memorial shine!—
If close and closer to my breast
I hold that idol all divine.
"Or, gazing through luxurious tears,
Melt o'er the loved departed form,
Till death's cold bosom half appears
With life, and speech, and spirit warm.
"She looks! she lives! this tranced hour,
Her bright eye seems a purer gem
Than sparkles on the throne of power,
Or glory's wealthy diadem,
"Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid
A treasure to my soul has given,
Where beauty's canonized shade
Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven.
"No spectre forms of pleasure fled,
Thy softening, sweetening tints restore;
For thou canst give us back the dead,
Even in the loveliest looks they wore.
"Then blest be Nature's guardian Muse,
Whose hand her perish'd grace redeems!
Whose tablet of a thousand hues
The mirror of creation seems.
"From Love began thy high descent;
And lovers, charm'd by gifts of thine,
Shall bless thee mutely eloquent,
And call thee brightest of the Nine!"
Have you Joanna Bailie's Dramatic Works in your library? No! Then get them—and begin with "The Beacon." "The piece," says the gracious lady, "is very short, and can neither be called tragedy nor comedy. It may indeed appear, for a passion so allied to all our cheerful and exhilerating thoughts, to approach too nearly to the former; but Hope, when its object is of great importance, must so often contend with despondency, that it rides like a vessel on the stormy ocean, rising on the billow's ridge but for a moment. Cheerfulness, the character of common Hope, is, in strong Hope, like glimpses of sunshine in a stormy sky." If such poetry be in the preface, what treasures untold may you not trust to find
