dingly. It is from one of the new poems, addressed to Driving Cloud, “chief of the mighty Omahaws.”
| Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket I see thee stalk through the city’s |
| Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers |
| Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their foot-prints. |
| What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the foot-prints? |
Here is another very graceful and natural simile:
| A feeling of sadness and longing, |
| That is not akin to pain, |
| And resembles sorrow only |
| As the mist resembles rain. |
Another—
| I will forget her! All dear recollections, |
| Pressed in my heart like flowers within a book, |
| Shall be torn out and scattered to the winds. |
The drama from which this is taken is an elegant exercise of the pen, after the fashion of the best models. Plans, figures, all are academical. It is a faint reflex of the actions and passions of men, tame in the conduct and lifeless in the characters, but not heavy, and containing good meditative passages.
And now farewell to the handsome book, with its Preciosos and Preciosas, its Vikings and knights, and cavaliers, its flowers of all climes, and wild flowers of none. We have not wished to depreciate these writings below their current value more than truth absolutely demands. We have not forgotten that, if a man cannot himself sit at the feet of the muse, it is much if he prizes those who may; it makes him a teacher to the people. Neither have we forgotten that Mr. Longfellow has a genuine respect for his pen, never writes carelessly, nor when he does not wish to, nor for money alone. Nor are we intolerant to those who prize hot-house bouquets beyond all the free beauty of nature; that helps the gardener and has its uses. But still let us not forget—Excelsior!!
