The scattered poetic beauties of single lines and figures, exercises of an original fancy, are numerous and always aid the dramatic element.
Passages like the following are sufficient proofs of a new poet and dramatist somewhere among us.
(A Lover.)
I would not give its balmy pains,
For calmest health: its pangs delicious,
Troubles full of joy, wakenings electrical
At dead of night, its dreams by day,
These are its bounties—
(Gideon, of his Mother.)
With what a smile she used, when shouting to her,
I came back from my first childish strayings
To the woods—to open wide her garden gate,
Young Salem’s first of gardens tending,
And bring me in.
Chief was she in her majestical mild port
Of all women; guide to the lost and sad,
Helper to all poor neighbourhood—
Kindling her welcome fire, earliest
In this lone place, for wayfarers,
Of all creeds, all colours, and all climes.
(A son's watchful guardianship.)
Yes, yes—we know his weapon
Plays about that low-roofed house, free
And familiar as the breaking day.
(Gideon's affection for his mother.)
Ambla. Be calm, my son, nor love me too much!
Gid. Too much! the universe can hold it not!—
When from your hand I go, I die a death
At every step; you seem to hold the roof-tree
With your arm, to hang above the fields and whiten them:
Nor could I through the noon-day harvest toil,
Knew I your lap would not receive
My weary head when night draws on.
******
Gid. Then there’s calamity at hand that colors everything.
(No evil spirits in the New World).
| Believe it not! |
| Believe it not!—Clear, crystal and unstained, |
| The gracious Power upholds this round of Earth |
| New found and beautiful: no foul nor ugly thing, |
| Hath power, I’m sure, in this new land— |
| Goblin nor witch! |
