Mariana.O my beautiful!
My seraph love—my panther of the wild—
My moon-eyed leopard—my voluptuous lord!
O, I am sunk within a sea of bliss,
And find no soundings!
Firmilian.Shall I answer back?
As the great earth lies silent all the night,
And looks with hungry longings on the stars,
Whilst its huge heart beats on its granite ribs
With measured pulsings of delirious joy—
So look I, Mariana, on thine eyes!
Surely it is quite credible that some of the "least-ways" discriminating admirers of the Spasmodic School may, on the strength of these and similar excerpts, come to one of two conclusions—either that this new poet, Percy Jones to wit, is quite equal to Alexander Smith, or that he has unblushingly "cribbed" from the "Life-Drama" its best lines by the dozen.
If there is any vital principle (as surely there is?) in poets who can write as the authors of "Balder" and the "Life-Drama" can, the satirical rogueries of "Firmilian" will do them no particular harm, and may do them a deal of good. A poetical constitution that wants stamina to survive a heavier blow and greater discouragement than this, must be too puny to deserve length of days. We have hope that the patients mainly concerned, however "Firmilian" may disagree with them at present, will one day allow, each with a cordial experto crede of his own, that, even if it is good for nothing else, at least it is good for spasms.
Is so sultry and close an April night,
So feverish and boiling a maiden's blood?
She shields her eyes from the taper's light,
And lists to her heart—and its ebb and flood—
Will day never dawn again on her bower?
She watches—waits 'till her clock strike the hour—
In vain—for moveless the pendulum stood.
But the watchman now drones one—two—and three,
And ever on—five—six—and seven—
Ten—twelve. That scream!—hark! what might it be?
But a hymn mounts over the cry, to Heaven!
'Tis a song of praise—and all hearts rejoice,
Whilst they greet and they hail, as with one voice,
The return of the holy Easter-even.
