Sea and Shore | Page 5

the bloom on the grape! Nothing wanting that constitutes the indefinable divine thing called genius! You understand my idea, of course; explanations are superfluous."
I assented mutely, scarce knowing why I did so.
"Now, hear another." And the woods rang with his clear, sonorous accents as he declaimed, a little too scanningly, perhaps--too much like an enthusiastic boy:
"Love lurks upon my lady's lip, His bow is figured there; Within her eyes his arrows sleep; His fetters are--her hair!"
"I call that nothing but a bundle of conceits, Major Favraud, mostly of the days of Charles II., of Rochester himself--" interrupting him as I in turn was interrupted.
"But hear further," and he proceeded to the end of that marvelous ebullition of foam and fervor, such as celebrated the birth of Aphrodite herself perchance in the old Greek time; and which, despite my perverse intentions, stirred me as if I had quaffed a draught of pink champagne. Is it not, indeed, all _couleur de rose_? Hear this bit of melody, my reader, sitting in supreme judgment, and perhaps contempt, on your throne apart:
"'Upon her cheek the crimson ray By changes comes and goes, As rosy-hued Aurora's play Along the polar snows; Gay as the insect-bird that sips From scented flowers the dew-- Pure as the snowy swan that dips Its wings in waters blue; Sweet thoughts are mirrored on her face, Like clouds on the calm sea, And every motion is a grace, Each word a melody!'"
"Yes, that is true poetry, I acknowledge, Major Favraud," I exclaimed, not at all humbled by conviction, though a little annoyed at the pointed manner in which he gave (looking in my face as he did so) these concluding lines:
"Say from what fair and sunny shore, Fair wanderer, dost thou rove, Lest what I only should adore I heedless think to love?"
"The character of Pinckney's genius," I rejoined, "is, I think, essentially like that of Praed, the last literary phase with me--for I am geological in my poetry, and take it in strata. But I am more generous to your Southern bard than you are to our glorious Longfellow! I don't call that imitation, but coincidence, the oneness of genius! I do not even insinuate plagiarism." My manner, cool and careless, steadied his own.
"You are right: our 'Shortfellow' was incapable of any thing of the sort. Peace be to his ashes! With all his nerve and _vim_, he died of melancholy, I believe. As good an end as any, however, and certainly highly respectable. But you know what Wordsworth says in his 'School-master'--
"'If there is one that may bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The household hearts that were his own, It is the man of mirth.'"
He sighed as he concluded his quotation--sighed, and slackened the pace of his flying steeds. "But give me something of Praed's in return," he said, rallying suddenly; "is there not a pretty little thing called 'How shall I woo her?'" glancing archly and somewhat impertinently at me, I thought--or, perhaps, what would simply have amused me in another man and mood shocked me in him, the recent widower--widowed, too, under such peculiar and awful circumstances! I did not reflect sufficiently perhaps, on his ignorance of many of these last.
How I deplored his levity, which nothing could overcome or restrain; and yet beneath which I even then believed lay depths of anguish! How I wished that influence of mine could prevail to induce him to divide his dual nature, "To throw away the worser part of it, and live the purer with the better half!" But I could only show disapprobation by the gravity of my silence.
"So you will not give me 'How shall I woo her?' Miss Harz?" a little embarrassed, I perceived, by my manner. "I have a fancy for the title, nevertheless, not having heard any more, and should be glad to hear the whole poem. But you are prudish to-day, I fancy."
"No, there is nothing in that poem, certainly, that angels might not hear approvingly; but it would sadden you, Major Favraud."
"I will take the chance of that," laughing. "Come, the poem, if you care to please your driver, and reward his care. See how skillfully I avoided that fallen branch--suppose I were to be spiteful, and upset you against this stump?"
Any thing was preferable to his levity; and, as I had warned him of the possible effect of the poem he solicited, I could not be accused of want of consideration in reciting it. Besides, he deserved the lesson, the stern lesson that it taught.
As this could in no way be understood by such of my readers as are unacquainted with this little gem, I venture to give it here--exquisite, passionate utterance that it is, though little known to fame, at least at this writing:
"'How shall I woo her?