The Knickerbocker | Page 8

description of Herr Van Tassel's supper table,
covered with all the luxuries of Dutch housewifery. It is true, there may
be more of beauty and sublimity in the scenery of the Hudson, in the
gathering clouds and muttering thunder, than in the sight of dough-nuts
and crullers, sweet-cakes and short-cakes, peach pies and pumpkin pies,
slices of ham and slices of smoked beef; yet the spirit of poetry exists
no more in the one than in the other. Poetry has its abode in the heart of
man; not in the winds, in the clouds, in the mountains, or in the vales. It
does not derive its power from the outward world, but breathes into it
its own breath of life, investing the earth with a beauty which has no
existence but in the human soul, and filling the air with sweet
harmonies, which are unheard save by the inspired ear of the poet.
We have now, we think, sufficiently answered the question, why so
many who read descriptive poetry with pleasure, look with indifference
upon what is beautiful or sublime in nature. The poet is to them like
one who gives sight to the blind. The landscape which formerly lay
before their eyes unregarded, almost unseen, is now 'beautiful
exceedingly.' Nature has not changed; they themselves have not
changed; yet there is a change. There is a glory unseen before, cast over
the earth. It is, as it were, transfigured before them, and made radiant
with celestial light. This is the poet's work. With a keener perception of
the beautiful and sublime than other men; with a greater facility of
association, and with the power to give to language the hue and
intensity of his own feelings, he clothes lifeless nature with the
attributes of humanity, making it instinct with human sentiment and
passion. Like Burns, he pours forth his lament over the mountain-daisy
cut down in its bloom, in a few simple words that find a response in the
hearts of all men; and henceforth it is embalmed in our memories, and

shall be as immortal as the star that shines in the far depths of the
heavens. Like Wordsworth, he wanders upon the banks of his native
lakes, and mingles his song with the noise of their waters, until the
faintest whisper of the rippling waves seems but the echo of his voice.
Wherever he goes fruits, flowers, and herbage spring up in his footsteps.
A divine Presence goes with him; Nature speaks to him with her
thousand voices, and he hears, and answers, making sweet music in the
joy of his heart. Nothing is so inconsiderable as to be without the pale
of his sympathy; nothing too humble to stir the fountains of love in his
breast. The solitary flower that blossoms by the way-side, the rivulet
far away amid the hills, is but the starting point of that wondrous chain
of thick-coming fancies, that fill his eyes with light, and his ear with
harmony; as if multitudes of angels were hovering around, and he heard
on every side the rustling of their wings.
Such are the gifts of the poet. They are God's gifts, and are indeed
'wonderful in our eyes.'

VICISSITUDES.
Hast thou not been where wild winds, freshly blowing, Brought
odorous gladness on each passing gale; Hast thou not been where the
pure streamlet flowing, In each soft murmur told a gentle tale:
As the bright flashing of its gushing water, Glad as the tones of
merriment and glee That joyous burst from children in their laughter,
Swift dashes onward to the boundless sea?
Hast thou not been where the enamelled mead Its beauty gave to the
enraptured sense, And the crushed lily, from the elastic tread, Yielded
its life in breath of sweets intense?
Hast thou not been in spring-time's early hours, Where the lone bird its
short sweet carol gave To the young bursting leaves and budding
flowers, Beside some wildly-rushing mountain wave?
Not such the lay it sings in summer hours, When love beats high within

its little breast, And its exulting song it joyous pours, Where thick
embowering leaves conceal its nest.
Hast thou not marked, when autumn's gorgeous glory Fled in the
rushing of the hurrying blast, The deep'ning pathos of the moral story
Sighed in each cadence, as it onward passed.
Hast thou not heard the ancient forests, bending To the far sweeping of
the mighty wind, Send forth a solemn sound, as though responding To
voices deep that secret powers unbind?
Hast thou not stood where ocean madly raging, Rolled onward as with
overmastering shock: 'Till hushed the storm, the chaféd surge assuaging,
It gently laved the firm-opposing rock?
Hast thou not gleaned a lesson to thy reason From winter's fostering
power and spring's awakening reign; Summer's brief