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INTRODUCTORY REMARKS TO PINKNEY'S POEMS

WHAT poetry would be in a world where Toil were not the Siamesed twin of Excellence (in other words, where man had not fallen)" is a curious question, coz!" The wild horse runs very well in the prairie, but we give our admiration to the "good continuer" by toilsome training. Whether the fainéant angels, who "sit in the clouds," admire most the objectless careerings of he wild steed, or the arrowy endurance of the winner of the sweepstakeswhether the fragmentary poetry dashed off while the inspiration is on, and checked, ill-finished, when the whim evaporates, be more celestial than the smooth and complete product of painful toil and disciplined concentration—I have had my luxurious doubts. Pinkney's genius, as evidenced on paper, has all the impulsive abandonment which marked his character and course of life. He was a born poet-with all needful imagination, discrimination, perception, and sensibility; and he had besides the flesh-and-bloodfulness necessary to keep poetry on terra firma. Several of his productions have become common airknown and enjoyed by everybody, but without a name. The songs begin ning

"I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness aloue,"

"We break the glass whose sacred wine

To some beloved health we drain,

Lest future pledges, less divine,

Should e'er the hallow'd toy profane;
And thus I broke a heart that pour'd

Its tide of feelings out for thee," etc.

These and two or three others of Pinkney's "entire and perfect chrysolites" should be re-graven with his name, for the world owes his memory a debt for them. The small volume of his poetry from which the Mirror Library edition is copied, was printed in 1825, and has been long lost sight of. It containsnot the stuff for a classic-but a delicious bundle of heart-touching passages, fresh, peculiar, and invaluable more especially to lovers. whose sweetest and best interpreter Pinkney was. Every man or woman who has occasion to embroider a love-letter with the very essence-flowers of passionate verse, should possess a copy of Pinkney's Poems

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THE INDIAN'S BRIDE.

I.

WHY is that graceful female here
With yon red hunter of the deer?
Of gentle mien and shape, she seems
For civil halls designed,
Yet with the stately savage walks
As she were of his kind.
Look on her leafy diadem,
Enriched with many a floral gem:
Those simple ornaments about

Her candid brow, disclose
The loitering Spring's last violet,

And Summer's earliest rose : But not a flower lies breathing there, Sweet as herself, or half so fair. Exchanging lustre with the sun, A part of day she strays— A glancing, living, human smile,

On nature's face she plays. Can none instruct me what are these Companions of the lofty trees?—

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Intent to blend with his her lot,
Fate formed her all that he was not;
And, as by mere unlikeness thoughts
Associate we see,

Their hearts from very difference caught
A perfect sympathy.

The household goddess here to be
Of that one dusky votary,—
She left her pallid countrymen,

An earthling most divine,
And sought in this sequestered wood
A solitary shrine.

Behold them roaming hand in hand,
Like night and sleep, along the land;
Observe their movements :-he for her
Restrains his active stride,
While she assumes a bolder gait

To ramble at his side:
Thus, ever as the steps they frame,
Their souls fast alter to the same.
The one forsakes ferocity,

And momently grows mild;
The other tempers more and more
The artful with the wild.
She humanizes him, and he
Educates her to liberty.

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Oh, say not they must soon be old,
Their limbs prove faint, their breasts feel cold!

Yet envy I that sylvan pair,

More than my words express, The singular beauty of their lot,

And seeming happiness.

They have not been reduced to share
The painful pleasures of despair:
Their sun declines not in the sky

Nor are their wishes cast,
Like shadows of the afternoon,

Repining towards the past:
With naught to dread, or to repent,
The present yields them full content.
In solitude there is no crime;

Their actions are all free,
And passion lends their way of life

The only dignity;

And how should they have any cares ?— Whose interest contends with theirs?

IV.

The world, or all they know of it,
Is theirs for them the stars are lit;
For them the earth beneath is green,

The heavens above are bright;

For them the moon doth wax and wane,
And decorate the night;

For them the branches of those trees
Wave music in the vernal breeze;
For them upon that dancing spray
The free bird sits and sings,
And glitt'ring insects flit about

Upon delighted wings;

For them that brook, the brakes among,
Murmurs its small and drowsy song;
For them the many-coloured clouds

Their shapes diversify,

And change at once, like smiles and frowns,
Th' expression of the sky.

For them, and by them, all is gay,
And fresh and beautiful as they:
The images their minds receive,

Their minds assimilate,

To outward forms imparting thus
The glory of their state.
Could aught be painted otherwise
Than fair, seen through her star-bright eyes?
He too, because she fills his sight,

Each object falsely sees;

The pleasure that he has in her,

Makes all things seem to please.

And this is love;-and it is life
They lead,—that Indian and his wife.

A PICTURE-SONG.

Howay this little tablet feign the features of a face, Which o'er-informs with loveliness its proper share of space; Or human hands on ivory enable us to see

The charms, that all must wonder at, thou work of gods, in thee'

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