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; 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 THE INDIAN'S BRIDE. I. WHY is that graceful female here Her candid brow, disclose 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?— Intent to blend with his her lot, Their hearts from very difference caught The household goddess here to be An earthling most divine, Behold them roaming hand in hand, To ramble at his side: And momently grows mild; Oh, say not they must soon be old, 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 Nor are their wishes cast, Repining towards the past: Their actions are all free, The only dignity; And how should they have any cares ?— Whose interest contends with theirs? IV. The world, or all they know of it, The heavens above are bright; For them the moon doth wax and wane, For them the branches of those trees Upon delighted wings; For them that brook, the brakes among, Their shapes diversify, And change at once, like smiles and frowns, For them, and by them, all is gay, Their minds assimilate, To outward forms imparting thus 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 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' |