I feel a newer life in every gale;
The winds that fan the flowers,
And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,
Tell of serener hours—
Of hours that glide unfelt away,
Beneath the sky of May.
The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls
From his blue throne of air;
And where his whispering voice in music falls,
Beauty is budding there.
The bright ones of the valley break
Their slumbers, and awake.
The waving verdure rolls along the plain,
And the wide forest weaves,
To welcome back its playful mates again,
A canopy of leaves;
And from its darkening shadow floats,
A gush of trembling notes.
Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May;
The tresses of the woods,
With the light dallying of the west-wind play,
And the full-brimming floods,
As gladly to their goal they run,
Hail the returning sun.
JAMES G. PERCIVAL.
VII.
=The Flock.=
Dyer’s poem of “The Fleece,” though little read now-a-days, has found
warm admirers among the great poets of England. Akenside once remarked
that he should regulate his opinion of the public taste by the reception
of “The Fleece;” for if it were not to succeed, “he should think it no
longer reasonable to expect fame from excellence.” And Mr. Wordsworth
appears to have been very much of the same opinion:
“Bard of 'The Fleece,’ whose skillful genius made
That work a living landscape, fair and bright,
* * * * *
Though party Fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,
A grateful few shall love thy modest lay,
Long as the shepherd’s bleating flock shall stray
O’er naked Snowdon’s wide aerial waste—
Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill.”
Dyer is one of those writers whose higher efforts have been little
heeded, while his lesser works have been much liked. “Grongar Hill” and
“The Country Walk” have been always read with pleasure, while the “Ruins
of Rome” and “The Fleece” lie on the shelf unopened. The saucy critic,
who on hearing, shortly after the publication of “The Fleece,” that Dyer
was growing old, exclaimed, “He will be buried in woolen!” has proved at
least a true seer. The world never forgives a man of approved talent,
who, having once fixed its attention agreeably, fails in some higher and
later aim. The game of authorship is, in this sense, like many other
games, where, if the last throw is a blank, you lose all that has been
previously won from the pool of fame and fortune. The public has very
little patience. But, on the other hand, we can not always adhere
implicitly to the opinion of some wiser judge, though he be of the
higher court, who may desire to revoke the earlier general decision. The
literary man usually makes up his mind regarding a book upon very
different grounds from the general reader; the public decides rapidly,
from first impressions, from general views; it has neither time nor
ability to waste on analysis; the critic delights in looking very
closely at his subject, and his enjoyment of perfection of detail is
often too great. The public is, no doubt, the best judge of the interest
of a work, since it considers little else. The man of letters holds the
best gauge of talent; he appreciates more justly excellency of
workmanship and accuracy of finish. But a really great book is not
written for one class only—it should satisfy the best of all classes; it
must have more than one kind of merit—it must possess interest for the
careless reader, skill and good workmanship for the critic, power and
inspiration to strike the spark from kindred genius. There is quite a
large class of poetical works especially, which, while they meet with
more or less approbation from the critic, fail to please generally; they
lack interest; the writer has had talent enough to introduce much that
is good, or, perhaps, even admirable passages, at intervals; but he has
not been endowed
with the genius which grasps, and controls, and shapes, and vivifies
every subject which it handles. Among this class may be placed “The
Fleece.” The writer, John Dyer, was a Welshman of respectable parentage,
born in 1700, who first studied law, then became a painter, and finally
took orders in the Church of England. The extract we have given from
“The Fleece” scarcely does justice to the merits of the poem, but we
have selected it from its predictions regarding our own country; not
only do Virginia and Massachusetts appear on the scene, but even
California figures in these verses, written more than a hundred years
ago.