LOOSE LEAVES FROM THE COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF A RHYMER. I. "My son is my son till he gets him a wife, My daughter's my daughter all the days of her life." Thou told'st me, gentle Mother, that as boyhood passed away, And could'st thou, gentle Mother, ever picture such a dream? Can I forget the love that made my boyhood's vision wear The thoughts so hid from other ears I freely pour'd to thine? bend My soul again to lowlier themes, my mother and my friend! I fear I cannot feel again, that pure and childlike glee Unbroken and undying shall that talisman remain, And, like a treasured jewel, in my heart of hearts shall reign; W. A. C. THOUGHTS OF THE DEAD. Lines suggested by seeing some Verses, entitled, " Thoughts of the Dead in Spring." 66 Thoughts of the Dead!" When, or where, come they not? In Summer's bloom, Or Winter's chill, alike? Earth's every spot Conceals a tomb. The voice of winds, of streams, of woods, of song, Of childhood's mirth, All breathe an under-tone of voices long Silent on earth. The flowers that blossom as Spring dances o'er them, Of those, with whom we gaily pluck'd and wore them, The very clouds that paint the Summer's sky, Their faces wear; And midnight blasts seem as they hurry by, Their names to bear. Go to the lands renowned in classic story; Hill, stream, and dale,— Speak they not of the Dead, and of their glory, Climb where the white Alps rear, mid tempests' gloom, Their bleak ascents; Say, stand they not, o'er many a martyr's tomb, Proud monuments? The city, with its throng of changing faces, Speaks of the Dead, Whose countless footsteps passed, but left no traces, Where these now tread. Beneath those yew-trees' venerable gloom, In dust concealed, Whole generations calmly sleep, for whom This is the Poet's Oak ;-that flower-strewn mound, The Pastor's grave; Where stands that ruined arch, with ivy crowned, An abbey's nave Once echoed to the requiem's solemn tones, Of yonder castle's haughty lords, whose bones Leave me these sad and sombre scenes, and tread Free Ocean's shore: Still, still, I hear the voices of the Dead, Amidst its roar. Men of all lands, all ages, in one grave Together sleep; Their knell the ceaseless murmur of thy wave, Thou mighty deep! "Thoughts of the Dead!" They meet us everywhere! Though the hearth blaze Bright as of yore, does not some vacant chair, Some household phrase, Recall the voice, the step, for which in vain Th' accustomed ear, Starting at every sound, listens again, And deems them near? But see, beyond Death's stream, a sun-lit shore, Its vales o'erspread With deathless flowers, where there will be no more Thoughts of the Dead! Spring Hill College. VOL. I.-NO. 3. 2 c 妒。 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. The star of day declineth And my weary spirit pineth Naught else now giveth My misery relieveth, Save love's sweet balm. Ne'er may our future sever, My ark of refuge ever, And I the dove! DICKENS'S WORKS. ART. VII.-American Notes for General Circulation: by Charles Dickens. 2 vols. London. Chapman & Hall. THE "Notes on America" will doubtless be published before this article appears in our Magazine. At such a period it will not, we hope, be considered inappropriate or uninteresting to offer a few remarks on the position which Mr. Dickens has already acquired in popular and in critical opinion; to say something on the peculiarities and probable capabilities of his genius; to reflect a little on the man, as well as the author, as seen in his works; and, possibly, to take a short glance at the "Notes" themselves, which will then be in everybody's hands. We are not, however, about to make the attempt of an elaborate essay on the genius of Mr. Dickens; his is a mind probably not yet itself fully conscious of the extent of its powers; his works, although fugitive in their form, have already assumed a high position in the standard literature of our country; nevertheless yet we can but consider them as trials of strength; indicating perhaps pretty correctly the talents of their author, but as works of art, or as revelations of mind, irregular and incomplete; and but forerunners to those productions of a matured and practised intellect, which we anticipate as necessary to the complete development of his genius. All that we shall here endeavour to do is, very shortly, to present our readers with any general impressions, which may occur as having been made upon us by his genius, as well as with some of those thoughts which naturally, and without any deliberate intention of a criticism, have been called forth from time to time by the perusal of his works. Meanwhile our author progresses in the simplicity and cheerful self-confidence of a well-deserving favourite, not a whit spoiled by the adulation of the world, whose only effect hitherto has been continually to brace him to fresh exertions, in a constantly rising scale of utility. His moral usefulness and independence have sped upwards step by step with his popularity. Need we adduce arguments in support of this position? We think few will be prepared to deny it. To those (if such there be) to whom it has never occurred to regard our author in any other light than that of a contributor to their weekly amusement, we would say-consider the order in which his works have made their appearance, and their relative moral bearing. Never, from the first, has he flattered any popular prejudice, or pandered to any vitiated taste; but there is a decidedly higher tone in his later than in his earlier productions. In the Sketches, and the earlier part of the Pickwick Papers, though many a quiet hint on every-day duties finds its way abroad, and many a sly blow is dealt at narrow-minded prejudices and foolish habits; yet we find no such grave lessons as those afforded constantly by the pages of Nicholas Nickleby and Oliver Twist, and by the latter portion of the Pickwick Papers. Here they come in the shape of direct attacks on definite and tangible abuses, as in the account of Dotheboys-Hall, and the history of Oliver's early life as a parish-boy; and in vividly truthful pictures of the terrible and degrading consequences of avaricious or sensual selfishness, or weakminded want of principle, as instanced in the characters of Ralph Nickleby, Sir Mulberry Hawk, and Lord Verisopht,-or of the brutalizing effects of the vicious habits attendant on neglected and uneducated poverty, to the pourtrayal of which the greater part of Oliver Twist is devoted. With regard to the work to which we have last referred, there are some people who denounce its entire moral tendency-who accuse its author, of raising into unnecessary prominence the very dregs of society, and of detailing the morals and manners of classes, of whose habits and mode |