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wish of his heart, after the conquest of Mecca, to turn his victorious banner against Syria. On his march against Damascus, he advanced as far as Tabouk in Arabia Petræa, where he died. The Arabs concentrated in the most curious manner all early traditions about the creation of the earth and the first men at Damascus and its environs. It was the Eden of the father and mother of mankind. In a grotto on Mount Kashioun the first brothers were born; there Abel was slain and was buried on Mount Neby-Abel, while they place the sepulchre of Noah near Zahleh, in the valley of the Buka'a,

Damascus is one of the oldest cities of the earth. Though the prophet predicts. its destruction as a city, and makes it become a ruinous heap, it has been flourishing for nearly four thousand years. Its history is in a remarkable degree passive. It passed without resistance or battle, into the hands of all the great conquerors of the East, from David, King of Israel, down to Ibrahim-Pasha, with the only exception of its heroical defence against the Crusaders, as we mentioned above. The 24th of May we left Damascus for Ba'albek. A. L. K.

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ARNELL'S POEMS.*

TOTAL Oblivion is a fine old gentleman, who, in consideration of some slight presents I have made him, seems to have taken quite a liking to me. In my book of autographs, over his name, he has promised to take me to his home, when this earthly tabernacle decays. The facilities in his domains for literary labor are unequalled. There, Lethe flows between shaded banks, and in their most quiet retreat stands his mansion. His library is like the famed Alexandrian, for the number of its volumes, and its wealth in the ancient classics: yet it must be confessed, that in modern literature he is not always dainty; sometimes to fill a shelf, taking up a whole edition the morning it drops from the press, and again not taking a copy till the puffs and advertisements of some months have awakened him to its value. Acting in the capacity of his general agent, when a late number of the American Review announced that fourteen new poets had ridden by on their well-curried Pegasi, I lost no time in sending to the great metropolis for a copy of their revelations. Some of them, having been thoroughly puffed, Oblivion was expecting; and of course received them by the earliest express. Some were remembered as applicants heretofore, but one seemed so fresh and unheard of, that I could not refrain from peeping more narrowly into its contents: nor do I fear to prejudice my interest with Oblivion by the detention, for, though he is a great reader of the papers, and the "Fruit of Western Life" has been some months published, I doubt if its author be a dime the poorer for all the "critical notices," "candid reviews," or even advertisements he has purchased yet; and in passing it is meet to remark this very extraordinary mode of procedure that Mr. Arnell has adopted. A small boy, at midnight, in a country church-yard-a be

calmed ship at sea-a country maid in a haunted mill-are faint illustrations of the loneliness of a new poem in New York unadvertised, unpuffed, and, of course, unsung. Under such circumstances, and in the glow of my pride in finding the unadvertised volume, I read it through,-from "Blanche," of which I have not a high opinion, to the concluding sonnet to the author's brother, of which I have. I have found some things which might as well have been puffed and left to perish, and some real gems, as rich and worthy as those that Sindbad the sailor brought up from the Valley of Diamonds; and of his good fortune I am reminded by the afore-mentioned fact that the book I have discovered was never advertised! Think of it! Why, Bunyan, not advertised, would feel as doleful as when he stood in the steeple-house, and thought the bell would fall! Ole Bull, without an advertisement, would pass for a wicked stranger fiddling in churches; and I am not sure, but, without a newspaper notice of his arrival, President Polk might carry his own umbrella through the length of Broadway, or put on his gloves, without the aid of a select committee! To find an unadvertised book in New York, is as great a feat as to find credit without cash, or an office without money; indeed in this last matter wet must confess we took courage, and in dreams saw official station rise up, beckoning before us; seeing we had discovered at Mr. Riker's the unadvertised work of David R. Arnell, Esq., who hails in his preface from Columbia, Tennessee, and who, we think, must be a traveller, and consequently a man of the world, from the fact that he gives us a poem, called "The Montauk's Vow." But if his feet have not, his Pegasus at least has stirred the sands of "old Long Island's sea-girt shore," at whose eastern end the sun first

Fruit of Western Life; or, Blanche and other Poems. By David Reeve Arnell. New York: J. C. Riker. 1847.

† Oblivion's general agent grows egotistical; and if the grammarian will pardon him, he will endeavor to forestall censure, by assuming the plural of dignity.

phrase, as when beauty "lies softly dreaming of Young Romance," and "through air, like gleams of Young Romance;" to accusing Cæsar of "wriggling in the dust," too undignified a condition altogether for one "whose brow was girt with laurels more than hairs;" and to the very frequent introduction of an angel's wing: though to all these it may very properly be replied, that these poems are a collection of the writer's fugitive pieces, which have been widely scattered through the South and West, written at very various seasons, and not fairly treated, when criticised like a single and connected piece. Grant it all, yet not we, nor the rhetorical text-books of our college-days, are pleased with an occasional mingling of figures we light upon in these poems. Two things cannot occu

touches, after nightly swimming the ferry that divides us from the home of Victoria. When our hickory fire crackles and sputters, half through with its winterevening illumination, and the lights are newly trimmed, and our spouse appearing, deposits by our side a dish of apples, we are wont, selecting one, to turn it carefully over to pick out the specks, to pare off the rind, and eviscerate the core; then are we ready to devour, with high appreciation, our Newtown pippin. Thus, gentle poet, we shall do with you. Not rashly, without a word of criticism, shall we commend you all, though your genius has compelled our admiration; but, first, we will remove certain spots that soil your page, and point out passages that displease us. We are not pleased with the profusion of compound words, selected and ori-py the same space at the same time; and ginal, in which as in a hash, the poet serves up some of his most savory morsels. Such can never occur in any writings but of the Carlyle, the Emerson, or Univercœlic School, without tempting out the closest scrutiny as to their necessity, beauty, and propriety. We do not deny the elegance of some of them, but mark the list," God-word," earth-stain," ""earthgarment,' sweet-souled" (God,) "senseregarded," once-mocked," "empiredream," "flower-scents," mist-robe," Heaven-seed," and "tongue-flamed," in a sonnet on Poetry. The winds" Murmur and creep where the rose-scents sleep ;" The living preacher "uttering Heavenwords to his kind;" "Where the faithstep oft has trod;" "Enduring patience- and showing where work will soon be o'er;" and others in profusion."

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Whatever definition we attach to Poetry, it is only good when the poet's fancies come clothed in good language, English, so long as we are not a province of France, and modern, so long as we live in the nineteenth century. And we confess a disposition to grumble at the frequent occurrence of such words as frore, dulse, rime, loveful, voiceful, unrest, joyance, and amort. The poet's license has cost us already six dollars cash for Merriam's new edition of Noah Webster. now while in the mood, we object to throwing the accent on the second syllable of Bedouins; to an occasional repetition of a favorite word, as empyreal,-or

And

one metaphor ought always to be allowed
to retire before another steps into its place.
Similes may jostle each other, but not to
their own dismemberment. What fashion
of soul is it, half scion, half harp, that
would live through such treatment
this?

as

"Who, who, with a soul in his bosom engrafted, Hath ne'er felt its chords touched by spirits from bliss ?"

We hold our poet pardonable when in Fayrie-Land, in making from

"Rose-scents far and near,
Most ravishing numbers fall,"

"The hyacinth wet with the kiss of showers, Sits tremblingly there, 'mid its sister-flowers, And its exquisite music weaves."

"Flowers tinkle alone
"Flowers tinkle alone" in Fayrie-Land,
and we know not where that fact is more
pleasantly stated than here. But hard,
clodded earth is beneath us, when

"The wings of sleep Float through the liquid stillness round.”

If Mr. Arnell has found the base world false, and a fool, as on page 164 he tells a lady, we regret it, and would beg him to get out of Tennessee speedily, for who shall say that a change of scene will not

greatly promote the finding of another
verdict? We tell thee, friend, indigestion
lies at the bottom of your trouble.
Myrrhæ Pulv. et

Soda Bicarb. grs. iij. aa,

taken after each meal, would be a good adjuvant; but stir about, sir, take active exercise, and we fancy the world will treat you better, and your poems will be purged of the bile that overflows in "Lines to S that gushes out from "Despondency," and is evident in the youngest of "Three living Links," and is too apparent in "The Dying Poet to his Wife."

And a little too often, and too familiarly, the poet takes the name of the Supreme Being on his pen; as,

"Like the hush of the Blessed God;"

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Seeking the anchorage of God's calm heart;"
And gladness stirs the calm, wide heart of
God;"

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has not been named, a feeling that has no representative in the congress of wordsbinds all thoughts and feelings in its train, lifts the hair from the flesh, making us feel as when a train of railroad cars steam by, within a few feet. And of such passages these poems are full.

But we never could forgive a friend, who being charged to deliver us a luscious melon, chose to retain the melon, and regale us with a description of its juicy glories. The first slice we present, reaches from core to rind; for the last stanza being beyond our comprehension, we can esteem it no better than a rind to the rest. It is a "Hymn to the Wind," and while it is far from being the best poem in the book, it is the best specimen of our author's excellencies and defects done up in little.

HYMN TO THE WIND.

The power of silence weighs
Upon this populous solitude, and the leaves
"Neath the meridian blaze,

Lay their hushed hearts together, and the breeze
Summons no echoes forth,

From Nature's organ, o'er the fainting earth.

Minstrel of air! oh, sweep

The innumerable keys of its majestic pile,
Till music wild and deep

Swell grandly through each dim, mysterious
aisle,

And its full volume make

The hoar old sanctuary of the world awake!

I see the young leaves stir,

All this we protest against. We believe Where thy light fingers through their compass

it out of taste to make use of our Maker's

name to point a sentence, or by way of a rhetorical flourish.

We do not murmur that our poet magnifies his office, but sober argument is needed to convince us that the poet's mission is the highest on earth. But not another word on this, or the whole world of poets arising, will hurry us to Oblivion before our time.

But the heavy half of our task is done: we have picked out every spot that interfered with digestion, and are ready to enjoy the "Fruit of Western Life." Smooth versification, vigorous thinking, and a thousand pleasant fancies, mark the book. To us, it makes little difference, whether it be borne on swift-footed anapests, or dolorous spondees, the poem pleases, when, violating no rule of grammar or rhetoric, it thrills us-imparts a sense that

run,

And like a worshipper,

Each flower bends gently to the strain begun,
And joyous birds sing out,

And the glad waters clap their hands and shout!

Ten thousand, thousand keys

Start cunningly to thy quick, impulsive will,
And the deep bass of seas
Moans through the small, soft cadences that

still

Weave the light summer cloud,
And woo the sweet bud from its velvet shroud.

Hark! in the moonlight now,
Fuller and deeper waxes the refrain,
Till every mighty bough

Of the great forest, reels beneath the strain,
And frightened, overhead,

Day, turned to blackness, shudders in its dread.

Ah! thou hast struck, at last,
Thy diapason, and the thunder's tone,
That leaps before the blast,

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"We are all ghosts."-SARTOR Resartus. When the spirit's eyelids open, Outward vestments fall away, And it sees its spirit-brothers

Stalk out from their house of clay.

Everything is then a vision

Everything a pallid ghost;
Spectral shapes are onward leading
Nothing but a spectre host.

Sprites are piping faint hosannas,
Ghosts are beating phantom drums,
And, a formless banner waving,
Lo, an apparition comes!

Flitting most fantastically,

Wreathing in a vacuous round, Go the outlines dim and curious Of a substance never found.

Fruits that looked all glorious, golden, Shadows have to ashes press'd; Phantom shapes of men are dangling (!!) On a passion phantom breast.

Spectres gibber in the dimness,

Scraping dust that looks like gold; Images of women follow,

With their features wan and cold.

For not on a human shoulder,

Scull-cramped, stay this spirit-throng, But through pores of earth and ocean Move, a thousand millions strong.

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