Part 8 — GEORGE W. DEWEY.
Reading edition
Of our younger and minor poets no one has more natural grace and tenderness than George W. Dewey. The son of a painter, and himself the Secretary of the Philadelphia Art Union, it may be supposed that he is well instructed in the principles upon which effect depends; but while native genius, as it is called, is of little value without art, no man was ever made a poet by art alone, and it is impossible to read "Blind Louise," "A Memory," or "A Blighted May," without perceiving that Mr. Dewey's commission has both the sign and the countersign, in due form, so that his right to the title of poet is in every respect unquestionable. He has not written much, but whatever he has given to the public is written well, and all his compositions have the signs of a genuineness that never fails to please. There is no collection of his poems, but from the journals to which he contributes we have selected the following specimens:
A MEMORY.
It was a bright October day— Ah, well do I remember! One rose yet bore the bloom of May, Down toward the dark December. One rose that near the lattice grew, With fragrance floating round it: Incarnardined, it blooms anew In dreams of her who found it. Pale, withered rose, bereft and shorn Of all thy primal glory, All leafless now, thy piercing thorn Reveals a sadder story. It was a dreary winter day; Too well do I remember! They bore her frozen form away, And gave her to December! There were no perfumes on the air, No bridal blossoms round her, Save one pale lily in her hair To tell how pure Death found her. The thistle on the summer air Hath shed its iris glory, And thrice the willows weeping there Have told the seasons' story, Since she, who bore the blush of May, Down towards the dark December Pass'd like the thorn-tree's bloom away, A pale, reluctant ember.
BLIND LOUISE.
She knew that she was growing blind— Forsaw the dreary night That soon would fall, without a star, Upon her fading sight: Yet never did she make complaint, But pray'd each day might bring A beauty to her waning eyes— The loveliness of Spring! She dreaded that eclipse which might Perpetually inclose Sad memories of a leafless world— A spectral realm of snows. She'd rather that the verdure left An evergreen to shine Within her heart, as summer leaves Its memory on the pine. She had her wish: for when the sun O'erhung his eastern towers, And shed his benediction on A world of May-time flowers— We found her seated, as of old, In her accustom'd place, A midnight in her sightless eyes, And morn upon her face!
A BLIGHTED MAY.
Call not this the month of roses— There are none to bud and bloom; Morning light, alas! discloses But the winter of the tomb. All that should have deck'd a bridal Rest upon the bier—how idle! Dying in their own perfume. Every bower is now forsaken— There's no bird to charm the air! From the bough of youth is shaken Every hope that blossom'd there; And my soul doth now inrobe her In the leaves of sere October Under branches swaying bare. When the midnight falls beside me, Like the gloom which in me lies, To the stars my feelings guide me, Seeking there thy sainted eyes; Stars whose rays seem ever bringing Down the soothing air, the singing Of thy soul in paradise. Oh, that I might stand and listen To that music ending never, While those tranquil stars should glisten On my life's o'erfrozen river, Standing thus, for ever seeming Lost in what the world calls dreaming, Dreaming, love, of thee, forever!
THE SHADY SIDE.
I sat and gazed upon thee, Rose, Across the pebbled way, And thought the very wealth of mirth Was thine that winter day; For while I saw the truant rays Within thy window glide, Remember'd beams reflected came Upon the shady side. I sat and gazed upon thee, Rose, And thought the transient beams Were leaving on thy braided brow The trace of golden dreams; Those dreams, which like the ferry-barge On youth's beguiling tide, Will leave us when we reach old age, Upon the shady side. Ah! yes, methought while thus I gazed Across the noisy way, The stream of life between us flow'd That cheerful winter day; And that the bark whereon I cross'd The river's rapid tide, Had left me in the quietness Upon the shady side. Then somewhat of a sorrow, Rose, Came crowding on my heart, Revealing how that current sweeps The fondest ones apart; But while you stood to bless me there, In beauty, like a bride, I felt my own contentedness, Though on the shady side. The crowd and noise divide us, Rose, But there will come a day When you, with light and timid feet, Must cross the busy way; And when you sit, as I do now, To happy thoughts allied, May some bright angel shed her light Upon the shady side!
