The Yale Literary Magazine (Vol. I, No. 4, June 1836)

I cannot say, I cannot say, my beautiful and wild, I’ve ever seen so fair a one as thou my pretty child-- A form so full of elegance, a cheek where roses blow, And a forehead where the glossy curls seem braided over snow-- A lip whence sounds of music gush, that might with ease unsphere Some spirit from its airy halls and witch that spirit here.

When first thy mother gave thee me, my beautiful and wild, And others sought to gaze upon and bless the pretty child, And thy soft lip to mine was press’d, and thy soft hand I felt, And felt all of a father’s heart within my bosom melt; I know I heaved a sigh, for there was sadness in my joy-- Thou wert so very beautiful, my smiling little boy.

Where’er thou go’st, there seems to go a gladness, and a life, Which all unfitted is for this dark world of sin and strife; Thou dost remind me of the flowers that are when Spring comes on, Thou dost remind me of the light when comes and goes the sun; Of brooks, and falling waters, when they with the pebbles toy-- Of all that’s gay and beautiful, my smiling little boy.

I mingle with the busied world, and when I find it vain, I turn me to my happy hearth and little boy again; I love to have him shout to me, I love his airy call, I love to hear his little step go patting through the hall; I love to take him on my knee and fold him into rest, As doth the parent bird the dove she shelters with her breast.

Thy kind complaints, thy boyish talk, thy merriment, my boy, Crush all that’s base within my heart, and smooth the day’s annoy; Where’er I go, if ills assail, and passion plays her part, And dark Ambition spreads her gauds before my eye and heart, And I one moment list the voice that proffers me the crown-- I think me of thy looks my boy, and bid the tempter down.

Yet there will sometimes come to me a thought of sadness given, As the dark cloud streams athwart the flush that tints the sky of even, When I look at thee, and think of thee, in all thine artlessness, And think how flowery is the path which thy young foot doth press-- For I know that eye which sparkles now may suddenly be wet, And the earth which looks so lovely too may be a desert yet.

Ah! yes, I tremble for my boy with fears he cannot know, Lest he take the path which I have ta’en, and find it leads to wo; I tremble lest the Circean cup may yet be given him, With roses decked and myrtles crown’d and sparkling to the brim; For O! his foot hath not yet tried the path which mine hath trod, Nor hath his young heart framed a wish he might not give to God.

And yet I will not think it--no! it will not, cannot be, That fate shall ever fling its shroud of blackness over thee; Thou art too like thy mother, child,--she would not harm this breast-- And all thy days have been too like the holy and the bless’d; Thou can’st not other be to me than this, my cradle joy-- Thou wilt not grieve thy father’s heart, my smiling little boy.

[1] A friend of mine thinks he has seen a poem somewhere not altogether unlike this. Whether such a poem there is I know not, nor have I, after hunting over pamphlets and periodicals, been able to find one. If the reader shall be more successful, he will please give the writer of any similar production as much praise as he chooses, and subduct the same from me. An author ought to know if he is guilty of plagiarism; and though I may err, it is my opinion, that among the many who have written upon this subject, though I may not boast of as much beauty, I may at least have been as far from stealing as the best of the rhyming tribe. These are indeed days of barter--still I would live on my own capital.

SIR THOMAS MORE’S WORKS.

Lib. Old Eng. Prose Writers--Vol. 9.--Boston, 1834.

Self-sufficiency, under one form or another, is the predominant vice of the present age. A disposition to neglect the gathered wisdom of former times, and to deny all reverence to customs and institutions from which our fathers deemed it inseparable, and to go forward rejoicing in our own strength, is becoming more and more apparent. And whether we regard this sentiment as the fool-hardiness resulting from ignorance, and as ‘the pride which goeth before a fall,’ or, which we are more inclined to do, as the exultation of conscious might, and the prelude of more glorious achievements--still it is a vice, and requires the most vigorous exertions to check its further progress. These remarks are most obviously applicable to political matters, but they are not without meaning in reference to literature. Even in this department of knowledge, there has become manifest a proneness to circumscribe curiosity and inquiry within the narrow circle of cotemporary writers, to extol our popular authors, as the only ones deserving our attention, and as incontestably superior to all who have gone before them. It is difficult to determine whether this feeling is more unjust to those great lights of learning, who laid the foundations of our literature, by defrauding them of their merited homage, or more unfortunate for ourselves, by depriving us of their illumination. Nor is it less absurd, than it is unjust and unfortunate. For if we are indeed at the culminating point, whence beams of light and beauty shall fall on succeeding ages, the closest investigation can but confirm the truth; but if we are not, by timely consideration we may be saved from the error of those ancient astronomers, who assumed this little earth to be the center of the universe, and therefore, at each supposed advance, plunged deeper in error and perplexity. And those, who, in utter ignorance of our older writers, are ever asserting the preeminence of Byron and Bulwer and Irving, should be careful, lest, with those who have traveled further in the world of letters, they may incur the charge of weakness, no less ridiculous than that of the vain Chinese, who imagine their land, the only radiant point in a world of darkness.

Nor would the results of a candid and thorough examination of the early English writers, be really prejudicial to the reputation of cotemporary works; for though we might return from our researches with a less extravagant complacency in the productions of living authors, it would be more strongly established. We should meet with opposite merits and opposite faults. If our current literature is more frivolous, theirs is more prolix; if their thoughts are more sound, and their style more simple, our reasoning is more pointed, and our expression more sparkling--if we are more disgusted here with spurious originality, we are oftener wearied there with staid monotony.

We have been led into these reflections, by the perusal of several volumes of ‘the Library of Old English Prose Writers.’ Among the many series, which have of late appeared in England and this country, under the specious name of ‘Libraries,’ there is none so truly deserving as this, of the approbation and support of the educated and intellectual portion of the community--and to them, from its peculiar character, it must be almost entirely confined. Other publications, appealing to the interests or the love of novelty and excitement of the ‘reading public,’ meet with a ready support. But this series, whose design and tendency is to correct this corrupt taste, and chasten this morbid partiality to the matter-of-fact, or the romantic, cannot expect a promiscuous patronage. It is emphatically the literature of literary men, and all such, if they have any sympathy with ‘sober thought, in simple language dressed,’ nay, to appeal to selfish motives only, if they have any regard for the improvement of their taste, the strengthening of their own minds, or the purifying of their own style, will not fail to search out and drink deeply of these ‘healthful wells of English undefiled.’ We would gladly ramble through the several works of which the ‘Library’ is composed, but time does not permit, and we hasten to the consideration of the last of their number, with the simple remark that the plan of the undertaking is so praiseworthy, and the manner of its execution thus far has evinced so correct a judgment, and refined a taste, that we cannot but regret that any circumstances should for a moment delay its progress.

The fame of Sir Thomas More’s Utopia must be familiar to every ear. Its authority as a classic is so high, quotations from it are so numerous, and allusions to it among literary, political and metaphysical writers, are so frequent and eulogistic, that no one who has passed beyond the first lispings of polite learning, can be presumed ignorant of its general character. But a much smaller number, probably, are acquainted with it from actual examination and study. Before the appearance of this edition it had long been out of print in this country, or excluded from general circulation by being buried in an expensive and cumbrous volume, among the ponderous controversial writings of its author; and in rescuing it from its unfortunate companionship, the editor has conferred no slight gratification upon the lovers of serious thought and quaint style. A clear view of the design and plan of the work, cannot better be obtained, than by a brief analysis of its contents.

The author, for the convenience of setting forth his ideal of a perfect commonwealth, in a plainer and bolder manner than the jealousy of the government and the church would allow, feigns the existence of an island, Utopia, in a remote quarter of the globe, unknown to the people of Europe, and recently discovered by the celebrated navigator, Vespucci. Raphael Hylleloday, a philosopher, who accompanied Vespucci in his voyages, through curiosity, to examine the condition of the new-found nations, having become intimately versed in the history and manners of the Utopians, conveys a lengthened and minute account of the same to his friend More, at that time employed in the ‘king’s embassat’ in Flanders.

Upon this hypothesis, the philosophical romance is founded; and under the form of historical narrative, the author unfolds his views of the manners, customs, pursuits, government and religion, which would obtain among a perfectly happy people. He condemns with severity, and ridicules with sharpness, the policy, both temporal and spiritual, which was pursued by the governments of Europe, and the whole system of social relations, which prevailed among the people. He exposes with equal fearlessness, the folly and wickedness of royal tyranny, prelatical intolerance, and private avarice. He pictures in earnest simplicity, the advantages of equality of rank, temperance in living, freedom of opinion, and general education; and much more than anticipates in theory, all the advances which have actually been made, in more than three centuries. In order to feel the full admiration, which the perusal of the ‘Utopia’ should legitimately excite, the reader must constantly bear in mind, the period at which the author wrote. Many positions, which to us appear obvious and common place,--because we have been familiar with them, as undoubted truisms, from our childhood--evinced in our author surpassing vigor of thought, and boldness of purpose, joined with a sagacity almost prophetic. The extent to which he pushed his liberality in religion, in an age distinguished for its bloody bigotry, may be learned from the following extract. (p. 159.)