The　golden　light　should　lie；
  And　thick　young　herbs　and　groups　of　flowers
  Stand　in　their　beauty　by。
  The　oriole　should　build　and　tell
  His　love…tale；　close　beside　my　cell；
  The　idle　butterfly
  Should　rest　him　there；　and　there　be　heard
  The　housewife…bee　and　humming　bird。
  And　what；　if　cheerful　shouts　at　noon；
  Come；　from　the　village　sent；
  Or　songs　of　maids；　beneath　the　moon；
  With　fairy　laughter　blent？
  And　what　if；　in　the　evening　light；
  Betrothed　lovers　walk　in　sight
  Of　my　low　monument？
  I　would　the　lovely　scene　around
  Might　know　no　sadder　sight　nor　sound。
  I　know；　I　know　I　should　not　see
  The　season's　glorious　show；
  Nor　would　its　brightness　shine　for　me；
  Nor　its　wild　music　flow；
  But　if；　around　my　place　of　sleep；
  The　friends　I　love　should　come　to　weep；
  They　might　not　haste　to　go。
  Soft　airs　and　song；　and　the　light　and　bloom；
  Should　keep　them　lingering　by　my　tomb。
  These　to　their　soften'd　hearts　should　bear
  The　thoughts　of　what　has　been；
  And　speak　of　one　who　cannot　share
  The　gladness　of　the　scene；
  Whose　part　in　all　the　pomp　that　fills
  The　circuit　of　the　summer　hills；
  Is　　that　his　grave　is　green；
  And　deeply　would　their　hearts　rejoice
  To　hear　again　his　living　voice。
  The　rhythmical　flow　here　is　even　voluptuousnothing　could　be　more
  melodious。　The　poem　has　always　affected　me　in　a　remarkable　manner。　The
  intense　melancholy　which　seems　to　well　up；　perforce；　to　the　surface　of　all
  the　poet's　cheerful　sayings　about　his　grave；　we　find　thrilling　us　to　the
  soulwhile　there　is　the　truest　poetic　elevation　in　the　thrill。　The
  impression　left　is　one　of　a　pleasurable　sadness。　And　if；　in　the　remaining
  compositions　which　I　shall　introduce　to　you；　there　be　more　or　less　of　a
  similar　tone　always　apparent；　let　me　remind　you　that　（how　or　why　we　know
  not）　this　certain　taint　of　sadness　is　inseparably　connected　with　all　the
  higher　manifestations　of　true　Beauty。　It　is；　nevertheless；
  A　feeling　of　sadness　and　longing
  That　is　not　akin　to　pain；
  And　resembles　sorrow　only
  As　the　mist　resembles　the　rain。
  The　taint　of　which　I　speak　is　clearly　perceptible　even　in　a　poem　so　full
  of　brilliancy　and　spirit　as　〃The　Health〃　of　Edward　Coate　Pinckney：
  I　fill　this　cup　to　one　made　up
  Of　loveliness　alone；
  A　woman；　of　her　gentle　sex
  The　seeming　paragon；
  To　whom　the　better　elements
  And　kindly　stars　have　given
  A　form　so　fair　that；　like　the　air；
  'Tis　less　of　earth　than　heaven。
  Her　every　tone　is　music's　own；
  Like　those　of　morning　birds；
  And　something　more　than　melody
  Dwells　ever　in　her　words；
  The　coinage　of　her　heart　are　they；
  And　from　her　lips　each　flows
  As　one　may　see　the　burden'd　bee
  Forth　issue　from　the　rose。
  Affections　are　as　thoughts　to　her；
  The　measures　of　her　hours；
  Her　feelings　have　the　flagrancy；
  The　freshness　of　young　flowers；
  And　lovely　passions；　changing　oft；
  So　fill　her；　she　appears
  The　image　of　themselves　by　turns；
  The　idol　of　past　years！
  Of　her　bright　face　one　glance　will　trace
  A　picture　on　the　brain；
  And　of　her　voice　in　echoing　hearts
  A　sound　must　long　remain；
  But　memory；　such　as　mine　of　her；
  So　very　much　endears；
  When　death　is　nigh　my　latest　sigh
  Will　not　be　life's；　but　hers。
  I　fill'd　this　cup　to　one　made　up
  Of　loveliness　alone；
  A　woman；　of　her　gentle　sex
  The　seeming　paragon
  Her　health！　and　would　on　earth　there　stood；
  Some　more　of　such　a　frame；
  That　life　might　be　all　poetry；
  And　weariness　a　name。
  It　was　the　misfortune　of　Mr。　Pinckney　to　have　been　born　too　far　south。
  Had　he　been　a　New　Englander；　it　is　probable　that　he　would　have　been　ranked
  as　the　first　of　American　lyrists　by　that　magnanimous　cabal　which　has　so
  long　controlled　the　destinies　of　American　Letters；　in　conducting　the　thing
  called　〃The　North　American　Review。〃　The　poem　just　cited　is　especially
  beautiful；　but　the　poetic　elevation　which　it　induces　we　must　refer　chiefly
  to　our　sympathy　in　the　poet's　enthusiasm。　We　pardon　his　hyperboles　for　the
  evident　earnestness　with　which　they　are　uttered。
  It　was　by　no　means　my　design；　however；　to　expatiate　upon　the　_merits
  _of　what　I　should　read　you。　These　will　necessarily　speak　for　themselves。
  Boccalini；　in　his　〃Advertisements　from　Parnassus；〃　tells　us　that　Zoilus
  once　presented　Apollo　a　very　caustic　criticism　upon　a　very　admirable　book：
  whereupon　the　god　asked　him　for　the　beauties　of　the　work。　He　replied
  that　he　only　busied　himself　about　the　errors。　On　hearing　this；　Apollo；
  handing　him　a　sack　of　unwinnowed　wheat；　bade　him　pick　out　_all　the　chaff
  _for　his　reward。
  Now　this　fable　answers　very　well　as　a　hit　at　the　criticsbut　I　am　by
  no　means　sure　that　the　god　was　in　the　right。　I　am　by　no　means　certain　that
  the　true　limits　of　the　critical　duty　are　not　grossly　misunderstood。
  Excellence；　in　a　poem　especially；　may　be　considered　in　the　light　of　an
  axiom；　which　need　only　be　properly　_put；　_to　become　self…evident。　It　is
  _not　_excellence　if　it　require　to　be　demonstrated　as　such：and　thus　to
  point　out　too　particularly　the　merits　of　a　work　of　Art；　is　to　admit　that
  they　are　_not　_merits　altogether。
  Among　the　〃Melodies〃　of　Thomas　Moore　is　one　whose　distinguished
  character　as　a　poem　proper　seems　to　have　been　singularly　left　out　of　view。
  I　allude　to　his　lines　beginning　　〃Come；　rest　in　this　bosom。〃　The　intense
  energy　of　their　expression　is　not　surpassed　by　anything　in　Byron。　There
  are　two　of　the　lines　in　which　a　sentiment　is　conveyed　that　embodies　the
  _all　in　all　_of　the　divine　passion　of　Love　　a　sentiment　which；　perhaps；
  has　found　its　echo　in　more；　and　in　more　passionate；　human　hearts　than　any
  other　single　sentiment　ever　embodied　in　words：
  Come；　rest　in　this　bosom；　my　own　stricken　deer
  Though　the　herd　have　fled　from　thee；　thy　home　is　still　here；
  Here　still　is　the　smile；　that　no　cloud　can　o'ercast；
  And　a　heart　and　a　hand　all　thy　own　to　the　last。
  Oh！　what　was　love　made　for；　if　'tis　not　the　same
  Through　joy　and　through　torment；　through　glory　and　shame？
  I　know　not；　I　ask　not；　if　guilt's　in　that　heart；
  I　but　know　that　I　love　thee；　whatever　thou　art。
  Thou　hast　call'd　me　thy　Angel　in　moments　of　bliss；
  And　thy　Angel　I'll　be；　'mid　the　horrors　of　this；
  Through　the　furnace；　unshrinking；　thy　steps　to　pursue；
  And　shield　thee；　and　save　thee；　or　perish　there　too！
  It　has　been　the　fashion　of　late　days　to　deny　Moore　Imagination；　while
  granting　him　Fancya　distinction　originating　with　Coleridgethan　whom　no
  man　more　fully　comprehended　the　great　powers　of　Moore。　The　fact　is；　that
  the　fancy　of　this　poet　so　far　predominates　over　all　his　other　faculties；
  and　over　the　fancy　of　all　other　men；　as　to　have　induced；　very　naturally；
  the　idea　that　he　is　fanciful　_only。　_But　never　was　there　a　greater
  mistake。　Never　was　a　grosser　wrong　done　the　fame　of　a　true　poet。　In　the
  compass　of　the　English　language　I　can　call　to　mind　no　poem　more　pro。
  foundrymore　weirdly　_imaginative；　_in　the　best　sense；　than　the　lines
  commencing〃I　would　I　were　by　that　dim　lake〃which　are　the　com。　position
  of　Thomas　Moore。　I　regret　that　I　am　unable　to　remember　them。
  One　of　the　noblestand；　speaking　of　Fancyone　of　the　most　singularly
  fanciful　of　modern　poets；　was　Thomas　Hood。　His　〃Fair　Ines〃　had　always　for
  me　an　inexpressible　charm：
  O　saw　ye　not　fair　Ines？
  She's　gone　into　the　West；
  To　dazzle　when　the　sun　is　down；
  And　rob　the　world　of　rest；
  She　took　our　daylight　with　her；
  The　smiles　that　we　love　best；
  With　morning　blushes　on　her　cheek；
  And　pearls　upon　her　breast。
  O　turn　again；　fair　Ines；
  Before　the　fall　of　night；
  For　fear　the　moon　should　shine　alone；
  And　stars　unrivalltd　bright；
  And　blessed　will　the　lover　be
  That　walks　beneath　their　light；
  And　breathes　the　love　against　thy　cheek
  I　dare　not　even　write！
  Would　I　had　been；　fair　Ines；
  That　gallant　cavalier；
  Who　rode　so　gaily　by　thy　side；
  And　whisper'd　thee　so　near！
  Were　there　no　bonny　dames　at　home
  Or　no　true　lovers　here；
  That　he　should　cross　the　seas　to　win
  The　dearest　of　the　dear？
  I　saw　thee；　lovely　Ines；
  Descend　along　the　shore；
  With　bands　of　noble　gentlemen；
  And　banners　waved　before；
  And　gentle　youth　and　maidens　gay；
  And　snowy　plumes　they　wore；
  It　would　have　been　a　beauteous　dream；
  If　it　had　been　no　more！
  Alas；　alas；　fair　Ines；
  She　went　away　with　song；
  With　music　waiting　on　her　steps；
  And　shootings　of　the　throng；
  But　some　were　sad　and　felt　no　mirth；
  But　only　Music's　wrong；
  In　sounds　that　sang　Farewell；　Farewell；
  To　her　you've　loved　so　long。
  Farewell；　farewell；　fair　Ines；
  That　vessel　never　bore
  So　fair　a　lady　on　its　deck；
  Nor　danced　so　light　before；
  Alas　for　pleasure　on　the　sea；
  And　sorrow　on　the　shorel
  The　smile　that　blest　one　lover's　heart
  Has　broken　many　more！
  〃The　Haunted　House；〃　by　the　same　author；　is　one　of　the　truest　poems　ever
  written；one　of　the　truest；　one　of　the　most　unexceptionable；　one　of　the
  most　thoroughly　artistic；　both　in　its　theme　and　in　its　execution。　It　is；
  moreover；　powerfully　idealimaginative。　I　regret　that　its　length　renders
  it　unsuitable　for　the　purposes　of　this　lecture。　In　place　of　it　permit　me
  to　offer　th