"Yet sure the verse that shews the friendly mind To Friendship's ear not harshly flows."
Your larger _narrative_ affected me greatly. It is admirably written, and displays strong sense animated by feeling, and illumined by imagination, and neither in the thoughts nor rhythm does it encroach on poetry.
There have been two poems of mine in the new "Monthly Magazine,"[128] with my name; indeed, I make it a scruple of conscience never to publish anything, however trifling, without it. Did you like them? The first was written at the desire of a beautiful little aristocrat; consider it therefore as a lady's poem. Bowles (the bard of my idolatry) has written a poem lately without plan or meaning, but the component parts are divine. It is entitled "Hope, an Allegorical Sketch." I will copy two of the stanzas, which must be peculiarly interesting to you, virtuous high-treasonist, and your friends the democrats.
"But see, as one awaked from deadly trance, With hollow and dim eyes, and stony stare, Captivity with faltering step advance! Dripping and knotted was her coal-black hair: For she had long been hid, as in the grave; No sounds the silence of her prison broke, Nor one companion had she in her cave Save Terror's dismal shape, that no word spoke, But to a stony coffin on the floor With lean and hideous finger pointed evermore.
"The lark's shrill song, the early village chime, The upland echo of the winding horn, The far-heard clock that spoke the passing time, Had never pierced her solitude forlorn: At length released from the deep dungeon's gloom She feels the fragrance of the vernal gale, She sees more sweet the living landscape bloom, And while she listens to Hope's tender tale, She thinks her long-lost friends shall bless her sight, And almost faints for joy amidst the broad daylight."
Your portrait of yourself interested me. As to me, my face, unless when animated by immediate eloquence, expresses great sloth, and great, indeed, almost idiotic good-nature. 'Tis a mere carcass of a face;[129] fat, flabby, and expressive chiefly of inexpression. Yet I am told that my eyes, eyebrows, and forehead are physiognomically good; but of this the deponent knoweth not. As to my shape, 'tis a good shape enough if measured, but my gait is awkward, and the walk of the whole man indicates _indolence capable of energies_. I am, and ever have been, a great reader, and have read almost everything--a library cormorant. I am _deep_ in all out of the way books, whether of the monkish times, or of the puritanical era. I have read and digested most of the historical writers; but I do not _like_ history. Metaphysics and poetry and "facts of mind," that is, accounts of all the strange phantasms that ever possessed "your philosophy;" dreamers, from Thoth the Egyptian to Taylor the English pagan, are my darling studies. In short, I seldom read except to amuse myself, and I am almost always reading. Of useful knowledge, I am a so-so chemist, and I love chemistry. All else is _blank_; but I _will_ be (please God) an horticulturalist and a farmer. I compose very little, and I absolutely hate composition, and such is my dislike that even a sense of duty is sometimes too weak to overpower it.