The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 551, June 9, 1832

AN INDIAN TALE, AND OTHER POEMS

This is a pleasant little volume by our indefatigable correspondent, Benjamin Gough. The tale is founded on an Indian story, by the author of the Kuzzilbash, which appeared in the fifth number of the Metropolitan Magazine; and to it are appended several minor pieces. The main poem will be read with interest. There are in it touches of fine feeling, which would not discredit hands of much higher pretensions. Take this specimen:

There is a time when naught on earth
Can re-awake the chords of mirth,
When joy with all its cherub wiles
Is powerless in creating smiles;
The sun of happiness is set,
And naught remains but deep regret,
And inward pangs and throbs severe,
And disappointment's bitter tear!
The magic charm that swayed the sense
With strong resistless influence
Is broken, and its votary left,
Of the soul's talisman bereft!
In vain the tones of music steal
Upon the ear in soft appeal,
Or friendship with its soothing voice
Bids the hushed tongue again rejoice,
So overwhelming is the grief—
Death only brings a late relief!

And one of the minor pieces:

A RHAPSODY ON NATURE

Where's the mastery of mind,
Trammelless and unconfined,
Probing Nature's boundless scheme,
Gauging the stupendous theme?
She, that paints horizons bright,
Belting heaven and earth with light!
Beams upon cherubic gaze—
Kindles the volcanic blaze!
Makes Euroclydon her zone—
Sits upon her thunder throne!
Who her eulogy shall dare,
Whose brow is wreathed with lightning glare?
She, who treads the surgy sea
In her stayless majesty,
Curbs each wild (erratic) wave.
When Atlantic tempests rave!
Speaks—the maddened storms increase—
Speaks again—and all is peace.
'Tis her breath's propitious gale
Swells the weather-beaten sail,
Wafts the crew from Britain o'er,
Unto India's spicy shore.
'Tis her bounty fills the earth
With the joys of wine and mirth,
Scatters through her broad domain
All the blessings of her reign;
Seasons roll at her command,
Plenty droppeth from her hand;
Earth and sea and spangled sky
Own her glorious sovereignty,
Walking with a stride immense,
In her tall magnificence,
Mountain heights, where wonders crowd,
Pinnacled in solemn cloud.
Andes, or the snowy scalps
Of the giant towering Alps!
Hills prolific, valley deeps,
Where the muse of silence sleeps;
Frowning cliff, and beetling rock,
Shivered by the deluge shock,
When the world was drowned—and now
Tottering before Ruin's plough.
Forests green, and rivers wide—
Every flow and ebb of tide.
Rivulets, whose crystal veins
Ripple along flowery plains,
Leaping torrents rushing hoarse,
Mimicking the ocean's force,
Leafage in its summer pride—
Flowers to Paradise allied.
Fruit inviting, luscious, such
As seems to paralyze the touch,
As ambrosial nectar sweet,
Ripe and fit for Gods to eat.
Nature's power is seen in all—
Winter's Crown, or Spring-birds' call—
Summer's eloquent perfume,
Autumn's yellow-tinted bloom—
Every chiselled sand grain tells
Nature's might; the petal cells,
Whence the bee her honey draws,
Glorify Creation's laws;
Things minute, or vast expanse
That tires the astronomic glance.
Ocean swathed with azure blue,
Or the gems of morning dew.
Past—with all its mighty deeds,
Nature claims its choicest meeds;
Present—with portentous calm,
Nature claims its chiefest palm;
Future—ah! she trembles there,
Nature quivers in despair.
When the master of the scene,