Poems by Thomas Odiorne . :: :: University of Virginia Library

But other objects picturesque the mind;—
Where'er we turn our eyes, some scene we find,
Some striking scope, or movement of control,
Adapted to the structure of the soul.
The social flames, those bland endearments warm,
Are but reflected Nature's soothing charm;
And great exploits, to which mankind attain,
Are nature's grandeur acted o'er again.

That godlike courage that admires to brave
Perils and death, is seen in Ocean's wave;
And in the gloom amidst the lightning's glare—
Look! see'st thou not a grisly anger there?
Revenge is like the whirlwind; wizard spleen
In the bleak-whining, sullen blast is seen;
And like the moon, in chambers of the cloud,
Mopes, in her cell, the maid of dismal mood.
All scenes have sway, peculiar to their kind,—
Great Nature is the prototype of Mind!

But there's a haunt of which the Poets tell,
Where, lorn, the pensive hermit loves to dwell;

Where, all devote, a reverential flame
Absorbs the soul,—a heaven-aspiring frame!
'Tis in thick woods and solitary shades,
Where silence reigns, and antient gloom pervades;
Where every object, of an awful kind,
To hallow'd contemplation wakes the mind.
Hark! frequent there, to echo's lonely cells,
His woes the bird of blood-spot bosom tells!
Hark! frequent, when the mournful bird is dumb,
The distant partridge rolls his breezy drum;
At frequent intervals, the raven moans,
And, sounding from afar, the desert groans:
Some moulder'd trunk perhaps, that, like a tower,
Falls from its thousand years, to rise no more;
As if impressing one with dismal dread,
A shock had rent the mansions of the dead;

Combustion-like, that, fir'd by Nature's laws
And loud exploding, leaves an awful pause.
In such drear cells, such desolate domains,
O'er pensive souls a sacred horror reigns.
To such abodes immortal seers have turn'd,
And, frequent there, devotion's flame has burn'd;—
Sublime, like Night, the melancholy mood
There soars to heaven on wings of solitude.

On this subject, a much celebrated Rhetorician has remarked: “There are two great classes of moral qualities; one the high and great virtues, which require extraordinary efforts, and is founded on dangers and sufferings; as heroism, magnanimity, a scorn of pleasures, and the contempt of death. These produce, in the spectator, an idea of sublimity and grandeur. The other class is chiefly of the social virtues, and such as are of a softer and gentler kind; as compassion, mildness, and generosity. These excite in the beholder a sensation of pleasure so nearly allied to that by beautiful objects, that, though of a more exalted nature, it may, without impropriety, be classed under the same head.”

“It is an instinct common to all persons of sensibility, under a pressure of calamity, to seek shelter in places the wildest and most deserted; as if rocks were bulwarks against misfortune; or as if the calmness of nature could compose the troubles of the soul.”

Paul and Virginia.

The tones of the turtle Dove, while evolving his varied melody, are exquisitely mournful and pathetic; and, with the idea of this blood-red spot upon his breast, there, associates a sentiment that is mystically affecting. During the spring months, the male bird exhibits such a spot, nearest his heart, which regularly disappears on the approach of summer, and does not return again, but with the months of love.

See St. Pierre's Stud. Nat.