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قراءة كتاب The Knickerbocker, Vol. 10, No. 4, October 1837
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
class="i0">A sorry change—the substance for the shade:
Untaught what madness to the million clings,
Who forms to facts prefer, and names to things:
Triumphant for a space, by craft and crime,
Two foes he left unconquered—Truth and Time:
Oh! had he for true glory shaped his course,
He'd 'scaped repentance living—dead, remorse!
THE DEATH OF SOCRATES.
The boon of freedom to my weary soul
Hath come at last; the hour of calm release,
When all the restless storms of life may cease,
And time's dark billows, as they onward roll,
Shall sweep above my silent grave in peace.
For freedom from the heavy bonds of flesh;
And earthly hopes and earthly pleasures spurn'd:
And while the quenchless fire within it burn'd,
Hath sighed for streams immortal, to refresh
Its drooping wings, that it might upward soar,
Beyond the curtains of the vaulted sky,
Within the veil that hides Eternity;
And drink the tide of bliss, and weep no more!
*****
Meet emblem of Death's cruel bitterness;
To those who love life more, or loathe it less;
Yet in its mingled poison have I quaff'd
The fountain, whose undying strength shall waft
The heir of life immortal to those shores,
Where the full tide of its bright glory pours!
Of future time—of years beyond the grave;
Of brighter worlds far o'er the whelming wave;
And on my raptured fancy there hath gleam'd.
The image of a thousand hidden things,
That reason may not trace; and wisdom brings
No clue to read; and weary thought turns back,
All hopeless from the dark, bewildering track.
*****
The venom pours through every swollen vein:
The race is run—fought is the field of strife;
And bleeds the vanquish'd now upon the plain,
No more the conflict to essay again!
*****
To whom—though blindly, from this darksome prison,
Where doubt and error reign in ceaseless night—
The worship of my spirit long hath risen;
No more I doubt—no longer wavering,
I offer incense to a God unknown,
But, from the altar of my bosom, fling
Its fragrance at the footstool of thy throne;
And as the film of death obscures my sight,
The vision of thy presence grows more bright!
*****
A thousand harps the balmy air are filling!
A thousand angel voices wildly thrilling,
Are calling, 'Kindred spirit, haste thee home!'
Speed, speed, my ling'ring soul!—'I come! I come!'
Wilmington, (Del.,) August, 1837.
NOTES OF A SURGEON.[1]
NUMBER TWO.
THE INCENDIARIES.
I was aroused from my sleep one morning about three o'clock, by the alarm of fire. A bright light was shining into my room, and casting its tinted rays in flashes over the wall, pallid by the beams of a December moon, like the flickering glances of hectic over the consumptive cheek of beauty. On going to the window, I discovered that the fire was but a short distance from the hospital, and in broad view. A brilliant fire so near me, overcame my natural apathy, and packing on some extra habiliments, I sallied out to see what havoc this mighty element was making among the time-worn and thickly-tenanted buildings of the purlieus of L—— street.
The engines were already at work, when I reached the spot. A dwelling-house was on fire, and the flames were shooting merrily up from the roof and windows, tinged or obscured for a brief moment by the occasional flood of water which the bounteous hose lavished upon the most flagrant portions of the enkindled domicil—a powerful and efficient antiphlogistic, as it struck me at the time. I made my way, with others, into an alley which led to the rear of the house, with some faint hope that I might be of service in arresting the flames, or at any rate, enjoy a fair and near view of the fire, without the danger of being trodden under foot. The whole back part of one wooden building was in a blaze, and the persons in the yard were pointing to it with evident marks of interest and agitation. I did not have long to wait, to be informed of the subject of their solicitude. Presently, a figure shot through the second-story window, sash and all, and bounded to the ground. He rolled and plunged about, and endeavored to tear off his burning garments; for, singularly enough, he was dressed in pantaloons, boots, and vest, as if he had not been in bed; his hair was entirely singed off, and his shirt was fast consuming from his arms. In a moment, another one similarly dressed, but without shoes, rushed down stairs, and tumbled into the middle of the yard, uttering most pitiable cries. Astonished at such a sudden apparition, the spectators scarcely knew what to do; and I was equally at a loss, for an instant; but running up