Wlliam Gilmore Simms
The Simms Review (Vol 13: No 2) >> ''The New Dawn'': A New Simms Work >> Page 27

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Page 27

Reviews/Essays | 1863-08-05
Transcription III.
Hark ! to the song of birds, suddenly awaking
and mingling fitfully with the sad, mysterious
chorus, that swells up from these incoming bil-
lows of the sea. The two, blending, make a sweet
complaining music, as if they had taken their
voices from a human sorrow. They kindle the
soul with gentle feeling and tender fancies. They
appeal to affections which lie deeply hidden in
the heart. Ah! how deeply hidden ! How the
heart can hide! How seldom is it permitted us
to know the secret of the very heart that loves us

The curtain waves wide, but with tremulous
and fitful motion. Even thus waves teh cur-
tains of life before the windows of the soul! We
have glimpses of a flower just expanding wigthin.
It is a virgin's jewel that glitters in the centre,
over which no breath has yet cast its sullying
moisture? We catch a single glimpse of a just
dawning, but a beautiful existence. If we should
look further? Shall we deny ourselves the uses
of our eyes? And, yet, we may see too much.--
The flower and the gem should suffice. Under
the one, the serpent may crawl; and who shall
say that the other does not enclose the toad?
Fear not! let the eye of faith still confide in the
mysterious humanity! Let us use both wind and
vision! How far may we fly--what see--is we
but suffer thought and hope, the free fancy, the
pure faith, the ministering affections--the just
use of wing and eye! Let them go forth--see,
play--and believe! It will be time enough, when
we have neither eye nor wing, to suffer doubt to
crouch about the darkened chambers of the heart.

I will arise and throuw wide the window. I will
not be jealous of these soothing breezes, because
they murmur, rather than sing; and because there
is a sadness in their murmurs that tells me that
there is still a grief toubling the dreams of hu-
manity. The dawn is sad, but it is still a dawn!
What a touching sweetness abides in this morn-
ing twilight--the mysterious hour when day and
night meet as one;--yet meet only to part! The
one, hooidng itself, and retiring sadly, as old age,
going slowly to its darksome chamber, even while
low. The other, leaping forth, as it stript to
run a race: smiles on its brow, and lightness in
its leap; and its voice pouring out, unconsciously,
a glad cry of bouyancy, and hope, and happiness.