Wlliam Gilmore Simms
The Simms Review (Vol 13: No 2) >> ''The New Dawn'': A New Simms Work >> Page 29

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Page 29

Reviews/Essays | 1863-08-05
Transcription even as they rise, and radiate, with softest charm,
over the whole meek have of Heaven!

Very sweet and winning is the faint glance;
very pure and delicious the first breathing of the
dawn: rising so gradual over those gray islets and
little sand dunes, and the billowy waters that
wind around and wrap them all in affectionate
embrace. The harbor spreads away till the head-
lands rise into sight under the gliding fringes of
the sun. The great pines wave solemnly their
green plumage, marshaled all in serried lines,
confronting the sea, as if arrayed against a coming
enemy. You, you see, a tiny boat, with tinier
square sail, is in motion, setting forth, on modest
expedition, for some shining islet, whose sands
are glowing into brilliants in the smiles of the
sun. Doubtless that little wayfarer is sped for-
ward under as fond an impluse, and with as proud
a hope as ever sped the vessels of Gama or Co-
lumbus, searching for unknown empires in Utopia
or Cathay.
Such is life! Whiel the great argosies lie rock-
ing idly in the harbor, there is a glad boy already
busied, lauching his little model from the docks,
and dreaming of the lovely cargo of fairy shells
which he will harvest on the opposite shores of
Etiwan or Kiawah--harvest only to cast away,
just so soon as the expanding vision shall yield
him a prospect of remoter shores, and a longer
voyage to the golden fruit-land of the Cuban, or
Gulf of California!

The beguiling hum and murmur of the day--
the growing forms and images, gradually begin-
ning to grow in the sunlight, come not to the
senses singly. The breezes bring odors on their
wings. They have rifled the city gardens. The
Zephyr has slept all night in bowers of the rose,
the lemon, the orange, and, waskened by the dawn,
he breaks away, with wings all heavy wiht his
spoils. And he brings to me the sweetsthus rifled
from the gardens of wealth and beauty. Profil-
gate, like a thief, he wastes the fruits of his felo-
noies;--and I drink them in gratefully, for very
sweet are they, like the whispers of the beloved
one, made fresh by the cool kisses of the dawn.
High walls neither shut out not fetter the wings
of these liberal breezes; and even the exile from
Eden, when he turns back, looking sadly on the
Paradise he has lost, is still followed by the