Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/422

i06 AMANDA L. R. DUFOUR. [1840-50. of the Louisville Journal, the Odd Fellows' Ark, at Columbus, Ohio, and other West- ern periodicals. A good many of Mrs. Dufour's productions are of a devotional character ; and these breathe the spirit of mingled piety and charity, which she may have inherited from her father. Her lines on " Thought," fraught with genuine feeling and charac- terized by graceful imagery, are from an elaborate poem unpublished. A wild tone of sadness runs through many of this author's pieces; — whether, like her piety, a pater- nal inheritance, or whether born of those sad experiences of the world that so often tell upon a sensitive and poetic nature, we can only conjecture. But there is nothing, however, of idle and sickly sentimentality in this strain of sadness ; it breathes from a heart strengthened by hope and courage, for all the duties of life. Her lines entitled " Confession " might alone establish Mrs. Dufour's title to the inborn poetic temperament. There is no true poet who, in moments of inspiration, has not embodied and addressed the ideal. And there is no better test of the depth and purity of the poetic vein than the tone and manner of such an address. Its im- passioned lines are wont to disclose all that is noblest at once and warmest, in the inner heart of the writer ; and in them, therefore, we may seek, with best chance of obtaining a clew to the just appreciation of the character, and just estimate of the genius which thus conceives and pictures, not what is, but what might be ; not what we ever find in this world, but still, what we can imagine, and may hope, perhaps, to meet with in another. THOU COMEST NOT. Thou comest not ! The sweet wild rose of Summer Long days ago, its latest perfume shed; The harvest fruits have ripened and been garnered, The blithe bird-songsters from the bowers are fled. Thou comest not ! The rainbow tints of Autumn, Sprinkled, like shattered gems, o'er hill and dell, Are faded now, and through the leafless branches Rings out the wild wind his sepulchral knell. Thou comest not ! No longer fragrant blossoms Perfume the Avoodland and the garden bowers ; Their withered leaves speak to my heart of longings That filled the chalice of departed hours. Thou comest not ! And yet the pale, pure starlight Gleams, as on that sweet eve when first we met ; But on the ear the moan of wint'ry waters Falls, like the echo of some heart's re- gret. Thou comest not ! Alas ! the hours are numbered In which our hearts might mingle, ti'ue and free.