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ot but smile at
dig on the side, that drives the breath “ Then thou canst picture-aye, in sober out of their body, and keeps them truth, speechless for the rest of the night, In real, unexaggerated trath, while the stream of conversation, if it The constant, galling, festering chain that may be called so, keeps issuing in jets binds and jerks, from the same inexhaustible
Captive my mute interpreter of thought;
The seal of lead enstamped upon my lips, source, pausing but to become more
The load of iron on my labouring chest, potent, and delivering, per hour, we
The mocking demon, that at every step fear to say how many imperial gallons
Haunts me,- and spurs me on-to burst into the reservoir. Therefore, we cannot but smile at
Heaven preserve us! is the world so " the Stammerer's Complaint"--as
ill off for woes-are they so scantput into his lips by Mr Tupper. He
that a Poet who indites blank verse to is made to ask us
Imagination, can dream of none wore “ Hast ever seen an eagle chained to earth? thier his lamentations than the occa A restless panther to his cage immur'd ? sional and not unfrequent inconve. A swist trout by the wily fisher check'd?
niences that a gifted spirit experiences A wild bird hopeless strain its broken
from a lack of fluency of words? wing?"
“I scarce would wonder, if a godless man, We have ; but what is all such sights (I name not him whose hope is bearer. to the purpose ? An eagle chained
ward. cannot fly an inch-a panther in a cage A man whom lying vanities hath scath'd can prowl none-a trout “ checked" And harden'd from all fear,- if such an ade basketted, we presume is as good as By this tyrannical Argus goaded on, gutted a bird winged is already dish. Were to be wearied of his very life, ed—but a stammerer, “ still begin. And daily, hourly foiled in social converse, ning, never ending," is in all his glory By the slow simmering of disappointment, when he meets a consonant whom ho Become a sour'd and apathetic being, will not relinquish till he has conquer Were to feel rapture at the approach of ed him, and dragged him in captivity
death, at the wheels of his chariot,
And loug for his dark hope,-annihilaor While the swift axles kindle as they
What if he were dumb ? roll."
Mr Tupper is a father-and some Mr Tupper's Stammerer then is made of his domestic verses are very pleas. to say,
ing-such as his sonnet to little Ellen, " Hast ever felt, at the dark dead of night, and his sonnet to little Mary ; but we Some undefined and horrid incubus prefer the stanzas entitled Children," Press down the very soul,- and paralyse and quote them as an agreeable sample, The limbs in their imaginary flight premising that they would not have From shadowy terrors in unhallowed been the worse of some little tincture sleep?"
of imaginative feeling-for, expressive We have; but what is all that to the as they are of mere natural emotion, purpose, unless it be to dissuade us they cannot well be said to be poeti y. from supping on pork-chop? Such op. We object, too, to the sentiinent of pression on the stomach, and through the close, for thousands of childless it on all the vital powers, is the men are rich in the enjoyment of life's effect of indigestion, and is horrible: best affections; and some of the hapbut the Stammerer undergoes no such piest couples and the best we have rending of soul from body, in striving ever known, are among those from to give vent to his peculiar utterance whom God has withheld the gift of -not he indeed--'tis all confined to offspring. Let all good Christian peo. his organs of speech-his agonies are ple be thankful for the mercies graapparent not real-and he is conscious ciously vouchsafed to them; but bebut of an enlivening emphasis that, ware of judging the lot of others by while all around him are drowsy, keeps their own, and of seeking to confine him wide awake, and banishes Sleep either worth, happiness, or virtue, to his native land of Nod. We our within one sphere of domestic life, selves have what is called an impedi- however blessed they may feel it to be ; ment in our speech-and do “ make “ For the blue sky bends over all,' wry faces," but we never thought of and our fate here below is not deterexclaiming to ourselves,
mined by the stars.
CHILDREN. “ Harmless, happy little treasures, " The dull slaves of gain, or passion, Full of truth, and trust, and mirth,
Cannot love you as they should,
Would not love you if they could :
" Yours the natural curling tresses, “ All unkiss'd by innocent beauty, Prattling tongues, and shyness coy,
All unlov'd by guileless heart, Tottering steps, and kind caresses, All uncheer'd by sweetest duty,
Pure with health and warm with joy. Childless man, how poor thou art !"
We like the following lines still better-and considered “ as one of the moods of his own mind,” they may be read with unmingled pleasure.
Oasis of my hopes, to fancy dear,
And trade's vile din offends not nature's ear,
" Some smiling bay of Cambria's happy shore,
A wooded dingle on a mountain side,
And looking down on valley fair and wide,
Than vast cathedrals in their Gothic pride,
* There would I dwell, for I delight therein!
Far from the evil ways of evil men,
My own repented of, and clean again :
Choice books, and guiltless pleasures of the pen,
“ There, from the flowery mead, or shingled shore,
To cull the gems that bounteous nature gare,
Or seek the curious crystal in its cave;
Know more of Him who came the lost to save;
16* I could not hide my alter'd form : " • And little can the untempted dream, Then on my head the fearful storm While gliding smoothly on life's stream Of gibe and insult burst:
They keep the letter-laws,
What they would be, if, tost like me
They knew how hunger gnaws.
" • Ah, lightly heed the righteous few “ Her eye was fixed; she said no more, How little to themselves is due,
But propp'd against the cold street-door But all things given to them ;
She leaned her fainting head; Yet the unwise because untaught,
One moment she look'd up and smil'd, The wandering sheep, because unsought, Full of new hope, as Mercy's child, They heartlessly condemn :
-And the poor girl was dead." We do not think the idea very happy of “ Contrasted Sonnets" such as, Nature-Art; The Happy Home- The Wretched Home ; Theory-Prac tice ; Ritches-Poverty ; Philanthropic- Misanthropic ; Country-Town ; and so on-and 'tis an ancient, nay, a stale idea, though Mr Tupper evidently thinks it fresh and new, and luxuriates in it as if it were all his own. Sometimes he chooses to shew that he is ambidexter-and how much may be said on both sides-leaving the reader's mind in a state of indifference to what may really be the truth of the matter-or disposed to believe that he knows more about it than the Sonnetteer. The best are Prose and Poetry-and they are very good-so is “ Ancient," but Modern is very bad-and therefore we quote the three
“ That the fine edge of intellect is dulled,
And mortal ken with cloudy films obscure,
That virtue's self is weak its love to lure,
The selfish, useful, money-making plan,
Where in hard matter sinks ideal man :
Thy darkness to confound with yon bright band
And now as kings in prose on fame's clear summit stand."
“ To touch the heart, and make its pulses thrill,
To raise and purify the grovelling soul,
To conquer passion with a mild controul,
These are thine aims, O pure unearthly power,
And therefore these, who have thee for their dower,
Eat angels' food, the manna thou dost shower :
Whether to read, or write, or think, or hear,
I cannot live with things of yesterday,
Upstart, and flippant, foolish, weak, and gay,
I love to wander o'er the shadowy past,
And seem to find myself almost the last
Of a time-honoured race, decaying fast ;
Conjuring up what story it might tell,
And in a desert could delight to dwell
Mr Tupper has received much praise bation of the public. Perhaps our , from critics whose judgment is gene. rough notes may help him to discover rally entitled to great respect-in the where his strength lies; and, with his Allas--if we mistake not in the right feelings, and amiable sensibili. Spectutor—and in the Sun. If our ties, and fine enthusiasm, and bealthy censure be undeserved-let our copious powers when exereised on familiar quotations justify themselves, and be and domestic themes, so dear for. our condemnation. Our praise may ever to the human heart, there seems scem cold and scanty ; but so far no reason why, in good time, he from despising Mr Tupper's talents, may not be among our especial we have good hopes of him, and do favourites, and one of the Swans not fear but that he will produce many of Thames"_which, we believe, are far better things than the best of as big and as bright as those of the those we have selected for the appro- Tweed.
Alas! for poor Nicol! Dead and gone, but not to be forgotten-for aye to be remembered among the flowers of the forest, early wede away!