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Now, we do not mean to say this is poetry; but we will dare to say that it is a very sensible, healthy composition, and written in good tripping rhymes withal, which a man may chant to himself of a summer's day, and which are worth remembering. We would wish, with all our hearts, that Mr. Tupper had written more wisdom

of this sort, and less philosophy of another sort that he had thought less about the sublimely intellectual, and more about the simply intelligible. We shall content ourselves with one other sample, as we think it is full of hopefulness, as indicating a considerable amendment in Mr. Tupper's mode of enunciating his philosophical dogmas.

GOOD AND EVIL.
"Good hath been born of Evil many times,

As pearls and precious ambergris are grown-
Fruits of disease, in pain and sickness sown;
Nations have won their liberty through crimes,
And men through gain of losses: God alone,
Unreachable upon His holy throne,
Needeth not shade to illustrate His light,

Nor less to foil His greatest: but for man
The wrong must riot to awake the right,
And patience grow of pain, as day of night,

And wisdom end what woesome harın began;
And think not to unravel in thy thought

This mingled tissue, this mysterious plan,
This alchemy of good through evil wrought.”

The fault which we find in this, as in most Mr. Tupper's productions, is, that there is more of "mind" than of "heart" in it. There is but little of the imaginative faculty about him he is never warm, he has no colouring, no imagery, no play, no passion very cold, very soberand, let us say, so far as this little volume, very sensible. We congratulate him that he has risen to a lower elevation, if we may be pardoned the paradoxical expression. When he sang up in the clouds, nobody understood him; but when he leaves his "sky-larking," and sinks down to his "nest upon the dewy ground," he makes a great deal less noise, but more melody. Apropos of Martin Tupper, our ingenious and pleasant friend, "Trilinguis," sends us a merry rant, which we humbly present to all those who are worshippers of the Tupperian philosophy:

TUPPER, TEA, AND TABBIES. Addressed to a person who showed an alarming predilection for the above Triad.

Leave the ladies to their Tupper,
Tea-pot poet,-tea-pot fools!
We will have champagne for supper-
We will follow classic rules.

Let them babble, let them tease on,
He is worthy such defence;
He has neither rhyme nor reason,
He has neither sound nor sense.

We will take our wit from Lucian,
And our sense from Cicero,
And to Martin drink confusion-
Ev Tw" mero modico."

"Will you take a cup of slop, sir ?"
Sneaking words you must decline!
Do not be a lady's fop, sir,

Ημας νυν χρη μεθύσκειν τ*

Let old maids, with dry grim faces,
Look upon us black as ink;
We will dissipate "edaces

Alcæus.

Curas" with a drop of drink!

While they talk at such a rate, O!

Of his proverbs, deep and fine,
We will take up dreams from Plato,

Scarce than Farquhar less divine.

While they gaze upon his features,

And would scan his snakey verse,
We will study Pindar's metres,

We will Homer's lines rehearse.

Let the silly Duchess her own

Green tea sip, if 'tis her choice;
Horrid stuff! hysterics pepov

Τοις δειλοισιν ανθρωποις !

While, half mad with palpitation,
She cries, "æther bring to me!"
We, with Flaccus, will cry, "Bacchus !
O Lenæus, Evohe!"

Though we sit up till a mouse I
Hear not o'er the basement creep,
Αι μεριμναι καθεύδουσι,

Let us keep them fast asleep!

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wit," to use the words of Cowper, was entangled in the cobwebs of the schools;" and so they are laid amongst the cobwebs in the dusty shelves, while his lighter compositions, his lyrics and Anacreontics, are still read with pleasure. We may say with Pope

"Who now reads Cowley? If he pleases yet, His moral pleases, not his pointed wit: Forgot his epic, nay Pindaric art;

But still I love the language of his heart."

We are not sorry to see a reprint of Leigh Hunt's poems. More than seventy years have now passed over the veteran's head-a life of varied fortune, of much trial, and of mutable celebrity. Praised and censured in each case beyond what was just, he has continued to share some portion of public estimation, notwithstanding the greater men that have since arisen; and one takes up his volume to-day with that cordiality of feeling which we extend to an old friend who has gossiped with us, and sung for us, in days when we were younger and lighter hearted. We do not mean to dwell upon this volume, for there is nothing in it that the public have not already seen.

The principal composition is "The Story of Rimini," which, with many faults, is not without beauties. The subject was one which was full of peril, for it had been sketched out by the hand of the great master of Italian song; but the outlines of Dante, like those of Retzch, convey more to the sense and the heart than the most finished pictures of inferior artists. It was these great outlines that Leigh Hunt dared to fill in with light and shadow, with colour and expressionnay, he has ventured even farther, draping the figures with his own robing, and adding accessories to the picture. We cannot help thinking that he has occasionally diluted the forceful and energetic power of Dante's brief style, and marred the pathos of his simple expressions; he leaves little to our own imagination, but fills up with minute details the progress of a passion that should be ineffable. Thus, for instance, after a very charming picture of Francesca's garden and an

Juvenal, Sat. 10.

§ B. III. Ode 28.

Horace, B. III. Ode 21.

B. IV. Ode 11.

"Stories in Verse," by Leigh Hunt. London: G. Routledge and Co. 1855.

Italian noontide, the poet proceeds to analyse the feelings of the lady; then he leads us away from the subject that should engross all our feelings, by interposing the history of Launcelot and Queen Genevra. Next he gives us the fair one in her bower, and stops to paint her attitude and air, the flow of her ringlets, the disposition of her hands. May I come in?" says Launcelot. Francesca answers, with free and usual tone, "O yes; certainly." Then the lovers are placed en pose

"And Paulo, by degrees, gently embraced,

With one permitted arm her lovely waist; And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree, Came with a touch together thrillingly." How infinitely does this fall short of the pathos of Dante's simple line

"Soli eravamo, é senza alcun sospetto,"

to say nothing of the Cockneyism of the cheeks like peaches on one tree; while the catastrophe suggested with such exquisite art by the Florentine's

"La bocca mi baciò tutto tremante,"

is reversed and ruined by the Londoner's emendation—

"And in his arms she wept all in a tremble."

If Leigh Hunt cannot compete with his great Florentine prototype, it is some consolation to him to know, that even an Italian poet has failed in like manner. Silvio Pellico has written a fine tragedy upon this favourite theme of Italian writers. It teems with tender and beautiful touches, like Dante leaving a thousand things to be thought that will not endure to be spoken; but he, too, fails where none but a master's hand is sufficient. In the second scene of the third act he makes Paulo remind Francesca of the fatal scene: the modern Italian felt the difficulty of amplifying what his great predecessor had touched, and so he puts into the mouth of the lover almost the very words which Dante gives to the daughter of Guido da Polenta; but he mars the whole picture by one fatal touch—

tu tremavi e ratta

Ti deleguasti."

After all, Leigh Hunt's poem suffers chiefly by comparison. Its actual defects are few: we judge of its short-comings

by seeing what the greatest poet after Shakspeare, who has appeared, could achieve. Hunt was himself fully sensible of the peril he placed himself in by challenging such a comparison, and he deprecates too severe criticism on that head very gracefully, by urging that the design of his poem is altogether different in its pretensions. "It is," he says, "a picture by an immature hand, of sunny luxuriance overclouded; not of a cloud, no less brief than beautiful, crossing the Gulf of Tartarus. Those who, after having seen lightning, will tolerate no other effect of light, have a right to say so, and may have the highest critical reason on their side; but those who will do otherwise have perhaps more, for they can enjoy lightning and a bask in the sunshine, too." As a poet, Leigh Hunt never occupied a high place-as an essayist he stands in higher consideration; he has a critical knowledge of good poetry, and knows how to work on the best models. If his good taste is sometimes spoiled by mannerism, it is as frequently fresh and genuine. He is often sprightly and fanciful, and occasionally polished and elegant; and we shall be glad to find that the success of this volume will justify him in publishing the rest of his miscellaneous poems which have not yet been collected.

While we are on collections, let us take a look at another very pretty volume that has just issued from the press. Here are the ballads of Wm. Harrison Ainsworth,* most of which every reader of romances has, we presume, already made acquaintance with. While one cannot withhold from the author of "Rookwood," the admiration due to great ability, it is impossible not to feel regret that his talents have not been always used to good purpose. The Jack Shepherd school of novels has a strong tendency to vitiate public morals as well as public taste; and we could have been well pleased to see some of those songs full of vulgar slang and "thieves' Latin,' reeking with the fumes of the pothouse or the prison, excluded from the pages of this volume. With this drawback, it is as pleasant a companion for a half hour or so as heart could desire.

* "Ballads." By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. G. Routledge and Co., London. 1855.

Mr.

Ainsworth knows how to troll out a legendary ballad as well as any one we could name, with the exception of Macaulay or Aytoun. When he sings the sword of Bayard, or the ditty of Du Guesclin, or the romantic ballads of Yolande or Esclairmond, we feel that he evokes a true spirit of chivalry and of love that elevates and improves our natures; but the singer of romany chants and the chronicler of rapparees and highwaymen deserves no toleration. Let the laureate of ruffians and cut-throats seek a fitting theatre and a suitable auditory.

We should say a great deal more about this unpretending volume that next comes to our hand, were it not the production of one of our own especial fosterlings. With the name of Mortimer Collins,* we feel well assured every one who reads our pages has formed a very pleasant acquaintance. Some of those fine, rich, musical lyrics, which he seems to throw off from his heart as lightly as the thrush flings out her song from her full throat, and which, from time to time, we have sent through the world-some of these, we say, he has put together, and a few others that we have not seen before: and so he has sent us a little book-all too little, for he has omitted many things which we would have gladly seen again. Well, we must, we suppose, be contented with what he gives us.

Here is a pleasant picture as any we have seen for a long time; 'tis one which none of our friends have seen before:

THE DEAN'S DAUGHTER.

I.

"Autumnal sunshine seems to fall
With riper beauty, mellower, brighter,
On every favoured garden wall

Whose owner wears the mystic mitre : And apricots and peaches grow,

With hues no cloudy weather weakens, To ripeness laymen never know,

For deans, and canons, and archdeacons.

II.

"Dean Willmott's was a pleasant place, Close under the cathedral shadows; Old elm-trees lent it antique grace;

A river wandered through the meadows.

Well-ordered vines and fruit-trees filled The terrace walks; no branch had gone astray

Since monks, in horticulture skilled,

Had planned those gardens for their monast'ry.

III.

Calm, silent, sunny: whispereth
No tone about that sleepy Deanery,
Save when the mighty organ's breath
Came husht through endless aisles of
greenery.

No eastern breezes swung in air

The great elm-boughs, or crisped the ivy: The powers of nature seemed aware

Dean Willmott's motto was "Dormivi."

IV.

Dean Willmott's mental life was spent
In Arabic and architecture:
On both of these most eloquent-

It was a treat to hear him lecture. His dinners were exceeding fine,

His quiet jests extremely witty:
He kept the very best port wine
In that superb cathedral city.

V.

But oh, the daughter of the Dean!

The Laureate's self could not describe her: So sweet a creature ne'er was seen

Beside Eurotas, Xanthus, Tiber. So light a foot, a lip so red,

A waist so delicately slenderNot Cypres, fresh from Ocean's bed,

Was half so white and soft and tender.

VI.

"Heigho! the daughter of the Dean!
Beneath those elm-trees apostolic,
While autumn sunlight danced between,
We two had many a merry frolic.
Sweet Sybil Willmott! long ago

To your young heart was love a visitor:
And often have I wished to know
How you could marry a solicitor."

Now, that is a piece of rich paint. ing; so sunny and warm -so full of quiet repose. What felicity of expression; what skilful rhyming; what a flowing versification ! and then the ending comes upon one so unawares, with a pathos that is swallowed up in its humour, so that we don't know whether to sigh or to smile. One more picture, more charming still a picture just for such a day as this on which we are now writing. 'Tis not new to us, but yet is it not the less grateful:

*"Idyls and Rhymes." By Mortimer Collins. James McGlashan, Dublin; Orr and Co. London.

1855.

A MIDSUMMER CHANT.

I.

"Earth is lying in Thy summer, O great Sovran of the spheres!
Languidly beside the water stand all day the stately steers:
And the tall green corn is waving, with a wealth of swelling ears.

II.

"All day long the mavis joyous, his sweet song in shadow weaves,
Where the mighty boughs are drooping, heavy with their summer leaves,
And the young birds aye are singing underneath the cottage caves.

III.

"Earth is lying in its beauty: silently the morning mist

Passes from the sunny mountains, by the soft-winged breezes kissed—
Warm and still the sloping hill, beneath a sky all amethyst.

IV.

"O the beauty of the sunset, deepening in purple hues—

And when Hesper rises slowly, bringing on the twilight dews,
Where the woodland streamlets ripple through the dusky avenues.

V.

"O Thou Giver of all gladness! we, the children of this earth,

Ever would desire to praise Thee, though our songs are nothing worth,
For the rich and fragrant summer, for its music and its mirth-

VI.

"For the dense green odorous woods, for the sky's unclouded dome,
For the calm sea, tossing lightly endless lines of starry foam,
Which shall thunder on for ever, till Thou take Thy people home."

But we promised not to praise our favourite, and so we shall say no more in the way of eulogy. We will lay him aside as a friend whom we shall call to us again, with but one regret, that he has left out of the present collection some of the finest poems which he has written. We hope he will repair this fault by a new and enlarged edition.

Here is another volume of lyrical compositions, which we turn over with much pleasure. If Mr. Allingham's* muse never essays the higher poetic strains, he is, at all events, equal to the subjects which he has chosen. The affections of every-day life, the charms of changing seasons, and things, and thoughts, which will find a response in every heart, are the subjects which he has chosen. They are, he tells us, the

*

productions of early life, and, as such, we willingly view them with favour. With a cultivated taste and a good feeling, both of which the author possesses, these ballads are worthy a kindly notice. There is a constant flow of pleasing thought to be found pervading the book, and sentiments, often little above commonplace, are wellexpressed, and turned with much happiness. The principal composition, "The Music-Master," is a well-sustained tale of rustic attachment, with many passages of beauty and simple pathos, interspersed with pictures of sylvan scenery, drawn by no unskilful hand. A summer evening in the country has been described by a thousand poets, but here is something that is still fresh and picturesque :

"And now, 'tis on a royal eventide,

When the ripe month sets glowing earth and air,
And Summer by a stream or thicket-side
Twists amber honeysuckles in her hair,—
Gerald and Milly meet by trembling chance,
And step for step are moving, in a trance.

"The Music-Master," and "Day and Night Songs." By William Allingham. London: G. Routledge and Co. 1855.

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