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"Their pathway foliage-curtain'd and moss-grown ;—
Behind the trees the white flood flashing swift,
Through many moist and ferny rocks flung down,
Roars steadily, where sunlights play and shift.
How oft they stop, how long, they nothing know,
Nor how the pulses of the evening go.

"Their talk ?-the dappled hyacinthine glade

Lit up in points of blue,-how soft and treble
The kine's deep lowing is by distance made,—
The quail's "twit-wit-wit," like a hopping pebble
Thrown along ice,-the dragonflies, the birds,
The rustling twig,-all noticed in few words.

"A level pond, inlaid with lucid shadows

Of groves and crannied cliffs and evening sky,
And rural domes of hay, where the green meadows
Slope to embrace its margin peacefully,
The slumb'ring river to the rapid draws;
And here, upon a grassy jut, they pause."

The smaller pieces are upon various subjects, such as usually suggest themselves to the mind of young poets. One, "The Way-side Well," is very. pleasingly written, though not with as much power as the lines on the same subject which are to be found in the volume of Mortimer Collins which we have just noticed. It has, however, a rural simplicity and repose about it that will justify our pausing to quote it :

THE WAYSIDE WELL.

"O thou pretty Wayside Well,
Wreath'd about with roses!
Where, beguiled with soothing spell,
Weary foot reposes.

"With a welcome fresh and green
Wave thy border grasses,

By the dusty traveller seen,
Sighing as he passes.

"Cup of no Circean bliss,

Charity of summer,
Making happy with a kiss
Every meanest comer!

"Morning, too, and eventide,

Without stint or measure,
Cottage households near and wide
Share thy liquid treasure.

"Fair the greeting face ascends,
Like a naiad daughter,
When the peasant lassie bends
To thy trembling water.

"When a laddie brings her pail

Down the twilight meadow,
Tender falls the whisper'd tale,
Soft the double shadow!

"Clear as childhood in thy look,
Nature seems to pet thee.
Fierce July that drains the brook
Hath no power to fret thee.

Shelter'd cool and free from smirch
In thy cavelet shady,
O'er thee in a silver birch

Stoops a forest lady.

"To thy glass the Star of Eve

Shyly dares to bend her;
Matron Moon thy depths receive,
Globed in mellow splendour.

"Bounteous spring! for ever own
Undisturb'd thy station;
Not to thirsty lips alone
Serving mild donation.

"Never come the newt or frog,
Pebble thrown in malice,
Mud or wither'd leaves, to clog
Or defile thy chalice.

"Heaven be still within thy ken,

Through the veil thou wearest,-Glimpsing clearest, as with men, When the boughs are barest !"

"Wayconnell Tower" is a still better specimen of the author's powers in the same style; indeed, the best productions of the volume appear to us to be of this character:

WAYCONNELL TOWER.

"The tangling wealth by June amass'd, Left rock and ruin vaguely seen; Thick ivy-cables held them fast,

Light boughs descended, floating green.

"Slow turn'd the stair-a breathless height,
And, far above, it set me free,
When all the golden fan of light
Was closing down into the sea.

"A window half-way up the wall
It led to; and so high was that,
The tallest trees were not so tall
That they could reach to where I sat.

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ON THE SUNNY SHORE.

"Checquer'd with woven shadows as I lay
Among the grass, blinking the watery gleam;
I saw an Echo-Spirit in his bay,

Most idly floating in the noontide beam.
Slow heaved his filmy skiff, and fell, with sway
Of ocean's giant pulsing, and the Dream,
Buoy'd like the young moon on a level stream
Of greenish vapour on decline of day,
Swam airily,-watching the distant flocks

Of sea-gulls, whilst a foot in careless sweep
Touch'd the clear-trembling cool with tiny shocks,
Faint-circling; till at last he dropt asleep,
Lull'd by the hush-song of the glittering deep
Lap-lapping drowsily the heated rocks."

If Mr. Allingham cannot lay claim to much originality or great vigour, he has certainly considerable sweetness of versification, and a true appreciation of natural beauties. These, with a cultivated taste, and a sufficient share of judgment, are likely to ensure the production of what will be pleasing. To fulfil that end is the mission of the many who write; to attain to the higher walks of poetry is granted but to the few. The critic who would proscribe the former class would do no good service to literature or to the public. We can well afford to linger over verses such as those before us, and feel not the less relish for loftier themes or higher thoughts, when we have the good fortune to meet with them.

We have a great dislike to what are called "fugitive pieces." We suppose they are compositions of so flighty

a character, that one is never able to fix them that they are gone as soon as come, leaving no trace behind. From our own experience of such things, we have no great desire to stay them on their course, whether it be upwards on boys' kites, or downwards to the pastrycook's kitchen- nay, we should be rather better pleased to find that they were gone even before they were come. Mr. Henry Leatham* has given us some of this sort of literature, which he calls his "Lesser Poems" (using a word that Dr. Johnson justly calls a barbarous corruption). Whatever fame his greater poems have acquired for him, we do not apprehend it will be largely augmented by the lesser ones. They make no pretension, he tells, to be works of labour or of art. So much the worse for writer and for reader. We know little of any value, either in poetry or in any thing else,

* "A Selection from the Lesser Poems of Wm. Henry Leatham." London: Longman 1855.

and Co.

that can be produced without the one and the other. We do not mean to assume that Mr. Leatham is insensible to the importance of such handmaidens to genius, but he should be slow to offer any thing to the public with such an implied claim to its favour, or such an apology. In truth, we always look upon this announcement as a piece of vanity of the utterer, as who should say, "If I can throw off such things without trouble, what could I not do were I to use the aids of labour and art?" We have a very grave suspicion, now that we have read over these poems, that they are little else than the residuary scrapings of the portfolio of a man who has done and can do a great deal better things-the caput mortuum that remained in the crucible after all the ore had been taken away. There is nothing to censure, there is nothing to praise; a good deal of common-place thought in common-place language. We have gone from cover to cover without finding a new sentiment or feeling a fresh sensation. Let us give one of these poems, perhaps the best in its way: :

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lation to the sorrow of the bereaved parent; but one scarce expects the public to be much in love with those platitudes who can read their Bibles in the hour of such trials, and learn how David found consolation when his child was taken away from him; and the sublimer comfort which Job took to his soul, while his body was racked with pain, in the contemplation of the resurrection. Mr. Leatham gives us some pieces which he classifies as "humorous." At this side of the Channel we flatter ourselves we have no small relish for, and appreciation of, humour; indeed, our good friends on the eastern side are in the habit of telling us that our taste in that way is somewhat more than is good for us-that if we laughed less we would fare all the better. venture to say, however, that very few of his Irish readers will discover much humour in this volume; and were he to read his jeu d'esprit of "Railways and Royalty" in College-green to a convention of carmen (the best critics, by the way, of such matters extant), he would scarce extort a smile from the most mercurial of his auditors, even when he read about Lancaster finding his head between his knees. We have been the less lenient in our observations on Mr. Leatham's mediocrity, because he relies on his previous positions as an author. Had he been a young author, making his first appeal, we should temper our admonition with encouragement, advise him to have constant recourse to "labour and art,” to elevate, if possible, his soul above platitudes, and his style above combut we will not take these mon-places; lesser things from Mr. Leatham, as beggars are doled out the remains of a banquet, after the dainties have been all consumed by worthier guests.

Whatever have been our short-comings at home in the way of warlike preparation, one class has, at all events, furnished its quota. We mean the poets; they have been very busy and very valiant withal. They have shed ink with a desperate and most gallant recklessness of that precious fluid. We have had more songs than we can well number, during the last year and a-half; and if the sound of harps could batter down the walls of Sebastopol, as that of horns did those of Jericho, we should have been masters of those obstinate strongholds long since. Have they not been battering the place with their

shells? Have they not beleagured the very walls with the testudo ?

The latest ordnance in the way of war-songs that has issued from our poetical arsenal has been furnished by Mr. Bennet. They are as good as any that we have seen heretofore-a remark which we do not intend to convey any extravagant commendation for we confess we have not yet seen any of those lyrics which are likely to claim a lasting place in the country's literature, to be treasured by our children's children, like "Hohenlinden," and "The Battle of the Baltic," and those fine old sea-songs that have been long, as they still are, the delight and pride of British mariners. Some of these songs, however, which Mr. Bennett has published have this great merit, that they are written in strong, vigorous, manly English, such as a British soldier can understand and a British peasant can sympathise in, and are by no means deficient in spirit, with here and there a dash of pathos, just so much as a soldier can afford to indulge in upon the day of battle, that will elevate his heart without depressing his courage. "The Inkermann" contains some good verses of this description, that may possibly render it a popular favourite. We will quote a portion of it:

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* "War Songs." By W. C. Bennett. London: Effingham Wilson. 1855.

verses, short-lived we hope they may
prove; and we have learned to recog-
nise no despicable foe in those who in-
flicted upon us a bloody repulse on
the memorable 18th of June, causing
the British soldier for once to sigh as
he recalls that day in the history of
his life, and marking it with a black
stone in the fasti of British annals.
And here we are still, after many
months have passed over-winter, and
spring, and summer-beleaguring that
fortress which we arrogantly thought
would have fallen into our hands
within one week after the battle of
Alma, while all the time its fortifica-
tions seem to rise up under our can-
nonading, as its soldier hordes grow
beneath our slaughter. Well, we have
learned wisdom, and gained our learn-
ing at a very dear school. Still, let us
keep up our spirits, and try to keep up.
the hearts of those who do battle for
us in the Crimea; and so Mr. Bennett
gives his aid in his chant "To the Be-
siegers of Sebastopol," of which we
quote the opening and concluding

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that it was written at a period of sickness, which may, perhaps, account for a want of method and completeness about it. Nevertheless, whatever be its drawbacks, it is a composition full of thoughtfulness, and abounds with passages of great beauty. A certain Italian Count Lamballa, despairing of winning the affections of the lady he loves, flies to a convent, and, in the austerities of religion, seeks a close communion with God; but amongst the superstitions and formularies of the brotherhood he cannot find what he wants. Then the desire to go again into the world comes back upon him, and the memory of his love will not be repressed. And so, with the aid of a friendly monk, he escapes from the convent, and secretly regains his own castle.

In the meantime his mistress is not without a suitor. We have the somewhat hackneyed device of a rich nobleman becoming the sole creditor of an impoverished father, who flies, leaving his daughter exposed to the plots of her admirer. Julian, of course, intervenes just at the right moment to rescue Lilia from Nembroni, who is prevented running away with her in a chaise-and-pair by the very effective process of a dagger-stroke in the heart, and the lady is conveyed senseless to Julian's castle. Julian discovers that Lilia loves him, and we have some very well written dialogue between the lovers. The failing in the lady's character is evidently a want of strength and reliance on her companion. She shrinks from the stains of blood, though the act had purchased her own freedom. She dreads to fly with the monk and marry him, and yet she yields eventually, and they escape just as he is about to be seized and taken back to his convent.

Five years pass away, and Julian is in a meanly-furnished house, at night, bending over the crib of a sleeping child. He is still the same earnest seeker after God, craving hungrily to be filled with spiritual knowledge. A strange misunderstanding arises between him and his wife, each believing that the love of the other is constrained. The scenes between the father and his little child are full of tenderness. The me

* Within or Without :" a Dramatic Poem. By Geo. MacDonald. London: Longman and Co. 1855.

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