Fast crumbling ruins, where mossy verdure grows, Their glories past away, and which we now deplore. Ah, no! Where Copân's walls essay to hide Where linger hues, once bright, now faded, faint, and dim. • Ruin-muttering breezes slowly creep along High terraced steps, that, from the river's side, Whose faithful key, long sought, and long denied, When the true secret of this key is known, Hung round the people bent in worship there, What hopes their flagging fervour fondly fanned, What fears their bosoms tortured to despair, Whence did their founders come ?-if but departed, where ? Whence came thy founders? lonely City, say, Say-were they of those scattered tribes, whose fate 66 Oh, solemn city! from thy lips of stone At last there comes a low sepulchral tone-- Except thy mouldering walls, the wished-for tale to hear! Stranger, attend! Three hundred years ago A noble race were cradled on my breast, Their origin from me thou must not know, Heaven wills it thus, and Heaven must will the best ; In mind they languished, and in soul they died- They wasted-but my children's hearts no more Around what once was theirs, but then would fade away. Such is my tale-soon shall that charméd cloak Yet, since my sons have bowed beneath the yoke LORD BELFAST'S "POETS AND POETRY OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY."* SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, in one of his letters, now, alas! almost forgotten, has dwelt on the charms of Divine Poesy to him who toils for his country's good, whether on the battle-plain or in the court; he tells how consoling are its tender influences, how all-pervading its witching magic, how it, sunbeamlike, gilds and refines the commonest and meanest objects, and touching earth, air, and ocean with its pencil of light, forms in imagination a pathway from earth to heaven. If that mirror of gallantry, the last true knight, whose soul flew up to God from the red plain of Zutphen, had lived and written in this nineteenth century, he would doubtless have added to his praises of the charms and uses of Poetry its consolations in a busy, working, toiling life, its soothing and elevating power on the mind of the merBy the EARL OF BELFAST. *Poets and Poetry of the Nineteenth Century. don: Longman, Brown, Green, & Longmans, 1853. 1 vol. Lon chant, the trader, the mechanic, how it can be found in the noisy workshop, the crowded mill, how it fascinates the young and cheers the old, and how it has adapted itself to our nature, and given utterance to the noblest aspirings and purest longings of the soul. To extend its influence, to render its beauties more generally known and more universally felt, were the objects of the very excellent course of lectures, delivered by the Earl of Belfast in the Music Hall, in this town, last winter, and which form the agreeable little volume now before us. Delivered to an audience, in which could be found all ranks, from the peer to the mechanic, they were intelligible to all, and though their style was polished, it was simple, and graceful without being ornate. We can unaffectedly say, that we rarely spent pleasanter evenings than those passed in hearing this gifted young nobleman expatiate on the beauties, and discuss the works, of the poets of our own time and we doubt not but that the same pleasure will be felt by all who read this volume, though the animation of the lecturer, and the music of his voice, be wanting in the printed page. We can feel, however, the additional interest to which Lord Belfast alludes in his preface, in his quotations from the "Spectator;" we are aware of our author's appearance, manners, voice, complexion, and condition, and perchance these little items may sway our criticism in his favour, besides knowing that he who takes his title from our own town is truly and indeed "one of ourselves;" but, apart from all local feeling in the matter, Lord Belfast has put forward such claims on our attention in this volume as to command our notice. to numb the reader to apathy." Weary, fatigued, and dispirited were we, when we first read "Madoc," yea, even, the "Curse of Kehama,' and we have since, with the recollection of that infliction strong on our mind, studiously and carefully eschewed any return to those works. We know we must expect to be censured for expressing this opinion, but the poetry, if poetry it be, of Southey, comes to us so disguised with pilgrim-like weeds of travel, that we refuse to recognise the face beneath the hood. The gray cloak of the friar may hide a manly heart, a free spirit, but we are slow to believe it. If poetry be in its chrysalis state in Southey's epics, it soars as a butterfly in the songs of Moore, sipping sweets from every blossom-it roams over the garden, and reflects on its bright enamelled wings the sunbeams and the flowers. Perhaps the most pleasing sketch in this volume is that of the poet of our own country; for, in Lord Belfast's judgment of Moore, are combined the feelings of an Irishman and the ardour of a poet. From it we take one passage, when, after quoting those exquisite lines— "I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining," our author thus proceeds : "Oh, that you could have heard Moore himself sing those words! It was the triumph of music and poetry. Of voice he had but little, possessing only sufficient to convey the deep expression which he knew how to throw into his singing. When seated before the pianoforte, he became perfectly abstracted; his thoughts wandered far away from the scene in which he was enacting the chief part; he saw no longer the anxious faces holding their breath to catch his faint but earnest accents. He was back in his native land, and saw, indeed, the bark glide over the waters-saw He has given us excellent, and, in again the desolate spectacle that met his general, most satisfactory views, of the gaze when he returned to the beach, and distinguishing excellencies and pecu- then moralised over it in such earnest acliarities of the great poets of this cen- cents, that you might have thought the tury, illustrating his remarks by well- simile struck him for the first time. How chosen selections from their works. In sad! how plaintive! But mark the change. his estimate of the powers, the abilities, Now his thoughts return to the wild the character of Southey, he has thought freshness of morning," and his voice tremfor himself, and dared to dissent from bles no longer, and that tear that hung the admirers of this much over-praised just now so heavy on his eyelids, now poet. We quite agree with him "that brightness, and seems to catch the lustre sparkles with a thousand rays of joy and several of the marked features of of the diamond from the fire of 'love's Southey's poetical works are essentially exquisite flame.' And now he has ceased, characteristic, and, in themselves, serve but the echo still remains, and all hold their breath, not daring to break the hallowed silence, even to say, 'how beautiful!'" If Lord Belfast's sketch of Moore be graceful, impassioned, and full of feel. beautful Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together And on her silver cross, soft amethyst, And the one sentence in which he de- “As though a rose should shut and be a bud again. mond would be that perfect song-“ ] arise from dreams of thee "—which, though so frequently set to music, we never yet heard thoroughly interpreted. It is the very revelation of the deepest love, the most pure and perfect we have ever seen, catching, as it does, the very reflection and shadows of the heart. But we must not linger over this pleasant theme; we are not to write in praise of Love, but in review of these Lectures, in which there is so much suggestive of remark as to embarrass us with our very riches. Only once do we consider Lord Belfast unfortunate, not only in the choice of an author, but in his selections from him-we mean the author of the "Ingoldsby Legends." We would have preferred to have left Mr. Barham resting in that oblivion to which his works are rapidly hastening, and with the rest of his effusions, conceived in the worst possible taste, and abounding in slang, permitted Tom Noddy" to remain. Not that we do not like a laughing philosopher as well as a weeping one, for Tom Hood's wit does move our smiles as much as "Lord we his rare pathos our tears, but But when, in a volume of nearly three hundred pages, we find so little to find fault with, and so much to praise, our readers may confidently look for a pleasant and a profitable hour when reading these lectures. And as a graceful porch to a picturesque mansion adds new beauty to it, so will they find this As for Lord Belfast's critique on Shel- little work a most invaluable entrance ley, though it has been attacked, with to the great temple of Poetry, as exhigreat venom, in a weekly newspaper, bited in the works of the nineteenth a "Lucus a non lucendo" style of century. With the hope that ere long article, it appears to us singularly fair its author will return to us, prepared to and candid. The selections made by Lord Belfast to illustrate the works of this poet are, though excellent, not what we would have chosen. However, every one has his own taste in such matters, and we confess that our “Shelley" dia in delight us next winter with a sequel to these agreeable lectures, and that his gallantry will then prevent his neglecting the female poets of Great Britain, we wish him a hearty "Farewell and God speed." LIGHT AND SHADE.* IF graceful, unaffected, and simple pictures of English life in a quiet cathedral town, combined with a keen insight into character, and an excellent, pure, and unadorned style, be sufficient to attract notice and to obtain praise, then Miss Drury's charming little volume before us ought to be much read, and highly lauded. With a deep, yet unobtrusive religious spirit pervading every page, it inculcates the necessity of perseverance and hope in every situation of life, and proves the tender and soulsubduing influence of Art on the mind, elevating, raising, and refining it. Elchester, the scene of the tale, is well described; its Dean, its cathedral, its watchmaker, are all sketched with great truth and fidelity, while the portraits of the Wat Tyler club, and the democratic rabble, are hit off with a light, free, dashing pen. Not less successful do we consider the sketch of Angel, Countess Moore; it is extremely natural and well shaded. We seem to meet in her some familiar face, so many touches seem copied from real life. In fact, all Miss Dru`ry's female characters are truly drawn. Margaret, in "Friends and Fortune,' the watchmaker's daughter, in "Light and Shade," and the heroine of "Eastbury," are all felicitiously painted, and by no young artist," for there is the most careful attention paid by our authoress to the little trifles, as we call them, which truly tell the character of the man 66 or woman. The feeling of Miss Drury for art is very apparent in her writings. Who, that has read, does not remember the touching episode in "Friends and Fortune," of the sculptor's children relieved by the heiress, and the beautiful statue of Death, the Friend of Genius; while, in the volume we have now noticed, both the artist himself, and his lively, mercurial, caricaturing friend, are inimitable - the French dash of the one, and the English patience and perseverance of the other, so powerfully and strongly contrasted. We cordially recommend, not only "Light and Shade," to our readers, but also the other writings of this accomplished lady, among which, for earnest feeling and pious thought, we would especially notice the "Inn by the Seaside," and "Friends and Fortune." 66 Eastbury, or Village Life," will also please them, though perhaps inferior in interest to Miss Drury's new work. The "Inn by the Seaside" is an Allegory of this world and the one to come, and it escapes the usual fault of religious works of the class, narrow and sectarian views, breathing as it does the true spirit of the Gospel-love and charity to all men. It is really excellent both in design and execution, and will, we doubt not, meet with the attention it so well deserves. We are glad to perceive that Miss Drury's works are rapidly becoming very general favourites; and the neat and compact form in which they are published by Pickering, adds not inconsiderably to their usefulness. One volumed tales are more read than everthe three volume novel will soon be only found on the shelf of the circulating library. We regret that our notice of these works, demanding a detailed critique, must now be necessarily so short and hurried, but we cannot let this opportunity pass, of recommending, even by a word, to our readers, volumes so clever, interesting, and instructive. * LIGHT AND SHADE; or, the Young Artist. By ANNA HARRIET DRURY. 8vo. London: Pickering. 1 vol. THE INN BY THE SEASIDE: An Allegory. By ANNA HARRIET DRURY. London : Pickering. 1.2 |