SONNETS.

———

BY W. W. STORY.

———

MICHAEL ANGELO.Fixed, as if nothing ever could o’erthrowIts infinite faith, and firm as it had stood,Stemming life-long misfortune’s sapping flood,Is the brave head of Michael Angelo.No smile, no fear, that noble face doth show:A sublime purpose o’er it seems to brood,In which no mean thought ever did intrude,No busy interest hurry to and fro⁠—A will so stern, that nothing can abate,Fastens the mouth. The anxious abstract eye,Beyond earth’s gloomy shadow’s lowering nigh,Beholds great angels in the distance wait⁠—And on those features, seamed with many a line,Love seems like sunlight on rude cliffs to shine.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

Fixed, as if nothing ever could o’erthrowIts infinite faith, and firm as it had stood,Stemming life-long misfortune’s sapping flood,Is the brave head of Michael Angelo.No smile, no fear, that noble face doth show:A sublime purpose o’er it seems to brood,In which no mean thought ever did intrude,No busy interest hurry to and fro⁠—A will so stern, that nothing can abate,Fastens the mouth. The anxious abstract eye,Beyond earth’s gloomy shadow’s lowering nigh,Beholds great angels in the distance wait⁠—And on those features, seamed with many a line,Love seems like sunlight on rude cliffs to shine.

Fixed, as if nothing ever could o’erthrow

Its infinite faith, and firm as it had stood,

Stemming life-long misfortune’s sapping flood,

Is the brave head of Michael Angelo.

No smile, no fear, that noble face doth show:

A sublime purpose o’er it seems to brood,

In which no mean thought ever did intrude,

No busy interest hurry to and fro⁠—

A will so stern, that nothing can abate,

Fastens the mouth. The anxious abstract eye,

Beyond earth’s gloomy shadow’s lowering nigh,

Beholds great angels in the distance wait⁠—

And on those features, seamed with many a line,

Love seems like sunlight on rude cliffs to shine.

RAFFAELLO.Thou wouldst seem sorrowful, but that we knewThat mild, fair brow, that serious seeking eye,Where the pale lightnings of emotion lie,Were caught from earnest striving to look throughThese shadows that obscure the mortal view⁠—This hazy distance of humanity,Far dawnings of the Beautiful and True,And those divine thoughts that can never die.Thy mouth, so tender and so sensitive⁠—Full and unrigid—formed as if to partWith each emotion—seemeth tuned by Art,Like harp-strings, with each wandering breath to live;And that same apostolic light is thineWhich made thy Christ and Mother so divine.

RAFFAELLO.

Thou wouldst seem sorrowful, but that we knewThat mild, fair brow, that serious seeking eye,Where the pale lightnings of emotion lie,Were caught from earnest striving to look throughThese shadows that obscure the mortal view⁠—This hazy distance of humanity,Far dawnings of the Beautiful and True,And those divine thoughts that can never die.Thy mouth, so tender and so sensitive⁠—Full and unrigid—formed as if to partWith each emotion—seemeth tuned by Art,Like harp-strings, with each wandering breath to live;And that same apostolic light is thineWhich made thy Christ and Mother so divine.

Thou wouldst seem sorrowful, but that we knew

That mild, fair brow, that serious seeking eye,

Where the pale lightnings of emotion lie,

Were caught from earnest striving to look through

These shadows that obscure the mortal view⁠—

This hazy distance of humanity,

Far dawnings of the Beautiful and True,

And those divine thoughts that can never die.

Thy mouth, so tender and so sensitive⁠—

Full and unrigid—formed as if to part

With each emotion—seemeth tuned by Art,

Like harp-strings, with each wandering breath to live;

And that same apostolic light is thine

Which made thy Christ and Mother so divine.

TO FLORENCE.

———

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

———

Dear Florence! young and fair thou art,Thy cheeks are like the rose’s heart⁠—The sweet, red rose, that’s newly born,When from the faintly dappled sky,Looks out the laughing glance of morn.Alas! dear one, I can but sighTo think how many years divideThy happy turn of life and mine!A river rolleth deep and wideBetween my destined path and thine.Still unto thee my fancy flies,With thee my thoughts and visions dwell,And from thy soft, celestial eyesComes sunshine to my hermit-cell.I love thee! nay—turn not away!I dare not hope—’twere worse than vainTo cherish in my heart a rayOf feeling fraught with grief and pain.All but thy image I resign;With that I cannot part—it glowsWith hues so lovely, so divine.That though upon my head the snowsOf Age were cast, I yet should traceThe lines of thy enchanting face;Still would thy form, instinct with grace,Before me rise, and I should see,In all things bright some types of thee!

Dear Florence! young and fair thou art,

Thy cheeks are like the rose’s heart⁠—

The sweet, red rose, that’s newly born,

When from the faintly dappled sky,

Looks out the laughing glance of morn.

Alas! dear one, I can but sigh

To think how many years divide

Thy happy turn of life and mine!

A river rolleth deep and wide

Between my destined path and thine.

Still unto thee my fancy flies,

With thee my thoughts and visions dwell,

And from thy soft, celestial eyes

Comes sunshine to my hermit-cell.

I love thee! nay—turn not away!I dare not hope—’twere worse than vainTo cherish in my heart a rayOf feeling fraught with grief and pain.All but thy image I resign;With that I cannot part—it glowsWith hues so lovely, so divine.That though upon my head the snowsOf Age were cast, I yet should traceThe lines of thy enchanting face;Still would thy form, instinct with grace,Before me rise, and I should see,In all things bright some types of thee!

I love thee! nay—turn not away!

I dare not hope—’twere worse than vain

To cherish in my heart a ray

Of feeling fraught with grief and pain.

All but thy image I resign;

With that I cannot part—it glows

With hues so lovely, so divine.

That though upon my head the snows

Of Age were cast, I yet should trace

The lines of thy enchanting face;

Still would thy form, instinct with grace,

Before me rise, and I should see,

In all things bright some types of thee!

THE TWO DUKES.

———

BY ANN S. STEPHENS.

———

(Continued from page 144.)

A still more important scene than that which we have described in Lady Jane Seymour’s chamber was passing in the Lord Protector’s closet. A portion of those noblemen forming his council had been hastily summoned to assist in the examination of Lord Dudley, who was brought up from his prison in the new and damp rooms, near the Strand, where he had spent a night of discomfort, which by no means reconciled his proud spirit to the degradation heaped upon it. Though a member, and most powerful one, of his own council, the Lord Protector had neglected to summon the Earl of Warwick to the examination of his son, and Dudley was far too anxious for a good understanding between his own father and the family of his betrothed, to solicit his interference, or even send news of his arrest to the haughty earl. He dreaded the fiery indignation with which the intelligence might be received, and even felt a sensation of relief when he found his father’s seat vacant at the tribunal before which he was so ignominiously arraigned. He was sensible that the Earl of Warwick, as well as the duke, was willing to avail himself of any excuse which might terminate the contract existing between himself and the Lady Jane. His affection for the sweet girl was both sincere and ardent, and though he felt the insult offered by her father with the irritation of a proud, sensitive spirit, he suffered still more deeply from a consciousness that she was a sharer in his trouble, and that the proceedings to which he was an unwilling party were not only a degradation to his manhood but liable to separate him from the object of his affections forever.

With these indignant and conflicting feelings the young nobleman presented himself before the Lord Protector and the few councillors whom he had gathered to his assistance—men who seemed but ill at ease in the position which they held, and were in truth far more anxious to appease the duke than to join him in rash measures against a family which had already rendered itself fearful throughout the kingdom by the might of its power. The artisan was there, craven and abject, yet with something of insolence in his manner; but whether he was brought forward as a witness or a prisoner the proud young man did not deign to inquire; under any circumstances to be so associated was a cruel insult which made the blood tingle in his veins. It was with a firm lip and an eye darkling with subdued excitement that Lord Dudley placed himself before the council table to be questioned like a criminal by the man he had loved almost as a father. The duke seemed touched by some regretful feelings, and a flush came up to his forehead as he encountered the proud glance which was bent upon him by the prisoner. At another time he would have shrunk from mingling the pure name of his child with an investigation so strange in its nature—with questions which might even endanger the honor of his name, but this consideration was lost in his dislike of the Earl of Warwick—a man whom he feared and hated almost as much as he could fear and hate mortal being. Ambition was the leading characteristic of both—such ambition as at last rendered their strife for power like the struggle of two gladiators in mortal combat. They were bold combatants, and hitherto the strife had been a quiet and subtle one. Now a kingdom was looking on. Somerset had sprung into the arena, struck the first blow, and he was well aware that his station and power depended on the victory which he was contending for—that Warwick must be driven from the council of the nation or himself from the protectorship. He little knew how still and subtle had been the windings of his enemy, and with how deep a triumph he received the news of his son’s arrest. We have said that Dudley had caught one glimpse of his betrothed on his way to the council, and for her sake he condescended to answer, with haughty calmness, the questions propounded by her father. His account of the share he had taken in the St. Margaret’s riot was simple, and given in few words.

He had sallied forth, as usual, on his morning ride with the ordinary number of attendants and without the most remote suspicion that any disturbance was threatened. He described the manner in which he had become entangled with the crowd, but avoided all mention of the Lady Jane till called upon by her father to state how she came under his protection. He explained all about the condition in which he had found her—the struggle with which she was conducted through the crowd—their entrance to the church and every thing that transpired till the poor girl was exposed to public outrage by the violence of her own parent. There was truth and dignity in the young man’s statement, which, against his will, convinced the duke of his injustice. But he had already proceeded too far, and he felt that to leave the charge against his prisoner unsubstantiated was to make himself still more unpopular with the people, and fling a fearful power into the hands of his rival. Family affection, his daughter, everything was forgotten in the strife to maintain his tottering power, and though his eye quailed and his brow crimsoned as he perpetrated the insult, that cringing artisan was called forward to disprove the solemn statement of a high born and honorable man.

Lord Dudley turned very pale and drew back with a stern brow and folded arms as the wretch gave his infamous story. The artisan had enough of low born cunning to see that any statement, calculated to implicate the noble youth, would be received as an atonement for the base fraud which he had committed, and persisted in the assertions that he had previously made. When the jewels and the ring were produced he turned, like a coward hound, from the stern glance fixed on him by the young noble, but still in a tone of low bravado, asserted that the ring had been given by the Lady Jane, and that Lord Dudley had rewarded his exertions in bringing them together with the emeralds.

Lord Dudley shut his teeth hard and folded his arms more tightly, as if to repress an impulse to smite the worm where he stood, but turning his flashing eyes from the miscreant to the Duke of Somerset he once more forced himself to composure. The artisan proceeded to substantiate his evidence by assertions regarding the manner and words of the lady, and was going on adding falsehood to falsehood, when the gentle girl, whom he so cruelly aspersed, opened the door and glided into the room. She moved forward to a chair which stood directly in front of the wretch, and grasping the back with her hand, stood regarding him with a look of calm and almost solemn indignation. So noiseless was her entrance that she had been more than a minute in the room before those assembled there became conscious of her presence. As the perjured man lifted his eyes in uttering a sentence, they met the rebuke of that calm glance and quailed beneath it. He faltered in what he was saying and shrunk back to avoid the frown of her innocent presence. When the duke saw his child standing before him, her robe hastily girt round her person, her hair wound in a heavy web over her head, and her sweet face bearing upon each feature evidence of late and bitter suffering, he started to his feet with an exclamation of displeasure and would have demanded the cause of her intrusion, but the change which had fallen upon her was so great that he stood gazing upon her face, lost in a degree of astonishment that had something of awe in it. He could scarcely believe that the face so calm, so pale and resolute, was that of his quiet and child-like daughter. The fountains of a resolute and noble heart had been troubled for the first time, and their overflow left upon her face an expression that never left it again—the impress of such thoughts and feelings as exalt and strengthen the heart they wring. The Lady Jane had become suddenly capable of acting for herself.

“Father,” she said, turning her large eyes from the perjurer to his judge, “Father, I have heard enough to prove how base a thing may be dared even in the presence of a parent; that man has spoken falsely, the ring which you hold was taken from my finger when I lay helpless, and so terrified that I was almost unconscious of the loss, and only remember now as in a dream that a strange grasp was on my hand, a wrench that pained me; then I fainted and forgot all till my mother spoke of the ring a few moments since in my chamber. The emeralds my Lord Duke—” she hesitated a moment and her eyes filled as if with regret that she had uttered so cold a tittle, “the emeralds—my father, were not Lord Dudley’s but my mother’s gift, and I bound my hair with them yesterday morning when I went forth according to your command to take the air; they must have broken loose from my head, for behold here is a proof that they were my own and not Lord Dudley’s.”

As she spoke the Lady Jane unbound the rich masses of her hair, which had not been smoothed since the previous day, and disentangled a fragment of the emerald band which still sparkled within it. They were broad smooth gems linked together with its delicate chain work of gold, and each with a fanciful device cut upon its surface. One of those which the duke held, still remained firm in its setting, a link or two of the chain adhered to it, and those links corresponded in size and workmanship with the fragment which Lady Jane had taken from her hair.

“Still,” said the Duke of Somerset, willing to exculpate his daughter, but determined at all hazards to make good his charge against Dudley, “still does this in no way clear the prisoner from his participation in the riot. We saw him with our own eyes amid the mob, we⁠—”

The duke broke off suddenly, for as the last words left his lips, the closet door was flung open and a tall man, almost regally arrayed, and of imperious presence, entered the room. He cast one quick glance at the Lord Protector, from under his eyebrows, and moving tranquilly to a chair by the council table sat down.

“Go on, my lord duke; I am rather late, but do not let my entrance disturb these august proceedings,” he said, blandly, though there was a slight trembling of the voice which told how tumultuous were the passions concealed beneath all that elaborate and courteous display of words.

The Duke bowed stiffly, and his face was crimson to the temples. Lord Dudley grew pale and red by turns, half disposed to approach his father, and as yet uncertain that he was aware of the position in which he was placed before the council. The Lady Jane trembled visibly and grasped the chair against which she stood for support, while the councillors looked in each other’s faces confused and at a loss how to act.

All this time Warwick sat with his elbow resting on the table, supporting his chin with the palm of his bent hand, and gazing with a doubtful smile, quietly into the duke’s face, as if they had been the best friends on earth.

“Go on, my lord duke, go on,” he said slightly waving his right hand, “Pray do not allow my late and abrupt entrance to interrupt the flow of your grace’s eloquence.”

“Excuse me,” replied the duke, rising from his seat, “this subject must be a painful one, alike to your Lordship and myself. We scarcely expected the Earl of Warwick would choose to meet us in council this morning.”

“And therefore did not summon him to the examination of his son and heir. It was kindly managed, my lord duke, very kindly; be assured the earl of Warwick will not forget this delicacy. Nor will the king, whom I left but now, so deeply impressed with the generous care which your grace bestows on the honor of my humble house, that he has summoned such noblemen of your council as were deemed worthy of the generous silence with which your grace has honored me, to meet him at Somerset House, where, with permission, I will have the pleasure of conducting my son.”

There was cool and cutting irony in this speech which would have lashed the exciteable protector to fury, but for the startling intelligence which it conveyed, regarding the young king. This so over-powered him that he sat pale and with gleaming eyes gazing on the composed and smiling features of the earl, speechless and for a moment bereft of all presence of mind.

Without seeming to notice the effect his speech had made on the protector, Warwick arose, threw back his velvet cloak with a careless toss that exposed the sable facings, and smoothing the folds over his shoulder with elaborate care, as if no deeper thought than that of personal appearance entered his mind, approached Lord Dudley and taking his arm seemed about to conduct him from the room without further ceremony.

“My Lord of Warwick,” exclaimed Somerset starting to his feet and suddenly finding voice, “that young man is a prisoner under arrest for treason, and shall not leave this presence save with a guard of armed men.”

“This young man is my prisoner, under the king’s warrant, and he not only leaves this room without other guard than his father’s arm, but denies the right of any man here, to question or retain him.”

The Earl of Warwick turned as he spoke, and for the first time that day, all the haughty fire of his soul burst into the usually quiet but fine black eyes, which dwelt upon the Lord Protector’s face.

“What—what means this? am I to be braved at my own council table? I⁠—”

The Earl of Somerset broke off, for so intense was his rage, that words were denied him, and specks of foam rushed up to his white lips in their place.

“No, my lord duke,” replied Warwick, once more recovering the composure which he seldom lost, even in moments of the deepest excitement, “not at your own council table; that no longer exists. The council of this nation is sitting now at Somerset House, andIpreside there by a choice of the majority, and by desire of King Edward.”

The Duke of Somerset fell back in his chair as if a sudden blow had stunned him, and shading his pale face with his scarcely less pallid hand, remained motionless and silent. The Lady Jane sprang to his side, flung her arm around his neck, and as Lord Dudley broke from the hold which Warwick placed on his arm, she put him calmly away with her disengaged hand. Then lifting her face to the earl, she said, “Your work is done. Leave my father to those who love him.” For one moment a shade of feeling swept over Warwick’s face, but it was instantly banished, and a courteous inclination of the head was all the reply he made. After a moment he turned to the few councillors still retaining their seats in silent consternation, and invited them in the name of King Edward and their colleagues, sitting at Somerset House, to join himself and son there.

There was a brief and whispered consultation around the board; then all, save one man arose, casting furtive glances at the fallen protector, as if they were anxious to escape from his presence unnoticed. The duke lifted his head, and a smile of mingled bitterness and pain passed over his pale features as he saw this movement of his friends. The Lady Jane too, blanched a little whiter and lifted her large clear eyes with an expression of painful astonishment, as if her generous nature could scarcely force itself to believe the selfishness with which she was surrounded.

With cringing and noiseless steps, those men whom Somerset had deemed his true and tried friends, those that would cling to him through good and through evil report—had glided from his presence and stood in the corridor, consulting together in whispers and waiting anxiously for Warwick to come forth, that they might offer him their support unchecked by the presence of the fallen noble to whom, in his prosperity, they had cringed with servile spirits, ready to kneel at any shrine which possessed stepping stones for their own ambition.

One man there was, a gray-haired and frank old nobleman, poor and proud, of a high name, but dignified in his poverty, who had never cringed to the protector or flattered him in the plenitude of his power, but who put away the hand which his antagonist extended as he passed round the table and knelt down by the fallen duke, with a true homage which had more of feeling in its silence than hours of protestation could have conveyed. The duke had leaned forward to the table, and one hand was pressed over his eyes, the other hung nervelessly by his side, and the quivering lips of that brave old man—for he was braver in his moral strength than a thousand battle heroes, went to his heart. One large tear forced itself through his fingers, and dashing it away, the Duke of Somerset arose a more dignified man in his adversity than he had ever been in prosperity.

“My Lord of Warwick,” he said, “this is your hour of triumph—how obtained your own heart can best reply.”

“No, your grace’s rashness is my answer,” interrupted Warwick, with a bland and courteous inclination, “but I have no time for cavil and recrimination. The king is waiting, and methinks there has been enough of high words for a lady’s presence. Lady Jane, we should all crave pardon for discussing state affairs in so gentle a presence. Permit my son to lead you from the room.”

The young girl looked up and hesitated, then drawing nearer to the duke, she said very mildly⁠—

“My father will permit me to stay. That which concerns him cannot be improper for his daughter to witness.”

The earl seemed embarrassed by her refusal, but after a moment resumed his usual composed manner.

“Forgive me,” he said, “if I am compelled to perform the first duty of my office in a manner which might have been avoided,” and stepping to the door, the Earl of Warwick beckoned with his hand to some persons in the corridor. Instantly three men, whom Somerset knew, entered the closet, and there at his own council table, and in the presence of his child, arrested him for treason.

A death-like stillness reigned throughout the room for the duration of a minute after the warrant was read. Until this moment Dudley had remained inactive, confused and uncertain how to interfere in a scene which seemed passing before him like a wild dream, but now he stepped forward firmly and with the air of a man resolved to act from his own honest impulses at all hazards.

“My lord,” he said, addressing his father, “you will not proceed to such extremities against an old friend.”

Warwick looked in his son’s face, and a slight sneer curled his lip as he muttered, “old friends, indeed—well.”

“I am certain,” resumed Dudley, “your own honorable heart must revolt at an act so cruel. If the Duke of Somerset has offended the king let his majesty find some other person than the Earl of Warwick to proceed against him, lest those who deem that there is little of friendly feeling between the houses of Somerset and Warwick, may impute other motives than a love of justice to the prosecution.”

Dudley spoke in a low voice, but every tone fell upon the anxious ear of Lady Jane, and a flash of gratified affection, half pride and half tenderness filled her eyes. For she knew how deep was the reverence he rendered to the earl, and how much of moral courage was in the heart which could have the displeasure of a man so imperative and haughty, but who had even preserved the affections as well as the fear of his family.

“Very prettily argued, my clerkly son,” replied Warwick, lightly—“but pray can you tell me what the good people of England may think of the nobleman, who took advantage of his power to cast a son, and heir of that same ‘old friend’ whom you prate of into a damp hole in his palace, to herd him with a cur like that, and drag him before a picked number of councillors to be examined, on a question which touched his honor and life itself? Love is a question to amuse the people more than any act of mine. If His Grace of Somerset has seen fit to tread upon a serpent’s nest, the world will not marvel that his foot is stung where it would have crushed.

“No, Dudley, no—the king has rightly decided, and he who would have heaped ignominy on my son shall drain the cup he has drugged! Even as he forced the heir to my house to this closet in base contact with a wretch like that cringing cur yonder, shall he go forth and in like company.”

Dudley heard his father out with habitual reverence, but still opened his lips to expostulate once more against the course he was pursuing, but Warwick turned impatiently away.

“Tush man,” he said with a quick wave of the hand, “have done with this and meet me at Somerset House within the hour. The king desires it. If your grace is ready,” he added, turning to Somerset as if extending the most trifling invitation on earth, “we will proceed at once to the council.”

Somerset arose, folded a cloak about him, and though his face was very pale, moved toward the door without speaking a word. The guard closed in around him, and he left the closet like one in a bewildering dream. He had entered that room but an hour before, arrogant in the consciousness of power, second to none in the kingdom; he left it a prisoner and a ruined man.

Warwick gave a sign that the artisan should be secured and followed the fallen duke. The old councillor kept by the side of his friend, and on their way through the corridor the Duchess of Somerset came through a side door and approached her husband, but seeing how pale he was, and that many persons were around him, she drew back disappointed in the womanly impulse which had induced her to seek an interview before he went from the palace, that the cause of her child might be justly understood.

a woman sits on a horse and holds a childPAINTED BY R. LANDSEER.ENGRAVED BY J. SARTAIN.Return from Hawking.Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine

PAINTED BY R. LANDSEER.ENGRAVED BY J. SARTAIN.

RETURN FROM HAWKING.

ON A PICTURE BY LANDSEER.

They form a picture that appears of Eld⁠—The beauteous mother and the husband bold,And smiling infant like a rose-bud heldUpon the parent-stem, but half unrolledYet blushing brightly in each crimson fold.The household steed, in quiet sympathy,Looks silent on and seems to share their glee.The shaggy dog that wakes the forest oldWith joyous echoes as he bounds along,Starting the heron from his reedy lair⁠—These, while the morning sunbeams slant alongThrough that old portal, massy, grim and bare,Stand, grouped together,—emblems fit, I ween,Of many another quiet household scene!E.

They form a picture that appears of Eld⁠—

The beauteous mother and the husband bold,

And smiling infant like a rose-bud held

Upon the parent-stem, but half unrolled

Yet blushing brightly in each crimson fold.

The household steed, in quiet sympathy,

Looks silent on and seems to share their glee.

The shaggy dog that wakes the forest old

With joyous echoes as he bounds along,

Starting the heron from his reedy lair⁠—

These, while the morning sunbeams slant along

Through that old portal, massy, grim and bare,

Stand, grouped together,—emblems fit, I ween,

Of many another quiet household scene!

THERE’S NO LAND LIKE SCOTLAND.

BALLAD.

SUNG BY MR. DEMPSTER.

COMPOSED BY

EDWARD J. LODER.

———

Philadelphia:John F. Nunns,184 Chesnut Street.

———

There’s no land like Scotland within the wide sea,There’s no land like Scotland,The fearless and free,With her fair glens and mountains,Her fair locks and fountains,Her wild springing heather and modest blue bell,No place in the world do I love half so well,No place in the world do I love half so well,Oh! sleepin’ or wakin’, where e’er I may be,My thoughts aye are turning dear Scotland to thee,Bright gem of the northern wave,Home of the free and brave,While life endures thou canst never depart,Ah! while life endures thou canst never depart,Dear pride of the north from thy throne in my heart.

There’s no land like Scotland within the wide sea,

There’s no land like Scotland,

The fearless and free,

With her fair glens and mountains,

Her fair locks and fountains,

Her wild springing heather and modest blue bell,

No place in the world do I love half so well,

Oh! sleepin’ or wakin’, where e’er I may be,My thoughts aye are turning dear Scotland to thee,Bright gem of the northern wave,Home of the free and brave,While life endures thou canst never depart,Ah! while life endures thou canst never depart,Dear pride of the north from thy throne in my heart.

Oh! sleepin’ or wakin’, where e’er I may be,

My thoughts aye are turning dear Scotland to thee,

Bright gem of the northern wave,

Home of the free and brave,

While life endures thou canst never depart,

Ah! while life endures thou canst never depart,

Dear pride of the north from thy throne in my heart.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Ballads and Other Poems. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Author of “Voices of the Night,” “Hyperion,” &c. Second Edition. John Owen: Cambridge.

In our last number we had some hasty observations on these “Ballads”—observations which we now propose, in some measure, to amplify and explain.

It may be remembered that, among other points, we demurred to Mr. Longfellow’sthemes, or rather to their general character. We found fault with the too obtrusive nature of theirdidacticism. Some years ago we urged a similar objection to one or two of the longer pieces of Bryant; and neither time nor reflection has sufficed to modify, in the slightest particular, our convictions upon this topic.

We have said that Mr. Longfellow’s conception of theaimsof poesy is erroneous; and that thus, laboring at a disadvantage, he does violent wrong to his own high powers; and now the question is, whatarehis ideas of the aims of the Muse, as we gather these ideas from thegeneraltendency of his poems? It will be at once evident that, imbued with the peculiar spirit of German song (a pure conventionality) he regards the inculcation of amoralas essential. Here we find it necessary to repeat that we have reference only to thegeneraltendency of his compositions; for there are some magnificent exceptions, where, as if by accident, he has permitted his genius to get the better of his conventional prejudice. But didacticism is the prevalenttoneof his song. His invention, his imagery, his all, is made subservient to the elucidation of some one or more points (but rarely of more than one) which he looks upon astruth. And that this mode of procedure will find stern defenders should never excite surprise, so long as the world is full to overflowing with cant and conventicles. There are men who will scramble on all fours through the muddiest sloughs of vice to pick up a single apple of virtue. There are things called men who, so long as the sun rolls, will greet with snuffling huzzas every figure that takes upon itself the semblance of truth, even although the figure, in itself only a “stuffed Paddy,” be as much out of place as a toga on the statue of Washington, or out of season as rabbits in the days of the dog-star.

Now with as deep a reverence for “the true” as ever inspired the bosom of mortal man, we would limit, in many respects, its modes of inculcation. We would limit to enforce them. We would not render them impotent by dissipation. The demands of truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles. All that is indispensible in song is all with which she has nothing to do. To deck her in gay robes is to render her a harlot. It is but making her a flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. Even in stating this our present proposition, we verify our own words—we feel the necessity, in enforcing thistruth, of descending from metaphor. Let us then be simple and distinct. To convey “the true” we are required to dismiss from the attention all inessentials. We must be perspicuous, precise, terse. We need concentration rather than expansion of mind. We must be calm, unimpassioned, unexcited—in a word, we must be in that peculiar mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact converse of the poetical. He must be blind indeed who cannot perceive the radical and chasmal difference between the truthful and the poetical modes of inculcation. He must be grossly wedded to conventionalisms who, in spite of this difference, shall still attempt to reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.

Dividing the world of mind into its most obvious and immediately recognisable distinctions, we have the pure intellect, taste, and the moral sense. We placetastebetween the intellect and the moral sense, because it is just this intermediate space which, in the mind, it occupies. It is the connecting link in the triple chain. It serves to sustain a mutual intelligence between the extremes. It appertains, in strict appreciation, to the former, but is distinguished from the latter by so faint a difference, that Aristotle has not hesitated to class some of its operations among the Virtues themselves. But theofficesof the trio are broadly marked. Just as conscience, or the moral sense, recognises duty; just as the intellect deals withtruth; so is it the part of taste alone to inform us ofBEAUTY. And Poesy is the handmaiden but of Taste. Yet we would not be misunderstood. This handmaiden is not forbidden to moralise—in her own fashion. She is not forbidden to depict—but to reason and preach, of virtue. As, of this latter, conscience recognises the obligation, so intellect leaches the expediency, while taste contents herself with displaying the beauty: waging war with vice merely on the ground of its inconsistency with fitness, harmony, proportion—in a word with το καλον.

An important condition of man’s immortal nature is thus, plainly, the sense of the Beautiful. This it is which ministers to his delight in the manifold forms and colors and sounds and sentiments amid which he exists. And, just as the eyes of Amaryllis are repeated in the mirror, or the living lily in the lake, so is the mererecordof these forms and colors and sounds and sentiments—so is their mere oral or written repetition a duplicate source of delight. But this repetition is not Poesy. He who shall merely sing with whatever rapture, in however harmonious strains, or with however vivid a truth of imitation, of the sights and sounds which greet him in common with all mankind—he, we say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a longing unsatisfied, which he has been impotent to fulfil. There is still a thirst unquenchable, which to allay he has shown us no crystal springs. This burning thirst belongs to theimmortalessence of man’s nature. Itisequally a consequence and an indication of his perennial life. It is the desire of the moth for the star. It is not the mere appreciation of the beauty before us. It is a wild effort to reach the beauty above. It is a forethought of the loveliness to come. It is a passion to be satiated by no sublunary sights, or sounds, or sentiments, and the soul thus athirst strives to allay its fever in futile efforts atcreation. Inspired with a prescient ecstasy of the beauty beyond the grave, it struggles by multiform novelty of combination among the things and thoughts of Time, to anticipate some portion of that loveliness whose very elements, perhaps, appertain solely to Eternity. And the result of such effort, on the part of souls fittingly constituted, is alone what mankind have agreed to denominate Poetry.

We say this with little fear of contradiction. Yet the spirit of our assertion must be more heeded than the letter. Mankind haveseemedto define Poesy in a thousand, and in a thousand conflicting definitions. But the war is one only of words. Induction is as well applicable to this subject as to the most palpable and utilitarian; and by its sober processes we find that, in respect to compositions which have been really received as poems, theimaginative, or, more popularly, the creative portionsalonehave ensured them to be so received. Yet these works, on account of these portions, having once been so received and so named, it has happened, naturally and inevitably, that other portions totally unpoetic have not only come to be regarded by the popular voice as poetic, but have been made to serve as false standards of perfection, in the adjustment of other poetical claims. Whatever has been found in whatever has been received as a poem, has been blindly regarded asex statûpoetic. And this is a species of gross error which scarcely could have made its way into any less intangible topic. In fact that license which appertains to the Muse herself, it has been thought decorous, if not sagacious to indulge, in all examination of her character.

Poesy is thus seen to be a response—unsatisfactory it is true—but still in some measure a response, to a natural and irrepressible demand. Man being what he is, the time could never have been in which Poesy was not. Its first element is the thirst for supernalBeauty—a beauty which is not afforded the soul by any existing collocation of earth’s forms—a beauty which, perhaps,no possiblecombination of these forms would fully produce. Its second element is the attempt to satisfy this thirst bynovelcombinations among those forms of beauty which already exist—or by novel combinationsof those combinations which our predecessors, toiling in chase of the same phantom, have already set in order. We thus clearly deduce thenovelty, theoriginality, theinvention, theimagination, or lastly thecreationofBEAUTY, (for the terms as here employed are synonymous) as the essence of all Poesy. Nor is this idea so much at variance with ordinary opinion as, at first sight, it may appear. A multitude of antique dogmas on this topic will be found, when divested of extrinsic speculation, to be easily resoluble into the definition now proposed. We do nothing more than present tangibly the vague clouds of the world’s idea. We recognize the idea itself floating, unsettled, indefinite, in every attempt which has yet been made to circumscribe the conception of “Poesy” in words. A striking instance of this is observable in the fact that no definition exists, in which either “the beautiful,” or some one of those qualities which we have above designated synonymously with “creation,” has not been pointed out as thechiefattribute of the Muse. “Invention,” however, or “imagination,” is by far more commonly insisted upon. The word ποιησις itself (creation) speaks volumes upon this point. Neither will it be amiss here to mention Count Bielfeld’s definition of poetry as “L’art d’exprimer les pensées par la fiction.” With this definition (of which the philosophy is profound to a certain extent) the German termsDichtkunst, the art of fiction, andDichten, to feign, which are used for “poetry” and “to make verses,” are in full and remarkable accordance. It is, nevertheless, in thecombinationof the two omni-prevalent ideas that the novelty and, we believe, the force of our own proposition is to be found.

So far, we have spoken of Poesy as of an abstraction alone. As such, it is obvious that it may be applicable in various moods. The sentiment may develop itself in Sculpture, in Painting, in Music, or otherwise. But our present business is with its development in words—that development to which, in practical acceptation, the world has agreed to limit the term. And at this point there is one consideration which induces us to pause. We cannot make up our minds to admit (as some have admitted) the inessentiality of rhythm. On the contrary, the universality of its use in the earliest poetical efforts of all mankind would be sufficient to assure us, not merely of its congeniality with the Muse, or of its adaptation to her purposes, but of its elementary and indispensible importance. But here we must, perforce, content ourselves with mere suggestion; for this topic is of a character which would lead us too far. We have already spoken of Music as one of the moods of poetical development. It is in Music, perhaps, that the soul most nearly attains that end upon which we have commented—the creation of supernal beauty. It may be, indeed, that this august aim is here even partially or imperfectly attained,in fact. Theelementsof that beauty which is felt in sound,may bethe mutual or common heritage of Earth and Heaven. In the soul’s struggles at combination it is thus not impossible that a harp may strike notes not unfamiliar to the angels. And in this view the wonder may well be less that all attempts at defining the character or sentiment of the deeper musical impressions, has been found absolutely futile. Contenting ourselves, therefore, with the firm conviction, that music (in its modifications of rhythm and rhyme) is of so vast a moment in Poesy, asneverto be neglected by him who is truly poetical—is of so mighty a force in furthering the great aim intended that he is mad who rejects its assistance—content with this idea we shall not pause to maintain its absolute essentiality, for the mere sake of rounding a definition. We will but add, at this point, that the highest possible development of the Poetical Sentiment is to be found in the union of song with music, in its popular sense. The old Bards and Minnesingers possessed, in the fullest perfection, the finest and truest elements of Poesy; and Thomas Moore, singing his own ballads, is but putting the final touch to their completion as poems.

To recapitulate, then, we would define in brief the Poetry of words as theRhythmical Creation of Beauty. Beyond the limits of Beauty its province does not extend. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations. It has no dependence, unless incidentally, upon either Duty orTruth. That our definition will necessarily exclude much of what, through a supine toleration, has been hitherto ranked as poetical, is a matter which affords us not even momentary concern. We address but the thoughtful, and heed only their approval—with our own. If our suggestions are truthful, then “after many days” shall they be understood as truth, even though found in contradiction ofallthat has been hitherto so understood. If false shall we not be the first to bid them die?

We would reject, of course, all such matters as “Armstrong on Health,” a revolting production; Pope’s “Essay on Man,” which may well be content with the title of an “Essay in Rhyme;” “Hudibras” and other merely humorous pieces. We do not gainsay the peculiar merits of either of these latter compositions—but deny them the position held. In a notice, month before last, of Brainard’s Poems, we took occasion to show that the common use of a certain instrument, (rhythm) had tended, more than aught else, to confound humorous verse with poetry. The observation is now recalled to corroborate what we have just said in respect to the vast effect or force of melody in itself—an effect which could elevate into even momentary confusion with the highest efforts of mind, compositions such as are the greater number of satires or burlesques.

Of the poets who have appeared most fully instinct with the principles now developed, we may mentionKeatsas the most remarkable. He is the sole British poet who has never erred in his themes. Beauty is always his aim.

We have thus shown our ground of objection to the generalthemesof Professor Longfellow. In common with all who claim the sacred title of poet, he should limit his endeavors to the creation of novel moods of beauty, in form, in color, in sound, in sentiment; for over all this wide range has the poetry of words dominion. To what the world termsprosemay be safely and properly left all else. The artist who doubts of his thesis, may always resolve his doubt by the single question—“might not this matter be as well or better handled inprose?” If itmay, then is it no subject for the Muse. In the general acceptation of the termBeautywe are content to rest; being careful only to suggest that, in our peculiar views, it must be understood as inclusive ofthe sublime.

Of the pieces which constitute the present volume, there are not more than one or two thoroughly fulfilling the idea above proposed; although the volume as a whole is by no means so chargeable with didacticism as Mr. Longfellow’s previous book. We would mention as poemsnearly true, “The Village Blacksmith;” “The Wreck of the Hesperus” and especially “The Skeleton in Armor.” In the first-mentioned we have thebeautyof simple-mindedness as a genuine thesis; and this thesis is inimitably handled until the concluding stanza, where the spirit of legitimate poesy is aggrieved in the pointed antithetical deduction of amoralfrom what has gone before. In “The Wreck of the Hesperus” we have thebeautyof child-like confidence and innocence, with that of the father’s stern courage and affection. But, with slight exception, those particulars of the storm here detailed are not poetic subjects. Their thrillinghorrorbelongs to prose, in which it could be far more effectively discussed, as Professor Longfellow may assure himself at any moment by experiment. There are points of a tempest which afford the loftiest and truest poetical themes—points in which pure beauty is found, or, better still, beauty heightened into the sublime, by terror. But when we read, among other similar things, that

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