EARLY ENGLISH POETS.

POEMS OF THOMAS CAREW.

Inthe history of early English literature, we find little mention made of the productions of Thomas Carew; “that sweet poet and most witty gentleman,” as he was quaintly styled by Sir William Davenant. With the exception of one or two of his songs, to be found in “The English Anthology,” we do not remember to have seen any mention made of his verses. This neglect cannot be accounted for by attributing it to his want of merit as a poet. The melody of his verse, the genuine spirit of poetry pervading his songs, and the happy conceits sparkling through them, entitle him to a position not many removes from that occupied by Sir John Suckling, whose sweet numbers and mellifluous verse are familiar to every lover of early English literature.

If the testimony of contemporaries is any test of poetic ability, the subject of our notice seems to have had his full share with the lighter poets and wits of his age.

Thomas Carew was descended from one of the first families in Gloucestershire, England; many of his ancestors having filled high and responsible stations in the preceding reigns of Mary, Elizabeth, and James I. He was educated at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, where he did not remain to finish the usual collegiate course, having been expelled for some youthful indiscretion. He afterward made the tour of Europe, visiting some of the most polished courts, and perfecting himself in all those accomplishments then so necessary for the complete education of a courtier. On his return from his travels, his fine person and polished manners attracted the attention of Charles I., who gave him the appointment of gentleman of the privy chamber, and was in the habit of constant social intercourse, esteeming him one of the most polished gentlemen and refined wits of his court. By the poets of his day he was much respected, claiming Ben Jonson and Sir William Davenant among the most devoted of his friends, and the warmest admirers of his verse. It redounds, however, much more to his praise that he was intimate with the youthful Hyde, afterward so distinguished as Earl of Clarendon—who speaks highly “of his amiable qualities, and his talent for light poetry, of the amorous kind, in the elegance and fancy of which he had few superiors.” Carew died in the prime of life, some time in the year 1639, thus fortunately escaping the troubles that even then “were casting their dark shadows before,” and which eventually overwhelmed his royal master. The only edition of his poems ever published appeared in 1630, edited by himself; and it is from this work we propose to introduce to the reader’s attention a few of the most beautiful of his songs and fugitive pieces.

An earnest desire to rescue from oblivion the many beautiful thoughts and curious conceits pervading the verses of this poet, has induced the preparation of our article. These songs served to lighten the cares of the troublesome reign of Charles I., and, set to music, were the favorite melodies of his time. In an age when gallantry was the chief of virtues, and the smiles and encouragement of the gentler sex the sure reward that awaited every laudable undertaking. Carew seems to have devoted his talents to the ladies. In smooth and gentle verse he celebrated their varied charms—or in ardent strains declared his own impassioned admiration and love.

The cruel glances of the eyes of his mistress he deprecates in lines like these —

I’ll love no more those cruel eyes of hers,Which, pleased or angered, still are murderers,For if she dart, like lightning, through the air,Her beams of wrath, she kills me with despair,If she behold me with a pleasing eye,I surfeit with excess of joy and die.

I’ll love no more those cruel eyes of hers,

Which, pleased or angered, still are murderers,

For if she dart, like lightning, through the air,

Her beams of wrath, she kills me with despair,

If she behold me with a pleasing eye,

I surfeit with excess of joy and die.

And he mourns in touching melancholy verse the death of the loved one, and in sweet strains laments

The purest soul, that e’er was sentInto a clayey tenement,Informed this dust, but the weak mouldCould the great guest no longer hold,The substance was too pure, the flameToo glorious, that hither came.

The purest soul, that e’er was sent

Into a clayey tenement,

Informed this dust, but the weak mould

Could the great guest no longer hold,

The substance was too pure, the flame

Too glorious, that hither came.

Does he celebrate the beauties of the natural world, he is sure to institute a comparison of those beauties with the charms of his mistress—and in his glowing language, “winter’s snow-white robes” “and blue-eyed spring” welcomed to the earth “by a choir of chirping minstrels” shrink into insignificance by the comparison. Does he pine away, banished from the presence of his mistress, he compares himself with happy conceit “to one far from the shore in a storm-beaten boat, where love is the pilot,”

but o’ercome with fearOf her displeasure, dares not homeward steer.

but o’ercome with fear

Of her displeasure, dares not homeward steer.

Indeed, the warmth of his verse, and its flow of happy conceits, induced Sir William Davenant to call him “our English Anacreon”—but this perhaps is going too far; although adopting the words of Moore, applied to Anacreon, we might say of Carew—“That his descriptions are sometimes warm, but the warmth is in the ideas, not the words; he is often sportive, without being wanton, ardent, without being licentious.” Still, the distance between Carew and Anacreon is immeasurably great—the singular beauty of “The Tean Bard”—his copiousness of expression, his easy and joyous gayety—the enthusiasm of the grape pervading his songs,—has never yet been equaled by his numerous pretended imitators; who too often have sought in grossness of allusion, and the vulgar rant of intoxication, for sources of resemblance.

It is indeed to be regretted that among the poems of Carew there are many that might tinge the cheek of modesty, and repel every reader by their gross physical impurities—and those, too, containing in their grossness thoughts of most exquisite beauty. The existence of these impurities, however, was the fault more of the age than the poet—custom sanctioned, society relished the use of language and sentiment that now would be exceedingly abhorrent to “ears polite.”

The polished courtiers, the fair dames of the court of Charles, perceived nothing in these songs of Carew that could call the blush of shame to the cheek, or excite even an impure thought. But custom,

“That despot, whose behest each age obeys,”

has in this our day otherwise ordered; and the civilized world now believes with the poet Roscommon —

Immodest words admit of no defense,A want of decency is want of sense.

Immodest words admit of no defense,

A want of decency is want of sense.

My object in the preparation of this article being torescue from oblivion some of the verses of this sweet poet, Carew, I propose to make such selections from his poems as shall prove, incontestably, his claim to a high rank among the earlier English poets.

We do not claim that the poems of Carew evince the highest order of poetic talent, but generous sentiment, and a glow of happy conceits running through, and sparkling in them, often exhibit unexpected beauties. To use the words of Dr. Johnson, applied to a poet of the same age and nation,

“If the conceits are sometimes far-fetched, they will be found oftentimes worth the carriage.”

It has been before remarked, that if the greatness of the poetic writers of this age seldom elevates, their acuteness often surprises us—and noble sentiment and genuine wit will often be found buried beneath strange illustrations, and far-fetched conceits.

In Headley’s introduction to his “Select Beauties of Ancient English Poetry,” he bestows unqualified praise upon the amatory poets, who flourished in the reign of Charles the First, giving a decided preference to the poetry of the age of Elizabeth and Charles over all that has been written since their day. And he considers the poets, the amatory poets of those reigns, as forming a constellation far superior in poetic lustre to any that have succeeded them.

This indeed is no faint praise, coming from so refined a critic; but with all due deference we cannot but agree with Drake, that it is for the most part too highly colored. The exquisite simplicity of style and thought, so attractive in the productions of our modern poets, will be looked for in vain in the verses of the poets of that early day; such simplicity being the result of systematic refinement, and the progress of language toward perfection.

But to return from this apparent digression; as the most beautiful pearls are often found in the roughest shells, so in the songs of Carew the reader will oftentimes be delighted to discover rare conceits, sparkling with wit, and genuine poetry, but incased in rough inharmonious verse.

But often, as in the beautiful lines to a primrose, Carew seems to break loose from the trammels that fettered the versification of his day, and in tuneful, and well measured song expresses so aptly the ideas of his muse, as to give peculiar softness to his rhyme.

That little song, To a Primrose, commencing,

Ask me why I bring you hereThis firstling of the infant year.

Ask me why I bring you here

This firstling of the infant year.

And the one entitled The Compliment,

My dearest I shall grieve theeWhen I swear, yet, sweet, believe me,

My dearest I shall grieve thee

When I swear, yet, sweet, believe me,

are almost equal in beauty to that exquisite song of Fletcher’s, commencing

Take, oh, take those lips away.

Or that complimentary song of Sir John Suckling’s, beginning

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,No daisy bears comparison,Who sees it, is undoneFor streaks of red were mingled thereSuch as are on a Catharine pear,The side that’s next the sun.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,

No daisy bears comparison,

Who sees it, is undone

For streaks of red were mingled there

Such as are on a Catharine pear,

The side that’s next the sun.

In all the poetry of the age in which Carew flourished, there is to be found a straining after resemblances, and too often the sense is sacrificed in the effort; personification is too often used, without judgment, or taste. It is this fault which, more than any other, has called down upon the poets of the age in which Carew flourished, so much severe, and oftentimes unjust criticism.

But without offering these songs of Carew as models, without denying that according to the rigid canons of polished criticism, many glaring faults may be found in them, we still insist that their beauties are many, and to the eye, which brings not every thing to the narrow measure of a stern critic’s scrutiny, will more than compensate for unquestioned blemishes. The blemishes are the offspring of the distorted taste of the age in which our poet flourished—their beauties, the triumph of the poet’s genius over the difficulties in his pathway.

THE SPRING.Now that the winter’s gone, the earth has lostHer snow-white robes, and now no more the frostCandies the grass, or casts an icy creamUpon the silver lake, or crystal stream;But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,And makes it tender, gives a sacred birthTo the dead swallow, wakes in hollow treeThe drowsy cuckoo, and the humble bee.Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bringIntriumph to the world, the youthful spring.The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array,Welcome the coming of the longed for May.Now all things smile, only my love doth lower;Nor hath the scalding noon-day sun the powerTo melt that marble ice, which still doth holdHer heart congealed, and makes her pity cold.The ox which lately did for shelter flyInto the stall; doth now securely lieIn open field, and love no more is madeBy the fire-side; but in the cooler shadeAmyutas now doth with his Chloris sleepUnder a sycamore, and all things keepTime with the season; onlyshedoth carryJune in her eyes, her heart is January.

THE SPRING.

Now that the winter’s gone, the earth has lostHer snow-white robes, and now no more the frostCandies the grass, or casts an icy creamUpon the silver lake, or crystal stream;But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,And makes it tender, gives a sacred birthTo the dead swallow, wakes in hollow treeThe drowsy cuckoo, and the humble bee.Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bringIntriumph to the world, the youthful spring.The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array,Welcome the coming of the longed for May.Now all things smile, only my love doth lower;Nor hath the scalding noon-day sun the powerTo melt that marble ice, which still doth holdHer heart congealed, and makes her pity cold.The ox which lately did for shelter flyInto the stall; doth now securely lieIn open field, and love no more is madeBy the fire-side; but in the cooler shadeAmyutas now doth with his Chloris sleepUnder a sycamore, and all things keepTime with the season; onlyshedoth carryJune in her eyes, her heart is January.

Now that the winter’s gone, the earth has lost

Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost

Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream

Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream;

But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,

And makes it tender, gives a sacred birth

To the dead swallow, wakes in hollow tree

The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble bee.

Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring

Intriumph to the world, the youthful spring.

The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array,

Welcome the coming of the longed for May.

Now all things smile, only my love doth lower;

Nor hath the scalding noon-day sun the power

To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold

Her heart congealed, and makes her pity cold.

The ox which lately did for shelter fly

Into the stall; doth now securely lie

In open field, and love no more is made

By the fire-side; but in the cooler shade

Amyutas now doth with his Chloris sleep

Under a sycamore, and all things keep

Time with the season; onlyshedoth carry

June in her eyes, her heart is January.

PERSUASION TO LOVE.Think not, ’cause men flattering sayYou’re fresh as April, sweet as May,Bright as is the morning star,That you are so; or though you are,Be not therefore proud, and deemAll unworthy your esteem;For being so, you lose the pleasureOf being fair, since that rich treasureOf rare beauty, and sweet feature,Was bestowed on you by natureTo be enjoyed, and sure ’tis sinThere to be scarce, where she hath beenSo prodigal of her best graces;Thus common beauties, and mean facesShall have more pastime, and enjoyThe sport you loose by being coy.Starve not yourself, because you mayThereby make me pine away;Nor let brittle beauty makeYou, your wisest thoughts forsake.For that lovely face will fail;Beauty’s sweet, but beauty’s frail;’Tis sooner past; ’tis sooner doneThan summer rain, or winter’s sun;Most fleeting when it is most dear!’Tis gone, while we but say ’tis here.These curious locks, so aptly twined,Whose every hair a soul doth bind,Wilt change their auburn hue, and growWhite, and cold as winter’s snow.That eye which now is Cupid’s nest,Will prove his grave, and all the restWill follow, in the cheek then froze,No lily shall be found, or rose.And what will then become of allThose who now you servants call?Like swallow’s when your summer’s doneThey’ll fly, and seek some warmer sun.Remain still firm, be provident,And think before the summer’s spentOf following winter; like the antSee plenty hoard for time of scant.Cull out amongst the multitudeOf lovers, seeking to intrudeInto your favor, one that mayLast for an age, not for a day.For when the storms of time have movedWaves on that cheek, now so beloved,When a fair lady’s face has pined,And yellow spread, where red once shined,When beauty, youth, and all sweets leave her.Love may return, but lovers never.And old folks say, there are no painsLike itch of love, in aged veins.Oh, love me then, and now begin it,Let us not loose a precious minute,For time and age will work that rack,Which time or age shall ne’er call back.The snake each year, fresh skin resumes,And eagles, change their aged plumes.The faded rose, each spring receivesA fresh red tincture on her leaves:But if your beauties once decay,They never know a second May.

PERSUASION TO LOVE.

Think not, ’cause men flattering sayYou’re fresh as April, sweet as May,Bright as is the morning star,That you are so; or though you are,Be not therefore proud, and deemAll unworthy your esteem;For being so, you lose the pleasureOf being fair, since that rich treasureOf rare beauty, and sweet feature,Was bestowed on you by natureTo be enjoyed, and sure ’tis sinThere to be scarce, where she hath beenSo prodigal of her best graces;Thus common beauties, and mean facesShall have more pastime, and enjoyThe sport you loose by being coy.Starve not yourself, because you mayThereby make me pine away;Nor let brittle beauty makeYou, your wisest thoughts forsake.For that lovely face will fail;Beauty’s sweet, but beauty’s frail;’Tis sooner past; ’tis sooner doneThan summer rain, or winter’s sun;Most fleeting when it is most dear!’Tis gone, while we but say ’tis here.These curious locks, so aptly twined,Whose every hair a soul doth bind,Wilt change their auburn hue, and growWhite, and cold as winter’s snow.That eye which now is Cupid’s nest,Will prove his grave, and all the restWill follow, in the cheek then froze,No lily shall be found, or rose.And what will then become of allThose who now you servants call?Like swallow’s when your summer’s doneThey’ll fly, and seek some warmer sun.Remain still firm, be provident,And think before the summer’s spentOf following winter; like the antSee plenty hoard for time of scant.Cull out amongst the multitudeOf lovers, seeking to intrudeInto your favor, one that mayLast for an age, not for a day.For when the storms of time have movedWaves on that cheek, now so beloved,When a fair lady’s face has pined,And yellow spread, where red once shined,When beauty, youth, and all sweets leave her.Love may return, but lovers never.And old folks say, there are no painsLike itch of love, in aged veins.Oh, love me then, and now begin it,Let us not loose a precious minute,For time and age will work that rack,Which time or age shall ne’er call back.The snake each year, fresh skin resumes,And eagles, change their aged plumes.The faded rose, each spring receivesA fresh red tincture on her leaves:But if your beauties once decay,They never know a second May.

Think not, ’cause men flattering say

You’re fresh as April, sweet as May,

Bright as is the morning star,

That you are so; or though you are,

Be not therefore proud, and deem

All unworthy your esteem;

For being so, you lose the pleasure

Of being fair, since that rich treasure

Of rare beauty, and sweet feature,

Was bestowed on you by nature

To be enjoyed, and sure ’tis sin

There to be scarce, where she hath been

So prodigal of her best graces;

Thus common beauties, and mean faces

Shall have more pastime, and enjoy

The sport you loose by being coy.

Starve not yourself, because you may

Thereby make me pine away;

Nor let brittle beauty make

You, your wisest thoughts forsake.

For that lovely face will fail;

Beauty’s sweet, but beauty’s frail;

’Tis sooner past; ’tis sooner done

Than summer rain, or winter’s sun;

Most fleeting when it is most dear!

’Tis gone, while we but say ’tis here.

These curious locks, so aptly twined,

Whose every hair a soul doth bind,

Wilt change their auburn hue, and grow

White, and cold as winter’s snow.

That eye which now is Cupid’s nest,

Will prove his grave, and all the rest

Will follow, in the cheek then froze,

No lily shall be found, or rose.

And what will then become of all

Those who now you servants call?

Like swallow’s when your summer’s done

They’ll fly, and seek some warmer sun.

Remain still firm, be provident,

And think before the summer’s spent

Of following winter; like the ant

See plenty hoard for time of scant.

Cull out amongst the multitude

Of lovers, seeking to intrude

Into your favor, one that may

Last for an age, not for a day.

For when the storms of time have moved

Waves on that cheek, now so beloved,

When a fair lady’s face has pined,

And yellow spread, where red once shined,

When beauty, youth, and all sweets leave her.

Love may return, but lovers never.

And old folks say, there are no pains

Like itch of love, in aged veins.

Oh, love me then, and now begin it,

Let us not loose a precious minute,

For time and age will work that rack,

Which time or age shall ne’er call back.

The snake each year, fresh skin resumes,

And eagles, change their aged plumes.

The faded rose, each spring receives

A fresh red tincture on her leaves:

But if your beauties once decay,

They never know a second May.

LIPS AND EYES.In Celia’s face, a question doth ariseWhich are more beautiful, her lips or eyes;We, said the eyes, send forth those pointed dartsWhich pierce the hardest adamantine heartsFrom us, replied the lips, proceed those blissesWhich lovers reap in kind words, and in kissesThen wept the eyes, and from their springs did pourOf liquid oriental pearls, a shower.Whereat the lips moved with delight and pleasure,In a sweet smileunlocked their pearly treasure;And bade Love judge, whether did add more graceWeeping, or smiling, to fair Celia’s face.

LIPS AND EYES.

In Celia’s face, a question doth ariseWhich are more beautiful, her lips or eyes;We, said the eyes, send forth those pointed dartsWhich pierce the hardest adamantine heartsFrom us, replied the lips, proceed those blissesWhich lovers reap in kind words, and in kissesThen wept the eyes, and from their springs did pourOf liquid oriental pearls, a shower.Whereat the lips moved with delight and pleasure,In a sweet smileunlocked their pearly treasure;And bade Love judge, whether did add more graceWeeping, or smiling, to fair Celia’s face.

In Celia’s face, a question doth arise

Which are more beautiful, her lips or eyes;

We, said the eyes, send forth those pointed darts

Which pierce the hardest adamantine hearts

From us, replied the lips, proceed those blisses

Which lovers reap in kind words, and in kisses

Then wept the eyes, and from their springs did pour

Of liquid oriental pearls, a shower.

Whereat the lips moved with delight and pleasure,

In a sweet smileunlocked their pearly treasure;

And bade Love judge, whether did add more grace

Weeping, or smiling, to fair Celia’s face.

A BEAUTIFUL MISTRESS.If when the sun at noon displaysHis brighter rays,Thou but appearHe then all pale with shame, and fear,Quencheth his light,Hides his dark brows, flies from thy sightAnd grows more dimCompared to thee, than stars to him,If thou but show thy face again,When darkness doth at midnight reign,The darkness flies, and light is hurledRound about the silent world.

A BEAUTIFUL MISTRESS.

If when the sun at noon displaysHis brighter rays,Thou but appearHe then all pale with shame, and fear,Quencheth his light,Hides his dark brows, flies from thy sightAnd grows more dimCompared to thee, than stars to him,If thou but show thy face again,When darkness doth at midnight reign,The darkness flies, and light is hurledRound about the silent world.

If when the sun at noon displays

His brighter rays,

Thou but appear

He then all pale with shame, and fear,

Quencheth his light,

Hides his dark brows, flies from thy sight

And grows more dim

Compared to thee, than stars to him,

If thou but show thy face again,

When darkness doth at midnight reign,

The darkness flies, and light is hurled

Round about the silent world.

THE PRIMROSE.Ask me, why I send you hereThis firstling of the infant year?Ask me, why I send to you,This primrose, all bepearled with dew?I straight will whisper in your earsThe sweets of love are washed with tears.Ask me, why this flower doth showSo yellow, green, and sickly too?Ask me, why the stalk is weak,And bending, yet it doth not break.I must tell you, these discoverThat doubts and fears beset your lover.

THE PRIMROSE.

Ask me, why I send you hereThis firstling of the infant year?Ask me, why I send to you,This primrose, all bepearled with dew?I straight will whisper in your earsThe sweets of love are washed with tears.

Ask me, why I send you here

This firstling of the infant year?

Ask me, why I send to you,

This primrose, all bepearled with dew?

I straight will whisper in your ears

The sweets of love are washed with tears.

Ask me, why this flower doth showSo yellow, green, and sickly too?Ask me, why the stalk is weak,And bending, yet it doth not break.I must tell you, these discoverThat doubts and fears beset your lover.

Ask me, why this flower doth show

So yellow, green, and sickly too?

Ask me, why the stalk is weak,

And bending, yet it doth not break.

I must tell you, these discover

That doubts and fears beset your lover.

MURDERING BEAUTY.I’ll gaze no more, on her bewitching face,Since ruin harbors there, in every place;For my enchanted soul, alike she drownsWith calms and tempests, of her smiles, and frowns.I’ll love no more those cruel eyes of hers,Which pleased or angered, still are murderers;For if she dart (like lightning) through the airHer beams of wrath, she kills me with despair;If she behold me with a pleasing eyeI surfeit with excess of joy and die.

MURDERING BEAUTY.

I’ll gaze no more, on her bewitching face,Since ruin harbors there, in every place;For my enchanted soul, alike she drownsWith calms and tempests, of her smiles, and frowns.I’ll love no more those cruel eyes of hers,Which pleased or angered, still are murderers;For if she dart (like lightning) through the airHer beams of wrath, she kills me with despair;If she behold me with a pleasing eyeI surfeit with excess of joy and die.

I’ll gaze no more, on her bewitching face,

Since ruin harbors there, in every place;

For my enchanted soul, alike she drowns

With calms and tempests, of her smiles, and frowns.

I’ll love no more those cruel eyes of hers,

Which pleased or angered, still are murderers;

For if she dart (like lightning) through the air

Her beams of wrath, she kills me with despair;

If she behold me with a pleasing eye

I surfeit with excess of joy and die.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Lectures on Art and Poems. By Washington Allston. Edited by Richard H. Dana, Jr. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo.

The admirers of the greatest of American painters will need none of our advice to read this volume, placing as it does its accomplished author among the greatest of American writers. The Lectures are four long and elaborate essays on art; and they evince a depth and delicacy of insight, a concentrativeness and continuity of thought, a finely harmonized action of reason and imagination, and a command of subtle expression, which entitle them to a high rank among the best critical compositions of the century. The lectures treat of the highest and most exacting principles of creative art, and the passage from them to the poems is a hazardous descent. Though some of these poems have gleams of the author’s genius, they are generally characterized by a penury of imaginative expression which is painful to a reader fresh from the Lectures.

The merely literary reader will find much to delight him in the Lectures, even if he is indisposed to pay much attention to their profound discussion of principles. They contain many specimens of that word-painting which gave such popularity to Ruskin’s “Modern Painters.” The following passage on Vernet is one out of many splendid descriptions. “Now let us look at one of his Storms at Sea, when he wrought from his own mind. A dark, leaden atmosphere prepares us for something fearful; suddenly a scene of tumult, fierce, wild, disastrous, bursts upon us; and we feel the shock drive, as it were, every other thought from the mind; the terrible vision now seizes the imagination, filling it with sound and motion: we see the clouds fly, the furious waves one upon another dashing in conflict, and rolling, as if in wrath, toward the devoted ship; the wind blows from the canvas; we hear it roar through her shrouds; her masts bend like twigs, and her last forlorn hope, the close-reefed foresail, streams like a tattered flag; a terrible fascination still constrains us to look, and a dim, rocky shore looms on her lee; then comes the dreadful cry of ‘Breakers ahead!’ the crew stand appalled, and the master’s trumpet is soundless at his lips. This is the uproar of nature, and wefeelit to betrue; for here every line, every touch, has a meaning. The ragged clouds, the huddled waves, the prostrate ship, though forced by contrast into the sharpest angles, all agree, opposed as they seem, evolving harmony out of discord. And this is Genius, which no criticism can ever disprove.”

The criticisms in these lectures on Michael Angelo, Raffaelle, Titian, Poussin, Claude, are as unrivaled for discrimination as appreciation. No one has a quicker and deeper eye to detect the excellencies of great works, and no one seizes with more fatal sagacity upon their defects. Everybody has seen copies of Raffaelle’s great picture of the Madonna di Sisto, but few have dared to express their dissatisfaction with the seemingly beautiful figure of St. Catharine. Allston says it is an “evident rescript from the Antique, with all the received lines of beauty, as laid down by the analyst—apparently faultless, yet without a single inflection which the mind can recognize as allied to our sympathies; and we turn from it coldly as from the work of an artificer, not of an Artist. But not so can we turn from the intense life, which seems almost to breathe upon us from the celestial group of the Virgin and her child, and from the Angels below; in these we have the evidence of the divine afflatus—of inspired Art.”

Among the aphorisms written by Allston on the walls of his studio, and published in the present volume, we extract the following:

“Some men make their ignorance the measure of excellence; these are, of course, very fastidious critics;for knowing little, they can find little to like.”

“A witch’s skiff cannot more easily sail in the teeth of the wind, than the humaneyelie against fact; but the truth will oftener quiver through lips with a lie upon them.”

“The most common disguise of Envy is in the praise of what is subordinate.”

Southey’s Common-Place Book. Second Series. Special Collections. Edited by his Son-in-Law, John Wood Warter, B. D. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo.

This volume contains the extracts which Southey made from the world of books, relating to special subjects of study. The general topics under which the extracts are grouped, are Ecclesiasticals, the Age of Cromwell, Spanish and Portuguese Literature, the History of the Religious Orders, Orientaliana, American Tribes, Natural History, and Curious Facts. The range of reading that the volume indicates, considered in connection with the number of Southey’s original works, is sufficient to astound a regular book-cormorant, and places Southey fairly among the “laboring classes.” The present volume is more racy in its matter than the preceding, while it does not yield to it in the amount of curious information given. The following passage, taken from Percival Stockdale’s Memoirs, conveys a capital idea of an English military commander. “When Lord George Germains commanded the camp near Brompton, and at Chatham in 1757, Whitfield went to Chatham, sent his respects by Captain Smith to his lordship, and requested permission to preach in the camp. Lord George replied, ‘Make my compliments, Smith, to Mr. Whitfield, and tell him, from me, he may preach any thing to my soldiers that is not contrary to the articles of war.’ ” From the same book Southey extracts an equally edifying paragraph, relating to the view entertained of the Christian religion, by the English naval captain of that time. Percival was appointed chaplain to Capt. Ogle’s ship Resolution, but, he says, “the duty of clergyman was very seldom required of me. One day, however, when I met my naval commander in a street of Portsmouth, and paid my respects to him, he proposed that I should do my duty on the ensuing Sunday on board. I replied that it was my wish to receive such a command more frequently. At all events, replied he, I think it is right that these things should be done sometimes,as long as Christianity is on foot.” The simplicity with which religion is patronized in both of these instances, makes them richly humorous.

Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, A New Edition. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 2 vols. 10mo.

This edition of Longfellow contains all his poems, and makes two finely printed volumes of some five hundred pages each, at about half the original price. In their present tasteful form they will doubtless have a large circulation, for their author is the most popular poet of the day on both sides of the Atlantic. His poems sell better in England than those of Tennyson, Browning, Mrs. Browning, Bailey or Milnes. This wide popularity he has fairly won by his merits, as he has not lacked carping critics or envious defamers to obstruct his path to success. The source of the fascination he holds equally over cultivated and uncultivated minds is partly owing to the fine humanity and sweetness of his spirit. Good nature is a portion of his genius; without this good nature, man, says Bacon, is but “a better kind of vermin;” but we are sorry to say that it is not a prominent characteristic of many minds largely gifted with the poetic faculty. Longfellow, in addition to this heartiness, full of seriousness which does not exclude cheer, has a broad and imaginative mind, which has assimilated and inwrought into its own substance the spirit of many literatures; and this gives a vital richness to his thought which no other contemporary poet but Tennyson can be said to possess. Probably few poets ever excelled him in the difficult art of preserving an equilibrium of ambition and capacity, so that nothing is attempted which is not satisfactorily performed. Many poets who aim higher than Longfellow, please less, because we are conscious of the stir and sting of great aspirations which are unaccompanied by sufficient imagination to give them adequate form and expression, and the result is that the mind is disturbed rather than exalted. In Longfellow aspiration and inspiration are perfectly harmonized.

The Angel World, and Other Poems. By Philip James Bailey, author of “Festus.” Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo.

“Festus,” a monstrous agglomeration of irreconcilable opinions, lit up with fancy, and seasoned with warm sensations, was Mr. Bailey’s first bantling —

“Got while his soul did huddled notions try,And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy.”

“Got while his soul did huddled notions try,

And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy.”

“The Angel World” is his second product, the result of the slow gestation of many years, with fewer faults and fewer merits than “Festus”. Many persons who would hesitate in calling “Festus” a poem, discerned in it a chaos of poetical matter; and they supposed that the author’s unquestioned fertility would be forced into form when his powers matured. In “The Angel World” we find an approach to form with a decay of fertility. This seems to prove that anarchy is not so much the precursor of art as the destroyer of vitality, and that Bailey’s mind found in anarchy its fittest expression. There is not enough greatness in the man to make a great poem. Coleridge, in his remarks on Love’s Labor Lost, says that “true genius begins in generalizing and condensing; it ends in realizing and expanding. It first collects the seeds.” Bailey’s process is the reverse of this; he first expands, then condenses—and his expansion accordingly lacks substance, and his condensation richness. But though “The Angel World” is inferior to “Festus,” it still exhibits sufficient wealth of imagery to give it prominence among contemporary poems, and to exact the attention of all poetical readers. A poem which contains numerous thoughts as fine as the following cannot be justly condemned:

In oneA soul of lofty clearness, like a nightOf stars,wherein the memory of the daySeems trembling through the meditative air.

In one

A soul of lofty clearness, like a night

Of stars,wherein the memory of the day

Seems trembling through the meditative air.

The “other poems” which follow “The Angel World” are of various degrees of merit, indicating that the author is a man of moods, and is rapt or muddled, according as his sensibility rises or falls. A few of the poems are almost ecstatic, and equal the most striking passages in “Festus.”

The Ways of the Hour: A Tale. By the author of “The Spy,” “The Red Rover,” etc. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.

Mr. Cooper is a philanthropist of a peculiar kind. He makes an inventory of popular errors and vices, some of them thoroughly inwoven in the affections or manners of the people, and then daringly drives at them with the whole might of his pen. We honor his courage, and sympathize with his hatred of cant, even when we are disposed to doubt his judgment, and to regret his fretful way of presenting his opinions. Opposition seems to have deepened some of his dislikes into antipathies, and a man with antipathies is always unreasonable even in his assaults upon error and vice. There is one thing, however, for which Mr. Cooper cannot be too highly praised, and that is, his keen perception of the real faults which, in a democracy, should come under the lash of the moralist and the satirist. Far from pandering to popular delusions, he expends all his force in exposing and attacking them. The present novel is full of thrusts at the political bubblesof New York, some of which really subside into their “elemental suds” under his treatment. The general object of the novel is to exhibit the injustice which results from our system of trials by jury—an injustice which Mr. Cooper thinks is the necessary consequence of that system in a democracy. This we deem a monstrous paradox, though the story which illustrates it is ingenious and interesting, and will well repay perusal.

Gallery of Illustrious Americans. Brady & D’Avignon, New York, 1850.

Daguerreotypes by Brady—Engraved by D’Avignon, with Biographical Notices by C. Edwards Lester, assisted by other literary men. This is announced by the publishers of this work, and is sufficient alone to recommend it. It will be a noble Gallery when completed, if carried out as commenced. Two numbers are before us. The first number contains a fine portrait of Gen. Taylor, with a short clear notice of his life. The second number has a striking life-like head of Mr. Calhoun, which is particularly valuable now, that we are all called upon as countrymen to mourn the death of this great and good man. The biographical notice of Mr. Calhoun is well written and interesting.

We have but one fault to find with this work. The interior of the cover is used as a sort of journal—“Fly Leaf of Art and Criticism,” as it is called, but itspiquantnotices, and clever short articles of poetry and prose are too valuable to be thus thrown away on a mere cover. However, it proves that the liberal publishers wish to make their work as attractive as possible.

Posthumous Works of the Rev. Thomas Chalmers, D. D., L.L.D. New York: Harper & Brothers. Vol. 9.

This volume of Chalmers is as valuable as any in the series, and, to us, the most interesting of the whole. It contains Prelections on Butler’s Analogy, Paley’s Evidences of Christianity, and Hill’s Lectures in Divinity, and affords some test of the great clergyman’s real merit in the science of theology. Although the volume does not place Chalmers in the first class of theological thinkers, it indicates sufficient originality, independence and force of thought to give him a high position in the second class.

Downing Street. (Latter-Day Pamphlets, No. 3.) By Thomas Carlyle. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. New York: Harper & Brothers.

We do not see as these pamphlets decrease in impudence and raciness as the author proceeds; they are among the most exhilarating of contemporary publications, and however mad in parts, are calculated to give a sharp shock to English dogmatism, if they do not succeed in ameliorating English institutions. In “Downing Street” Carlyle makes an assault on the executive department of the English government. The attack has more reason in it than the substitute proposed for the present system. In speaking of the inadequacy of Parliamentary government to obtain the best men for rulers, he refers to Robert Burns, the noblest soul of his time in England, and yet one for whom the government could find no fitter employment than togauge ale. “And so,” remarks Carlyle, “like Apollo taken for a Neatherd, and perhaps for none of the best on the Admetus establishment, this new Norse Thor had to put up with what was going; togauge ale, and be thankful, pouring his celestial sun-light through Scottish song-writing—the narrowest chink ever offered to a thunder-god before! And the measure Pitt, and his Dundasses and red-tape phantasms (growing very ghastly now to think of) did not in the least know or understand—the impious, god-forgetting mortals—that Heroic Intellects, if Heaven were pleased to send such, were the one salvation for the world, and for them, and all of us. No; ‘they had done very well without’ such; did not see the use of such; ‘went along very well’ without such; well presided over by singular Heroic Intellect called George the Third; and the Thunder-god, as was rather fit for him, departed early, still in the noon of life, somewhat weary ofgauging ale!”

King René’s Daughter: a Danish Lyrical Drama. ByHenrik Hertz. Translated by Theodore Martin. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol. 16mo.

This drama cannot boast any remarkable imaginative power, but it is still a most exquisite creation, conceived in the spirit of the finest human sympathy, and purifying the mind which it seemingly enters merely to please. We trust that the American, as well as the English public will, in the translator’s words, have the taste to “appreciate a drama which owes its effect solely to the simplicity of its structure, the ideal beauty of its central character, and the atmosphere of poetry and old romance by which it is pervaded.” Iolanthe, the character thus indicated, has a clear and vital sweetness at the heart of her being, which wins every reader’s affection. The genius of the author may be likened to the nightingale in his own lyric —

The eagle we tellBy his sweep full well,As proudly afar in the clouds he soars,And the nightingale,By the trilling wailHer throat in the dewy May-time pours.

The eagle we tell

By his sweep full well,

As proudly afar in the clouds he soars,

And the nightingale,

By the trilling wail

Her throat in the dewy May-time pours.

The Petrel, or Love on the Ocean, by Sir Ameral Fisher. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson.

This is one of the most spirited sea novels that we have read since Cooper witched the world with his Red Rover. It is full of intense interest throughout, and must find a wide sale among all lovers of nautical adventure. The heroine,Norah, is a beautifully drawn character, as is also the bold, dashing Herbert, her lover. The attack upon the pirates has all the freshness and daring of Tom Cringle’s Log.

Back to Index Next