THE SPECTRE KNIGHT AND HIS LADYE-BRIDE.

[2]A law was passed, during the spring of the present year, in that respectable and truly conservative State, by which the murder of unfledged July Woodcock, by cockney gunners was prohibited; and the close time judiciously prolonged until September. The debate was remarkable for two things, the original genius with which the Hon. Member for Westboro’ persisted that Snipe are Woodcock, and Woodcock Snipe, all naturalists to the contrary notwithstanding; and the pertinent reply to the complaint of a city member, that to abolish July shooting would rob thecity sportsmanof his sport—viz., that in that case it would give it to the farmer. Marry, say we, amen, so be it!

[2]

A law was passed, during the spring of the present year, in that respectable and truly conservative State, by which the murder of unfledged July Woodcock, by cockney gunners was prohibited; and the close time judiciously prolonged until September. The debate was remarkable for two things, the original genius with which the Hon. Member for Westboro’ persisted that Snipe are Woodcock, and Woodcock Snipe, all naturalists to the contrary notwithstanding; and the pertinent reply to the complaint of a city member, that to abolish July shooting would rob thecity sportsmanof his sport—viz., that in that case it would give it to the farmer. Marry, say we, amen, so be it!

A LAY OF THE OLDEN TIME.

———

BY FANNY FIELDING.

———

Lady Margaret sits in her father’s ha’Wi’ the tear-drop in her een,For her lover-knight is far awa’In the fields o’ Palestine.Now the rose is fled frae her downy cheek,An’ wan is her lily-white hand,An’ her bonnie blue e’e the tear doth dim,For her knight in the Holy Land.His banner it is the Holy Cross,But it gars her greet fu’ sair,As she meekly kneels and his lo’ed name breathesAtOur Mother’sshrine in prayer.“O, hae ye a care, sweet Mother fair,O’er the lion-hearted king,But send me back Sir Hildebrande safe,Abune a’ ither thing!”’Tis Hallowe’en, and twelve lang monthsHae i’ their turn passed round,An’ ’twas Hallowe’en when Sir Hildebrande marchedFor Palestine’s holy ground.The castle clock tolls midnight’s hour,An’ the ladye bethinks her nowOf her lover’s words at the trysting-tree—His fervent and heartfelt vow.“O, ladye fair,” said the gallant Hildebrande,“When twelve lang months shall flee,Come ye then through the mossy glenAdown by the trysting-tree.“When the wearie year brings Hallowe’enAnce mair to this lo’ed land,An’ if thou wilt come at midnight’s hourThou shalt hear of thine own Hildebrande.”O, the wintry wind blaws sair and chill,An’ it whistles fu’ mournfully,As the ladye strolls, at the witching hour,To the glen adown the lea.The maiden draws her mantle close,For the night is dark an’ drear,An’ now that she nears the trysting-treeHer heart it quails wi’ fear.O, louder and hoarser blaws the blast,An’ darker grows the sky,An’ the clattering tramp of a courser’s hoofGrows nigh, an’ yet more nigh!The coal-black steed doth slack his speedAn’ halt at the ladye’s side,An’ a red light gleams in flickering beamsAround her far and wide.A mail-clad knight doth now alight,So ghastly pale an’ wanThat the ladye cries, wi’ tearfu’ eyes,“Where is my lover gane!”A voice like the hollow, murm’ring windReplied to the high-born dame—“O, thy lover sleeps on the battle-fieldAmong the noble slain—“But the soul that vowed to be true to theeWill be true whate’er betide,An’ returns from the land of chivalrieTo claim thee for his bride!”This said, he stretched forth his bony handTo his well-beloved bride,An’ now he mounts the coal-black steedWi’ the ladye by his side.But hist! the moor-cock crows fu’ shrillAlang the dreary way,An’ goblin, elf, nor wand’ring ghaistCan face the light o’ day.The phantom steed doth champ his bitAn’ flash his fiery eye—An’ away they speed o’er hill an’ dale—O’er rock an’ mountain high!Lang years hae passed since Sir Hildebrande cameFrae the fields o’ Palestine,To claim fair Margaret for his bride,But on every Hallowe’en,When the castle clock tolls midnight’s hour,As on that night of yore,The ladye and knight are seen to sweepAdown the drearie moor.The coal-black steed doth champ his bitAn’ flash his fiery e’e,But he slacks his speed at the knight’s commandAs he gains the trysting-tree.

Lady Margaret sits in her father’s ha’

Wi’ the tear-drop in her een,

For her lover-knight is far awa’

In the fields o’ Palestine.

Now the rose is fled frae her downy cheek,

An’ wan is her lily-white hand,

An’ her bonnie blue e’e the tear doth dim,

For her knight in the Holy Land.

His banner it is the Holy Cross,

But it gars her greet fu’ sair,

As she meekly kneels and his lo’ed name breathes

AtOur Mother’sshrine in prayer.

“O, hae ye a care, sweet Mother fair,

O’er the lion-hearted king,

But send me back Sir Hildebrande safe,

Abune a’ ither thing!”

’Tis Hallowe’en, and twelve lang months

Hae i’ their turn passed round,

An’ ’twas Hallowe’en when Sir Hildebrande marched

For Palestine’s holy ground.

The castle clock tolls midnight’s hour,

An’ the ladye bethinks her now

Of her lover’s words at the trysting-tree—

His fervent and heartfelt vow.

“O, ladye fair,” said the gallant Hildebrande,

“When twelve lang months shall flee,

Come ye then through the mossy glen

Adown by the trysting-tree.

“When the wearie year brings Hallowe’en

Ance mair to this lo’ed land,

An’ if thou wilt come at midnight’s hour

Thou shalt hear of thine own Hildebrande.”

O, the wintry wind blaws sair and chill,

An’ it whistles fu’ mournfully,

As the ladye strolls, at the witching hour,

To the glen adown the lea.

The maiden draws her mantle close,

For the night is dark an’ drear,

An’ now that she nears the trysting-tree

Her heart it quails wi’ fear.

O, louder and hoarser blaws the blast,

An’ darker grows the sky,

An’ the clattering tramp of a courser’s hoof

Grows nigh, an’ yet more nigh!

The coal-black steed doth slack his speed

An’ halt at the ladye’s side,

An’ a red light gleams in flickering beams

Around her far and wide.

A mail-clad knight doth now alight,

So ghastly pale an’ wan

That the ladye cries, wi’ tearfu’ eyes,

“Where is my lover gane!”

A voice like the hollow, murm’ring wind

Replied to the high-born dame—

“O, thy lover sleeps on the battle-field

Among the noble slain—

“But the soul that vowed to be true to thee

Will be true whate’er betide,

An’ returns from the land of chivalrie

To claim thee for his bride!”

This said, he stretched forth his bony hand

To his well-beloved bride,

An’ now he mounts the coal-black steed

Wi’ the ladye by his side.

But hist! the moor-cock crows fu’ shrill

Alang the dreary way,

An’ goblin, elf, nor wand’ring ghaist

Can face the light o’ day.

The phantom steed doth champ his bit

An’ flash his fiery eye—

An’ away they speed o’er hill an’ dale—

O’er rock an’ mountain high!

Lang years hae passed since Sir Hildebrande came

Frae the fields o’ Palestine,

To claim fair Margaret for his bride,

But on every Hallowe’en,

When the castle clock tolls midnight’s hour,

As on that night of yore,

The ladye and knight are seen to sweep

Adown the drearie moor.

The coal-black steed doth champ his bit

An’ flash his fiery e’e,

But he slacks his speed at the knight’s command

As he gains the trysting-tree.

TO L——. WITH SOME POEMS.

———

BY GRACE GREENWOOD.

———

I know these lays will come to theeLike flowers along thy pathway strown—And wear to thy young, generous eyesA grace and beauty not their own.Thou know’st they spring where deepest shadeAnd blinding sunlight are at strife—Faint blooms and frail, yet bringing theeSweet breathings from my inmost life.Or come like waters, leaping outFrom shadowy places to the day,To catch heaven’s brightness on their waves,And freshen earth along their way.A streamlet laughing in the sunIs all a busy world may hear—The deepest fountains of my soulSend up their murmurs to thine ear.There are to whom these lays shall comeLike strains that sky-larks downward send;But ah, no higher than thy heartThey sing to thee, belovéd friend!For in thymanhood pure and strong,With thy great soul, thy fresh, young heart,Thoulivestmy ideal life,And what I only dream thouart.The Grecian youth whose name thou bear’st,Who nightly with the billows strove,And through the wild seas cleaved his wayTo the dear bosom of his love,Ne’er bore a braver soul than thine,When yawned great deeps and tempests frowned,Nor lifted up amid the wavesA brow with loftier beauty crowned.The poet’s rare and wondrous giftsIn thee await their triumph-hour—There sleep within thy dreamy eyesThe mighty secrets of his power.Thy heart, with one high throb, can riseHis fair, heroic dreams above—There breathes more passion in thy voiceThan in a thousand lays of love.Ah, know’st thou not, the while thou deem’stThe poet’s mission most divine,Life’s grand, unwritten poetryGoes out from natures such as thine?What though it falleth brokenly,And faintly on the world’s dull ear—Though clamorous voices cry it down,To God it rises, pure and clear!It cometh as a service glad—A music all as full and sweet,As though the stars hymned forth their joy,And rolled their anthems to His feet.When, like the Grecian youth, thou see’stThe midnight tempests gather round—When storm-clouds seem to flood the heavens,And all the starry lights are drowned;—Upborne by angel-hands, may’st thouThrough life’s wild sea right onward sweep,To where Hope’s signal lights the night,And Love stands watching by the deep.

I know these lays will come to thee

Like flowers along thy pathway strown—

And wear to thy young, generous eyes

A grace and beauty not their own.

Thou know’st they spring where deepest shade

And blinding sunlight are at strife—

Faint blooms and frail, yet bringing thee

Sweet breathings from my inmost life.

Or come like waters, leaping out

From shadowy places to the day,

To catch heaven’s brightness on their waves,

And freshen earth along their way.

A streamlet laughing in the sun

Is all a busy world may hear—

The deepest fountains of my soul

Send up their murmurs to thine ear.

There are to whom these lays shall come

Like strains that sky-larks downward send;

But ah, no higher than thy heart

They sing to thee, belovéd friend!

For in thymanhood pure and strong,

With thy great soul, thy fresh, young heart,

Thoulivestmy ideal life,

And what I only dream thouart.

The Grecian youth whose name thou bear’st,

Who nightly with the billows strove,

And through the wild seas cleaved his way

To the dear bosom of his love,

Ne’er bore a braver soul than thine,

When yawned great deeps and tempests frowned,

Nor lifted up amid the waves

A brow with loftier beauty crowned.

The poet’s rare and wondrous gifts

In thee await their triumph-hour—

There sleep within thy dreamy eyes

The mighty secrets of his power.

Thy heart, with one high throb, can rise

His fair, heroic dreams above—

There breathes more passion in thy voice

Than in a thousand lays of love.

Ah, know’st thou not, the while thou deem’st

The poet’s mission most divine,

Life’s grand, unwritten poetry

Goes out from natures such as thine?

What though it falleth brokenly,

And faintly on the world’s dull ear—

Though clamorous voices cry it down,

To God it rises, pure and clear!

It cometh as a service glad—

A music all as full and sweet,

As though the stars hymned forth their joy,

And rolled their anthems to His feet.

When, like the Grecian youth, thou see’st

The midnight tempests gather round—

When storm-clouds seem to flood the heavens,

And all the starry lights are drowned;—

Upborne by angel-hands, may’st thou

Through life’s wild sea right onward sweep,

To where Hope’s signal lights the night,

And Love stands watching by the deep.

WORDSWORTH.

———

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

———

Another bard of Albion is no more,Who erst with folded arms, oft, calmly stood,Nature’s contemplative—the great and good—Let every hill and valley him deplore,Whose hand hath ceased to wake the tuneful lyre—’Mid earthly landscapes, and o’er mountains old,He walked in sweet Excursion, to behold“The Rainbow in the Sky.” Nature’s great SireHath taken him—“his heart leaps up” to seeThe emerald-colored bow about the throne,Where sits the King of kings and Lord alone.Sweet Wordsworth! poet of true purity!Thy hand upon a nobler lyre doth rest—A lyre of glory in the land of those forever blest.

Another bard of Albion is no more,

Who erst with folded arms, oft, calmly stood,

Nature’s contemplative—the great and good—

Let every hill and valley him deplore,

Whose hand hath ceased to wake the tuneful lyre—

’Mid earthly landscapes, and o’er mountains old,

He walked in sweet Excursion, to behold

“The Rainbow in the Sky.” Nature’s great Sire

Hath taken him—“his heart leaps up” to see

The emerald-colored bow about the throne,

Where sits the King of kings and Lord alone.

Sweet Wordsworth! poet of true purity!

Thy hand upon a nobler lyre doth rest—

A lyre of glory in the land of those forever blest.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

The Prelude; or Growth of a Poet’s Mind. An Autobiographical Poem. By William Wordsworth. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.The Excursion. By William Wordsworth. New York: C. S. Francis & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

The Prelude; or Growth of a Poet’s Mind. An Autobiographical Poem. By William Wordsworth. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

The Excursion. By William Wordsworth. New York: C. S. Francis & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

It was known as long ago as 1814, that Wordsworth had written the present poem, and that it would not be published until after his death. It now appears that it was commenced as far back as 1799, and was finally completed in 1805. The purpose of the poem is to exhibit the gradual growth of the poet’s mind, from its first development of imagination and passion, to the period when he conceived he had grown up to that height of contemplation which would justify his attempt to realize the great object of his life—the production of a philosophic poem on Man, Nature, and Society. “The Prelude,” is addressed to Coleridge, the poet’s intimate friend; and the egotism of the narrative is much modified, by its being thus seemingly intended, not for the public, but for the poet-metaphysician into whose single heart and brain its revelations are poured. The character of the poem is essentially psychological, the object being to notice only those events and scenes which fed and directed the poet’s mind, and to regard them, not so much in their own nature, as in their influence on the nature of the poet. The topics, therefore, though trite in themselves, are all made original from the peculiarities of the person conceiving them. His childhood and school-time, his residence at the university, his summer vacation, his visit to the Alps, his tour through France, his residence in London and France, are the principal topics; but the enumeration of the topics can convey no impression of the thought, observation, and imagination, the eloquent philosophy, vivid imagery, and unmistakableWordsworthianism, which characterize the volume.

It must be admitted, however, that “The Prelude,” with all its merits, does not add to the author’s great fame, however much it may add to our knowledge of his inner life. As a poem it cannot be placed by the side of The White Doe, or The Excursion, or the Ode on Childhood, or the Ode on the Power of Sound; and the reason is to be found in its strictly didactic and personal character, necessitating a more constant use of analysis and reflection, and a greater substitution of the metaphysical for the poetic process, than poetry is willing to admit. Though intended as an introduction to “The Excursion,” it has not its sustained richness of diction and imagery; and there is little of that easy yielding of the mind to the inspiration of objects, and that ecstatic utterance of the emotions they excite, which characterize passages selected at random from the latter poem—as in that grand rushing forth of poetic impulse, in the Fourth Book:

Oh! what a joy it were in vigorous health,To have a body (this our vital frameWith shrinking sensibility endued,And all the nice regards of flesh and blood,)And to the elements surrender itAs if it were a spirit! How divine,The liberty, for frail, for mortal manTo roam at large among unpeopled glensAnd mountainous retirements, only trodBy devious footsteps; regions consecrateTo oldest time! and, reckless of the stormThat keeps the raven quiet in her nest,Be as a presence or a motion—oneAmong the many there; and while the mistsFlying, and rainy vapors, call out shapesAnd phantoms from the crags and solid earthAs fast as a musician scatters soundsOut of an instrument; and while the streams(As at a first creation, and in hasteTo exercise their untried faculties)Descending from the region of the clouds,And starting from the hollows of the earthMore multitudinous every moment, rendTheir way before them—what a joy to roamAn equal among mightiest energies;And haply sometimes with articulate voice,Amid the deafening tumult, scarcely heardBy him that utters it, exclaim aloud,“Be this continued so from day to day,Nor let the fierce commotion have an end.Ruinous though it be, from month to month.”

Oh! what a joy it were in vigorous health,

To have a body (this our vital frame

With shrinking sensibility endued,

And all the nice regards of flesh and blood,)

And to the elements surrender it

As if it were a spirit! How divine,

The liberty, for frail, for mortal man

To roam at large among unpeopled glens

And mountainous retirements, only trod

By devious footsteps; regions consecrate

To oldest time! and, reckless of the storm

That keeps the raven quiet in her nest,

Be as a presence or a motion—one

Among the many there; and while the mists

Flying, and rainy vapors, call out shapes

And phantoms from the crags and solid earth

As fast as a musician scatters sounds

Out of an instrument; and while the streams

(As at a first creation, and in haste

To exercise their untried faculties)

Descending from the region of the clouds,

And starting from the hollows of the earth

More multitudinous every moment, rend

Their way before them—what a joy to roam

An equal among mightiest energies;

And haply sometimes with articulate voice,

Amid the deafening tumult, scarcely heard

By him that utters it, exclaim aloud,

“Be this continued so from day to day,

Nor let the fierce commotion have an end.

Ruinous though it be, from month to month.”

“The Prelude” has many fine descriptions of nature, but nothing which rises to the beauty and sublimity of the following passage from “The Excursion”:

—when a step,A single step, that freed me from the skirtsOf the blind vapor, opened to my viewGlory beyond all glory ever seenBy waking sense or by the dreaming soul!The appearance, instantaneously disclosedWas of a mighty city—boldly sayA wilderness of building, sinking farAnd self-withdrawn into a wondrous depth,Far sinking into splendor—without end!Fabric it seemed of diamond and gold,With alabaster domes, and silver spires,And blazing terrace upon terrace, highUplifted; here, serene pavilions bright,In avenues disposed; there, towers begirtWith battlements that on their restless frontsBore stars—illumination of all gems!By earthly nature had the effect been wroughtUpon the dark materials of the stormNow pacified; on them, and on the covesAnd mountain-steeps and summits, whereuntoThe vapors had receded, taking thereTheir station under a cerulean sky.Oh! ’twas an unimaginable sight!Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf,Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky,Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed,Molten together, and composing thus,Each lost in each, that marvelous arrayOf temple, palace, citadel, and hugeFantastic pomp of structure without name,In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped.Right in the midst, where interspace appearedOf open court, an object like a throneUnder a shining canopy of stateStood fixed; and fixed resemblances were seenTo implements of ordinary use,But vast in size, in substance glorified;Such as by Hebrew prophets were beheldIn vision—forms uncouth of mightiest powerFor admiration and mysterious awe.Below me was the earth; this little valeLay low beneath my feet; ’twas visible—I saw not, but I felt that it was there.That which Isawwas the revealed abodeOf spirits in beatitude.

—when a step,

A single step, that freed me from the skirts

Of the blind vapor, opened to my view

Glory beyond all glory ever seen

By waking sense or by the dreaming soul!

The appearance, instantaneously disclosed

Was of a mighty city—boldly say

A wilderness of building, sinking far

And self-withdrawn into a wondrous depth,

Far sinking into splendor—without end!

Fabric it seemed of diamond and gold,

With alabaster domes, and silver spires,

And blazing terrace upon terrace, high

Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright,

In avenues disposed; there, towers begirt

With battlements that on their restless fronts

Bore stars—illumination of all gems!

By earthly nature had the effect been wrought

Upon the dark materials of the storm

Now pacified; on them, and on the coves

And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto

The vapors had receded, taking there

Their station under a cerulean sky.

Oh! ’twas an unimaginable sight!

Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf,

Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky,

Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed,

Molten together, and composing thus,

Each lost in each, that marvelous array

Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge

Fantastic pomp of structure without name,

In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped.

Right in the midst, where interspace appeared

Of open court, an object like a throne

Under a shining canopy of state

Stood fixed; and fixed resemblances were seen

To implements of ordinary use,

But vast in size, in substance glorified;

Such as by Hebrew prophets were beheld

In vision—forms uncouth of mightiest power

For admiration and mysterious awe.

Below me was the earth; this little vale

Lay low beneath my feet; ’twas visible—

I saw not, but I felt that it was there.

That which Isawwas the revealed abode

Of spirits in beatitude.

Not only do we see the superiority of “The Excursion” in such passages as these, but the didactic thought is more assured, is more colored by imagination, and melts more readily into soft, sweet, melodious expression. Take the following, for instance:

Within the soul a faculty abides,That with interpositions, which would hideAnd darken, so can deal, that they becomeContingencies of pomp; and serve to exaltHer native brightness. As the ample moon,In the deep stillness of a summer evenRising behind a thick and lofty grove,Burns, like an unconsuming fire of light,In the green trees; and, kindling on all sidesTheir leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veilInto a substance glorious as her own,Yea, with her own incorporated, by powerCapacious and serene: like power abidesIn man’s celestial spirit; virtue thusSets forth and magnifies herself; thus feedsA calm, a beautiful, and silent fire,From the encumbrances of mortal life,From error, disappointment—nay, from guilt;And sometimes, so relenting justice wills;From palpable oppressions of despair.

Within the soul a faculty abides,

That with interpositions, which would hide

And darken, so can deal, that they become

Contingencies of pomp; and serve to exalt

Her native brightness. As the ample moon,

In the deep stillness of a summer even

Rising behind a thick and lofty grove,

Burns, like an unconsuming fire of light,

In the green trees; and, kindling on all sides

Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil

Into a substance glorious as her own,

Yea, with her own incorporated, by power

Capacious and serene: like power abides

In man’s celestial spirit; virtue thus

Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds

A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire,

From the encumbrances of mortal life,

From error, disappointment—nay, from guilt;

And sometimes, so relenting justice wills;

From palpable oppressions of despair.

If “The Prelude” has thus fewer “trances of thought and mountings of the mind” than “The Excursion,” it still bears the marks of the lofty and thoughtful genius of the author, and increases our respect for his personal character. The books devoted to his residence in Cambridge, his tour to the Alps, and to the influence of the French Revolution upon his genius and character, are additions to the philosophy of the human mind. We believe that few metaphysicians ever scanned their consciousness with more intensity of vision, than Wordsworth was wont to direct upon his; and in the present poem he has subtily noted, and firmly expressed, many new psychological laws and processes. The whole subject of the development of the mind’s creative faculties, and the vital laws of mental growth and production, has been but little touched by professed metaphysicians; and we believe “The Prelude” conveys more real available knowledge of the facts and laws of man’s internal constitution, than can be found in Hume or Kant.

We have not space for many extracts from the poem. Its philosophical value could not be indicated by quotations, and we shall content ourselves with citing a few random passages, illustrative of its general style and thought. The following lines exhibit the tendency of Wordsworth’s mind, when a youth at college:

I looked for universal things; perusedThe common countenance of earth and sky:Earth, nowhere unembellished by some traceOf that first Paradise whence man was driven;And sky, whose beauty and bounty are expressedBy the proud name she bears—the name of Heaven.I called on both to teach me what they might;Or turning the mind in upon herself,Pored, watched, expected, listened, spread my thoughtsAnd spread them with a wider creeping; feltIncumbencies more awful, visitingsOf the Upholder of the tranquil soulThat tolerates theindignitiesof Time,And from the centre of EternityAll finite motions, overruling, livesIn glory immutable.—To every natural form, rock, fruit, or flower,Even the loose stones that cover the high-way,I gave a moral life: I saw them feel,Or linked them to some feeling!the great massLay bedded in a quickening soul, and allThat I beheld respired with inward meaning.

I looked for universal things; perused

The common countenance of earth and sky:

Earth, nowhere unembellished by some trace

Of that first Paradise whence man was driven;

And sky, whose beauty and bounty are expressed

By the proud name she bears—the name of Heaven.

I called on both to teach me what they might;

Or turning the mind in upon herself,

Pored, watched, expected, listened, spread my thoughts

And spread them with a wider creeping; felt

Incumbencies more awful, visitings

Of the Upholder of the tranquil soul

That tolerates theindignitiesof Time,

And from the centre of Eternity

All finite motions, overruling, lives

In glory immutable.

—

To every natural form, rock, fruit, or flower,

Even the loose stones that cover the high-way,

I gave a moral life: I saw them feel,

Or linked them to some feeling!the great mass

Lay bedded in a quickening soul, and all

That I beheld respired with inward meaning.

In the following stern description, he records his condemnation of life as he found it at the great English university of Cambridge:

For, all degreesAnd shapes of spurious fame and short-lived praiseHere sat in state, and fed with daily almsRetainers won away from solid good;And here was Labor, his own bond-slave; Hope,That never set the pains against the prize;Idleness halting with his weary clog,And poor misguided Shame, and witless Fear,And simple Pleasure foraging for Death;Honor misplaced, and Dignity astray;Feuds, factions, flatteries, enmity, and guileMurmuring submission, and bold government,(The idol weak as the idolater)And Decency and Custom starving Truth,And blind Authority beating with his staffThe child that might have led him; EmptinessFollowed as of good omen, and meek WorthLeft to herself unheard of and unknown.

For, all degrees

And shapes of spurious fame and short-lived praise

Here sat in state, and fed with daily alms

Retainers won away from solid good;

And here was Labor, his own bond-slave; Hope,

That never set the pains against the prize;

Idleness halting with his weary clog,

And poor misguided Shame, and witless Fear,

And simple Pleasure foraging for Death;

Honor misplaced, and Dignity astray;

Feuds, factions, flatteries, enmity, and guile

Murmuring submission, and bold government,

(The idol weak as the idolater)

And Decency and Custom starving Truth,

And blind Authority beating with his staff

The child that might have led him; Emptiness

Followed as of good omen, and meek Worth

Left to herself unheard of and unknown.

The most remarkable line in the poem, a line almost equal to Milton’s “Thoughts that wander through eternity,” is that which concludes the following passage on the statue of Newton at Cambridge:

And from my pillow, looking forth by lightOf moon or favoring stars, I could beholdThe antechapel where the statue stoodOf Newton with his prism and silent face,The marble index of a mind foreverVoyaging through strange seas of thought, alone.

And from my pillow, looking forth by light

Of moon or favoring stars, I could behold

The antechapel where the statue stood

Of Newton with his prism and silent face,

The marble index of a mind forever

Voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone.

With the lingering, mysterious music of this line sounding in our ears, it would be an impertinence to continue these loose remarks on “The Prelude” any further; and we close by commending the poem to the thoughtful attention of thinking readers.

Christian Thought on Life: In a Series of Discourses. By Henry Giles, Author of Lectures and Essays. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo.

The author of this beautiful volume is a born orator, whose written style instinctively takes the form of eloquence, and whose strong and deep emotions are at once the inspirers and guides of his pen. He has given us here a dozen discourses, full of living thoughts and winged words, and with not a page which is open to the charge of dullness or triteness. When his theme compels him to introduce common thoughts he avoids commonplaces, and we cannot recognize the old acquaintance of our brain in the fresh and sparkling expression in which it here appears. Mr. Giles, indeed, is so thoroughly a thinker, and his mind is so pervaded by his sentiments, that where he lacks novelty he never lacks originality, and always gives indications of having conceived every thought he expresses. Nobody can read the present volume without being kindled by the vivid vitality with which it presents old truths, and the superb boldness with which it announces new ones. Among the many eloquent and impassioned discourses in the volume, that entitled “The Guilt of Contempt” is perhaps the sharpest in mental analysis, and closest and most condensed in style. It will rank with the best sermons ever delivered from an American pulpit. Another excellent and striking discourse is on the subject of spiritual incongruities as illustrated in the life of David. The five discourses on the Worth, the Personality, the Continuity, the Struggle, the Discipline, of Life, are remarkable for their clear statement of Christian principles, and the knowledge they evince of the inward workings of thought and emotions. Prayer and Passion is a sermon which securely threads all the labyrinths of selfishness, and exposes its most cunning movements and disguises.

We will give a few sentences illustrative of Mr. Giles’ mode of treating religious subjects, and the peculiar union of thought and emotion in his common style of expression. Speaking of the Psalms of David, he says—“They alone contain a poetry that meets the spiritual nature in all its moods and in all its wants, which strengthens virtue with glorious exhortations, gives angelic eloquence to prayer, and almost rises to the seraph’s joy in praise. . . For assemblies or for solitude, for all that gladdens and all that grieves, for our heaviness and despair, for our remorse and our redemption, we find in these divine harmonies the loud or the low expression. Great has been their power in the world. They resounded amidst the courts of the tabernacle; they floated through the lofty and solemn spaces of the temple. They were sung with glory in the halls of Zion; they were sung with sorrow by the streams of Babel. And when Israel had passed away, the harp of David was still awakened in the church of Christ. In all the eras and ages of that church, from the hymn which first it whispered in an upper chamber, until its anthems filled the earth, the inspiration of the royal prophet has enraptured its devotions and ennobled its ritual. And thus it has been, not alone in the augustcathedral or the rustic chapel. Chorused by the winds of heaven, they have swelled through God’s own temple of the sky and stars; they have rolled over the broad desert of Asia, in the matins and vespers of ten thousand hermits. They have rung through the deep valleys of the Alps, in the sobbing voices of the forlorn Waldenses; through the steeps and caves of Scottish highlands, in the rude chantings of the Scottish Covenanters; through the woods and wilds of primitive America, in the heroic hallelujahs of the early pilgrims.”

Specimens of Newspaper Literature. With Personal Memoirs, Anecdotes, and Reminiscences. By Joseph T. Buckingham. Boston: Little & Brown. 2 vols. 12mo.

The author of these volumes has been long extensively known as one of the leading editors of the country; and his age and experience peculiarly qualify him to do justice to the subject he here undertakes to treat. His own recollections must extend back some sixty years; and during that period he has been constantly connected with newspapers, either as printer’s apprentice, journeyman, or editor. He knew intimately most of the editors and writers for the press, who took prominent parts in the political controversies at the formation of the government, and during the first twenty years of its administration, and he is thoroughly acquainted with all the New England newspapers which appeared before the Revolution and during its progress. The work, therefore, is a reflection of the spirit of old times, giving their very “form and pressure,” and exhibiting, sometimes in a ludicrous light, old political passions in all their original frenzy of thought and form of expression. The specimens given of newspaper literature, in verse and prose, are all interesting either for their folly or wisdom, and some of them are valuable as curiosities of rhetoric and logic. Not only is the work valuable to the antiquary, the historian, and the members of “the craft,” but it contains matter sufficiently piquant to stimulate and preserve the attention of the general reader.

The author of these volumes is a marked instance of that inherent strength of character which pursues knowledge under difficulties, and is victorious over all obstacles which obstruct the elevation of the friendless. Without having received even a school education, and passing the period that boys usually devote to Lindley Murray in a printing office, he is one of the most vigorous and polished writers in New England, and in thorough acquaintance with classical English literature has no superiors. Every thing he writes bears the signs, not merely of intellect and taste, but of forcible character; and we believe that a selection from his newspaper articles would make a volume, which for originality of thought, and raciness of expression, would be an addition to our literature.

Songs of Labor, and Other Poems. By John G. Whittier. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 12mo.

Whittier’s popularity, great as it is, must be increased by these Songs of Labor. In them, the Ship-Builders, Shoemakers, Drovers, Fishermen, Huskers and Lumbermen, are gifted with vigorous and melodious utterance, in songs whose chime is the very echo of their occupations. The other poems of the collection are of a merit as various as their themes. The best is the poem entitled “Memories,” one of the most exquisitely tender, thoughtful and imaginative poems in our literature. “Pious IX.” and “Elliott,” are essentially battle-pieces, and the rhymes clash together like the crossing of swords. Fierce and hot as the invective of these poems is, we still think the business of wrath is much better done in “Ichabod,” in which rage and scorn take the form of a dirge, and smiting sarcasms are insinuated through the phrases of grief. Throughout the volume we are impressed with the great nature of the author, and the superiority of the man to any thing he has yet produced. He unites, in a singular degree, tenderness with strength, delicate fancy with blazing imagination, sensitive sentiment with sturdy character; and his most exhilarating and trumpet-voiced lyrics have the air of impromptus. In the following lines, for instance, from a poem in the present volume on “The Peace Convention at Brussels,” he extemporises as good heroic verse as Campbell’s:

Still in thy streets, oh Paris! doth the stainOf blood defy the cleansing autumn rain;Still breaks the smoke Messina’s ruins through,And Naples mourns that new Bartholomew,When squalid beggary, for a dole of bread,At a crowned murderer’s beck of license, fedThe yawning trenches with her noble dead;Still, doomed Vienna, through thy stately hallsThe shell goes crashing and the red shot falls,And, leagued to crush thee on the Danube’s side,The beamed Croat and Bosniak spearman ride;Still in that vale where Himalaya’s snowMelts round the corn-fields and the vines below,The Sikh’s hot cannon, answering ball for ball,Flames in the breach of Moultan’s shattered wall;On Chenab’s side the vulture seeks the slain,And Sutlej paints with blood its banks again.

Still in thy streets, oh Paris! doth the stain

Of blood defy the cleansing autumn rain;

Still breaks the smoke Messina’s ruins through,

And Naples mourns that new Bartholomew,

When squalid beggary, for a dole of bread,

At a crowned murderer’s beck of license, fed

The yawning trenches with her noble dead;

Still, doomed Vienna, through thy stately halls

The shell goes crashing and the red shot falls,

And, leagued to crush thee on the Danube’s side,

The beamed Croat and Bosniak spearman ride;

Still in that vale where Himalaya’s snow

Melts round the corn-fields and the vines below,

The Sikh’s hot cannon, answering ball for ball,

Flames in the breach of Moultan’s shattered wall;

On Chenab’s side the vulture seeks the slain,

And Sutlej paints with blood its banks again.

Rural Hours. By a Lady. New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.

To judge from the dedication, the authoress of this goodly duodecimo must be the daughter of Cooper, the novelist. She has much of her father’s remarkable descriptive power, but is happily deficient in that fretful discontent which disturbs the harmony of his later productions. The volume will be found a delightful companion both to the denizen of the city and country. The writer wins upon the reader’s sympathies with every page. Her intelligence is clear and quiet, enlarged by intimacy with nature and good books, and elevated by a beautiful and unobtrusive piety. We hope this will not be her last production.

Sleep Psychologically Considered with reference to Sensation and Memory. By Blanchard Fosgate, M. D. New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.

This thin volume is devoted to a subject which, though its discussion involves a consideration of topics properly metaphysical, has more general interest than any other in the science of metaphysics, because its phenomena stimulate the curiosity of all who, like Richard the Third, are troubled with dreams. The author supports, with great power of illustration and argument, three propositions, viz., that during sleep the mental faculties are as active as during wakefulness; that memory is no criterion by which to judge the mind in sleep; and that the mind is dependent upon the integrity of the organs of external sensation for a remembrance of what transpires during this state. The discussion of these topics is enlivened by many curious examples.

Europe, Past and Present. By Francis H. Ungewitter, LL. D. New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.

This is a thick volume of some seven hundred pages, completely crammed with facts relating to the history, geography, and present condition of every state in Europe. The index, containing ten thousand names, will convey an idea of the amount of matter which the author has compressed into his volume. Though a work of vast labor,we presume that its value, as a work for constant reference, will amply repay the expense of compiling it. Every man who reads European news should possess the book, provided he desires to read news intelligently. It gives accurate ideas of the relative importance of the various States, by exhibiting their financial condition as well as their territory, population, and productions.

Chronicle of the Conquest of Grenada. (Irving’s Works, vol. 14.) New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.

Every lover of the romantic and picturesque in history will heartily welcome this re-issue of Irving’s charming Chronicle. By assuming the position of a contemporary, he is enabled to exhibit the prejudices of the time with almost dramatic vividness, and to give events some of the coloring they derived from Spanish bigotry without obscuring their real nature and import. The beautiful mischievousness of the occasional irony which peeps through the narrative, is in the author’s happiest style. The book might easily be expanded into a dozen novels, so rich is it in materials of description and adventure. In its present form it is replete with accurate history, represented with pictorial vividness.

Domestic History of the American Revolution. By Mrs. Ellet, Author of the Women of the American Revolution. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo.

The theme which Mrs. Ellet has chosen is an important one, and absolutely necessary to be comprehended by all who wish to understand the American Revolution as a living fact. The great defect of most of our national histories and biographies is their abstract character, neither characters nor events being represented in the concrete, and brought directly home to the hearts and imaginations of readers. The result is, that most of us, when we attempt to be patriotic, slide so readily into bombast; for having no distinct conceptions of what was really done and suffered by our forefathers andforemothers, we can only glorify them by a resort to the dictionary. Mrs. Ellet’s book is devoted to those scenes and persons in our revolutionary history, in exhibiting which the novelist is commonly so far in advance of the historian; and she has performed her task with much discrimination in the selection of materials, and no little pictorial power in representing what she has selected.

The Vale of Cedars; or The Martyr. By Grace Aguilar. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

This is Grace Aguilar’s last work, in the most melancholy sense of the word, she having died of consumption shortly after its completion. The story is one of much interest; the sentiments beautiful and pure; the style sweet and pleasing. We have read none of her novels with more satisfaction than this. At a period when romance writing has been so much perverted from its true purpose, it is delightful to find a novelist who, to a talent for narrative, united a regard for the highest and purest sentiments of human nature.

Norman Leslie: A Tale. By C. G. H., author of the “Curate of Linwood,” etc. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

This novel, in title the same as one by Theodore S. Fay, is in matter and style very different. It is a historical novel of the period of the religious wars in Scotland, and though not peculiarly excellent in characters, is filled with stirring events and attractive scenes. The publishers, without much increasing the price, have printed it in a style of much neatness. Large type and white paper are a blessing not commonly vouchsafed to American novel readers.

Margaret Percival in America. A Tale. Edited by a New England Minister, A. M. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

“Margaret Percival,” by Miss Sewall, has had a large circulation in this country, and it is but right that the present novel, which not only represents Margaret as a more tolerant Christian, but describes the process by which she became so, should be read by all who have been influenced by the English Margaret.

Life, Here and There: Or Sketches of Society and Adventure at Far-Apart Times and Places. By N. P. Willis. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo.

This thick and handsome duodecimo contains many of the most charming and sprightly of Mr. Willis’s popular compositions, evincing that singular combination of sentiment and shrewdness, of poetic feeling and knowledge of the world, in which he has no American rival. The style, airy, graceful and fluent, is distinguished by a “polished want of polish,” a fertility of apt and fanciful expression, and a gliding ease of movement, which take the reader captive, and bear him on through “long reaches of delight.”

The Berber: Or the Mountaineer of the Atlas. A Tale of Morocco, By William Starbuck Mayo, M. D., Author of “Kaloolah,” etc. New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.

This novel has hardly the fresh, dashing, daring character of Dr. Mayo’s first romance, but it still has sufficient raciness and audacity to serve for a score of common novels. The author has great tact in so choosing his scenes and characters that the peculiar powers of his mind can have free play. In “The Berber” the incidents follow each other in such quick succession that we make no demands for originality or power of characterization. In respect to the latter, Dr. Mayo is so far deficient, though he gives evidence of being capable of drawing characters as well as telling a story.

The Companion. After-Dinner Table-Talk. By Chetwood Evelyn, Esq. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.

The idea of this volume is capital. It consists of short and spicy selections from eminent authors, and anecdotes of distinguished men, of a character very different from those which form the staple of jest-books. The principal source whence the editor has derived his brilliancies, is that most gentlemanly of wits and humorists, Sydney Smith; and a fine portrait of him very properly adorns the title page. The book would have been even better than it is, if the author had drawn his matter from a wider circle of reading.

Reginald Hastings; a Tale of the Troubles of 164-. By Elliott Warburton, Author of “The Crescent and the Cross,” etc. New York: Harper & Brothers.

This novel has been absurdly puffed in England, but it is nevertheless an interesting and well written one, worthy the pen which wrote “The Crescent and the Cross.” The period in which its events and characters are laid, the Great Rebellion, so called, has not recently been treated, but it has great capabilities for romantic and humorous characterization, which Warburton has employed, not indeed with the sagacity and genius of Scott, but with much skill and with dramatic effect.

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