"Suspiria," solemn as the subject is, the thought trembles on the verge of the ridiculous. But, leaving these poems, "By the Seaside," and "By the Fireside," we shall find a better instance of this tendency to a certain quaintness in another part of the volume before us. The "Old Clock on the Stairs" is a piece which invites a few critical observations. It is good enough to be quoted almost entirely, and yet affords an example of those faults of haste and negligence and incompleteness which even Mr Longfellow has not escaped. that all is really said, yet the ear is left listening for more. "By the Fireside" is a series, of course, of mere domestic sketches. The subjects, however, do not always bear any distinct reference or relation to this title. That from which we feel most disposed to quote is written on some "Sand of the Desert in an Hour-Glass." It has been always a favourite mode of composition to let some present object carry the imagination, by links of associated thought, whithersoever it pleased. This sort of reverie is natural and pleasing, but must not be often indulged in. It is too easy; and we soon discover that any topic thus treated becomes endless, and will lead us, if we please, over half the world. At length it becomes indifferent where we start from. Without witchcraft, one may ride on any broomstick into Norway. But the present poem, we think, is a very allowable specimen of this mode of composition. The poet surveys this sand of the desert, now confined within an hour-glass; he thinks how many centuries it may have blown about in Arabia, what feet may have trodden on it-perhaps the feet of Moses, perhaps of the pilgrims to Mecca; then he continues "These have passed over it, or may have passed! Now in this crystal tower, And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand; Stretches the desert, with its shifting sand, And, borne aloft by the sustaining blast, This little golden thread Dilates into a column high and vast, A form of fear and dread. And onward and across the setting sun, The column and its broader shadow run, The vision vanishes! These walls again We notice in Mr Longfellow an occasional fondness for what is quaint, as if Quarles' Emblems, or some such book, had been at one time a favourite with him. In the lines entitled THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. "L'éternité est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement dans le silence des tombeaux: 'Toujours! Jamais!―Jamais! Toujours !'”—Jacques BRIDAINE. "Somewhat back from the village street Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; Half-way up the stairs it stands, By day its voice is low and light, In that mansion used to be His great fires up the chimney roared, There groups of merry children played, All are scattered now and fled, Never here, for ever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, 'For ever-never! Mr Longfellow has not treated Jacques Bridaine fairly-certainly not happily. The pious writer intended that his clock, which represents the voice of Eternity, or the Eternal Destiny of each man, should, by the solemn ticking of its pendulum, utter to the ear of every mortal, according to his conscience, the happy "Toujours!" or the mournful "Jamais!" for the joys of Heaven are either "Always" or "Never." But no clock could utter to the conscience of any man a word of three syllables, and by translating the "Tou-jours! -Ja-mais!" into "For ever!— Never!" we lose the voice of the pendulum. The point of the passage is the same, in this respect, as that of the well-known story of the Dutch widow who consulted her pastor whether she should marry again or not. Her pastor, knowing well that, in these cases, there is but one advice which has the least chance of being followed, referred her to the bells of the church, and bade her listen to them, and mark what they said upon the subject. They said very distinctly, "Kempt ein mann!"" Take a husband!" Thereupon the pastor re-echoed the same advice. Jacques Bridaine intended that, according to the conscience which the listener brought, the swinging pendulum of his eternal clock would welcome him with the "Toujours!" or utter the knell of "Jamais! This conceit Mr Longfellow does not preserve. But, what is of far more importance, he preserves no one distinct sentiment in his piece; nor is it possible to detect, in all cases, what his clock means by the solemn refrain, "Forever-never! Never -for ever!" When at the last verse the pendulum explains itself distinctly, the sentiment is diluted into what Jacques Bridaine would have thought, and what we think too, a very tame commentary on human life. At the fifth verse, as it stands in our quotation, the old clock quite forgets his character of monitor, and occupies himself with registering the happy hours of infancy. Very amiable on its part; but, if endowed with this variety of sentiment, it should be allowed to repeat something else than its "ever-never." "Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient time-piece told'For ever-never! Never for ever!'" These remarks may seem very gravely analytical for the occasion that calls them forth. But if it were worth while to adopt a conceit of this description as the text of his poem, it was worth the author's pains to carry it out with a certain distinctness and unity. Considering the tact and judgment which Mr Longfellow generally displays, we were surprised to find that the longest poem in the volume, with the exception, perhaps, of "The Spanish Student, a play in three acts," has been written in Latin hexameters-is, in fact, one of those painful unlucky metrical experiments which poets will every now and then make upon our ears. They have a perfect right to do so: happily there is no statute which compels us to read. A man may, if he pleases, dance all the way from London to Norwich: one gentleman is said to have performed this feat. We would not travel in that man's company. We should grow giddy with only looking upon his perpetual shuffle and cinq-apace. The tripping dactyle, followed by the grave spondee, closing each line with a sort of curtsey, may have a charming effect in Latin. It pleased a Roman ear, and a scholar learns to be pleased with it. We cannot say that we have been ever reconciled by any specimen we have seen, however skilfully executed, to the imitation of it in English; and we honestly confess that, under other circumstances, we should have passed over Evangeline unread. If, however, the rule de gustibus, &c., be ever quite applicable, it is to a case of this kind. With those who assert that the imitation hexameter does please them, and that they like, moreover, the idea of scanning their English, no controversy can possibly be raised. But although Evangeline has not reconciled us to this experiment, there is so much sweetness in the poetry itself, that, as we read on, we forget the metre. The story is a melancholy one, and forms a painful chapter in the colonial history of Great Britain. Whether the rigour of our Government was justified by the necessity of the case, we will not stop to inquire; but a French settlement, which had been ceded to us, was accused of favouring our enemies. The part of the coast they occupied was one which could not be left with safety in unfriendly hands; and it was determined to remove them to other districts. The village of Grand Pré was suddenly swept of its inhabitants. Evangeline, in this dispersion of the little colony, is separated from her lover; and the constancy of the tender and truehearted girl forms the subject of the poem. Our readers will be curious, perhaps, to see a specimen of Mr Longfellow's hexameters. Evangeline is one of those poems which leave an agreeable impression as a whole, but afford few striking passages for quotation. The following is the description of evening in the yet happy village of Grand Pré : "Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead. Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other, And, with their nostrils distended, inhaling the freshness of evning. Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar, Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the sea-side, Where was their favourite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog, Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, Walking from side to side with a lordly air." All this quiet happiness was to cease. The village itself was to be depopulated. "There o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, Came from the neighbouring hamlets and farms the Acadian women, Driving in ponderous wains their household Pausing, and looking back to gaze once more goods to the sea-shore, on their dwellings, Ere they were shut from sight by the winding roads and the woodlands. Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.” If in "Evangeline," Mr Longfellow has hazarded a trial upon our patience, in the "Spanish Student," on the contrary-which, being in the lege to be tedious he has been both dramatic form, had a certain priviindulgent and considerate to his for it does not attempt the deep pasreader. It is properly called a play, sion of tragedy. It is spirited and vivacious, and does not exceed three acts. Hypolito, a student who is not in love, and therefore can jest at those who are, and Chispa, the roguish valet of Victorian, the student who is in love, support the comic portion of the drama. Chispa, by his Spanish proverbs, proves himself to be a true countryman of Sancho Panza. he is first introduced giving some We must give a specimen of Chispa; whom he is leading to the serenade :— very excellent advice to the musicians There "Chispa.-Now, look you, you are gentlemen that lead the life of crickets; you enjoy hunger by day, and noise by night. Yet I beseech you, for this once, be not loud, but pathetic; for it is a serenade to a damsel in bod, and not to the Man in the Moon. Your object is not to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling dreams. fore each shall not play upon his instrument as if it were the only one in the universe, but gently, and with a certain modesty, according with the others. What instrument is that? 1st Mus.-An Arragonese bagpipe. Chispa.-Pray, art thou related to the bagpiper of Bujalance, who asked a maravedi for playing, and ten for leaving off? 1st Mus.-No, your honour. Chispa.-I am glad of it. What other instruments have we? 2d and 3d Mus.--We play the bandurria. Chispa.-A pleasing instrument. And thou? 4th Mus.-The fife. Chispa.-I like it; it has a cheerful, soulstirring sound, that soars up to my lady's window like the song of a swallow. And yon others? Other Mus.-We are the singers, please your honour. Chispa.-You are too many. Do you think we are going to sing mass in the cathedral of Cordova? Four men can make little use of one shoe, and I see not how you can all sing in one song. But follow me along the garden-wall. That is the way my master climbs to the lady's window. It is by the vicar's skirts the devil climbs into the belfry. Come, follow me, and make no noise. [Exeunt." Chispa is travelling with his master, Victorian. When they come to an inn, the latter regales himself with a walk in the moonlight, meditating on his mistress. Not so Chispa. "Chispa.-Hola! ancient Baltasar! Bring a light and let me have supper. Bal.-Where is your master? Chispa.-Do not trouble yourself about him. We have stopped a moment to breathe our horses; and if he chooses to walk up and down in the open air, looking into the sky as one who hears it rain, that does not satisfy my hunger, you know. But be quick, for I am in a hurry, and every one stretches his legs according to the length of his coverlet. What have we here? Bal. (setting a light on the table.)-Stewed rabbit. Chispa (eating.)-Conscience of Portalegre! Stewed kitten, you mean! Bal.-And a pitcher of Pedro Zimenes with a roasted pear in it. Chispa (drinking.) Ancient Baltasar, amigo! You know how to cry wine and sell vinegar.-Moreover, your supper is like the hidalgo's dinner, very little meat, and a great deal of table-cloth. Bal-Ha! ha! ha! Chispa. And more noise than nuts. Bal.-Ha! ha! ha! You must have your jest, Master Chispa. But shall not I ask Don Victorian in to take a draught of the Pedro Ximenes? Chispa.-No; you might as well say, Don't you want some?' to a dead man. Bal. Why does he go so often to Madrid ? Chispa. For the same reason that he eats no supper. He is in love. Were you ever in love, Baltasar ? Bal.--I was never out of it, good Chispa. Chispa.-What! you on fire too, old haystack? Why, we shall never be able to put you out. Vict. (without.)-Chispa! Chispa.-Go to bed-the cocks are crowing." This Chispa changes masters in course of the piece, and enters into the service of Don Carlos; but the change, does not seem to have advanced his fortunes, for we find him thus moralising to himself at the close of the play "Alas! and alack-a-day! Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I neither win nor lose. Thus I wag through the world, half the time on foot, and the other half walking. And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox. Who knows what may happen? Patience, and shuffle the cards! I am not yet so bald that you can see my brains." It would not be difficult to select other favourable specimens both of the graver and lighter manner of Mr Longfellow; but we must now proceed to the second name upon our list. Mr Bryant is a poet who not unfrequently reminds us of Mrs Hemans. Perhaps we could not better, in a few words, convey our impression of his poetical status. His verse is generally pleasing-not often powerful. His good taste rarely deserts him; but he has neither very strong passions, nor those indications of profounder thought which constitute so much of the charm of modern poetry. For he who would take a high rank amongst our lyric poets should, at one time or other, have dwelt and thought with the philosophers. should be seen as stepping from the Porch; he should have wandered, with his harp concealed beneath his robe, in the gardens of the Academy. He Short as Mr Bryant's poems generally are, they still want concentration of thought-energy-unity. In quoting from him, we should often be disposed to make omissions for the very sake of preserving a connection of ideas. The omission of several verses, even in a short poem, so far from occasioning what the doctors would call a "solution of continuity," would often assist in giving to the piece a greater distinctness, and unity of thought and purpose. This ought not to be. Mr Bryant's poems, we believe, are by this time familiar to most readers of poetry; we must, therefore, be sparing of our quotations. In the few we make, we shall be anxious to give the most favourable specimens of his genius the faults we have hinted at will sufficiently betray themselves without seeking for especial illustration of them. Our first extract shall be from some very elegant verses on a subject peculiarly American-" The Prairie." We quote the commencement and the conclusion. The last strikes us as singularly happy. Mr Bryant starts with rather an unfortunate expression; he calls the Prairie "the garden of the desert;" he rather meant "the garden-desert." He may describe the Prairie, if he pleases, as one green and blooming desert; but the garden of the desert implies a desert to which it belongs-would be an oasis, in short :: THE PRAIRIES. "These are the gardens of the desert, these The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of England has no name The Prairies. I behold them for the first, And my heart swells while the dilated sight Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch In airy undulations far away, As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed, Sweep over with the shadows, and beneath Still this great solitude is quick with life. Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, And birds that scarce have learned the fear butes something of sensation, or of consciousness, to what was once the warm abode of life. Mr Bryant, in a poem called "June," after indulging in this sentiment, gives us one of the best apologies for it we remember to have met with. There is much grace and pathos in the following verses :— "I know, I know I should not see Soft airs, and song, and light and bloom These to their softened hearts should bear Is-that his grave is green; Our "The Lapse of Time" is a piece which might be quoted as a favourable specimen of Mr Bryant's poetry. It might also serve as an instance of its shortcoming-of its want of concentration-of a distinct, firm tone of thought. As it is not long, we will quote the whole of it. complaint of a certain weakness-the want of a steady and strong grasp of his subject-could not be less disagreeably illustrated, nor brought to a more rigid test. Our italics here are not complimentary, but simply serve the purpose of drawing attention to the train of thought or sentiment: THE LAPSE OF TIME. "Lament who will, in fruitless tears, The speed with which our moments fly; I sigh not over vanished years, But watch the years that hasten by. Look how they come-a mingled crowd Of bright and dark, but rapid days; Beneath them, like a summer cloud, The wide world changes as I gaze. To see the blush of morning gone. |