dig on the side, that drives the breath out of their body, and keeps them speechless for the rest of the night, while the stream of conversation, if it may be called so, keeps issuing in jets and jerks, from the same inexhaustible source, pausing but to become more potent, and delivering, per hour, we fear to say how many imperial gallons into the reservoir. Therefore, we cannot but smile at "the Stammerer's Complaint”—as put into his lips by Mr Tupper. He is made to ask us "Hast ever seen an eagle chained to earth? Captive my mute interpreter of thought; The mocking demon, that at every step Haunts me, and spurs me on—to burst in silence." Heaven preserve us! is the world so ill off for woes-are they so scantthat a Poet who indites blank verse to Imagination, can dream of none worthier his lamentations than the occa sional and not unfrequent inconveniences that a gifted spirit experiences from a lack of fluency of words? "I scarce would wonder, if a godless man, We have; but what is all such sights (I name not him whose hope is heaven- A man whom lying vanities hath scath'd roll." Mr Tupper's Stammerer then is made to say, "Hast ever felt, at the dark dead of night, Some undefined and horrid incubus We have; but what is all that to the And long for his dark hope,-annihilation." Mr Tupper is a father-and some of his domestic verses are very pleasing-such as his sonnet to little Ellen, and his sonnet to little Mary; but we prefer the stanzas entitled "Children," and quote them as an agreeable sample, premising that they would not have been the worse of some little tincture of imaginative feeling-for, expressive as they are of mere natural emotion, they cannot well be said to be poetry. We object, too, to the sentiment of the close, for thousands of childless men are rich in the enjoyment of life's best affections; and some of the happiest couples and the best we have ever known, are among those from whom God has withheld the gift of offspring. Let all good Christian people be thankful for the mercies graciously vouchsafed to them; but beware of judging the lot of others by their own, and of seeking to confine either worth, happiness, or virtue, within one sphere of domestic life, however blessed they may feel it to be; "For the blue sky bends over all,' and our fate here below is not determined by the stars. We like the following lines still better-and considered " as one of the moods of his own mind," they may be read with unmingled pleasure. WISDOM'S WISH. "Ан, might I but escape to some sweet spot, Where rural virtues are not yet forgot, And good old customs crown the circling year; "Some smiling bay of Cambria's happy shore, And looking down on valley fair and wide, "There would I dwell, for I delight therein ! With health and plenty crown'd, and peace within, "There, from the flowery mead, or shingled shore, And learning nature's Master to adore, Know more of Him who came the lost to save; "No envious wish my fellows to excel, Nor meanly grand among the poor to shine: With those cheap pleasures and light cares of thine, "Rescued from cities, and forensic strife, And walking well with God in nature's eye, And, when I'm called in rapturous hope to die, But the best set of stanzas in the volume are those entitled Ellen Gray. The subject is distressing, and has been treated so often-perhaps too often-as to be now exhausted-or if not so, nothing new can be expected on it, except either from original genius, or from a spirit made creative by profoundest sympathy and sorrow for the last extremities of human misery. ELLEN GRAY. "A starless night, and bitter cold; Swept onward thick and fast; "When crouched at an unfriendly door, Faiut, sick, and miserably poor, A silent woman sate; She might be young, and had been fair, "Was I to pass her coldly by, Leaving her there to pine and die, The live-long freezing night? The secret answer of my heart Told me I had not done my part In flinging her a mite. "And for a home,—would I had none ! They will not let me in, "I see your goodness on me frown; "My mother died when I was born: Upon the workhouse floor; "And I was bound an infant-slave, A friendless, famish'd, factory child, "My heart was pure, my cheek was fair, Had eaten out its way! For soon my tasker, dreaded man, To mark me for his prey. "And month by month he vainly strove "She look'd her thanks,--then droop'd To light the flame of lawless love her head; 'Have you no friend, no home?' I said. You seem unhappy, faint, and weak, "Alas, kind sir, poor Ellen Gray Has had no friend this many a day, And, but that you seem kind,— She has not found the face of late That look'd on her in aught but hate, And still despairs to find : In my most loathing breast; "Thenceforward droop'd my stricken head; I liv'd, I died, a life of dread, Lest they should guess my shame; Of wrath and ruin came; We do not think the idea very happy of "Contrasted Sonnets"—such as, Nature-Art; The Happy Home The Wretched Home; Theory-Practice; Ritches-Poverty; Philanthropic Misanthropic; Country-Town; and so on-and 'tis an ancient, nay, a stale idea, though Mr Tupper evidently thinks it fresh and new, and luxuriates in it as if it were all his own. Sometimes he chooses to shew that he is ambidexter-and how much may be said on both sides leaving the reader's mind in a state of indifference to what may really be the truth of the matter-or disposed to believe that he knows more about it than the Sonnetteer. The best are Prose and Poetry-and they are very good-so is "Ancient," but Modern is very bad-and therefore we quote the three PROSE. "That the fine edge of intellect is dulled, And mortal ken with cloudy films obscure, That virtue's self is weak its love to lure, But pride and lust keep all the gates secure, Thy darkness to confound with yon bright band Who have swayed royally the mighty pen, And now as kings in prose on fame's clear summit stand." POETRY. "To touch the heart, and make its pulses thrill, These are thine aims, O pure unearthly power, Eat angels' food, the manna thou dost shower: ANCIENT. "My sympathies are all with times of old, I cannot live with things of yesterday, I love to wander o'er the shadowy past, Conjuring up what story it might tell, Among vast ruins,-Tadmor's stately halls, Old Egypt's giant fanes, or Babel's mouldering walls," Mr Tupper has received much praise from critics whose judgment is generally entitled to great respect-in the Atlas-if we mistake not-in the Spectator-and in the Sun. If our censure be undeserved-let our copious quotations justify themselves, and be our condemnation. Our praise may seem cold and scanty; but so far from despising Mr Tupper's talents, we have good hopes of him, and do not fear but that he will produce many far better things than the best of those we have selected for the appro bation of the public. Perhaps our rough notes may help him to discover where his strength lies; and, with his right feelings, and amiable sensibilities, and fine enthusiasm, and healthy powers when exercised on familiar and domestic themes, so dear forever to the human heart, there seems no reason why, in good time, he may not be among our especial favourites, and one of "the Swans of Thames"-which, we believe, are as big and as bright as those of the Tweed. Alas! for poor NICOL! Dead and gone-but not to be forgotten-for aye to be remembered among the flowers of the forest, early wede away! |