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the least consciousness of their exalted And where was this ?-We know someindividuality among “worshipers.” By- thing of Niagara. We lived most of our ron's egotism was exceeding intellec- early life within the roar of it; and we tual and selfish-a gigantic and gloomy know every foot of its sublime gorge and shadow, of which we find it difficult to say, ruined rocks, and of the wild shores above whether more of it was in heaven or on that wall in forever the mighty and eternal the earth. Coleridge and Wordsworth are on-press of its fated waters! We do not lofty egotists, and of a far nobler stamp; object, therefore, to one's being powerfully but they constantly show that they know affected by the Cataract. Still, the result themselves to be the high-priests of Na- of the interview between the Cataract and ture, and are forever blowing trumpets and Mr. Lord might have been made known making sublime gesticulations, that the in a different way. Listen! people may be aware how grandly they

“Proclaim, my soul, proclaim it to the sky! can “perform the service.” Now, it is

And tell the stars, and tell the hills, whose from the last two that Mr. Lord borrows

feet his exhibition ;-though the materials for Are in the depths of earth, their peaks in it may have existed in him originally! heaven, He, too, is a priest of Nature. He knows And tell the Ocean's old familiar face, it-but the world must know it also! Beheld by day and night, in calm and Accordingly he takes his stand—and he storm, has really improved upon the manner of That they, nor aught beside in earth or his masters. Thus, while Milton makes

heaven, Adam and Eve call upon angels, the Its (Mr. Lord's soul's) thought of beauty,

Like thee, tremendous torrent, have so filled stars, and sun, wind, woods, and waters,

and so awed with might !” to praise the Deity-while Coleridge, (speaking himself,) calls on the torrents, Mr. Lord was, at first, entirely “conthe ice-falls, the eagles, the lightnings, founded and overwhelmed;" but afterand the “dread, sovereign Mount,” to wards, as he says, he got the better of the tell the sky and the sun,


Cataract, and over all felt conscious

mastery!" Nay, “retired within and self. Earth, with her thousand voices, praises withdrawn,” he stood " the center and God

informing soul" of the whole affair-and Mr. Lord bids the “winds,” and “storms,” converting the cataracts voice to his own “seraphs,” “ laureled saints,” and “ all


he angels,” to hear that,

poured a hymn "A human soul (Mr. Lord's) knows and 'Of praise and gratulation, like the noise, adores its God.”

Of banded angels when they shout to wake

Empyreal echoes." Having got through with this, and something more, he asks his “ Maker,” in Finally, anticipating the “end of all great surprise_imagining himself at that things,” when the Cataract shall have no point to be “worshiping” in a church, longer need to roar, or be green, and Mr. "a dim, low-pillared aisle”-if it is pos- he expects to undergo some expansion,

Lord is to be translated to a world where sible, that he, Mr. Lord, is the one

the latter utters a great wish: “Whose soul, making the winds its voice, Entered the storm and sung it in Thine ear,

“Oh, give me then, And bade the harping choir of heaven bé Although of heaven's bright habiliments, mute!"

Haply then thine more gorgeous, disar“That I

am the same

rayed ; Who clad myself with Nature, and put on

Give me thy sea-green robe, and these white Her glory like a vestment, and with thought These veiling glories painted by the sun;

mists, Illimitable pervaded all her frame, And in the earth and heavens clothed, Give me thy thunder-and amongst the

throng And worshiped !"

Of loftiest Archangels let me move Another Poem has this beginning:

Nearer the cloudy throne, and in His ear

Forever and forever utter praise.” “ Proclaim, my soul, where thou-though not unused (!)

There are different tastes in color. Most To high communion (!) with the powers persons dislike green. Grass-green, pea[of Nature]

green, and bottle-green, are especially es-hast nearest been chewed by the beau monde. But Mr. Lord To the Invisible !"

probably thinks with the “ Milkmaid,"

stood up

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(See Webster's Spelling-Book,) that that this genius is not the querulous

green becomes his complexion best;" and Power which lashes up a mist, that only sea-green is an uncommon shade of that shows some strength, and hides the sun; color. Besides, there would be some va but rather the calm element in which a riation by means of the " white mists” reflex of the universe is shown, and lies so that Mr. Lord would, on the whole, be as unconscious of the pageantry of sky, dressed to considerable effect, though ra and cloud, and cliff and tree, given out to ther uniquely, it may be, for that company. the gaze of others from its face, as a still The only drawback, then, would be in lake asleep among the mountains ! the necessity for immense expansion to From minor faults the book is by no make Niagara's

“sea-green robe” set means free. Mr. Lord has either little otherwise on Mr. Lord than as a decided knowledge of the laws of blank verse, loose robe, a kind of Neptune's shirt. But a or he is unpardonably careless. Such few cycles might remedy that, even if they lines are constantly occurring, as : had a smaller body to start with. So at “Of a thought as weak, an aspiration tired, Mr. Lord would, of course, desire to Struggling up to thee on wings that beat “utter praise” in a different manner from

the air. the rest of them. The “chauntings innu

“ Rise like the deep and quiet breathing merable” of the multitude of seraphs and

of the Earth.” glorified spirits” (of whom Scripture

“Of grace, magnificence and power.” tells us) “ voiceful and golden-lyred”

“Not then were deemed unconscious in

each other's sight. the accordant melody of whose choral

“ That shamed the foam, the Naiad, or less strains, rising around the Throne, and

happy she.” swelling far away--in long billows,

“ And I, so rapt, as I had been Apollo's over the Immortal Plains, off into the void self.” of Night, can charm the confused soul of

All such were intended to be blank Chaos to a brief uneasy quiet—this were verse lines, and of course to be of ten not enough for him there, who already on syllables; but some are twelve, some earth, usurping the “winds” and “the nine, some eleven, some thirteen. Sevestorm” to worship with, had “bid the ral very awkward grammatical mistakes harping choir of Heaven be mute! Very also occur. There is much affectation of properly, therefore, does Mr. Lord ex

old words, withal. Speare,” on p. 99, claim, prospectively :“Give me thy besides being out of date, except with

Thunder.With equal propriety does the Scotch, has no business there, for it he wish not to be with the common mul

means “ ask,” which makes nonsense of titude of mere angels there, nor to stand the line. So, too, he must borrow from at an humble distance-but

Burns the word “ drumlie,which Mr. Amongst the throng

Lord, nor any one else, ever saw in an Of loftiest ARCHANGELS

move English book. “ Uncertain ” he must Nearer the cloudy throne."!!

write incertain, and fifty things of the

same kind. In fact, if Niagara, in the person of Mr.

shall we stop here? SucLord, is to act such a part in Heaven, cessful, unhappily, in finding fault, shall probably even the Archangels would pre we break off triumphantly-like many fer giving him some space to himself— pleasant gentlemen of letters, who are say, a quarter of a mile on each side- able, when they choose, to find only both to be able to hear their own voices, evil continually?" We trust our naand to avoid being constantly wet. ture is otherwise. And first, let us quote To be serious—though we have been

a piece which would almost redeem the enough in earnest in all this—we beg Mr. volume, if every line besides were borLord to believe that self-display is never rowed or balderdash. under


form acceptable to the public. Eveu the sacred garb of poetry can sel

THE BROOK. dom make it seem beautiful; and even A little blind girl wandering, Wordsworth is open to broad censure in While daylight pales beneath the moon,

We do not accuse Mr. L. And with a brook meandering, of any “dark idolatry of self;" yet, To hear its gentle tune. though he may be aware that he sees and The little blind girl by the brook, feels the beauty and grandeur of the uni It told her something--you might guess, verse, he should not too openly show to To see her smile, to see her look the world that he is so---remembering, Of listening eagerness.

And now,

this respect

Though blind, a never silent guide flows, perfectly simple, of a pathos that

Flowed with her timid feet along; fills the eyes with tears, and musical as And down she wandered by its side the brook that murmured along for the To hear the running song.

poor girl's “ timid feet.” It has haunted

us since we first read it. We do not think And sometimes it was soft and low,

il could be improved. It is besides, we A creeping music in the ground;

conceive, in all respects, perfectly origiAnd then, if something checked its flow, A gurgling swell of sound.

nal—a pure creation of the poet's im

agination and heart—resembling, even And now, upon the other side,

remotely, nothing that we have ever She seeks her mother's cot;

seen. We take your hand upon it, Mr. And still the noise shall be her guide, Lord—nay, man, look us kindly in the And lead her to the spot.

eye-we sincerely think, that nothing

superior to it, of the kind, has been For to the blind, so little free

written in the language for some years. To move about beneath the sun,

Other things, too, betoken in Mr. Small things like this seem liberty Lord the genuine capabilities and heart Something from darkness won.

of a poet. Some lines to his sister are

striking and noble—the last six exBut soon she heard a meeting stream,

ceedingly. How simple are they-and And on the bank she followed still;

how different from that bombastic, not to It murmured on, nor could she tell It was another rill.

say impious, wish about personating

Niagara in Heaven !Ah! whither, whither my little maid ?

And shall we meet in heaven, and know And wherefore dost thou wander here?

and love? I seek my mother's cot, she said,

Do human feelings in that world above And surely it is near.

Unchanged survive? blest thought! but

ah, I fear There is no cut upon this brook ;

That thou, dear sister, in some other sphere, In yonder mountains dark and drear, Distant from mine, will find a brighter Where sinks the sun, its source it took,

home, Ah, wherefore art thou here?

Where I, unworthy found, may never 0! sir, thou art not true nor kind,

Or be so high above me glorified, It is the brook, I know its sound;

That I, a meaner angel, undescried, Ah! why would you deceive the blind ?

Seeking thine eyes, such love alone shall I hear it in the ground.


As angels give to all, bestowed on me; And on she stepped, but grew more sad,

And when thy voice upon my ear shall And weary were her tender feet ; The brook's small voice seemed not so glad, Hear only such reply as angels give to all.

fall, Its song was not so sweet.

Of a different kind, but exquisite beyond Ah! whither, whither, my little maid ?

cavil, is the Sonnet, “ Birds in Winter!" And wherefore dost thou wander here? I seek my mother's cot, she said, And surely it is near.

BIRDS IN WINTER. There is no cot upon this brook ;

How still the air within this forest brown; I hear its sound, the maid replied, So still, you hear the snow fall through With dreamlike and bewildered look,

the trees, I have not left its side.

And on the yellow leaves beneath them

strewn; O go with me, the darkness nears,

And thick it falls, unwavered by the breeze, The first pale stars begin to gleam;

As if the white clouds piecemeal should The maid replied with bursting tears,

come down ; It is the stream! it is the stream!

And mark these little birds that sit and

freeze, What think you? Is that worth the With half-closed eyes, and ruffled feathers,

known moment's glance of your eye over it? Or, As them that fly not with the changing read so carelessly, even, will you ever

year. forget it? To our mind it is faultess. O birds! had I your wings would I be here? The incident it embodies is inexpressibly And yet, why not? the winter has its touching; and the language, in which it flowers

come ;


Varied and wondrous—crystals, stalactites, It is sadly marred, however, by the bad Nor undelightful these soft fleecy showers;

grammar of " looked” for the second perAnd why not birds ?--whom love of these

So also in the 3d line of the Hymn, invites More than the summer with its green de

“nor dare not.” Why will not Mr. Lord lights.

have respect to Murray and some other

syntactical gentlemen, “ dry but useful.” “Calliope,” p. 145, though the tone of it We had as lief be is, we think, not altogether his own, and there are some abominably long lines By one who hails us“ Tom’or Jack,'”

Thumped upon the back, for blank verse, is beautiful, and to be remembered. The Ode that follows it, as to be knocked suddenly by a gramma“To an American Statesman,” (Henry tical blunder. The “Ode to England” is, Clay,) has bold and stirring passages. on the whole, a fine production; though “ The Sky," p. 41, finely expresses the

we are often met with gleams of resemdreaminess, the awe, the uncertainty that blance, that take away vastly from its comes over one who lies down—in June credit. It is also very unequal. The it should be, or the early bright days of passages referring to Chaucer and Spencer September-on some grassy place, un are good; those to Milton and Shakder the clear canopy, and gazes up and speare, are entirely inadequate; as, indeed, up, into the blue depth that seems grow- it was more difficult to do them justice. ing bluer and deeper as he strives to Of Keats, he says: fathom it-till the earth seems to be

“Oh, gold Hyperion, love-lorn Porphyro, floating away from under him, leaving

Ill fated! from thine orbed fire struck him to the embrace of a boundless ex

back, pansion which he has no power to com Just as the parting clouds began to glow, pass or comprehend. Words, says the And stars, like sparks, to bicker in thy poem, cannot express it—nor any vast track! sound, as of the ocean or the wind-for- Alas! throw down, throw down, ye mighty

dead, “ All sound hath measure, and each tone

The leaves of oak and asphodel Is linked in thought to things that die:

That ye were weaving for that honored In the unfathomed depth alone

head, And power of silence doth it lie

In vain, in vain, your lips would seek a To speak the sight, that to thine eye,

spell (To eye or thought before unknown,

In the few charmed words the poet sung, Or known but as Divinity,)

To lure him upward in your seats to Seems, as it spreads, vast, boundless,


As vain your grief! Oh! why should one The shadow of Infinity

so young Over the trembling finite thrown.”

Sit crowned 'midst hoary heads with The “Magian Hymn" is fine; the “He wreaths divine? brew Hymn” is better, because more ori. Though to his lips Hymettus' bees had ginal. The description of the Creation clung,

His lips shall never taste the immortal is particularly noble-representing it as

wine, rising, when the Creator simply gazed Who sought to drain the glowing cup too down into the void:

soon, “But when within the abyss,

For he hath perished, and the moon With sudden light illuminated,

Hath lost Endymion-but too well Thou, thine image to behold,

The shaft that pierced him in her arms Into its quickened depths,

was sped Looked down with brooding eye,

Into that gulf of dark and nameless dread, Earth with its mountains rose,

Star-like he fell, but a wide splendor And seas, and streams,

shed And o’er them, like a cloud,

Through its deep night, that kindled as Rose the blue firmament;

he fell.And the sun burst forth

We quote this both because it is exceedWith wide and sudden blaze, That made the dazzled night

ingly beautiful, and because we entirely Know its own darkness—and the stars

disagree with him in the sentiment. Keats Rose glimmering in his skirts;

will live: the fragment of Hyperion is And nearer to the earth, the moon hardly second to anything since Milton. Above the mountains' blue and skiey peaks We have copied enough to show that Rode pale and beautiful.”

Mr. Lord is a poet, whatever his sins


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may be. Even in those pieces which

“ The rocks around, we have most severely condemned, as From whose high-piled and adamantine fronts full of imitations from all sides, there are

Ages have fallen like shadows, without power

To crumble or deface them.” yet passages of great beauty, and equally original. Some of these we will quote maiden wakes up to her lover from seem

And in Saint Mary's Gift,” when the without comment, for they need none. Thus in “ Worship”:

ing death : -“ Winds that in the sedge,

And each unto the other was a dream ; And grass, and ripening grain, while nature Until her head into the golden stream

And so they gazed, without a stir or breath, sleeps,

Of her wide tresses
Practice, in whispered music, soft and low,
Their sweet inventions."

We have thus endeavored to do Mr. “ Long, harp-like shrillings, or soft gush

Lord complete justice. We desire he of sounds."

may continue to write: we consider him “ Ye winds! capable of noble things; but we earnestly That in the impalpable deep caves of air,

beg of him to avoid all appearance of Moving your silent plumes, in dreams of imitation. It is the great American fault, flight,

and it is time that, as individuals and as Tumultuous lie."

a nation, we adopt, in intellectual and “A sound so deep and loud, that at its might social interests, some path of our own. The pillared heavens would fail, and all Any writer, at least, who is to live, must their frame

take such a course. If Mr. Lord proOf ancient strength and grandeur sink at duces many things like “The Blind Girl

once, But for its soul of sweetness that supports,

and the Brook,” he will not long want a

reputation. And mightier harmony that builds them still.”

And now is our pen like that of the

sage, Cid Hamet Benengeli, disposed to “That I who feel a clinging awe descend repose in some final paragraph. The shaFrom this dark roof, and dim, low-pillared dows of the tall houses and the red light,

aisle, And to my knees persuade me.”

streaming low over the Hudson, and up

the long streets, turning even the dusty So, also, a passage in “ Niagara” is the trees of the city to a golden foliage, bemost perfect description, in little, we have token the going down of the hot Day to seen of a view unequaled in the world:

cool himself in the “Ocean stream.” Our “Thy inland sea, with its embosomed isles, throbbing pulses have grown calmer; we Far-stretching and commingling with the invoke the silent descent of Evening, in

sky,And nearer, its swift lapse and whitening the exquisite words of Collins : speed,

'Oh, Nymph reserved, while now the And the green slide of waters, that around bright-haired Sun The abyss, and 'round the rising clouds, Which heaven with rainbows painted as 'they Sits in yon western tent,whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove, Stretched, sky-like, in a broad and whelming O’erhang his wavy bed.” curve."




The Challenge of Barletta. By MESSINO The Challenge of Barletta we have read

D’AZEGLIO. New York. PAINE & with very much more interest than we anBURGESS, 62 John-street.

ticipated. We admire a well-constructed The proposed series of translations from story, as we admire a symmetrical man. the Italian, entitled “ The Medici Series,” The expression of proportion in either by C. Edwards Lester, U. S. Consul at case is a pleasant study. Now we have it Genoa, is to consist of four works : “ The the articulation of elegance and grace, and Challenge of Barletta, An Historical Ro now the bolder outline of sinewy strength. mance of the Times of the Medici, by What we most imperatively demand in D'Azeglio ; The Florentine Histories, by both is a clear definition-a decided chaMachiavelli ; The Citizen of a Republic, racter, one way or the other. This - The by Ceba, a Genoese ; The Autobiography Challenge” distinctly possesses. We do of Alfieri.

not often, in these days of miscellaneou

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