As we have intimated before, however, we believe the inadvertences of Professor Porter's work to be comparatively few, when we consider the infinity of particulars of which it is composed. We have been reluctant to mention those which have occurred to us, lest they should produce an unfavorable impression in respect to the value and trustworthiness of the work. Such is far from being our impression on the whole. On the contrary, we think that the book deserves to be used in our theological schools, and to have a place in the library of every clergyman.

G. R. N.

ART. III.-RECENT ENGLISH LYRICS.*

We do not claim for either of the authors, whose names appear in the titles quoted below, what microscopical criticism is pleased to denominate "the great gifts of poesy." They are not known in select circles as wise seers, whose time has been studiously occupied in shedding elaborate immortality either on violets or virtue. Occasionally they may have "hung a jewel in a cowslip's ear," but they are not particularly known as excelling in that department of decorative industry. They recognize the silent sunshine of the Sabbath day, and are familiar with the music of the ever-going stars, but they have been content to sing of the human heart, its joys and its sorrows. Some of them have not always chosen their motto in unison with that engraved upon the Venetian sun-dial, "Horas non numero nisi serenas,"-but they have oftener recorded the darker side of life's experience, and habitually with great beauty and power.

*1. The Poetical Sketch Book. BY THOMAS K. HERVEY. New Edition. London: Edward Bull. 16mo. pp. 286.

2. Poems and Songs. By ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. With an Introduction, Glossary, and Notes, by PETER CUNNINGHAM. London: John Murray. 16mo. pp. 151.

3. English Melodies. By CHARLES SWAIN. Author of "The Mind," "Dramatic Chapters," and other Poems. London: Longman & Co. 16mo. pp. 304.

4. The Poetical Works of HENRY ALFORD. London: F. & J. Rivington. 2 vols. 16mo.

5. Poems. By WILLIAM C. BENNETT. (Unpublished.)

1850.]

Thomas K. Hervey.

41

It is not our purpose to occupy much space in calling attention to these volumes of verse, none of which, we believe, have been as yet republished in our country, but simply to quote a few of their briefer poems, whose melody and sweetness we feel confident will be both pleasant and welcome to all.

Mr. Hervey, we understand, is a Scotch gentleman, now residing in London, where his time is principally devoted to literature. Besides the volume before us, he is the author of a very pleasant book on Christmas, and of some unclaimed jeux d'esprit in the way of satire. We open his "Poetical Sketch Book," and ask no stronger claims for him to the title of poet than the following piece of exquisite feeling :

"And I have dreamt, in many dreams,
Of her- who was a dream to me,
And talked to her, by summer streams,
In crowds, and on the sea,
Till in my soul she grew enshrined,
A young Egeria of the mind!

""Tis years ago!—and other eyes

Have flung their beauty o'er my youth,

And I have hung on other sighs,

And sounds that seemed like truth,
And loved the music which they gave,
Like that which perished in the grave.

"And I have left the cold and dead,
To mingle with the living cold, —

"Rise, gentle vision of the hours,

Which go
And fling thy pall and funeral flowers
On memory's wasted track!

like birds, that come not back!

O for the wings that made thee blest,
To' flee away and be at rest!'"

Here is something in a different vein, but bearing the same true impress of a master's hand.

"CLEOPATRA.

(AFTER DANBY'S PICTURE OF THE EGYPTIAN QUEEN EMBARKING ON THE CYDNUS.)

"The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne

Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold;

Purple the sails, and so perfumed that

The winds were lovesick with them; the oars were silver;

Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made

The water which they beat to follow faster,

As amorous of their strokes.'-SHAKSPEARE.

"Flutes in the sunny air!

And harps in the porphyry halls!

And

low, deep hum, like a people's prayer,With its heart-breathed swells, and falls!

And an echo, like the desert's call,

Flung back to the shouting shores!

And the river's ripple, heard through all,

As it plays with the silver oars!

The sky is a gleam of gold!

And the amber breezes float,

Like thoughts to be dreamed of, but never told,

Around the dancing boat!

"She has stepped on the burning sand!

And the thousand tongues are mute!

And the Syrian strikes, with a trembling hand,
The strings of his gilded lute!

1850.]

Allan Cunningham.

And the Ethiop's heart throbs loud and high,
Beneath his white symar,

And the Lybian kneels, as he meets her eye,
Like the flash of an Eastern star!

The gales may not be heard,

Yet the silken streamers quiver,

And the vessel shoots, like a bright-plumed bird,
Away, down the golden river!

"Away by the lofty mount!

And away by the lonely shore!

And away by the gushing of many a fount,
Where fountains gush no more!
O for some warning vision, there,
Some voice that should have spoken
Of climes to be laid waste and bare,
And glad, young spirits broken!
Of waters dried away,

And hope, and beauty blasted!

That scenes so fair and hearts so gay

Should be so early wasted!

43

Allan Cunningham, in whatever shape he chooses to appear, is always welcome. We are indebted for this admirable collection of a father's poems to his favorite son, whose Introduction to the volume is a warm and filial tribute to departed genius. What can be finer than this charming little copy of verses, celebrating so sweetly "the lovely lass of Preston Mill"?

"THE LOVELY LASS OF PRESTON MILL.

"The lark had left the evening cloud,

The dew fell soft, the wind was lowne,
Its gentle breath amang the flowers
Scarce stirred the thistle's tap o' down;
The dappled swallow left the pool,

The stars were blinking owre the hill,
As I met, amang the hawthorns green,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

"Her naked feet, amang the grass,

Shone like twa dew-gemmed lilies fair;
Her brow shone comely 'mang her locks,
Dark curling owre her shoulders bare;
Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth;
Her lips had words and wit at will,
And heaven seemed looking through her een,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

"Quo' I, 'Sweet lass, will ye gang wi' me,
Where blackcocks craw, and plovers cry?
Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep,
Six vales are lowing wi' my kye:

I hae looked lang for a weel-faur'd lass
By Nithsdale's holmes an' monie a hill';
She hung her head like a dew-bent rose,
The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

“Quo' I, ‘Sweet maiden, look nae down,
But gie 's a kiss, and gang wi' me':
A lovelier face, O! never looked up,
And the tears were drapping frae her ee :

'I hae a lad, wha's far awa',

That weel could win a woman's will;

My heart's already fu' o' love,'

Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

"Now wha is he wha could leave sic a lass,
To seek for love in a far countree?'-
Her tears drapped down like simmer dew:
I fain wad kissed them frae her ee.
I took but ane o' her comely cheek;
'For pity's sake, kind sir, be still!
My heart is fu' o' other love,'

Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.