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Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, Slides the bird o'er lustrous wood land, droops the trailer from the crag;

Droops the heavy blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree Summer isles of Eden lying in dark purple spheres of sea."

Take Wordsworth, and in his deep-thoughted lines, no labored juggling with technicality is discoverable-but Dr. Waller either is ignorant, or forgetful of the great rules of his art, and endeavours to supply his deficiency in poetic diction, by an inversion of his prose.

In his Sleep and Death, the second piece of the volume before us, the author takes his epigraph from Shelley, and incited by the lines

"How wonderful is Death,

Death, and his Brother, Sleep,"

introduces many scenes much better written by Moore, by Wilson, by Robert Montgomery, and by Robert Pollok. Indeed, Dr. Waller seems particularly anxious to attempt. what great poets have already accomplished. He writes odes, forgetting Dryden and Collins. He writes a Song of the Lark, forgetting Shelley and Hogg. He writes songs of Irish peasant life, forgetting that greatest of living Irish song writers-Samuel Lover. He writes his Slingsby Papers, forgetting that they are only the worst of all bad imitations of the ever glorious Noctes Ambrosiana. He writes a Laborare est Orare, of fourteen stanzas, forgetting that the whole inspiration of his verses is found in Longfellow's Excelsior, and he has endeavoured to excite the reader's feelings by a harrowing pourtrayel of physical suffering, in his Sleep and Death, forgetting that, in The City of the Plague, Wilson, years ago, accomplished this as only a poet could achieve it, yet drew from Southey the criticism that it was "like bringing racks, wheels, and pincers upon the stage to excite pathos. No doubt but a very pathetic tragedy might be written upon the Chamber of the Amputation; cutting for the stone, or the Cæsarean operation; but actual and tangible horrors do not belong to poetry. We do not exhibit George Barnwell upon the ladder to affect the gallery now, as was originally done; and the best picture of Apollo flaying Marsyas, or of the Martyrdom of St. Bartholomew, would be regarded as more disgusting than one of a slaughter-house, or of a dissecting-room." This melo-dramatic plan is a common fault with many writers of verse in our

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time; even in the books before us, we find the Reverend Mr. Brooke devoting his muse to such subjects as Inflammation, Scarlet Fever, Consumption, Fever, Delirium Tremens, Infant Death, Sudden Death, and Violent Death. But writers, who select such subjects as these, should bear in mind an observation of Fuseli's, that, "When Spenser dragged into light the entrails of the serpent slain by the Red Cross Knight, he dreamt a butcher's dream, and not a poet's."

We have not written thus of our author, either needlessly or unfairly. But can Dr. Waller really consider that such productions as these entitle any man to call them Poems, or to designate himself a poet? What is a Poet? One who makes the world bow down before the beauty, or the majesty, or the holiness, or the human naturalness of his creation. When, in the grand cadence of Milton's lines, the glory of the Lord, the wonders of the earth, the philosophy of a Christian belief breathing the majesty of Heaven-fired genius, swell into that diapason which sounds like to the strains of melody that he who loves sweet music hears in his morning dreams -then John Milton is a Poet. When, in every phase of fancy, so godlike, so lofty, so true, we follow that "heavenly Una" through her weary, dark, and lonely way, the sunshine of her loveliness the only light to guide her-then Edmund Spenser is a Poet. When, in all the paths of human existence, from Prince to Clown, Hamlet and Macbeth, Hal and Autolycus-from noble lady to low-born peasant wench-Lady Macbeth and Juliet, to Hostess Quickly and Audrey, great Shakspere sounds every depth of feeling, sways every passion, and rules every breast, by the magic of his own great heart-taught genius-then William Shakspere is a poet. When that second, lesser Shakspere,-who sang of nature in her homely moods, and in passion, love, and youth's full soul, found teachers such as schools have never furnished; when from his life, in humble youth, he drew such charms as only poets know, and left to after time such thought of beauty, manliness, and patriotisın, as shall endure whilst nature lasts then Robert Burns was a poet-and whilst Homer, Dante Ariosto, Tasso, Byron, Scott, Moore, great, thoughtful Wordsworth, Crabbe, Cowper, Tennyson-all swell the roll of Poets, -then can Doctor Waller call the twenty-two pieces, first printed in his volume, Poems? Do they possess a claim to any other classification than that of metrical commonplaces ?

Do they show a mind like his, of whom Tennyson sings:"He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill,

He saw thro' his own soul,

The marvel of the everlasting will,

An open scroll,

Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded

The secret'st walks of fame :

The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed
And wing'd with flame.”

If Dr. Waller would only remember these truths he would avoid long metrical pieces; he would not turn the Lord's Prayer into blank verse; he would not paraphrase the Burial Service; and would not perpetually remind us, in the words of his rather stale fancy, that life is like a stream. We wish Dr. Waller well, and we write plainly of his "Poems," because we are anxious to show him that his genius is lyrical. In long pieces, he is not superior to Mr. John Edmund Reade,* who re-writes Byron, unconsciously; and he merely excels Mr. Coventry Patmore, who copies his best bits from Tennyson, and who, when inspiration becomes too powerful to be intelligible, smothers its ravings in a mist of asterisks.

But it may be asked-is Dr. Waller a mere poetaster-is he one of the literary shams-the fungus excrescences of the periodical press? Far, far indeed, from this, we reply. He has only mistaken his powers; and, though he is not, as a song writer, equal to Samuel Lover, or Charles Swain, he is amongst the best, the sweetest, and most poetical lyrists of the time; yet in two of his best songs he has made three mistakes. In the first, he reminds us of Gerald Griffin's Gille Machree, and of Lover's What Will You Do, Love ?† In the second, he is not Irish-he is Anglo-Irish-and his Dance Light, for my Heart It Lies Under Your Feet, Love-is not more genuinely Irish than Katty Darling, a veritable Cockney-Celtic production. We first insert, Welcome as Flowers in May

At day's declining, a maid sat twining

A garland shining with wild flowers gay;

But her heart it was sore, and the tears swelled o'er

Her eye, at the door, on that eve in May.

"And take," she cried, to her young heart's pride,
"From your plighted bride, on this holy day,

A true-love token of fond vows spoken

That may not be broken-these flowers of May.

"In life and in death, if you hold to your faith,
Keep ever this wreath, 'twill be sweet in decay;
Come poor or with wealth, come in sickness or health,
To my heart you'll be welcome as flowers in May.

* See IRISH QUARTERLY REVIEW, Vol. II., No. 7, p. 461.
† See this exquisite song in "Handy Andy."

"Yet oh, if ever, when wide seas sever

Our hearts, you waver in faith to me,

A true Irish maid will never upbraid

Affection betrayed-from that hour you're free!

"I set small store upon golden ore,

I'll not love you the more for your wealth from the sea;

The hand that will toil at our own loved soil,

Free from crime or from spoil, is the hand for me!"

The blessing half spoke, her fast tears choke,

And strong sobs broke the young man's prayer;
One blending of hearts, and the youth departs -
The maid weeps alone in the silent air.

Full many a score that lone maid counted o'er
Of day-dawns and night-falls-a year to the day-
When, sadly, once more, at the seat by the door,
Stood the youth as before, on that eve in May

For the love of that maid, wherever he strayed,
Kept his soul from stain, and his hand from guilt;
Like an angel from God, till his feet retrod

The cherished sod where his first love dwelt.

"I bring you no store of the bright gold ore
But poor as before, I return to-day;

For my bride I've no wealth but broken health,

Hopes withered and dead as these flowers of May."

The maiden has pressed her true love to her breast,
Her joyful haste no doubts delay;

In his arms she sighs "Tis yourself I prize,

To my heart you are welcome as flowers in May!"

Now to all who remember the songs by Griffin and Lover, to which we have referred, it must be evident that the last three stanzas of Dr Waller's lyric are nothing more than palpable "cribs."""Tis yourself I prize "-is a piece of abominable vulgarity, in its expression, which Lover, like a true poet, has refined, whilst retaining all its strength, in the last stanza of his What Will You Do, Love. Dr. Waller, indeed, seems to have formed the style of his songs upon a metre in which Lover excels-namely, the short rhyming line-as we find it in Molly Carew, in The Bould Soger Boy, and in Native Music.

We place before the reader our author's very pretty song, which he entitles


"Ah, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel-
Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning;

Come trip down with me to the sycamore tree,

Half the parish is there, and the dance is beginning.
The sun is gone down, but the full harvest-moon

Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley;
While all the air rings with the soft, loving things
Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley."

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while,
Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing;
Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues-

So she could'nt but choose to-go off to the dancing.
And now on the green, the glad groups are seen-

Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing;
And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil-
Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing.

Now, Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,

And with flourish so free, sets each couple in motion;
With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the ground-
The maids move around just like swans on the ocean.
Cheeks bright as the rose-feet light as the doe's,

Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing

Search the world all round, from the sky to the ground,
No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing!

Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue,
Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly,
Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form,
Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb wildly.
Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,

Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love;
The sight leaves his eye, as he cries with a sigh,

"Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love !"

This, as we have already stated, is not Irish; it has an Irish tag to Cockney verses.

The lines entitled, There's a Lining of Silver to Every Cloud, are in Dr. Waller's best manner; and though the metre has, as Touchstone says, "the right butter woman's rank to market," in its gingle; and whilst the lines have also "the very false gallop of verses," yet they are so poetical, that we must, "infect ourselves with them"


"Did a sable cloud

Turn forth her silver lining to the night."-MILTON.

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Tearfully gleaming,

The young moon was beaming,

Struggling by fits through each gathering cloud;

Faint light now shedding,

Dark shades now spreading

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I knew that towards Heaven
Its brightness was given -

Over the moonshine their vapoury shroud! A lining of silver spread over the cloud!

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