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dig on the side, that drives the breath *** Then thou canst picture-aye, in sober out of their body, and keeps them truth, speechless for the rest of the night, In real, unexaggerated trath,— while the stream of conversation, if it The constant, galling, festering chain that may be called so, keeps issuing in jets
binds and jerks, from the same inexhaustible Captive my mute interpreter of thought; source, pausing but to become more
The seal of lead enstamped upon my lips,
The load of iron on my labouring chest, poient, and delivering, per hour, we fear to say how many imperial gallons Haunts me - and spurs me on—to burst
The mocking demon, that at every step into the reservoir.
in silence." Therefore, we cannot but smile at - the Stammerer's Complaint"-as
Heaven preserve us! is the world so
ill off for woes-are they so scantput into his lips by Mr Tupper. He that a Poet who indites blank verse to is made to ask us
Imagination, can dream of none wor“Hast ever seen an eagle chained to earth? thier his lamentations than the occa A restless panther to his cage immurd ?
sional and not unfrequent inconveA swist trout by the vily fisher check d?
niences that a gifted spirit experiences A wild bird hopeless strain its broken
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 heavento the purpose ? An eagle chained
ward,) cannot fly an inch-a panther in a cage A man whom lying vanities hath scath'd can prowl none-a trout “checked". And harden'd from all fear,-if such an one basketted, we presume—is as good as By this tyrannical Argus goaded on, gutted—a bird winged is already dish- Were to be wearied of his very life, ed—but a stammerer, “ still begin. And daily, hourly foiled in social converse, ping, never eading," is in all his glory By the slow simmering of disappointment, when he meets a consonant whom he Become a sour'd and apathetic being, will not relinquish till he has conquer
Were to feel rapture at the approach of ed him, and dragged him in captivity
death, at the wheels of his chariot,
And long for his dark hope,--annihila.
tion," " While the swift axles kindle as they What if he were dumb ? roll."
Mr Tupper is a father-and some Mr Tupper's Stammerer then is made of his domestic verses are very pleas
ing-such as his sonnet to little Ellen, “ Hast ever felt, at the dark dead of night, and his sonnet to little Mary ; but we Some undefined and horrid incubus prefer the stanzas entitled “ Children," Press down the very soul,--and paralyse and quote them as an agreeable sample, The limbs in their imaginary flight premising that they would not have From shadowy terrors in unhallowed been the worse of some little tincture
of imaginative feeling-for, expressive We have; but what is all that to the as they are of mere natural emotion, purpose, unless it be to dissuade us they cannot well be said to be poetry. from supping on pork-chop? Such op- We object, too, to the sentiment of pression on the stomach, and through the close, for thousands of childless it on all the vital powers, is the men are rich in the enjoyment of life's effect of indigestion, and is horrible; best affections; and some of the hapbut the Stammerer undergoes no such piest couples and the best we have rending of soul from body, in striving ever known, are among those from to give vent to his peculiar utterance whom God has withheld the gift of -not he indeed--'tis all confined to offspring. Let all good Christian peo. his organs of speech_his agonies are ple be thankful for the mereies graapparent not real- and he is conscious ciously vouchsafed to them; but bebut of an enlivening empbasis that, ware of judging the lot of others by while all around him are drowsy, keeps their own, and of seeking to confine him wide awake, and banishes Sleep either worth, happiness, or virtue, to his native land of Nod. We our: within one sphere of domestic life, selves have what is called an impedi- however blessed they may feel it to be ; ment in our speech--and do “ make “ For the blue sky bends over all,' wry faces,” but we never thought of and our fate here below is not deterexclaiming to ourselves,
mined by the stars.
" Yours the natural curling tresses,
“ All unkiss'd by innocent beauty, Prattling tongues, and shyness coy,
All unlov'd by guileless heart, Tottering steps, and kind caresses, All uncheer'd by sweetest duty,
Pure with health and warm with joy. Childless man, how poor thou art !"
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.
Oasis of my hopes, to fancy dear,
And good old customs crown the cireling year;
And trade's vile din offends, not nature's ear,
“ Some smiling bay of Cambria's happy shore,
A wooded dingle on a mountain side,
And looking down on valley fair and wide,
Than vast cathedrals in their Gothic pride,
“ There would I dwell, for I delight therein !
Far from the evil ways of evil men,
My own repented of, and clean again :
Choice books, and guiltless pleasures of the pen,
“ There, from the flowery mead, or shingled shore,
To cull the gems that bounteous nature gave,
Or seek the curious crystal in its cave;
Know more of Him who came the lost to save;
“ No envious wish my fellows to excel,
No sordid money-getting cares be mine ;
Nor meanly grand among the poor to shine :
With those cheap pleasures and light cares of thine,
And walking well with God in nature's eye,
Love at my board, and friendship dwelling nigh,
And, when I'm called in rapturous hope to die,
And challenge earth to show a happier man !" But the best set of stanzas in the « • And for a home,- would I had none ! volume are those entitled Ellen Gray. The home I have, a wicked one, The subject is distressing, and has They will not let me in, been treated so often—perhaps too
Till I can fee my jailor's hands often-as to be now exhausted-or if With the vile tribute she demands, not so, nothing new can be expected The wages of my sin : on it, except either from original ge
I see your goodness on me frown; nius, or from a spirit made creative
Yet hear the veriest wretch on town, by profoundest sympathy and sorrow
While yet in life she may for the last extremities of human
Tell the sad story of her grief,misery
Though heav'n alone can bring relief
To guilty Ellen Gray. “ A starless night, and bitter cold;
My mother died when I was born : The low dun clouds all wildly roll'd And I was flung, a babe forlorn, Scudding before the blast,
Upon the workhouse floor; And cheerlessly the frozen sleet
My father,—would I knew him not !
A squalid thief, a reckless sot,
- I dare not tell you more. “ When crouched at an unfriendly door,
"" And I was bound an infant-slave, Faint, sick, and miserably poor,
With no one near to love, or save
From cruel sordid men,
A friendless, famish'd, factory child, But from her eye look'd out despair,
Morn, noon, and night I toil'd and toil'd, All dim and desolate.
Yet was I happy then ;
“My heart was pure, my cheek was fair, “ Was I to pass her coldly by,
Ah, would to God a cancer there
Had eaten out its way!
For soon my tasker, dreaded man,
With treacherous wiles and arts began Told me I had not done my part
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;
In my most loathing breast; • Have you no friend, no home?' I said. Oh, how I fear'd and hated him,
. Get up, poor creature, come, So basely kind, so smoothly grim, You seem unhappy, faint, and weak,
My terror and my pest !
« « Thenceforward droop'd my stricken "" Alas, kind sir, poor Ellen Gray
head; Has had no friend this many a day, I liv'd,- I died, a life of dread, And, but that you seem kind,
Lest they should guess my shame ; She has not found the face of late
But weeks and months would pass away, That look'd on her in aught but hate, And all too soon the bitter day And still despairs to find :
Of wrath and ruin came;
"I could not hide my alter'd form: " • And little can the untempted dream, Then on my head the fearful storm While gliding smoothly on life's stream Of gibe and insult burst:
They keep the letter-laws,
What they would be, if, tost like me
They knew how hunger gnaws.
" • Ah, lightly heed the righteous few “ Her eye was fixed; she said no more, How little to themselves is due,
But propp'd against the cold street-door But all things given to them ;
She leaned her fainting head ; Yet the unwise because untaught,
One moment she look'd up and smil'd, The wandering sheep, because unsought, Full of new hope, as Mercy's child, They' heartlessly condemn :
-And the poor girl was dead.” We do not think the idea very happy of “ Contrasted Sonnets"-such as, Nature-Art; The Happy Home-The Wretched Home ; Theory--Practice ; Ritches-PovertyPhilanthropic- 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
“ That the fine edge of intellect is:
And mortal ken with cloudy fi
That virtue's self is weak its love to lure,
But pride and lust keep all the gates secure,
The selfish, useful, money-making plan,
Where in hard matter sinks ideal man :
Thy darkness to confound with yon bright band
And now as kings in prose on fame's clear summit stand."
« To touch the heart, and make its pulses thrill,
To raise and purify the grovelling soul,
To conquer passion with a mild controul,
These are thine aims, o pure unearthly power,
And therefore these, who have thee for their dower,
Eat angels' food, the manda thou dost shower :
Whether to read, or write, or think, or hear,
My sympathies are all with times of old,
Upstart, and flippant, foolish, weak, and gay,
I love to wander o'er the shadowy past,
And seem to find myself almost the last
Of a time-honoured race, decaying fast ;
Conjuring up what story it might tell,
And in a desert could delight to dwell
Mr Tupper has received much praise bation of the public. Perhaps our from critics whose judgment is gene. rough notes may help him to discover rally entitled to great respect-in the where his strength lies ; and, with his Atlas--if we mistake not_in the right feelings, and amiable sensibili. Spectator-and in the Sun. If our ties, and fine enthusiasm, and healthy censure be undeserved—let our copious powers when exercised on familiar quotations justify themselves, and be and domestic themes, so dear for. our condemnation. Our praise may ever to the human heart, there seems seem cold and scanty ; but so far no reason why, in good time, he from despising Mr Tupper's talents, may not be among our especial we have good hopes of him, and do favourites, and one of the Swans not fear but that he will produce many of Thames"--whicb, we believe, are far better things than the best of as big and as bright as those of the those we have selected for the appro- 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!