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, 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! the wrench as severe as that needed "To drag the magnet from the pole, But Amador, after ten years' absence --so Christabel was no girl-now returned" with name and fame and fortune"-for "The Lion-King, with his own right hand, "In the hall He met her!--but how pale and wan!— He started back, as she upon His neck would fall; He started back,-for by her side (O blessed vision!) he espied A thing divine, Poor Christabel was lean and white, Fairer and brighter, as he gazes From those glorious eyes, That in the other lies!" This is rather sudden, and takes the reader aback-for though poor Christabel had had a strange night of it, she was a lovely creature the day before, and could not have grown so very "lean and white" in so short a time. Only think of her looking "peevish"! But "A trampling of hoofs at the cullice-port, moor, A mingled numerous array, With foam and mud bespattered o'er, And now that day is dropping late, Have passed the drawbridge and the gate." Here again Mr Tupper shows, somewhat ludicrously, his unacquaintance with the Lake-Land, and makes Sir Roland perform a most circuitous journey. You know that Sir Leoline and Sir Roland had been friends in youth, and cannot have forgotten Coleridge's exquisite description of their quarrel and estrangement. He would have painted their reconciliation in a few lines of remember the parties are, each of light. But attend to Tupper-and them, bordering, by his account, on fourscore. The stalwarth warriors stood and shook, 'Tis fifty years ago to-day With words of insult high; "Their knees give way, their faces are pale, All unable to dissemble stronger Till they can refrain no longer, "Then, the full luxury of grief "Her beauty hath conquer'd: a sunny smile At that word, the spell is half-broken, and the dotards, who had been kneeling, rise up; the Witch gives a slight hiss, but instantly recovers her gentleness and her beauty, and both fall in love with her, like the elders with Susanna. "Wonder-stricken were they then, And full of love, those ancient men, Full-fired with guilty love, as when In times of old To young Susanna's fairness knelt Those elders twain, and foully felt The lava-streams of passion melt Their bosoms cold." They walk off as jealous as March hares, and Amador, a more fitting wooer, supplies their place. His head is cushioned on her breast, Stung with remorse, Hath drop't at her feet as a clay-cold corse;" she raises him up and kisses him-Geraldine, with "an involuntary hiss and snake-like stare," gnashes her teeth on the loving pair. Bard Bracy plays on his triple-stringed Welsh harp a holy hymn-Geraldine is convulsed, grows lank and lean— "The spell is dead--the charm is o'er, seen no more." "The spirit said, and all in light Melted away that vision bright; My tale is told." Such is Geraldine, a Sequel to Coleridge's Christabel! It is, indeed, a most shocking likeness-call it rather a horrid caricature. Coleridge's Christabel, in any circumstances beneath the sun, moon, and stars, "lean and white, and peevish"!!-a most impious libel. Coleridge's Geraldine with that dreadful bosom and side"like a lady from a far countree "— stain still the most beautiful of all the edness powerful by the inscrutable witches and in her mysterious wickbest of human innocence the dragonsecret of some demon-spell over the daughter of an old red-raged hag, hobbling on wooden crutches! Where is our own? Coleridge's bold English Barons, stiff in their green eld as oaks, Sir Leoline and Sir Roland, with rheumy eyes, slavering lips, and tottering knees, shamelessly wooing the same witch in each others presence, with all the impotence of the last stage of dotage! "She had dreams all yesternight Of her own betrothed knight; And she in the midnight wood will pray For the weal of her lover that's far away!" That is all we hear of him from Coleridge-Mr Tupper brings before us the "handsome youth" (yes! he calls him so), with 66 a goodly shield, Three wild-boars or, on an azure field, While scallop-shells on an argent fess Proclaim him a pilgrim and knight no less!! Enchased in gold on his helmet of steel A deer-hound stands on the high-plumed keel!" &c. And thus equipped-booted and spurred-armed cap-a-pie-he leaps the moat-contrary to all the courtesies of chivalry-and, rushing up to the lady, who had been praying for him for ten years (ten is too many), he turns on his heel as if he had stumbled by mistake on an elderly vinegar-visaged chambermaid, and makes furious love before her face to the lady on whose arm she is fainting;-and this is in the spirit of Coleridge! It won't do to say Amador is under a spell. No such spell can be tolerated-and so far from being moved with pity for Amador as infatuated, we feel assured, that there is not one Quaker in Ken dal, who, on witnessing such brutality, would not lend a foot to kick him down stairs, and a hand to fling him into the moat among the barbels. As for the diction, it is equally destitute of grace and power-and not only without any colouring of beauty, but all blotch and varnish, laid on as with a shoe-brush. All sorts of images and figures of speech crawl over the surface of the Sequel, each shifting for itself, like certain animalculæ set a-racing on a hot-plate by a flaxen-headed cowboy; and though there are some hundreds of them, not one is the property of Mr Tupper, but liable to be claimed by every versifier from Cockaigne to Cape Wrath. Let us turn, then, to his ambitious and elaborate address to Imagination, and see if it conspicuously exhibit the qualities of the poetical character. "Thou fair enchantress of my willing heart, O'er the wide sea of indistinct idea, Or quaking sands of untried theory, That wind a dubious pathway through the deep,- Have I not often sat with thee retired, Alone yet not alone, though grave most glad, As from the distant hum of many waters, "Imagination, art thou not my friend, As the coy village maiden's " rather ridiculous-with Imagination sitting by his side, and whispering soft nothings into his ear. "With still small voice" is too hal- Or quaking sands of untried theory, We do not believe that these lines have "The intellectual power through words and things Went sounding on its dim and perilous Imagination is then "Triumphant "Because thy secret heart, Like that strange light, burning yet unconsumed, |