« AnteriorContinuar »
and that ne appears always more inclined to the treatment of topics which leave a sadness upon the minds of his readers.
The latest publication of Barry Cornwall is a volume of songs, collected chiefly from the various works in which they had previously appeared. As a song writer, also, he frequently hits those apparently vague, but really subtle, analogies in the feeling of the beautiful which characterise the Old Poets; but if he occasionally rivals them in grace, fancy, and sweetness, he now and then falls into the common error of considering as perfections their artificialities, and their conceits; “preferring the quaint to the natural, and often losing truth in searching after originality.” The lyrics of Barry Cornwall are, therefore, however exquisite as small poems, unlikely to make their way among the multitude; and, with few exceptions, have not been received as national songs. We have seen writers far inferior enjoying a much wider popularity: compositions of comparatively little merit have been made familiar as household words, because they treat of matters common to all, in language understood by all, while the admirers of Barry Cornwall have been limited to those who have a refined taste, and a delicate appreciation of what is truly excellent. Our extracts will sufficiently prove the fine and masterly power of the Poet. A sound mind, a rich fancy, a rare and exquisite skill in dealing with words, and a pure style of versification, is evident in them all. Mr. Procter has, however, kept the promise of his genius. Among the Poets of Great Britain he holds a very foremost rank; if, now that his judgment is matured, he would again essay dramatic composition, he might occupy a station still higher,and take his undisputed seat beside the glorious creators of a gone-by age, whose fame PROCTER.
The Fish ERMAN.
A PERIlous life, and sad as life may be,
But let me live on land, where rivers run,
HERE's a health to thee, Mary,
Here's a health to thee;
To think of home and thee, Mary.
There are some who may shine o'er thee, Mary,
I have thought of thy last low sigh, Mary,
And thy dimm'd and gentle eye;
And heard my heart reply, Mary.
Be thou but true to me, Mary,
And I’ll be true to thee;
Be sure that I'm ever with thee, Mary.
Gonk from her cheek is the summer bloom,
And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye,
Like slaves they obey'd her in height of power,
"Tis woman alone, with a purer heart,
In glowing youth he stood beside
When life began its brilliant dream,
He stood beside that stream again,
THE BLOOD HORSE. GAMARRA is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble breed ; Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known: Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, But blown abroad by the pride within ; His mane is like a river flowing, And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night, And his pace as swift as light: Look how round his straining throat Grace and shifting beauty float; Sinewy strength is on his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veins ; Richer, redder never ran Through the boasting heart of man. He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbon dare aspire,Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O'Brien's blood itself! He who hath no peer—was born Here, upon a red March morn; But his famous fathers, dead, Were Arabs all, and Arab bred : And the last of that great line Seemed as of a race divine! And yet—he was but friend to one Who fed him at the set of sun, By some lone fountain fringed with green : With him, a roving Bedouin, He lived—(none else would he obey Through all the hot Arabian day) And died untamed upon the sands Where Balkh amidst the desert stands !
King Death was a rare old fellow!
He sat where no sun could shine ;