ELLIOTT. THE WONDERS OF THE LANE. STRONG climber of the mountain's side, Though thou the vale disdain, Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide The wonders of the lane. High o'er the rushy springs of Don The stormy gloom is roll'd; The moorland hath not yet put on But here the titling spreads his wing, And here the sun-flower of the spring. I may state, with natural and pardonable pride, that while Editor of the NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE, it was my fortunate privilege to direct to this extraordinary and highly-gifted man the public attention he had long, but vainly, courted. In April, 1831, a letter reviewing his poetry was addressed to Dr. Southey, by one of the most accomplished writers of the age, and published in that Periodical. From the day of its appearance, the world wondered what strange fatality had hitherto obscured his genius; it was at once acknowledged, and his “earnest perseverance" recompensed. His Poems have been recently collected into three volumes *. It is impossible to avoid some comment on the harsh, ungenerous, and we must add, un-English, political principles, which so continually influence, so thoroughly saturate, and so essentially impair the Poetry of the Rhymer. In his "Corn-Law Rhymes," and the Poems avowedly political, we look for and pardon his strong and ungentle opinions; but he can rarely ramble through a green lane, climb the mountain's brow, or revel amid the luxuries of nature, without giving them expression. He has wooed Liberty with an unchaste passion. His fancy is haunted by images of tyrant-kings, tax-fed aristocrats, and bigotted oppressors. Still, with the highest and the most enduring of British Poets, we must class Ebenezer Elliott. Among his Poems there are many glorious and true transcripts of nature; full of pathos and beauty, vigorous and original in thought; and clear, eloquent, and impassioned in language. His feelings, though at times kindly and gentle, are more often dark, menacing, and stern; but they are never grovelling or low. He has keen and burning sympathies; but unhappily he forgets that the high-born and wealthy claim them and deserve them, as well as the poor, and those who are more directly" bread-taxed;"-that suffering is the common lot of humanity. STRONG climber of the mountain's side, Though thou the vale disdain, Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide The wonders of the lane. High o'er the rushy springs of Don The stormy gloom is roll'd; The moorland hath not yet put on But here the titling spreads his wing, And here the sun-flower of the spring. To mountain winds the famish'd fox O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks But here the lizard seeks the sun, The glories of the lane! For, oh, I love these banks of rock, This roof of sky and tree, These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock, And wakes the earliest bee! As spirits from eternal day Look down on earth secure ; Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey A world not scorn'd by Him who made Light! not alone on clouds afar O'er storm-lov'd mountains spread, Like splinters of a crystal hair, What tidings from the Andes brings Yon line of liquid light, That down from heav'n in madness flings Do I not hear his thunder roll-- 'Tis mute as death!-but in my soul What forests tall of tiniest moss Clothe every little stone! What pigmy oaks their foliage toss O'er pigmy valleys lone! With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge, Ambitious of the sky, They feather o'er the steepest edge Of mountains mushroom high. On these grey stones unseen may dwell! I feel no shock, I hear no groan Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me, May crawl, some atoms' cliffs to see- Lo! while he pauses, and admires The works of nature's might, Spurn'd by my foot, his world expires, Oh, God of terrors! what are we?- But shouldst thou wreck our father-land, Safe in the hollow of thine hand |