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And if he cry, “ My arms 1 yield,”.
They're pregnant with celestial fire.'-pp. 190.--192. Miss Browne we have already had the honour of introducing to our readers, heralding her with due sounds of praise from our critical trumpet. We are sorry to find her writing, or rather publishing so rapidly, because we fear, that before she arrives at the age of maturity, she will have already begun to exhibit the sere and yellow leaf of her poetical fame. Young ladies, aye and old ones too, will however have their way, and so Miss Browne will write and publish on, until she gets married, the only event we know of that can clip the wings of her imagination.
As usual, Miss Mary Ann is in the lugubrious strain. Why does she not take up a tambourine, and dance about her drawing room for a week or two, to shake off the clouds that hang for ever upon her beautiful brow? We say beautiful, although we have never seen the said brow, nor any feature belonging to the young lady; but if we be wrong, she at least will be too happy to excuse us. Her present volume begins with repentance, and ends with a dear little boy.' We have therefore some hopes that our fair minstrel will think of our suggestion about the tambourine. Upon this condition, we shall indulge her, and haply some of our readers too, by extracting two pieces from her present collection, the first of which she entitles “The hopes of my life.' Hope of my
childhood ! what wert thou ?
That my name might blend with many a name
For thy spring is Truth-thy source is Heaven.'—pp. 20–22. Miss Browne's mother will not be made less happy, we flatter ourselves, when she sees in our pages the verses addressed to her by her daughter.
My mother! now the gladsome spring
Is smiling o'er the earth;
In sunny light go forth.
days most lovely be,
The day that gave thee birth ;
When thou wast not as now;
Less darkly on thy brow.
When in life's summer glow,
And scarce one flower lay low;
As it was wont to be,
Have done their work on thee;
Thy hand more tremulous,
Save when it turns on us,
Yet weep not, mother! for the days
Passed by, we'll not regret ;
Is only dimmed, not set.
And never more deceive,
To light thy quiet eve;
May ne'er be twined for me;
In lofty poesy:--
Will think it melody;
However weak it be ;
The reader will find many other pieces in this volume, which will please his fancy, should he happen to have a quiet mind, and chance to be seated under a shady tree, and near some stripling of a brook that sings in unison with Miss Browne.
Bravo, Mr. Deakin! we never by any chance heard of thy odd name before, but whatever thy verses may be, thy preface is at all events original. Here is a young varlet of a poet, who tells us that
it is the practice of some authors, by an affection (sic) of frankness and a half-anticipating condemnation of themselves in initio, to attempt to disarm the wrath of the critic, and the irreverence of the reader; I humbly beg to be excused doing either-it would be an overweening piece of superciliousness--a species of mock modestya harlot attired in the garments of innocence,' &c. &c. After all this, and a Latin quotation to back his effrontery, he says, and it is with moral confidence that I have the honour of concluding my Preface to the Public ! As to the honour of concluding his preface, we know not where that was found; but when he speaks of moral confidence, we must presume that he means confidence in his morality, in which he is sufficiently justifiable. His strains are very much akin to those of Miss Browne; like her, he is given to what may be called the amiabilities of piety and sentiment, and writes in limpid and agreeable style. We have the honour of transcribing from his collection one poem, which will afford a specimen of the rest.
Oh, didst thou ever gaze upon the deep rich crimson bloom
When twilight draws her line of light along the vesper sea,
In such a holy hour as this, when the hush'd heart is still,
See, how I pluck this crimson flower ! 'tis bathed in vesper dew,
! • Then come with me, thou cherish'd one, and I to thee will tell Where angels plume their diamond wings, where cherub, seraph, dwell, Who through yon jewell'd shrine of night, that spreads its fane above, Rolls orb on orb in glory forth, in plenitude of love : Who in his clasped hand upholds the sun's majestic sway, Who says unto the night, “ Go forth--go forth unto the day! O come with me, my cherish'd one, there's peace unto us given, The prayer is pausing on our lips ! let's waft it up to Heaven !!
pp. 118-224. The Author of the “ Portfolio of the Martyr-Student,” has been, he says, in Germany lately, and he tells a romantic tale of the manner in which he came by the poems which he now publishes. The writer of them, he would have us believe, was a German youth of intense poetical feeling, who, upon his removal to a university, was
so ambitious of distinguishing himself in his pursuits, that he fell a martyr to them. This, of course, is a fiction, intended merely to inform us that the poems were produced by a second Byron, a man who knew not how to cool the fires that burned in his breast. The compositions which we have before us do not always indicate the presence of a muse; at the same time it may not be denied that they merit a high rank in the scale of minor poetry, as the following example will sufficiently prove.
"When tender feelings fondly twine
Themselves around another's breast,
Seek there and there alone to rest :-
Like ivy to the forest tree,
From thence must make them cease to be :
Some sightless soul, deform'd, and rent,
Its covering and its ornament:
And find their fondest clasps betray'd,
Though leafless, sapless, and decay'd
Their warm fidelity away,
The whirlwind and the storm their stay:
No wonder that their days are o'er-
To bloom in life and light no more !'-pp.157, 158.
' fied tour; we stand with relation to it in a state of happy indifference. It neither shook us with laughter, nor melted us to tears. We wish the Pilgrim a happy journey. He philosophizes and rhymes with so much facility, that we can easily imagine him carrying on a soliloquy for two or three successive days upon the beauties of a biscuit, or some such equally arid affair.
A much more interesting traveller have we in Mr. Maude, whose lay comes before us with the imprimatur of no less an authority than that of Moore. Upon the compliments of poets to each other, we are aware little value is to be placed. Mr. Maude's verses, however, really do deserve to be read; they have been written, or at least revised, with classical care as well as taste. They tell us of the author's feelings on quitting England, where