All thornless flowers of wit, all chaste The idea of "thornless flowers," etc., leaping "ready-armed" could have entered few brains except those of Mr. Ward. Of the most ineffable bad taste we have instances without number. For example—page 183— And, straining, fastens on her lips a kiss That seemed to suck the life-blood from her heart! And here, very gravely, at page 25— Again he's rous'd, first cramming in his cheek The weed, though vile, that props the nerves when weak. Here again, at page 33— Full well he knew where food does not refresh, But we doubt if the whole world of literature, poetical or prosaic, can afford a picture more utterly disgusting than the following, which we quote from page 177: But most of all good eating cheers the brain, Ay, there's the rub, so baffling oft to me. Boiled, roast, and baked—what precious choice of dishes My generous throat has shared among the fishes! "T is sweet to leave, in each forsaken spot, Our foot-prints there—if only in the sand; 'Tis sweet to feel we are not all forgot, That some will weep our flight from every land; And sweet the knowledge, when the seas I cross, My briny messmates! ye will mourn my loss. This passage alone should damn the book—ay, damn a dozen such. Of what may be termed the niaiseries—the sillinesses—of the volume, there is no end. Under this head we might quote two thirds of the work. For example: Now lightning, with convulsive spasm Splits heaven in many a fearful chasm..... It takes the high trees by the hair Now breaks the gloom and through the chinks The moon, in search of opening, winks— All seriously urged, at different Doints of page 66. Again, on the very next page— Bees buzzed and wrens tuat throng'd the rushes Poured round incessant twittering gushes. And here, at page 129— And now he leads her to the slippery brink Where ponderous tides headlong plunge down the horrid chink. And here, page 109— And, like a ravenous vulture, peck The smoothness of that cheek and neck. And here, page 111— While through the skin worms wriggling broke. And here, page 170— And ride the skittish backs of untamed waves. And here, page 214— Now clasps its mate in holy prayer Or twangs a harp of gold. Mr. Ward, also, is constantly talking about "thunder-guns," "thunder-trumpets," and "thunder-shrieks." He has a bad habit, too, of styling an eye " a weeper," as for example, at page 208— Oh, curl in smiles that mouth again And wipe that weeper dry. Somewhere else he calls two tears "two sparklers"—very much in the style of Mr. Richard Swiveller, who was fond of denominating Madeira "the rosy." "In the nick," meaning in the height, or fulness, is likewise a pet expression of the author of "The Great Descender." Speaking of American forests, at page 286, for instance, he says, "let the doubter walk through them in the nick of their glory." A phrase which may be considered as in the very nick of good taste. We cannot pause to comment upon Mr. Ward's most extraordinary system of versification. Is it his own? He has quite an original way of conglomerating consonants, and seems to have been experimenting whether it were not possible to do altogether without vowels. Sometimes he strings together quite a chain of impossibilities. The line, for example, at page 51, Or, only such as sea-shells flash, puts us much in mind of the schoolboy stumbling-block, begin ning, "The cat ran up the ladder with a lump of raw liver in her mouth," and we defy Sam Patch himself to pronounce it twice in succession without tumbling into a blunder. But we are fairly wearied with this absurd theme. Who calls Mr. Ward a poet? He is a second-rate, or a third-rate, or perhaps a ninety-ninth-rate poetaster. He is a gentleman of "elegant leisure," and gentlemen of elegant leisure are, for the most part, neither men, women, nor Harriet Martineaus. Similar opinions, we believe, were expressed by somebody else was it Mr. Benjamin ?—no very long while ago. But neither Mr. Ward nor "The Knickerbocker" would be convinced. The latter, by way of defence, went into a treatise upon Sam Patch, and Mr. Ward, "in the nick of his glory," wrote another poem against criticism in general, in which he called Mr. Benjamin "a wasp" and "an owl," and endeavored to prove him an ass. An owl is a wise bird—especially in spectacles—still, we do not look upon Mr. Benjamin as an owl. If all are owls who disbelieve in this book, (which we now throw to the pigs) then the world at large cuts a pretty figure, indeed, and should be burnt up in April, as Mr. Miller desires—for it is only one immense aviary of owls. WILLIAM W. LORD.* Of Mr. Lord we know nothing—although we believe that he is a student at Princeton College—or perhaps a graduate, or perhaps a Professor of that institution. Of his book, lately, we have heard a good deal—that is to say, we have heard it announced in every possible variation of phrase, as "forthcoming." For several months past, indeed, much amusement has been occasioned in the various literary coteries in New York, by the pertinacity and obviousness of an attempt made by the poet's friends to get up an anticipatory excitement in his favor. There were multitudinous dark rumors of something in posse—whispered insinuations that the sun had at length arisen or would certaily arise that a book was really in press which would revolutionize the poetical world POEMS. By William W. Lord. New York: D. Appleton & Co. that the MS. had been submitted to the inspection of a junto of critics, whose fiat was well understood to be Fate, (Mr. Charles King, if we remember aright, forming one of the junto)—that the work had by them been approved, and its successful reception and illimitable glorification assured.--Mr. Longfellow, in consequence, countermanding an order given his publishers (Redding & Co.,) to issue forthwith a new threepenny edition of "The Voices of the Night." Suggestions of this nature, busily circulated in private, were, in good time, insinuated through the press, until at length the public expectation was as much on tiptoe as public expectation, in America, can ever be expected to be about so small a matter as the issue of a volume of American poems. The climax of this whole effort, however, at forestalling the critical opinion, and by far the most injudicious portion of the procedure, was the publisher's announcement of the forthcoming book as a very remarkable volume of poems." แ The fact is, the only remarkable things about Mr. Lord's compositions, are their remarkable conceit, ignorance, impudence, platitude, stupidity and bombast:—we are sorry to say all this, but there is an old adage about the falling of the Heavens. Nor must we be misunderstood. We intend to wrong neither Mr. Lord nor our own conscience, by denying him particular merits— such as they are. His book is not altogether contemptible—although the conduct of his friends has innoculated nine-tenths of the community with the opinion that it is—but what we wish to say is, that "remarkable" is by no means the epithet to be applied, in the way of commendation, either to anything that he has yet done, or to anything that he may hereafter accomplish. In a word, while he has undoubtedly given proof of a very ordinary species of talent, no man whose opinion is entitled to the slightest respect, will admit in him any indication of genius. The "particular merits" to which, in the case of Mr. Lord, we have allusion, are merely the accidental merits of particular passages. We say accidental—because poetical merit which is not simply an accident, is very sure to be found, more or less, in a state of diffusion throughout a poem. No man is entitled to the sacred name of poet, because from 160 pages of doggrel, may be culled a few sentences of worth. Nor would the case be in any respect altered, if these few sentences, or even if a few passages of length, were of an excellence even supreme. For a poet is necessarily a man of genius, and with the spirit of true genius even its veriest common-places are intertwined and inextricably intertangled. When, therefore, amid a Sahara of platitude, we discover an occasional Oasis, we must not so far forget ourselves as to fancy any latent fertility in the sands. It is our purpose, however, to do the fullest justice to Mr. Lord, and we proceed at once to cull from his book whatever, in our opinion, will put in the fairest light his poetical pretensions. And first we extract the one brief passage which aroused in us what we recognized as the Poetical Sentiment. It occurs, at page 94, in "Saint Mary's Gift," which, although excessively unoriginal at all points, is upon the whole, the least reprehensible poem of the volume. The heroine of the story having taken a sleeping draught, after the manner of Juliet, is conveyed to a vault, (still in the same manner) and (still in the same manner) awakes in the presence of her lover, who comes to gaze on what he supposes her corpse: And each unto the other was a dream; And so they gazed without a stir or breath, Of her wide tresses, loosened from their wreath, At page 3, in a composition of much general eloquence, there occur a few lines of which we should not hesitate to speak enthusiastically were we not perfectly aware that Mr. Lord has no claim to their origination : Ye winds That in the impalpable deep caves of air, Moving your silent plumes, in dreams of flight, Tumultuous lie, and from your half-stretched wings Beat the faint zephyrs that disturb the air! At page 6, in the same poem, we meet also, a passage of high merit, although sadly disfigured: Thee the bright host of Heaven, The stars adore :—a thousand altars, fed The disfiguration to which we allude, lies in the making a |