human history. Sublime or grotesque, fierce or tender, mythologic or social, they are for ever natural in imagery, intelligible in language, direct and feeling in expression. may Poetry, then, if it exists distinct from, and independent of forms, cannot be trammelled by schools. The so-called art of verse-making is not poetry; we cannot make divinity out of matter. We dissect the dictionary, master the amenities of language, may combine words into the most symmetric rhythm, and enlist all the resources of simile and antithesis, but we shall not thus evoke poetry. We may, like Frankenstein, imbue our creation with life, making it "The perfect monster which the world ne'er saw," but it will be nothing more than a monster; for it will have been wrought and not born. And, indeed, Poetry must be born, human-like, from the Heart, not Minerva-like, from the Head. Schools may mould, but cannot create, and seldom develope the true bard. The mythic style of Coleridge and Shelley has been sublimated into quintessence by Tennyson and Barrett, and diluted into whipt-syllabubs by a thousand imitators; but that style neither achieved Tennyson's and Barrett's poetic salvation, nor doomed to perdition that of the puerile poetasters; and this, because style is inactive in influencing reputation either for good or evil. Wordsworth's laboured simplicity has been filtered into nauseating dishwater by a hundred meagre imitators; Byron's misanthropy has generated a legion of metrical Timours; but real Wordsworths and real Byrons are not quite so numerous. in soiled linen, and damsels in hair-papers, erect fabrics of American poetic gingerbread. At the threshold of this New School, "with shining morning face," sits a talented portrait-painter, author of several books of verse, and editor of a work upon "The Female Poets," ycleptd Tho MAS BUCHANAN READ, whose merits will occupy, if they do not fill, the rest of this paper. It has been said that Goodness is a child, and the good are they who longest preserve their youthtime in its freshness. It is true, that the earliest fruits of poetic genius, if it be genuine, are stamped with letters-patent attesting the fact; and if, afterwards, their author fails to fulfil his promise, it is not that he possessed not the power. but because the weeds of unbelief or the tares of life, have choked the germinating principle within him, and he has grown out of his youthtime ge nius, becoming old, like other men. No one ever became a poet by degrees or easy stages; for if the manifestations of his power were not spontaneous, and marked in their birth, by some token of their origin, all the hot-house cultivation be may afterwards bestow, will never produce auzit but exotic blossoms. Young READ, in his first essays, gave proof of indwelling poetry, and had he, like a true bard, remained young, he would now be beyond and above the New Lake School In the dawnings of inspiration READ gave utterance to Thought, and Thought chose her own metrical robes afterwards, and now, he cuts o and fashions, and embroiders the robes, bu unfortunately, Thought will not don them. A genuine poet is a creator-forming living things to stead, too many of our bards belie their early pro mise, by substituting a mere semblance for that natural virtue whose possession alone constitutes the poet's title to the name. They fling away the talisman which is indisputably their own, ft the counterfeit, which no more belongs to them than to every other individual of taste, fancy, and a tolerable education. wear garments; and he never sinks into Yet, though all men are not Miltons, all human the mere tailor, framing garments to hang out, beings possess a spark, faint soever it may be, of the untenanted by life. Like the prince, in the Miltonic poetic fire-enough, probably, to inspire allegory, who, losing his talismanic eagle's tea them with a consciousness of beauty in surround-ther, supplied himself with a fac-simile in s ing objects. To these, the gospel of poesy needs not to be preached by Miltons or Byrons, but by bards whose hands they can grasp familiarly, and be thus led up, as it were, into the regions of sublimity and divine love, where abides the allglorious spirit whose divergent rays first illumined them with a faint lustre, but whose close embrace will warm them into exalted enjoyment. The mission of song is to inspire confidence, and it for evermore fails, if it repel the meanest intellect by stilted conceits or pompous extravagances. Poetry's most magnificent garments are those in which she is married to some true admirer, whether he be prince or ploughboy; and they are thus magnificent only because they are her "wedding-garments." Disguise her in the most gorgeous array, for show merely, and like a painted coquette, she will dazzle only fools and madmen; but her true, loving spirit, even in a beggar's garb, will enrapture all who are worthy of her. The thraldom of schools sometimes stifles the manifestations of even genuine Poetry. We have, nour country, too great a liking for the bijouterie, if I may so term it, of verse-for colour and nicety in expression, and for bizarre conceits. Our bards, many of the real ones, are not content that their Muse should be lovely, she must, moreover, be in the fashion," perfumed, gloved, and lady-like. And here we encounter what, for lack of a better designation, I shall denominate the New Lake School, of which Wordsworth's platitudes and Tennyson's altitudes constitute a sort of neutral platform, whereon many interesting young men Among the first of his essays, comprising a "View it well: from end to end Of the resinous yellow pine; Hear him shout his loud alarms; But the promise of this poem, and one or twe of Macbeth's weird sisters, kept to the ear, but broken to the sense. We find, in his later poems, few traces of earnest feeling, though the semblance, as before remarked, is not wanting. He appears, indeed, to have started his Pegasus with a free rein, and open nostrils, breathing the pure afflatus, and in this spirit, to have speedily overtaken the Tennysonian cavalcade, which, with dainty pace, burdened with trappings, had preceded him. Unhappily for himself, however, he did not push by and distance this cavalcade, as he might easily have done, but pulled bridle, and permitted his divine steed to amble genteelly among the palfreys of the rest. And there, with the Tennysonian cavalcade, he ambles still, and his Pegasus has become as well-behaved, and kind in harness, as the best-natured family horse ever disposed of because the owner had "no further use for his services." I have said we discover few traces of earnest feeling in Read's later pieces, yet it is true there are some; but even of these, many impress us less as spontaneous pulsations than as fortuitous thrills, resulting from the vibration of some pretty conceit whose expression cannot otherwise than involve feeling. Thus, in the "Beggar of Naples: "Avoiding every wintry shade, The lazzaroni crawled to sunny spots: Pursued their miserable trade, And held the sunshine in their asking palms, Which gave unthanked its glowing alms." Forgetting the ungrammatical construction, how exquisite is the suggestive spirit of the last lines! But this is spoiled by the bad taste of the succeeding couplet, explaining to us that the beautiful sunshine was "Showing the blood, until it ran We might have been suffered to guess that; but the conceit of the wine was too tempting. It could scarcely have been the author's desire to secure a rhyme to "clan" that induced the explanation, as a couplet below contains two unexceptionable ones: "A native Neapolitan, A boy whose cheeks had drawn their olive tan." In truth, "conceit-hunting" is one of the puerilities which render READ's hold on poetic immortality exceedingly precarious. Here, for example, is a misty sort of a sentence, intended probably to convey an impression of the exact state in which a very lymphatic young man was left, after having been "Bereft of all the quiet which had lain And "all this," comprising the "quiet," the "idle fogs," and the "miasmatic mere," had been stolen by "A maiden very young and fair," who, solely by the "Beauty of her smile, Had blown" the aforesaid "quiet," "fogs," etc., "Into a storm which would not rest again;" which, to say the least, was an extremely improper piece of blowing for the beauty of any young lady's smile to indulge in. The young man, however, got upon his feet, and "Stood as with a statue's fixed surprise, Great wonder making marble in his eyes." This is a genuine Tennysonic figure; but it would be more apposite if written "Great wonder making marbles of his eyes," leaving the reader's ingenuity to conceive the colour and size. This mendicant protégé is a singular youth, enacting grotesque feats. For instance, after 'great wonder" had finished upon him the marble-making process, we learn that 66 and "His childhood, like a dry and sandy bar, Lay all behind him, as he hurled His soul's hot bark to sea, and wide unfurled The straining sail upon a billowy world;" "No one missed the boy;" which latter will, I fear, hereafter apply to the poet, if he write not better in the future,-which he can if he will, as the following proves: "Long have I mused upon all lovely things; No one but a "divine-right" bard could have inceived the veiled beauty of the last lines. And, again, none but a natural poet could have kept the vigils of "Midnight," singing to the "old clock," Say on,-but only let me hear The sound most sweet to my listening ear,- and saying to the solemn sounds of the darkness, "Still hearkening, I will love you all, I can hear those dear breasts rise and fall One of READ's positive and obvious faults is the pursuit of mere wordy conceits, with a mistaken notion that quaintness and verbal prettiness are wisdom and beauty; and another is his reliance on Fancy to accomplish what lies legitimately within the province of a higher power,Imagination. He is, in effect, a fanciful writer; and while he remains so he cannot be a great poet, nor even a generally popular one. We may read his verses, and like them, and discover delicate similes in them, expressed daintily enough; but we cannot help asking, after the perusal, "cui bono?" for the thought does not remain with us; no fond, melodious echoes linger about our memories, as if loth to depart. We feel no inspiring warmth in our hearts when perusing this author's verses, and no tears spontaneously suffuse our eyes at the meeting of some natural gush of human poetry. And this is because BUCHANAN READ sings artificially, for artificial audiences, and on artificial themes. We do not hear his natural voice, but a falsetto; it may be the falsetto has become second nature, but that does not help the matter. "The Alchemist's Daughter,"-a poem exhibiting much continuity and method,-gives some of the best indications of Read's natural power; but fancy predominates in this, to the exclusion of feeling, even though the subject is one susceptible of almost every passionate effect in its development. Of the mass of fugitive poems which have appeared under our author's name, I may class them with justice as good magazine poetry;-such as Graham and Godey have dealt in and paid for tolerably well for years, and quite as good as the average of verses which are continually being set to music and sung by young ladies at first-class seminaries. I hope he will yet be ashamed of a great many of them. T. BUCHANAN READ is above thirty, and married. He has written more or less for a dozen years past, pursuing his artistic profession at the same time with assiduity. I think he is a Pennsylvanian by birth, his earliest boyhood having been passed in Philadelphia, whence he removed to Cincinnati, afterwards resided in Boston, still later in Philadelphia, and is now dwelling in Cincinnati. He is the most innocent of the "New Lakers." WHAT THE SEA SAID TO THE SEEKER. BY MARY SPENSER PEASE. WEARY, o'erburthened with heart-aches and strife, Pale eyes gleamed on me through dark bending skies, Mingling cold drops with the flood from my eyes; Lone on that waste, which frowned back the night's frown, Of Earth's wretched men stood her wretchedest son! Out from the murk loomed the vista of years; How were the banks of Life's stream washed with tears! What meaneth, oh Ocean, what meaneth thy What meaneth the deathless unrest of thy surge1 My heart's secret curse ever hugging my way. How were the flowers that once margined its Loved she unholily!-loved she not well!— shore Sleep would I seek here that knoweth no dream. Here from my heart's deathless woe would I rest, Losing, oh Lethe, all thought on thy breast. Why so irresolute? Plunge boldly in! Oh, how alone and how wavering I stood, the spray, Beckoning me onward, from earth-care away. Wave after wave, as day followeth day, Loved she unworthily!-loving she fell! The roof-tree I planted lies blackened and bare: Exacting her nature, and reckless of blame, Impatient of duty, no sanction could bind, A beacon, a warning, I gloomed in her way; With the serpent of doubt, which her bosom La! nursed. Earth is now desolate;-she hath been there. Suns, that have lighted her down to her doom, Askest thou, mortal, what meaneth my dirge? Centuries, centuries buried and gone, Few understood them, and none their full might; Deaf are they, blind are they, buried in sin; Full of deep sympathy, sad is my moan, Who should preach doom to men, who, if not I? Flooding my depths from the far-away time, Secrets came blood-stained with anguish and crime; Open-mouthed rivers, like molten flame, poured Into my depths all their long-garnered hoard. Rivulets heard from each spring strangest tale, Voiced with the down-trodden's desolate wail! Mighty with woe, swelled each torrent still on, Emptying all, all in my breast alone. Cold forms they brought me, too, bloodless as death, Forms of despairing ones, weary of breath,Those who had asked of the wild waves repose; Rashly had sought thus to end all their woes. Ah! they knew not, that on earth, or in heaven, Wonderest thou, then, why I moan and complain! Tall, gallant vessels, oh, many a one That flashed sunshine back in the face of the sun; Brave with young manhood, with soft beauty warm Warmth, strength, youth, beauty, my dark chambers swarm. The shrieks of despair from those wrecks that uprose; The white, wordless awe, that the bravest blood froze ; The mad calls for help, when no succour was nigh; The loud, selfish strife, of each fearing to die!— The wild words now uttered, the tender replies,The fulness of love, poured from leave-taking eyes Intenser than life,--stronger, mightier than deathAll rent my heart like the whirlwind's sharp breath. Rocked in my bosom, far down from the light, Sleep they securely, one long, endless night; White of face, black of face, wronger and wronged, Mindless of forms, now, together are thronged. Oh! 'tis their lullaby sounds through my surge! Of their woes and their fate is my funeral dirge: I must guard, I must watch o'er their cradle and tomb; I must guard, I must watch till the coming of doom. Ir is good for us sometimes to contemplate the character, and study the life of a truly great man. It matters not whether we fully fellowship his doctrines or not, it is good for us to be much with him, and learn what various motives actuate him, and notice the effect of the various influences, both external and internal, upon him. There is a remarkable correspondence in the minds of all truly great men, in the same large ideas of truth, the quick perception of underlying principles, and the same grasping and comprehensive view of causes and effects. To them the outward world is but an index, only the outward manifestation of something inward and deeper, something essential and permanent. In studying these great men, we get at the great ruling spirits in the world; and in fact there is no better way of pursuing the history of any particular period, than by carefully studying the history of its leading minds. There is no character which will give us a deeper insight into English history, of the seven | teenth century, than that of Oliver Cromwell. The history of this period is of too much consequence and magnitude, to admit of a mere cursory examination. It must be considered in its length and breadth and completeness. Just like any other totality, it has its beginning, its continued causes, and its grand results. It is not a mere narration of unmeaning facts, but it is the visible outworking of a principle, the realization of inward promptings and aspirations,-in fact, it is the master revealing of the active English mind, of the seventeenth century, working deeply and powerfully for the accomplishment of its own designs, in the fulfilment of its own mission. The study of this great mind may, therefore, fail in its completeness, but it will give us some practical knowledge of his spirit and of the spirit of his times. Oliver Cromwell was a giant among common among great men, he was an inspired Like all other great reformists, he seems men, man. "the Lord of hosts" to be their guide. Doubtles. Cromwell met at first but little success in Seur- to be a special, heaven-sent messenger, endowed with divine commission and authority. Born for the work, he was nurtured and brought up in it, and the result is, that he became the fittest man in all England, for the work of leader and guide. But his growth was gradual. He did not burst forth, meteor-like, in brightness and splendour, but he rose slowly and steadily, like the great sun, as he rises from behind some high mountain, forecasting his bright rays of light into the whole broad expanse of heaven, even before he, himself, is seen. But before he could engage as an actor in those stirring times, there was a course of discipline marked out by an overruling hand. Cromwell was the witness of many strange scenes, and they all had their influence upon him, in fitting him for the work he afterwards so fully ac-gion, and just about to enter into a bloody srje. complished. He had witnessed, in his younger days, the awful nature of religious persecution; in later times, he had known the baseness of the king, and the rising discontent of the people; and finally, he had witnessed, and formed part of that ever-memorable scene in Parliament, when the first steps were taken in the reform. There had been a deep sense of the wants of the people, and they were fully conscious of the wrongs which were heaped upon them. When, therefore, that Parliament met, which was composed of those men who made up the great heart of the nation, it was evident that some action must be taken. They met and considered, and prayed and wept. Tough old hearts, which had never known grief before, melted into tears. Truly this was a touching scene. A profound sadness must have inspired it, when those great men, who had never known the power of grief to overcome and subdue the whole man, were so choked for speech that their swelling emotions could find no utterance. Those old men would not have flinched in the grapple of might with right, be it ever so terrible, but the thought of opposition to all that was dear in the forms of their government, was like warring against one's own household gods. This was a scene in which Cromwell took part. There he made his first speech, and gave his vote for the proposed action. He is henceforth to take a more prominent stand, as the leader of the Protestant interests. There is only one further step of discipline to be taken, and that is to be gained by a retirement to his farm in the country, where he may breathe the free air of heaven, and drink in rich draughts of liberty, pure and sweet. But we must pass over the many successive scenes in the reformation, as not suited to the present purpose. It would be interesting to trace through those tragic scenes which opened the civil war, and we should doubtless leave that fierce struggle, between religious freedom and usurped authority, sadder and wiser than before. The leading idea with Cromwell was that of "special providences." He believed that God revealed his will not only in his word, but in the hearts of men. This idea he infused into his soldiers. In a short time, he had transformed the whole army; and they went out, as one broad phalanx, on an inspired mission, to claim and protect the Protestant rights of England. There is no picture which one can present to his mind which contains so much of grandeur as that of a whole army going out "in the fear of the Lord," for the defence of religious rights, and calling on The plot is well conceived, and there are strong hands and hearts to accomplish it. Let as wait for the result. It is now nearly morning quite light, and the Scottish army are still sleep ing. Cromwell's army are singing psalms ar! offering prayers. Cromwell himself is holding sweet communion with some of his officers, a little apart from the army, and in full view. the enemy. At last, he spies a slight motion i the enemy's camp, and he is impatient to comp mence the battle. Now is the time, before they are fully aroused; but his most faithful Genera is not here. All impatience, he awaits, and longs to give the word; but no Lambert comes. He looks; the enemy show signs of movement last he comes, and they go out to battle, shouting "The Lord of hosts!" The Scots cry out, I'me Covenant!" and fiercely join battle. A: But this sad and terrible spectacle is soon over The Covenanters are beaten and slain, or take prisoners. Indeed, so many had they, that they knew not what to do with them, their soldiers were so few. This was one of Cromwell's most imperti victories. The great Commonwealth of Englar A was very soon established, and religious freedo fully secured. The candid student of Cromweils character cannot fail to see that he was always sincere in whatever he did. He verily beloved that the cause of religion was to be proces through him; and he held himself as the specia agent to accomplish this design. His intiuence has not been lost. The Commonwealth in its essence still remains in England, and reliquma liberty, which is the proudest monument that could be raised to the memory of its departe i and dishonoured champion. |