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11

The golden sunbeams glancing, pass

Through broad blade of the long sword-grass,
Transparent as the crystal glass.

Rippling flows the burnie bubbling,
Nothing its clear waters troubling,
Every step its vigour doubling.

Beneath the drooping, weeping ashes,
Where foaming water-torrent dashes,
The dragon-fly like fire-spark flashes.

Now o'er smooth stones the gentle brook
Its playful course with laughter took,
Like truant child escaped from book.

Shoot up the birch's silver trunk,
Its deep root that the waters drunk,
Deep, deep into the moss have sunk.

The wild-flowers hang athwart the stream,
Their shadows, passing like a dream,

Are mirrored in the silver gleam.

MY LONDON NEWSPAPER IN THE COUNTRY.

BY E. P. ROWSELL, ESQ.

THERE is hardly to me any greater pleasure than that which arises within me when, lying at length on the grass, with the glorious country around, and the sun shining brightly over me, I leisurely peruse a London newspaper. The feeling is not new; it is the same gratification as that Cowper speaks of in his "Task" as having been experienced by him when, far away from the noisy city, on a winter's evening he read the news at his quiet tea table. But I must confess I think my pleasure is, if the expression be applicable, the more praiseworthy. Cowper's seems to have been formed by the somewhat selfishly drawing a vivid comparison between the discomforts, the toils, the troubles of those whom he deemed less fortunately situated, with his own deep peace and tran quillity. He seems to hug himself in the consciousness that he is not exposed to the ills, the contrast between which and his own ease and quietude render the latter so exquisitely delightful. Now, my gratification I have alluded to arises from quite a different source. When reposing, as I have said, I do not seek to heighten my pleasure by laboriously investing the opposite occupation-the engaging to the full in all the bustle of London life-with undue and exaggerated gloom. I do not know, indeed, that my pleasure is induced by any sense of contrast, it arises rather from the singular combination, the union of making acquaintance through my newspaper with all the activity and novelty of the great metropolis, with the enjoying, while I do so, the rich calm and bright beauty of the country. There is a singular pleasure in this

grasp of two important sources of agreeable emotion at once which is quite sufficient for a reasonable man. I do not need to dress London in its blackest garb. I do not need mentally to paint it in its dreariest aspect. I do not require to gloat over the pale faces and overtaxed frames of those who are perpetually its residents, and are unceasingly engaged in its wearisome employments, to make me feel delighted with beauteous scenery and healthful air, and perfect freedom to enjoy them to the utmost. I must say, that if Cowper had not been afflicted as we know him to have been, I should have much fallen foul of him for the feelings he expresses in this portion of his "Task." A man crushed and fallen, with weakened mind, and broken spirit, and shattered constitution, may be excused retiring from the world and seeking that rest which is the only balm he can ever know, and without which his existence would be speedily closed. But allowing this (and even here I hold that the spitefully decrying the vigorous labours of others, simply, as it would seem, because those labours can never be rivalled by any similar of our own, is the very reverse of commendable), there certainly cannot be, or at all events, should not be, anything to excite our admiration in the disposition-where there is nothing to excuse it, where there is, at all events, average intellect, average courage, and average bodily strength-to withdraw from the sphere of active usefulness, and to retire through sheer indolence and cowardice into obscurity and insignificance. Cowper might look through the loopholes of his retreat at the busy world for which he was not fitted, but would it not have been nobler in him, would it not have shown a higher, worthier spirit, if, instead of seeking consolation for his feebleness, and endeavouring to induce in himself resignation to his lot, by dwelling disparagingly upon the more stirring lives of others, he had simply thanked God that if he could not earn laurels in a bolder field, he could at least be useful and do good in a calmer and less exciting? I am sure none of my readers will disagree with me when I say emphatically that there is a dignity, a nobility in labour which must make us regard needless indolence with very great contempt. You can hardly show me a man who, to my mind, is so little worthy of esteem as the man who, not being obliged to toil for daily bread, thinks that there is not the slightest call upon him to undertake any useful task.

Such a man is not the Earl of Shaftesbury; such a man is not the Earl of Carlisle. Even my humble pen shall render a tribute to men like these. Oh would that there were more like unto them. Would that there were more who, similar in station, influence, and means (unfortunately there could be but few with similar ability), who should be their rivals in their earnest, unceasing, and effective efforts to bring the bright sunshine of peace and happiness upon their fellow-creatures! Look at the labours of Lord Shaftesbury. Look at the perpetual selfdenial exercised by him, and rendered imperatively necessary for the full and perfect importance of his works of love.

The object of this paper not being to eulogise any particular individual, I forbear to dwell upon the eminent usefulness to the community of such men as Lords Shaftesbury and Carlisle. But a passing notice they may well claim in any article speaking of real practical advantage to our fellow-creatures. I hardly know that I regard with any profound emotion of esteem a wealthy philanthropist in the country, who founds his

claim to the title not upon any vigorous exertions either of mind or body, but upon certain alms poured into the hands of agents to distribute as they may amongst the suffering sick and poor. I believe myself, strange as may appear the remark at first sight, that we actually think almost too much about our poor-too much (I add, in explanation) in the sense that we think too little about the means of preventing any from becoming, in the extreme meaning, poor.

The wise, wealthy, and kind-hearted capitalist (if I may here mention a name, I would speak of Mr. Peto, M.P.) who is perpetually devising and carrying out great works-works of noble improvement and advantage-and who studies the welfare of all whom he engages in the execution of those works, does he not, in every way, do much more service, much more open up sources of happiness, than the idle, little-thinking almsgiver who gives money and nothing else? I go further. I say the man who too freely spreads his alms does positive injury. Anything which serves to increase pauperism and destroy self-reliance and independence, tends to the destruction of all dignity of character, of all moral worth. But if you look on the other side-if you consider the tendency of the proceedings of the intelligent capitalist who originates plans of undertakings, in themselves to be rich benefits, and who subsequently carries out those plans through the medium of those who have to labour with their hands for a subsistence for themselves and their families, do you not see that, regarded in every light and every way, this man is a real well-worker, a true advantage, an emphatic blessing to his fellow

men.

Therefore I say, if you command that I show you a man who most truly, to my idea, represents a boon to the community, I do not withdraw the curtain and show you some lazy old gentleman, residing I don't know how many miles from town, possessed of I don't know how much money, and giving away nobody knows-he cannot tell himself-how much every year. No; this old gentleman is very kind and very amiable, but though he will give money almost to any extent, and almost to everybody asking him, he never troubles his brain, or his body either, upon any matter connected with the welfare of his fellow-creatures generally, requiring exertion. His usefulness is all of the passive, the less valuable kind. He busies himself not with difficult projects for the advancement or reformation of those whose condition needs attention from the philanthropist (and there are few who might not be better and happier than they are); he leads "a quiet life." He folds his hands, and declares his abhorrence of "London and its bustle;" and when he reads his newspaper, while lying at length on the greensward, with the glorious country around and the sun shining brightly over him, he chuckles to himself at the enjoyment of such peace and exemption from the tumultuous scenes proceeding in the Great City.

No, reader, I shall not show you this inactive though amiable old gentleman. I shall show you the man, of property certainly, but of talent also a man right-minded and true-hearted, and ever stirring, ever striving after good-a man who feels that with so many advantages how vast is his responsibility, and who believes, and acts in accordance with his belief, that the way to gain the heaven above the skies is to endeavour to induce heaven below them.

POEMS BY ALEXANDER SMITH.*

A NEW poet has risen up among us, as sudden and beautiful as a rainbow in the firmament of June.

The good fortune of Byron, who "awoke one morning and found himself famous," is now equalled by the unanimous verdict that has raised Mr. Smith at once, and almost without a struggle, to a high rank amongst our modern poets; upon himself only does it now depend whether his dominion be permanent or transitory-whether it daily spread wider, or shrink back to a mere provincial celebrity. Much as he deserves success, let him remember that mere popularity is neither a proof of merit nor a certain warrant of perpetuity. Glover and Darwin had their day; Pye and Whitehead were the lions of a season. Let him, then, despise the herd of critics who wind their penny trumpets to his praise, and scorn the sudden court that has sprung up so miraculously around the new-made monarch of to-day, and who would as readily forsake him for a new favourite to-morrow.

Mr. Smith, though one of nature's poets, and in thought, though not in style, eminently original, shapes himself much after the rhythm, and the metre, the school of philosophy, nay, even, we regret to say, some of the very affectations of Tennyson. Not the Tennyson of to-day, but the Tennyson of a dozen years back. The same cataract of images, the same want of human interest, the same prismatic glitter and sensuous embodiments, and the same daring and not always successful coining of new words, the same psuedo love-verses full of sweetness, but addressed to ladies, we have every reason to believe, as imaginary as the old faded Mirzas, Tirzahs, &c., who have long since broken up their sheep-crooks and pawned their dingy ribbons, and are now housed in the poetical almshouse not very far from the nine spinster Muses, and those old dowdy heroines of the Grand Cyrus, now almost in their second childhood.

They cannot wish well to our new poet who place him as yet either above Keats, or on a level with the Laureat. He has neither that passionate and morbid (for none but the dying could have so written) perceptiveness of the former, or the classical finish and matured, but still mystic, thoughtfulness of the latter. Mr. Smith could not, with all the rich jewellery which bespangle his pages, have ever written such lines as are to be found in the "Pot of Basil"-that poem as sad and as beautiful as a nightingale's song; he is neither lyrical-though he is passionate and impulsive-neither dramatic nor sublime. His characters, too, if we may be pardoned the bull, are all twins, and to take up the book carelessly is to run through all the category of mistakes to be found in the "Comedy of Errors," for Walter will always stand for Edward, and vice versa.

He wants the extension of thought and the varied reading of Shelley, the calm, serious, meditativeness of Wordsworth. His writing is like a charge of an Eastern army, all glittering with spearheads and banners,

* Poems by Alexander Smith. London: D. Bogue, Fleet-street. Second Edition. 1853.

and loud with drums, tramplings, and multitudinous shouts; but there is still to come, and we believe will come, the slow, measured, and irresistible advance of an English host-the connexion of incident we mean, the development of character, the elaboration of a story; in a word, the epical continuity of a perfect poem.

The "Drama of Life" is wonderful as a feat of strength; but let us see the sustained labour, the long, patient toil of sinewy striving; we don't want the exertion of the dram-excited acrobat, we want the strong, ardent vigour of the old workers.*

Is it that our poets now do not really fly so far as they say into the regions of fairy, that they turn as soon as they are out of sight and bait their hippogriffs behind a sheltering cloud, or how is it that they so seldom escape from the painful atmosphere of the present day? Byron and his whining imitators were miserable, they knew not why; were always getting under willows and flourishing cambric, and dropping tears like leaky rain-butts, and all for what ?-for Hecuba, for nothing. Our present men have found out an evil, and lament, earnestly and fervidly, the vices of the day and the material tone of society, amongst which they wish to appear to move like lost Pleiades.

Modern poetry, there can be no question, has a reactionary tendency to super-idealism. Wordsworth led the way with his statuesque nature and his moral meditations, and when he does bring in a human being he places him as badly, and makes him as shapeless, as the figures of Claude Lorraine. Then there was Coleridge, with his opium dreams, shattered jewels, and many-hued spangles, always out of sight of earth; and Shelley, roaming amongst planets in the fourteenth heaven, listening to the young earthquakes' voices, watching the sunrise, with its burning plumes outspread, giving voices to the clouds, and peopling unheard-of elements with unheard-of spirits; and next him, Southey and Scott, repeopling the past, anything but the present-hence the antiquarian spirit even in Church matters; and Keats galvanising a torso; and Tennyson platonic and allegorical; and in prose Hawthorn, Maturin, and Mrs. Frankenstein, delighting to throw the supernatural over the meanest things, and watching the very sunset in a puddle. We men of business and care want poetry now to idealise our daily life, as the old romances did, to wean us from grief, and make us forget the sorrows of life for half an hour.

Our poetry is divided now into two classes: the Pope and the Lake schools. The one calls the other "monotonous, artificial, worldly;" the other replies by such terms as "bombastic, languid, tiresome, rhetorical, mystical, fragments, fopperies, imagery instead of thought," appeals to eye and not to heart, and so on, That the Lake school-the first revival of the poetical spirit since the Elizabethan age-runs too much into idealism must be confessed, though it may perhaps be justly imputed to the natural tendency of the age. But never was poetry more musical

* The fever flush of rouge is not the rosy blush of youth. He who writes what he hopes will last long must be long in writing, and longer in revision.

Modern poetry seems to incline to mere landscape painting. A story is written to introduce images previously composed, not images written to illustrate a story. We have yet to learn forbearance, and not to insert a simile because it is merely beautiful.

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