The stanza commencing " Buckled knee and shoe," &c. puts us somewhat too forcibly in mind of Oliver Wendell Holmes' " Old Man." 66 The exclamation "Ninety-Three!" introduced, as it is, independently of the observations which surround it, must be regarded as one of the happiest instances either of refined art or of natural pathos. The stanza beginning "Yon white spire cannot be too warmly commended. "New" is a pendant to " Old," but its artificiality of construction is even more displeasingly apparent. We quote one or two sweet passages: Ah, June can only charm her eyes And azure skies. This, however, should read, "Ah, only June," etc. "Boemus" is the concluding poem of the volume, and is marked by the same peculiarities of metre peculiarities, however, which, in a composition such as this, must be considered out of place. We conclude our review with the quotation of a very spirited stanza a stanza which would do no discredit to Campbell, and is much in his vein : O'er all the silent sky A dark and scowling frown ; But darker scowled each eye When (night of dread renown!) 1 THE LOST PLEIAD; AND OTHER POEMS. By T. H. CHIVERS, M.D. NEW YORK: EDWARD O. JENKINS. [Text: Broadway Journal, Aug. 2, 1845.] THIS volume is evidently the honest and fervent utterance of an exquisitely sensitive heart which has suffered much and long. The poems are numerous, but the thesis is one death - the death of beloved friends. The poet seems to have dwelt among the shadows of tombs, until his very soul has become a shadow. Here, indeed, is no mere Byronic affectation of melancholy. No man who has ever mourned the loss of a dear friend, can read these poems without instantly admitting the palpable truth which glows upon every page. 1 See Appendix, Vol. VII., "The Poe-Chivers Controversy." erature The tone of the composition is, in these latter days, a marvel, and as a marvel we commend it to our readers. It belongs to the first era of a nation's litto the era of impulse — in contra-distinction to the Chaucerian rather than to the Cowperian days. As for the trans-civilization epoch, Dr. Chivers' poems have really nothing of affinity with itand this we look upon as the greatest miracle of all. Is it not, indeed, a miracle that to-day a poet shall compose sixty or seventy poems, in which there shall be discoverable no taint absolutely none of either Byron, or Shelley, or Wordsworth, or Coleridge, or Tennyson? In a word, the volume before us is the work of that rara avis, an educated, passionate, yet unaffectedly simple-minded and singleminded man, writing from his own vigorous impulses from the necessity of giving utterance to poetic passion to himself. and thus writing not to mankind, but solely The whole volume has, in fact, the air of a rapt soliloquy. We have leisure this week only to give, without comment, a few extracts at random-but we shall take an opportunity of recurring to the subject. I hear thy spirit calling unto me From out the Deep, Like Archytas from out Venetia's Sea, While I here weep ;' Saying, Come, strew my body with the sand, Oh, never, never more! no, never more! Will thy sweet beauty visit this dark shore, Ever - forever more, bright glorious One! Drowned in the Deep! In Spring-time-Summer Must I here weep; Winter—all alone Thou Spirit of my soul ! thou light of life! Celestial pleasure once to contemplate Possessed my soul; but ever more shall hate, Crowd out thy memory from my soul, Oh, Sea! He was the incarnation of pure Truth, Oh, mighty Deep! And thou didst murder him in prime of youth, And, murdering him, didst more than murder me, My spirit wearied not to succor his, Oh, mighty Deep! The oftener done, the greater was the bliss ; But now I weep; And where his beauty lay, unceasing pain Now dwells - my heart can know no joy again! God of my fathers! God of that bright One Lost in the Deep! Shall we not meet again beyond the sun No more to weep? Yes, I shall meet him there-the lost the brightThe glorious SHELLEY! spring of my delight! Ah, like Orion on some Autumn night I see his soul look down from Heaven While here I weep! how bright! And there, like Hesperus, the stars of even When thou wert in this world with me Such as thy spirit now doth eat In that high world of endless love, Before the jasper-walls above, Because of thine untimely fate, Forever more as they do now! Out of my heart forever more. Thou wert my snow-white JESSAMINE |