"Hast ever seen an eagle chained to earth? A restless panther in his cage immured? A swift trout by the wily fisher checked? A wild bird hopeless strain its broken wing ?" We have; but what is all such sights to the purpose? An eagle chained cannot fly an inch-a panther in a cage can prowl none-a trout "checked"basketted, we presume-is as good as gutted-a bird winged is already dished-but a stammerer, "still beginning, never ending," is in all his glory when he meets a consonant whom he will not relinquish till he has conquered him, and dragged him in captivity at the wheels of his chariot, "While the swift axles kindle as they roll." Mr Tupper's stammerer then is made to say, "Hast ever felt, at the dark dead of night, Press down the very soul, and paralyse We have; but what is all that to the tion." What if he were dumb? Mr Tupper is a father-and some of his domestic verses are very pleas ing-such as his sonnet to little Ellen, and his sonnet to liitle Mary: but we and quote them as an agreeable sample, prefer the stanzas entitled "Children," premising that they would not have been the worse of some little tincture of Imaginative feeling-for, expressive as they are of mere natural emotion, they cannot well be said to be poetry. We object, too, to the sentiment of the close, for thousands of childless men are rich in the enjoyment of life's best affections; and some of the hap piest couples and the best we have ever known, are among those from whom God has withheld the gift of offspring. Let all good Christian people be thankful for the mercies graciously vouchsafed to them; but be ware of judging the lot of others by their own, and of seeking to confine either worth, happiness, or virtue. within one sphere of domestic life, however blessed they may feel it to be; "For the blue sky bends over all," and our fate here below is not determined by the stars. We like the following lines still better and considered "as one of the moods of his own mind," they may be read with unmingled pleasure. WISDOM'S WISH. "АH, might I but escape to some sweet spot, Where rural virtues are not yet forgot, And good old customs crown the circling year; And looking down on valley fair and wide, And blest with pious pastor, who has trod "There would I dwell, for I delight therein ! With health and plenty crown'd, and peace within, "There, from the flowery mead, or shingled shore, And learning nature's Master to adore, Know more of Him who came the lost to save; "No envious wish my fellows to excel, Nor meanly grand among the poor to shine: With those cheap pleasures and light cares of thine, "Rescued from cities, and forensic strife, And walking well with God in nature's eye, And, when I'm called in rapturous hope to die, But the best set of stanzas in the volume are those entitled Ellen Gray. The subject is distressing, and has been treated so often-perhaps too often-as to be now exhausted or if not so, nothing new can be expected on it, except either from original genius, or from a spirit made creative by profoundest sympathy and sorrow for the last extremities of human misery. "And for a home,-would I had none! They will not let me in, I see your goodness on me frown; While yet in life she may Tell the sad story of her grief,— "My mother died when I was born: Upon the work house floor: "And I was bound an infant-slave, "When crouched at an unfriendly door, With no one near to love, or save Faint, sick, and miserably poor, A silen woman sate; She might be young, and had been fair, "Was I to pass her coldly by, Leaving her there to pine and die, The live-long freezing night? The secret answer of my heart Told me I had not done my part In flinging her a mite. She look'd her thanks,-then droop'd Have you no friend, no home?' I said. "Alas, kind sir, poor Ellen Gray From cruel sordid men, A friendless, famish'd child, "And little can the untempted dream, They knew how hunger gnaws. "I was half-starved, I tried in vain "Alas. why need I count by links "Now was I reckless, bold, and bad, With thinking on my wrongs; "And what I was,-still such am I ; And yet I hoped 1 might "My tale is told: my heart grows cold; I know that you will stay: "Her eye was fixed; she said no more, We do not think the idea very happy of "Contrasted Sonnets"-such as, Nature-Art; The Happy Home-The Wretched Home; Theory-Practice; Ritches-Poverty; Philanthropic-Misanthropic; Country-Town; and so on-and tis an ancient, nay, a stale idea, though Mr Tupper evidently thinks it fresh and new, and luxuriates in it as if it were all his own. Sometimes he chooses to shew that he is ambidexter-and how much may be said on both sides-leaving the reader's mind in a state of indifference to what may really be the truth of the matter-or disposed to believe that he knows more about it than the Sonnetteer. The best are Prose and Poetry-and they are very good-so is "Ancient," but Modern is very bad-and therefore we quote the three VOL XLIV. PROSE. "That the fine edge of intellect is dulled, 72 That virtue's self is weak its love to lure, The selfish, useful, money-making plan, Thy darkness to confound with yon bright band Who have swayed royally the mighty pen, And now as kings in prose on fame's clear summit stand." POETRY. "To touch the heart, and make its pulses thrill, Eat angels' food, the manna thou dost shower : By the gross million spurn'd, and sped on by the few." ANCIENT. "My sympathies are all with times of old, I love to wander o'er the shadowy past, Conjuring up what story it might tell, Old Egypt's giant fanes, or Babel's mouldering walls." Mr Tupper has received much praise from critics whose judgment is generally entitled to great respect-in the Atlas-if we mistake not-in the Spectator-and in the Sun. If our censure be undeserved-let our copious quotations justify themselves, and be our condemnation. Our praise may seem cold and scanty; but so far from despising Mr Tupper's talents, we have good hopes of him, and do not fear but that he will produce many far better things than the best of those we have selected for the appro bation of the public. Perhaps our rough notes may help him to discover where his strength lies; and, with his right feelings, and amiable sensibili ties, and fine enthusiasm, and healthy powers when exercised on familiar and domestic themes, so dear forever to the human heart, there seems no reason why, in good time, be may not be among our especial favourites, and one of the Swans of Thames"-which we believe, are as big and as bright as those of the Tweed. Alas! for poor NICOL! Dead and gone-but not to be forgotten-for aye to be emembered among the flowers of the forest, early wede away! |