he files; and binds the folio. He abuses Blackwood, and is crowned King of all the Albums. We had no intention of being so, but suspect that we have been somewhat, severe; so let us relieve all lads of feeling and fancy, by assuring them that hitherto we have been sneering but at sumphs and God-help-you-silly-ones, and that our hearts overflow with kindness towards all the children of genius. Not a few promising boys have lately attempted poetry both in the east and west of Scotland, and we have listened not undelighted to the music. Stoddart and Aytoun-he of the "Death-Wake," and he of "Poland"-are graciously regarded by Old Christopher; and their volumes-presentation copieshave been placed among the essays of those gifted youths, of whom in riper years much may be confidently predicted of fair and good. Many of the small poems of John Wright, an industrious weaver, somewhere in Ayrshire, are beautiful, and have received the praise of Sir Walter himself, who, though kind to all aspirants, praises none to whom nature has not imparted some portion of the creative power of genius. One of John's strains we have committed to memory-or rather, without trying to do so, got by heart; and as it seems to us very mild and touching, here it is. 66 VOL. VI. THE WRECKED MARINER. Stay, proud bird of the shore! Carry my last breath with thee to the cliff Where waits our shattered skiff, One that shall mark nor it nor lover more. Fan, with thy plumage bright, Her heaving heart to rest, as thou dost mine, And, gently to divine The tearful tale, flap out her beacon-light. Again swoop out to sea, With lone and lingering wail, then lay thy head, As thou thyself wert dead, Upon her breast, that she may weep for me. Now, let her bid false Hope For ever hide her beam, nor trust again The peace-bereaving strain Life has, but still far hence, choice flowers to crop. H Oh! bid her not repine, And deem my loss too bitter to be borne; Yet all of passion scorn, But the mild deepening memory of mine. Thou art away!-sweet wind, Bear the last trickling tear-drop on your wing, And o'er her bosom fling The love-fraught pearly shower, till rest it find." England ought to be producing some young poets now, that there may be no dull interregnum when the old shall have passed away; and pass away many of them soon must—their bodies, which are shadows; but their spirits, which are lights -they will burn for ever-till time be no more. It is thought by many that almost all the poetical genius which has worked such wonders in our day, was brought into power-it having been given but in capacity to the Wordsworths, and Scotts, and Byrons-by the French Revolution. Through the storm and tempest, the thunder and the lightning, which accompanied that great moral and intellectual earthquake, the strongwinged spirits soared; and found in their bosom, or in the "deep serene" above all that turmoil, in the imperturbable heavens, the inspiration and the matter of immortal song. If it were so, then shall not the next age want its mighty poets. For we see "the deep-fermenting tempest brewed in the grim evening sky." On the beautiful green grass of England may there glisten in the sun but the pearly dewdrops; may they be brushed away but by the footsteps of Labour issuing from his rustic lodge. But Europe, long ere bright heads are grey, will see blood poured out like water; and there will be the noise of many old establishments quaking to their foundations, or rent asunder, or overthrown. Much that is sacred will be preserved; and, after a troubled time, much will be repaired and restored, as it has ever been after misrule and ruin. Then and haply not till then-will again be heard the majestic voice of song from the renovated nations. Yet, if the hum which now we hear be indeed that of the March of Intellect, that voice may ascend from the earth in peace. Intellect delights in peace, which it produces; but many is the mean power that apes the mighty, and often for a while the cheat is successful-the counterfeit is crowned with conquest -and hollow hymns hail victories that issue in defeats, out of which rise again to life all that was most lovely and venerable, to run a new career of triumph. But we are getting into the clouds, and our wish is to keep jogging along the turnpike road. So let all this pass for an introduction to our Article-and let us abruptly join company with the gentleman whose name stands at the head of it, Mr Alfred Tennyson, of whom the world, we presume, yet knows but little or nothing, whom his friends call a Phoenix, but who, we hope, will not be dissatisfied with us, should we designate him merely a Swan. One of the saddest misfortunes that can befall a young poet, is to be the Pet of a Coterie; and the very saddest of all, if in Cockneydom. Such has been the unlucky lot of Alfred Tennyson. He has been elevated to the throne of Little Britain, and sonnets were showered over his coronation from the most remote regions of his empire, even from Hampstead Hill. Eulogies more elaborate than the architecture of the costliest gingerbread, have been built up into panegyrical piles, in commemoration of the Birth-day; and 'twould be a pity indeed with one's crutch to smash the gilt battlements, white too with sugar as with frost, and begemmed with comfits. The besetting sin of all periodical criticism-and nowadays there is no other-is boundless extravagance of praise; but none splash it on like the trowel-men who have been bedaubing Mr Tennyson. There is something wrong, however, with the compost. It won't stick; unseemly cracks deform the surface; it falls off piece by piece ere it has dried in the sun, or it hardens into blotches; and the worshippers have but discoloured and disfigured their Idol. The worst of it is, that they make the Bespattered not only feel, but look ridiculous; he seems as absurd as an Image in a teagarden; and, bedizened with faded and fantastic garlands, the public cough on being told he is a Poet, for he has much more the appearance of a Post. The Englishman's Magazine ought not to have died; for it threatened to be a very pleasant periodical. An Essay "On the Genius of Alfred Tennyson," sent it to the grave. The superhuman-nay, supernatural-pomposity of that one paper, incapacitated the whole work for living one day longer in this unceremonious world. The solemnity with which the critic approached the object of his adoration, and the sanctity with which he laid his offerings on the shrine, were too much for our irreligious age. The Essay "On the Genius of Alfred Tennyson," awoke a general guffaw, and it expired in convulsions. Yet the Essay was exceedingly well written—as well as if it had been "On the Genius of Sir Isaac Newton." Therein lay the mistake. Sir Isaac discovered the law of gravitation; Alfred had but written some pretty verses, and mankind were not prepared to set him among the stars. But that he has genius is proved by his being at this moment alive; for had he not, he must have breathed his last under that critique. The spirit of life must indeed be strong within him; for he has outlived a narcotic dose administered to him by a crazy charlatan in the Westminster, and after that he may sleep in safety with a pan of charcoal. But the Old Man must see justice done to this ingenious lad, and save him from his worst enemies, his friends. Never are we so happy-nay, 'tis now almost our only happiness— as when scattering flowers in the sunshine that falls from the yet unclouded sky on the green path prepared by gracious Nature for the feet of enthusiastic youth. Yet we scatter them in not too lavish profusion; and we take care that the young poet shall see, along with the shadow of the spirit that cheers him on, that, too, of the accompanying crutch. Were we not afraid that our style might be thought to wax too figurative, we should say that Alfred is a promising plant; and that the day may come when, beneath sun and shower, his genius may grow up and expand into a stately tree, embowering a solemn shade within its wide circumference, while the daylight lies gorgeously on its crest, seen from afar in glory-itself a grove. But that day will never come, if he hearken not to our advice, and, as far as his own nature will permit, regulate by it the movements of his genius. This may perhaps appear, at first sight or hearing, not a little unreasonable on our part; but not so, if Alfred will but lay our words to heart, and meditate on their spirit. We desire to see him prosper; and we predict fame as the fruit of obedience. If he disobey, he assuredly goes to oblivion. At present he has small power over the common feelings and thoughts of men. His feebleness is distressing at all times when he makes an appeal to their ordinary sympathies. And the reason is, that he fears to look such sympathies boldly in the face, and will be-metaphysical. What all the human race see and feel, he seems to think cannot be poetical; he is not aware of the transcendant and eternal grandeur of commonplace and all-time truths, which are the staple of all poetry. All human beings see the same light in heaven and in woman's eyes; and the great poets put it into language which rather records than reveals, spiritualising while it embodies. They shun not the sights of common earth-witness Wordsworth. But beneath the magic of their eyes the celandine grows a star or a sun. What beauty is breathed over the daisy by lovingly blessing it because it is so common! "Sweet flower! whose home is everywhere!" In like manner, Scott, when eulogising our love of our native land, uses the simplest language, and gives vent to the simplest feelings "Lives there the man with soul so dead, What less-what more, could any man say? Yet translate these three lines-not omitting others that accompany them, equally touching-into any language, living or dead-and they will instantly be felt by all hearts, savage or civilised, to be the most exquisite poetry. Of such power, conscious, as it kindles, of its dominion over men, because of their common humanity, would that there were finer and more frequent examples in the compositions- otherwise often exquisite of this young poet. Yet two or three times he tries it on-thus: NATIONAL SONG. "There is no land like England, There are no hearts like English hearts, |