44

ART. VI.

1. The Cherwell Water-Lily, and other Poems. By the REV. F. W. FABER, M.A. London: Rivington.

2. Fugitive Verses. By JOANNA BAILLIE. London: Moxon.

3. The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore, collected by Himself. Vol. 11 London: Longman.

--

IN some recent remarks on "Uneducated Poets," we spoke to this effect, that the first revival of English poetry, the first bound of the tamed or enfeebled muse, the next school erected in this country, would probably be in a rustic soil,-would, we anticipated, spring from the bosom of the people. A true and faithful representative of the genius of the country, of the English heart, just as Burns was of the Scottish, may appear, in spite of the mechanical interests and spirit of the age, who, speaking from the inner man with powerful yet tender notes will reach the inner man of every other son of Adam. If, however, we be in error as to the sphere in which the never-dying, although for seasons and periods hidden, genius of poetry is again and next to burst the bonds and burdens with which she has for nigh a quarter of a century had to struggle, we think we must be right when we say that the revival will distinguish itself, in part at least, by scorning and flinging away the sort of tinselled and glittering beauties, the exaggerated and unsteady generalities, the feverish sentimentalities which have succeeded the last era in the muse's history, and which may be called that of the Magazine and Annual school. We never, surely, can look for the re-appearance of the poetical spirit in its breadth and strength, its geniality and simplicity, without that quietness and manly composure which indicates health and fresh humanity; the spirit with its native plastic kindliness the while accommodating itself to the phases of the period, according to the local accidents and characteristics of landscape, society and opinion. Confidence will give way to excitement, calmness to fitful storm, and homeliness to over-refinement.

It is with a hopeful greeting that we discover in the volume first in our present list, tokens of the healthful spirit which is so much longed after. Together with tenderness and delicacy of fancy, at times however running into conceits, the author possesses a soaring and strong-pinioned imagination, depth and earnestness of feeling, and subtlety of judgment as well as closeness of observation. Along with all this he has a great mastery over language, and a largely stored mind; qualities which in the case of a young man,-for such we take Mr. Faber to be, promise brilliant results. But what we

wish particularly to notice and hail with most pleasure, is the intensity and truthfulness of nature that wells up in his verses, often

clear and pure, without muddiness and without froth. We have to regret, however, that he is also frequently obscure, and that he leans to the mystic school. Perhaps, too, his religious sentiments are somewhat morbid as well as transcendental. But yet these appear to be so little affected and forced as often to reach the reader's heart and crown the other attributes of his muse. Indeed we feel so convinced of Mr. Faber's fine knowledge of the art, and of his natural gifts, that it requires only that he allow to both the performance of their proper functions, in order to rid himself of the principal errors or failings which disfigure the pieces before us. We think that he runs the risk of becoming infected with the faults and mannerism of Coleridge rather than of Wordsworth. Now, he has no need to borrow from the wing, or to imitate the note, of either. Let him be careful and trustful, faithful to himself and to his training, and then the day, we predict, will arrive, when if he stand not side-by-side of these masters of song, he will at least be heard in concert with them, and be recognised as one who planted an unfading lily.

We need not describe the contents of the volume, further than to say that most of them are serious as to sentiment, and earnest and searching as to thought; that they are written with a purpose even when of a more playful cast; and that Mr. Faber seems to cherish the idea that he must render an account of his stewardship. A few specimens shall now be given. The first will show how he can subtilize and pursue nice ideas through a labyrinth of imagery. It is what must be expected, that obscurity and mysticism are sometimes to be encountered when the fancy and mind take the direction now exhibited; although in the sample now to be given he has steered with wonderful tact and skill clear of such dangers and temptations:

"Thought hath a double stream, whose falls
Keep murmuring in her sounding halls,
Rising and sinking, faint and clear,

As breezes bear their echoes near.
One springs 'mid outward forms and shows,
And winds as it is bidden;

The other veils its wells, and flows
In a woodland channel hidden;
And at far times, reveals its floods
In whitest gleamings through the woods,
O'er roots of marble breaking,

Or in a hollow green and cool
Through many a modest lingering pool

Its amber waters taking.

We have no spells to turn its flow,
Or bid its voices come and go;

For on its face are mirrored fair

The lights and shapes that are elsewhere,
And tranquil fear and shadowy love
Brood o'er its basins from above,
But oft, in sudden turns of thought,
Both fountains are together brought,
And mix their streams awhile;
And Fancy then herself is seating

To catch the sounds and whispers fleeting,
Where Heaven and Earth in streams are meeting,

And rippling waters smile,

Again in hours of gentle daring,

The soul hath traced the brook some way,

Its darkly twisting channel wearing,

And coloured pebbles downward bearing

From where its secret fountains play.

Benighted in far woods she sees
Forms shift about among the trees,
And vanish here and there;

And uttered by them, in their fleetness,
Soft voices of an earthly sweetness
Keep trembling on the air.

Then, when Fancy's stars are waning,
The soul her wonted home regaining,
Yet still those mystic scenes retaining,
The sounds and visions to impress
Themselves upon her loneliness
With such a dimly-living power,
That she, in many an after-hour,
Beholds, in strange and foreign places,
Familiar forms and household faces;
As though ere while, in vision dread,
That place or room were visited;
And strangers' voices echo round,
Like rings and links of magic sound,
She listens well to what is spoken,

As though the words were old;
And watches for some random token,
The wonder to unfold.

These are the sounds and shadowy sight
That came in waking dream,

When she was wandering in the night

Far up the heavenly stream.

Oft too, in slumber's pathless mountains,
The heart breaks up her ancient fountains,
Which had for years been sealed;

And the whole spirit overflows

With waters that chance-dreams disclose
In some forgotten field.

:

Tree-top and rock and nodding wood
Group wildly in that whirling flood;
While Earth and Heaven meet and part,
In giddy ebb and flow of heart :-
Giddy, yet held by some strong tie
Fast in the beating springs,
Which up above, in sympathy,

Keep time by murmurings.

For that bright stream's mysterious powers,

And all its secret going,

Burst on the surface most in hours
When sleep is o'er us flowing;
Like gurgling wells and waterfalls
Which, heard in stilly nights,
Put music in the breezy calls

That come from mountain heights.
All these quick turns of sparkling thought,
Strange places known again,

And dreams at hollow midnight brought,
Are openings by these waters wrought,

And Heaven awhile made plain.
They, who will listen at their soul,
May hear deep down that current roll,
Its waters sweetly timing;

And patient ears that listen long
May catch the fashion of its song
And science of its chiming.
Nay, sometimes, by its far faint airs
Young hearts are taken unawares ;-
As a stranger, sleeping on the mountains,
Is waked by waters in their mirth,
Causing, as they tinkle from their fountains,
Audible music through the earth."

It is obvious that he who can cram thought and command imagery, as in the specimen now quoted, and infuse tenderness together with simple power as in what we next present, is in possession of some of the chief and indispensable qualifications of the sonneteer; the most rare of all poets in our language, on account of the requisitions of thought, measure, and rhyme in this sort of verse. The piece we now [select has for its theme "Childhood," and is addressed "To my only Sister."

"Dost thou remember how we lived at home

That it was like an oriental place,

Where right and wrong, and praise and blame did come
By ways we wondered at and durst not trace;
And gloom and sadness were but shadows thrown
From griefs that were our sire's and not our own?

It was a moat about our souls, an arm

Of sea, that made the world a foreign shore;
And we were too enamoured of the charm

To dream that barks might come and waft us o'er.
Cold snow was on the hills; and they did wear
Too wild and wan a look to tempt us there.
We had traditions of our own, to weave

A web of creed and rite and sacred thought;
And when a stranger who did not believe

As they who where our types of God had taught,
Came to our home, how harsh his words did seem,
Like sounds that mar, but cannot break a dream.
And then in Scripture some high things there were,
Of which, they said, we must not read or talk;
And we, through fear did never trespass there,

But made our Bibles like our twilight walk
In the deep woodlands, where we durst not roam
To spots from whence we could not see our home.
Albeit we fondly hoped, when we were men,

To learn the lore our parents loved so well,
And read the rites and symbols which were then
But letters of a word we could not spell-
Church-bells, and Sundays when we did not play,
And Sacraments at which we might not stay.

But we too soon from our safe place were driven;
The world broke in upon our orphaned life.
Dawnings of good, young flowers that looked to Heaven,
It left untilled for what seemed manlier strife;

Like a too-early summer, bringing fruit

Where spring perchance had meant another shoot!

Some begin life too soon,-like sailors thrown

Upon a shore where common things look strange;

Like them they roam about a foreign town,

And grief awhile may own the force of change.

Yet, although one hour new dress and tongue may please,
Our second thoughts look homeward, ill at ease.
Come then unto our childhood's wreck again-

The rocks hard-by our father's early grave;
And take the few chance treasures that remain,
And live through manhood upon what we save.
So shall we roam the same old shore at will!
In the fond faith that we are children still.
Christian! thy dream is now-it was not then :

Oh! it were strange if childhood were a dream.
Strife and the world are dreams to wakeful men
Chilhood and home as jealous angels seem:
Like shapes and hues that play in clouds at even,
They have but shifted from thee into heaven!"