and that he appears always more inclined to the treatment of topics which leave a sadness upon the minds of his readers. The latest publication of Barry Cornwall is a volume of songs, collected chiefly from the various works in which they had previously appeared. As a song writer, also, he frequently hits those apparently vague, but really subtle, analogies in the feeling of the beautiful which characterise the Old Poets; but if he occasionally rivals them in grace, fancy, and sweetness, he now and then falls into the common error of considering as perfections their artificialities, and their conceits; "preferring the quaint to the natural, and often losing truth in searching after originality." The lyrics of Barry Cornwall are, therefore, however exquisite as small poems, unlikely to make their way among the multitude; and, with few exceptions, have not been received as national songs. We have seen writers far inferior enjoying a much wider popularity: compositions of comparatively little merit have been made familiar as household words, because they treat of matters common to all, in language understood by all, while the admirers of Barry Cornwall have been limited to those who have a refined taste, and a delicate appreciation of what is truly excellent. Our extracts will sufficiently prove the fine and masterly power of the Poet. A sound mind, a rich fancy, a rare and exquisite skill in dealing with words, and a pure style of versification, is evident in them all. Mr. Procter has, however, kept the promise of his genius. Among the Poets of Great Britain he holds a very foremost rank; if, now that his judgment is matured, he would again essay dramatic composition, he might occupy a station still higher,and take his undisputed seat beside the glorious creators of a gone-by age, whose fame A PERILOUS life, and sad as life may be, The lonely fisher thus must ever fare; Without the comfort, hope, with scarce a friend, He looks through life, and only sees its end! Eternal ocean! Old majestic sea! Ever love I from shore to look on thee, And sometimes on thy billowy back to ride, But let me live on land, where rivers run,Where shady trees may screen me from the sun; Where I may feel, secure, the fragrant air; Where (whate'er toil or wearying pains I bear) Those eyes, which look away all human ill, May shed on me their still, sweet, constant light; And the little hearts I love may (day and night) Be found beside me safe and clustering still ! SONG. HERE'S a health to thee, Mary, The drinkers are gone, And I am alone, To think of home and thee, Mary. There are some who may shine o'er thee, Mary, And a few as fair, But the summer air Is not more sweet to me, Mary. I have thought of thy last low sigh, Mary, And I've call'd on thy name Be thou but true to me, Mary, And I'll be true to thee; And at set of sun, When my task is done, Be sure that I'm ever with thee, Mary. WOMAN. GONE from her cheek is the summer bloom, And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye, And the smile that play'd round her lip has fled, Like slaves they obey'd her in height of power, And this is man's fidelity! 'Tis woman alone, with a purer heart, STANZAS. In glowing youth he stood beside When life began its brilliant dream, Its life flow'd on as calmly, too; He stood beside that stream again, THE BLOOD HORSE. GAMARRA is a dainty steed, And the red blood gallops through his veins; Through the boasting heart of man. And yet he was but friend to one KING DEATH. KING Death was a rare old fellow! |