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Leader (1850-1860), 28th March 1857, Edition 2 of 2, Page 18, V^g___ TI IJi I ^J S AJ? JLB; :_ --____ ...

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      Qvbaraosvxa Paradise. Avith All Our Stra...

      QVBaraosvxa paradise . AVith all our straying on the chatm , A 3 we in mortal life despise—Oar slotli . and shrinking itt the strife , A dull flat swamp of dead repose , There ia a glory in this life Conquest excbang'd for lack of foes ? Brighter than shines beyoad the arch No Hope for all-will then be won , Through -which some gravely tell us lies No 3 (> ve for all wiu then be fair , The Garden of God's Paradise . And mercv ^ ni have non e to spare , Thia puny , creeping , dirt-clogged aat , And zeal find nothing to be done—Striving to climb a stone in vain , Making oar heav ' n by stripping earth Falling , bat striving yet again , Of all its glory and it 9 worth . And whining on from want to want , gha ] 1 it be fl ^ ? Oh , blasphemy !—Is nobler than the moth some paint , Yet how it shall be otherwise And say , " Such glory bath the Saint ! " j see not . bttt not only eyes Oh , shall -we race for suck a prize ? Will lead us o ' er the trackless sea ; Ox hope to quit oar noble pain , 'Tis lack of sight makes wealth of trusts—Earth ' s honour'd hardships , for such gain " Our God tath promis'd—He is just . "

      FURTHEB . Oh , for a deeper insight iato heaven , Is aa eternity of antheming : More knowledge of the glory and the joy Or this prais'd rest—are we to sit for ever That there abide to crown the souls for- 'Without more strife or subject of endeagiven , vour , Their intercourse , their worship , their em- No toil , no action , no advance or growth , — ploy ; Inglorious ease and unimproving sloth ? For it is past belief that Christ hath died Alas , too oft with thoughts of earth or Only that "we unending psalms may sing ; hell That all the gala death's awful curtains We make our heaven less conceivable . hide

      Mr . Leigh is always intellectual and refined ; and the poem called " The Legend of Mount Pilate" contains a gloomy intensity of horror , which , tnough perhaps a little overpiled , is veiy impressive . Of a similarly meditative and religious character is a volume entitled The Lamp of Life ( Simplin , Marshall , and Co . ) ; but there is not so much of positive poetry , and the "writer has too great a tendency to indulge ina kind of sermonizing , which makes his pages somewhat -wearisome . Yet he has tenderness and grace , andse & ms to speak out of Ms own veritable stragglings for what he conceives to be genuine holiness . Great joy and satisfaction does he find in the late war , as it appears to present him with some special type of active piety for "which he has long been yearning ; but he is not fully happy till he loses his child , when he discovers " the ever-blessed Trinity" in Xove , Action , and Sorrow . Such is the scheme of the volume ; the execution we have just indicated .

      Lonely Hours ; Poems . l $ y Caroline Giffard Pliillipson .. ( John Moxon . )—The object of these verses is to show . that Mrs . Phillipson ( we believe we -are right in giving her the married title ) has a weary heart ; that Mrs . Phillipson is tired of this world ; that Mrs . Phillipson . ( for the volume is very autobiographical ) has lost a great many friends , and finds life , upon the whole , a sad imposition , and is mightily inclined to agree with Solomon that " all is vanity and vexation of spirit / 3 and is in a great hurry to get hence and seek a new settlement in a brighter and better sphere . All _ which fragments of personal history , Mrs . Phillip-: son conveys to us in the form of some appallingly sentimental verses , extending over 893 pages ( foolscap octavo , long primer ); wherein she discourses incidentally of sundry matters common to the poetical mind . Now , it is out of no cross-grained pleasure in telling an unpleasant fact to a lady that we epealc of this volume as we do ( for we claim to be gallant above all things , except truth ) ; but we find ourselves compelled to state

      that these outpourings of Mrs . Phillipson's " Lonely Hours" are miracles of common-place . We are oppressed by the weight of vapid melancholy which is piled on us . If tliese waitings refer to any real and abiding sorrows which the authoress has endured , we bow to them in respectful sympathy ; but they ha ^ e all the appearance of being merely the offspring of that morbid affectation of poetical sadness which some persons seem to consider necessary to the poetical character . For why , if the fair authoress be really so contemptuous of this world , should she present us ( by way of frontispiece ) with a portrait of herself in fashionable evening costume , and with a general * 'Book of Beauty appearance . ? But Mrs . Phillipson ia once or twice jocose ; and that is even worse than her dejection . Her merriment is more forlorn than the gliost of a bad pun wliich died of inanition ; and we are driven to take refuge even in her sorrows . But , after reading a few dozen pages , a deadly languor comes over us ; and we call faintly for roast-beef and bottled stout .

      We link together two books of verses by working men—one an Englishman , ^ the other a Scotchman . There is something touchingly beautiful in the sight of any rough toiler for daily bread solacing his liie-long labourperhaps taking much of the sting out of want itself ; and lulling into temporary sleep many of the sordid cares of poverty—by the practice of versewriting , an < l the habit , or the instinct , of poetical observation . Tor let it be noted that these humble lyrists , in by far the greuter number of cases , do not abandon one of the prosaic duties of existence ; do not yield to any sentimental folly that work is beneath them ; but , after grappling with the stern andiron facts of life—the brawny giants with which the poor man is incessantly wrestling , and by whom too often he is thrown—charm their scanty leisure , or maybe glorify their toil itself ' while they are yet about it , with the spontaneous expression of their tendencies towards ideal beauty . Iceretore have we read with interest and pleasure the two volumes now on our table—Poem , by Edward Capern , llural Postman of Bidoford , Devon < lioguo ) ; and Sfiarhsfiro m Natures Fire : a Collection of Poems ami Soims , by f 8 i

      « wnc . nue , aworjcmg ahoemaker ( Glasgow : David Jack ) . And first of Mr . Oaporn For 10 s . « d . a week ( until the publication of these poemsinduced the Poat-office authorities to increase his salary by lmlf-a-crown , aud ™& nl' \ r ° Sundft y ) . thia man of cultivated mind and delicate ESSCKS ^ f »« yy « ara di stlibutc d ^ icttorH of a scattered dis - Srtainli f T"ft ^ ^ aUdu 8 thirteen miles daily—no great distance , » t ^ 22 ' £ lf y man ' * ^ ° wULcU dc ™" « alitae more munificent ^ vnvf wr h * ^ ' ° a tlnrtoon shillinSs , a week . But in the highways and by-ways , the woody lanes and green fields , the precipitous

      lullaides and stony valleys of Devonshire , Mr . Capern found food for *« ?• 1 thoughts and sympathies . One of the most picturesque and romS c English counties—now soft with pastoral verdure , and aowrou ^^ fc / grey and primitive tors—has fostered his naturally imaginative mi « S a given to his vorsea their distinctive character . Those verses are of not to be tried by the highest standards , but are to be re « raTded as - of fresh , rural beauty , coming to us like flowering boughs o * ut of a bed ^ spring time . Mr . Capern is not only proud of being an Englishman k"J proud of bemg a Devonshire man ; and he enumerates the county workin a poem whioh contains this strikingly picturesque and vigorous" line- -I 163 Speak out , old sea ~ dog , Drake—speak out ! ^ * ^

      ™*^—And Mr . Capern glories in the part his countrymen played in the 1 war , and has written some stirring ballads on that subject ; but ' her at home among ; the leaves and flowers , the bees and butterJlJes the ' sh ] and sunshine , the atmospheric changes and breezy freshness of pastorii IY which he paints with a minute attention to details , yet with-a broad <* ene i effect , and with a colouring which , is at once bright and-truth ful . ' fefc rl reader judge by this extract from a poem about -Mr . Capern liimJoiF « . 11 1 " The llural Postman : "— " = >< - " :, called O , the postman ' s is as happy a life " How goes the war ? " quoth lie As any one ' s , I trow ; ; And he staycth his scythe in the cornov Wand'ring away where dragon-flies play , grass ,

      And brooks sing soft and slow ; ' To learn what the news may he . And watching the lark as he soars on high , He honours the good , both rich and doo To carol in yonder cloud , And jokes with each rosy-faced maid- ' " Be singsin his labour , and why not IV He nods at the aged . darne at the door ' The postman sings aloud . And pattetk each urchin ' s head . ' And many a trace of humble rhyme 3 And little he thinks as he whistling goes His pleasant soul hath made , To ' the march of some popular tone ' Of birds , and flowers , and happy times , That beauty grows pate at the tramp of his In suushine and in shade . shoes , The harvester , smiling , sees him pass : And sometimes as rosy as June . There is rea . 1 lyrical instinct here . How vital and true , also , is that ima ^ G ¦ of . the harvester ! how impressive those lines about the tramp of the shoe ?! This passage , too , from a poem about the Redan , is very original and solemn : — - o

      Like the crash of ship 3 majestic , when they strike upon tlie seas , Is the conflict of the combatants , and clamour on the breeze ; Like th . e lull of murmuring ^ waters , when the wreck lias settled down , Is the after-battle stillness on the ramparts of the town . , All Mr . Capern's verses are not of equal value with these ; but we ^ ould quote many inore things worth lenowing , if we had the space . Mr . Little is also full of admiration of all natural and beautiful things , Is a thinker of generous thoughts , and an exponent of strong national feefin ^ a , which , however , do not imply any disparagement of other nations . He hlis

      tenderness and energy ; is full of passionate love for Scotland ' s ViUsani dales and flowers , her strong-avmed , courageous men and handsome girls ; and , like Mr . Capern , can stir the blood with some warlike notes about tine Crimean struggle ; as in these lines from a poem called " Iukermaii : "Brother of t"he hardea'd haud , Serpent-like the foe came stealing , Toiler in this sea-girt land , . Misty clouds his march concealing , Lift your head in manly pride , And his feet with silence shod , And cast your abject looks aside . Up the slopes he slowly trod : — Who stood foremost in the Gght , The brow is reacli'd , O God of Battles !

      Where conquer d was the OEuscovite ? Now tlie opening' volley rattles ; Who fought ever in the van ?— Yet ne ' er a cheek with fear grew wan Your Soldiei Friends at Inkerman . Among our host at Inkerman . "With these poets of the working class we may associate Mr . William Dale , a young writer who , " amid the bustle of business , ' has produced a little volume of verse called Wild Flowers ami Fruits ( Ileylin ) . JBIr , Dale's conceptions are rather vugue and diffuse , and be has evidently written with too great a view to a provincial audience 5 but lie is a lover of Nature , and wishes well for humanity . If he can lea . m to concentrate , to refine by frequent labour , and to bring every expression to the trinl of a rigid and exacting j adgment , he may produce a , more clear and determinate ell ' ect oa the reader ' s mind in a subsequent volume .

      "An Indian Officer , " who roars forth some Miscellaneous Poems ( Suunders and Otley ) , is a very dull fellow , unless when he resorts to ¦ certain moles of expression suggestive of tlie mess-room , by wliich he produces an effect that is certainly odd , if not poetical . Indeed , he is au original in inaiiy ways , lie has some notions of versification which we confess our inability to understand ; lie has peculiar views on the subject of abbreviations i he calls the first Emperor Napoleon , at the time of the Battle of Waterloo , " General Buonaparte ; " and he writes a ballad about the Jialsikjava struggle in a style which is a singular cross between a coimnandor-in-eh leFs despatch and a jocose after-dinner narrative . Two stanzas are so remarkable aa to merit preservation hero : — Tho Turks were talcen by surprise , And soon bolted from the Outpost , To tho tuno well known in Eastern parta , Of " Tho devil take tho hindmost . " This hammering of cold iron , sir , Soon made the seed // Ruasicws fret ; For egad ! they thought tlio De'il himself , Was just tinkering for n bet ! .. If the reader wants more of tho same kind , ho will find it in tlie " Indian O / licor ' a" pages . . Winter Studies in the Country ( Philadelphia : Tarry and McMillan ) ls . title of a little poem in octosyllabic measure which reaches us from America , and reminds us of tho poems of description , and of quiet , indolent , liappy contemplation , grave with a kind of pleasant moralising , which woro common in . England in the " Dodslcy ' a Miscellany" days . The poetry is small ; but it is cheerful , open , sunshiny , and observant of common things ivitu a cultivated cyo . It ia ainguUtr to sue 30 oomploto a reproduction ot n styl that has passed . We conclude ( though perhaps with some violence to our heading .

  • Citation
    • Leader (1850-1860), March 28, 1857, page 18, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse-os.kdl.kcl.ac.uk/periodicals/l/issues/cld_28031857/page/18/