Obrazy na stronie

to a chamois, deals with a chamois “ He thought what fear it were to fall hunter. He describes one scaling Into the pit that swallows all, “ Catton's battlement” before the peep Unwing'd with hope and love ; of day, and now at its summit.

And when the succour came at last,

O then he learnt how firm and fast “ Over the top, as he knew well,

Was his best Friend above."
Beyond the glacier in the dell
A herd of chamois slept ;

That is much better than any thing So down the other dreary side,

yet quoted, and cannot be read withWith cautious step, or careless slide

out à certain painful interest. But He bounded, or he crept."

the composition is very poor.

" O heaven! And now he scans the chasmed ice ; He stoops to leap, and in a trice

He hath leapt in !” His foot hath slipp'd, --O heaven! Well-what then ? " and down ne He hath leapt in, and down he falls falls !" Indeed! We do not object to Between those blue tremendous walls, " between those blue tremendous Standing asunder riven.

walls," but why tell us they were

“ standing asunder riven?" We knew “ But quick his clutching nervous grasp he had been on the edge of the Contrives a jutting crag to clasp,

- chasmed ice." “ O moment of exAnd thus he hangs in air ;

ulting bliss !” No-no--no. “Many O moment of exulting bliss !

a rood”—perpendicular altitude is Yet hope so nearly hopeless is

never measured by roods nor yet by Twin brother to despair.

perches. Satan “ lay floating many a

rood" - but no mention of roods when " He look'd beneath, ,-a horrible doom!

6 his stature reached the sky.” “ His Some thousand yards of deepening gloom,

head grows dizzy"-aye that it did Where he must drop to die !

long before the fifteen hours had exHe look'd above, and many a rood


“ But stop, 0 stop” is, we Upright the frozen ramparts stood

fear, laughable--yet we do not laugh Around a speck of sky.

--for 'tis no laughing matter-and “ Fifteen long dreadful hours he hung,

never in life give up your hope" is And often by strong breezes swung

at so very particular a juncture too His fainting body twists,

general an injunction.

- Be cool, Scarce can he cling one moment more,

man, hold on fast" is a leetle too much, His half-dead hands are ice, and sore addressed to poor Pierre, whose“ half His burning bursting wrists.

dead hands were ice," and who had

been hanging on by them for fifteen “ His head grows dizzy,-he must drop,

hours. He half resolves,--but stop, O stop, “ And so from out that terrible place, Hold on to the last spasm,

With death's pule paint upon his face, Never in life give up your hope,

They drew him up at last”-
Behold, behold a friendly rope
Is dropping down the chasm !

is either very good or very bad-and

we refer it to Wordsworth. The con“ They call thee, Pierre, -see, see them cluding stanzas are tame in the exhere,

Thy gathered neighbours far and near, “ For many harrowing terrors ran
Be cool, man, hold on fast :

Through his poor heart that day!”
And so from out that terrible place,
With death's pale paint upon his face

We can easily believe it; but never They drew him up at last.

after such a rescue was there so feeble

an expression from poet's heart of re" And he came home an altered man,

ligious gratitude in the soul of a sinFor many harrowing terrors ran

ner saved. Through his poor heart that day ;

The “ African Desert" and " The He thought how all through life, though Suttees" look like Oxford Unprized young,

Poems. The Caravan, after suffering Upon a thread, a hair, he hung,

the deceit of the mirage, a-dust are Over a gulf midway:

aware of a well.

Hope smiles again, as with instinctive haste
The panting camels rush along the waste,

And snuff the grateful breeze, that sweeping by
Wafts its cool fragrance through the cloudless sky,
Swift as the steed that feels the slacken'd rein
And flies impetuous o'er the sounding plain,
Eager as, bursting from an Alpine source,
The winter torrent in its headlong course,
Still hasting on, the wearied band behold
- The green oase, an emerald couch'd in gold !
And now the curving rivulet they descry,
That bow of hope upon a stormy sky,
Now ranging its luxuriant banks of green
In silent rapture gaze upon the scene :
His graceful arms the palm was waving there
Caught in the tall acacia's tangled hair,
While in festoons across his branches slung
The gay kossom its scarlet tassels hung;
The flowering colocynth had studded round
Jewels of promise o'er the joyful ground,
And where the smile of day burst on the stream,
The trembling waters glitter'd in the beam."

There is no thirst here -our palate could much mend it; but some of the grows not dry as we read. What most agreeable men we know labour passion is there in saying that the under it, and we suspect owe to it no camels rushed along the waste, inconsiderable part of their power in Swift as the steed that feels the slackconversation. People listen to their ened rein,"

impeded prosing more courteously, And flies impetuous o'er the sounding and more attentively, than to the prate plain ?"

of those whose sweet course is not • Not a bit." And still worse is

hindered ;" and thus encouraged, they

grow more and more loquacious in their “ Eager as bursting from an Alpine source The winter torrent in its headlong course;"

vivacity, till they fairly take the lead

in argument or anecdote, and are the for there should have been no allusion delight and instruction of the evening, to water any where else but there ; as it may hap, in literature, philosothe groan and the cry was for water to phy, or politics. Then, a scandalous drink; and had Mr Tupper felt for the story, stuttered or stammered, is irrecaravan, men and beasts, no other sistible—every point tells—and blunt water would he have seen in his ima. indeed, as the head of a pin, must be gination-it would have been impos- that repartee that extricates not itself sible for him to have thought of liken. with a jerk from the tongue-tied, sharp ing the cavalcade to Alpine sources as the point of a needle. and winter torrents-he would have We beg to assure Mr Tupper, that huddled it all headlong, prone, or on

his sympathy with the “ Stammerer," its hands, hoofs, and knees, into the would extort from the lips of the water of salvation. The green oase, most swave of that fortunate class, an emerald couched in gold! !Water! who, it must be allowed, are occasionWater! Water! and there it is! ally rather irritable, characteristic ex. That bow of hope upon a stormy sky!!!" pressions of contempt; and that so far

from thinking their peculiarity any They are on its banks—and

impediment, except merely in speech, “ In silent rapture gaze upon the scene !!!” they pride themselves, as well as they

may, from experience, on the advantage And then he absolutely paints it! it gives them in a colloquy, over the not in water colours—but in chalks. glib. If to carry its point at last be Graceful arms of palms-tangled hair the end of eloquence, they are not only of acacia-scarlet tassels of kossoms in the most eloquent, but the only elofestoons-and the jewels of promise of quent of men. No stammerer was ever the flowering colocynth!!!

beaten in argument -- his opponents Stammering or stuttering, certainly always are glad to give in--and often, is an unpleasant defect-or weakness after they have given in, and suppose in the power of articulation or speech, their submission has been accepted, and we don't believe that Dr Browster they find the contrary of all that from a


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dig on the side, that drives the breath “ Then thou canst picture-aye, in sober out of their body, and keeps them truth, speechless for the rest of the night, In real, unexaggerated truth,— while the stream of conversation, if it The constant, galling, festering chain that

binds may be called so, keeps issuing in jets and jerks, from the same inexhaustible Captive my mute interpreter of thought ;

The seal of lead enstamped upon my lips, source, pausing but to become more

The load of iron on my labouring chest, potent, and delivering, per hour, we fear to say how many imperial gallons The mocking demon, that at every step

Haunts me,- and spurs me on—to burst into the reservoir.

in silence." Therefore, we cannot but smile at Heaven preserve us! is the world so of the Stammerer's Complaint”

ill off for woes—are they so scantput into his lips by Mr Tupper. He that a Poet who indites blank verse to is made to ask us

Imagination, can dream of none wor“ Hast ever seen an eagle chained to earth? thier his lamentations than the occa. A restless panther to his cage immur'd ?

sional and not unfrequent inconveA swift trout by the wily fisher check'd ?

niences that a gifted spirit experiences A wild bird hopeless strain its broken

from a lack of fluency of words ?

“I scarce would wonder, if a godless man, We have ; but what is all such sights (I name not him whose hope is heavento the purpose ? An eagle chained

ward,) cannot fly an inch-a panther in a cage A man whom lying vanities hath scath'd can prowl none-a trout “ checked”

And harden'd from all fear,-if such an one basketted, we presume—is as good as By this tyrannical Argus goaded on, gutted—a bird winged is already dish Were to be wearied of bis very life, ed—but a stammerer, “still begin. And daily, hourly foiled in social converse, ning, never ending,” is in all his glory By the slow simmering of disappointment, when he meets a consonant whom he Become a sour'd and apathetic being, will not relinquish till he has conquer

Were to feel rapture at the approach of ed him, and dragged him in captivity

death, at the wheels of his chariot,

And long for his dark hope,-annihila

tion." «« While the swift axles kindle as they What if he were dumb ? roll."

Mr Tupper is a father-and some Mr Tupper's Stammerer then is made of his domestic verses are very pleas

ing-such as his sonnet to little Ellen, “ Hast ever felt, at the dark dead of night, and his sonnet to little Mary ; but we Some undefined and horrid incubus prefer the stanzas entitled “ Children,” Press down the very soul,—and paralyse and quote them as an agreeable sample, The limbs in their imaginary fight premising that they would not have From shadowy terrors in unhallowed been the worse of some little tincture sleep?"

of imaginative feeling-for, expressive We have; but what is all that to the as they are of mere natural emotion, purpose, unless it be to dissuade us they cannot well be said to be poetry. from supping on pork-chop? Such op We object, too, to the sentiment of pression on the stomach, and through the close, for thousands of childless it on all the vital powers, is the

men are rich in the enjoyment of life's effect of indigestion, and is horrible ; best affections; and some of the hapbut the Stammerer undergoes no such piest couples and the best we have rending of soul from body, in striving ever known, are among those from to give vent to his peculiar utterance whom God has withheld the gift of

- not he indeed—'tis all confined to offspring. Let all good Christian peohis organs

of speech-his agonies are ple be thankful for the mercies graapparent not real-and he is conscious ciously vouchsafed to them; but bebut of an enlivening emphasis that, ware of judging the lot of others by while all around him are drowsy, keeps

their own, and of seeking to confine him wide awake, and banishes Sleep either worth, happiness, or virtue, to his native land of Nod.

within one sphere of domestic life, selves have what is called an impedi- however blessed they may feel it to be ; ment in our speech-and do “ make i. For the blue sky bends over all,' wry faces," but we never thought of and our fate here below is not deterexclaiming to ourselves,

mined by the stars.

to say,

We our

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" Yours the natural curling tresses, “ All unkiss'd by innocent beauty, Prattling tongues, and shyness coy,

All unlov'd by guileless heart, Tottering steps, and kind caresses,

All uncheer'd by sweetest duty, Pure with health and warm with joy. Childless man, how poor thou art !"

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.

“ Au, might I but escape to some sweet spot,

Oasis of my hopes, to fancy dear,
Where rural virtues are not yet forgot,

And good old customs crown the circling year ;
Where still contented peasants love their lot,

And trade's vile din offends not nature's ear,
But hospitable hearths, and welcomes warm
To country quiet add their social charm;

Some smiling bay of Cambria's happy shore,

A wooded dingle on a mountain side,
Within the distant sound of ocean's roar,

And looking down on valley fair and wide,
Nigh to the village church, to please me more

Than vast cathedrals in their Gothic pride,
And blest with pious pastor, who has trode
Himself the way, and leads his flock to God;

" There would I dwell, for I delight therein !

Far from the evil ways of evil men,
Untainted by the soil of others' sin,

My own repented of, and clean again :
With health and plenty crown'd, and peace within,

Choice books, and guiltless pleasures of the pen,
And mountain rambles with a welcome friend,
And dear domestic joys, that never end.

“ There, from the flowery mead, or shingled shore,

To cull the gems that bounteous nature gave,
From the rent mountain pick the brilliant ore,

Or seek the curious crystal in its cave;
And learning nature's Master to adore,

Know more of Him who came the lost to save ;
Drink deep the pleasures contemplation gives,
And learn to love the meanest thing that lives.


“ No envious wish my fellows to excel,

No sordid money-getting cares be mine ;
No low ambition in high state to dwell,

Nor meanly grand among the poor to shine :
But, sweet benevolence, regale me well

With those cheap pleasures and light cares of thine,
And meek-eyed piety, be always near,
With calm content, and gratitude sincere.
“ Rescued from cities, and forensic strife,

And walking well with God in nature's eye,
Blest with fair children, and a faithful wife,

Love at my board, and friendship dwelling nigh,
Oh thus to wear away my useful life,

And, when I'm called in rapturous hope to die,
Thus to rob heav'n of all the good I can,

And challenge earth to show a happier man !" But the best set of stanzas in the " • And for a home,- would I had none ! volume are those entitled Ellen Gray. The home I have, a wicked one, The subject is distressing, and has They will not let me in, been treated so often-perhaps too Till I can fee my jailor's hands often-as to be now exhausted-or if With the vile tribute she demands, not so, nothing new can be expected The wages of my sin : on it, except either from original ge

"' I see your goodness on me frown; nius, or from a spirit made creative

Yet bear the veriest wretch on town, by profoundest sympathy and sorrow

While yet in life she may for the last extremities of human

Tell the sad story of her grief, misery.

Though heav'n alone can bring relief

To guilty Ellen Gray. " A starless night, and bitter cold;

My mother died when I was born : The low dun clouds all wildly roll'd And I was flung, a babe forlorn, Scudding before the blast,

Upon the workhouse floor; And cheerlessly the frozen sleet

My father,-would I knew him not !
Adown the melancholy, street

A squalid thief, a reckless sot,
Swept onward thick and fast;

- I dare not tell you more. “ When crouched at an unfriendly door,

"' And I was bound an infant-slave, Faint, sick, and miserably poor,

With no one near to love, or save
A silent woman sate ;

From cruel sordid men,
She might be young, and had been fair,

A friendless, famish'd, factory child, But from her eye look'd out despair,

Morn, noon, and night I toil'd and toil'd, All dim and desolate.

Yet was I happy then ;

"My heart was pure, my cheek was fair, Was I to pass her coldly by,

Ah, would to God a cancer there
Leaving her there to pine and die,

Had eaten out its way !
The live-long freezing night?

For soon my tasker, dreaded man,
The secret answer of my heart

With treacherous wiles and arts began Told me I had not done my part

To mark me for his prey.
In finging her a mite.

". And month by month he rainly strove “ She look'd her thanks,--then droop'd To light the flame of lawless love her head;

In my most loathing breast; • Have you no friend, no home?' I said: Oh, how I fear'd and hated him,

Get up, poor creature, come, So basely kind, so smoothly grim,
You seem unbappy, faint, and weak,

My terror and my pest !
How can I serve or save you,-speak,
Or whither help you home?'

• Thenceforward droop'd my stricken Alas, kind sir, poor Ellen Gray

head; Has had no friend this many a day, I liv'd, -I died, a life of dread, And, but that you seem kind,

Lest they should guess my shame ; She has not found the face of late

But weeks and months would pass away, That look'd on her in aught but hate, And all too soon the bitter day And still despairs to find :

Of wrath and ruin came;


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