The year 1815 stirred the soul of every one who was blessed-or cursed with an ardent and enthusiastic temperament. It teemed with great events. The age of chivalry seemed to rise again from the mists of the middle ages, realizing deeds of heroism before considered fabulous, and begetting that romantic sympathy, which such deeds alone can call forth in the human breast. It was at such a time that we might have expected POETRY to have sprung spontaneously from the most barren soil, and to have shot up to gigantic growth in that of genius. But how little can we calculate on such things! The deeds of that year, if they were to derive their immortality from verse alone, might share the fate of the heroes who lived before Agamemnon. Not a strain rose from the hundred harps set in vibration, which we would wish the most distant echo to restore from oblivion for a moment, if we except, perhaps, the few stanzas in Childe Harold, relating to Waterloo, which make, however, but a short episode in that great poem, and are quite eclipsed behind the glory of the next cantos. Here, however, more than twenty years after, we have, turned up to our view by the ploughshare of circumstances, the strong and vigorous imaginings of a young man of genius, worked upon by those stirring events as they struck their rays, keen and direct, into his soul at the time. There is the freshness of the moment evident upon them. No after-thought could have kindled the strong and clear descriptions we meet with. "It is diffi cult," says Paley, "to resuscitate surprise, when familiarity has once laid the feeling asleep." We think it is impossible, as far, at least, as poetry is concerned. The Iris in the skies is only bright after one reflection. The spirit of the Poet's dream—an "angelic voice and vision"-after beckoning him along through a few pages of sweet poetry, at last conducts him "To that fatal field, Behold him now extended on the earth, Whose thoughts were scarce imagined, ere they sprang Look on the mutilated hand, that still Clings to the sword unconscious ;-milder man Than he, whose mutilated hand lies there, Breathes not;-each passion that rebelled was hushed; So placid was his brow, so mild his eye, It seemed no power could break the quiet there," &c.—p. 82, It is Here is a power of contrast displayed, such as we rarely meet with in these days of blending and mellowing. The picture is as like our usual modern attempts, as one of Rembrandt's trowelled effects is to the wishy-washy weaknesses of the water-colour exhibition. in such passages as these that Dr. Anster gives promise of great things. We venture to recommend his giving up the phantom of that "ideal" which has led Lytton Bulwer so many a weary chase, as clowns pursue a jack-o'-lanthorn, or children a butterfly, and sticking to such real, tangible, vivid nature as here thrills us into wholesome and healthy admiration. Themes such as these, and the beautiful modifications of character brought before us in the dialogue, “Matilda,” form fitting subjects for the labours of the poet. The Germans go beyond this, and, we think, in so doing exceed their province and powers. We know not how far Dr. Anster may have been infected with this German influenza, which, now that "the Rovers" has become obsolete, has become again so prevalent in these islands; but we would willingly warn him, if we could do so without offending him, of the danger of allowing the success of his Faustus, translated as it is from professedly the most German production of a German author, to tinge his home style, or influence his home feelings. We, the English, deal more in the tangible, the intelligible, the real. The German, on the contrary, delights in prancing his Pegasus up and down the line of light and darkness, sometimes wholly lost in metaphysics, and then again emerging for a moment at this side of common sense and reason. We have not yet learned that in poetic painting any of the shadows should be perfectly opake. We still continue to follow Titian in his maxim, that we ought to be able to see through even the darkest parts of the picture; and the "nuevola che passa" should always transmit some portion at least of the sun's rays. We do not wish these observations to be considered as any thing more than a friendly caution to Dr. Anster, called forth by our admiration of the startling reality of the scene described in our extract. From the Reverie" we must give another remarkable passage, in which the idea is carried throughout in a masterly manner, and of which the versification is also peculiarly strong and harmonious; and this is a branch of composition for attention to which the poet seldom gets credit in these days, although many of the classical authors, Pope and Roscommon among the number, prided themselves almost as much upon their success in the structure of their verse as in the happiness of their thoughts and expressions. "Time was-in dateless years-when spectral eve 'Twas said that Furies o'er the bed of sleep Watched with red eye, and, from the throbbing brow Drank with delight the dew that agony Forced forth;-but this, it seems, is fable all! Hath not Philosophy disproved a God? Ere yet the chymist called the bolt from heaven, We spoke of Spirits governing its beam, Ere yet he learned to part and analyse, The rock, we deemed some more than human power Had planted it in ocean,-till he stirred The muscles of the dead with mimic breath, And called the cold convulsion life, we deemed And signs, and talismans, as in the halls Of parent Egypt; not with pensive eye, And dim, as though 't were wearied from its watch Of fair Chaldæa, she had imaged forth The host of Heaven, and mapped their mazy march," &c.—pp. 96, 97. contrast with the false masonry, as Shenstone would call it, of the six fol lowing lines, each of which begins with three short syllables. These are good lines. The versification, too, is easily perceived, even by the unpractised ear, to be vigorous and correct; and its harmony is brought out in still more striking relief from its "While the bright dew on her tiara'd brow, As we advance in the fourth part of the "Reverie," we approach the climax of what is excellent in Xeniola. The poet rises above himself; and at last bursts into an apostrophe to the soul of his inspiration so noble, so dignified, so sublime, that we know of no modern effort which breathes so wholly the divine afflatus, if we except, perhaps, "Where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests." We beg the attention of our readers to the lines we have marked in italics, and challenge the living poets of our country to match them if they are able, Spirit of Heaven, undying Poetry, Wert throned o'er Angels! thou alone could'st look Was heard amid the halls of heaven, no breath Gazed on thy winning looks, and hung in trance And Man arose in grandeur?-Thou didst weep "Spirit of Heaven, thy first best song on earth Of Innocence! Thy presence hath illumed The Temple! With the Prophets Thou hast walked, "I may not venture on such theme: I feel We have waked Numbers too lofty. Rest we here awhile!"-pp. 103–105. our We would gladly conclude notice of this interesting volume here, where our approbation has warmed into praise, in proportion as our author's style has towered into sublimity; but we feel it our duty as reviewers to point the reader's attention to some translations which appear in the volume. They are from German authors; and in some we are given no clue to the original, so that criticism must be silent. The stanzas of S. E. Wilhelmina Von Sassen, are too different from those by Matthisson with the same refrain, to please us. "Ich denke dein, Wenn durch den Hain Die Nachtigallen Wenn denkst du mein ?" &c. The translation from De la Motte Fouqué is, as a piece of English poetry, even and good. We have had no opportunity of examining its merits as a translation; however, we will take Faust as a pledge for the author's general faithfulness to his original. Few poems have ever been so literal as his Faustus. Desultory poetic taste is so happily adumbrated in the following lines, extracted from a scene in Fouqué's drama, that we step out of our province as reviewers of the translation to quote the passage for the moral it conveys:— "I know the land of the evening sunOf the giant oak-of the cloud and stormWhose lakes are roofed with ice. Where the morning rises chill, And the night, from dreary wing, Showers hoar-frost on the shrinking flowers; And warriors, clad in arms, are there Loud-sounding, splendid, heavy arms of steel; Swords in their hands, unlike the scimitar; The blade unbent, and double-edged, cuts straight Into the faces of the enemy; From the heavy-visored helm A cloud of many-coloured plumes Streams in the playful breeze. And my friends wished that I should be a soldier, Already had I learned to bend The war-horse to my will; Already with an active arm, But, as I rested after my first battle, There came, with friendly words, a gray old man. The magic of his voice! Rapidly, rapidly I followed him; I threw away the shield that burthened me, I threw away from me the encumbering sword, Of food, or drink, or sleep. At last we came And when we reached this silver rivulet, The tale was ended-the old man was vanished. And now, for iron arms I wear The soft silk, light and delicate, And feel no wounds but those of Love!"-pp. 161–163. We almost regret that Dr. Anster allowed the poem On the death of the Princess Charlotte," to form a part of the present collection. It is a prize poem in blank verse. Prize-poems are seldom highly prized beyond the walls where they have been read; besides, the subject is one which, in our opinion, would be best treated in a more compressed and condensed form; nevertheless there are, as the reader will observe, passages of considerable power scattered throughout the composition. We cannot help regretting that the loss of the child is not brought forward more prominently. What admirable use has Milton made of the infant, where in a nearly similar case, he elegizes the Marchioness of Winchester! "So have I seen some tender slip, Sav'd with care from winter's nip, The pride of her carnation train, Pluck'd up by some unheedy swain, Who only thought to crop the flower, New shot up from vernal shower." "The Five Oaks of Dallwitz" is translated with freedom and grace, and partakes, even in its transfusion, of the characteristic bold romance of Körner's muse. We are not quite satisfied, however, with the expression 64 "Bright records of a better day," as applied to the oaks; nor is there any authority for the epithet in the original line "Alte Zeiten alte treue Zeugen." Bright is an adjective properly applicable neither to oaks nor records, as its substantive. We fancy that in using this word the author intended to convey the clearness of the testimony; but it is done awkwardly, at least, if not incorrectly. As we are in a carping mood, we would here give expression to our wish that the book before us had been shorter by two pages. We could gladly have continued to recline under the peaceful shade of the "Five Oaks," without having our reverie interrupted by the howling and hooting of the animals let loose upon us in the "Nursery Rhymes," which immediately fol low. We much fear that whatever custom may have sanctioned in the land of Goethe and Retsch, as appli cable to the education or amusement of the wunder-kinder of the fatherland, our "march of intellect" nurseries would repel with phrenologic horror such primitive monstrosities as these. They teem with horrors such as would be refused admittance into any of those duodecimos, in which, under the name of "libraries," are comprised all legitimate knowledge for youth; and as they would be thus legally excluded from the region of governesses and go-carts above, so they would scarcely gain a welcome in the more adult and less castigated collection below. Seriously, the lines are unfit for children, and thus lose their principal claim upon our notice. With such objections, which, slight as they are, are all we can make, we take our leave of Dr. Anster's volume. We thought it our duty both to him and to the public, to speak sincerely, both in praise and blame. Our commendations are heart-felt, and our criticism, even where it appears condemnatory, is kindly meant, the author may be assured. We hail with gratitude the gift of a little work like this to our studies and boudoirs, filled as they generally are with the outpourings of the London press. In the language we have already used, (see our last |