The Press.
London, England, 1854-03-25 00:00:00

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knowledged masters of the art. This volume
he subsequently withdrew from circulation;
and now, in the brochure before us, he extracts
some selected pieces ;from it, adds to these
some pieces which have appeared in periodi-
cals, and some which are entirely new, and
appeals to the reading public in the fashionable
cheap form of the day. Two reasons induce
us to give our mite of encouragement to his
little book : one, that the poems have genuine
excellence ; the other, that it is a species of
excellence not very common now-a-days, and
which threatens to become still rarer if all
signs are considered.
Putting out of the question mere dullards
(such as Squally, and others, of the Radical
lyre), there are two great divisions into which
the present writers of English poetry seem
naturally to fall. The first school comprises
what is loosely ranked as "transcendentalism,"
or something as indefinite—and comprehends
the imitators of the obscure parts of Shelley,
the wild portions of " Festus, &o. &c.—gentle-
men of turbulent, stormy, and metaphysical
dispositions, whose heroes "foam at God,"
and turn the heads of provincial editors. The
other school, more sensible and intelligible.
aims at a classical treatment of nature, and,
though many of its disciples are mediocre, less
harm is done when they are mediocre, for the
reader is only bored, and there is neither
metaphysics to confuse nor blasphemy to
disturb him. It is the peculiar merit of Mr.
Allingham that he attaches himself to neither
of these parties. He occupies the simple
position of poet—delineator of nature—on his
own ground, drawing from other poets, as
from nature itself, only what is needful and
suitable to his own individuality, and pre-
aerving a rare poetic independence. Hence
he is never mystical, nor windy, nor mouthy.
Deriving the objects of his poetry from without,
from the inexhaustible, eternal grounds of
experience and reality, there is a fresh,
homely simplicity and actuality about what he
does, which is " classical" in the best sense.
You see, indeed, that he lives in the age of
Tennyson ; but he is no aper of Tennyson's
manner. Indeed, he seems to hold a middle
position between the two sects of which we
have spoken; and thus it is that what he
does has a refreshing plainness about it,
which really, at this time, deserves and re-
quires a particular commendation. For in-
stance, while so many young fellows are
" foaming at God" (a process which our poor
old ancestors would have thought extraordinary
enough !), Mr. Allingham can see poetic
material in a pretty girl sewing—where, in-
deed, a healthy man naturally can see poetry,
while a Cockney Orpheus won't condescend
to look for it in anything under a " Wild
Prophetess" or a " Deep-souled Egyptian," or
somebody of this sort. What says the reader
to such a sketch as his
VENUS OF THE NEEDLE.
O Maryanne, you pretty girl,
Intent on silken labour,
Of sempstresses the pink and pearl,
Excuse a peeping neighbour!
Those eyes, for ever drooping, give
The long brown lashes rarely;
But violets in the shadows live,—
For once nrtireil them fairly.
Hast tkou not lent that flounce enough
Of looks so long and earnest?
Lo, here's more " penetrable stuff "
To which thou never tuniest.
Ye graceful fingers, deftly sped!
How slender, and how nimble !
O might I wind their skeins of thread,

Or but pick up their thimble !
How blest the youth whom love shall bring,
And happy stars embolden,
To change the dome into a ring,
The silver into golden!
Who'll steal some morning to her side
To take her finger's measure,
While Maryanne pretends to chide,
And blushes deep with pleasure.
Who'll watch her sew her weddinglown,
Well conscious that it is hers;
Who'll glean a tress, without a frown,
With those so ready scissors.
Who'll taste those ripenings of the south,
The fragrant and delicious—
Don't put the pins into your mouth,
0 Maryanne, my precious