The Press.
London, England, 1857-01-17 00:00:00

THE PRESS.

Modern Mauicheism, Labour's Utopia, and other

Poems. London : J. W. Parker and Son.

THERE is something of affectation and preten-
sion in tho tone of this author which does not
prepossess us in his favour, awl various
opinions are propounded in the course of the
poems both at variance with morality and
hostile to the pence of society. " Modern
Manicheism," as its name imports, is but a
reproduction of the old arguments in favour
of the dual government of the universe.
There is nothing original in the treatment of
the question. It all resolves itself into that
venerable piece of scepticism, whether that
which is perfectly good can generate evil.
At this time of day it is useless to argue the
point. The great doctors of the Church have
said all that is to be said ; and if persons will
not believe them, " neither would they believe
" though one arose from the dead." " Labour's
Utopia" is a pleasing vision, and couched in
agreeable verse.

In regard to the other poems, we must
frankly confess that our mind is not yet fully
made up upon their merits. We have seen
so many writers commence with great pro•
mise, and eventually dwindle to nothing, that
we distrust our own judgment in predicting
greatness for any one. Yet, unless we are
more mistaken than we are willing to believe
possible, there are in the poems of "Merlin's
Cave," "The Song of the Syrens," Freedom's
Hegira," evidences of higher poetic genius
than we have detected in any of the thousand
volumes of verses which have issued from the
press during the last twelve months.
It is true that in adopting a metre which
ordinary readers associate peculiarly with the
Laureate, the present writer has provoked a
comparison in which he cannot expect to carry
off the palm. But he has done so well that
we at once pace him above the rank of a mere
imitator. The spirit of Merlin was le.id to
sleep in a coffin by a charm which he himself
had taught to the " Lady of the Lake," of
whom he was enamoured, and who repaid his
devotion by this piece of treachery. The fol-
lowing stanzas will, we think, support our
eulogy :--
He looks his past existence through,
Whate'er of weal or woe he knew,
Nor would he live that life anew.
He sees a wear, wayworn train
Crowd the old track across the plain,
Not would lie puce that path again.
He sees, where clouds with mountains blend,
Brave youths the steep of Fame ascend :
Long since he reached that journey's end.
Lovers he sees beneath the shade,
Deceived by mutual masquerade ;
Ile knows how lovers' vows are paid.
The tired enthusiast he sees,
Wallowing in self•indulgent ease,
Wallowing in wine upon the lees.
Nay, but that sight almost may cheer,
Since well assured, he need not fear
Such depth of self debasement here.

And sometimes, too, his stagnant mind
Heaves faintly, as by rippling wind
A sluggish meet is faintly lined,
When, reading omens that portend
Evil to man, he fain would send
Warning that tempest shocks impend,
And gasps for words, but cannot speak,
Nor the sepulchral silence break,
Save by low whispers, thin and weak,
Which reach no ear, or which, if heard,
Are heeded not, while, undeterred,
The hearer hurries on, unstirred
From his imperilled project's bent,
Nor till the storm•charged cloud is rent,
Recalls some strange presentiment.
And then, perhaps, a pitying smile
Seems for a moment to beguile
'The wizard's chronic languor, while
He hears a high•pitched voice bewail
Ephemeral ills, and sharply rail
At Fate, whose envious shafts assail

The harassed pilgrimage of Life,
Through thickets led, with ambush rife,
A whole day's length of tedious strife :
And he, meantime, in chnrnal gloom,
Of subterranean catacomb,
Caluly endures millennial doom.
As also these lines from " The Song of the
Syrens" :
All for which thy bosom panteth,
AU that flattering fancy flaunteth,

All that dazzled hope enchanteth,
Pleasure to her votary granteth,
Gratiteth here, and offereth thee.
Here on robes
She reposes,
And her bridal chamber dowers.
How bath not her message thrilled thee?
What, oh dull of heart ! hath chilled thee ?
Hither, at her bidding, yield thee !
Hither to her bed of flowers!

Again :

Why art thou eager to abide,
Where, in pale twilight, dusk end stilled,
The eye with seeing is not satisfied,
The ear with hearing is net filled ?
There would thy thirst for wisdom find relief,
_ .

Labouring to search out things that none can find?
Alas ! with wisdom's growth comes growth of grief,
And parting ignorance leaves woe behind.
And all things come alike to all,—
To good and evil one event,—
At random curse and blessing fall,
As time ordains or accident.
Not to the swift belongs the race,
Neither the battle to the strong.
Folly is set in lofty place.
Riches to men unskilled belong.
To all alike an equal lot,
To foul and pure, to false and true,
To him who paps his sacred due,
To him who sacrifices not.
Chance unto all one rule applies,
To all allows an equal claim,
In life and after death the same.
Whate'er thou (lost will be forgot—
Faithless or faithful, fool or wise,
E'en as the one the other dies.
Sinner and saint together rot.

In its hold, spirited, yet melodious versitiea-
tion, " Freedom's Hegira" reminds us of Mr.
Macaulay. The concluding stanzas, in which
that gentleman's New Zealander is ingeniously
introduced, are very happily turned :
With thee her archives shall remain, the tables of her law,
The fount whence patriot loyalty its rudiments may draw!
To thee from Ocean's farthest shore, through Time's re-

moteet stage,
Her zealous worshippers shall flock in reverent pil-
grimage!

Or if—for what alas! of earth can 'grape the fated hour?
If clouds of gloomier destiny o'er thy dark future lour;
If o'er thy empire's yielding pile, destruction's surge shall
swell,
And thy fair fabric too must fall, as Rome and Athens

fell ;
Yea !if foreboding seer spoke truth,—if on some distant

day
A lone New Zealander beside deserted Thames shall stray,
And 'mid a wide-spread solitude of heaps and tottering

walls,
Sit ou its broken bridge to sketch the ruins of St. Paul's,--
Then, though our famed Walhalla's wreck the stranger

scarce may know,
Though the dispeopled aisles no more their votive statues
show,
And though no more the yawning crypt heroic ashes hide,
And Nelson's dust and Wellington's be scattered far and

wide,

Yet rising from the hallowed ground, low voices of the

dead,
And shadowy shapes shall float around, and hover over•

. _
head :
Still, though her font be overturned, shall Freedom's well-

spring flow,
Still, though her altar be cast down, her fire shall burn

below'

The descriptive touches in the following lines
are very pretty :
From Adria's floating mart she turned, nor lengthened

sojourn made,
In Genoa's marble palaces, or Arno's olive shade.
Nor, northward, in Helvetic tower, built high on craggy

steep,
Nor where broad, brimming barrier moats round Belgian

meadows creep.
We shall look with great curiosity for the
next production of this author. There is
nothing developed in the present volume—
nothing which might not be called rather a
skilful echo of other men's thoughts than
original conceptions. Time will show whether
the germ of poetic genius which we think wo
see is vigorous enough to grow into a tree.
We can only recommend patient thought and
study, with a careful distrust of immediate
impressions, and constant watchfulness
against the tempation to court popularity
by a recognition of popular delusions. From
this latter fault the volume is by no means
free. But we trust that, when the author sees
what a signal reversal the opinions he pro-
nounces on the war have now sustained, it
will teach him a little more dilfider
be the source of considerable it
for the future.

511:11,4411.1,..a, a.
Duce, and so
improvement