The Press.
London, England, 1857-08-29 00:00:00

poetry reminds one a little of Mr. Islacattlay's
prose. When you have read a fair amount of
it, it' you were given a half sentence you could
generally finish it as he would Lave dono
himself. This spoils the charm of all compo-
sition, but especially of poetry. Our conclud-
ing quotations will be from the passages
treating of the young lover's disappointment.
Here is an exquisite simile:—
Hope's door closed with a clang.— I rose up calm,
Cal... as a country when the storm is o'er,
At.d broken boughs are hanging from the trees,
And swollen streams have crept within their banks,
Leaving a mighty marge of wreck and sand
Along the soppy fields.

What sweet enchantments hover round Love's name !
Far out to sea, from off her syren
Steal wandering melodies, an I lie in wait
To lure the sailor to her fatal shores
Within the crimson sunset. 'Tis our doom
To sit unhappy in the round of self.
From our necessities of love arise
Our keenest heartaches and our miseries.
When death and change are flying in the sky,
Our spirits tremble like a nest of doves,
Beneath the falcon's wing. Each time we love,
We turn a nearer and a broader mark
To that keen archer, Sorrow, and he strikes.
How irresistible is the languishing melody of
the first five lines, and what fine imaginative
power in the concluding comparison, though
not perhaps wholly original. But here, if
possible, is something more touching than
either :

Love, unretumed,

Hath gracious uses; the keen pang departs,
The sweetness never. Sorrow's touch troth ope
A mingled fount of sweet and bitter tears,
No summer's heat can dry, no winters cold
Lock up in ice. When music grieves, the past
Returns in tears. The red and setting sun
Is beauty indescribable, and leads
The heart 'mong glares. 'f he old man shuts the door
Of his still soul, and, in the inmost room,
Sits days with memory. Grey Adam, roofed
With smoky ratters—how unlike the blue
That bent o'er Eden :—torgets Eve's faded face—
His wandering boy—his eyes are far awa ;
Atni. in his heart, remembrance sad and sweet,
Of Paradise long lost.
Excepting the slight quaintness of the phrase
" Grey Adam," this passage is nearly perfect.

We might q"ote 3 great number of single
lines of very great beauty. Among others the
following struck us more particularly :
A wide grey windy sea bespecked with foam.

Horton.

Of an ancient grange, which, though it be
winter,

hag stored
A summer's sunshine in its olowds of stacks.

A Boy's Poem.

There was a rilinel chapel on the coast,
And by it lay a little grassy grave
Still as a couching lamb.

Ditto.

We assure Mr Smith that if we had liked
his poems less we should not have criticised
them with so much minuteness. We exhort
him above all things to study truthfulness.
A simile should never be indistinct ; not
where the object of it is indistinct itself. A
cloud may be indistinct, and we may like►► it to
something else which is indistinct too, but, the
resemblance should he clear. This law,
though seemingly so obvious, is neglected by
many of our modern poets. It is only by long
and patient observation that the confused
impressions we receive of external things shape
themselves into clear images in the brain—a
truth which any man will acknowledge who
sits down for the first time to describe an
imaginary landscape with his pen. Neglect
of this difficulty betrays at the same time a
carelessness of truth and an indifference to
art that will in course of time prove the ruin
of the highest powers. A keerf.y susceptible
nature, a sensuous admiration of beauty,
and a facility of rhythmical expression, will
make a man a poet ; but they will never make
him a great one We have faith in Mr. Smith
yet. We see in him the germs of true poetry.
Here and there gleam little bits of sunl ght,
" refulgent as the god of day." Perseverance
and labour may yet sweep away the clouds
that hang over his genius, and enable him to
shine out with a clearer and stronger brilliance.