The Press.
London, England, 1856-10-18 00:00:00

OCTOBER 18, 1856.

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Craigerook Castle. By Gerald Massey.
London : Bogue.
Ma. MASSEY is one of the most vigorous of our
rising poets. His verse shows volcanic energy.
It bursts forth as if the pent-up fire could not
be restrained. His utterance is not a labour,
but that sweet relief from labour which the
mind feels when it can shape forth the
emotions that thrill it In this respect he
resembles Burns. His song is a gush. But,
unlike Burns, he does not seem to possess
that fine perceptive genius which never can
rest until its efforts are perfected. The ardour
of Mr. Massey is mingled with such slovenli-
ness as cannot readily be forgiven him. His
verse is disfigured by such abominable phrases
as—

Her hair a shower of beauty !
Her motion a glory-sicint
and as " languorous noon " and " languorous
south." We can pardon many faults to origin-
ality, and we must give to poets a certain
liberty of enlarging the bounds of language.
But to speak of the motion of a lady as being
a " glory-swim," and to introduce words which
are neither English nor elegant, would, if per-
mitted, cause our tongue to undergo that
process of degradation which we are sorry to
observe is making rapid way on the other side
the Atlantic.

" Craigcrook Castle " is Tennysonian in
matter and verse. A party assembles at the
castle, among whom are three ladies, described
with even more than Byronic warmth of
colouring. After one of those summer days
which Mr. Massey exhausts his " gorgeous,
golden, glorious, glittering" wealth of language
to describe, the gentlemen agree to prolong
the night by a rouse within the house :
And each one to the banquet bring their [his] best

_
In song or story.
The fragments which follow are the result.
They are in the most shadowy style of what may
be called " indicative poetry "—poetry, that
is, which does not directly describe, but which
shows two or three highly-coloured pictures,
and leaves the imagination of the reader to
connect them together. In the introduction
we note one passage giving noble expression
to a noble truth :
" They wrought in faith," and not" They wrought in doubt,"
Is the proud epitaph inscribed above
Our glorious Dead who in their grandeur lie,
Crowned with the garland of eternity.
Because they did believe, and conquered Doubt,
Tt:ey lived great lives and did their deathless deeds,
Wlo in the old time walkt their perilous way,
W th the grey hairs cf kingly sorrow crowned :
W2O laid their heads upon the bloody block
For their last pillow: who amid the flames
Bore witness still, and with their quivering hands
Sowed every wind with sparks of eery thought.
Because they did believe, we kneel to read
Wtere men and angels mingle tears of joy.
Because he did believe, Columbus sailed
For that new world his inner eyes had seen.
He found: so Faith its new worlds yet shall find,
While Doubt shakes its wise head and stays behind.
Newton believed for many a year before
The Hand in Heaven shook the apple down.
Because we have believed, our knowledge comes :
Belief, not Doubt, will touch the secret spring.
Belief is that soul-attitude which sees
How the pure distance of some infinite sea
Relieves the dark ground of our inland life,
And feels the fresh spray make its roses bloom.
But Doubt turns from the light, and only sees
The Shadow that it casts, and follows it;
For Doubt is ever its own Deity :
The shadow still dilates on darkened eyes,
And lengthens as the awful night comes down.

The first fragment, " The Mother's Idol
Broken," is remarkable for much plaintive
and beautiful verse. Little Marian, the
mother'; idol, sinks into " God's lap," the
grave :

Oar Rose was but in blossom;
Our life was but in spring ;
When down the solemn midnight
We heard the Spirits sing:
" Another bud of infancy,
With holy dews impearled ;"
And in their hands they bore our wee
White hose of all the world.
You scarce could think so small a thing
Could leave a loss so large :
Her little light such shadow fling,
From dawn to sunset's marge.