The Sun.
London, England, 1864-01-27 00:00:00

LITERATURE,

Charles Mackay's New Poems.

Studies from the Antique and Sketches from
Nature. By Charles Mackay. One vol., pp.

271. Virtue Brothers.

Dr. Charles Mackay is here, again, in all his
power and freshness, He has written few better
things than are to be found in this charming little
volume. It is worthier, far worthier as an expres-
sion of his genius as a Singer, than either "A Man's
Heart" or " Under Green Leaves." Unworthy of
him, those two last effusions of his muse were not,
it is true—bat this, we repeat, is far, far worthier.
There are lyrics in the volume before us, particu-
larly in the later moiety of it, not unworthy of the
author of " The Voices from the Crowd" and "The
Voices from the Mountain"—the Poet of " Egeria"
and of the" Salamandrine." It is the distinguishing
n.erit of Charles Mackay that he comes precisely
under that category to which one of the most saga
cious Statesmen of the North aspired to be (shall we
say ironically) relegated—namely, among those
puissant few who are, in literal truth, the Popular
Song-writers. Such an one, indubitably, is Charles
Mackay. And his duties as journalist, his responsi-
bilities, solemn and weighty enough, Heaven
knows,as Special Correspondent from the very central
point of the American seat-of-war, to the world's
greatest newspaper, his rubbing elbows with the
Federal population, his " location " during several
months past in the great northern outport on the
opposite shores of the Atlantic, have in no way
jarred with his sense of harmony as a lyrist, have
in no way tended to the draggling or besmirching
of those white singing-robes he has so long worn
amongst us with so much natural grace and dignity.
He has demonstrated, in a very singular manner—
by his letters in the Times upon the one hand, and
now upon the other by this new volume of
poetic "Studies from the Antique and Sketches
from Nature"—that the duties of Special Cor-
respondent are in no way whatever incom-
patible with the vindication anew of his lyrical
powers in all their pristine beauty and freshness.
We hail his reappearance among us, with this
new book of his in his hand, therefore, with
gladdened eyes and a gladdened heart. And
he must forgive us when we do so, if we pass
over, with comparatively but slight emotion, the
refined and scholarly versification, constituting the
bulk of his "Studies from the Antique"—Studies, in
the which he celebrates, often with consummate
artistic grace, such themes as "The Dream of
Anacreon," and "The Garden of Nemesis," and
" The Genius of Phidias"—'passing over these some-
what hastily, we dare say, but still, we conceive,
with a certain excusable wilfulness—in order that
we may come at once to that second half of the
volume which most assuredly, to our mind, does not
coma off " second best"—those " Sketches from
Nature" in which Charles Mackay is, beyond
all doubt, truest to his own genius. In testi-
mony of which, it is only necessary to turn
to almost any one of the twelve varied lyrics,
; entitled " Heart-sore in Babylon"—lyrics, that
, in one rapid sweep, touch so many thrilling
• chords from the treble to the diapason. And
. the " Songs"—with which the book closes—are
• they not set to their own music ? Let the an-
• ewer to that be, no syllable of our own,
, but the very first song in the collection—i.e.,
these two exquisite stanzas, worthy, to our mind, of

taking their place as the pendant, or (might we
not even call them ?) the corollary to those lovely
verses of Pope, "The Dying Christian to his Soul !"
Charles Mackay's companion Lyric running thus :

DYING : A CHORUS OF ANGELS.
Come away I come away I Life is too sad for thee;
Chill are the winds on thy delicate breast I
Earth is too rude for thee—Heaven shall be glad for thee—
Come away, lovely one : come to thy rest I
Low in thy narrow bed
Lay down thy gentle head;
Give back to motner Earth all she can crave;
All thy mortality,
Doomed to finality,
Leave it behind in the dust of the grave.
Come away I come away I Earth is not meant for thee :
Beautiful spirit, mount up to the sky I
Men who have lost thee shall mourn and lament for thee,
Thou shall rejoice in thy glory on high.
Spread thy bright wings, and soar
Spotless for evermore ;
Sin-stained no longer, but white and forgiven :
Heir of infinity,
Robed in divinity,
Come away, happy one—come up to Heaven !
Or, in another mood, take this sigh from the ♦ery
soul, as made articulate thus most tenderly and
pathetically :

THE LOST JEWEL.
Long ago, ah, long ago 1
I lost a jewel of greater worth
Than the loveliest lady of the earth
Could hang on her bosom as white as snow,—
Or any Ewperor flushed with wine
Could place on a maiden's finger fine,
And say, "Beloved, be thou mine I"
Long ago, ah, long ago I
I lost it wandering to and fro—
Fairer and purer, brighter far
Than the Morn or Evening Star.
Could I make it mine again,
To clasp it, hold it, and retain,
I'd be greater than the King,
Richer than the bloomy spring.
And where I lost it well I know;—
Skill cannot trace it,
Or wealth replace it,
Or anything else this world can show,—
This jewel so bright,
My heart's delight,
Lost in another's heart long ago,—
My richer than Ind
My peace of mind,
Lost Fir ever I ah, long ago.
For ourselves we are not ashamed to acknowledge
that our first reading of those closing words was
accomplished only with moistened eyes. Here and
therescattered through these lyrics, as the cadence of
their verse chimes in with the varying mood of the
past, as he dreams and sings, now in dejection, now
in scorn, in love, in tenderness, in pity—fragmentary
passages, casual felicities of phrase, spontaneous
exemplars of the Horatian curiosa felicitas ver-
borum, arrest our attention, and cling thenceforth,
as haunting snatches of song, to our memery. Thus
in the first breathings of the Poet, as one " Heart-
sore in Babylon," in the Poem ontitled " Self-
assertion," after saying, or rather singing—
And we shall speak--I and my sorrow—
All that we think, all that we know,
All that we see in this Babel burrow,
Where the little emmets come and go,
the lyrist, one while, exclaims, in burning words—

The soldier, fighting his country's battles,
With bosom bare to a hundred guns,
Tells not to all that he's a coward
When he thinks of his home and his little ones:
and—further on—the lyrist, again, cries out in
anguish, how truthfully ! how powerfully !
Ant if I choose to don the motley—
Motley shall be the garb wear ;
And if tomorrow I go in sackcloth,
It may be velvet to my despair!
Perhaps the lyric among all those comprised in
Charles Mackay's new volume, perhaps the one in
which his voice might be the most easily recog.
nised, as it were, from its mere intonation,
is the one entitled " The Right to Disdain," ending
with this true Mackayen stanza—
Were I far more blight
Than the heavenly light,
More pure than the snow
M here the glaciers grow,
And as undefiled as a little child
Dead and forgiven
And gone to heaven,
I should not gain
The right to disdain,
Or to stand apart
From my brother's heart,
Or turn my face
From a sinner's place,
Or breath one word of hate or scorn
To the meanest wretch that ever was born.

Delicate, little, sweet, passing thoughts and ima-
geries there are in the book that we should have
liked to have here loitered over a while, such for
example as that sigh for rest--
Oh, I long to lay me down
in the green earth's bosom brown,
And to let the daisies grow
Fresh abuve me and my woe.

Or as that dainty fancy, not new in itself, but thus
at any rate most freshly syllabled:—
The humblest dewy daisy
That blossoms on the sod,
May point like the pine tree skyward,
And drink the light of God.
Enough, however, if—hstead of lingering longer
thus idly over the pages of Dr. Mackay's new
volume of poetry—not verse, but poetry—we here
reiterate, as cordially os unaffectedly, that frank and
genial greeting already accorded by us at the outset
of our remarks to u little book, the delicately-tinted
leaves of which are as welcome to us as the flowers
in spring-time.