The Sun.
London, England, 1864-01-12 00:00:00

. MR, FALCONER'S POEMS,

2femories : the Bequest of my Boyhood. Poems.
By Edmund Falconer. One vol., pp. 160. Tinsley
Brothers.

Versatility—whatever Sir Bulwer Lytton may
say towards the tabooing of that word by means
of one of the most ingenious arguments put
forth, to that express end, in his " Caxtoniana"—
Versatility is, beyond any doubt of it, the distin-
guishing peculiarity of the genius of Mr. Falconer.
If ever the word is to be applied to any display of
intellectual capacity whatever, it is to be applied in
his instance. By whatever phrase you may call it,
it is versatile. It is many-sided, it is ductile, plastic,
elastic, admitting of all kinds of adaptations. Either
the word ought to be swept out of the dictionary
altogether, or it is quite allowably to be applied in
an instance like that of this accomplished artist and
gentleman. Comprehensive, his ability may be, in
its scope, if you will ; but, in its manifestation, its
chief characteristic appears to us to be quite as
readily expressible by our talking of its versatility.
Only a few weeks since, we had occasion to com-
ment upon the exceptional powers of a rarely gifted
artist like Mr. Woolner : an artist so rarely gifted
in his way, as to handle with equal skill, vigour,
and refinement, the pen of the Poet or the chisel
and mallet of the Sculptor. And, in criticising his
charming love poem of "My beautiful Lady,"
we then spoke of the possibility, nay, if he
would but so direct his po a ers in earnest, of the
exceeding probability, of Mr. Woolner making
for himself a reputation, in the future, if he
cared but to make the attempt, equally well as a
painter or as a musician. As it is, his verses
glow with colour, while they and his sculpture
alike are conspicuous for the harmony of their
proportions—both the rhythm and the rhyme,
moreover, in this sculptor's poem abounding with
melody. But while we are hinting thus at pos-
sibilities, or even, we might say, probabilities, in
regard to the Poet-Sculptor becoming, as well as
a Poet and a Sculptor, a Painter and a Musician
—here is an artist of a wholly different kind who
has already made good his claims to be viewed, at
one and the same time, as an Actor and as a
Dramatist, as a Poet and as a Theatrical Manager.
During several seasons the playgoing Londoners
have recognised Mr. Falconer's powers as an
Actor and as a Dramatist, and, in addition to that,
during the last season or two, as theatrical manager
also. His capabilities, in each of these characters,
have all along been recognised as beyond the dead
level of mere respectability. One of his pieces had
such a" run," it will be remembered, as has not often
been surpassed. He is now, moreover, joint lessee
with Mr. Chatterton at Old Drury. A new drama
of his fabrication was performed there for the first
time as recently as Saturday evening last—with
what success we shall elsewhere notify. Our object
now is simply to specify no less distinctly the bril-
liant success achieved by Mr. Falconer—quite ex-
ceptionally, as it appears to us, among Actors—as a
Lyrist. Already, we obserse, that our author-actor's
name has been brought into comparison with
those of Barton Booth and John Cunningham—
Actors and Lyrists like himself. But judging
him simply by his " Memories," Edmund Fal-
coner need not for one instant shrink from the
comparison thus suggested. His poems are far
beyond those either of Booth or of Cunningham.
And this, not merely as viewed, here and there, in
brief fragmentary passages. The sentiment of the
whole work is expressed in the terse motto selected
by Mr. Falconer for his title-page, from the master-
lyrist of Germany, perhaps of all Literature.
" Never forget the dreams of your youth," is the
tender, lovely, pathetic thought of Schiller, the
thought here echoed with many graceful and touch-
ing variations in these " Memories " of Edmund
Falconer. Although the contents of the little
volume will be found comprised within the moderate
compass of considerably less than two hundred
pages, although the poems here collected together
as the Bequest of the writer's Boyhood are scarcely
more than seven in all, they give us ample taste of
their author's quality. They are singularly various.
They are written in all kinds of moods of an evi-
dently variable temperament. They include
poignant Green Room Sketches—graceful Love
Elegies—now a mere "Je ne sais quoi"— a
love tryste—a Byronical phantasma—celebrations
one while of Egeria, another of Helen, another
of Virginia. Here is an exemplar of our author's
skill in weaving a Sonnet apropos to Stella :

Trifles in idle hours give grave debate,
And so we argued wisely yesterday
What colour'd eye made most for Love or Hate,
The tender blue, the more impassioned gray ?
The back one's luminous unchanging ray,
The hazel's varied loveliness elate;
Of conquest sure, and yet deep thoughted too,
And beaming brown of every shade and hue.
Each had an advocate, and each maintain'd
His choice with learn'd and clerk-like argument :
Lisrning to one you must have been content,
But hcark'ning all, you every one disdained;
To end the strife, I turned to Stella's eyes,
And there all memory of a purpose dies.
It was Bulwer who sang—years ago—in one of his
loveliest ditties :

"Those eyes, those eyes, how full of Heaven they are I "
A refrain—how tenderly expressive of the tender-
ness 3f the tender passions l—from which, from the
meaning of which at least, for the life of him, Mr.
Falconer can seldom—if we may venture to say so
—refrain ! Not only does he sing thus of Stella's
eyes in his Sonnet above given, but another while
he cries out in a sort of rapture, thus, about the
eyes of Virginia—

But oh! her deep and tranquil eyes,
With lids that ever slowly rise,
What words can image ? you should see,
And then you'd learn to pity me
Who, loving her, despair to win,
Against myself my love a sin I
Their beauty ne'er by passion blurr'd,
A tender theme—a touching word
Unlocks the fountains of her heart,
But there delaying—loth to part,
Gathering in light along their lines,
The trembling tear-drop lovelier shines
Than Earth's most rare and priceless gem
Sparkling upon a sparry stem
In stalactite or crystal cell,
By Genii watch'd and guarded well,
Making the light wherein they dwell.
The gem of the book, however, as in truth such a
theme should make it, when once selected thus ap-
propriately by a Poet• Actor, is the Ballad commemo-
rative of the Poet-Actor's beloved, his "espoused
wife "—Anne Hathaway ! As affording the most
readily a completer notion of the lyrical powers of
Mr. Faiconer than anything else might do selected
\from his pages—we gladly transfer to our columns
entire the closing stanzas of this charming English
lOve poem, aptly commemorative just now of the
loves and lives of his

WILL SHAKSPERE AND ANNE HATHAWAY.
One evening in Autumn deep sadness came o'er
As her pitcher she flail] in the well near the door,
For an over-ripe apple she found by the brim,
And she thought what a gift it had once been for him ;
A drop speck d its bloom, and it came spite of "Nay,"
From thy heart, not the cold well, proud Anne Hathaway.

It was warm, and spread over the fruit the rich dye
Of a heart-mist exhaled by Love's roseate sky,
Like gems on the pitcher the cold drops shone clear
But the gem of all gems was that quick-wasting tear :
She put up the apple to kiss it next day,
"I must call in the children," said Anne Hathaway.

She set down the pitcher and lean'd o'er the gate
To tell the young truants their supper did wait;
Susannah was spelling for Judith a book,
And Hamet was paddling about in the brook ;
And she saw near the bridge, just a stone's throw away,
One who seem'd a great lord unto Anne Hathaway.

His doublet and trunks were of velvet, that shone
Like the mollow-green moss on an old coping-stone,
A plume of white feathers his felt hat did grace,
And his collar and ruffles were broad Flanders lace,
With his buff boots and spurs ho look'd gallant and gay 2
Yet ware tears in his oyes then, cold Anue Hathaway.
Susannah stopp'd reading and bade Judith look,
For Ilamet stood fast in the mud of the brook ;
With his eyes wonder-iix'd, and his mouth open wide.
The, the stranger advanced, and when close by Anne's

side,
Though his bearded lip quiver'd, did smilingly say,
Will you give me an apple, dear Anne Hathaway ?"
Anne started, and trembled, and look'd in his face
Oh I could it be Willie's with majesty's grace ?
Though it beau,'d youthful still, there the boy was no

more,
hack when she heard Shakespeare
For the full front of p
owerand command it now wore;
you know your own husband, dear Anne
" Don't
1104haway
And:l,lye, shrankatraid