The Sun.
London, England, 1863-11-30 00:00:00

BULWER'S POEM IN BLACKWOOD.

Under the title of " The Boatman," there is a
very remarkable Poem leading off the new number
of Blackwood's Magazine for December. It is from
the indefatigable hana of Pisistratus Caxton, who
is apparently just now at his very best—as he is
certainly more than ever industrious. Scarcely
has he completed his comprehensive series of
Essays upon Life, Literature, and Manners,
entitled collectively Caxtontana, upon the which
series we shall take the earliest opportunity
of descanting at length—hardly has he sur-
prised the general public with his whimsical
apologue about the Congress of Fishes convened
by the Pike, an elaborated sarcasm that we have
heard pronounced the cleverest political squib of
modern times—when he throws off, in a vein so
totally different, this exquisite allegorical poem of
"The Boatman," a poem kindred to the masterpieces
of Schiller, and worthy of Sehiller's genius—an alle-
gory in which the Poet may be said to have epito-
mized the whole pathos of Human Life. But for the
length to which it extends, we should be tempted
to transfer the entire Poem to our columns from the
pages of Blackwood. Although perfectly conscious
that, by dividing it in any way, by breaking it up
into mere fragmentary quotations, we are necessarily
marring the general effect of it as a work of art,we must
nevertheless, venture to give at least some portions
of the opening and of the closing passages of the
Allegory, as a means of affording the reader a notion
of its character as a whole, and, above all, of its
singular felicity as an Allegory of Human Life :
Half sleeping still, I stand among
The silvery, trembling sedges,
And hear the river rolling strong,
Through mists that veil its edges.
" Up, Boatman, up I the moments flee
Ae on the bank I shiver ;
And thou must row me towards the sea

Along this length of river."
The Boatman rose and stretched his hand,—
" Come in—thou haat far to go ;"
And through the drowsy reeds from land
The boat went soft and slow ;
Stealing and stilly, and soft and slow.
And the Boatman looked in my face, and smiled :
" Thy lids are very heavy; sleep on, poor child!
Lulled by the drip
Of the oars I dip.
Measured and musical, sure and steady—
Sleep by my side
While from home we glide."
And I dreamily murmur, " From home already I"
I awake with a start—on my sight flashes day.
" So late, and so little advanzed on the way;
Arouse thee, old laggard, and row me faster,
Or never a stiver thou'll get from me."
" When the voyage is over, my pert young master,
Be sure the grey Boatman will earn his fee.
But whether I seem to thee fast or slow,
There is but one speed for the boat I row;
I measure my movements by no man's taste,
Whether he ask me to halt or haste.
Plish, Plash, drop upon drop,
On without hurry, but on without stop ;
The clock on yon turret is not so steady."
" If crawl we must at this snail-like pace,
Ere the river flow curved to the curving shore,
Let me take a last look at my native place.
And the green of the sedges—one last look more.
Where fhe home of my birth ?
It is blotted from earth ?
Just left, and now lost to my sight already I"
Tauntingly answered the Boatman grey:
" Not a moment ago
Didst thou call me slow;
But already 's a word thou wilt often say.
'Tis the change of the shore
Proves the speed of the oar,
Stealing the banks away, stealthy, steady."