The Sun.
London, England, 1838-11-21 00:00:00

THE SUN, LONDON, WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1838.

LITERATITRI

MILNES'S POEMS. 2 Vols.
Moxon, London, 1838.
The great charm of these poems is the equable tone
of sound, unaffected sensibility that pervades them. Mr.
Milnes, their author, indulges in no hysterical raptures,
neither does he " tear a passion to tatters," as young
poetasters—especially those who haunt the Annuals—are
so much in the habit of doing ; but pursues an even
course, keeping his fancy, not less than his feeling, ever
under the control of judgment. It is not often that
we see the intellectual powers so nicely balanced as in
the poems before us, where imagination does not overlay
sensibility, nor mere reason exert too cold and numbing
an influence, but each faculty acts in harmony with the
other. The lines entitled the " Flight of Youth" furnish
a delightful sample of this well-adjusted intellect. The
poem is in the form of a Lament ; Age is supposed to
be regretting the irreparable loss of Youth :
" Alas, we know not how he went,
We knew not he was going,
For had our tears once found a vent,
We had stayed him with their flowing.
It was just as au earthquake, when
We awoke and found him gone;
We were miserable men,
We were hopeless, every one !
Yes, he must have gone away
In his guise of every day,
In his common dress, the same
Perfect face and perfect frame;
For in feature, for in limb,:
Who could be compared to him ?
Firm his step, as one who knows
He is free where'er he goes;
His impassioned eye had got
Fire which the sun has not;
Silk to fuel, and gold to see,
Fell his tresses full and free,
Like the morning mists that glide
Soft adown the mountain's side; •
Most delicious 'twas to hear
When his voice was trilling clear,
As a silver-hearted bell,
Or to follow its low swell,
When, as dreamy winds that stray
Fainting 'mid lEolian chords,
Inner music music seemed to play
Symphony to all his words;
In his hand was poised a spear,
Deftly poised, as to appear
Resting of its proper will.
Thus a merry hunter still,
And engarlanded with bay,
Must our youth have gone away.
Tho' we hub' remember now,
He had borne some little while
Something mournful in his smile,
Something serious on his brow.
Now, between us all and him,
There are rising mountains dim,
Forests of uncounted trees,
Spaces of unmeasured seas.
Think, with him how gay of yore
c made sunshine out of shade;
Think, with him how light we bore
All the burden sorrow laid ;
All went happily about him,_
How shall we toil on without him ?
How without his cheering eye,
Constant strength embreathing ever?
How without him standing by
Aiding every hard endeavour ?
For when faintness or disease
Had usurped upon our knees,
If he deigned her lips to kiss
With those living lips of his,
We were lightened of our pain,
We were up and hale again :
Now, without one blessing glance
From his rose-lit countenance,
We shall die, deserted men,
And not see him, even then !"
The imagery throughout this striking passage is in the hap-
piest accordance with the subject, and the feeling equally ap-
propriate. The incidental personification of youth, too,
where he is represented as wearing " something mournful
in his smile," just previous to his flight, is a con-
ception exquisitely just, and expressed in the purest
spirit of poetry. Nor will the reader fail to observe
with what consummate judgment a natural tendency to
the metaphorical is everywhere kept down, and made
amenable to the dictates of good sense. Had these fine
lines made their appearance some twenty or thirty
years ago, they would have excited general atten-
tion—far more than many of the most admired,
fantastic flights of Shelley ; but the present age has no
great relish for pure, abstract poetry ; it is essentially prac-
tical and utilitarian in its predilections, and regards the
creations of mere fancy with indifference, not to say con-
tempt. Mr. Milnes, therefore, despite his undoubted
genius, cannot hope to be extensively read ; but neverthe-
less he may rest assured that his poems will meet with
many ardent admirers, who know how to discriminate be-
tween the true and the false in imagination, and have the
rare good taste to prefer that poetry which feeds and
stimulates thought, to that which is merely written ad cap-
landum vulgus.