The Sun.
London, England, 1841-04-17 00:00:00

LITERATURE.

BELLS AND POMEGRANATES.
Moxon, London, 1841.
.Mr. Browning, the author of " Paracelsus,"
.11 not, we fear, add much to his reputation by
this dramatic attempt, which he entitles " Pippa
Passes "—why or wherefore, we are utterly at a
loss to determine--and which, it seems, is the
first of a series of plays intended to be carried on
under the equally enigmatical title of " Bells and
most
The best, or at any rate the
most intelthrible, account we can give or the pre-
sent dramatic effort is, that it is a collection of
scenes, strung together without rhyme or reason ;
and that at the termination ofeach scene, a young
Italian
or ta. lki gt;irl, by name " Pippa" is heard singing,
z in a dialect which, in places, strongly
remindsus of the late Mr. Irving's ''Unknown
'Longues." The play, in fact, is throughout a
quaint riddle, and as we are not CEdipus, but
trnPle Davus, we cannot undertake to solve it.
Yet there are some fine things in the drama; one
scene in particular, between a woman and her
paramour after the murder of the former's hus-
and, exhibits a play of the passions of alternate
tenderness and remorse, which satisfies us that
,the author possesses sterling dramatic powers.
4here are also several poetic passages in the
Piece—a few of which we proceed to extract at
random. And first, here is a speech of a roman-
, e youth to his mother, the descriptive touches
in Which are excellent :
" Last year's sunsets and great stais
That had a right to come first and see ebb
The crimson wave that drifts the sun away—
Those crescent moons with notched and burning rims
That strengthened into sharp fire, and there stood
Impatient of the azure—and that day
In March a double rainbow stopped the storm—
May's warm, slow, yellow moonlit summer nights—
Gone are they, but I have them in my soul."
There is much simple truth and force in the
following apostrophe addressed by an enthu-
s!anic young sculptor to his mistress, who is sit-
; With him in his studio, while he is endea-
2Oring, but in vain, to proceed calmly and me-
"l°(lically with his statue of Tydeus :
" Oh, my life to come?
Tydeus must 1),. carved—tis there in cl—
„tut how be carved, with you about the chamber?
Where must I place you?' When I think that once
• Thyl,, room, full of rough block-work, seemed my Heaven
Without you Shall I ever work again ?
Getfairly into my old ways again?—
:d each conception stand while, trait by trait,
QTY hand transfers its lineaments to stone ?
Will they, my fancies, lire near you, any truth ?
The live truth—passinc, and repassing me—
Sitting beside me ?" °

SUMMER MORNING.
•
Hayward, London, 1841.
Mr. Miller is a poet who has studied in the
hestdrawn
school—that of nature. All his images are
rawn fresh from life, and suggested by his own
feelings, instead of being gleaned, second-hand,
from ideas supplied by his poetic predecessors.
This is particularly the case with his descriptions
of natural scenery, and the various emotions they
1, Bite, in which it is plain to see that the author
sils himself witnessed and felt all that he so
horning"
and forcibly paints. His " Summer
4torning" is a poem wholly of a descriptive cha-
Rlter ; it is a series of homely rural pictures,
ected with great skill ; vividly, but not taw-
;lt, coloured; and finished with the care of one
ewton's miniature paintings. We give a few
c;!sages, which will serve to impress the reader
Itti a highly favourable idea of Mr. Miller's
poetic powers :
On the far sky leans the old ruined mill,
Thro' its rent sails the broken sunbeams glow,
Gilding the trees that belt the lower hill,
And the old thorns which on its summit grow.
Only the reedy marsh that sleeps below,
With its dwarf bushes, is concealed from view ;
And now a straggling thorn its head doth show,
Another half :hakes off the smoky blue,
Just when the dusty gold streams thro' the heavy dew.
And there the hidden river lingering dreams,
You scarce can see the banks which round it lie ;
That withered trunk, or tree, or shepherd seems,
Just as the light of fancy strikes the eye.
Even the very sheep which graze hard by,
So blend their fleeces with the misty haze,
They look like clouds shook from the unsunned sky,
Ere morning o'er the eastern hills did blaze—
The vision fades as they move further on to graze.
What varied colours o'er the landscape play !
The very clouds seem at their ease to lean—
And the whole earth to keep glad holiday.
The lowliest bush that by the waste is seen,
Hath changed its dusky for a golden green
In honour of this lovely summer-morn :
The rutted roads did never seem so clean,
There is no dust upon the wayside thorn,
For every bud looks out, as if but newly born !
The lines which we have marked in italics,
sess infinite poetic beauty. The word
akl.reams" as applied to the river, is quite Spen-
-04n; and the line, " The very clouds seem at
igeir ease to lean," conveys as perfect an idea of
, epo
141 se as could possibly be suggested by the
of aNnation. The freshness, too, and the beauty
jus" early morning landscape are happily Hi-
s( t 'rated by the image of the -buds looking out,
as if but newly born." We quote one more
Passage, which is remarkable for its cheerful,
Ittlimated character :-
1 How sweet those rural sounds fleat by the hill !
The grasshopper's shrill chirp rings o'er the ground,
The jingling sheep-bells are but seldom still,
The clapping gate closes with hollow bound,
• There's music in the church-clock's measured sound.
The ring-dove's song, how breeze-like comes and goes,
Now here, now there, it seems to wander round ;
1 The red-cow's voice along the upland flows,
His bass the brindled bull from the far meadow lows.