New-York daily tribune. [volume] (New-York [N.Y.]) 1842-1866, 1848-11-18
NEW-YORK TRIBUNE.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.
nj, CHILD or THE sEA. AND OTHER PoEMs By
Mrs :. ANNA LEWIS. Author OF Records OF me
Heart sc. &C. up l79) G.. p. Putnam 100
Broadway.
Writing verses has become 80 common that
tw persons OF decen, understanding and educa-
.onemerge from their teens without experiencing
a. attsck Of the complaint. It generally passes
a however. very speedily, and, ike most Of the
ontsgious maladies 70 which our youth Is SUBJECT
v.ry rarely revisits US We meet men daily who
rrspty years since were signing 70 the moon or
bewsiling their unutterable misery IN hqnld num-
ssr who are now profoundly immersed IN stocks
NJ wares or politics aud could no more be lnvel-
led into opening volume Of original poems than
. mad dog could into tapping mp quart OF Croton.
rofsc, the appetite for reading this class Of pro
8aet.ons never did bear any sort Of proportion to
me passion for producing them. The spouting ge-
oi.who insists on torturing your ears and inter-
-sp,ing your thoughts by the bad defamation OF
hi, worse rhymings, lunaptly termed fugitive
.ce. lar from flying, they cannot even be scared
N, driven awav) submits with as Ill grace a. you
bpslike infection from another. Let tbs next
Ian in the company, though no greater donkey
nan himself commence reading or recltlng his
avn productions, aud Genius No. ] cottons up his
,,rsnd addresses himself industrlOusly to the
vbistling OF Yankee Doodle. Everybody writes
,srst volume Of poems but who under the sun
FISHES to read one The most invetcrate bore Of
-abishers. who daily curses aud lampoOns the stu
,3tv Of the whole tribe, because Of their wooden
rspecity 10 appreciate merit % @ their refusal
pint his illusions, Is himself the last man TO
sonestly buy and read volume OF poems by al
Unknown author. Ass as he Is, he knows good
issl better than h. waste a dollar and an evening
on the works of Mr. Pindar Jobson or Terence
Glkison, when the same outlay would ensure him
shke possession OF the thoughts OF some Dante
crowley. or Chateaubrsnd whom he has not
yet found time to read So far then, from lament
ng the obtuseness of publishers to the merits OF
.slfdiscoverd genius we rejoice and glory in It,
Who would BIZ left to mend the fences and dig the
potatoes # every one who asplres TO literary fame
oould set published, and could make living by
ms writings
Mrs Lewis has passed triumphantly the first
milestone on the highway to
The step where Fames proud temple shines aiar'
that IS, her first volume has sold out and she has
sued another 1t is something better than the
first yet not so decidedly an improvement on that
as It might aud should have been. We lack time
br the severe and searching criticism which, for
Der sake aud the publios we would gladly give
H. ior inexpenence is the only excuse for such
marks OF haste for such feeble and faulty lines as
", frequently meet in Tho Child OF the Sea-
For instance
Man may resign the pen. and well eschew
What angels never would attempt to do.
"Ye Powers that rule the destinies of men
By one swift blow obliterate my pain
"Zsmen long gazed on that extended corse,
While sghs and sobs escaped his heart perioroe
But enough The Child OF the Sea, though the
longest, is about the least meritorious poem IN the
volume You are constantly reminded in reading
it of Byron's Corsair and the difference is rather
in favor of Byron Mrs. Lewis can write better,
when the spirit moves and she is willing to be
stow time enough on revision, as the following
citations from the minor illusions which conclude
the volume will show
MY STUDY
TINS is my World--my Angel guarded Shrine,
Which have made 20 suit my hearts great need,
When Sorrow dooms 1t ovormuch to bleed
Or, when aweary and aihirsi pine
For genial showers. and sustenance divine
When soft Elusive Hopes my heart deceive,
Aud would sit me down alone TO grievc-
My mind TO sad or studious mood resign.
Here oft upon the stream OF Thought lie,
Floating whichever way the waves are flowing
Sometimes along the Banks Of Childhood going,
Where all is bud, and bloom, and melody
Or, waited by some stronger current glide
Where darker frowns the sleeps, sud deeper flows
tho Tide