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safely onward through the storms of many ages, and though it may pass far beyond the sphere of human vision, it can never drift into a Îatitude where cold and darkness shall rob it of its lustre. Once kindled, it will be found burning here or reflected elsewhere in creation. It is an honourable contribution; faint, humble it may be, but still a noble contribution, to the vast nebula of glory, which is condensing round one of the great foci of the universe-that of Truth. True greatness is the only one of our terrestrial distinctions which is recognised everywhere throughout creation. It is a crown which sparkles as lustrously upon the head of the mortal as upon the brow of the archangel; it is no flickering, phosphoric flame that feeds upon pestilent exhalations, but the pure untainted light that falls like dew from above, upon the head of him whose fervent spirit earns it, and illumines him perpetually with its undying radiance.

BASIL LINCOLN.

FRIENDSHIP.

Hast thou a friend? O! hold him fast,
Nor cast his hand away;

Thou of a treasure art possess'd

That comes not every day.

Let not a hasty word or look

Blot out his name from friendship's book.

A friend to man the noblest gift

That God has in his power;

More strong than death-and yet how strange,

More frail than feeblest flower;

For that which braved the storm severe,

May yet be blighted by a sneer.

He may have errors! who has not?
Perfection who dare claim?

God gave thy friend some noble parts,
Fix all thy heart on them:

His virtues rightly drawn, I ween

His faults in shade will scarce be seen.

If thou would'st make thy friend thine own,
Be open-be sincere ;

And what thou to thyself art known,

Such to thy friend appear;

'Twixt him and thee have no disguise,

In this true friendship's secret lies.

Thou hast a friend? then hold him fast!
Nor fling his hand away,

Thou of a treasure art possess'd

That's found not every day.

Let not a hasty word or look,

Blot out his name from friendship's book.

F B.

41

Literary Notices.

Tales and Poems; by Sir. E. L. BULWER, Bart. London: Saunders

and Otley.

It is delightful to turn from the soul-less productions of "the mob of gentlemen who write with ease," to the works of a man of mind like Bulwer; no matter what those works may be. It signifies not that they are beneath our cherished conception of the author's power, or the performances of his earlier days—it matters not that they are in a different style and dress to those in which we are accustomed to meet him; there is about them the pervading presence of genius, and we feel to breathe a purer and better atmosphere while we read them.

And yet, though we have felt the presence of power and genius as we have read this volume of "Tales and Poems," we have risen from the perusal with a sense of disappointment, which all our admiration of Bulwer, and all the many beautiful passages scattered through the work, have failed to dispel. We have tried in vain to shake off the feeling; it clings to us yet; and we cannot help saying to ourselves, that these productions, excellent as many of them unquestionably are, are not such poetry as Bulwer ought to write. We do not mean to say that there is not poetry-fine poetry-to be found in them; but its specimens are few and far between, and must be diligently sought before they are discerned.

There are some persons who assert that Bulwer is not a poet at all; this is absurd. His "Pompeii," and " Pilgrims of the Rhine," prove him to be a poet, and that, too, of a very high order. We think, however, that his proper rank as a poet has not yet been fully determined, and we modestly intend, on the present occasion, to devote a brief space to the consideration of the question; the volume before us will supply us with grounds on which to form our own judgment, and to direct the judgment of our readers.

The first thing that strikes us on rising from Sir E. L. Bulwer's poems, is, that they seem to have been written without sufficient excitement or adequate occasion. They do not appear to have resulted from genuine feeling or real passion, from the irrepressible desire of the thought to speak its emotions-the urgings of the voice within, which will not suffer peace till its words have been uttered; but they seem to have been produced solely because the author chose to sit himself down to his table determined to versify. There are, of course, some exceptions, but this applies to the bulk of the volume. We cannot see the heart of the writer; we do not feel that he himself is moved by what he says; nor can we perceive, in most instances, the reason why he wrote, or the influence by which be was urged. He appears to have strained his mind for thoughts; to have hunted for subjects; to have turned over books to find themes. He seems as if he wanted to fill his volume, and was determined to write about something; if good, very well-if not, never mind.

Now, we hold that no one is justified in writing poetry, unless it be to record and elucidate real feeling-to give utterance to genuine thought and passion to mould into shape and form the beauties and sublimities that crowd upon his brain. We have no need to go searching for subjects-to pump ourselves in order to try whether there is poetry in us; if we be inspired, we shall be told so without our asking. There is no necessity for us to look within, and see whether we are poets or not: inspiration is a spring that will mount up, and that needs not to be digged for. If the fountain be in us, flow it must, and flow it will; if not, we may delve for ever, our labour will be vain.

When, therefore, without real excitement or fit occasion, without strong passions, powerful feelings, or great thoughts, we sit ourselves down to write

poetry, it is no wonder that we produce only rhyme. It is of no use attempting to forestal inspiration; we must duteously wait for it. The Muse will not be conquered, her gifts must be free.

We may rest assured, that the strange tale and history of our life will present to us, without fail, plenty of romance, and plenty of occasion for the exercise of all our powers, however great, however varied they may be. The bright dreams of youth, their realization or their vanishing in manhood, the sterner but still stranger visions of maturity; the scenes that present themselves to all persons, and to all eyes-scenes of travel, of experience, of observation; the sunny moments that at some time or other gild the lives of all of us; the feelings that love, and hope, and passion inspire; these are the founts from whence poetry flows.

It is, therefore, unnecessary and foolish to imagine causes, to fancy occasions, and to endeavour to persuade ourselves into poetic states of mind. It is at best but labour in vain; we shall never be successful. We may write verses indeed, smooth, easy, graceful, even powerful and pleasing compositions, but they will lack the real fire, the glowing energy, the truthful vigour, the Promethean touch that belong to all true poetry-that give it shape, and symmetry, and life. No! we must think and feel before we write; we must study silently, and reflect upon our thoughts; we must observe, and consider, and compare; we must acquaint ourselves with the world around us, with its beautiful scenes-its forms and its phenomena; we must make friends and companions of our fellow-beings; investigate the lights and shades of character; sound the shoals and depths of the heart; mark well the powers and dominion of the mind. To observation and reflection we must add judgment, action, and experience; we must test our conclusions, put our theories into practice, exercise our powers, learn to guide those fiery steeds, our passions; and above all, we must drink in the spirit of the beautiful and the sublime, in nature and in the mind: then, when powerful sensations and swelling emotions fill our souls, we shall be in a condition to put our thoughts on paper, and be poets.

But, though it is the case with the greater part of the book before us that it displays a want of passion and a lack of sufficient motive, still there is much in it that cannot be so characterized-much that is Bulwer himself— much that is full of genuine passion and true poetic feeling. The following poem, though short, is exceedingly beautiful:

PATIENCE AND HOPE.

Upon a barren steep,
Above a stormy deep,

I saw an Angel watching the wild sea;

Earth was that barren steep,

Time was that stormy deep,

And the opposing shore, Eternity!

"Why dost thou watch the wave?
Thy feet the waters lave;

The tide engulfs thee if thou dost delay."
"Unscath'd I watch the wave,
Time not the Angel's grave,-
I wait until the ocean ebbs away!"

Hush'd on the Angel's breast,
I saw an Infant rest,

Smiling upon the gloomy hell below.
"What is the Infant prest,

O Angel, to thy breast?"

"The child God gave me in the long-ago!

"Mine all upon the earth

The angel's angel-birth,

Smiling all terror from the howling wild!"

-Never may I forget

The dream that haunts me yet,

Of PATIENCE nursing HOPE-the Angel and the Child!

Let us revert, however, to the question we proposed to ourselves, viz. :To what rank as a poet is Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer entitled? There are some persons who tell us that he is a poet of the highest class; this we hold to be quite ridiculous, and we are sure that our author himself has good sense enough to think so too. To this class belong Homer, Shakspere, Milton, and but few besides, and it is irreverent to add to their number those who do not equal their excellence.

What is it that constitutes a poet of the highest class? Imagination; the most glorious and sublime faculty a mind can possess, because it is that which connects it most closely with the heaven from whence it came. Now, imagination Bulwer has not; we look for it in his works in vain. He has fancy-plenty of it; but fancy is not imagination. Fancy is like imagination; it bears its image, as man bears the image of God, but it has no relationship save dependency. Imagination is that which lifts the soul into other worlds, fancy has to do with this world only. Imagination is the high angel that ministers to man's immortal nature; fancy is the beauteous, but earthborn, attendant that waits on his humanity. In the poem before us, if we look at it closely, we may see the difference. What does the beautiful picture of the angel, with the infant on its breast, watching the wild sea, arise out of? Out of the fanciful idea that Hope is the child of Patience; that, in other words (for this is an allegory), if we are patient, and cherish the feeling of hope, we may behold time's heavy sea of trouble roll on without alarm. Now this is altogether an earthborn fancy. Hope belongs to humanity alone; it is unknown in heaven, for in heaven there is nothing more to realize-nothing more to gain. The angel is watching the wild sea of time; its gloom, its storms, its tides, are of this world. Of these the poet speaks; and of "the opposing shore, eternity," of which whatever is said must be imagination, he speaks not at all.

The Imaginative then is the highest style of poetry, and to that Bulwer does not belong. What is the next grade?

The Passionate. The passionate is that which represents and embodies humanity's great attributes; its love, its hate, its ambition, its strength, its weakness, its aspirations, its destiny; the poetry that is identified with the soul as distinguished from the mind; the poetry of the heart unconnected with the reason.

Does Bulwer belong to this rank? No! Occasionally, perhaps, he soars into the high region of uncontrollable and great emotion, but he cannot sustain himself there, and he soon droops and falls. To the vast in emotion and feeling he has no real relationship. He never thrills, never rouses, never commands the soul; to use his own words, he appeals instead to "familiar emotion." In the atmosphere of passion, it is only such minds as Byron's that can dwell; souls of less power cannot bear its storms, cannot look its lightnings in the face, nor hear its thunders unappalled. The poet of passion ever has a mighty soul; a soul that delights in storm and tempest, and whirlwind and hurricane. His home is in the Mighty, his element is the Sublime; he disdains the minute, he cannot herd with the Familiar; and yet, when such a soul, for such a soul was Byron's, spurned the petty and artificial restraints of society, and sought the companionship of the drear but grand and similar spirits of loneliness and earthly sublimity, there were to be found those, and they were not a few, who would have chained the spirit to the ground. Thank God, they were not able!

Next in rank comes the Philosophical; the poetry of wisdom, morality, and truth; the poetry of principle. We hold this to be of an inferior grade to the passionate, for two reasons; first, because it is less universal-its empire is over the few; and secondly, because it possesses less of inspiration. Man's discovery of truth is the foundation of philosophical poetry, and therefore this poetry may be said to be not inspired, but learnt. It depends upon civilization. Now the poetry of passion, and also the poetry of imagination, are independent of man's discoveries and advancement. They existed when he was in a state of barbarism, and were as powerful and pervading then as they are now. Shakspere suits all times, Wordsworth would not have suited the past.

To this class, that is, the Philosophical, Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer is unquestionably allied; but still it is a somewhat distant relationship. He is not a philosopher, but he is studying to be one. He has not found wisdom, but he is diligently seeking it. You meet with no great, settled, and eternal truths in his writings. In Wordsworth—and we mention Wordsworth, because we hold him to be the best modern representative of philosophical poetry-you see principles; in Bulwer, theories: in Wordsworth you have established truths; in Bulwer, idealisms. His mind seems to be groping after truth, but never reaching it. He sees the dark figure at the bottom of the well, but cannot descry its features. He firmly believes in its beauty, but cannot draw its likeness, nor rightly imagine its features or its form.

The next in order is the poetry of the Fanciful and the Theoretical, and here we think is Bulwer's home. Indeed, we are of opinion that Bulwer is the monarch of this realm; that he is more the poet of fancy-mere fancy-than any writer we know of. We cannot open a page of his works, especially his poems, without finding this quality predominant. We have already described fancy as the region that borders on imagination; and as in earthly states it is sometimes difficult to mark out a boundary line of separation which cannot be mistaken-in consequence of which, the monarch of one state often intrudes into the dominions of the other-so it is also difficult to establish a barrier between the kingdoms of the mind; and so likewise it will occur, that the sovereign of the Fanciful frequently trespasses upon the domain of the sovereign of the Imaginative. Thus it is with Bulwer, occasionally you are puzzled to know whether he is in his own kingdom or his neighbour's. Take the following poem :

THE POPE AND THE BEGGAR.

The Desires the chains, the Deeds the wings.

I SAW a Soul beside the clay it wore,

When reign'd that clay the Hierarch-Sire of Rome;
A hundred priests stood, ranged the bier before,
Within St. Peter's dome;

And all was incense, solemn dirge, and prayer-
And still the Soul stood sullen by the clay:
"O Soul, why to thy heavenlier native air
Dost thou not soar away?"

And the Soul answered, with a gastly frown,
"In what life loved, death finds its weal or woe;
Slave to the clay's DESIRES, they drag me down
To the clay's rot below!".

It spoke, and where Rome's Purple Ones reposed,
They lower'd the corpse; and downwards from the sun
Both Soul and Body sunk--and Darkness closed

Over that twofold one!

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