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The smile of your heroic cheer may float On the vast background of his wings
Above all floods of earthly agonies,

Arose his image! and he flings, Purification being the joy of pain ! From each plumed arc, pale glitterings The Vision of Poets is the second Or less, the angel-heart!) before,

And fiery flakes (as beateth more elaborate poem in the collection. Its

And round him, upon roof and floor, design is to show the mystery of the poetical character, by which genius is at Edging with fire the shining fumes, war with society, and with itself; by While at his side; 'twixt light and glooms, which it pines in sorrow and neglect and

The phantasm of an organ booms. suffering, both self-imposed and from

In a deep pool, nurtured by one of the without, while the rest of the world ap- eddies at the foot of Niagara, and shroudparently lives on in joy and carelessness. ed forever by the clouds of mist, hid in a Its object is the noblest that can employ basin of rock aside from the steps of the the pens of poets, to “vindicate the ways careless traveller, a rainbow is literally of God to man,” to teach reconciliation burnt in with deep metallic dyes, an arc and submission, to calm rebellion, to cre

of gold and purple, fixed and immoveable ate smiles of happiness out of very un

as steel, and surrounded by half-illuminhappiness itself in the wounded breasted spray, fragile as air. Miss Barrett's of man. Miss Barrett may take for her Wall of the Poets, with its massiveness shield the poet's motto, “We learn in suf- and "air-drawn” grandeur, has recalled fering what we teach in song.” In truth, to us this image, showing that even this verse of divinest bards is no child's in the poet's cloud-land Nature has her play of the faculties, no elegant amuse

omniscient prototypes, and that the ment of the boudoir penned on satin pa. highest invention cannot get beyond the per with crowquill for the adıniration of

actual. taste and fashion, no accidental thing to

Among the portraits hung up in these be picked up by a man as he goes along “chambers of imagery” we see Shakthe world, played with for a while and

speare and Dante, Goethe and Schiller, laid aside. It is the soul's experience, wrung from the very depths of a noble Electric Pindar, quick as fear, nature, and of the noble nature only ; With race-dust on his cheeks and the whole life-childhood, youth *** with its shadows, manhood with calm And Virgil ! shade of Mantuan beech day-light-the son, the lover, the father Did help the shade of bay to reach -must form its completeness.

And curl around his forehead high ! A poet in whom the inward light pre. For his gods wore less majesty vented sleep, goes forth into a wood, like Than his brown bees hummed deathlessly. early Chaucer when he saw the wonders of the Flower and Leaf, and there meets And Chaucer, with his infantine with a lady on a snow-white palfrey, who Familiar clasp of things divine leads him over the moor, where he is That mark upon his lip is wine. bade to drink of three separate pools, Here Milton's eyes strike piercing-dim! which represent the poet's dower, and The shapes of suns and stars did swim tastes successively of the world's use, a Like clouds from them, and granted him bitter draught; the world's love bitter too, and of the world's cruelty ; upon

God for sole vision ! Cowley, there, which he swoons, and being purified by Whose active fancy debonnaire this earthly purgation, is admitted to the Drew straws to amber-foul to fair. vision of poets, held in some vast hall of And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Benthe imagination in dream-land, where a Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows, when Hebrew angel, clad in Miltonic strength The world was worthy of such men. and splendor, ministers at an altar, sur Before these good and great spirits a rounded by the great bards of time.

worldly crowd of those who take upon

themselves unworthily the name of poets Then first, the poet was aware

enter, and plead their cunning, their friOf a chief angel standing there Before that altar, in the glare.

volity, their earthly-mindedness in their

disguisesHis eyes were dreadful, for you saw

But all the foreheads of those born That they saw God-his lips and jaw, And dead true poets flashed with scorn Grand-made and strong, as Sinai's law. Betwixt the bay.leaves round them worn

From the gloaming of the oak wood,
O ye Dryads, could ye flee ?
At the rushing thunderstroke would
No sob tremble through the tree ?-
Not a word the Dryads say,
Though the forests wave for aye.

For Pan is dead.
Have ye left the mountain places,
Oreads wild, for other tryst ?
Shall we see no sudden faces
Strike a glory through the mist?
Not a sound the silence thrills,
Of the everlasting hills.

Pan, Pan is dead.

Ay, jetted such brave fire, that they,
The new.come, shrank and paled away,
Like leaden ashes when the day
Strikes on the hearth.

The last expression is altogether Dantean.

To give the reader an idea of the variety of the poetical powers displayed in these volumes, we should have to follow in this way every separate poem, for each, with a fine under-current of the original mind of the authoress, is a new creation. These poems deserve to be studied as we study the minor poems of Goethe and Schiller. With the flexibility of language of the one, they have much of the moral significance of the other. The “Cry of the Children” is in the high lyrical German strain, beyond song-writing. A Rhapsody of Life's Progress recalls to us the philosopher of Weimar. In The Dead Pan, Miss Barrett has written a reply, call it rather a supplement, to Schiller's Gods of Greece. In felicity of language, in historical enthusiasm, in picturesque beauty, it is as certainly equal to Schiller's poem, as in its Christian morality it is superior. In a certain massiveness of thought and expression no woman may equal his manliness.

Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas,
Can ye listen in your silence ?
Can your mystic voices tell us
Where ye hide ? In floating islands,
With a wind that evermore
Keeps you out of sight of shore ?

Pan, Pan is dead.
In what revels are ye sunken
In old Ethiopia ?
Have the Pygmies made you drunken,
Bathing in mandragora
Your divine pale lips that shiver
Like the lotus in the river ?

Pan, Pan is dead.
Or lie crush'd your stagnant corses
Where the silver spheres roll on,
Stung to life by centric forces
Thrown like rays out from the sun ?
While the smoke of your old allars
Is the shroud that round you welters ?

Great Pan is dead.

O twelve gods of Plato's vision,
Crown'd to starry wanderings,-
With your chariots in procession,
And your silver clash of wings!
Very pale ye seem to rise,
Ghosts of Grecian deities–

Now Pan is dead.
Jove, that right hand is unloaded,
Whence the thunder did prevail :
While in idiocy of godhead
Thou art staring the stars pale !
And thine eagle, blind and old,
Roughs his feather in the cold.

Pan, Pan is dead.

Neptune lies beside his trident,
Dull and senseless as a stone :
And old Pluto deaf and silent
Is cast out into the sun.
Ceres smileth stern thereat,
“ We all now are desolate"

Now Pan is dead.
Aphrodite ! dead and driven
As thy native foam, thou art,
With the cestus long done heaving
On the white calm of thy heart!
Ai Adonis! At that shriek,
Not a tear runs down her cheek-

Pan, Pan is dead. And the Loves we used to know from One another,--huddled lie, Frore as taken in a snow-storm, Close beside her tenderly, As if each had weakly iried Once to kiss her as he died.

Pan, Pan is dead.

Do ye leave your rivers flowing
All alone, O Naiades,
While your drenched locks dry slow in
This cold feeble sun and breeze?
Not a word the Naiads say,
Though the rivers run for

For Pan is dead.

In the fiery-hearted centre
Of the solemn universe,
Ancient Vesta,—who could enter
To consume thee with this curse?
Drop thy gray chin on thy knee,
O thou palsied Mystery !

For Pan is dead.

aye.

Gods bereaved, gods belated, With your purples rent asunder!

Gods discrown'd and desecrated,

O brave poets, keep back nothing ; Disinherited of thunder !

Nor mix falsehood with the whole ! Now, the goats may climb and crop Look up Godward ! speak the truth in The soft grass on Ida's top

Worthy song from carnest soul !
Now Pan is dead.

Hold, in high poetic duty,

Truest Truth the fairest Beauty! Calm at eve the bark went onward,

Pan, Pan is dead. When a cry more loud than wind, Rose up, deepen'd, and swept sunward, In the poem on Victoria “Crowned From the pilèd Dark behind :

and Wedded,” there is a passage worthy And the sun shrank and grew pale, of a chant in old Westminster Abbey : Breathed against by the great wailPan, Pan is dead.

And so the DEAD—who lie in rows beneath

the minster floor, And the rowers from the benches

There, verily an awful state maintaining Fell,-each shuddering on his face

evermore While departing influences

The statesman, whose clean palm will kiss Struck a cold back through the place:

no bribe whate'er it beAnd the shadow of the ship

The courtier, who for no sair queen will rise Reeld along the passive deep

up to his kneePan, Pan is dead.

The court-dame, who for no court-tire will

leave her shroud behind And that dismal cry rose slowly, The laureate, who no courtlier rhyme than And sank slowly through the air ;

“ dust to dust" can find Full of spirit's melancholy And eternity's despair!

The kings and queens who having made

that yow and worn that crown, And they heard the words it said,

Descended unto lower thrones and darker PAN IS DEAD_Great PAN IS DEAD

deep adown! Pan, Pan is DEAD.

The Lost Bower is a happy piece of 'Twas the hour when One in Sion

ruralizing, founded upon the recollections Hung for love's sake ou the cross from days of childhood of a woodland When his brow was chill with dying,

bower, which is very beautifully and delAnd His soul was faint with loss: When his priestly blood dropp'd down- Claude, vanishing away on the burden of

icately painted with the softness of a ward, And his kingly eyes look'd throneward :

sweet lines into airy distance. She had Then, Pan was dead.

seen the bower once, but could not find

it again. Time passed on, and many joys By the love He stood alone in,

of the outer world and from humankind His sole Godhead stood complete :

were lost to the poetess, who, reclining And the false gods fell down moaning, on her couch of illness, sees through the Each from off his golden seat

fingers which press upon her eyelids this All the false gods with a cry

vision of the trees, and grass, and the Render'd up their deity

birds of old. Is it not found again in the Pan, Pan was dead. verse beyond any concealment or disas

ter—in verse simple, natural, fluent and

affluent ? Truth is fair: should we forego it ? The Rhyme of the Duchess May is a Can we sigh right for a wrong? most musical ballad of the olden song, God himself is the best Poet, And the Real is His song.

related by a bell-ringer in a church tower

ringing for the dead, with the burden in Sing His truth out fair and full, And secure His beautiful.

every verse, Toll slowly !" Let Pan be dead.

But we must pause somewhere. Miss Barrett's book is now before the Ameri

can reader, and we confidently appeal to What is true and just and honest,

the mind of the country, recommending What is lovely, what is pure

its cordial reception as a book that is All of praise that hath admonish'd,

pure, genuine, honest, a book of sustained All of virtue, shall endure,

power, well suited no less by its high These are themes for poet's uses,

Christian sentiment, than as an example Stirring nobler than the Muses, of genius without artifice, to be profitable Ere Pan was dead.

to the intellect of the country.

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Published by Anthony, Edwards & 1o. from their Daguerre type Wirness in the

National Miniaturi lnllery. 217 Brownay. Vw Jork.

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