COVENTRY PATMORE.

One evening at Mr. Moxon's, the publisher, some six years ago, a number of poets and writers were gathered together, canvassing the literary news. The "Poet of Publishers, and the Publisher of the Poets," handed to them some of the proof sheets of a volume which he was about to give to the public.

It was read by one of the company present, and so well read, that it was the opinion of most present, that a great poet was about to rise upon the world. This volume was Coventry Patmore's. It appeared, and, although evidencing many gleams of poetical sentiment and felicitous language, was considered a promise rather than a performance.

Since then we have heard nothing of the young bard; we must therefore consider him by his solitary volume of one hundred and fifty pages.

The longest poems are those entitled, The River, Julien, The Woodman's Daughter, and Sir Hubert; the latter taken from Boccaccio.

The first poem commences with so fine a stanza that it adds to the disappointment of the reader as he progresses.

"It is a venerable place,

An old ancestral ground,

So wide, the rainbow wholly stands

Within its lordly bound,

And all about that large expanse,
A river runneth round."

The third and fourth lines are very bold and expressive.

"Upon a rise, where single oaks

And clumps of beeches tall,
Drip pleasantly their shade beneath,

Half hidden 'midst them all,

Resteth in quiet dignity

An ancient manor hall.

Around its many gable ends

The swallows wheel their flight,
Its huge fantastic weather vanes
Look happy in the light.

Its warm face through the foliage gleams,
A comfortable sight.

The ivied turrets seem to love

The murmer of the bees

And though this manor hall hath seen

The snow of centuries,

How freshly still it stands amid
Its wealth of swelling trees.

Look where the merry butterflies
Float beside yonder tower:
There amid starry jessamine,

And clasping passion flower,
The lady of this peaceful place
Is seated in her bower.

*

The lady loves the pale Witchaire,
Who loves too much to sue,
He came this morning hurriedly,

Then out her young blood flew,

But he talked of common things, and so
Her eyes are steeped in dew!"

*

The lady after a time promises to wed another, under the impression that Witchaire (what a name!) does not love her. The

marriage takes place! while the guest are toasting the bride and

bridegroom.

"In the silent park a fignre stands

That's darker than the night-Witchaire,
Leaning against an aged tree,

By thunder stricken bare!—

He mindeth neither warmth nor cold,
Nor marketh he the dull moonshine,
And yet he crieth, Chill, oh Chill,
Is this lonely heart of mine,
And yet he crieth "Misery,"
Cold is the dull moonshine.

The moonshine shineth in his eye,
From which no tear doth fall;
Full of vacuity as death

Its slaty, parched ball

Fixedly, though expressionless

Gleams on the distant hall!

Thence tinged by colossal fingers quaint
Of nun and saint devout,
Broad bars of red and purple light

Stand in the mist without,

Mournfully through the muffled air,

Cometh the laughter shout."

It is amusing to remark in this the confused jumble of Tennyson, Coleridge and Keats!

"His forehead cleareth suddenly!—

Some thought brings pleasant balm,
He straighteneth up, and now he stands
Great as any palm.

Hath he some soothing plan of life?

No-for he looks too calm!"

The two last lines are well thrown out to indicate the difference

between the repose

of hope and the calm of despair

"He turneth from the bridal hall;
His bare breast scarcely heaves,
He paceth towards the gloomy woods,
Through which he breaks and cleaves.
His measured footfall dies away

Upon the withered leaves."

Then follows six stanzas of sickly description of the moon and stars-we give one stanza to justify our remark:

"The weak stars swoon: the jagged moon

Is lost in the cloudy air;

No thought of light! save where the wave

Sporteth a fitful glare.

The world in breathless impotence

Seems choking with nightmare."

It is a perilous thing for a young poet to mimic Coleridge: let us show the reader the passage, which, from the force of contrast, seems to have suggested the "swooning stars," &c.

"Amid the jagged shadows

Of many leafless boughs,
Kneeling in the moonlight,

To make her gentle vows."

Christabel.

To return to Mr. Patmore. He says again, in the next stanza,

"A plunge a thin hand through the froth."

"The turmoils o'er-the waves once more
Resume their silent swell."

It is Witchaire and not the faithless lady who has tried the Water Cure" for sorrow.

A year after the lady walks out in spring to enjoy her park; she is reconciled to her lot, and has forgotten her suicide lover. It does not appear, however, that she was ever aware of his rashness, for, alas! there was no "Humane Society" to drag for the body, and it doubtless was never found.

The poem concludes in the following singular manner, after describing the spring, &c.

"In this sweet time the lady walks,

Beside the gentle stream;

She marks the waters and along

Beneath the sunset gleam;

And a doubtful influence nevertheless,

Like memory of a dream!"

The word "the," would have amazingly strengthened this line, but young poets like ellipses.

"Her pulses throb more palpably,

Her spirits droop and fail,

As they did that wept when the bridegroom thought

He saw her dead and pale.

He knoweth not what moveth her,

The stream hath told no tale.

She passeth on, how still the earth,

And all the air above;

Here where of late the screechowl shrieked

Broodeth the quiet dove.

And the river, through the ivy'd bridge,

Flows calm as household love!"

The faults in the construction and execution of this poem are too apparent to need pointing out; still we hold there is a promise, and we hope Mr. Patmore will give us an opportunity of judging his performance in another and riper volume. The first book of a young poet is generally the trying of his pen-the mere tuning of his