ALFRED DOMETT.

Alfred Domett was born in the neighborhood of London, about the year 1812, and, after a classical education completed at St. John's, Cambridge, was destined to the Chancery Bar. The dry study of the law was, however, not his vocation. He trifled with Coke upon Littleton, but devoured Spenser and Tasso. In 1833 he published a volume of poems, wherein, amid much that is schoolboyish and commonplace, we find many indications of a true poetical genius. Some years later appeared a poem entitled "Venice," which, to our great disappointment, we have not been able to procure in this country. This was considered by some of the best critics of the day to be a work full of beauty and promise; and we have a perfect recollection of reading it with the author of "Sordello," who pronounced it one of the sweetest of the time. We owe this explanation to Mr. Domett, lest the American public should think that the following specimens of his poetical talent are the best things he has done.

At one period, during a few years of nominal adherence to the law, and of desultory attention to the Muses, he embarked from London for Quebec, passed a winter in the back-woods of Canada with some early friends who had settled there, and subsequently travelled southward through the United States, as far as the Springs of Virginia. If we mistake not, he returned to England by way of the West Indies. In 1842, with that energy and restless

ness, often found in men of poetical temperament, combined with a certain listlessness of habit, he suddenly resolved to set sail for New Zealand, not with the expressed purpose of seeking his fortune, but because this distant voyage appeared to offer some chance of the excitement he loved, induced also by the fact of a cousin and friend of his own having preceded him to that country. Domett, on landing, was inexpressibly shocked to hear that his relative, a young man full of energy and talent, and fast rising into distinction had been drowned in crossing a ford two or three days previously. Thrown, therefore, altogether on his own resources, and with small care for the luxuries of life, our friend Domett employed himself for a considerable time in writing leading articles for a local journal. These were often extremely well done; and at a later period he put out a pamphlet, published anonymously, setting forth the grievances of the colonists. This statement, clear, nervous and unanswerable, attracted public notice, and was more than once quoted in Parliament. He subsequently obtained from the colonial government a good appointment, which he still holds, and which he owed entirely to his own abilities and the fearless independence of his character.

We have a vivid recollection of the last time we saw him. It was at an evening party, a few days before he last sailed from England; his intimate friend, Mr. Browning, the poet, was also present. It happened that the latter was introduced that evening, for the first time, to a young author who had just then appeared in the literary world. This, consequently, prevented the two friends from conversation, and they parted from each other without the slightest idea, on Mr. Browning's part, that he was seeing his old friend Domett for the last time.

Some days after, when he found that Domett had sailed, he expressed, in strong terms to the writer of this sketch, the self-reproach he felt at having preferred the conversation of a stranger to

that of his old associate. Mr. Browning's poem, entitled "Waring," is partly founded on this subject. We quote a few lines, expressive of his feelings :

Oh, could I have him back once more,
This Waring, but one half day more!
Back with the quiet face of yore,

So hungry for acknowledgment
Like mine."

Browning's Lyrics.

It is a curious proof how men are thrown apart in this world, that Browning is in Florence, Domett in New Zealand, and the third of that "rememberable" night is in America, "far as the poles asunder."

Again remarking that Alfred Domett must not be altogether judged by the quotations we offer, being unfortunately deprived of his latest and best production, we proceed to prove our opinion by some illustration from the earlier volume.

The poet's grace is shown in this little poem; it is called a Summer Thought:

"How oft you see, in summer bright,
Two butterflies, on wings of light,
So like, in color, form and flight,
That each seems either to the sight!
With tremulous flutter, low or high,
Their flower-like forms together fly;
One impulse guides them both, as they
Together wing their zig-zag way;
Direct, aslant, above, below,
Still side by side they gaily go!

Thus, one in each emotion, thrill,

My heart and thine accorded still;

And thus, alike in aim and hue,

Our thoughts and hopes together flew!"

A loftier subtler power is developed in the following stanzas.

"This brave bright Earth with Mind o'erflows

With secret Soul o'erfraught;

In every form a Feeling glows,
In every tone, a Thought!

And yet o'er all there seems to reign
A mystery I can ne'er explain!

I feel the joy of frolic rills,
Elate in forest brown;

The proud reserve of beetling hills,
Their calm majestic frown;

The dark defiance-sullen-high-
Of clouds that walk the stormy sky!

The sweet repose, the solemn caves
Of azure heaven possess ;

The dim might of careering waves,―
The Ocean's restlessness!

The sad despondence of a day

Oppressed with mists of mournful gray!"

The verses to midnight are also very beautiful, and evince the true poet full of sweet thoughts and gushing reveries—

" "Tis dead of night-yet downy sleep

Sinks not upon my brow;

There is a spell more calmly deep,

That binds my spirit now:

For 'tis the hour

When Nature musing on her power

Seems hushed in awe,

As if she scarcely dared her breath restrained to draw.

In every lifeless object round

There seems a pulse-a soul;

Yet each is throbless, breathless bound,

In mystic, mute control;

Hist! with a throng

Of whisperings, like the Sea-shell's song,

The air is fraught,—

Continuous, faint, and low-the very voice of Thought!