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And in a silvery whisper heard him say;
“Truly thou know'st not, and thou needst not know;
Hope only, hope thou, and believe alway;
I also know not, and I need not know,
Only with questionings pass I to and fro,
Imbreeding doubt and sceptic melancholy;
Till that their dreams deserting, they with me,
Come all to this true ignorance and thee.’”

This is subjective poetry, and not likely to become popular, though it may strike the heart of many a one to whom such thoughts are food, and food only that nourishes—it will “fit audience find, though few,” and much in this little volume is of “the same character,”—it does not depend upon its dramatic interest— nor its passion—nor upon the music in which it comes wafted to our ear—and that there is a music in it, any one who takes up the volume may see, but the interest it excites lies entirely in the thought which lies enfolded in these bare, but not inharmonious words. Here for instance,

“Full oft concealed high meanings work;
And, scorning observation,
In gay unthinking guise will lurk
A saintly aspiration;
# # * s:
* # # *

As of itself, of others so
Unrecognized to seek
Its aim content, and in the flow
Of life and spirits meek.”

Sometimes, indeed, it shakes off its fetters and still speaks in music through the mere power of thought, as here,

“And can it be, you ask me, that a man,
With the strong arm, the cunning faculties,
And keenest forethought gifted, and within,
Longings unspeakable, the lingering echoes
Responsive to the still calling voice

Of God most high, -should disregard all these,
And half employ all these for such an aim
As the light sympathy of successful wit,
Wain titilation of a moment's praise ?
Why, so is good no longer good, but crime
Our truest, best advantage, since it lifts us
Out of the stifling gas of men's opinion
Into the vital atmosphere of truth,
Where he again is visible, though in anger.”

The “Blank misgivings,” &c. let us into the secret of the author's own heart—from whence all poetry must spring—and if it has no other theme, it is so far objective; moreover it shows no little hardihood in thus displaying itself, and engenders thus a more human interest than many a more glowing and objective poem would do.

“The golden tide of opportunity,”

is a worthy coinage, and will pass current and be appreciated wherever the language is understood—nor will there be a few who will not, with our author, regret he has let it slip through his fingers. The truth of our assertion, that the poetry lies inthe thought, is borne out by

“Nor for thy neighbor, nor for thee,
Be sure, was life designed to be -
A draught of dull complaisancy.”

Our author reminds us of two great poets of our day, Tennyson and Emerson—neither of whom does he servilely copy, but he has a good deal of Tennyson's music, with much of Emerson's subtlety of thought—and this is no slight promise for a young poet—we don't know yet but that he may earn the laurel crown. We shall have something more to say of another poem, “The Bothie, &c.” when we have introduced his fellow laborer in the same vineyard, his companion in this little volume. There is something very pleasant in this union—this joint effort, that recommends it to our minds very favorably. Mr. Burbidge's share is a little the longest, and is in its nature the reverse of his compeer's; it is objective, and we cannot give it any such praise as we have given Mr. Clough's, though he has taken care to name his poems. We miss the poetry, they are very good verses, but we have not the new and the true thought that peeps out of all Mr. Clough has done—there are no

- * “Jewels, five-words-long,
Which on the outstretch'd finger of all time
Sparkle for ever—”

no new coinages to add to our cabinet of epithets—although he produces some that will not pass as current. As witness this simile,

“As I upon a promont of creation,

Where o'erjects the inexistent void,
Had stood to gaze, so gazed I from the pier;” &c.

We might have passed over “promont,” for “promontory,” but we cannot take as English “o'erjects,” for “projecting over”— and we should certainly be glad to know what “ineristent void,” is l— Teturn we now to Mr. Clough, and his “Bothie of Toper-na-Fuosich,” as he calls it, “a long vacation pastoral,” written in, of all the styles to English ears, the most inharmonious. We don't know any poem written in hexameters that is popular, except “Evangeline,” by Longfellow; that to be sure must be liked, and yet that same story in heroic verse would have told with ten times more force on the public ear. Mr. Clough, as well as Professor Longfellow, has triumphed over this difficulty and in spite of the uncouth dress, the beauty within shines through, and glorifies it, yes, it may be believed, however incredulous the reader may be, that wit and harmony, learning and humanity, poetry and philosophy, are all here displayed in English hexameter verse. In fact we believe the above two mentioned poems are the only two readable ones in the language, and are the exceptions, to the rule, that, in our vernacular, this style is the most disagreeable and puzzling that a poet could think of in which to exhibit his genius. Genius, ah! what trammels will it not break—what obstacles will it not surmount—what lowly forms will it not exalt:—and what humble objects will it not irradiate with its glory—what is form to it? it did not mar the Prometheus of AEschylus—bound as it was by the laws which the unities enforced—within these bounds grew into life, never to die, CEdipus Colonaeus—and springing out of and bursting all these bonds came the dramas of Shakspere. In fact, all genius then most appears when the accidents of time, and form, and substance are disregarded—for it is none of these—any more than flesh and blood, and bone and sinew, constitute a man. Genius is the life of the poem, as much as the soul is the life of man. Empiricism believes that in rythm and rhyme the poem exists—that in form and color the picture is art, that ten texts of scripture culled from various chapters and paraphrased, and repeated with a garnish of gestures, constitute a sermon—that certain words and phrases which humble and pious men use charily, such as God, Christ, grace, love of God, and heaven and hell, constitute religion—and that going to church and paying their debts, and keeping their hands from picking and stealing, is doing their duty to God and their neighbor; but genius and empiricism are wide as the poles asunder, and never did, can, or will coalesce—they are born enemies, always at war, and although one sometimes has the advantage of the other, it must come right in the end, if there is any truth in God's word —we English, who live amongst so much of empiricism, still believe in “the good time coming”—we still mourn that so much of empiricism exists about us; and still more, when we see those our children who have cast off their physical and bodily chains, so enslaved by mental ones: there only is freedom where both mind and body are free; where conventionalities are despised, and the man or woman is intrinsically valued, judge, then, our sorrow, when we see America as badly off as the old country, when we find her aping her vices, her ostentation, her pride and her bigotry: but here also, as well as in all Europe, “there is a good time coming.” Mr. Clough has suggested these thoughts; he is a radical at heart, as all reformers are, as indeed all genius is—Shakspere was less of a tory than many kings, dukes, lords and gentlemen think him: he says, “give every man what he deserves, and who shall escape the whipping;” Wordsworth, Moore and Tennyson, each enjoying tory pensions, are not less radical at heart: the latter says, 3 “Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good,

Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith, than Norman blood.”

What do we mean by “radical” but going to the root of the matter; and is not this where all reformers should begin? the base of our house must be on a rock, or how can we expect the superstructure to stand when the wind blows and the storm comes! Mr. Clough's poem of “The Bothie,” &c. is an account of the rambles of a tutor and his pupils in the Highlands of Scotland during the vacation—how they shot, and walked, and bathed, and talked, and courted and danced, and argued on a variety of subjects; mingled with descriptions of scenery, character, and the life they mingled in during their stay; and how one who thus becomes the hero of the poem, wooed and won a sweet Highland damsel; how they were married and finally shipped off to New Zealand, where they planted

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