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“ Let me not to the marriage of pure mindo

Admit impediments.” We are happy to add, that the first social production of these highly favored children of Apollo is a fine boy, born in the sunny south. In person Browning is small, but well made and active; very dark, with a Jewish cast of countenance; has large black whiskers, which he cultivates under his chin; his eyes are dark; complexion almost approaching to sallow. However obscure in his writings, he is intelligible in his conversation; and his dislike to brusquerié often borders on affectation and punctiliousness unworthy so true a poet. His marriage with Miss Barrett was the result of a short courtship; their correspondence commenced in Greek, and doubtless in that language their love longings were expressed.

Mr. Browning is very susceptible of criticism, although pretending to a great contempt of it. He is a strong disbeliever in the genius of his contemporaries, and is as chary of his critical praise as Shakspere himself. The absurdity of some of his dedications is in striking contrast to this hesitation, as those to Talfourd, Barry Cornwell, &c. abundantly testify. This is a contradiction in his nature we cannot easily explain, and most probably proceeds from that false courtesy which is, perhaps, bis solitary blemish; in other respects he is a gentleman and an undoubted poet. His political principles are republican. He is in his thirty-seventh year.

Mr. Browning's writings are numerous.

Pauline,

1832.

Dramatic Lyrics.
Paracelsus,

1833.

The return of the Druses.
Strafford,

1834.

Blot in the 'Scutcheon.
Sordello,

1843.

Dramatic Romances.
Pippa Passes.

Columbe's Birth-day.
King Victor and King Charles.

Luria.
The Soul's Tragedy.

He has lately collected these in a new edition, comprised in two volumes, and we understand are about to be reprinted in America.

THOMAS BURBIDGE

AND

ARTHUR A. CLOUGH.

Thomas Burbidge and Arthur A. Clough are the last twin stars that have made their appearance as English poets; and like those of the Elizabethan age, they write together in one volume, which presents a very modest appearance, and is called " Ambarvalia.'

Mr. Clough's portion comes first under our notice; we do not know why he prints all his lyrics without a title: to be sure, it allows his readers to exercise their ingenuity, each after his own fashion ; but at the same time, we think much of the force of what he has to say is lost on the public in general, who like to know by what name such and such a poem is called ; the grown men and women who do read poetry in these days do not like to be treated as boys at school who are learning arithmetic, and whose problems are only solved in their tutor's key; none of the great poets left their poems unnamed, and we do not see why we should not have the author's own help in reading what he has written; we should like to see what Mr. Clough would have christened his first poem, being also the best, and which we think worth transcribing.

“ The human spirits saw I on a day,

Sitting and looking each a different way;
And hardly tasking, subtly questioning.

Another spirit went around the ring
To each and each; and as he ceased his lay,
Each after each, I heard them singly sing,
Some querulously high, some softly, sadly low,
• We know not,—what avails to know?
We know not,—wherefore need we know ?'
This answer gave they all unto his suing,
• We know not, let us do as we are doing.'

Dost thou not know that these things only seem ?-
“I know not, let me dream my dream,'
Are dust and ashes fit to make a treasure ?
• I know not, let me take my pleasure.'
What shall avail the knowledge thou hast sought?
• I know not, let me think my thought.'
What is the end of strife ?

I know not, let me live my life.'
How many days or e'er thou mean’st to move ?
• I know not, let me love my love.'
Were not things old once new?
• I know not, let me do as others do.'
And when the rest were over past,
• I know not, I will do my duty,' said the last.

Thy duty do? rejoined the voice,
Ah do it, do it, and rejoice;
But shalt thou then, when all is done,
Enjoy a love, embrace a beauty
Like these, that may be seen and won
In life, whose course will then be run;
Or wilt thou be where there is none ?
• I know not, I will do my duty.'

And taking up the word around, above, below,
Some querulously high, some softly, sadly low,
• We know not,' sang they all, “nor ever need we know !
We know not,' sang they, 'what avails to know !
Whereat the questioning spirit, some short space,
Though unabashed, stood quiet in his place.
But as the echoing chorus died away
And to their dreams the rest returned apace,
By the one spirit I saw him kneeling low,

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.'

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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 ;

*

*

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,
Vain 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 some

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