thing 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 "inexistent void," is!

Return 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 Eschylus-bound as it was by the laws which the unities enforced-within these bounds grew into life, never to die, Edipus Colonæus-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,

"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

themselves and grew apace in numbers and in wealth; and thus ends the poem, of which now we will give a few extracts.

"Often I find myself saying, and know not myself as I say it,
What of the poor and the weary? their labor and pain is needed.
Perish the poor and the weary! what can they better than perish,
Perish in labor for her, who is worth the destruction of empires?
What! for a mite, or a mote, an impalpable odour of honor,

Armies shall bleed; cities burn; and the soldiers, red from the storming,
Carry hot rancour and lust into chambers of mothers and daughters:
What! would ourselves for the cause of an hour encounter the battles,
Slay and be slain, lie rotting in hospitals, hulk and prison;

Die as a dog dies; die secure that to uttermost ages

Not one ray shall illumine our midnight of shame and dishonor,
Yea, till in silence the fingers stand still on the world's great dial;
Fathers and mothers, the gentle, and good of unborn generations,
Shall to their little ones point out our names for their loathing and horror.
Yea? and shall hodmen in beer shops complain of a glory denied them,
Which could not ever be theirs, more than now it is theirs as spectators?
Which could not be, in all earth, if it were not for labor of hodmen?

Only think, I had danced with her twice and did remember

I was as one that sleeps on the railway; who, dreaming

*

Hears through his dream the name of his home shouted out; hears and

hears not

Faint, and louder again, and less loud, dying in distance;

Dimly conscious, with something of an inward debate and choice, and

Sense of claim and reality present, relapses

Nevertheless, and continues the dream and the fancy, while forward
Swiftly, remorseless, the car presses on, he knows not whither.

Handsome who handsome is, who handsome does is more so;
Pretty is all, very pretty, it is prettier far to be useful.
No fair lady Maria, I say not that; but I will say,
Stately is service accepted, but lovelier is service rendered,
Interchange of service the law and condition of beauty;
Any way beautiful, only to be the thing one is meant for.

No, I feel much more as if I, as well as you, were,
Somewhere a leaf on the one great tree, that up from old time
Growing, contains in itself the whole of the virtue and life of
By-gone days, drawing now to itself all kindreds and nations,
And must have for itself the whole world for its root and branches.

Plants are some for fruit, and some for flowering only;
Let there be deer in parks, as well as kine in paddocks,
Grecian buildings upon the earth, as well as gothic.

There may be men, perhaps, whose vocation it is to be idle,
Idle, sumptuous even, luxurious, if it may be;

Only let each man seek to be that for which Nature meant him;
Independent surely of pleasure, if not regardless,

Independent also of station, as of enjoyment,

Do his duty in that state of life to which God, not man, should call him.
If you were meant to plough, lord marquis, out with you, and do it;
If you were meant to be idle, O beggar, behold I will feed thee;
Take my purse; you have far better right to it, friend, than the marquis.”

It is a pleasure to know that this poem of the Bothie, &c. was reprinted at Boston almost before the sheets were dry in England; it argues an increase of the perceptive faculty which is very gratifying to behold in a people so thoroughly utilitarian, and so fond of the dollar. We are sorry to add that we cannot give our readers any particular information regarding the author, further than that he is a Fellow of Lincoln's Inn. But we fancy we have given the most interesting part of his biography in exhibiting some specimens of the fruits of his genius—at least we think this will satisfy most of our readers for the present.