"A BARD'S REVERIE, AND OTHER POEMS, BY OSSIAN MACPHERSON." * The "genus irritabile" not being famous for their humility, it is "quite refreshing," as the sentimentalists express it, to meet now and then with any symptoms of modesty in one claiming a place among the brotherhood. The simple appeal of the preface of this little book must necessarily enlist in its favour all those (few they are, alas!) who are not mere book-skimmers, and who wisely begin with the beginning, and understand the motives of an author, ere they pretend to criticise his works. "These poems were composed," says the writer, "when I was a humble errand boy;" and we wish all in his capacity had employed their thoughts as innocently and as improvingly. Poetry, in a mind not distorted previously by passion, must have an improving influence; the love of the good and beautiful must assist in purifying the imagination and the heart. The beginning of the "Bard's Reverie" is autobiographical, and gives a lively picture of an ardent and struggling mind. The poet then gives the rein to Fancy (whom, in many parts, he seems rather to have confused with Imagination), and follows at her bidding over many of the most striking scenes of Scottish history. The following lines, on "Mary of Scotland," have feeling and sweetness, though their historical justice must remain, like all opinions of that unfortunate woman, a questio vexata :— "Thou wert pale Sorrow's daughter, and thy life Thou knew'st no joy, despite thy crown and throne, For calumny had marked thee for his own. There is a spirited description of that deed of sin, the massacre of Glencoe, a tale whose horror defies poetry to rise to its extreme. Walter Scott himself failed in attempting to paint it in verse; and no one, to our knowledge, has ever done the subject justice. The poem proceeds to anticipate, in glowing terms, the happy time when justice shall reign in Britain, when the workhouse shall be unnecessary, when knowledge shall overflow the land, and wealth no longer be a synonyme for honour and greatness; when religion shall be omnipotent, and Happy time, indeed! but as far from us, we fear, as from those very "savage sires." The tree of knowledge is not the tree of life; it is the mysterious will of the Almighty that earthly and heavenly wisdom go not hand in hand. And for them who dream of peace, let them listen to the far-resounding roll of cannon from the bloody banks of the Sutlej-let them remember that in the heart of Europe a brave people are madly writhing in their subjection, and fighting like snared lions in their dens. Wars and rumours of wars are rising up around us; Poland, and Lahore, and Algeria-the "uttermost parts of the earth" -are echoing the vindictive cries of strife, and who shall say "Peace, peace, when there is no peace?" But we are digressing. Poland is also a theme of deserved warmth in the bard's musings; some of the energetic address is higher than all the rest of the poem in merit, and the sentiments are worthy of a generous mind. There is, perhaps, too much of the sickly and morbid sentimentality which repines at the neglect experienced by the sons of song. Now, really, this is hardly a fault to lay to the charge of the present "enlightened public." Truly good poetry is as much valued as ever it was; nay more, we suspect; for though every little rill has not depth of water to float a frigate, its powers are acknowledged to turn a wheel; and each is appreciated according to its deserts. There is no lack of appreciation in these days, and if there are not giants in the land, the English make a great deal of a Tom Thumb. It is true that the general run of intellect has risen exceedingly in its level; and if you fill up the valley, of course the mountains will seem less lofty. Moreover, the soil of the human mind is much more fruitful, and the poets who were once like dropping trees in a meadow, are now a thick and thriving plantation; therefore no one bard can expect to stand out from his fellows in such strong relief against the sky as it used to be of old. The world's imagination was then a barren mountain-waste, with here and there a prospect of surpassing extent; now it is a garden in perpetual bloom, where the senses are dazzled by the bright profusion of fragrant flowers. 66 One of the best poems in this collection is A Vision of Suicide." If there is sometimes a want of richness in the imagery, and of elegance in the description, there is always a directness of purpose and phraseology, a strength of earnest feeling and singleness of aim, which gives the poem great merit. Another worthy of remark is * Printed for the Author, by Blades and East, the "Ode on Easter Morn," which we would Abchurch-lane. "War, with all its glorious desires, Shall be forgotten with their savage sires." copy here were not our space so limited, and we therefore recommend our readers to get the book and read it for themselves. "My father may frown, my mother may scold; FANNY U. WHAT THOUGH THE "LIGHT" OF Some of the ballads are good: "Cluny's Lament" is a pretty imitation of the "Exile of Erin," by Campbell. We do not accuse the writer of plagiarism, for we feel persuaded, from the structure of the verses, that it was an intentional, and a very successful imitation of the excellent style of our great lyrist. Once more we say to the poet-rich or poor, humble or vain-go on bravely! If you love Art for its own glorious sake, its own rich reward, you (Written on hearing Balfe's admired song, will wait patiently for the verdict of the world. Fame has always been distinct from popularity; and he (or she) who cannot hit the taste of the hour, may sit down with the consolation that perhaps there may come a poetical resusitation to his memory in the days of his great grandchildren. L. THE MAIDEN'S CHOICE. A lovely maiden kneel'd down to pray, As the one had money, and pride, and grace, The other was plain, both in manner and face, And e'en when her eyelids in sleep were seal'd, A fairy approach'd 'mid the shades of night, The maiden paused, as with anxious eye She examined them both, but at length she grasp'd Then she clove the beauteous fruit in two, For though fair the outside, she now speedily knew Light of other Days.") What, though "the light of other days" What, though no more its glorious rays Yet still there is a better "light," That light is Hope's, though dimm'd awhile "The CLARA PAYNE. ON THE THREATENED DESTRUCTION BY ROSE ACTON. Stay, ere you doom the symbols of your mirth, 'Twas but ere now those faded leaves were prized, Oh, if you cherish'd then, have pity now; You cannot love, and doom remorselessly. Think, like these boughs, how oft a noble heart Could you not weep at such sad tale of what "Oh! such," she exclaim'd, “ may my next Ah! no; you know not that your path will be choice be, Of a mate both honest and kind; For most constant and true, and worthiest he, "The stately and proud may in riches roll, Yet gold is corrupting, and doubtless the soul MADE LAIN E. BY MRS. E. F. FLEET, The following tale is from the French; but great liberties have been taken with it. "And can this young creature love her husband?" "She adores him." haired man; and their mysterious guardian. When there was an interval in the music, the lady at my side resumed-"Yes-you see there a man who knows how to love." I entreated Madame de N- to tell me what she knew of this interesting history. One morning, towards the middle of December, 1815, Colonel D'Arcey and I were walking on the Boulevard de Grand. I noticed, a few paces in front and advancing towards us, a man At this moment, I perceived, in an adjoining and a young girl, whose appearance irresistibly box, the man whom I had seen following them. engaged my interest at the first glance. Tall, The curtain rose, but I listened not; for my slender, and delicate, the young girl reminded mind was absorbed with the idea of that young me of plants nursed in hot-houses into a pre-child-like woman marrying for love the whitecocious growth, and destined to perish prematurely. Her face was of the chaste oval of the madonnas of Cimabuà; her hair, a rich brown in colour, was parted on her forehead, and fell in ringlets on either cheek, setting off the clear paleness of her complexion: the elegance of her figure, and her timid, modest air, corresponded with the innocent beauty of her countenance. The man who accompanied her was of middle size, and evidently in feeble health: his features were regular, and of even contour; but he was extremely pale, and wore an expression of calm melancholy. Large and deep pimples traversed his forehead; but his eye was clear and bright as an eagle's, and I noticed a quick and sudden flash, as he glanced on one side or the other. At first sight, I should have taken him to be about sixty years of age; but a second look convinced me he could not be more than forty, notwithstanding his snow-white hair. The two presented to my eyes so vivid a contrast, that I fell involuntarily into conjectures respecting their relation to each other, till my attention was drawn to a middle-aged man, walking behind and evidently watching them. Then I supposed them to be father and daughter; but I saw her smile, and I saw nothing of filial affection in the expression of her face. They passed us; the young girl looked at me. D'Arcey saluted them both; and I saw the middle-aged man cross to the other side of the street. When they were out of hearing, I asked the Colonel who they were. "It is a very sad one," said she, but you shall hear it. In a house in the Rue de la Bucherie, nineteen years ago, lived two young girls; the eldest was called Madelaine, the youngest Marie. Madelaine was a mother to her sister; it was she who taught her to read and write, and everything else she knew; it was she who hoped to bring her up as an honourable maiden should be educated; and yet she was only four years the eldest. Their father-the Marquis de Simiane-had perished by the guillotine; their mother, deprived of all her property, died three months after, recommending her orphans to Him who is a Father to the fatherless. Made aine was then fitte n. Sorrow would have killed her, but that Marie remained to live for; and from that time Marie was like her chad more than like her sister. The people in the neighbourhood knew the girls, and when they saw them, hand in hand, would point them out and say "Poor little creatures! how they love one another!' "Madelaine at this time was very beautiful; a little too pale, perhaps; but with an elegance of figure that was not to be concealed by her mean apparel; in fact, the young girl you see is the image of her. Marie was a bright child, "They are husband and wife," said he ; as but so delicate that the most constant care and for the man who followed them "It is impossible!" I interrupted. "It is true," he replied. And I could not help weaving a romantic story of a forced marriage between two persons so unlike each other. The same evening, at the opera, I saw the man and his young wife whom we had met on the Boulevard; and I could not help expressing my thoughts to the lady whom I accompanied. "It is indeed quite a drama," said she. attention were necessary to prolong her life. Her arms and feet were so slender, they looked as if a breeze would break them; all her natural vigour seemed concentrated in her large dark eyes, that sometimes absolutely flashed with light. "In the same street, and not far from the dwelling of the two sisters, lived a printer named Philip Menard, about eighteen years of age, and like them, an orphan. On the first floor of the house inhabited by Madelaine and Marie lived the landlord, M. Dumont, a rich old bachelor. 66 "Marie grew worse; her sister redoubled her exertions; but toil, watching, privations, care, were all alike in vain. The physician pronounced her malady to be of the lungs, and added, that nothing could save her life but a On both these, Madelaine had unconsciously made a deep impression. Philip, for many months, contented himself with bowing when he saw her; then he ventured so far as to smile-journey into Italy. then to speak to her. One day, as he did so, Madelaine answered with a blush, and Philip felt his heart throb with a feeling of hope. "The same afternoon, M. Dumont knocked at the door of his fair lodger, entered, and seated himself according to custom. Marie was absent, and he declared his love. Madelaine felt troubled, and grew pale, but she declined the offer with dignity, and seemed relieved when he left her. Philip came in soon after, and asked what was the matter that she looked so sad. "Nothing,' replied the young girl; but her voice trembled as she thought of M. Dumont's angry looks. "Philip sat down, and Madelaine, with her work, beside him. Gradually her face resumed its expression of serenity, and she smiled with her angelic sweetness. After a long conversation, Philip knelt before her, took her hand, and said timidly 66.6 Madelaine, I love you?' "The young girl raised her dark eyes, and Philip thought he read reproach in their expression. The instant after, they sank to the ground, covered by the long drooping lashes, and a tear fell on his hand. The two were betrothed ere they parted. "The next morning the vindictive M. Dumont gave them warning that they must leave his house. "The day was already fixed for the marriage, when unexpectedly, Philip, pale and breathless, entered the little room occupied by the sisters. He had been ordered on military service, and would be forced to leave Paris on the morrow. Madelaine shuddered, for she knew that this blow had fallen on them through the agency of M. Dumont. But she endeavoured to comfort her lover, and promised eternal constancy. Then he was revived also by the hope of winning fortune by his sword. "I will return,' cried he; 'yes, I will return, Madelaine, not with a wooden epaulette like that I shall wear to-morrow; but with an epaulette of gold. You and Marie shall live in luxury, as you used to do.' "So that you return, Philip, I care not for the rest,' said Madelaine, averting her face. "The next day Philip was on his way to the frontier. "Soon after, Marie fell seriously ill, and Madelaine, to supply all her wants, worked harder than ever-sometimes depriving herself of a whole night's sleep. Her cheeks became sunken and pale, her eyes could hardly bear the light; but she forgot her fatigue by her sister's bedside, and while she looked at a medallion Philip had given her before his departure, she would murmur to herself- When he knows all I have suffered, he will love me more than ever,' "Poor Madelaine! she sat with her face buried in her hands, reproaching herself that her sister must die for the want of a little gold! She would have given her soul to save her sweet Marie. Suddenly she dried her tears, rose up hastily, ran to her drawer, and took out a letter from Philip-a cherished letter-which she kissed, while her face was bathed in tears. Then she rapidly descended the staircase, rang the bell of M. Dumont's apartments, and desired to speak with him. "All was ready for the departure of the sisters, for Madelaine had given her hand to the old man, to save Marie. Alas! it was too late: the evening before they were to set out, the poor girl was obliged to take to the bed she was no more to leave, except for a bier. Madelaine still cherished hope; but it was cruelly crushed when her physician informed her that it was necessary to give up all thoughts of going to Italy. "Oh! Monsieur,' she cried, reproachfully, 'what have you done?' "Marie died; the grief of her sister was deep but resigned. As she closed the eyes of the dead, she murmured-Sister, thou art gone first to heaven; but I shall follow thee soon.' "Madelaine became a mother. Before the birth of her child she received a letter from Philip, which she read many times, and watered with bitter tears. It contained these words:Madelaine, I have obtained an epaulette of gold.' "When her child was a few days old, she took from her neck the medallion of Philip, which she thought herself unworthy to wear, and fastened it round the neck of the infant. "Thou shalt be called Madelaine, too,' she said, and may'st thou be happier than thy mother.' "One day, while her husband was in the room, she heard a knock at the door; it opened, and Philip entered. He started back when he beheld Madelaine with the child in her arms, and Dumont beside her. The unhappy woman uttered a piercing shriek of anguish, and fell on the bed in a swoon. She never recovered her senses, but expired in a few hours after. The shock was greater than Philip could bear; reason forsook him, and he was sent to the hospital for the insane." Just then I saw the two persons I had been observing rise and leave the box. They were followed by the middle-aged man. Madame de N resumed her narrative: Sixteen years after the events I have related, some ladies, among whom was a young orphangirl, who had been to visit the insane hospital at Clarenton, were crossing the court to retire, when they were met by one of the patients, a man of noble figure and countenance, but the prey of deep melancholy. At sight of the young “Philip Menard-for it was he-is now the girl he stopped, and seemed agitated by ex-husband of Madelaine, the daughter of her to traordinary emotion. Slowly then he came up to them, and kneeling down before the young girl, said to her in a plaintive voice "Then thou art not dead, Madelaine?' "The physician who accompanied them led the party away in silence, and in reply to their questions asked afterwards, informed them that the unfortunate man had lost his reason by an unhappy attachment. The young girl was much affected, remembering her own mother's history, and entreated to be permitted to see the poor maniac again. She was conducted to the apartment he occupied. When he saw her he rose, passed his hands slowly across his eyes, as if seeking to collect his thoughts; then approached hesitatingly, regarded her attentively, and murmured in a voice broken by sobs "Then thou art not dead, Madelaine?' "Monsieur,' said the girl to the physician, 'cannot your art restore reason to this unhappy man?" "The eyes of the maniac-fixed all the while on her-suddenly lost their wild expression; there was a strange and terrible reaction within him; it was as if intellect struggled to overcome his mental disorder. At length he looked down upon his torn and soiled apparel, his wasted hands, and again into the visitor's face, saying"It is only I who have changed!—thou, thou art the same, Madelaine !' "Oh, yes, there must be some way to restore him!' cried she to the doctor, and this way, if your art cannot find it, I may discover!' "The physician did not reply, but watched his patient attentively while she was speaking, and noticed the changes of his countenance. 'Yes,' he said at last, there may be a way to save him; but you alone can do it, mademoiselle.' "Thank Heaven!' she exclaimed, seizing the doctor's arm, I will save him.' "For six months this young girl devoted herself to this holy and benevolent work, visiting the patient every day, and every night praying to God for his restoration. At ten in the morning, no matter what might be the weather, she brightened his solitary cell with her presence, and was rewarded ere long by perceiving a decided though slight change for the better in his condition. What sweet tears of joy and hope bedewed her eyes as she saw the light of reason gradually dawning on the darkness of his soul! She had never loved-the dear child!and thus her first love was bestowed on one of God's most suffering creatures! How dear to her heart the hope of dispelling the gloom that sixteen years had never broken! "At length the hour so long wished and prayed for the happiest hour of her lonely life, arrived; the maniac recovered his reason. "I was happy sometimes in my madness,' said he to her, mournfully; for I believed you to be the Madelaine I had loved!' still 56 6 And what hinders you from thinking me your beloved Madelaine?' said she. whom he was once affianced. As for the man who you see following them, it is the physician who attended Menard at Clarenton. He lives in Paris, and sometimes appears to keep an eye on his late charge." * More than a year had passed, and I had almost forgotten Philip Menard and his wife, when Col. D'Arcey chanced to speak of them. Poor Madelaine inherited the delicate constitution of her mother; she languished some months, and then fell a victim to consumption. Philip Menard went abroad, but his reason did not long continue unclouded after his cruel beHe lives yet, I believe-but in a hospital for lunatics! MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME. I roam across the mountain; And now I tread the heather, Yet still a charm seems wanting To check the starting tear. I think upon my childhood, "Twere vain indeed to tell; It boasts not of the beauties Priceless as Ophir's sand: HELENE B |