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Thomas Buchanan Read is one of the younger band of American poets, to which Bayard Taylor, George H. Boker, and Richard H. Stoddard belong. Mr. Coventry Patmore, whose last poem we have just been considering, said, two or three years ago, in the North British Review, that he considered Mr. Read the most promising of the transatlantic poets. Since that time, Mr. Read has proceeded to fulfill the promise, by two works, "The New Pastoral" and "The House by the Sea," recently published. Of the New Pastoral," we expressed our opinion at the time of its appearance. It was a truthful description, in blank verse, of life in Western Pennsylvania, quietly and simply written. That is all. It cannot, in any sense, be called a poem, except in form. It was read by all, whose duty or pleasure it is to keep themselves conversant with American literature and its progress; but it cannot be justly said to have made any impression upon the public mind. Beyond the class of readers we have named, and a clique of personal friends and admirers, and the critics by profession, Mr. Read's name is probably very little known. The reading American public is not familiar with it. When Mr. Patmore's article was read in this country, people asked, "Who is Mr. Read?" and, although "The New Pastoral" was published not long afterward, it has not been easier to answer the question. Neither 66 The Pastoral" nor "The House by the Sea" has made their author at all extensively known. Mr. Read is still among the least conspicuous of our younger authors. It is only the truth to say, that neither of his long poems has yet redeemed any earlier promise, by a real addition to literature.

It is a long step from a Pennsylvania Pastoral to a supernatural tale of fiends and ghosts, and a "pale Roland." But we do not think it a step in advance. The reality of the Pastoral is better than the lurid fireworks of the House

by the Sea. This is the plot of the poem: Roland, a hero of the Manfred type, has an early love, which "ended in woe;" and he retires to a house built upon a cliff over the sea, where he forms the acquaintance of a fisherman's daughter, who, at the opening of the poem, has known him since a "moon of dawns,” which we suppose to be a very mistakenly poetic way of saying "a

month." One day, as Roland looks from his window, and sees the fishergirl kneeling in all her charms at her evening devotions, a fiend whispers to him

"The hawk looks down on the ringdove's nest;

He loves her meek voice and her smooth, meck breast;

And the beautiful bird shall still be as meek,

When her red heart quivers in the falcon's beak."

Startled to find that he has such weakness left, Roland calls aloud upon his early, dead Ida, to befriend him. She fiend, who vanishes; and she warns comes as a spirit, and is taunted by the Roland that a dark hour is nigh. He swears that nothing shall sever his heart from her; and she then reveals to him that she poisoned herself from fear that he did not love her enough, and now roams forlorn in a Purgatory of suicides, but that she is allowed to hope to regain her lost happiness, by stepping into the body of some similar suicide, while it is yet warm with recent life. She vanishes, in turn, and Roland sees a wreck upon the rocks at the base of his cliff. He hurries out, and finds a lovely lady drowned, and bears her into his house, assisted by the fisher-girl. The lady revives, and he feels a kind of awe, as if Ida had returned to life. She assures him that she is Ida, and that she had only feigned to kill herself, and had been searching for him everywhere, until she was thus thrown by a good fate into his very arms. She was accompanied by a worthy Capuchin, she says, upon the vessel; and just before she was wrecked, saw that her Roland was being tempted by a fiend, who had assumed her own shape. This is the dark day. The rescued lady is really the fiend, the Capuchin is a fellow-devil, and they try in every way to make sure of Ro

land.

The fisher-girl goes mad for love of him; and as they are all sailing away upon the enchanted vessel, the girl leaps into the sea, and Roland plunges in to save her. There is a wild hurricane of demoniac influences against him, but he draws her safe to land. They love, and gradually the lost Ida reappears in the fisher-girl:

"Until, when the first few years ad flown,
He forgot that his early love had died;
And walking at his lady's side,
He called her 'Ida,' and she replied
To the name as it had been her own."

The emotion of the reader at the end of the poem is sorrow for the fishergirl, who loved as sincerly as Ida, and who undergoes the fearful sacrifice of identity in favor of the earlier mistress. This seems to us unnecessary, and fatal to the intention of satisfaction with the denouement of the story. We quote the only lines that seem to us to have much merit of poetic conception and treatment:

"A moment surveying the sacred place, Her blue eyes turned, then, with modest grace,

Gazing up into Roland's face,

Her sweet tongue said, in its first release, With words which seemed breathed from the lips of peace,

"The spell is past! oh! hour divine! Thou, thou art mine! and I am thine!' "And the listening shadows cool and gray, In the gallery, like a responding choir, Where the organ glowed like an altar-fire, Seemed to the echoing vault to say, Softly as at a nuptial shrine-'Thou art mine! and I am thine!'

"And still through the breathless moments

after,

Like doves beneath the sheltering rafter,
Along the roof in faint decline,

The echoes whispered with voices fine-
'Mine and thine! mine and thine!'
"And now, like a golden trumpet blown
To make a glorious victory known,
The organ with its roll divine,
Poured aloud from its thrilling tongue
Words the sweetest ever sung-
'Mine and thine! mine and thine!'

"And up in the tower the iron-bell
Suddenly felt the joyous spell,
And flung its accents clear and gay
As if it were rung on a wedding day;
And like a singer swaying his head,
To mark the time

Of some happy rhyme,
Breathing his heart in every line,
Thus swayed the bell, and swaying, said-
'Mine and thine! mine and thine!"

We do not think that Mr. Read's reputation will be increased by this production. He belongs to a very large class of men who unite to great purity and delicacy of sentiment a ready ear and hand, but who have no other dowry as poets, than poetical sensibility. There is nothing in "The House by the Sea" which any cultivated person of poetic feeling might not write; and that kind of writing may be very pleasing, but it is not poetry. Fine imagination, strength or subtlety of thought, passion ate feeling, or intensity, airy fancy, power of verbal-coloring, peculiar melody, or individuality of any kind, are not to be found in Mr. Read's verse.

He has written some fugitive lines of tenderness and beauty; but that is not a rare accomplishment. He has yet to vindicate his claim as poet.

Whittier has not that task before him. He has achieved it. His place is as determined and distinctive as that of any of our acknowledged poets. Our literature well knows his clarion call-a call that sweetens and saddens, too, into most pensive music. His last little volume, recently published, contains his most perfect poem, "Maud Muller." We are disposed, indeed, to regard the whole book as the most uniformly excellent he has yet published.

In none of our poetry is there greater naturalness than in Whittier's. Every tone is equally fresh and earnest, whether it be fiery indignation and scorn at wrong, or the whisper of contemplative sadness over early memories and lovely scenes. His wrath never seems hackneyed and conventional, and his pathos is always as persuasive as a child's sorrow. Thus, 66 Rendition," in the present volume, is not less stirring and strong than his earliest anti-slavery poems. No finer or more eloquent word was spoken, during all the excitement which convulsed the city of Boston upon the surrender of Anthony Burns, than the last stanza of "Rendition," in which the poet adjures his native state.

"Mother of Freedom, wise and brave,
Rise awful in thy strength,' I said;
Ah, me! I spake but to the dead;
I stood upon her grave!"

That rings like Milton; but it is a tenderer ire.

Whittier, from an early period of his career, so intimately allied his name to the anti-slavery movement, that his general public recognition is much less extensive than it would otherwise have been. He has been considered a fanatic and an abolition rhymer, until even many sensible people have forgotten that he is a poet. Many of his abolition poems are superb specimens of poetic indignation. Probably in all literary history there was never so much good poetry written by a single man in a single cause. Many poets have struck the lyre for freedom in the abstract, but Whittier strikes his for the abolition of slavery in the United States of America. The wisest critic would predicate a failure in such a career. The result has been

a triumph. Instead of losing himself as a partisan poet, he has with such instinctive sternness and singleness clung to the essential and universal humanity of his theme, that, while he has been true to his own inspiration, he does not outrage even literary sympathy.

Thus, "The Panorama," which gives the title to the volume in hand, is a poem written to be read at the opening of the annual course of antislavery lectures in Boston. But, although so strictly occasional, it is a true poem.

We believe it had little

success when read, and can easily believe it. It is not a poem to be heard in a crowd. The eye must linger upon the lines fully to perceive their excellence. It is a "Panorama" of the possible West;-if given to Freedom, then to peace and prosperity; if to Slavery, then to anarchy. It sparkles with sarcasm and burns with earnest appeals. But through all its fire the softness of a gentle humanity is easily perceived. Whittier's is a humane, not a cynical, protest. It is impossible to read many of his pages without feeling how near the tears are to the eyes that flash, and how much more willingly that singing mouth would bless than ban. But he cannot do otherwise than he does. His genius is more controlled by conscience than that of any poet of equal gifts. Could he have consented to listen less to that monitor, he might have had a wider reputation-he could not have had so noble an influence.

Of later years, although still in middle life, Whittier's poetry, without losing any of its verse, has a more uniform repose and tenderness. Certainly the most resolute sneerer at the rhyming fanatic, as they may choose to call him, cannot but feel the peculiar charm of the lines upon Burns. Halleck, at an earlier date, had already paid his tribute, which has become a part of our literature. This later homage is not less worthy and sympathetic.

"BURNS.

"ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF HEATHER IN BLOSSOM.

"No more these simple flowers belong
To Scottish maid and lover;
Soon in the common soil of song,

They bloom the wide world over.

"In smiles and tears, in sun and showers,
The minstrel and the heather,
The deathless singer and the flowers
He sang of live together.

"Wild heather-bells and Robert Burns!

The inoorland flower and peasant!
How, at their mention, memory turns
Her pages old and pleasant!

"The gray sky wears again its gold
And purple of adorning,

And manhood's noonday shadows hold The dews of boyhood's morning.

"The dews that washed the dust and soil
From off the wings of pleasure,
The sky that flecked the ground of toil
With golden threads of leisure.
"I call to mind the summer day,

The early harvest mowing,
The sky with sun and clouds at play,
And flowers with breezes blowing.
"I hear the blackbird in the corn,

The locust in the haying;
And, like the fabled hunter's horn,
Old tunes my heart is playing.
"How oft that day, with fond delay.

I sought the maple's shadow,
And sang with Burns the hours away,
Forgetful of the meadow!

"Bees hummed, birds twittered, over head
I heard the squirrels leaping,
The good dog listened while I read,

And wagged his tail in keeping.
"I watched him while in sportive mood
I read The Tua Dogs' story,
And half believed he understood
The poet's allegory.

"Sweet day, sweet songs!-The golden hours Grew brighter for that singing,

From brook, and bird, and meadow flowers
A dearer welcome bringing.

"New light on home-seen nature bearned,
New glory over woman;
And daily life and duty seemed

No longer poor and common.
"I woke to find the simple truth
Of fact and feeling better
Than all the dreams that held my youth
A still repining debtor.

"That nature gives her handmaid, art,
The themes of sweet discoursing;
The tender idols of the heart

In every tongue rehearsing.

"Why dream of lands of gold and pearl,
Of loving knight and lady,
When farmer boy and barefoot girl
Were wandering there already?

"I saw through all familiar things
The romance underlying;
The joys and griefs that plume the wings
Of fancy skyward flying.

"I saw the same blithe day return,
The same sweet fall of even,
That rose on wooded Craigie-burn,
And sank on crystal Devon,

"I matched with Scotland's heathery hills
The sweet-brier and the clover:
With Ayr and Doon, my native rills,
Their wood hymns chanting over.

"O'er rank and pomp, as he had seen,
I saw the man uprising;
No longer common or unclean,
The child of God's baptizing!

"With clearer eyes I saw the worth
Of life among the lowly;
The Bible at his Cotter's hearth
Had made my own more holy.
"And, if at times an evil strain,

To lawless love appealing,
Broke in upon the sweet refrain
Of pure and healthful feeling,
"It died upon the eye and ear,

No inward answer gaining; No heart had I to see or hear The discord and the staining.

"Let those who never erred forget

His worth, in vain bewailings; Sweet soul of song! I own my debt Uncancelled by his failings!

"Lament who will the ribald line

Which tells his lapse from duty,
How kissed the maddening lips of wine
Or wanton ones of beauty.

"But think, while falls that shade between
The erring one and heaven.
That he who loved like Magdalen,
Like her, may be forgiven.

"Not his the song whose thunderous chime Eternal echoes render

The mournful Tuscan's haunted rhyme,
And Milton's starry splendor!

But who his human heart has laid
To nature's bosom nearer?
Who sweetened toil like him, or paid
To love a tribute dearer?

"Through all his tuneful art, how strong
The human feeling gushes!
The very moonlight of his song

Is warm with smiles and blushes!

"Give lettered pomp to teeth of time,
So Bonnie Doon' but tarry;
Blot out the epic's stately rhyme,
But spare his Highland Mary!"

Nor can we refrain from enriching our pages with the poem which is sufficient evidence of the quality and reality of Whittier's poetic genius.

"The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

"He drew his bridle in the shade

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed

Through the meadow, across the road.

"She stooped where the cool spring bubbled

up.

And filled for him her small tin-cup.

"And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare and her tattered gown. "Thanks!' said the Judge, a sweeter draught

From a fairer hand was never quaffed.' "He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and trees,

Of the singing-birds and the humming-becs; "Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether

The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

"And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, And her graceful ankles bare and brown; "And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. "At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

"Maud Muller looked and sighed: Ah, me! That I the Judge's bride might be!

"He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine.

poor.

And all should bless me who left our door."

"The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,

And saw Maud Muller standing still.

"A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. "And her modest answer and graceful air, Show her wise and good as she is fair. "Would she were mine, and I, to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay.

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues. "But low of cattle and song of birds, And health, and quiet, and loving words.' "But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,

And his mother vain of her rank and gold. "So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone.

"But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court an old love-tune.

"And the young girl mused beside the well, Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

"He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as he for power. "Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, He watched a picture come and go. And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes, Looked out in their innocent surprise. "Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well instead ; "And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, To dream of meadows and clover blooms. "And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain:

'Ah, that I were free again!

Free as when I rode that day,

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.' "She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door. “But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain. "And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, "And she heard the little spring brook fall, Over the roadside, through the wall, "In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein.

"And, gazing down with timid grace, See felt his pleased eyes read her face. "Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls; "The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned, "And for him who sat by the chimney-lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, "A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law. Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, It might have been.' "Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge! "God pity them both! and pity us all,

66

Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: It might have been!'

"Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes;

"And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away!"

Except that "been" is made to rhyme with "again" and "pen," and that a New England country girl would hardly think of being toatsed at the wine, this is a perfect poem. The New England

character is given to it by the fewest, but most characteristic, touches, and it no more occurs to the mind that the scene is out of New England, than that Claude's landscapes are in it. The poem treats one of the grand tragic facts of life, without the least straining, but with a simplicity which is the highest reach of art, and the surest sign of genius.

It is not difficult to believe that such a poet speaks truly, when he says, as in the conclusion of "The Panorama".

O, not of choice, for themes of public wrong, I leave the green and pleasant paths of song

The mild, sweet words, which soften and adorn,

For grinding taunt and bitter laugh of scorn. More dear to me some song of private worth,

Some homely idyl of my native North, Some summer pastoral of her inland vales And sea-brown hamlets, through whose misty gales

Flit the dim ghosts of unreturning sailsLost barks at parting hung from stern to helm

With prayers of love like dreams on Virgil's elm;

Nor private grief nor malice hold my pen;
I owe but kindness to my fellow-men.
And, South or North, wherever hearts of
prayer

Their woes and weakness to our Father bear,
Wherever fruits of Christian love are found
In holy lives, to me is holy ground."

We shall say no more of the poets this month; nor do we ever say anything of them, especially to censure, without remembering, with humility, the contemporary judgments of the earlier part of the century upon men who are now as much beyond discussion as Milton or Pope. Whenever, in the course of our critical duty, we find ourselves saying of a poem, that it is not good, or of its author, that he is not a poet, we long, in the same sentence, to say to that author, "Dear sir, it is not of the slightest consequence. It is only our opinion, not the opinion of the world, nor the judg ment of posterity. Remember Wordsworth, dear sir, and Keats. Remember how prophets are always stoned at home. Remember how proverbially dull the critics are. Remember, above all, that the dullest of those critics, when he says that a poem or a picture is not good, is not blind to the occasional sweet color and music; but cannot, with any conscience, call a bit of bright color a picture, nor a line of sweet musie a poem."