1831.] 



[ 669 ] 



MONTHLY REVIEW OF LITERATURE, DOMESTIC AND FOREIGN. 



Summer and Winter Hours, by Henry 

 Glassford Bell These poems have no- 

 thing to do with either summer or win- 

 ter hours in particular ; but are so styled 

 partly for the sake of a title, and part- 

 ly because they are the " fruits of idle 

 hours stolen in those seasons from graver, 

 though not more congenial pursuits." 

 They are, in fact, occasional pieces 

 slender effusions prompted by circum- 

 stances the relaxations of a cultivated 

 mind, with a taste for verse-making, and 

 indulging it, without putting forth ex- 

 travagant pretensions. They are un- 

 elaborate morsels, that call for no seve- 

 rity, for they challenge no distinction 

 nevertheless several of them are felici- 

 tous enough, and prove the possession of 

 a power that requires only to be exerted 

 to produce more important results. The 

 Epistles to and from a pair of Cousins, 

 separated for years, are very agreeable 

 trifles, in good taste and discretion. We 

 quote a stanza or two from the lady's 

 reply. 

 I wish you would pack your portmanteau, Hal, 



And fling yourself into the mail, 

 Jt will lake little more than a day and a night 



To bring you to Langley Dale. 

 1 Tis the sweetest spot in the world, Hal, 



And just for a poet like you ; 

 A lovelier scene of hill and grove 



No pointer ever drew. 



And I want you to know my husband, Hal, 



For I'm sure you'll be pleased with each other; 

 And, besides, we have three rosy children, Hal, 



All amazingly like their mother ; 

 I hear their merry voices now, 



Even now from among the trees, 

 O, Hal ! what a fathomless depth of joy 



To a mother in sounds like these! 



At all events, come to see us, Hal, 



Ere the golden months be past, 

 For I think you are not so happy, Hal, 



As when we parted last ; 

 Ami if there be song or word of mine, 



That can either soothe or please, 

 We'll bury all your cares, dear Hal, 



Deep in oblivion's seas. 

 We'll bnry all your cares, dear Hal, 



A thousand fathoms down, 

 And we'll send you back a merrier man 



To your friends in the busy town ; 

 We'll send you back with a ruddier cheek, 



And a brighter beaming eye, 

 And again you will tread with a bounding step, 



Again will your heart beat high. 



The Bridal Night, $c., by Dugald 

 Moore, author of " Scenes from the Flood" 

 $-c. -The manufacture of verse becomes 

 every day more and more facile, and the 

 labourers of course multiply in propor- 

 tion. There is such a prodigious stock 

 of ready-made phrases, images, and cha- 

 racters, exclusively poetical in the mar- 



ket, within every body's reach, and at 

 every body's command, that all the 



Siung masters and misses, as soon as 

 ey can clutch a pen, have only to 

 stretch out their hands, and fill them 

 to their hearts' content. The frolic 

 would be perfectly harmless, if they did 

 not print but print they must, or it is 

 labour lost with them. It is in vain to 

 urge upon them, nobody reads. Grasp- 

 ing as is the passion of vanity, and espe- 

 cially the vanity that prompts to verse- 

 scribbling, it is the most accommodating 

 of human infirmities the most flexible 

 arid elastic of the India-rubber texture 

 if it cannot command the admiration 

 of the universe, it will be tickled with 

 the plaudits of a family circle, or a next- 

 door neighbour. Though, therefore, out 

 of every three persons that can spell, 

 one takes to dabbling in poetry ; he or 

 she generally secures the applause of 

 the other two, which is better than no- 

 thing, and enough to keep vanity warm. 

 These remarks are forced from us, per- 

 haps, in a fit of waspish impatience we 

 are but men. Our table groans with 

 masses of verse; and discrimination, 

 where all have a family likeness, and 

 one not better than another, is past all 

 mortal power. If we say, then, that 

 Mr. Dugald Moore of the Bridal Night, 

 is of a dashing and aspiring cast, and 

 writes smoothly and nowingly with 

 shows of vivacity and fire and has By- 

 ron by heart, and for ever at his pen's 

 end, we give a fair representation of 

 his quality, and need add no more. For- 

 merly, in descriptive scenes, poets culled 

 and selected laboriously and fastidiously 

 now, they universally accumulate, 

 and, of course, mere piling and packing 

 costs very little. 



Day sets in glory o'er the Ionian sea, 

 Night gathers round him like eternity ; 

 And all is hush'd, as if the rosy mouth 

 Of love breathed o'er his own delicious south. 

 'Tis one of those sweet eves, so calm, so clear, 

 And living, that you almost think you hear, 

 In the warm air, the very wild-flowers grow, 

 And the young blood through their green channels 



flow. 



Joy seems to breathe his songs in every bower, 

 As if Death's foot had never crushed a flower ; 

 While music floats along the twilight deep, 

 As nature saw bright visions in her sleep, 

 And, like an infant through a glorious dream, 

 Murmured delight from every hill and stream ! 

 The winds lie wearied with their morning chase, 

 Embraced by silence in the halls of space ; ' 

 And as the gorgeous clouds to darkness pass, 

 You see the stars, in many a fairy mass, 

 Laughing along the desert of the air, 

 Apart, or grouped, like happy lovers there ; 

 While the warm breeze that slowly warbles by, 

 Wanders away, like pleasure, with a sigh. 



