REVIEWS. G9 



begins with his axioms, postulates, and definitions, the very first rule we 

 ought to have for good writing — and poetry, I suppose, is to be considered 

 as the handiwork of those for whom prose is not good enough — ought to 

 be that it should be capable of being understood, and understood easily 

 and at once, where at least the subject is not difficult. 



How refreshing then to meet here and there with a poet whose poetry 

 has the rare merit of being understandable! — Here we have one of this 

 class. The writer, too, is evidently one who "loves the country for the 

 country's sake," and thoroughly understands the healthy enjoyment of it, 

 and what is more to my present purpose, expresses himself, I say, in such 

 a way as that his readers may enter into his feelings and go with him up the 

 mountain side, or by the cool brook, along the green meadow or the shady 

 lane, and pay with him a morning visit to a country neighbour, at the 

 old hall, grey parsonage, gabled farm-house, or quaint cottage. This I 

 speak, or write rather, of one of his poems, "Frank Sylvan," for there are 

 several others in the volume to suit a variety of tastes, as follows : — "The 

 Holy Cottage," "Genius," "The Champion," "An Evening Walk," "The 

 Devil's Dream on Mount Aksbeck," "The River," "The Christian Bride," 

 "Byron," "Belshazzar's Feast," "The Swallow," "Monkwood," "Night," 

 "Tales of the Siege of Jerusalem," "Fanny," "A Summer Day," "The 

 Captive of Fez," "A Winter Day," "Wash the feet of poor old Age/ 

 "The Tragic Poem of Wold," "My Mother's Grave." "Flowers of the 

 old Scottish Thistle," "The Prophecy," "The Translation of Beauty," 

 "Recovery from Sickness," "Nebuchadnezzar," "A Father's Curse," "A 

 Mother's Blessing," "The Churchyard," "The Old Soldier," "To a Young 

 Poet," and "The Demoniac." 



Some of these poems are just what one likes, and undeniably good 

 poetry, and, what is still better, a manly, natural tone pervades them, and 

 a spirit of morality, reverence, and piety. It will not however do for me 

 after what I have said, to set myself up as a critic of poetry, but so far 

 as I have to do so, I must fulfil that most essential part of a critic's 

 character, and go out of my way to find fault — no very difficult matter, 

 good reader, with any book of human composition that ever was written. 

 I will however be very brief; in fact there is very little fault, except as 

 thus searched out, to find. The author seems to me too fond of the use 

 of the word "aye," (for "ever,") a fault I have often seen before in the 

 poems of others, for it cannot be right to make common use of a disused 

 word solely for the sake of the filling up measurement. Thus on pages 

 9, 13, 14, 18, and 68. 



There are also some words used which are unknown to me, and I should 

 suppose to others, but that may be the fault of my ignorance and theirs, 

 such as "pleached," "spilth," "swirls," "lipping," etc. These, however, are 



