Nature- aud Art, November 1, 1836.] 
POEMS BY ALFRED B. RICHARDS, 
191 
POEMS,* BY ALFRED B. RICHARDS. 
npHERrE is a thorough -hearteclness about Mr. 
JL Richards, which will come home to every 
reader of his poems. On the other hand, critics 
cannot help noticing his imperfect execution of 
many good conceptions. His leading lyric is 
clearly overweighted by its name ; - for Religio 
Animce ■ suggests a strain of intense sublimity, and 
not a mere song of the affections, however charm- 
ing it may be. A poet feels the life of the soul so 
strong within him, that he cannot doubt of its 
independent existence ; yet his nervous tempera- 
ment makes him peculiarly liable to fits of despon- 
dency, and nothing is more likely to bring them 
on, than an hour in a circle of Realists. This sore 
trial, we imagine, has been endured by Mr. 
Richards ; and, on returning to the gods of his 
own hearthside, he has poured forth his feelings in 
pure, sweet verses. But it requires a deeper voice 
than his to chant the Religio Animce. His best 
quality, we repeat, is thorough-heartedness. This 
is eminently displayed in his ballads ; but none of 
these are short enough to be quoted entire, and 
their merits ai’e not of a kind to be fairly exhibited 
in extracts. “ The Convict’s Escape,” for instance, 
is effective as a whole. It tells of a Frenchman 
who has escaped from the galleys, and who begs 
for shelter and food at a poor cottage. The 
peasants themselves are starving ; their son has 
been carried off by the conscription ; and their 
youngest grandchild is at the point of death. 
The convict forces the grandfather to lead him 
back to prison and claim the reward. The 
scheme is discovered, but ultimately pardoned ; 
and the cottagers annually keep the day in honour 
of the convict, but remember it also as the day 
when their little Francois died. The homely 
pathos of this story is heightened by its artless 
style : yet its texture is plain, perhaps to a fault, 
and supplies the journalist with no gmrpwei 
panni for excision. In the “ Message of Cir- 
cassia,” and in “ Pipeclay and Bunting,” the author 
rates Old England soundly for deserting the cause 
of freedom abroad, and for neglecting her own 
soldiers. He makes eloquent appeals to her, also, 
both in verse and prose, on behalf of the suffering 
pool’, and throughout all such passages he speaks 
like a warm-hearted son, a man of mettle and 
feeling, who would be the last to disallow the 
merits and claims of his native country. But he 
is not without other moods of the mind. Two of 
his poems were written in connection with the 
designs of one of our finest artists, Mr. Frederick 
Sandys ; these are “ Banae,” and “ Helen and Cas- 
sandra.” Now and then, too, after the fashion of 
all poets, he indulges in reveries, for mere delight 
in melancholy music. We had marked some of 
* “ BeUgio Animal, and other Poems.” By Alfred 
B. Richards, author of “ Croesus, King of Lydia.” London : 
Edward Moxon & Co., Dover Street. 
these for quotation, such as, “Would I might fall 
asleep,” or “ Pale Memory is Mine ; ” but after 
all, we prefer turning to a poem hi which delicacy 
of rhythm is combined with pathos. The follow- 
ing are two of the opening passages of “ Let Jeune 
Fille et la Mort — 
“ In a low and squalid room 
Darkening 1 in the twilight gloom, 
With one broken lattice small 
Peering through the sullied wall ; 
Near which tall and spectral trees 
Shiver in the chill night breeze — 
Such as, by some mansion lone, 
Linked with Murder’s tale have grown — 
Sleeps a young girl wearily ; 
O’er her wan face flit strange fears, 
The ashen trace of tears 
Defiles her hollow cheek : 
In disordered dream 
Her light tresses stream 
All about her pillow ; 
Not in fairy freak, 
But like the heavy willow 
O’er a pool of woe : 
Sad it is to see 
Her neck’s sharp tracery 
Shadowed deeply so 
By the dim light in the room, 
Like her, dying into gloom. 
Suddenly the moon stole there, 
Threading fast her shadowy hair 
Into silver brightness rare, 
Mist-like floating with soft grace 
Round her wan and pearly face ; 
And I saw a bright red streak 
On her eyelids, on her cheek ; 
But her lips were pale and lurid, 
As a Lily from the earth 
Sprung in slow and sunless birth ; 
All in dark, cold shadows buried : — 
Then I knew the poor girl’s doom, 
Fading early to the tomb.” 
She awakes and sees Death, in visible shape, 
standing beside her, — 
“ Then the flutter of her heart 
Hurries into beating- ; 
With a dull and muffled Sound- 
Each stroke a hunted creature’s bound, 
And her quivering lips apart 
Into sculptured anguish start : 
In the pale moon’s chilling beam 
You might have seen her bosom striving, 
Like your own, in fearful dream, 
Or a snow-wreath tossing, driving ; 
And her breath so fleeting 
Might be heard, in choking sob and cry — 
‘ I am so young to die, 
• Too young to die ! ’ ” 
At the close of the poem she becomes resigned; 
the grisly phantom hides away, and she dies in peace. 
We conclude with a little piece, which is a choice 
specimen of art. It is an easy matter to mimic 
the turns of speech, but it is a positive feat to 
think the thoughts of our ancestors. Whilst the 
revival of learning was still fresh, the images of 
classical mythology were more to the poet than 
pretty figures of fancy. Old Chapman, the stately 
