RYISES AND ROUNDELAYES. THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH.

Amin the quantity of verse continually pouring forth from the press, the two little volumes at the head of this notice may claim some distinction ; not indeed as effusions of a very high or striking kind, but as exhibiting evidences of poetical power, with some novelty of subject or independence of treatment.

Of the two publications, Byrnes and Roundelayes display most force of style, strength of mind, and variety of topic, if they have not so sustained a story. They also, in " The Storm Fiends," contain a more ambitious attempt at poetical art, though scarcely a very successful one ; Mr. NOEL being deficient in the power of embodying supernatural characters, or managing supernatural

themes. Hence, his miscellaneous poems are better than his more elaborate attempts : but he chiefly excels in description, or in sub- jects whose nature can be evolved by meditation or speculation. In pure description of scenery, however, be is somewhat prone to fall into the common error of overdoing,—as in the " Sea-side Ramble "; a fault difficult to avoid where many images are existing in nature, and all seeming equally to challenge attention when considered in succession. The " art of leaving out" is of difficult acquirement, and only attainable after long observation of the essential charac- ter of scenery. Till this faculty be acquired, the best general rule is to take the elements of the first impression : when a poet begins to look about him to reckon up items, he is apt to slip into the inventorial style.

As we think Mr. NOEL has more in him than he has yet brought out, unless in a few occasional poems, and as example is better than: precept, it may be as well to exemplify the causes of failure in he probably considers as his best production, "The Storm Fien The apparent object of this poem is to exhibit the contrast of and storm, and to describe in detail the terrors of a shipwreck The scene opens with the entrance of a Good Spirit ; who, afte14" monologue descriptive of the placid beauties of the scene, mak

his exit ; and the Storm Fiend enters, expressing his distate of th calm, and calling upon his ministrants to rouse a tempest. When this is done, a vessel is driven upon the rocks; the Fiends assemble round it in triumph, commenting upon the speeches, and somewhat long speeches, which the crew make ; and when the vessel is destroyed and the crew drowned, the Good Spirit enters to make a lamentation ; with which the poem closes. Passing over some weaknesses of composition in the storm itself,— which seems metaphysical rather than natural, the result of specu- lation rather than observation,—the machinery violates the first canon of criticism : it is not wanted—a description of a calm, a storm, and a wreck, would have accomplished all that Mr. NOEL effects by means of his supernaturals ; whilst no practical results fol- low from the machinery, for the obvious use of the Good Spirit, in baffling the Storm Fiends and saving the crew, is not adopted. Neither are the supernaturals sufficiently distinguished from mortals : the Good Spirit is an amiable sort of person, but he is not a spirit ; and the Fiends are only fiends in masquerade. These defects, however, might have been unfelt had there been more of story and business in the poem : but, although thrown into the dramatic form, there is no action. The Good Spirit comes in and talks ; the Fiends come in and talk ; the crew and passengers are brought in talking ; even the storm and the wreck itself are de- scribed in speeches ; and as nothing is gained by all these orations, the poet might as well have spoken in his own person. The best thing is the drunken sailor's song ; in which the jollity of a tar is well expressed : but he might have sung it sober.

As mere poetry, selected images expressed in well-chosen and flowing language, " The Storm Fiend " may be read with pleasure : but many of the shorter poems are more coherent, and therefore much better as wholes. Such are the following lines.

SPRINO-FLOWERS.

The crocus and the aconite

Are shedding forth a golden light ; The virgin snowdrop waves her bell Upon the breeze, and tolls farewell To winter frore, Whose ice-chains hoar Are loosening over hill and deli The violets, both the white and blue, Again the sunny banks bestrew, With loving looks and breathings sweet,

Up-springing from the fleeting feet

Of winter frore, Who curbs once more The scatterings of his snow and sleet.

The hepatica, at noontide hour, Unfolds her pink, or azure flower ; And, here and there, a primrose shy Peeps from the copse, and smiles good-by To winter frore, And tells once more That happy, happy spring is nigh!

Ye little flowers, the first to bloom From out the caves of cold and gloom, I lore ye dear, and look on ye As heralds of eternity, When winter frore Shall be no more, And spring shall smile unendingly !

A peculiar characteristic of Mr. NOEL'S manner is a formal reck- lessness in treating serious subjects ; which, however, serves to bring out their true nature more effectually than the intense mode. Of this an example is furnished by THE PAUPER'S DRIVE.

There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot ;

To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot :

The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs, And hark to the dirge that the sad driver sings : "Rattle his bones over the stones; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!"

Oh, where are the mourners? alas ! there are none ; He has left not a gap in the world now he's gone ;

Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man.

To the grave with his carcase as fast as you can : " Rattle his bones over the stones ; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns !"

What a jolting and creaking, and splashing and din ! The whip how it cracks! and the wheels how they spin!

How the dirt, right and left, o'er the Ledges is hurl'd !

The pauper at length makes a noise in the world ! "Rattle his bones over the stones; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!"

Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some approach To gentility, now that Le's stretch'd in a coach! He's taking kdrive in his carriage at last : But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast.

"Rattle his bones over the stones ; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns I" You bumpkins! who stare at your brother convey'd, Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid, And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low, You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go.

"Rattle his bones over the stones ;

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!"

But a truce to this strain ; for my soul it is sad

To think that a heart, in humanity clad, Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end, And depart from the light without leaving a friend!

Bear softly his bones over the stones ; Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns!

The Cottager's Sabbath is a pastoral subject, though not of the old pastoral form ; being a long narration, varied by incident, reflection, episode, and introduction. The poem describes the occupations of a cottager, or small yeoman of the old school, on an eventful Sabbath, though none of the incidents " o'er- step the modesty of nature" or exceed the realities of life. After a description of the cottage and its garden, the village patriarch takes his youngest boys to see the sun rise, in order to dissipate a rustic superstition that the luminary dances on the longest day ; and the walk to and fro furnishes matter of description, as the rising sun and other incidents enable the ah- cient peasant to deduce a variety of morals. Breakfast supplies the author with a subject for his pencil in the interior of a cottage, and the domestic economy of an older date than the present day; for if the manners exist, as Mr. MULLEN intimates, " in some of the rural districts of England," we fear the plenty does not. Sun- day-schools, the church and service, a cottager's dinner, the patri- arch's visit to the sick, some episodical narratives of the poor he encounters, or the spots he passes, or the tales which different cha- racters tell, and the return of the Cottager's eldest son from fo- reign service, with a love-tale connected therewith, complete the topics of The Cottager's Sabbath. In the first requisite of an author, knowledge of his subject, Mr. MULLEN is proficient : his work throughout displays touches both of rural nature and rustic character ; and except in some occa- sional reflections rather above the peasant, the style is well attuned to the subject. The versification is easy, harmonious, and flowing ; the images are natural and apt ; and many of the descriptions are exceedingly pleasant bits of rural painting. A want of strength and power is the deficiency of the poem ; but it may be questioned if the subject admitted of being treated in a more striking way, without losing some of its rural character.

As an example of the author's descriptive style, we may take the opening sketch of

AN ENGLISH COTTAGE.

Beside a lane, diverging from a wood, Where tall tree-tops o er-roof'd the grassy way, A white-washed cot in calm seclusion stood, And, sloping down to face the Southern ray, Before the door a well-stocked garden lay; Clean-weeded beds by winding walks outspread, Where household roots were ripening day by day, And blossomed beans delicious perfume shed, While fruit-trees bending low, arched closely overhead.

All round the place a look of comfort beamed, True English comfort, homely, calm, and sweet! The very trees, amid their stillness, seemed With quiet joy their leafy friends to meet, And on the roses smiled beside their feet : The shaded lane, the soft and balmy air, The breath of flowers new-waked the morn to greet, All seemed so pure, so innocent, and fair, That in such scenes as these man never need despair.

Along the walls sweet-scented creepers hung, Nailed here and there, their fragile stems to stay; And after rain the gentle breezes flung Such floating fragrance far across the way, As lured the bees from distant fields to stray; A rustic porch with straggling woodbine dressed, And blooming roses, made the cottage gay; While near at hand, the plum-tree's welcome guest, Three summers undisturbed a thrush had built her nest.

In two small plots with border-box hemmed round, Rare healing plants and choicest pot-herbs grew; The garden-balm, 'mid village dames renowned, And fragrant thyme, its rich aroma threw O'er mint and white-leaved sage, and bitter rue.

Not far from these the straw-thatched bee-hives stood, Where in and out, all day, incessant flew The labouring bees, so bent on public good That idlers none disgraced that busy neighbourhood.

The following stanzas display a characteristic of the author, a touch of quiet humour.

SABBATH-MORN IN A VILLAGE.

The shop wherein on week-days were exposed, At door and window, various things for sale, Demurely now all apertures Lad closed

That faced the road—no sign of weight or scale :

But turn the corner—what a different tale!

There stands the man of measures and of weights, On whom each lazy slattern can prevail To weigh the snuff or serve " a pound of eights," While she some patched-up lie with ready tongue relates.

And there, as if at least one-half ashamed, The butcher's shop had all the shutters closed, Although the door wide open still proclaimed How for his neighbour's welfare he exposed His soul to hell, with cheerful looks composed. The baker, too, refining further still, Through half the door his willingness disclosed, With eager haste, the hungry mouth to fill,

Provided they who came put money in the till.