BICKERSTETH'S POEMS. *

Tins volume exhibits considerable fertility and poetical power, overlaid by the faults which spring from youth and inexperience. Mt!. Bicker- steth's attempts at originality are not founded upon Nature as she is, or as she appeared to the fears or fancies of superstition in former ages ; so that he is rather singular than new, when he aims at novelty. A species of shadowy indistinctness obtains throughout his longer poems. It is not merely shown in the fluency with which he pours forth sentiments and images, that rather hide than exhibit the principal idea; but is seen in the structure of his pieces. These, indeed, are faults that time may remedy ; but time, in ripening the greenness and removing the crudities of youth, often dissolves its enthusiasm. If Mr. Bickersteth wishes to be a poet, he must cultivate as well as wait.

The longest if not the most elaborate poem in the volume is "Cent- line." The substance of the tale is not uncommon. A youthful minstrel falls in love with his patron's daughter, and she returns his passion. Her father, as was the wont of fathers in the days of chivalry, cuts short the business by cutting off the minstrel. The lady, without abandoning her du- ties, dies of grief on her lover's grave ; and the father, it may be supposed, of remorse. Mr. Bickersteth aims at giving freshness and force to so trite a subject, by engrafting upon it the supernatural and the theological; but not with the art or felicity which is necessary to render such an attempt suc- cessful. The lady C,eruline is not grieved enough to die of natural sor- row; she merely wishes to join her lover in "the far countree" where he dwells and expires by what the laws would call the "visitation" of Hoe/. Sir Allayed's remorse is not of the killing kind : he dies, it would seem, in answer to the prayers of his daughter and his victim, during a fit of penitence. With this newness in reference to the supernatural is mixed up a considerable alloy of the theatrical : Ceraline and Hod l depart for "the far countree " in a ear, very like that of Venus. The material, not to say the sensual, is too much blended with the world of spirits; and the religious moral is not made very distinct, nor does it appear to be of sufficient consequence. Hence, notwithstanding a well-told narrative, musical verse, much feeling, and many images, " Ceruline " will fail to command or attract, from the want of plan and matter; things that are all in all, but of which poets think far too little, confining their attention to the execution, which will generally accompany the two essentials.

There are a variety of other poems in the volume; but the two most important are "The Things that Are," and "The Earthquake." "The Things that Are" was intended as the beginning of a long poem on the Present and the Future. "The piece was designed to delineate the true state of mind a man must possess ere he could truly and rightfully con- template the course of time." This is not well accomplished. Inde- pendently of the besetting sin of dreamy vagueness, it is too extensive for an individual portrait, too indistinct for a general picture. We are not introduced to the world of history, of man, of mind, or of nature, but merely to the writer's own reveries. "The Earthquake," called by the writer a continuation of his first theme, refers to the late Continental re- volutions; and the facts compel something more of clearness. The fol- lowing sketch or character of Louis Philippe may serve as an example of' the poem and the poet.

"The sharp shock of the earthquake ceased. Mine eye Fell where the thunder of its ruin and wreck Seem'd loudest, on the guilty land of France.

And—as a scene of sunset glory plays Delusively before us, though the sun

Be sunk, and wintryldarkness clouding heaven—

A moment on my spirit's eye there flash'd A dream of bygone hours: a monarch throned

On arms and proud ambition, and the will—

(Of fickle, frail foundations, frailest this)-- A 130 ple's shifting will, who scoff'd to own The fountain of all kingly power in God.

Poor man ! yet seem'd he throned securely: long

His fate hung o'er him ere it fell, and long The earthquake slumber'd under ere it came. Long years he reign'd: his gilded sceptre sway'd Pale crowds of flattering menials, men who swore Allegiance, and innumerable throngs Of warriors, and a Godless multitude Whose god was Pleasure, and the lawless fires Of dastard men whom sin alone inspired With boldness, and a few heroic souls Who pray'd and wept o'er that they saw and heard In solitude, and many aching hearts. Long years he reign'd: the assassin's hand in vain Was raised against him oftentimes, but still God's mightier hand was o'er him; and the floods

Of evil chafed and toss'd themselves in vain—

The hour of their unloosing was not come; And God reserved him for no common falL

Long years he reign'd: and with the liberal hand

Of kingly friendship woo'd alliances With distant courts, if only he might stay

His throne with strength, and crown his children's brows. Nor lack'd he arms, or armies, or brave fleets,

Nor bulwarks lack'd, nor anything but God.

But in the prime of glory, when his heart Spoke peace unto itself and tranquil age,

What time his kingly throne the kingliest show'd,

Then came the voice from Heaven= There is no peace!' And straightway a convulsive trembling shook

The ground whereon his throne was planted—none

Might save him then ; earth shadder'd, and the heavens Frown'd: fearfulness besieged and storm'd

His spirit, deem'd impregnable till now. A few wild, unavailing struggles—fool !

• Poems. By Edward Henry Bickersteth, Curate of BannInglism, Pnb- Balled by Seeleys.

As well go struggle to erect thy throne Upon the Alpine avalanche-and all Pass'd like a fugitive dream. They who had sworn To live and die 'beside him, where were they ?

Where were his courtly friends, his dastard troops, His statesmen, and his warriors, and his peers? Where were his loving subjects, where was France ? Was it they soon a power that came of man

And not of God ? was it a viewless Hand

Withheld them? was it that they croncled with fear ?

None raised a hand; none moved a fixa; none spake: The earthquake palsied every arm, and blanch'd All faces pale, and drain'd all hearts of blood. And like a fugitive dream it pass'd : his throne Lay shatter'd in the dust, his palaces Were ransack'd by a foul infuriate crowd; His armies struck a strange and traitorous league With robbers and with murderers, and calfd Them brethren ; and his darling capital Became a den of lawlessness and guilt And devils, under semblance of control; And trembled with dark memories of the past, Dark bodings of the future, wild despair, And wild insensate hopes of golden bliss."