12 AUGUST 1848, Page 17

JAMES GREGOR GRANT'S POEMS.

THE truest test of power in poetry is self-dependence. There is enough in these volumes both of purity and delicacy of sentiment, and musical finish of execution, to cause regret that the writer should have so often borrowed his inspirations. We would not be understood to charge Mr. Grant with conscious plagiarism ; but he has written too much under the influence of sympathetic admiration. One half of his volumes is an echo; a very melodious echo, it is true, but " damnable iteration " for all that. Was there no friend at hand to weed the volumes of every- thing that smacked of neighbouring seed-plots ? The two volumes might have shrunk to one under a judicious hand; but Mr. Grant's unusual and unquestionable grace, facility, and tenderness, would have been all the better displayed within the narrower compass.

We should at once infer that these volumes are the product of a life passed away frum the centre of literary intercourse, cliquery, and gos- sip. A Londoner would never have preserved his faculty of literary admiration so fresh as it shows through thise poems. He would never have risked the imputation of copyiam, which the naive expression of that admiration in Mr. Grant's verses will certainly suggest to unsym- pathetic readers.

The principal poem of two goodly volumes is an expansion of Dante's theme of "Madonna Pia,"—the lady of Sienna, who died in a bleak tower of the Marenama, victim to the jealousy (groundless, says the le- gend) of her husband. Her fate prompted one of those gushes of inimitable tenderness, such as the tale of Francesca, which soften the stern horror of the Inferno, and are in truth the parts of it most cherished in common recollections of that stupendous poem. Mr. Grant has spun out the four lines of his original into some forty-seven pages of ottava rima. The theme might have supplied matter for even a more elaborate treatment in sterner hands ; but Mr. Grant has only used the obvious topics of the legend ; and his poem, graceful as it is and tender, while it aspires to give form and shape to the misty terror that broods round the four mysterious lilies of Dante, really brings down the suffering of the wife to a disagree- able death from marsh-fever, and the vague vengeance of the husband to a positive act of groundless and disgusting barbarity.

Mr. Grant is happiest in his shorter poems. These are extremely va- rious, both grave and gay, in theme ; taking all forms, from the Words- worthian sonnet and Catullian epithalamic song, to the swinging trysyl- labic dance of Tommy Moore and the long roll of the Tennyson's' n tro- chaic, besides employing the whole range of the more common lyric mea- sures. Mr. Grant handles English with unusual propriety, and employs metre with great ease, if not always with perfect ear. Throughout he dedicates his verse in the spirit of a true worshiper of Nature, and (saving a little vein of middle-aged reminiscence of over-ardent love-making, coldly received) writes like a pure, thoughtful, honest, and affectionate man, and a genuine poet in his perception of and reverence for the beautiful. There are two series of sonnets ; one a memorial of the Lake country, the other of Belgium. We select from the first this EtTVOCATION.

Yet once more, oh ye mountains ! and once more,

Ye lakes and streams, deep glens, and valliee fair! We drink the freshness of your gladsome air,

By sounding cataract or silent shore, On pebbled merge, or shrubless summit hoar,

On verdant lea, or craggy headland bare; Or, on your mirrored depths, the deep hash there

antly dispel with gently-dipping oar. How changed from the loud world! No sound awakes

Loader or sterner than the gush of rills. Oh, lovely forms ! for your majestic sakes,

Pure be each thought your loveliness instils; Fresh as your fountains, lofty as your hills,

Deep, pure, and placid, as your glittering lakes!

The desolation of Bruges inspires these graceful lines.

BRUGES.

Me, gentle Bruges, in thy silent streets (Whose antique gabled frontlets, soaring high, Catch the last splendours of the evening sky) No strain of late, no sound of music greets; No voice my country's lyric voice repeats, To cheer or sadden me in wandering by, From turret grate, or convent casement nigh, Where pensive Beauty from the world retreats; Nor sound nor sight to startle or embolden, Breaks on the drowsy ear or quiet glance. Grey walls and spires here sleep in shadowy trance, Or glimmer there in sunset glory golden; And thou, thus picturesquely quaint and olden, Art in thyself, oh Bruges ! a romance.

The writer's mastery both of language and style is fairly shown in this on

POETS.

Poets are a joyous race! O'er the laughing earth they go, Shedding charms oer many a place Nature never favour'd so; Still to each divinest spot Led by some auspicious star, Scattering flowers where flowers are not,

Making lovelier those that are.

Poets are a mournful race!

O'er the weary earth they go, Darkening many a sunny place Nature never darken'd so; Still to each sepulchral spot Call'd by spectral lips afar,

Fancying tombs where tombs are not,

Making gloomier those which are.

Poets are a gifted race! If their gifts aright they knew;

Fallen splendour, perish'd grace, Their enchantments can renew: They have power o'er day and night;

Life, with all its joys and cares— Earth, with all its bloom and blight—

Tears and transport—all are theirs !

Poets are a wayward race I

Loneliest still when least alone, They can find in every place Joys and sorrows of their own: Grieved or glad by fitful starts, Pangs they feel that no one shares, And a joy can fill their hearts

That can fill no hearts but theirs.

Poets are a mighty race !

They can reach to times unborn; They can brand the vile and base With undying hate and scorn; They can ward detraction's blow; They oblivion's tide can stem;

And the good and brave must owe

Immortality to them!

These extracts will sufficiently prove that Mr. Grant may safely trust to himself. Let him take the counsel suggested by his own better judg► ment in his stanzas "after writing certain paraphrases from Hazlitt."

" Why thus my idle efforts bound To clothing others' thoughts anew, While Nature from her breast profound Scatters a thousand themes around, And prompts, in every sight and sound, With inspiration true?

" What though she rear no giant throne 'Midst Alpine solitude and storms; She deigns the humblest spot to own, And clasps within her mighty zone A violet, by a mossy stone,' Fondly as mightiest forms.

" Go to the brooks, the woods, the fields,

And list her prompting accents there: With others' quarried thoughts who builds, With others' borrowed gold who gilds,

The palm which Fame or Honour yields

Shall never, never bear.

" The lofty meed, unsold, unbought,

To dreaming idlesso ' shall not fall. Deep lie the golden mines of thought,

In our own bosoms to be wrought, Or perish there, like gems unsought, And treasures hid from all.

" 0 Truth, Love, Nature, mighty three I (Or are ye one?) nurse ye my dreams!

Your lore divine pour forth on me, And bid my spirit feel and see, E'en in the humblest things that be,

A thousand prompting themes!"

Above all, let him study the great condition of limitation in art, which works to curtail poems as well as cut down volumes, and apportions un- erringly the poetical dress to the dimensions of the poetical thought, making each couplet and collection of couplets what it is, and no other.