ZOIlltAB. ° Tux leading tangible difference between genius and mere talent

seems to be this. Genius produces a broad, living, and consistent 'whole; talent, however skilful, painstaking, and even lucky, goes no further than the production of parts, which may be carefully considered and well put together, but exhibit to close scrutiny traces as it were of working in mosaic. The parts in a work of genius are not only related to each other in structure, but in senti- ment and imagery. "Intererit multum, Darnsne loquatur an hems,

Colchus an Assvrius, Thebis an Argis,"

is a principle true not only of character and discourse, but of land- scape and the minutest details. It was this unity and nature which gave its interest of verisimilitude to I3yron's Oriental tales and to Scott's poetry and novels. It is true that a rigorous exami- nation will show Scott's antiquity to be of a superficial kind, but for a temporary effect accuracy is not so requisite as unity. It suffices to suggest to the reader a consistent whole, which he may fancy to be that of the time supposed. lifr. Thornton's Zohrab is a clever and creditable poem, especially when we consider that the author has been hitherto known for trea- tises on some of the drier branches of political economy—over- population and subdivision of land. But it lacks that sponta- neous congruity we are speaking of. The subject is derived from an incident in the life of Rustam, the Eastern counterpart of the classical Hercules : the hero unwittingly kills his own son Zohrab in single combat, to decide the victory between the Persian monarch, whom Rustam is serving, and an army of Turco- mans led by Zohrab. The action and its filling-up are skilfully enough contrived, though not arguing much freshness of inven- tion. There is the Turcoman temporary stronghold in a mountain defile, with the distant view of the Persian army encamped in the plain. Then the scene shifts to .the Persian camp and court. The charge of the Turcomans takes place, stayed by the appearance and proposal of Rustam : the combat and defeat of Zohrab, his father recognizing him by a gem upon his arm, come next. Here the story properly ends, but is continued by a notice of the poet Ferdousi and his patron Alahomet of Ghizni. An introduction, brief but encumbering,—being in reality the Midsummer Day's Dream of the title,—describes the author's reverie, which leads to the production of the poem. "In medias res " is a golden rule, unless something at once special and felicitous interposes.

i

The style of the poem s spirited and easy. The images are Oriental, so far as study can make them so ; and as the author claims a descent from Rustam by the female side, it is probable he has given family study to the exploits of the hero. But the air and even the terms are European. The combat, for example, is spirited, but it smacks of Christian rather than Paynim chivalry, and somewhat of the menage too. The magic garment of Rustam, by preventing equality in the combatants diminishes suspense and therefore interest, though that is less felt in the following ex- tract.

"Both practised horsemen, both essay Whate'er long use of arms has taught ; Feint, double, foin and foil display, Science with sharp experience bought. The horses too, in battle tried, The falchion's force, curvetting, aid, Or backward starting, or aside, Retaliatory pass evade.

Every resource of art they try, Nor vigour nor address prevails.

Shrewd scheme of covert strategy,

By eye as shrewd detected, fails,

And forward thrust, and downward stroke, Which dexterous ward or parry meets, Counter attack in turn provoke, Which skill of fence in turn defeats : Till Rustam, whom such dallying shames, His sabre with both hands uplheaves, And at the Turknian's merlon aims ; Nor yet that mark attains, butyleaves The buckler's interposed defence,

Tough hide and triple brass breaks through,

Though at the misused sword's expense, Which the same shock has shivered too.

Cursing the brittle steel, be flings Its remnant at the jeering foe, The massy wedge of bronze unslings Dependent from his saddle-bow, And with the club none else may wield The dauntless youth anew attacks ; Who, promptly quitting sword and shield, Meets him with lifted battle-axe.

• Zolirab or a Midsummer Day's Dream, and other Poems. By William Thomas Thornton. Author of an Essay on "Over-Population," &c. Re. Published by Long- man and Co. But now at disadvantage meets. Baffled by necromantic spells, His fury fruitlessly repeats Blows which the magic garb repels ; While 'neath his fell opponent's mace Gorget and corslet piecemeal fall, Like splinters from the crumbling face Of leaguered city's battered wall. By odds so desperate sorely pressed, New tactic he employs, with wary Alacrity intent how best To thwart his slower adversary, Whose aim, (as brandished, threatening, The club he sees, new-raised to strike,) Guiding his horse with tightened knee, He shuns with demivolte oblique : And rallying fast from plann'd retreat, While Rustam, by false stroke borne over, Leans from his horse, his balanced seat Zobrab forbids him to recover,

Smiting his bended neck ; for though The leopard skin from open wound Protects him still, that well-timed blow Plunges him headlong to the ground. How now from out the dense stockade Of troops that hem the arena round, By fear and hope discordant swayed, Dismay and triumph's cries resound ! The Persians see their leader sink ; Their chiefs success the Tartars see. Shrink, Iran, back in terror shrink ! Shout, shout, Touran, for victory !"

The only other poem in the volume calling for specific notice is "Stanzas written in Kensal Green Cemetery," on the tomb of a

daughter. Parts of this are touching ; but the poem is too long—

drawn out by common circumstances, which overlay the main topic. The thought in these stanzas strikes us as being new.

"My Ellen! in my bosom's worn recess Still do affection's tendrils freshly twine ; For still do children round their father press, Claiming the share of love which once was thine.

Nor doth less love their artless plea requite : Yet, cherished even as thyself, they gain No place within the void, which, by thy flight Made desolate, shall tenantless remain.

A darkened void, an aching vacancy, Where hope once basked beneath a sunny sky, Now haunted but by shadowy memory, Worm of a cankering brood that never die."