MR. SUTTON'S POEMS" Ix is no exaggeration to say that

scores of volumes of verse have been published during the last twelve months by poetasters ambitions of a reputation they are never destined to attain. The critic whose vocation leads him to read these books does so generally with a heavy heart. On comparing them with the efforts of the minor versifiers of the last century, he is struck, no doubt, with the improvement in tone, in form, in diction, and in poetical feeling. The influence of poets like Words- worth, Coleridge, and Tennyson, is a happier influence than that of Pope. It is impossible to read these great poets without catching something of their fervour, of their in- sight into life, of the imagination by which they are inspired. The power they exercise is at once stimulating and elevating. All noble poetry is a mental and moral tonic, quickening the intellect and moving the heart. Nothing, perhaps, is more effectual in removing the wintry torpor of the soul produced by custom and the frequently monotonous round of daily work. Every man of culture is conscious of this bracing, life-giving power upon reading poets like Shakespeare and Milton ; and if the poets of our own century have a more direct and conscious influence, it is because they speak the language of the age. But the effect produced by them on all educated men is felt not more deeply, perhaps, bat more vividly, by persons who have themselves an aptitude for verse-making, and when " dazzled and drunk" with the beauty of melodious verse, they imagine that the vision and the faculty divine are given to them also. This at least the poetasters know, that they can write verse, and, encouraged by their friends, they print it. Probably not one of these versifiers has much doubt, certainly not one fails to cherish the hope, that his volume will be welcomed as a genuine addition to the poetry of his country. The reviewer who has sufficient knowledge and a practised eye, sees sometimes almost at a glance that the verseman's hope is futile ; and seeing this, and remembering how many cherished wishes have been expended on the volume, to say nothing of money, which in nineteen cases out of twenty comes out of the writer's pocket, it is natural that he should feel sad.

Pleasant, therefore, is it to meet with poems which have the charm of true, if not of highly imaginative verse. Mr. Sutton's name is probably unknown to our readers, as it would have been unknown to the writer of this criticism, had he not many years ago met with a sacred lyric bearing his signature, so quaint in style that it seemed to belong to the seventeenth century ; and great was hie astonishment, on opening this volume, to find that it was a production of the nineteenth, and of a living author. The following stanzas might have been written by Henry Vaughan, and are not unworthy of his pen :—

" What if I perish, after all,

And lose this life Thy gracious boon ? Let me not fear that I shall fall And die too soon.

I cannot fall till Thou dost let, Nor die, except at Thy command, Low let me lie, my Father, yet Beneath Thy hand.

'Tie good to think, though I decrease, Thou dost not, Lord, decrease with me. What matters it that I must cease, Since Thou must be ?

The life Thom willedet me I use To thank Thee for that gracious will ;— If I must lose it, I would choose To thank Thee still.

No more might I lift prayerful eyes,

Or sway a tongue to grateful tones; Yet should a noise of praise still rise Even from my bones."

We may observe here that a large portion of Mr. Sutton's poetry is devoutly meditative in character. In this sacred verse there is nothing narrow and sectarian. And it is entirely free from the false metaphors and pions common- places which, being written in metre, are accepted as poetry by good people who know nothing of the art. Mr. Sutton's range is not wide ; but it is impossible to read this volume carefully without perceiving that imagination is at work throughout, and that the individuality of the writer is impressed upon his pages. He utters what he feels and knows, not what other people have known and felt; and, in the more sacred pieces, what theologians call " unction" is never regarded as an excuse for poetical lawlessness. To give illustrations of what we mean is • Poems. By Henry Beptimas Satan. %wow David Main.

difficult. A series of meditations supposed to be written in a diary, if read as a whole, will show the harmony between the poet's deepest feelings and his art. Two extracts from this diary may be given, though it must be premised that when

separated from the context, they illustrate our point very imperfectly. The suggestion for the following stanzas is taken

from this line on a previous page, " Who works not for his fellows starves his soul :"—

" Put not on me, 0 Lord ! this work divine, For I am too unworthy, and Thy speech Would be defrauded through such lips as mine. I have not learned Thee yet, and shall I teach P 0 choose some other instrument of Thine!

The great, the royal ones, the noble saints, These all are Thine, and they will speak for Thee.

No one who undertakes Thy words but faints; Yet, if that man is saintly and sin-free, Through him Thon wilt, 0 Lord ! self-uttered be.

But how shall I say anything, a child, Not fit for such high work,—oh ! how shall I Say what in speaking must not be defiled ?

And yet, and yet if I refuse to try, The light that barns for my own life will die."

In our next quotation, the poet tells the secret of a happy life :— " How beautiful our lives may be, how bright In privilege, how fruitful of delight!

For we of love have endless revenue; And, if we grieve, 'tie not as infante do That wake and find no mother in the night.

They put their little hands about and weep

Because they find mere air, or bat the bed Whereon they lie ; but we may rest, instead, For ever on His bosom Who doth keep Our lives alike safe, when we wake and Meep.

And lo ! all round us gleam the angelic bands, Swift messengers of Providence all-wise, With frowning brows, perhaps, for their disguise, But with what springs of love within the eyes,

And what strong rescue hidden in the hands !

And our lives may in glory move along,

First holy.white, and then with goodness fair For our dear Lord to see the keenest thong Of all that whips no, welcome ; and the air Our spirits breathe, self-shaped into a song."

Mr. Sutton's volume is not wholly confined to poems of the kind we have quoted. He appears to be a resident at Notting- ham, the home of Kirke White, and a local tragedy related by that poet in lines that have an echo of Goldsmith, is told in another form by Mr. Sutton, who writes in the informal heroic verse used by Marlowe in his Hero and Leander, and by Keats in Endpnion. It would be unjust to compare the poems, for White's is the ambitions effort, not wholly un- successful, of a boy of sixteen whose memory was stored with the poetical diction so familiar in the last century. Mr. Sutton's story, on the other hand, is told in the simplest language, and with a pathos worthy of Crabbe. The descriptive poems relating to Clifton, although they remind one a little too much of Keats, have the merits of faithfulness and clear vision. The dates show that these poems were the work of Mr. Sutton's youth, and it is not strange that his fancy should have been snared by the captivating charms of a poet to whom even Tennyson's youthful genii's is distinctly indebted. Some graphic passages, full of beauty and of accurate observation, might be quoted from the " Clifton Grove Garland," but on the whole, we prefer the lyrical pieces which bring us nearer to the heart of the writer. Several of these, did space allow, we would gladly quote ; but we have selected two or three which recommend themselves to a reviewer as possessing the double virtue of brevity and character: Our first choice is a poem written in a lively vein, not often attempted by Mr. Sutton, called " A Railway Ride :"— " While I ride, while I ride,

While past field and village glide, Streaming goes my heart's desire Like a back-blown flame of fire, Longing ever to abide Far behind me while I ride.

0 my Queen, 0 my Queen,

Cant thou feel that flame unseen, Flame not hurting though it burns, Flame that homeward still returns, Growing ever, eager, keen,

To thee rushing, 0 my Queen ?

lost thou know, dost thou know, What it is that warms thee so, Bids thee be of happy cheer, Lifts thee into heavenly aphere. Makes thee every fear forego In my absence—dost thou know ? It shall born, it shall burn, Till its master doth return, Nor shall then its glowings cease, But for evermore, in peace, Fed from an exhaustless urn By good angels, it shall burn.

While I ride, while I ride, While o'er railway swiftly glide, On the wheels whose rhythmic beat Seta itself to music sweet,

This, the song of loving pride, Sang within me while I ride."

From a remarkable poem, entitled "A Preacher's Soliloquy," we take the following lines :-

" Why do I dare love all mankind ?

'Tie not because each face, each form Is comely, for it is not so; Nor is it that each soul is warm With any Godlike glow ; Yet there's no one to whom's not given Some little lineament of heaven, Some partial symbol, at the least, in sign Of what should be, if it is not, within Reminding of the death of sin And life of the Divine.

There was a time, fall well I know, When I had not yet seen you so; Time was when few seemed fair ; Bat now, as through the streets I go, There seems no face so shapeless, so Forlorn, bat that there's something there That, like the heavens, doth declare The glory of the great All-fair ; And so mine own each one I call, And so I dare to love you all."

Poets of the reflective class are usually fond of the sonnet, a form of verse demanding unity of thought and concentration of language, a form, too, which admits within its brief compass

the most perfect utterance of personal feeling. Judging from the tenor of his poetry, which is calm and thoughtful through.

out, we should have imagined that this fine medium of song would have proved peculiarly attractive to Mr. Sutton. There is, however, but one sonnet in his volume, and this, which bears the title of "Love Eternal," we will transcribe :—

"Love, if I love thee, 'tie because I need

Not eyes to gaze into; not lips to kiss; Not a soft breast for solace; not the bliss Of being loved while loving;—this, indeed, I thank thee that thou givest ; bat I should bleed Down in my heart for loving so amiss,

If I had only loved thee, Love, for this—

Bare to shake off some day like idle weed Entangled round my foot upon the shore.

No, if I love thee, Love, it is because Beauty that is eternal I adore, And must pursue it, wheraoe'er it draws, And lo ! I travel on; I may not pause; With thee I travel on for evermore."

It is strange how, though temperance is good at all times and for every one, and total abstinence necessary, as Dr. Johnson found it, for the man in danger of excess, when this sovereign virtue is praised in song, and the evil of intemperance denounced, the singer's voice ceases to be melodious, and the moralist, too often the fanatic, takes the place of the poet. With the exception of Tennyson's "Northern Cobbler," we do not know a poem on the drink controversy that has taken a place in literature, and assuredly Mr. Sutton's two pieces in favour of the Maine Liquor Law will not take that place. We doubt whether he is fitted to discuss in verse the questions of the day. He has the earnestness needed by the social reformer, bat earnestness needs to be tempered with humour, and serious- ness of purpose with lightness of touch, in order to win the public ear. Mr. Sotto❑'s assault on a great evil with the weapons of the total abstainer seems like beating the air. He has another vocation, and can use his pen to more purpose.