5 JULY 1851, Page 18

MBBEDITH'S POEMS. *

Tars volume possesses considerable poetical feeling and poetical faculty, but displays more of promise than performance. Mr. Mere- dith has the characteristics of young or unstudied writers. His sub- jects are often too limited or common, and an attempt to impart attraction by treatment does not always succeed, the result being a curious quaintness rather than novelty. With the power of independent judgment and observation, Mr. Meredith falls too much into the ruts of a school, and, without very closely imi- tating any writer in particular, frequently reminds the reader of Tennyson or Beats, with occasional touches of the Brown- ings ; though this manner is so common among poetical aspirants, that it may be as much a literary fashion as an individual imita- tion. Mr. Meredith has occasionally, too, a sensuous warmth of image and expression, which, though not passing propriety, might as well be tempered. With the exception of want of breadth and novelty in the subjects, these things, though they may injure the style or lower the class, can hardly be said to impair the interest of the poems. Mr. Meredith's greatest fault is overdoing: he rarely knows when he has said enough : besides continually over- laying his ideas by expansion, he introduces similes not always the aptest, and in addition to making them more prominent than the principal idea, runs them on till they become a new subject. This fault would detract from the interest of any composition; but it admits of an easy remedy. If Mr. Meredith intends to cul- tivate poetry, this over-exuberance must be steadily repressed. For example, " The Sleeping City" consists of twenty-nine stanzas, fourteen of which are devoted to the Eastern Princess in the city whose inhabitants were turned to stone ; a mere illustrative image being nearly as long as the incident itself. It may seem that there is something of the spirit of Sterne's stop-watch in this; but, to borrow a remark from Sir Fretful Plagiary, " the watch on these occasions, you know, is the critic."

The poems are mostly of the kind called occasional ; consisting of everyday incidents, or themes suggested by some object common to every observation. These are occasionally varied by classical subjects running into a short tale,—as the metamorphosis of Daphne, or the shipwreck of Idomenens. In most of them there is poetical imagery, feeling, and diction; the last if not altogether original yet unhaeknied, with frequent felicity of idea or phrase- ology, though sometimes of an odd kind. Description is perhaps Mr. Meredith's strongest point; but he has also looked upon

• Poems. By George Meredith. Published br Parker sod Sou.

society-and. the Auesticine.which now agitate it This glanee may not have produeed absolute originality, but it has saved him from the commonplaces of poetasters. The following stanzas are from e, poem called The Olive Branch,"—the name of a vessel thus christened because a dove dropped an olive sprig upon it at the moment of launching. " Come, reed the meaning of the deep I

The use of winds and waters learn:— 'Tie not to make the mother weep For sons that never will return; "'Tis not to make the nations show Contempt for all whom seas divide; "Pis not to pamper war and wo, Nor feed traditionary pride; " 'Tis not to make the floating bulk Mask death upon its slippery deck, Itself in turn a shatter'd hulk, A ghastly raft, a bleeding wreck, " It is to knit with loving lip The interests of land to land; To join in far-seen fellowship The Tropic and the Polar strand.

" It is to make that foaming-Strength,

Whose rebel forces wrestle still

Through all his boundaried breadth and length,

Become a vassal to our will.

" It is to make the various skies,

And all the various fruits they vaunt,

And all the dowers of earth we prize, Subservient to our household want."

" London by Lamplight" touches a subject on which many other pens are also employed—the condition of the poor of large towns, and the extent of prostitution : but it is real, important, and too instant to be stale.

" There stands a singer in the street, He has an audience motley and meet ; Above him lowers the London night, And around the lamps are flaring bright.

" His minstrelsy may be unchaste- 'Tis much unto that motley taste, And loud the laughter he provokes From those sad slaves of obscene jokes, " But wo is many a passer by, Who as he goes turns half an eye To see the human form divine Thus Circe-wise changed into swine !

" Make up the sum of either sex That all our human hopes perplex, With those unhappy shapes that know The silent streets and pale cock-crow.

" And can I trace in such dull eyes Of fireside peace or country skies ?

And could those haggard cheeks presume To memories of a May-tide bloom ?

" Those violated forms have been The pride of many a flowering green ; And still the virgin bosom heaves With daisy meads and dewy leaves.

" But Stygian darkness reigns within,

The river of death from the founts of sin ;

And one prophetic water rolls Its gas-lit surface for their souls.

" I will not hide the tragic sight— Those drowned black locks, those dead lips white,

Will rise frein out the slimy flood, And cry before God's throne for blood!

"Those stiffened limbs, that swollen face Pollution's last and best embrace, Will call as such a picture can For retribution upon man."

Many passages of rare and some of quaint description will be found in the volume. We take one that exhibits the peculiarity by which Mr. Meredith attempts to invest common subjects with a novelty they would not otherwise possess.

" TILE DEATH OP WINTER.

"When April with her wild blue eye Comes dancing over the grass, And all the crimson buds so shy Peep out to see her pass;

As lightly she loosens her showery locks,

And flutters her rainy wings ; Laughingly stoops To the glass of the stream And loosens and loops Her hair by the gleam ;

While all the young villag.ers blithe as the flocks

Go frolicking round in rings; Then Winter, he who tamed the fly,

Turns on his back and prepares to-die

For he cannot live longer under the sky. Down the valleys glittering green, Down from the hills in snowy rills, He melts between the border sheen And leaps the flowery verges.

He cannot choose, but brighten their lines, And though he would creep, he fain mastlesp,

For the quick spring spirit urges. Down the vale and down the dale, He leaps and lights, till his Moments fail, Buried in blossoms, red and pal; While the sweet birds sing his dirges. O Winter ! I'd live that life of thine,

With a frosty brow and an icicle tongue,

And never a song my whole life longs Were such delicious burial mine!

To die and be buried, and so remain A wandering brook in April's train, liMing my dying eyes for aye On the dawning brows of maiden May."