NEW POEMS. * ALTHOUGH the complaint is general that the world

disregards poetry, there is no lack of volumes of verse. The " innatus amor seribendi" defies criticism,• or what is worse, neglect; while the wealth of the community, and the mechanical facilities of the present day., no longer confine a votary of the muse to manuscript or the " whitened wall." Let but a few weeks pass without the instant dismissal of the poets that come before us, and how their numbers grow ! Mr. Walter R. Cassels's volume of Poems is more remark- able for its promise than its actual performance, With the poetical finalities of feeling and fancy, Mr. Cassels exhibits a want of judgment in the choice of subjects and their mode of treatment, which impairs the effect of natural genius and a cultivation ex- * Poems. By Waller B. Cassels. Published by Smith and Elder.

The Maid of Messene, and other Poems. By Edward Henry Pember, Student of Ch. Ch. Oxford, Published by ',wigwam.

Poems by Walter Whitmore-Jones. Published by Longmans.

Poems. By William Parkinson, V.4., Rector of Langenhoe, Maser, nesfisited by Bell and Baby, L0114011 ; PeighWfl. Cambridge,

Poems. By Sheldon Chadwick. Published by JiogRg.

tending at all events to the mechanical excellences of his .art. He possesses richness of imagination and an ear for verse. Though not to be called original in his style or metres, he seems to have studied language more than nhost of our modern poets, eminently excepting Tennyson. The effect of his versification, indeed, is often peculiar rather than pleasant ; but there is this point about him—he is rarely commonplace. There is also visible in many pieces the quality which is understood by poetical spirit —a quality which will not of itself produce poems, though no poem can be written without it. Mr. Cassels fails in producing poems in proportion to his natural capacity, because either his sub- jects want interest, or they are incomplete in themselves, or he does not properly develop them : and he has a tendency to over- run his themes.

The poems of this volume are mostly occasional; but there are two " dramatic ' scenes," as Barry Cornwall would have called them, which well illustrate the defect of choice just spoken of, One is founded on the old Welsh incident of Llewellyn slaying Gelert on the hasty presumption that the faithful dog had killed his child when in reality the blood on the hound's mouth was that of a wolf. This anecdote has not the elements of action or story, though it may contain emotion and a moral against rashness, Action and story are not aimed at by Mr. Cassels; the two other elements are neglected. " Llewellyn" has three scenes of well- written but slow dialogue, with a sort of song supposed to pass through "the heart of the child" intervening: the close has not a trait of remorse, or even sorrow, on the part of the rash slayer.

4f LLEWELLYN.

A wolf ! and dead !—Ah ! now I see it clear ; The hound kept worthy watch, and in nay haste I slew the saviour of my house and joy. Poor Gelert! thou shalt have such recompense As man may pay unto the dead : thy mine Henceforth shall stand for Faithfulness, and men For evermore shall speak thine epitaph."

There is more variety and suspense in " Mabel " ; which, in- deed, opens with an expectation that is not sustained. Oran, the husband. of Mabel, first appears as

"A man of dark and mystic aims, Tracking out science through forbidden ways " ;

and, as he makes his wife the subject of his experiments, her family become alarmed for her life. This mystery, however, soon passes, and Oran stands forth as a half-crazy mesmerist and clairvoyant, who, after throwing Mabel into a mesmeric sleep, is unable to awaken her, notwithstanding the stage-direction, " con- tinuing the passes in great agitation" ; and her death ends the piece. There is some richness of imagery and some tenderness in the sentiments, though both are rather theatrical: but of what avail are either without a better foundation 1'

In the miscellaneous or occasional poems, the personal too much predominates ; and as Mr. Cassels cannot as yet endow that which is primarily personal to himself with general breadth and largeness, something of insufficiency as well as of obtrusiveness is felt ; while in several pieces the theme is insufficiently worked out. In some there is poetry with breadth and finish.

WHTTOEN ?

Whither away, youth, whither away, With lightsome step, and with joyous heart, And eyes that Hope's gay glances dart ? Whither away—whither away ?

Into the world—the glorious world, To gain the prize of the brave and bold, To snatch the crown from the age of gold,— Into the world—into the world !

Whither away, girl, whither away?

Thy soft blue eyes are suffused with love, And thy smile is as bright as the sunskme above,—

Whither away—whither away ?

Into the world, the beautiful world, To meet the heart that must mate with mine, And make the Measure of life divine,—

Into the world, into the world.

Whither away, old man, whither away, With locks of white, and form bent low, And trembling hands, and steps so slow ?

Whither away—whither away ?

Out of the world, oh ! the weary world, With its empty pleasures and poison'd joys, Whose draught first gladdens and then destroys,—

Out of the world, out of the world With shatter'd hopes, and with feeble frame, From Life's sharp struggle, and unsped

Out of the world, oh ! the weary world.

Whither away, poor one, whither away,

Hurrying swiftly, with weeping eyes,

And hectic cheeks, and smother'd Whither away—whither away ? Out of the world, oh! the cold, cold world ! Oh ! Father, my heart . . . . but there is rest For the sinking soul and the bruised breast, Out of the world—out of the world ! "

Apropos of Mr. Pember's Maid of Messene.—The late Sir Robert Peel laid it down as a rule that every man considered himself fit to be a consul, and the present Premier confirmed the truth of the maxim. The modesty of placehunters, in thus as it were restricting their claims to a comparatively humble office, is a striking proof of the weight with which the real presses upon the mind ; for there is no such implied misgiving in imaginative pursuits. The embryo histrio, who has never even trod the boards, will be satisfied with nothing less than ft Hamlet or "Macbeth." An art-student, who cannot paint passably a head or a bit of landscape as he sees either

before him, will undertake the crucifixion or any similar subject. We believe that every gentleman with a turn for verse considers himself able to write a tragedy.

Mr. Pember's " Maid of Messene, a Tragedy," has nothing be- yond sounding. lines to recommend it. The plot, involving the sacrifice of a laughter in compliance with an oracle, is revolting to modern minds, though handed down to us in Grecian story from ages when the Greeks were as bloodily barbarous as the ancient Druids or the Mexicans. The idea, distasteful in itself, is rendered more so from the manner in which the author has treated it, and that too against his own perception. To these fundamental defects may be added the want of dramatic charac- ter. Nothing is done, and the speeches are very longwinded, without exhibiting individual traits. In fact, the persons gene- rally unfold a bystander's conception of their " situation " or ex- press the author's comment.

Of the other "Poems on Various Occasions," we think the best is " Substance and Shadow,"—a dialogue which well points the resemblances between the mythic tales of Paganism and the Scrip- tural narratives. In this, however, as in the i i Maid of Messene," the versification has too much of the drawingroom caste of poetry. Greater ruggedness with greater strength and originality might please the ear less, but would satisfy the mind more. The nu- merous shorter poems scarcely sustain the expectation that "Sub- stance and Shadow" and bits of the tragedy excite. We quote some stanzas, not perhaps from the best, but from a piece the contemporary interest of whose subject has not passed—" The Charge of the Light Brigade."

" Their chieftain read the order twice, Then bade the trumpet sound. Not a soldier flinched at the deadly word ; And the steed's wild cry was as though he had heard The note of an autumn hound.

On, on, and away to that red-mouthed cave, With its grey smoke canopy shade ! On, ever on, with hastened breath, They rode not to glory, but through and through death, Those gods of the Light Brigade !

Ere Earth was an hour older or worse, 'Mid armies astonished and still, With sabres broken, and helmets bent, With ranks how thin ! and colours rent, They stood on the dabbled hill.

Not a man among them had aught to tell Of the duty so nobly obeyed, Save that through and through five thousand foes They passed—and the South Sea Islander knows Of the charge of the Light Brigade.

No sound shall creak through the solemn pines, The ocean shall lose its roar, The wild horse cease to scour the plain, And Alpine hills be level again, And eagles forget to soar, Ere their names shall die on the tankard lip, And their feast-debt pass unpaid, Or England, so long as her life-blood runs, Forget her six hundred Centaur sons Who charged in the Light Brigade."

Eneas recognized his goddess-mother by her motion : we should rather have applied the test of speech. By aid of gymnastics or the dancing-master, the tailor or the milliner, many persons look and move pretty well who soon break down in talk. Here is Mr. Walter Whitmore-Jones, in his longest poem of Cupid and Psyche, manages well enough while he is only describing or narrating. The bower of Cupid, indeed, is more like a "taste- ful" suburban arbour than the bower of the God of Love. Still the reader has the notion of having met with a minor poet ; till the God and Psyche begin to talk, on Cupid being obliged to de- part at the summons of his mother, when there is very little of the " patuit des " or " dens," or even demi-god. The truth is, that with considerable cleverness Mr. Whitmore- Jones's mind is essentially commonplace. He has a flow of lan- guage, which trickles easily, and we should imagine might trickle endlessly ; but the resulting stream is by no means Castalian- we may meet it anywhere. His thoughts are about as easy as his.style, and as common. The same may be said on the gene- rality of his subjects and his experiences, for a long train of mis- cellaneous poems follows " Cupid and Psyche." Nay, his names are of the same class, for he writes of ' Chloe " and " Lesbia." We should say that his jocular satire is equally common, if we were quite sure that satire is intended ; but it is difficult to tell whether it is native or an imitation of Beppo and the lighter parts of Don Juan.

Amiable feelings, an elegant taste, and a natural tarn for verse, that has been cultivated -/h scholarly pursuits, characterize the 11 volume of Poems by illiam Parkinson, Rector of Lan- genhoe. His topics are mostly domestic affections, the incidents of family daily life, and the appearances of nature, mingled with a few themes of a broader kind. The kindly feel- ing and pleasant verse render them agreeable reading ; but they would be improved by greater power and more rapidity. Many of them are better fitted for private circulation than appearance in a volume—although, sooth to say, very many worse poems are published in volumes. The versification of a common incident, the purchase of a weaver's bird by a charitable lady-visitor, af-

rds in its opening a fair sample of Mr. Parkinson's poetry.

" The fire was dull, and cold the room Where sat the weaver at his loom, And daylight seem'd to strive in vain To struggle through the narrow pane ; Yet there was light enough to see A large amount of poverty. In every corner, want and care, With anxious ear and leaden stare, Watch'd the dull work, with increase slow, By the monotonous process row ; And hunger seem'd, with visage hollow, Too closely on the thread to follow. What was it that oblivion brought Of cold and toil and anxious thought, And made the hunger's step more slow, And bade th' unwilling fabric grow ? A little bird, perched near the loom, Sang cheerily amid the gloom : He sang of dewy meads and flowers, Of sunny lands and leafy bowers, Of breezes trembling in the trees, Of silver streams and glittering seas : Hope seem'd to breathe in every note, Comfort in every strain to float, Poverty and care were dumb, Sooth'd was the shuttle's weary hum, The weaver's eye saw not the gloom That dwelt within that lonely room."

There is not much to say of the volume of Poems by Sheldon Chadwick, except that the subjects are numerous and various. The treatment is altogether deficient in art, and the want of study is not redeemed by natural power or innate taste.