A LORD MAYOR'S POETRY.

THE almost tragic catastrophe which awaits each occupant in turn of the office of Lord Mayor of London has often been dwelt upon and bewailed. For the space of a year he stands on a lofty eminence, the acknowledged minister at home of the national charity and hospitality, and the typical representative In the eyes of foreign peoples of the English municipal system. But the fatal 9th of November, the thought of which must intrude itself like an unwelcome spectre at many a civic banquet, dawns at last, and the "blind Fury with the abhorred shears" slits the thin-spun though highly-coloured thread of mayoral existence. The ordinary course of English public life supplies no other instance of a fall at once so sudden, so complete, and so irretrievable. The Premier is periodically overthrown and left in what seems for the moment a hopeless minority ; but he has always the hope before him of recovering what he has lost, and meanwhile the leader of the Opposition is only by one degree a less conspicuous and weighty personage than the leader of the Ministry. But Mr. Alderman Jones, when he has once served his year of office as Lord Mayor, be- comes Mr. Alderman Jones again, unless indeed he has been lucky enough to purchase a knighthood or a baronetcy, by the exceptional splendour of his hospitality or the exceptional rank of his visitors ; nor can he solace the bitterness of his en- forced obscurity by the thought that he is still an object of interest to his fellow-countrymen, or by the hope that he may some day fill again the civic chair. "One crowded hour of glorious life," to borrow a quotation from Mr. Lowe, has to satisfy his ambition, and to sustain him by its inspiring memories in his proud con- sciousness of superiority to his fellows through all his remaining days. Some such sombre reflections as these may have been passing through the mind of Mr. Alderman Cotton, the late Lord Mayor, when he resolved to accede to the request of some friends "whose judgment he esteems," and to republish the volume now before us, entitled, "Imagination, and other Poems." The appear- ance of an ex-Lord Mayor in the character of a poet is a sufficiently rare event in itself to attract public attention, and to arrest the cruel and pitiless march of oblivion. It is

possible that Mr. Cotton may also have thought that the resurrection under such auspicious conditions of these poems, which have apparently lain quietly in the grave for twenty years, would insure for them a future of vitality and public favour in striking contrast to their past. Of the reason- ableness of this hope, if it were ever seriously entertained, we shall give our readers some opportunity of judging.

It is worth while, however, first to observe that the book, though a very small one, not exceeding a hundred and fifty widely-printed pages, is enriched with no less than three dedications. Of these, one is a general dedication of the whole work to Mr. Carlyle, and the other two are "original dedications,"—" Imagination" being inscribed to the late Charles Dickens, and the "other Poems" to the late Lord Lytton. There is a prodigality about this which is very impressive to the reader as he opens the book, and the effect is heightened by the language of the dedications themselves. Mr. Carlyle is saddled with a responsibility which in this connection he will probably not feel very anxious to claim, when he is informed that his soul "has so stamped itself upon litem- mture as to give thoughts and power to other minds," and he will at the same time learn with mingled gratification and bewilderment that "his name will be reflected upon the pages of Fame and Time." The late Lord Lytton, however, is made the subject of a still more puzzling prediction, though his name is brought into an equally intimate relation with Fame. He is told that the "brilliancy of his genius will throw a halo around his name in that temple where [sic] Fame's proud finger will through- out all time direct the gaze of admiration." The picture thus presented of a temple in which Fame acts the part of a verger, and vaguely directs with a "proud finger" the wandering gaze of the curious visitor, Admiration, is a masterpice which certainly entitles its creator to speak with authority on the subject of imagination.

The poem called " Imagination " is divided into two parts, to each of which an " argument " is prefixed, and we are cautioned at the outset that "the general argument supposes the universal existence of imagination." We can only say that when we came to the end of the work, after a conscientious perusal of every line, we were irresistibly reminded of Rousseau's advice as to the best method of composing a love-letter,—that you should begin without knowing what you are going to say, and end without knowing what you have said. The Argument ought, perhaps, to have prepared us for this result, and it is only fair to the author to admit that it gives a kind of bird's-eye view of the meanderings of the poem. After an invocation full of the usual business about " heav'n-born maids" and "summer zephyrs," the career of Imagination is traced with chronological exactness from a period antecedent to the Creation down to the Exodus from Egypt, when for some unexplained reason the historical method of treatment is abruptly abandoned. The events mainly dwelt upon are the love of the angels for the daughters of men, the Deluge, and Noah's discovery of the effects of the vine,—

" The thought divine,

Which blessed our race with rich and generous wine."

Perhaps this detailed enumeration of the achievements of imagi- nation was found a little tedious—perhaps the desired afflatus at last descended and swept the poet out of his course—at any rate, the rest of universal history is compressed into about three pages, where "Rome's destroying legions" and "great Babylon, con- demned upon the wall," mingle in a picturesque confusion of the abstract and concrete with "peaceful Science" and "smiling Liberty," while Imagination herself,— " Sings liberty, contentment, justice, hope,

To shackled nations, yet too weak to cope With despot's myrmidons, blood-stained with crime, Whose names will sink accurst in coming time."

We are then plunged without warning into a luxuriant, but path- less jungle, where we should be lost irretrievably, but for the "argument," which tells us that we are here pursuing the influence of imagination "in recollections of the mind—upon charity—in dreams—several dreams described—the ascent of the mountain

her power in romance and over the minds of men to their death—in promoting poetry, astronomy, painting, poesy [the distinction between " poetry " and " poesy " is new to us], science and philosophy—over the antiquarian—music—liberty- eloquence," &c. We shall not attempt to disentangle the several themes, and our readers will no doubt be content with a few specimens of the Lord Mayor's style of treating them. This is about dreams:—

" Then absent friends, or dead, glide soft about And live within the mind : dread monsters rise That have no shape on earth—wild, glaring eyes

Fill every space, while fiendish faces leer, And 'mid their foul contortions disappear.

Coiling its icy length, a wreathing snake

Enwraps the frame, high to the throat—bones break—

It stings the aching brain. As fancies change, O'er beauty's glowing form we freely range: A fleeting joy! 'Tis now a hideous crone,

Fleshless and toothless, hide-bound to the bone," &e.

---- "Go, calm the face That even frowns in sleep

With wily smile he hides his purpose fell: They gam a lonely road, a leafy dell—

Thence flies a soul unwarned to meet its doom, Tho body falls where fragrant flowers bloom!"

In the form of " poesy " imagination enables us to picture to ourselves the storm :—

" The sounding rain, load wind, and bounding hail, The flash that lights yon upland wood and dale, The stricken tree, the rapid torrent's way, The timid bleat, deep low, and startled neigh, The darkly rolling clouds, now grandly bright, The crackling peal,--the storm is at its height."

The praise of the heroes of science is sung with a generous disregard of quantity, and a curious selection of names :—

" But rugged ways that earnest minds have known, Archimedes and Socrates have shown' • Neglected Watt and splendid-minded Wren,

• With all the wise and world-improving men."

The second part of the poem is as bewildering as the first in the range of its subjects, as a glance at the argument will show. Morning, noon, afternoon, evening, and night, with their appro- priate pleasures and occupations, are in turn described ; incident- ally we are shown how "man's dependence upon the future is heightened by the charms of imaginntion or depressed by her frown ; " and then, after episodes dealing with the gambler, the thief, the lunatic, the metaphysician, and other disagreeable people, we finish in grand style with "the millennium, the last day, and the eternal existence of imagination in Paradise." At -the opening we find the poet in his lighter vein

When beauty's flowing robe; with gentle play, Sweep proudly by, and touch us in their way; Or if in graceful dance we clasp the form, How wild the passions throb, how fierce the storm! Or tender pressure move the love-warm hand, The quiet, trembling bliss who can withstand?"

Imagination then leads us for a morning walk in the country and the town. "Lambs sportive play around their dams ;" "the • human-freighted train darts by ;" "the noisy ducks run waddling to the stream ;" "geese lazy lie, or active nip the grass,—from -open stye the spotted litter comes ;" "men anxious eye the Post ;" and "blooming beauties look away, and slyly court while they avoid the gaze warm admiration gives." In the evening the "sons of commerce "say good-night to each other, and "delighted leave by rapid rail, slow coach, or boat, to breathe the country's balmy air ;" and while others betake themselves to more questionable forms of amusement,

The bullet's rapid force

Hurls one to earth, a hapless, bleeding corse."

'ten pages are then spent in the not uncongenial atmosphere of a lunatic asylum, and it is bare justice to the author to say that his imagination seems thoroughly at home among the various forms of fantasy which he here elaborately depicts. We need not go through the list, which includes most of the ordinary forms of mania, and some which we venture to hope are not often

found. There is the man who thinks himself God, gently rebukes "his vague companions," and "sits in a sunbeam, and his arms upthrows " ; another, of whom we are told that "Some pass the social hour

In harmless games ; 'neath comfort's cheering power, Flies the gay time till sleepy Morpheus come."

This is all very nice and attractive, but Mr. Alderman Cotton is no namby-pamby, rosewater-rhymester ; he can be tragic as well as another, and excels in " 'Ercles' vein ;" and accordingly we are harried away from scenes of rural felicity and domestic peace to • the gaming-hell, with its "brilliant lights" and " curs'd rattle." 'The tragic end of the unsuccessful gambler is tersely but sugges- tively described :—

" The muzzle's on the brow, a flash—a fall—

The brain that moved the deed now clots the wall."

We pass from this to a still more lurid picture,—a duel between two friends, whom "Honour, falsely called," has estranged :—

" Now face to face, While heartless seconds count the measured space, They stand 'tween life and death ; red murder glares With blood-stained eyes, as each proud soul forbears 'The advance to make. "A kinder soul ne'er beamed ; across his way The insect unharmed ran; by slow degrees His reason wandered ;" a third, who,—

• "Seems to breathe Things foul and horrible ; snakes hissing wreathe, Snails icy crawl, and nerveless, jellied slug Passes his gaping lips:"

and many other equally distressing cases. it is a relief to escape from this witless society to the inspiring visions which "point their bright, sethereal hands to Fame," and "sing sweetly" to the poet, bidding him "press on, and win the glorious name." On the whole, the poet seems disposed to accept their vaticinations, though there are moments, he tells us, when "Dismay's keen, horny claws fix on my frame," and "dark spirits float, while Censure brings her willing brood to gloat o'er prostrate Hope."

The remainder of the volume is taken up with a number of short poems on disconnected subjects, such as "Sunday in England," "The Murderer," "Luxury," "Sympathy," &c. The strongly-developed taste for the lurid, which we had already noticed in "Imagination," occasionally crops up in these lighter pieces, as for instance in the "Murderer," who after making "corses " of two women, flies distracted "to summit high," "leaps aloft," and then "sinks in gloom." But perhaps the most striking illustration is to be found in the "Song of the Skeletons," the refrain of which, at first sight, has rather the look of an invocation to the Christy Minstrels :—

" Come where the fire-damps flitting fly, Men of bones, men of bones; • King Death on his throne of shanks sits high,

Men of bones, men of bones.

At the hour when corset; quit the tomb, Skeletons come to the cave of gloom ; Where the oozing water stains the wall, The worm in its darkness loves to crawl.

Ropes are round the bodies running, Merry to-night shall be your funning, Men of bones, men of bones."

In others of the poems, however, such as the "Ode to Caution" and "Sunshine," the author sinks to the humble level of patriotic or domestic sentiment, and rings the changes on "Rule, Britannia," and "Home, Sweet Home," as though his "ample pinion" had never soared into the higher tether of imagination. We may conclude our extracts by the following sonnet, entitled, "Strange Stories," which possesses a special interest at the present time :—

"Why should the young, who innocently read,

Have morbid fancies brought before their eyes, In mystic tales each serial supplies, When sound advice and counsel good they need ? Why do great men strange stories deign to write, Or make mesmeric humbug truth appear A madman's dream, a soul's clairvoyant flight, That spirits round our homes may linger near; With silly knocks reveal mundane affairs, Ring bells, turn hats, make tables dance to chairs ; Or ghosts appear at solemn midnight hour, Spells or death-wishes arm with Heaven's power Were witches ducked ? do good men live and die, That such poor mediums should their place supply?"

We may add that the difficulties of parsing and grammatical con- struction which these lines present have many parallels through- out the volume.

"This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard," says Hippolyta, in the Midsummer Night's Dream, after the immortal dialogue between Pyramus and Thisbe. "The best in this kind are but shadows," replies the judicious Theseus, "and the worst are no worse if imagination amend them." "Then," says Hippolyta, "it must be your imagination, and not theirs." We respectfully commend this passage to the author of " Imagination, and other Poems," in case he should be in search of an appropriate motto for his second edition.