POETRY.

IN nature all rare and precious things seem to be the result of many efforts, the majority of which wholly fail, or only partially succeed. Countless pearls are too misformed to be worth pre- serving; and many, though perfect, arc too small to be reckoned amongst gems that are "rich and rare." Ages roll away before a diamond appears, whose magnitude, water, and freedom from flaw, can challenge the admiration of the world. Dropping down to the precious woods, how many a decayed, shaken, or common- grained tree must be felled ere one is found whose figure and hardness make it to rank in the highest class. Now if Nature herself proceeds thus, why censure this process in art ? It might be better to have poems and jewels produced in perfection by one powerful effort ; but, since we are content in the one case with what is evidently a law of Nature, why not be so in the other ? Let us then no longer grumble at bad or indifferent verse, or wonder at the number of .versifiers, or expect that they should cease to place their productions before the public eye. Can we stop the myste- rious process by which the gem is formed ? can we bid the seed cease to germinate and to shoot up into the air ? or if we could, would it be advisable, when in so doing we could only rid ourselves of the worthless by checking the production of the valuable ?

These remarks explain and excuse the constant appearance of poems in spite of the little demand there is said to be for the article. A person is no more to be blamed for writing, and (if he can) pub- lishing verse, than a seed for germinating, and (if it can) forcing its way above the earth: the whole process is what Dr. FLETCHER calls an instinctive operation. The remarks, moreover, serve to introduce the following volumes; none of which are of sufficient rarity to set nations contending for their possession, and each of which, like the more every-day jewels, differs in value and cha- racter.

1. Heller, and Other Poems. By Mrs. GEORGE LENOX. CONYINGIIAM. 2. The Beauty tf the Rhine. By Captain RICHARD Howe. 3. Alfred the Great. By G. L. NEWNIIAZil COLLINGWOOD, Esq.

4. The Tribunal of Manners.

5. The Reign of Humbug.

1. Of this list, Mrs. CONYNGHAWS volume is-properly entitled to the first place : not, however, so much for what it accomplishes, as what it promises. The fair writer has both poetical spirit and poetical power, although they are not developed to their full ex- tent, and certainly not displayed to the best advantage. Her versification is somewhat slovenly at times, and she occasionally exhibits a carelessness of composition which a little pains would have removed. Traceable in a measure to the same cause, is her deficiency in strength and terseness. In her narratives, she intro- duces too much reflection and disquisition, which, independent of being out of place, are often either trite in sentiment or feeble in diction ; and in her shorter poems, she falls into the common prac- tice of which the late Mrs. HEM ANS was one of the models, of weakening a lofty subject by elaborate refinement and prettiness. Mrs. CONYNGHAM would have been a brilliant of high price, had it not been for flaws and incrustations.

Her poems are of various kinds : sometimes.sbe versifies a brief story, sometimes an anecdote, sometimes an historical fact. She has revived the older mode of combining in a letter, didactic and reflective writing with the display of personal characteristics; and in her longest poem, which gives its name to the volume, she has judiciously deviated from the usual mode of romance-writing, and endeavoured to show the resources which employment and religion always open to disappointed love. We will not tell the story ; but here is a passage descriptive of Hella's occupations whilst her lover and brother are at the wars-

Hella remains to pray For their return. How shall she while away The restless hours of anxious hope and doubt, For those her home seems desolate without ?

How shall she deaden her unceasing care?

How lull her long suspense? By taking share In that of others. There was not a heart, For miles around, but Hella had some part In all its better feelings. To the poor, Her very presence brought a prospect sure Of brighter fortunes ; to the sick and old, She bad a gift with clearness to unfold The promise of a world eternal, where

Disease and age to enter shall not dare.

The sorrow-stricken, as a sole relief, Look'd for her sympathy to soothe their grief. The failing spirit turned to her for strength. The erring spirit, penitent at length, Was led by her to hope fur that new birth Which should efface the guilty stains of earth. The little children, in their tasks and plays, Strove for the premium of her ready praise. Maidens and youths, in sketching life's bright plan,

By seeking Hello's countenance began. • She cheer'd the aged, she inspired the young ;

And their affections closely round her clung.

They cannot have the leisure to be sad, Who hold a power to make so many glad : Some claim of misery is still awake To hush their selfish mourning. For the sake Of those who took from her their feelings' tone, Did Ilene strive to regulate her own.

She raised the widow'd mother's drooping head, And made her trust her soldier was not dead ; Her soldier son, who, at his country's call, Was forced to leave her now bereft of all.

She lured the weeping bride kW a smile Of thankful, proud anticipation, while She told how well her hero's brow would wear The wreath of victory soon to flourish there.

Thus pouring comfort into every breast, Hella was comforted ; thus blessing she was bless'd.

2. The Beauty of the Rhine. " Confound those ancients," said the Irish plagiarist, when taxed with the fact; "they are always stealing one's thoughts." We are not prepared to say that anti- quity is fairly chargeable with large thefts of this kind at present; but it is very wonderful to see bow much of subject, arrangement, incident, manner, and style, have been stolen from various authors by SCOTT and Byrum. Had neither of those men produced poetry, Captain limn ARD HORT, of the Eighty-first Regiment, might have been considered as an excellent writer, if he had written at all. Even as it is, he is entitled to the praise of a skilful imitator. The story of the Beauty of the Rhine is attractive without excite- ment; it is told with rapidity, and even spirit; the versification always scans and always runs; and the poem may be read right through at a spell. In short, our Apollo in scarlet, if not a dia- mond, is so very like one that it requires some judgment to detect the difference. The following is a pretty but a clear case. The style is an echo of Scores introductions and openings: the man- ner of getting on with the narrative, and the force acquired, now by directing the reader, and now by appealing to him, are taken from the G iaour.

How sweet when summer day is past, And evening's calm around is east ; When the soft South, that lately sighed Across the bright green emerald tide, Has passed away, and not a breeze Stirs the light foliage of the trees; When on the lawn and up the hill, Each flowret looks so calm and still ; When all that comes the eye to greet Seems to the soul so heavenly sweet, Fancy might deem some child of air Hovered around a scene so fair, Caught the last sunbeam on her snowy vest To gild with it anew her fairy rest. How sweet the hour, how soft the light, When day dissolving blends with night, When every songster's note is done That bylined to rest Hie setting sun, And every warbler of the grove Sleeps happy with the mate they love.

The setting sun had sought the West, Bright'ning with gold his place of rest; And Falconberg's gray castle -wall Caught the reflection in his fall. But soon the deepening shades of night Obscured the landscape ; and the light On all around more faintly grew As lingering o'er the scene, it threw Its dim uncertain last adieu, As though it tarried there, Unwilling yet its power to yield To night's dark cloak, when tower and field, Coppice and lake, must lie concealed, Although a scene so fair.

Soon not an object could you trace, For all was clothed in night's embrace.

Mark you yon skiff that silent glides, Nor quits the rock's projecting sides, As swiftly o'er the lake it rides, £hunning the moonbeam's light. And why now ply the bending oar ; Now cease, as though the task were o'er ; Then quickly labour, as before, At this drear hour of night?

He urges on his flying skiff, Nor leaves the shelter of the cliff, Where shadows mock the eve, Lest warder's bugle-note should sound, Arousing many a foe around, Marring his purpose high.

Why stops he now, and moors his bark Beneath yon ruined archway dark ?

3. As we have not been able to read the whole of Alfred the Great, we are not certain whether the poem is intended to be epic or historical. From what we have perused, we incline to think that it is a compound of both,—possessing the want of unity cha- racteristic of history ; and that messiness, so oppressive to the senses, which some writers have held to be distinctive of the mo- dern epopee. The first book begins with a council of the English at Chippenham: whose best feature is that a Bishop speaks very like a Bishop, the burden of his speech being, Give to the Church; its close is descriptive of the escape of the family of Alfred, on which the council determines. The argument of the second is e kind of quarrelsome debate of the Danish chieftains over their cups, in the midst of which they are surprised by a sally of the English. Unless the title be a misnomer, the third book is epi- sodical; being devoted to an incident, which we dare say is the foundation of what the ladies call an attachment, between " Gu- thrum the Dane" and the daughter of Alfred. The fourth book seems to be historical; and contains an account of what, in mili- tary language, would be termed an affair between the Danes and Saxons. In the fifth, Alfred appears in the cottage of the pea- sant, where the anecdote of the burnt cakes is of course not for- gotten. In the sixth, Alfred, getting home-sick, sets off for the retreat of his wife and family ; and thus sufficiently explains his absence to the former- " My lost, recovered treasure, then he said,

I have been ill."

Upon which we broke off; being perfectly convinced by that time, that Nature had not fused Mr. Comastow000 into a diamond of the first water and bigness, if she had even collected the proper materials.

4. The Tribunal of Manners is a crude, rhapsodical effusion, of some brain teeming with vague ideas which a learned education has tinged with the pedantry of rhetoric, but has not disciplined into clearness of expression or method in arrangement. In fact, the writer's energy explodes in verbosity, instead of flowing in a stream of poetry ; and bile and egotism are as evident as power and patriotic feeling. If he be young, as we suspect he is, he may yet do something worth reading, provided he will study the lucidus ordo, and learn to prune redundancies and repress va- grant ideas—selecting images instead of accumulating them, and aiming at elegant conciseness instead of indulging in coarse dia- tribes. As the author disclaims "poetical pretension," we say nothing about his false rhymes and unmetrical rhythm : these are defects of very inferior importance to those more flagrant faults of thought and expression, fancy and taste, which he has to correct.

5. The Reign of Humbug is a clever Tory satire, constructed of the worn-out machinery of a goddess and visions, and written in the orthodox rhythm and style of POPE. The satirist, however, wields no knotted scourge or deadly knout, but applies smartly, though with a stripling arm, a schoolboy's lash. He appears to have tired of his efforts, however; for he concludes rather pre- maturely at his second canto, and leaves many quackeries un- whipped.