BONER'S VERSE, 1834-1838.—CORKRAN'S BOVE. AGO. —LYRICS BY J. S.

Mn. CHARLES BONER has rather a vivid and fertile fancy than a poetical spirit. In his prose account of Bavarian Chamois Hunting this faculty gave a natural freedom and freshness to his descriptions of scenery, accounts of sport, and narrative of hair- breadth escapes on the narrow ledge over the dreadful precipice. It scarcely inspires his volume of Verse 1834-1858 with poetry. Indeed, looking at the length of time, the almost thrice nine years that some of the pieces have been kept, one wonders that mere mechanical imperfections have not been got rid of. Where there is no poetry in a writer, of course no amount of effort can get any out—nothing can come of nothing. But labour may work up the baldly prosaic into " sounding strain," and remove the lameness of a halting line. With the exception of a few ballads, an incident or two turned into a short tale, and a description of a shipwreck, the pieces are miscellaneous and not always on very new themes. The old or new year figures on several occasions without anything remark- able in the treatment. There are two walks to two cemeteries on two separate occasions, with pieces either on striking and there- fore for poetical purposes somewhat hacknied historical events, as the battle of Waterloo, the death of the Emperor Nicholas. The other poems are of the annual class, the author's residence in Germany often giving his ideas peculiarity from their Teutonic sentiments or images ; while the treatment produces a certain de- gree of novelty, from the theme being used to enforce a moral. Here is the close of Waterloo.

" We are assail'd, too, by a mighty throng, Who strive incessant, like a hostile nation, To be our masters. Sin leads them along ; Hoping to lure us down from our high station, They lay the cunning ambuscade, Temptation.

Verse 1834-1858. By Charles Boner. Published by Chapman and Hall. An Hour Ago, or Time in Dreamland. A Mystery. By J. F. Corkm. rub' fished by Longmans and Co. Lyrics. By J. 8., a Coal Miner. Published by George Procter, MAW.

We must be steadfast, as our brothers were

In this day's fight. Our fight is for Salvation.

Our cry should be, if faltering or in fear,

How shall we meet our God, if we are vanquish'd here' " ? As intimated already, the want of the book is poetical spirit; and as that cannot be supplied it seems useless to discuss second- tters. Else it might be said that Mr. Boner has a habit of all.greasinma* g from his subject which lessens the interest by divert- ing the attention ; that his invention is often forced, ana that he to, frequently., substitutes melodramatic " situations "for passion and natural incidents. The shipwreck for instance does not suc- ceed in conveying a real idea of the event. The whole is a phantasmagoria ; the produce of fancy, not of experience or know- ledge, and the conclusion is evidently planned to introduce the crew (from their boats) looking on the sinking ship : for, as they are close to land, one would have thought they might at least have beached her. The theatrical air which pervades this piece, may have arisen from an attempt to throw a supernatural cha- racter over the whole suggested by the Ancient Mariner ; but this fails from want of imagination to realize the scene in good faith. The perching of a stormy petrel is the closest approach to it and is moreover one of the best things in the book.

" There, perched on the stern, sate the petrel bird, Calm, motionless, solemn ; nor was there heard The shrill cry it utters, as o'er the waste It speedeth along with a wondrous haste. The sailors they saw it each one and all; They wish'd it away, but they durst not call Or shout to the creature that had come in : They knew what would follow on such a sin ; And still it sat there, nor it moved nor stirr'd ; There was something ghastly in that mute bird. 'Twas like entertaining a fiend as guest, Who stays in your house while you go to rest. And thus we drove on without hope or notion How we could combat against the ocean."

The reader who shall open An Hour ago, or frinze in Dream- land, and meet with passages of sonorous power not devoid of images, that at least have a striking poetical effect, will doubt- less wonder why he does not feel more continuously enchained to the poet's page. There seem to be two causes for this, and which operate despite of considerable power, and a fluency perhaps too considerable. Strictly speaking Mr. Corkran is rather a rhe- torician than a poet ; and a rhetorician with a fertility of imagery and copiousness of language, which too frequently tempt him to over elaborate his ideas notwithstanding the critical

warning.

Quidquid prmcipies esto brevis, ut cito dicta Percipiant animi dociles teneantque fideles ; Omne supervacuum pleno de peetore menet.

Like many other modern poets he has not well chosen his sub- ject: owing to its extent and mere chronological succession it is toe disjointed and perhaps too multiplex—an error which also may originate in the author's rhetorical disposition. An Hour Ago is a species of' historical survey of the middle ages, from the capture of Constantinople by Mahomet the Second, to the reign of Elizabeth and the successful revolt of the Nether- lands against Philip of Spain. This is beyond all doubt a period striking alike to the reason and the imagination, for it contains, within little more than a century, the foundation of all our modern advancements. The scattered Greeks brought their language and literature into Western Europe, and contributed to stimulate the revival of learning. The invention of printing supplied the pabu- lum to students without which their minds must have been stinted or starved. The discovery of America and of the passage to the Indies, with the circumnavigation of the globe, not only sti- mulated enterprize, increased commerce, and the sum of human enjoyments, but enlarged the boundaries of knowledge, and by establishing the true form of the globe, gave science a more cer- tain starting point for investigating the universe. Religious heavings and conflicts did not merely end in establishing Re- formation, and with it an abiding sense of religious liberty ; dog- matic authority was shaken and independence eventually given to the human mind in every walk of practice or speculation. It was a wondrous sera and produced wonderful characters ; but its very historical importance seems to us to unfit it for poetical treatment. It is rather a subject for what is called the " histori- cal essayist" than the poet ; for while the essayist may narrate, discuss, and, philosophize, the poet should only present the quin- tessence of history.

the " Vanity of Human Wishes," some seventy lines em- brace the biography of Wolsey, the career of Charles the Twelfth, and the campaign of Xerxes ; yet the pith of each is given to the reader. In the ode to Greece, Byron dismisses two of her greatest events, Marathon and Salamis, in a couple of short stanzas. In "Time in Dreamland," Mr. Corkran combines a species of histori- cal description, with characters, sometimes appearing in their own persons, sometimes in abstract embodiment, as the spirit of the ?ton, abbot, and burgher, who rise and discourse with Erasmus. The form of a vision, which is the framework of the poem, facili- tates the transition from narrative to dialogue, and even to the supernatural; but the author would have improved the effect had ue plunged in medias res. The introduction with its character and deeds of some Lady Bountiful, though truthful and almost

touching, is an encumbrance to the general movement of the Petra.

The reader will readily conceive that the work is more charac- terized by powerful passages, than by the interest of a connected whole. In fact, succession rather than connection is, from the nature of the case, the characteristic of the poem. Probably, the close of the siege of Constantinople is as good a passage as any.

"Here was man

With demon hatred ranged 'gainst brother man.

No generous chivalry did temper war, Nor mutual respect, nor lofty aim ; Fanaticism, drunk with sensual dreams, Held up its gory sword to Itouris' eves, And sprang against the wither'd creed which grew Thorny dispute, and no reviving fruit Within Byzantium's walls ! Last hour of Rome !

War's terrible inventions, new and old, Against the doomed city were combined. From old besieging tower, fair with the wall, Were galled the wall's defenders. Cannon new Helped the old catapult. One world crumbled And another rose, whose thunderous dawn Was fire Promethean, from Heaven purloined, And lo! a prodigy, like that which blew His last hopes' spark to impotent despair, When he beheld the wood of Birnam move ; A fleet of galleys swam across the land Which did divide the harbour from the sea By ten broad miles, and swooped upon a prey Left undefended against a miracle !

The miracle was man's—the master man O'er his slave matter. Man, who wants but will, Put forth in godlike purity to be Godlike in power over the unseen too.

Now through the breaches rush the warrior tide, Now brims the fiery surge the bastions o'er, Plunges the torrent through the streets, and flash The scimitars athwart despairing eyes.

Within the hippodrome Mehemet strikes, In wantonness of mirth, the serpent's mouth Of adamantine brass, to show his strength.

But even he is sobered by the sight, When at his feet is laid the emperor's corpse, And he the last—one worthy Rome's best days.

On Constantine, Mahomet drops a tear, And, softened, bids the useless carnage cease. The trembling crowd, in Saint Sophia bound, Are not given o'er to slaughter :—so farewell ! Where rose a Christian temple stands a mosque.

So ends the empire of degenerate Rome."

It is a fine remark of Wordsworth's, that the poetical gift exists far more frequently than is commonly imagined, though it is so seldom developed to maturity.

" 0, many are the poets that are sown

By Nature."

Undoubtedly a peculiar interest attaches to the spontaneous efforts of those whose rank in life and slenderness of education pre- clude the idea that the poetical faculty has been in their case artificially stimulated. Their productions may not be the work of high intellect or powerful imagination, and, even while correct as to feeling, will exhibit many, little blots and blurs which a better culture would have removed. But the simple language of natural feeling can never be altogether commonplace, and may indeed be very precious.

The Lyrics by J. S., a coal-miner, are interesting as showing in what manner the " art of poetry " is cultivated among working men of Northumberland. Some of the pieces are strongly tinc- tured with political feeling. A "Patriotic Invocation " protests against the conquest of Hungary. This is the first stanza of an ode relating to the Russian war.

" Once more shall our standard unfurl'd

Reveal its bright hues to the Earth, And the bolts of our thunder be hurl'd On the harpy-bred hordes of the North."

And the " downfall of Sebastopol" is commemorated. But the author's love-songs, though slight, have liveliness and reality, even where imperfectly expressed. The following ballad, " The Lad o' Bebside," seems a fair specimen of his powers.

" My heart is away with the Lad o'Bebside, And never can 1 to another be tied ; Though a Lorden should proffer to make me his bride, I could'nt forsake the brave Lad o'Bebside !

There's many a brisk lad, as a body may see, Distracted to win a kind glance from my e'e But all the sweet favours my breast can provide, Are uphoarded with care for the Lad o'Bebside !

He dances so clever, and whistles so fine, From the Coquet he's famed to the banks of the Tvne ; To which add a heart void of malice and pride, And you'll list when I mention the Lad o'Bebside !

Though courted by many, and praised by all, Not one bonnie lassie his heart can enthrall Save one, be it spoken, whose truth is well tried, And who never loved one but the lad o' Bebside !

To our house he repaired on the eve of last fair, And cracked with my Minnie a full hour or mair, Who deigned him a wish which in vain I had sighed, And I was seen at the fair with the Lad o' Bebside !

Nay, just last night at the dancing, 'mid scores o' fine queens, The eldest among them scarce out of her teens,

He chose me, and oh ! how my heart swell'd with pride, AP I footed the jig with the Lad ce Bebside!

To wed me he's promised, and ill fare the tongue Would whisper such laddie such lassie could wrong ; As the dove to his mate by his promise he'll bide, And three weeks come Sunday I'm the Lad's o' Bebside !"