ab nsaa@AASaN ye WER AW URES THE SPIRIT OF THE SUMMER. “Startle not my lonely gloom, Shine not in my darkened room, Spirit of the Summer! Winter hoar and autumn sere

Shall from me have warmer cheer Than thou, radiant comer!

« Cold—with icicles for hair— And Delay—who scarce can bear Weight that inly presses— Less do ye offend my sight Than this vision of delight With her false caresses!

“ Give me gold that will endure,

Or the grief that mocks at cure ; But no passing splendour—

Cruel mother of a bliss

Which when rising to her kiss She doth so surrender!

“Hence then, Summer! tho’ thy breath Woo with fragrance, and thy wreath Ransack Nature’s treasure,— Though the enamoured zephyrs creep Round thy robe until they sleep Swooning with the pleasure!

“Scarce dost thon attain thy prime, Ere thine envious servant, Time, Narrows daylight’s glory :— Flowery meshes that entwine Thy feet, are bht too apt a sign Of thy beauty’s story.”

Then, with voice that did exhale Tenderness, She chid my wail :—

“ Nought that’s bright should perish ! Though my form desert thine eyes— Know the beauty never dies

That the heart can cherish.

“ Love me!—Though I quit thy side, In thee shall my power abide ; And, my grace recalling, Thou shalt loveliness perceive In the October rose, and grieve Gently for its falling.

“ Friends that gather round thy hearth When the snows envelope earth Shall have greeting fonder, If in summer twilights ye Mutely strayed, and tenderly In their hush did ponder.

“ Angel faces Youth beholds

When the veil of Time unfolds, Though so soon it closes,

Once beheld are known till death ;

And on Memory’s bosom Faith Placidly reposes.

“ Outward beauty thus awakes Human love,—and but forsakes, That the inward yearning, By its passion may create Glories rarer than await Mortal sight’s discerning.

“ Bud of light! accept each ray Would warm thee, though it flit away, That thy bloom securing, Whether come the sun or shower Radiance thou around mays’t pour As thyself enduring !”

ELIZA COOK’S POETRY.

Her truest Potrait is in her lyric compositions; and

while thousands are receiving with delight, and treasur-

| good created by that invention.

- work compared with gatherin

THE EXAMINER.

A book is in itselfa

ing -e Plato’s Epilogues in priat is poor cold thing. To have 2 — Boge in the groves of Academe, and catching from his lips the liv- ‘ing accents. “Ising,” says the modern Bard, speaking ‘to the eye alone, by the help of type-founders, paper- ‘makers, compositors, ink balls, folding, and stitching. Of old, the Bard struck no figurative lyre, nor chanted ‘with fictitious voice; but his fingers drew forth real ‘melody to the enchanted ear, and his inspired tones |went thrilling to the heart. The song and the singer | were one, as they have rarely been in later times. For the charm thus lost, we must make up, aS we can, 10 ‘other ways. ‘The painter’s and grayer’s art does some- ‘thing ; the reader’s mind must do the rest. It is to sti- ‘mulate the minds of readers to such an operation that ‘these criticisms are appended to the portrait bestowed ‘upon our subscribers.

Eliza Cook is just the writer to be at home with, and to make at home with ourselves. The spirit of home pervades her compositions. Every household object has ‘its song; from the kitchen to the garret, and every ‘flower of the adjoining garden or of the field beyond. | ‘True, her imagination will sometimes soar with the lark | ‘above the clouds; or skim the ocean, in calm or storm, ‘to bask in the golden light of oriental regions; but her ‘heart untravelled, fondly turns’ to home; and like the Hark, from the loftiest flight, she drops into her nest. | Yes, there she is; in ‘the Room of the Household you ‘may see her by ‘the Rushlight ? in the ‘Old Arm Chair; ‘the ‘Grandfather’s Stick’ is by, a sacred relic ; she has

been gathering ‘ Buttercups and Daisies,’ or ‘Blue Bells ‘in the Shade, or sporting with ‘Old Pincher;? and the \‘ Murray Plaid’ is thrown by, with the ‘Old Straw Hat,’ ‘and she is musing on childish times, when she swung ‘on the ‘Farm Gate, or wore ‘Red Shoes,’ and played ‘at ‘Tom Tiddler’s Ground.’ People send their cards with Mr. and Mrs. Such-an-one at home on such a night ; but Eliza Cook is always at home, and every where with all who deserve it. The reader that has no relish for her Songs ought not to have a home, and has no proper conception of the meaning of the word. Her card or motto might be ‘ Poetry at Home.’

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just been enumerated that suggested toa critic ina |splenetic mood the not very felicitous sarcasm of calling ‘these lyrics ‘ Dunstable stuff’ And yet the application \was better than its author intended. The straw hats of Dunstable are very serviceable for a long country ramble. ‘Ona warm summer’s day they are pleasant and fa- \mniliar things ; and they wear well to the very last. If ‘that isa sneer, what would be praise? False criticism, \like the false prophet, unwittingly blesses where it }meant to curse. The Poetess may sing defyingly, And if one bay-leaf fall to me, I'll stick it firm and fast in thee, My Old Straw Hat.

There are vulgar smatterers who will think such themes ‘shocking low,—they can reciprocate no sen- timent in a less costly attire than silks andsatins. They ‘feel neither Peotry nor pathos beneath the Peerage. ‘The muse, as they suppose, only ‘dwells in marble

‘halls.’ Every thing about her must be Eastern antique.

‘They are in raptures with the bulbul, and scorn the sky- lark.—In the Cymar they make a shift see more than ‘in English costume. ‘They are profoundly classical] in | taste, and know the latin for three-cocked hat. Any weapon more modern than a spear is spurious in verse, In vain people are told, but it is the fact, nevertheless, that the wellspring ofall poetry is in the common human heart. It may gush forth and overflow upon the most familiar articles of cottage furniture. All the great | poets of classical antiquity were homely. Virgil poet- ized his farm-yard; with Homer we sit down to heroic cookery and feasting, which show that fingers were made ,before forks. Transfer this dandysim to the East (of ‘the world, and not of temple-bar), and Orientalisms are ‘no longer rich andrare. All subjects are elevated, on which Poetry alights, and leaves the radiant traces of its footsteps. A song upon jumpers may have high- er inspiration than one on old Olympus. ‘The Poet,’ ‘says Byron, ‘can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,’ And if it be asked, why select such topics, when there are many with dignified associations, the reply is ready.

ing with care, the excellent engraving which makes her) The choice is a championship of human nature, in its ?

at home in their dwellings, I would stimulate them to make her at home also in their minds and memories, and toread her works not only for the enjoyment of par- ticular songs and passages, but so as to realize the in- tellectual and moral companionship of the writer, and understand and appreciate her character. This is, indeed,the noblest work of literature. [i gives us, not only lessions of wisdom, but the friend- ship of the wise. No product of the mind is to be com- pared with the mind itself from which it flowed. The emanation is insignificant compared with its source ; but it leads us towards that source. Even a solitaryray of light

oT ee the gaze to the sun. The perception of indivi- lions find that the u

al character ina work is the best good we derive from the best work. It renders an isolated gratification

of taste subservient to the wildest and noblest influences ized by song,

on the heart and life. This philosophising, which almost every reader prac-

tices, in a greater or less degree; though often without perhaps the most of al

most frequent mode of existence. It ministers to the millions, and feeds then with Angels’ food. The divine is brought to the cottage-door; and tarries there, like acelestial guest of old, in the Patriach’s tent. Put an Eliza Cook, by her potrait and her poems, in the home- liest abode, and you give new feelings, a new sense, to its inmates, They look around ; they sing, they weep, they sympathize, and hope; and a glory unperceived before plays over all the familiar objects of their habi- tation. Monsieur Jourdain (in Moliere’s celebrated comedy of the Bourgeois) was astonished that he had ‘Spoken prose all - - without knowing it. The mil- ‘ons fi y have breathed an atmosphere of with like unconsciousness. The writer we with’ the ‘Wonder isa oo ae The multitude, harmon- » Which comes home to their busi bosoms, realize the fable of Orpheus ond the Seni ' The homeliest themes are not the least favourable, 1, to true delicacy and refinement

being aware of it until the critic comes with his expla- of feeling. Miss Cools publi nation, is our compensation for the change indroduced fidently referred i one en ‘car aoa

by the Press—the one small evil in the vast ocean of, mawkish, affected, or what is called sentimental. The

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' Perhaps it was one of the pieces whose subjects have |

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emotion she expresses or excites, is always sound and healthy. It has a clear tone,and rings likea bell. There is a sturdy morality in it, often made tender, but never weak, by susceptibility. Happily the tendency of her compositions is not matterof mere speculation. The trans- ported convict, weeping over his tattered copy of ‘Our Native Song,’ supersedes or silences a thousand criti- cisms, and isa nobler trophy than warrior ever won, After that anecdote, (vide Preface to ‘ Melaia,’) it may be said, as Dr. Johnson said of the ‘ Elegy in a Country Church-yard,’ ‘Had Gray written often thus, it had been vain to blame and useless to praise him.’ Gray did not often write like the Elegy ; Eliza Cook always writes like ‘Our Native Song.’

How delicious is that cluster of reminiscences which makes poetry of an accumulation of ballad titles in the lines on ‘ Old Songs,’ —

Old songs, what heaps I knew,

From “Chevy Chase” to “ Black Eyed Sue,” From “ Flow thou regal purple stream,”

To “ Rousseau’s” melancholy “ Dream.”

I loved the pensive “ Cabin Boy,”

With earnest truth and real joy ;

My warmest feelings wander back,

To greet ‘Tom Bowling’ and ‘ Poor Jack ; And, Oh! ‘ Will Watch.’ the ‘Smuggler” bold, My plighted troth thou’lt ever hold!

I doated on the ‘ Auld Scot’s sonnet,’

As though I'd worn the plaid and bonnet; I went abroad with ‘Sandy’s Ghost?

I stood with Bannockburn’s brave host, And proudly toss’d my curly head,

With ‘Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled.’ I shouted ‘Comin’ thro’ the Rye,’

With restless step and sparkling eye ; And chased away the passing frown With ‘ Bonnie ran the Burnie down.’

Here was inspiration. The enjoyment. was the pres- tige of power. Appreciation was the herald of pro- duction.

Old songs! old songs! ye fed, no doubt, The flame that since has broken out; For I would wonder far and Jone,

And sit upon the moss-wrapt stone, Conning ‘ old songs’ till some strange power Breathed a wild magic on the hour; Sweeping the pulse chords of my soul, As winds o’er sleeping waters roll.

’T was done—the volume was unsealed— The hallowed mission was revealed.

Old Songs called up a kindred tone ;

An echo started—’twas my own.

Joy, pride, and riches swell’d my breast, The ‘lyre’ was mine, and I was blest.

Rightly was the vocation construed; and its real worth and nobleness were justly understood.

Oh! who shall say the ballad line

That stirs the heart is not divine ?

And where’s the heart that would not dare To place such song beside the prayer ?

I have dwelt chiefly on the songs of Eliza Cook, be- cause they are her most characteristic compositions ; and those in which she renders the most peculiar and valu- able service to our popular literature. England is not, like Scotland, or Ireland, a land of song. Our poverty, in this respect, has been obvious and deplorable.

Anterior to Barry Cornwall, the prince of English songsters, the name of Dibdin is the most conspicuous. And Dibdin profaned his powers to make himself a re- cruiting officer for the Navy. He varnished over the foul oppression and cruelties which at that time (the service is wonderfully improved since) made a sailor's life, to thousands, scarcely endurable, and rendered many a man-of-war ‘a floating hell.’ The cajolery of Dibdin co-operated with the violence of the press gang. Ifthe discrepancy between the song and the ship be now much Jess than it was, we may thank the influence of such principles and feelings as are exhibited in the volumes before us. They have made the old sea songs come true at last. And if it have long been known that ‘the earth hath bubbles as the water hath; the songs of Eliza Cooke, by the side of those of Dibdin, show that the earth also hath poetry as the water hath; nor will the land service yield to the Marine in al] that consti- tutes the loveliness and power of song.

Poetry began her work in the world by chaunting oracles and laws, assuming to be the voice of God to man, dictating his politics and religion. And then she sang of savage wars, the shock of battle, and the slain dragged at the victor’s chariot wheels. From scenes of blood she sought relief in the pastoral strain, piping to listening flocks the artless loves of shepherds. In minstrel guise, she entered baronial halls, reciting le- gends of the feats of feudal chiefs. Half turning from the banquet, she crowned the revellers with flowers, that wine and luxury might be restrained from excess by dainty phantasies. Her inspiring voice has ever and anon sounded the march of patriotism for the as- sertion of right. And now, thanks to such writers as the one whose likeness we contemplate, she sojourns in cottages and lowly homes, irradiating them by her pre- sence, which, in its influences, makes them, though ai! the winds of heaven may whistle through their walls, fairer than fabled bowers, statelier than the palace, gran- der than the castle, and holier than the temple.