"But as for her, she staid at home,

And on the roof she went,
And down the way you use to come
She looked with discontent.
She left the novel half uncut

Upon the rose-wood shelf;

She left the new piano shut;

She could not please herself.”

We shall hear Mr. Moir felicitating the laureate:

"Mixed up with many of the elements used by Wordsworth, Hunt, Keats, and Shelley, poetry about twenty years ago began to assume something like a new form of manifestation in the verse of Alfred Tennyson-a man of fine and original, but of capricious and wayward genius. With a delightful manner of his own-one more so this age knoweth not-Tennyson seems strangely destitute of self-reliance. Let it not be supposed for one moment that I am not deeply alive to the excellencies of Alfred Tennyson as a poet, for I regard him in some points standing at this moment at the very head of our poetical literature. But he is much more apt to be copied in his errors than in his excellencies; and what I maintain is that, although a great artist, he is a very unequal one. Possessed of a rich and rare genius, he is, in a certain walk, and that his own-the imagina. tive, the quaintly graphic, and the picturesque unquestionably a master. Above all, his poetry possesses, in an eminent degree, one of the highest attributes suggestiveness; and there he will even stand the severe test of old Longinus, who enunciates in his tenth section, that we may pronounce that sublime, beautiful, and true, which permanently pleases, and which takes generally with all sorts of men.' The laurel crown of England 'which Dryden and divine Spenser wore,' has, by the recent lamented decease of the great Poet of the Lakes, been transferred to the more youthful brow of Alfred Tennyson.

"He won it well, and may he wear it long.'

"Sketches of the Poetical Literature of the past half-century”— Yes, such is the title of the work. Foreign, as well as native poetical literature? No, no-English poetical literature, merely. Then, why is there made no mention of Longfellow? Why, because he is a foreigner, and that would be to notice foreign-It would be no such thing! We care not a farthing upon what clod of earth a man may have been born. Genius is your true citizen of the world. We care not what may be the fashion of the political state under whose rule Longfellow may live. English is a big word, and will stretch farther even than the limits of the Empire on which, 'tis

said, the sun never sets; for the people of the New World are an English-speaking people, and Longfellow has written English poetry, and is a name in English literature, as much as though he were a subject of her Majesty. Was not Terence an African born? And yet we never think of his skin, though we read his poetry. But it is objected, he lived under Roman rule, Civis Romanus erat, whereas Mr. Longfellow-It really matters not. -It really matters not. Had it even been otherwise, he should be accounted by us as much a Roman poet as Virgil; for the common bond of language made them countrymen and fellow-citizens in the land of genius. America may send us foreign corn; but she cannot send us foreign literature. "I am an English poet," cries Shakspeare from the banks of Avon. "So are we," say Moore and Scott, by the Liffey, or the Tweed. "And I, too," rejoins Longfellow from the New World shore of the Atlantic. His beautiful poem, "Evangeline," though disfigured by that fatal affectation, loved of Southey and not unloved even of Coleridge, attempting to cramp the feet of modern language in the sandals of ancient prosody, is redeemed by a tale of surpassing interest, treated with true poetic feeling.

"Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey; Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended.

Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of grey o'er her forehead, Dawn of another life that broke o'er her earthly horizon,

As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning.

**

On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. 'Gabriel! O my beloved!'

Still stands the forest primeval; but, far away from its shadow,
Side by side in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.
Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and for ever,
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,

Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labours,
Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!"

Well, what is it? Why don't you go on?

"Hark! my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn."

Reader, it is even so and our

merry comrades," the imps that

"thick men's ink," are screaming to us for M.S.S.-yell upon yell! Mighty is their hunger for all things plume of goose hath touched. We shall soon bid adieu to our braw John Highlandman, but we shall first quote what Professor Wilson says of him:

"Of Moir," says glorious Christopher, "our own delightful Delta,' as we love to call him-and the epithet now by right appertains to his name-we shall now say simply this, that he has produced many original pieces which will possess a permanent place in the poetry of Scotland. Delicacy and grace characterize his happiest compositions; some of them are beautiful in a cheerful spirit that has only to look on nature to be happy; and others breathe the simplest and purest pathos. His scenery, whether seacoast or inland, is always truly Scottish; and at times his pen drops touches of light on minute objects, that till then had slumbered in the shade, but now shine well where they stand' or lie, as component or characteristic parts of our lowland landscapes. Let others labour away at long poems, and for their pains get neglect or oblivion; Moir is seen as he is in many short ones, which the Scottish Muses' may not willingly let die.' And that must be a pleasant thought when it touches the heart of the mildest and most modest of men, as he sits by his family fire, beside those most dear to him, after a day past in smoothing, by his skill, the bed and the brow of pain, in restoring sickness to health, in alleviating sufferings that cannot be cured, or in mitigating the pangs of death."

We can conceive an author making a lasting reputation as the writer of a standard book on the subject treated by Delta. A man who could bring to the task knowledge, experience, susceptibility, discernment—a head-a heart-and a practised pen-might "awake one morning, and find himself famous." The subject is well worthy of all the energies of criticism the most learned, candid, and exalted. We cannot bring ourselves to think that Mr. Moir has done with it all that might be done, but he has accomplished that which a gifted man might be proud to have attempted. It is now of record this appendix to the poetical literature of the last half century; and most useful and delightful will it be, by many a pleasant fireside and in many a snug study, to turn from the pages of the poets to those of their eloquent critic. We would wish to

speak of Mr. Moir's "booke" in the terms in which the Editors of Shakspeare's "booke" discoursed thereof, some two hundred years ago, in followynge wyse, in their "Preface of the Players:"

"To the great variety of Readers,

From the most able to him that can but spell: there you are number'd. We had rather you were weigh'd. Especially when the fate of all Bookes depends upon your capacities: and not of your heads alone, but of your purses. Well! it is now publique, and you will stand for your priviledges, wee know; to read, and censure. Do so, but buy it first. That doth best commend a Booke, the Stationer saies. Then, how odde soever your braines may be, or your wisdomes, make your licence the same, and spare not. Judge your five shillings worth, so you rise to the just rates, and welcome. But, whatever you do, Buy." Mr. Moir's "Booke" is a portrait gallery-portable-a great point-for the little volume will not tire the delicatest hand of lady-reader by the evening fire, and is beautifully brought out. The vol. or the hand-which? Both! The likenesses are for the most part good, the colouring always fine, and you may refresh your eye with rare glimpses of back-ground, unobtrusive and appropriate. Therein you will encounter Byron's fierce and melancholy and tender glance, as of the eagle regarding his mate; and the calm eye of Wordsworth, as of an angel watching; and the great Minstrel's hale and vigorous look; and the "glittering eye" of the "Ancient" one; and the elegant presence of the Courtier of Hope; and Rogers gazing on Ginevra's fleshless arm; and Shelley with his draggled Lucifer-plumes; and the Irish boy with "teardrop bright'ning to a smile;" and Southey, "on the banks of Sella," in his hand the bridle of the riderless Orelio; and Felicia, and her band of sisters, "Beauty making beautiful old rhyme;" and the lesser spirits of the time-of all that time-of all these fifty yearsthe first moiety of the as yet greatest product of the Ages, the NINETEENTH CENTURY! How proudly rose that wave of Time—with what a sparkle and glory on its crest! What a world-heard hymn in its long boom, that swelled to thunder in its advance, and then died gradually away in the delicate music of its receding years!

And for this coming wave that has just raised its head―This half-century-what of it? Who is there can prophesy thereof?

There is much room for doubt and for fear-progression has been continuous, but unequally so-we begin to feel old-the Future will crave for change—and, finally, "Society is a standing miracle," at all periods, but especially now. Our Time-the day with us

and the day after it—are very critical. True, Material Civilization exalteth her horn, and at this very hour holds her levee in that "house," whence she had better "throw no stones." But where may we see any sure hope for that civilization of the heart and of the mind, to which the material arts are but handmaids? At home the path of progress is perilous-abroad Liberty has become a reproach. The continental peoples have failed to establish such free institutions as Christianity can afford to keep house with. And, with all this, we know that Liberty is to genius, what light is to the plant,

"For sure, if Dulness sees a grateful day,

'Tis in the shade of arbitrary sway."

The political and social complexion of our time will surely colour the literature of this next half century, whose great men and poets are yet invisible to our eyes. We look forth into the future, and we cry, Where are the Deliverers?-for all great minds deliver the world from some bondage of intellect, of fact, or of heart— Sister Anne! Sister Anne! do you see any one coming?*

ART. II.-SHEIL.

FIFTEEN years ago we sat beside the man who is the subject of this memoir, and heard him, addressing the citizens of Waterford, and referring to the struggle for Catholic Emancipation, say, "I was born on the banks of your river, I left it a boy and a slave, I returned to it a man and a freeman, and may I in death sleep calmly by its murmuring waters." Whilst we recall these words now the orator is again before us, and the shrill voice swells upon the ear, the eloquence of the tongue supplying the defect of

* Whilst the above review was being printed, we received the melancholy account of Dr. Moir's death. He was a poet of a high order, and well deserved all the praise given him by Professor Wilson. His last poem, entitled, "The Death of Selim," appeared in Blackwood for July, 1851.