by snatching a province from our ancient ally, but by keeping his dominions entire.

ber the wise forbearance of Mehemet Ali, who, at the very time of our wresting Syria from his military occupation, was Perhaps it is well for our country that safely transmitting our India mails across the weight of France, necessarily so great the Isthmus of Suez. This instance, no by reason of her martial prowess and her less than the probabilities fairly deducible immense military resources, has not been from an abstract view of the matter, justify aggravated by the accession of that vast us in inferring that any satrap of the Porte moral power which she would have inevitholding the government of Egypt-and ably gathered about her, if during the last whether independent or not-would find half century she had respected neutral it vitally for his interest to keep us unmo-states-had pursued her foes with steady Jested in our passage. His interference enmity, and had lent to her friends and alwith that privilege, or even his failure to lies a constant and faithful support. At secure us from the interruption of others, all events, we can draw from the experiwould speedily work his ruin. ence of our great neighbor a new confirmation of the ancient truth that honesty is the best policy; and when, whether it be in the Levant, or on the banks of the Indus,

By constant and uninterrupted usage, therefore, no less than by strictly legal ownership, a privilege of free passage through all the Sultan's territories belongs we are tempted to break faith with men beto England. Our claim to go unmolested across the Isthmus of Suez is as clear by public law as our right to cross the West Riding; and whoever interfered with the enjoyment of it would take upon himself those responsibilities which attach to an invader of the British dominions.

On the other hand, an invasion and seizure of Egypt, whether by England or by any other of the Great Powers, involves an European war, and this we are invited to brave for the sake of a privilege which we already enjoy unmolested! But, then, it is said that a state of confusion may arise upon the death of Mehemet Ali, and

cause they are weak in the hour of battlebecause they wear turbans, or turn their faces to Mecca-we may strengthen our old love of truth by a glance at the French Lake,' for there and on its shores there broods a history most apt for teaching how halt, lame, and blind is the march of a nation that rests her ambitious hopes on violence and ill-faith.

MRS. BUTLER'S POEMS.
From the London Quarterly Review.

that therefore we must shape our policy Porms. By Frances Anne Butler (late

Fanny Kemble). London. 12mo. 1844.
Pp. 144.

THIS Collection, having been published simultaneously by two different London booksellers, it is no doubt reprinted from an American edition. Whether the original title-page had the (late Fanny Kemble)' on it, we cannot tell. After reading through the little book, that parenthesis seems like a mournful ejaculation.

with a view to the probable dismemberment of the Ottoman empire-that in short we must take time by the forelock, and begin to burn down our house at once in order to exclude the possibility of its being burnt down accidentally! This would be carrying precaution too far. The course which it behoves this country to take lies as clear to the sight of the practical statesman as to that of the political moralist: always in the long run is good faith expedi- More than once we have had occasion to ent; but brought to bear upon our Eastern express admiration of Mrs. Butler's various policy it is no less plainly advantageous in and vigorous ability; but we own that the its immediate and early results than in its present volume, though including no piece ultimate consequences. We stand deeply of considerable length or in any ambitious pledged to maintain unpartitioned the ter- form, has raised our estimate of her as a ritories of that very state under which we poetess. She has never before written so possess by treaty, and enjoy, in fact, the simply or so strongly. Never before has now precious right of free passage. Our she dealt so boldly with the realities of life, duty, therefore, and our interest are one, and yet never before in our judgment did and are simply this:-to avoid encroach- she display an equal richness of imaginative ment ourselves, and to prevent encroach-power.

ment by others. We can be honest, and It is very rarely that a woman's poetryyet prosper. We can hold our own-not real poetry-does not betray its source in

her personal experience and emotions. I knee? Is there any man for whom the With whatever art she may endeavor to dead that he loved in life are not still alive envelope it, the self peeps through wherev- in his dreams? Sir Thomas should have er the inspiration reaches its height. But confined his statement to merest infancyhere there is no attempt at concealment. the Life of the Cradle. When the human It is impossible not to feel that we have be- being has once passed that age of utter feefore us the fragments of an autobiography bleness, we believe no sensation, no thought in verse. Of the few articles that do not fall whatever fails to imprint itself indelibly. under this category, almost all appear cold We may have put the impression away in and elaborate beside her staple. She may an obscure corner-so obscure that no volintroduce here and there what nymphs, untary effort of ours can bring it up; but fairies, even angels she pleases-we turn there it is. A trivial accident shall be sufthe page the moment we perceive that it ficient to touch the spring of the repository does not belong wholly to Frances Butler-and experience teaches that these hidden -late Fanny Kemble.' Nor has the lady springs are more accessible to such influany reason to shrink from the sort of criti-ence during the general relaxation and cism which she has thus forced on her reader.

·

wandering wildness of sleep than at any other season. A Danish poet beautifully We quote first the following sonnet, very compares the detached images of long-past graceful on the whole-though the last line existence thus resuscitated by unfettered is tautologous and additionally interesting Fancy,' to the brilliant mosaics of a buried because, it seems, we have here, on a sub- city ;*-but this is only half the story-it ject of which most of our readers must be leaves out the written troubles of the competent judges, the results of the self-brain.' It is probable that Mrs. Butler observation of two persons of rare genius. has the good fortune to be a sound sleeper.

'SONNET.

'Suggested by Sir Thomas Lawrence observing that we nev-
er dream of ourselves younger than we are.
• Not in our dreams, not even in our dreams,
May we return to that sweet land of youth,
That home of hope, of innocence, and truth,
Which as we farther roam but fairer seems.

In that dim shadowy world, where the soul strays
When she has laid her mortal charge to rest,
We oft behold far future hours and days,
But ne'er live o'er the past, the happiest.
How oft will Fancy's wild imaginings
Bear us in sleep to times and worlds unseen:
But ah! not e'en unfetter'd Fancy's wings
Can lead us back to aught that we have been,
Or waft us to that smiling, sunny shore,
Which e'en in slumber we may tread no more.'
-p. 78.

As

We confess it astonished us to find this 'physiological fact' so firmly attested. suredly, if literature may be in aught believed,' we are not alone in our dissent. Are we wrong, then, in believing that nothing is more common than to live over in dreams, the sights, the sounds, the feelings, of even a very early period of our existence? Is it not true that many a gray-haired man, who perhaps has been watching the play of his children before he fell asleep, finds himself flung back, as soon as his eyes close, to the home of his own childhood? Is it not true that the parent whose death, when it occurred, was rather a mystery than a sorrow, is not dead to the dreaming sense but that her smile beams as freshly as ever it did on the curled darling at her

The dreams that she recollects are in that case those of the light morning slumber, when we are acted upon, every moment more and more, by the external circumstances of the actual place, and of course by associations of the actual time. If ever she should have feeble health, and be liable to start from the visions of midnight'when deep sleep falleth upon men,'-she would, we suspect, desert the theory of our late amiable painter. But there is in this very volume more than one page to which we may appeal for much of what we have been saying. For example:

'TO THE PICTURE OF A LADY.

Lady, sweet lady, I behold thee yet,
With thy pale brow, brown eyes, and solemn air,
Which once to see is never to forget!
And billowy tresses of thy golden hair,
But for short space I gazed with soul intent
Upon thee; and the limner's art divine,
Meantime, poured all thy spirit into mine.
And thou art still before me.
But once I gazed, then on my way I went:
Like a dream
Of what our soul has loved, and lost for ever,
Thy vision dwells with me, and though I never
May be so blest as to behold thee more,
That one short look has stamped thee in my heart:
Which time, and death, shall never triumph o'er.'
Of my intensest life a living part,

-p. 18.

* See Anderson's 'Improvisatore, or Life in lated by Mrs Howitt-by far the most valuable Italy,' an exquisite romance, very elegantly transwork she has as yet introduced to us from the literature of the Scandinavian nations.

'Is it a sin, to wish that I may meet thee
In that dim world whither our spirits stray,
When sleep and darkness follow life and day?
Is it a sin, that there my voice should greet thee
With all that love that I must die concealing?
Will my tear-laden eyes sin in revealing
The agony that preys upon my soul?

When thou art with me every sense seems dull,
And all I am, or know, or feel, is thee;
My soul grows faint, my veins run liquid flame,
And my bewildered spirit seems to swim
In eddying whirls of passion, dizzily.
When thou art gone, there creeps into my heart
A cold and bitter consciousness of pain:
The light, the warmth of life, with thee depart,
And I sit dreaming o'er and o'er again
Thy greeting clasp, thy parting look, and tone;
And suddenly I wake and am alone.'-p. 93.

shore

AN INVITATION.

Is't not enough through the long, loathsome day, Come where the white waves dance along the
To hold each look and word in stern control?
May I not wish the staring sunlight gone,
Day and its thousand torturing moments done,
And prying sights and sounds of men away?
Oh, still and silent Night! when all things sleep,
Lock'd in thy swarthy breast my secret keep :
Come, with thy vision'd hopes and blessings now!
I dream the only happiness I know.'-p. 84.

'SONNET.

'I would I knew the lady of thy heart:
She whom thou lov'st perchance, as I love thee.
She unto whom thy thoughts and wishes flee;
Those thoughts in which, alas! I bear no part.
Oh, I have sat and sighed, thinking how fair,
How passing beautiful, thy love must be;
Of mind how high, of modesty how rare;
And then I've wept-I've wept in agony.
Oh, that I might but once behold those eyes
That to thy enamor'd gaze alone seem fair;
Once hear that voice, whose music still replies
To the fond vows thy passionate accents swear;
Oh, that I might but know the truth and die,
Nor live in this long dream of misery !'-p. 46.

'SONNET.

'Lady, whom my beloved loves so well:
When on his clasping arm thy head reclineth,
When on thy lips his ardent kisses dwell,
And the bright flood of burning light, that shineth
In his dark eyes, is poured into thine;
When thou shalt lie enfolded to his heart,
In all the trusting helplessness of love;
If in such joy sorrow can find a part,
Oh, give one sigh unto a doom like mine!
Which I would have thee pity, but not prove.
One cold, calm, careless, wintry look, that fell
Haply by chance on me, is all that he'

E'er gave my love; round that, my wild thoughts

dwell

In one eternal pang of memory.'—p. 75.

сто

'Oh! turn those eyes away from me!
Though sweet yet fearful are their rays;
And though they beam so tenderly,

I feel, I tremble 'neath their gaze.
Oh, turn.those eyes away! for though
To meet their glance I may not dare,
I know their light is on my brow,

By the warm blood that mantles there.'-p.32.

'There's not a fibre in my trembling frame
That does not vibrate when thy step draws near,
There's not a pulse that throbs not when I hear
Thy voice, thy breathing, nay, thy very name.

Of some lone isle, lost in the unknown seas;
Whose golden sands by mortal foot before
That never swept o'er land or flood that man
Were never printed,-where the fragrant breeze,
Could call his own, th' unearthly breeze shall fan
Our mingled tresses with its odorous sighs;
Where the eternal heaven's blue sunny eyes
Did ne'er look down on human shapes of earth,
Or aught of mortal mould and death-doom'd
birth;

Come there with me; and when we are alone
In that enchanted desert, where the tone
Of earthly voice, or language, yet did ne'er
With its strange music startle the still air,
When clasp'd in thy upholding arms I stand
Upon that bright world's coral-cradled strand,
When I can hide my face upon thy breast,
While thy heart answers mine together pressed,
Then fold me closer, bend thy head above me,
Listen-and I will tell thee how I love thee.'

SONNET.

-p. 102.

'Whene'er I recollect the happy time
When you and I held converse dear together,
There come a thousand thoughts of sunny wea-

ther,

Your memory lives for ever in my mind
Of early blossoms, and the fresh year's prime ;
With all the fragrant beauties of the spring,
With od'rous lime and silver hawthorn twin'd,
And many a noonday woodland wandering.
There's not a thought of you, but brings along
Some sunny dream of river, field and sky;
'Tis wafted on the blackbird's sunset song,
Or some wild snatch of ancient melody.
Twixt the last violet and the earliest rose.'—p.72.
And as I date it still, our love arose

It is a long time since we have met with any love-verses equal to these. We pity the oldest who does not feel young again as he reads who does not also feel the warm blood mantle.'

The following seem to us to have the heroic in them-Montrose might have been proud of such a response to his famous Lines :'

ABSENCE.

What shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face?
How shall I charm the interval that low'rs
Between this time and that sweet time of grace ?

1845.]

MRS. BUTLER'S POEMS.

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
Weary with longing?-shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
Cheat myself to forget the present day?

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin

Of casting from me God's great gift of time;
Shall I these mists of memory lock'd within,
Leave, and forget, life's purposes sublime?

Oh! how, or by what means, may I contrive
To bring the hour that brings thee back more

near

How may

I teach my drooping hope to live
Until that blessed time, and thou art here?

I'll tell thee for thy sake, I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,
In worthy deeds, each moment that is told,
While thou, beloved one! art far from me.

For thee, I will arouse my thoughts to try
All heavenward flights, all high and holy
strains;

For thy dear sake I will walk patiently
Through these long hours, nor call their min-
utes pains.

I will this dreary blank of absence make
A noble task-time, and will therein strive
To follow excellence, and to o'ertake
More good than I have won, since yet I live.

So may this doomed time build up in me
A thousand graces which shall thus be thine;
So may my love and longing hallowed be,
And thy dear thought an influence divine.'
-pp. 99, 100.

107

?

Art thou a world of sorrow and of sin,
The heritage of death, disease, decay;
A wilderness, like that we wander in,
Where all things fairest, soonest pass away
And are there graves in thee, thou radiant world,
Round which life's sweetest buds fall withered,
Where hope's bright wings in the dark earth lie
furled,

And living hearts are mouldering with the
dead?

Perchance they do not die, that dwell in thee-
Perchance theirs is a darker doom than ours;
Unchanging woe and endless misery,

And mourning that hath neither days nor hours.
Horrible dream!-Oh dark and dismal path,
Where I now weeping walk, I will not leave

thee.

Earth has one boon for all her children-death:
Open thy arms, oh mother! and receive me!
Take off the bitter burthen from the slave,
Give me my birth-right! give-the grave, the
grave!'-p. 58.

False love! in thy despite,

I will be with thee then.

When in the world of dreams thy spirit strays, Seeking, in vain, the peace it finds not here, Thou shalt be led back to thine early days Of life and love, and I will meet thee there. I'll come to thee with the bright sunny brow That was hope's throne before I met with thee; And then I'll show thee how 'tis furrowed now, By the untimely age of misery. must therefore pro tanto modify what we'll speak to thee in the fond, joyous tone, said on the superiority of that class of the That wooed thee still with love's impassioned lady's verses at the outset.

Some at least of those we are about to extract, cannot be supposed to come under and we the autobiographical category

'SONG.

spell;

And then I'll teach thee how I've learnt to moan,
Since last upon thine ear its accents fell.
I'll come to thee in all youth's brightest power,
As on the day thy faith to mine was plighted,
And then I'll tell thee weary hour by hour,
How that spring's early promise has been blight-

ed.

I'll tell thee of the long, long, dreary years,
That have passed o'er me, hopeless, objectless;
My loathsome days, my nights of burning tears,
My wild despair, my utter loneliness,

My heart-sick dreams upon my feverish bed,
My fearful longing to be with the dead.-
In the dark lonely night,

When sleep and silence keep their watch o'er

men;

False love in thy despite,

We two shall meet again !'-p. 50.

'SONNET.

But to be still! oh, but to cease awhile
The panting breath and hurrying steps of life,
The sights, the sounds, the struggle, and the strife
Of hourly being; the sharp biting file
Of action fretting on the tightened chain
Of rough existence; all that is not pain,

to who the lady is that Mrs. Butler addresses at p. 52; but we hope we may be forgiven for taking leave of our poetess on the present occasion in her own words :

'TO MRS.

'I never shall forget thee-'tis a word

Thou oft must hear, for surely there be none
On whom thy wondrous eyes have ever shone
But for a moment, or who e'er have heard
Thy voice's deep impassioned melody,

Can lose the memory of that look or tone.
But, not as these, do I say unto thee,

I never shall forget thee :-in thine eyes, Whose light, like sunshine, makes the world rejoice,

A stream of sad and solemn splendor lies;
And there is sorrow in thy gentle voice.
Thou art not like the scenes in which I found
thee,

There are in this volume a great number of pieces expressing feelings of the profoundest melancholy, dejection of heart and spirit, weariness of life, almost despair. The best and most richly endowed of human beings have their share of sorrow-but we are never in a hurry to accept effusions of this sort for correct evidence of the prevailing mood of a poet's mind. On the contrary, they contradict themselves. How-Thou art not like the beings that surround thee; ever deep a wound may have been, it must be well skinned over before one begins to Such gifts, to make thee fair, and excellent; beat time upon it. Are we wrong in guess-Still watches one whom it has deigned to bless ing that there is a self-rebuke in this sonnet? 'Blaspheme not thou the sacred life, nor turn O'er joys that God hath for a season lent, Perchance to try thy spirit, and its bent, Effeminate soul and base-weakly to mourn. There lies no desert in the land of life,

For e'en that tract that barrenest doth seem,
Labored of thee in faith and hope, shall teem
With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings, rife.
Haply no more, music, and mirth, and love,
And glorious things of old and younger art,
Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast:
But when these bright companions all depart,
Lay thou thy head upon the ample breast
Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing
above.'-p. 16.

The noblest verses in the book are-like these, the 'Absence,' and the 'Wish'-conceived and written in a brave high tone and style-a style that reminds us—we are sure Mrs. Butler will be pleased with the comparison of the still smaller collection put forth a few years ago under the signature of V.—a spirit such as men call masculine.

A WISH.

'Let me not die for ever! when I'm gone
To the cold earth; but let my memory
Live like the gorgeous western light that shone
Over the clouds where sank day's majesty.
Let me not be forgotten! though the grave
Has clasped its hideous arms around my brow;
Let me not be forgotten! though the wave

Of time's dark current rolls above me now;
Yet not in tears remembered be my name.
Weep over those ye loved; for me, for me,
Give me the wreath of glory, and let fame

To me, thou art a dream of hope and fear;
Yet why of fear?-oh sure! the Power that lent

With such a dower of grace and loveliness;

Over the dangerous waves 'twill surely steer
The richly freighted bark, thro' storm and blast,
And guide it safely to the port at last.
Such is my prayer; 'tis warm as ever fell
From off my lips: accept it, and farewell!
And though in this strange world where first I
met thee,

We meet no more-I never shall forget thee.'

-p. 9.52.

WHAT WE'RE DOING AND WHAT WE'RE
COMING TO.

BY ANGUS B. REACH.

From the New Monthly Magazine.

SOMEBODY Once remarked, that the day was coming when the most extraordinary natural phenomenon we could beholdthe most singular deviation from the ordinary laws of nature we could witness-would be a man who had not written a book. If, however, matters go on much longer as they are now doing, we shall have a fair chance of seeing an eighth wonder added to the world in the shape of a man who actually, and bona fide, possesses not a single railway share!

and.

Doctors may go mad about Mesmerism, parsons about Puseyism, Young England may be smitten with temporary insanity, touching may-poles and cricketballs but old England has become a perfect monomaniac in the matter of rails and Over my tomb spread immortality.'-p. 28. locomotives. We are all railway madWe shall not print a conjecture-though the steam-whistle drowns every other sound we think we could give a shrewd one-as -we hardly think, but of rival lines-we