[In the following anonymous review, the critic provides a mixed reading of Cranch's Poems.]

In spite of the matter-of-fact character ascribed to our nation, we have every day instances that the soil of Uncle Sam's great farm is not only fertile in producing merchants, whose possessions are those of princes, statesmen and military heroes, who, by the way, in these peaceful times, earn epaulets and laurels bloodlessly enough; but also numberless writers of greater or less distinction, and in every class of literature.

Among the latter, none are more numerous than the (so-called!) poets, (verily, bellua multorum es capitum!) the height of whose ambition it frequently is, to contribute “stanzas” and “lines” on so-and-so to some magazine with a colored fashion-plate. In process of time, these effusions accumulate on the hands of our young composers, and they presently discover a publisher sufficiently venturous to issue their labors in an elegant form, the gilding, after all, being reckoned upon, rather than the contents, to secure a sale.

The worst feature in the works of our American poets—I speak of the larger proportion—is that they write too much and with too little care: they are satisfied with appearing frequently before the public, flattering themselves that to do so is to be on the high road to fame; quite overlooking the fact, that it is the quality, not the quantity, of the goods they bring, which will obtain them purchasers in the great market of authors' wares.

The English have the right of it in this respect; they bend the whole power of their genius to the production of two or three compositions, which at once secure the author a brilliant reputation. This once grasped, they issue volumes, to the matter included in which they pay little regard, provided in the midst appear one or more of these real gems, the beauty of which, they are quite confident, will blind the eyes of their readers to all defects occurring in the minor productions. Thus, in a recent edition of Barry Cornwall, a large proportion of the verses were such as we would have expected to see over the signature “anonymous” in a daily newspaper: yet withal, we did not regret a moment having purchased the volume when we came to discuss such exquisite morsels as make their appearance at intervals: thus also, in Bulwer's “Eva, &c.,” but seven pieces, in our estimation, compose the book, the remainder being evidently inserted to swell the space between the covers of the publisher; yet we do not know any volume of like size; nay, nor any five, issued within the last six years, for which we would be willing to exchange our unadorned copy; supposing always, (which the muse forbid!) that none other was to be obtained.

We were inclined to regard the little volume of poems before us with a favorable eye, so soon as we saw the author had not taken refuge behind the arts of the binder and engraver, which always remind us of the charms the enchantress Alcina, in “Orlando Furioso,” assumed to conceal her deformities, and attract enamored knights to her palace by the grace of her outward seeming.

Our author certainly makes a fair beginning; in fact, we are of opinion he has, unlike the arrangement of the Roman legions according to Livy, placed his best performance in the van. Whether this order is to be preferred, it is not our present design to call in question. We regard with something more than horror, those peevish and harsh critics, who, as vultures are said sometimes to treat an animal on its last legs, flap around, tear out the eyes, and croak warning in the ears of their victim, who, if suffered to take his own course, would soon die a natural death.

We introduce this simile, however, merely to show that we are not of a captious disposition; not because we think the subject of the present review in danger of sharing the last mentioned fate.

To acknowledge the truth, we were so pleased with the very beginning of his first poem, that we at once re-turned to the title page and endeavored to call to mind some former production, to which the autograph of our poet—he gives his name in full, “Christopher Pearse Cranch”—had been attached. If he has written (and published) anything of note hitherto, however, it has escaped our attention.

“College Lyfe,” (the title of our favorite,) is written in imitation of the Old English: the dialect in which, more or less modified, Chaucer, Sir Tristrem, and a host of old ballads, have been handed down to us. We have many objections to this style of composition; not only because it savors somewhat of affectation, but because, in the present polished state of our language, as Selden says in his quaint way, of those who kiss a lady's hand after her lips, it is like the fashion of little boys who, when they have eat the apple, fall to and eat the paring.

Besides, we never see a word lengthened a syllable by the addition of the prefix “y,” without being reminded in a lively manner of the ache we once caused our eyes by reading Spenser's Fairie Queene in venerable black-letter.

Mr. Cranch, however, has handled his subject in so admirable a sort, that we are quite disposed to forgive him any pains he may have, by chance, recalled. Take for instance the three first stanzas:

“There stands upon a hille, al verdantlie
Y-clad with trees, and grasse, and waving graine,
An edifice, ne very haught and highe,
Ne lowe; of bricks y-built, joli and plaine;
Beseemeth such an house there to remaine.
A spire decks the roofe, which to the eyne
Of wandering wighte, who there his course hath ta'en,
Beneathe Dan Sol doth often glitterynge shine;
And al beyonde the walles are groves and meadowes fine.
“There often have I whilom conned my taske,
Intent on booke with no huge pleasaunce fraughte,
Withouten hope of drinke from luscious flaske.
To speede upon his waye one labouringe thoughte;
A looke as drye, perdie, was never boughte!
Ofte have I nodded, filled with drowsie sleepe,
Which Morpheus from his sombre land hath broughte,
And ofte would starte, and vigyl fain would keepe,
Yet that same sleepie god still o'er my braine dyd creepe.
“Then, ere I could againe my booke resume,
O fatale finisher of al my joye!
The glib-tongd bel would tingle through the roome,
O cursed bel, my peace thus to destroye!
No elfin spirite me then mote so annoye,
Ne goblyn ghoste with hellish puissance,
Ne byrchen swytch y-drad by idle boye,
Ne to the hen-peckt wighte hys wyfe's keen glance,
More troublous seemes than this, my miserie to enhance.”

Who that has been to college, does not fancy himself in the presence of his alma-mater again, while reading the first verse, or fails to recall the peculiar wandering of thought, (here, after some “luscious flaske”) and drowsiness, which even the hardest student must at some time in his life have experienced over a “booke with no huge pleasaunce fraughte;” or to sympathize with the “luckless youthe,” startled into consciousness of the existence of such things as recitation-rooms and college discipline, by the sound of the bell he anathematizes as more vexing than “byrchen swytch, y-drad by idle boye.”

Our author, who is tolerably fair in the division of his subject, after giving three stanzas to matters relating to “bookes,” introduces two, replete with the noises incident to dormitories surrounding a “campus.”

We give the last of these:

“Ne noyse alone of merriment was hearde.
There met the eare oftimes straunge mingled soundes,
Not like the liquid notes of woodlande byrde;
More like a packe, methinks, of hungrye houndes,
Yelping a chorus ere they slippe their boundes;
Fyddels y-crackt and huskie flutes were there,
Such discorde as the very aire astoundes!
That man must praye for deafnesse who would heare
The chaos straunge and loude that filleth al the aire.”

The description of doings in the refectory is highly humorous, and partaking as much of the reality as it is possible for words to make it. The remainder of this little poem is devoted to the pursuits of the students (?) during hours of recreation; such as wanderings through woods and fields, and—which college lads are prone to undertake—the plundering of trees, &c.: “Small gripes,” he writes with no less truth than quaintness, “dyd conscience give, those tymes I trow.”

One more verse, and we are done with his “college lyfe.”

“Sometymes we wandered by a sylvan streame,
That made soft murmurings on a summer's daie;
Along it's bankes how often dyd we dreame,
And see its dark green waters glyde away,
Kyssing the flowers which to their brinke dyd straie
There too, huge scarped rocks dyd hie appeare,
And from the sunne dyd shelter it alwaie;
Here as we sometymes strayed, wel mote we heare
Sweete sounde of distant bel, or mil-wheel plashyng neare.”

The beauty of this extract, it requires no encomium from our pen to make evident; the last line is particularly harmonious and faithful in description.

In what section of country the college, of which our poet here treats, is situated, we have no means of knowing; that it lies somewhere in the South is apparent from his mentioning, among other “lyttel flies” which annoyed them, certain “mosquitoes highte.” This is a matter of no consequence however; the sketch presented us is one evidently drawn from realities—aye, and well drawn too.

We wish we could continue to write in the same strain of praise of Mr. Cranch as a poet, but our character as an impartial and discriminating reviewer, might be justly questioned, did we follow this course.

In good truth, as we advance into the volume, his productions, far from appearing more attractive even manifest less genius and poetry in their composition than those which have gone before; and what is still more remarkable, being arranged chronologically, we are compelled to infer that our author has become not a whit better poet in ten years than he was at first. Even the sonnets concluding the work, (of which more hereafter,) bear out our remark, the dates affixed being 1836-37 and 38.

Our author, however, differs in one marked particular from the multitude of those who publish works formed, like his, of a collection of minor pieces; he does not weary the reader from the first with “Lines to Miss———,” nor “verses on a Lock of Julia's Hair;” and such other insipidities as find their way into our magazines. He does not even, (which is a matter of curiosity in a poet!) condescend to mention the “gentle passion” in any wise, until he arrives at the eighty-seventh page, where the pronoun “she,” (whoq the lines are entitled “a Bouquet,”) is often introduced. Catching inspiration at once from the new emotion, he devotes the five mortal stanzas, (of eight lines each!) on the succeeding pages, to the subject of “Love,” in the first couplet of which our poet notifies the world that he has fairly enrolled himself under the banner of Cytheræa, by confessing,

“There is no blessedness in life
Apart from blessed love!!”

We will spare our readers the rest, with the exception of four lines, which certainly are not bad. Speaking of love he says:

“It lifts the burden from the soul,
And puts the staff in hand:
The gloomy clouds behind us roll,
And all before is dawn, and fairy-land.”

We cannot say we like the three additional syllables to every eighth line. Before we dismiss this piece, we would ask the writer, (with all due submission,) in what portion of the world he finds “scented air snowing with scattered blossoms, &c?” We of course understand the idea he means to convey, but as far as our horizon reaches, the air never snows.

The lines on the following page, “To E———,” (a single instance!) and “on separation,” with those we have quoted above, comprise the extent of Mr. Cranch's toying with the tender passion.

But although we have taken a long stride—having arrived at the ninety-second page—it is not our intention to abandon in so summary a manner the matter contained in the intervening leaves. We commended our author so highly in the opening of our review, that it is only just he should learn to appreciate our praise, by the discovery that we are not blind to his faults.

Passing over several errors of small consequence, we would call attention to the following lines:

“Amid the dark blue firmament,
There hung the seven-stringed lyre on high,
But a reckless comet came rushing by
And swept it as he went (!!)”

Was ever passage less nobly expressed? First, a comet in spite of all bounds and orbits, which last the astronomers tell us are defined, becomes “reckless,” and “sweeps” the constellation of the “lyre” as it rushes by.

The following verse affords the most extraordinary example of poetical license we ever remember to have noted.

“And deep amid the o'er arching trees,
A low-toned waterfall was gushing;
Unseen, beneath a stream went rushing
And mingled with the breeze.”

“Beneath”—beneath what? And who ever heard of a stream “mingling with the breeze.”

We have always thought few things more ludicrous than the (gravely expressed) opinions of visitors to Niagara, contained in the book kept there for that purpose. We do not know whether our author's lines on the above subject made their first appearance in the pages of that volume of miscellanies; at all events they are worthy of a conspicuous position among the rest.

“Down, down forever—down, down forever,
          Something falling, falling, falling,
Up, up forever—up, up forever,
          Rest never,
          Boiling up forever,
          Steam-clouds shot up with thunder-bursts appalling.”

This brief extract requires no comment. The up and down mode of expression used, the “boiling,” “never resting,” “steam-clouds shot up,” and above all the “something” which we are to imagine falling—falling—falling, (by jerks as it were!) compose a passage unequalled in bathos, and which leaves the mind in a perfect whirl of doubt, bewilderment and falling waters!

Omitting a number of pieces of no great merit, we will now present to our readers “Night and the Soul”; lines certainly replete with quiet beauty, and which forcibly remind us of some of Longfellow's. We give nearly the whole.

“NIGHT AND THE SOUL.”

“I went to bed with Shakspeare's flowing numbers
          Within me chiming,
As I sank slowly to my pleasant slumbers,
          My thoughts with his were rhyming.
“Out of the window I saw the moonlight shadows
          Go creeping slow;
The sheeted roofs of snow,—the broad white meadows
          Lay silently below.
“A few keen stars were kindly winking through
          The frost-dimmed panes,
And dreaming chanticleer woke up and crew
          Far o'er the desolate plains.
“But soon into the void abyss of sleep
          My mind did swoon;
I saw no more the broad house-shadows creep
          Beneath the silent moon.”

He then wakes—the sun shining brightly. The thoughts of our author are as true as gracefully expressed.

“Why does the night give to the spirit wings,
          Which day denies?
Ah, why this tyranny of outward things
          When brightest shine the skies?
“My soul is like the flower that blooms by night,
          And droops by day;
Yet may its fruit expand, though in the light
          Night-blossoms drop away.”

Again, in “The Poet,” Mr. Cranch writes as he really feels and, consequently, with success. Take the two verses below as examples.

“And these he loves;—and with all these the heart
Of frail humanity, which, like a tremulous harp
Hung in the winds, not oft from storms apart,
Sobs or rejoices; and when tempests sharp
Sweep the tense strings, a ‘sweet, sad music’ bears,
Where others list no voice, nor heed the dropping tears.
“Who scorns the poet's art, deserves the scorn
Which he would heap on others' heads; that man
Knows not the sacred gift and calling born
Within the poet's soul when life began:
Knows not that he must speak, and not for fame,
But that his heart would wither else within its flame.”

It is difficult to credit that the author of the last two selections, ever penned lines like those “to Niagara!”

We notice a peculiarity in the compositions of Mr. Cranch, in which, however, he is not alone. Many of his articles begin with much promise, but conclude rather lamely.

Thus the first four lines of his “Endymion” are not unattractive.

“Yes, it is the queenly moon
Walking through her starred saloon,
Silvering all she looks upon:
I am her Endymion.”

Yet the conclusion is evidently inferior.

The “Star-gazer,” which we regard as a parable in some sort, deserves a hasty glance.

“Star after star looked glimmering down,
As in the night he sat alone,
And in the firmament of mind
Thought after thought upon him shone.”

This is certainly well turned. The “Star-gazer,” who, we suppose, represents en masse the servants and disciples of science, sits alone and unnoticed, patiently awaiting the day when the darkness around him will be dispelled; the moment arrives at last.

“They slept, and would not wake until
The distant lights that fixed his gaze
Came moving on, and spread abroad
The glory of a noontide blaze.
“And then they started from their dreams,
And slowly oped their leaden eyes,
And saw the light whose splendors now
Were darting through the morning skies.
“Then turned and sought for him whose name
They, in their sleep, had mocked and cursed;—
But he had left them long before,
The vision on their souls had burst,” &c.

The “Thunder-gust,” “Beauty and Truth,” “Enosis,” “The Ocean,” and several of the sonnets with which he closes his volume, are worthy of perusal, and exhibit some poetic talent.

We have mentioned his sonnets before, and cannot refrain from treating our readers to a selection or two.

“MORNING.”

“The earth was wandering in a troubled sleep,
          And as it wandered, dreaming tearful dreams,
Then came the sun adown his orient sleep,
          Making sweet morning with his golden beams;
A parent, bending o'er his child he seems,
          Kissing its eyes, lips, cheeks, with warm embrace;
So kisseth he the mountains, woods and streams,
          And all the dew-like tears from off its face.
O joy! That father's smile is like no other—
          The child is folded in a parent's arms,
And looks up to the sky, its blue-eyed mother,
          And laughs, with light upon its waking charms.
Ah, happy earth; what tender care hast thou!
There is no midnight cloud, or dream upon thee now.”

This description is really charming; if Mr. Cranch would publish lines no worse than the foregoing in future, he need never anticipate remaining unread and unknown.

It is seldom our author descends to a style of composition so sprightly as the following, yet so abundant in ease and grace, and happy in illustration.

“THE VIOLIN.”

“The versatile, discursive Violin,
          Light, tender, brilliant, passionate or calm,
Sliding with careless nonchalance within
          His range of ready utterance, wins the palm
Of victory o'er his fellows for his grace;
          Fine, fluent speaker, polished gentleman—
Well may he be the leader in the race
          Of blending instruments—fighting in the van
With conscious ease and fine chivalric speed;
          A very Bayard in the field of sound,
Rallying his struggling followers in their need,
          And spurring them to keep their hard earned-ground.
So the fifth Henry fought at Azincour,
And led his followers to the breach once more.”

As an antithesis to his sonnet entitled “The Violin,” we subjoin that on “Trumpets and Trombones;” breathing nothing but military glory!

“A band of martial riders next I hear,
          Whose sharp brass voices cut and rend the air.
The shepherd's tale is mute, and now the ear
          Is filled with wilder clang than it can bear;
Those arrowy trumpet notes, so short and bright,
          The long drawn wailing of the loud Trombone,
Tell of the bloody and tumultuous fight
          The march of victory and the dying groan;
O'er the green fields the serried squadrons pour,
          Killing and burning, like the bolts of heaven;
The sweetest flowers with cannon smoke and gore
          Are all profaned, and Innocence is driven
Forth from her cottages and woody streams,
While over all red Battle fiercely gleams.”

In conclusion, we would say that, on the whole, we consider the little volume before us, better entitled to a place on the shelves of a library than many works of a similar character; and perhaps we have dealt more harshly with the author's inferior productions than the general tone of his writings would seem to justify; κακιον ειναι το αδικειν του αδικειsθαι¹ says Plato.

It is a pity our author has allowed poems so unworthy as one or two we have noticed, to appear by the side of others of infinitely greater merit.

We are ignorant of the age of our poet, but, supposing his “College Lyfe” to have been written at college, (which at least is probable,) the number of years intervening between the date of this piece (1834) and the present year, being ten; and eighteen, (a fair average,) assigned as his then age, we have him at the present date about twenty-eight or thirty; the very period of life when a man's genius, of whatever kind it be, will show itself most conspicuously.² We would advise Mr. Cranch then, not to be discouraged if his poems do not at once meet with the favor his own affection for his offspring and the good will of his personal friends may have induced him to anticipate.

He exhibits in many places genius of no ordinary stamp, and which, if cultivated and brought nearer to maturity, will assuredly give him an elevated position among our American poets.

After all, we can entertain few fears for the success of a poet who expresses himself so gracefully, and in so modest, yet dignified a strain as the following, with which we will close our review.

“SONNET.”

“I'll love the sonnet then for its own sake,
          And calmly hold my quiet course along.
Like clouds and sky seen on some lonely lake,
          Far from the crowded world, my humble song,
Although reflecting truth and loveliness,
          May be unknown, save to a cherished few;
Yet shall I never love my pen the less,
          Nor cease to wreathe my little lyre anew
With the wild wood-vine, and the simple green
          Of Nature. Yes, the soul must sometimes speak,
And though its numbers flow almost unseen,
          It hath within itself, nor harsh, nor weak,
A harmony that will at times have vent,
Though all untuned the while, the poor, dull instrument.”

Notes

1. “It is worse to be unjust, than to suffer injustice.”

2. Mr. Cranch is a son of Judge Cranch, and was born at Alexandria, D. C., in March 1813. He was graduated at Columbia College, D. C., in 1831, and is now about 32 years of age.—[Ed. Mess.]