ART. VIII.-Yarrow Revisited, and other Poems. By William Wordsworth. 12mo. pp. 349. London. 1835.

WE

E so recently called the attention of our readers to what appear to us to be the characteristic features of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry, that our present notice is of course strictly confined to the contents of the beautiful volume before us. Nor, circumstanced as we are, can we enter into the merits even of this single volume with the particularity which would be so delightful to us. The truth is, that a publication like this is almost without the reach of periodical criticism; it wants nothing from us in the way of advertisement: every mature lover of poetry already possesses it as a matter of course; and when we simply say, that in our judgment it worthily supports an established fame, we say what may be acceptable to those younger persons who do us the honour to look for our opinion, but which to the poet himself can only be, as it is designed to be, a tribute of our unfeigned admiration and respect.

We said that this volume supported the author's fame; in point of fact, we think it will add to it. There is, as it seems to us, a spirit of elegance in these poems, more prominently and uniformly prevailing, than in any equal portion of Mr. Wordsworth's former works. We mean an elegance, such as Quinctilian ascribes to several of the Greek and Roman writers-a nobleness of thought and feeling made vocal in perfectly pure and appropriate language.' It struck us at first as being an odd remark of Coleridge's, that Goethe and Wordsworth were something alike: the point of resemblance mentioned by him is beside our present purpose; but we have been exceedingly impressed with what that obiter dictum led us to notice-the similarity of some of the smaller pieces of these great poets in an almost sculptural precision of outline-a completeness and totality of impression rarely to be found elsewhere in the modern literature of Europe. Take as an instance this little poem :

'A JEWISH FAMILY.

(In a small valley opposite St. Goar, upon the Rhine.)

Genius of Raphael! if thy wings

Might bear thee to this glen,
With faithful memory left of things
To pencil dear and pen,

Thou wouldst forego the neighbouring
And all his majesty,

A studious forehead to incline

O'er this poor family.

[Rhine,

'The Mother-her thou must have seen,

In spirit, ere she came

To dwell these rifted rocks between,
Or found on earth a name ;

An image, too, of that sweet Boy,
Thy inspirations give:

Of playfulness, and love, and joy,
Predestined here to live.

'Downcast, or shooting glances far,
How beautiful his eyes.

That blend the nature of the star
With that of summer skies!
I speak as if of sense beguiled;
Uncounted months are gone,
Yet am I with the Jewish Child,
That exquisite Saint John.

We have marked in italics a quatrain which will fix itself for ever in every memory; nor need less be predicted of the three that we subjoin from 'The Russian Fugitive'-perhaps the most elegant narrative poem that ever came from the pen of this poet

-pp. 133, 134. We venture to say that our ballad-stanza—that stanza for which in skilful hands nothing is too lofty-was never made the vehicle of more exquisite poetry than in the lines entitled

'INCIDENT AT BRUGES.

Let any one try to alter so much as a single word in these eight

If this great world of joy and pain

Revolve in one sure track;
If freedom, set, will rise again,

And virtue, flown, come back;
Woe to the purblind crew who fill
The heart with each day's care;
Nor gain, from past or future, skill
To bear and to forbear!'

The following extract from The Romance of the Water Lily,' though somewhat different in the mood of feeling, is equally illustrative of the artist-like finish of most of the pieces in this volume:

'Next came Sir Galahad;

He paused, and stood entranced by that still face
Whose features he had seen in noontide vision.

For late as near a murmuring stream
He rested 'mid an arbour green and shady,
Nina, the good enchantress, shed

A light around his

mossy bed;

And, at her call, a waking dream

Prefigured to his sense the Egyptian lady.

"Now, while his bright-haired front he bowed,

And stood, far-kenned by mantle furred with ermine,
As o'er the insensate body hung

The enrapt, the beautiful, the young,

Belief sank deep into the crowd

That he the solemn issue would determine.

'Nor deem it strange; the youth had worn

That very mantle on a day of glory,

The day when he achieved that matchless feat,
The marvel of the PERILOUS SEAT,

Which whosoe'er approached of strength was shorn,

Though king or knight the most renowned in story.

He touched with hesitating hand,

And lo! those birds, far-famed through love's dominions,
The swans, in triumph clap their wings;

And their necks play, involved in rings,

Like sinless snakes in Eden's happy land ;

"Mine is she," cried the knight;-again they clapped their pinions.

"Mine was she-mine she is, though dead,

And to her name my soul shall cleave in sorrow;"

Whereat, a tender twilight streak

Of colour dawned upon the damsel's cheek;
And her lips, quickening with uncertain red,

Seemed from each other a faint warmth to borrow.

• Deep

Deep was the awe, the rapture high,

Of love emboldened, hope with dread entwining,
When, to the mouth, relenting death

Allowed a soft and flower-like breath,

Precursor to a timid sigh,

To lifted eyelids, and a doubtful shining.'-pp. 63-65.

And in adding to all these the exquisite lines following, we cannot but notice the resemblance to the tone of Shakspeare's son

Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant

Of such weak fibre, that the treacherous air
Of absence withers what was once so fair?
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant
(As would my deeds have been) with hourly care,
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
For nought but what thy happiness could spare.
Speak, though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
Be left more desolate, more deary cold
Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow
'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine;

Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!'

-p. 145.

The perusal of this volume has affected us in many ways; amongst others, with a sense that it is the work of the autumn day of a great poet's honoured life. It is streaked with all the tints of the season-1 -the bright and the sombre, the massy and the evanescent with a deep repose brooding over and attempering all. It would be most inappropriate criticism to say that a spirit of melancholy pervades these poems; not so-but a profound pensiveness, nevertheless, bursting occasionally into devotional rapture, is the foundation of every one of them. That kindly fellowship with nature

With sun and moon and stars throughout the year,

And man and woman

which marked Mr. Wordsworth's earliest poetry, most impressively distinguishes his latest; now, as in his brilliant youth, poetando va, seeing, extracting, communicating beauty and power; nothing is lost; nothing sere, drooping, or imperfect; but a tint, a shade, is fallen on his imagination, whilst a forecasting, almost a prelibation of some sublimer vision, has flung a solemn glory around and in the midst of it. There will be no sermons printed this year in England so soul-subduing as many of these poems. Adieu, Rydalian Laurels!' cries the poet, as he leaves his sweet home for a short tour in Scotland, knowing that-see what he

he might to admire-he could meet nothing he should ever love so well :

Adieu, Rydalian Laurels! that have grown

And spread as if ye knew that days might come
When ye would shelter in a happy home,
On this fair Mount, a poet of your own,
One who ne'er ventured for a Delphic crown
To sue the God; but, haunting your green shade
All seasons through, is humbly pleased to braid
Ground-flowers, beneath your guardianship, self-sown.
Farewell! no minstrels now with harp new-strung
For summer wandering quit their household bowers;
Yet not for this wants poesy a tongue

To cheer the itinerant on whom she pours
Her spirit, while he crosses lonely moors,

Or musing sits forsaken halls among.'-p. 187.

All things impartially considered, is the Peninsularum Sirmio of Catullus better than this? Is it purer, finer, terser?

There are two or three poems in this collection, of a very high, even abstract cast of thought and feeling—as much so, perhaps, as any of the more celebrated efforts of Mr. Wordsworth's former years. We especially allude-and can only allude-to' Liberty,' p. 151– 'The Lines on a Portrait,' p. 301-and Stanzas on the Power of Sound,' p. 311; and we scarcely think that any verses but Dryden's have equalled the energy of parts of The Warning,' and Humanity; but where in Dryden shall we find his political shafts winged with such purity and thoughtful patriotism? We

also earnestly recommend a patient and reflective perusal of the postscript to the poems. The part treating of the New Poor Law is written throughout in a deep spirit of humanity, and with a profound insight into the subject, and deserves study, as the evidence of one who, in such matters, can have no interest to serve but that of charity, and who knows the condition and real feelings, needs, and aspirations of the unspoilt peasantry and poor of England, a thousand times better than any of our flashy legislators, who rarely speak to a labourer but at an election.

We close our hasty notice of this volume with regret. The affectionate remembrances of Sir W. Scott, Sir G. Beaumont, and others, are very pleasing; and, indeed, there is no volume of Mr. Wordsworth's works in which so much of himself, as a man, comes forth for the delight and the instruction of his readers.

ART.