Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 69, No. 427, May, 1851 - Various

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not haste to go.

      Soft airs, and song, and light and bloom

      Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

      These to their softened hearts should bear

      The thought of what has been,

      And speak of one who cannot share

      The gladness of the scene;

      Whose part, in all the pomp that fills

      The circuit of the summer hills,

      Is – that his grave is green;

      And deeply would their hearts rejoice

      To hear again his living voice."

      "The Lapse of Time" is a piece which might be quoted as a favourable specimen of Mr Bryant's poetry. It might also serve as an instance of its shortcoming– of its want of concentration – of a distinct, firm tone of thought. As it is not long, we will quote the whole of it. Our complaint of a certain weakness – the want of a steady and strong grasp of his subject – could not be less disagreeably illustrated, nor brought to a more rigid test. Our italics here are not complimentary, but simply serve the purpose of drawing attention to the train of thought or sentiment: —

      THE LAPSE OF TIME

      "Lament who will, in fruitless tears,

      The speed with which our moments fly;

      I sigh not over vanished years,

      But watch the years that hasten by.

      Look how they come– a mingled crowd

      Of bright and dark, but rapid days;

      Beneath them, like a summer cloud,

      The wide world changes as I gaze.

      What! grieve that time has brought so soon

      The sober age of manhood on!

      As idly might I weep, at noon,

      To see the blush of morning gone.

      Could I give up the hopes that glow

      In prospect like Elysian isles,

      And let the cheerful future go,

      With all her promises and smiles?

      The Future! cruel were the power

      Whose doom would tear thee from my heart,

      Thou sweetener of the present hour!

      We cannot – no – we will not part.

      Oh, leave me still the rapid flight

      That makes the changing seasons gay —

      The grateful speed that brings the night,

      The swift and glad return of day;

      The months that touch with added grace

      This little prattler at my knee,

      In whose arch eye and speaking face

      New meaning every hour I see.

      The years that o'er each sister land

      Shall lift the country of my birth,

      And nurse her strength till she shall stand

      The pride and pattern of the earth:

      Till younger commonwealths, for aid,

      Shall cling about her ample robe,

      And from her frown shall shrink afraid

      The crowned oppressors of the globe.

      True – time will seam and blanch my brow;

      Well – I shall sit with aged men,

      And my good glass shall tell me how

      A grizzly beard becomes me then.

      And then should no dishonour lie

      Upon my head when I am grey,

      Love yet shall watch my fading eye,

      And smooth the path of my decay.

      Then, haste thee, Time – 'tis kindness all

      That speeds thy wingèd feet so fast;

      Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,

      And all thy pains are quickly past.

      Thou fliest and bearest away our woes,

      And, as thy shadowy train depart,

      The memory of sorrow grows

      A lighter burden on the heart."

      Brief as the poem is, it should have been divided into two; for it is a song of resignation and a song of hope mingled together. It must strike the least reflective reader that no man needs consolation for the lapse of time, who is occupied with hopeful anticipations of the future. It is because Time carries away our hopes with it, and leaves us the very tranquil pleasures of age, that we "sigh over vanished years." Every sentiment which Mr Bryant expresses in this poem is natural and reasonable; but it follows not that they should have been brought together within the compass of a few verses. At one moment we are looking at the past, or we are told not to grieve the next, we are called upon to sympathise in some unexpected rapture, by no means happily expressed, about the future– "The future!" &c., – as if some one had been threatening to cut us off from our golden anticipations. The only result we are left in unquestioned possession of is, that if the present time did not move on, the future could not advance. But it is not such an abstraction or truism as this, we presume, that the poet intended to teach; he intended to portray the natural sentiments which arise as we reflect on human life, whether passing or past, or as seen in the hopeful future; and these he should not have mingled confusedly together. It would be tedious to carry on the analysis any farther; but we may add, that it is hardly wise, in the same short poem, to speak rapturously of the Elysian glories of the future, and mournfully of "Time's shadowy train," which can be no other than these Elysian glories seen from behind.

      "That time has brought so soon

      The sober age of manhood on!"

      Like Mr Longfellow, Mr Bryant is both a German and a Spanish scholar; and he has enriched his own collection of poems with some very pleasing translations. We are tempted to conclude our extracts from this poet by two brief specimens of these translations – the one from the Spanish, the other from the German: —

      "Alexis calls me cruel —

      I would that I could utter

      My feelings without shame,

      And tell him how I love him,

      Nor wrong my virgin fame.

      Alas! to seize the moment

      When heart inclines to heart,

      And press a suit with passion,

      Is not a woman's part.

      If man comes not to gather

      The roses where they stand,

      They fade among their foliage;

      They cannot seek his hand."

      Here the maiden is very maidenly. Our next is far more piquant. We often hear of young ladies angling; they catch, and they are caught; and they are sometimes not a little frightened at their own success in this perilous species of angling. Uhland has put all this before us in a very pictorial manner, and Mr Bryant has very happily translated him —

      "There sits a lovely maiden

      The ocean murmuring nigh;

      She throws the hook and watches

      The fishes pass it by.

      A

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