JOHN COLLINS.

THERE are many grades of rank in the poetic hierarchy. The writer of whom I propose to give some account, without making any pretence to stand among the epic or dramatic creators, produced a few things which will last as long as our language. He belonged to a class of poets whom we English like; they are not philosophic like Wordsworth, or subtly delicious like Shelley; but they are pleasant fellows who can write a good song, and sing it when written. Charles Dibdin is of this sort: indeed our naval lyrists have for the most part succeeded admirably in what may be styled the people's lyric. Take a verse of Prince Hoare's "Arethusa :"

"Come, all ye jolly sailors bold,

Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould,
While English glory I unfold—

Hurrah to the Arethusa !

She is a frigate tight and brave

As ever stemm'd the dashing wave:
Her men are staunch

To their favourite launch;

And when the foe shall meet our fire,
Sooner than strike we 'll all expire

On board of the Arethusa!"

Te, as the ki

7.

That last line will appear to som to others noble: for my own part Tory, I greatly admire it.

I don't know whether I am in Collins of Birmingham, whose S theme for this article. I shoul some of his blood ran in my vei hands, across the gulf of seven good a fellow. I am told that th discernible between his portrait poems and myself-especially in and I have intellectual kinship a agree with his loyalty, his frie independence. The Collins clan of him. I am.

I first made his acquaintance Golden Treasury appeared. Pal lyrical poetry, is not to be forgiv Spenser's Epithalamion, " as not

manners," -so much the worse for modern manners.

He is a crotchety editor and a fanciful annotator. However, he inserted in his collection a poem of John Collins's called "To-morrow," with the following note: "Nothing except his surname appears recoverable with regard to the author of this truly noble poem. It should be noted as exhibiting a rare excellence-the climax of simple sublimity." I could wish Mr. Palgrave wrote better English ; but what he says is true, as the poem itself shall prove to

all readers :

"In the down-hill of life when I find I'm declining,

May my fate no less fortunate be

Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining,
And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea.

With an ambling pad pony to pace o'er the lawn,
While I carol away idle sorrow,

And, blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn,

Look forward with hope to To-morrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,
As the sunshine or rain may prevail;

And a small plot of ground for the use of the spade too,
With a barn for the use of the flail ;

A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,

And a purse when a friend wants to borrow,

I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame,

Or what honours may wait him To-morrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
Secured by a neighbouring hill;

And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly]

By the sound of a murmuring rill:

And while peace and plenty I find at my board,

With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,

With my friends let me share what To-day may afford,
And let them spread the table To-morrow.

"LYRA ELEGANTIARUM."

And when I at last must throw off this frail covering
Which I've worn for threescore years and ten,

On the brink of the grave I 'll not seek to keep hovering,
Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again.

But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,

And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow,
As this poor worn-out stuff which is threadbare To-day

May become everlasting To-morrow."

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This, beyond doubt, is John Collins's master-work, and I defy anybody to deny its excellence. I wish I could have heard the old boy sing it. My friend Mr. Frederick Locker, in his Lyra Elegantiarum (Moxon, 1867), printed two other things by Collins-" Good Old Things" and The Golden Farmer "--but gave no additional information about the author. There is no clearer proof of the difficulty there is about finding a name for that class of poetry which, as Mr. Locker happily quotes from Pliny, deals with "subjects of gallantry, satire, tenderness, politeness, and everything in short that concerns life and the affairs of the world," than the fact that a writer like Collins finds his way into a Lyra Elegantiarum. About John Collins there is absolutely nothing elegant. His is homely poetry. His songs are made to be sung amid a gathering of his friends, or in his own chimney-corner over a bowl of punch or a flagon of strong ale. Indeed, if I may compare great things with small, I shall liken Wordsworth to port of a rare vintage, Byron to champagne of a royal brand, Keats to sweet wine of Cyprus, Coleridge to imperial tokay, Collins to sound, strong, wholesome home-brewed ale—not, observe, that he was a prejudiced ale-drinker: one of his most enjoyable lyrics is in favour of old wine. Thus it runs :—

VOL. II.

L