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the poets we have been reviewing, but that we deduce from their existence, the author's right to possess a respectable position among the leading poets of his country. Francis Davis is essentially a lyric poet, and one of a truly passionate and energetic order. His fiery ballads swell out into full toned magnificence, as when a master hand sweeps the diapason of an organ. His music like that of Mozart combines volume, glorious harmony, variety, resistless impetuosity, and peerless grandeur. He is not only “as full of spirit as the month of May,” he is also "gorgeous as the sun at midsummer.” His fancy is elevated, luxuriant, and bewitching: the fruits of his Muse are unexceptionably national, and in addition to all these excellencies, the bright spirit of independence crowns with a halo of undying light, the works of his triumphant genius, He, alone, of those to whom these pages refer, is still alive, and from his comparative youth, we have every reason to expect that he will yet present his countrymen with gifts as brilliant as those he has already bestowed on them, and naturally more characterized than their predecessors, by all those solid beauties which age alone can ripen. Long may he continue (is our earnest wish) to adorn our literature by gems from the casket of his radiant intellect, long may he continue to foster those generous impulses and noble principles which are alone the nursling seeds of liberty, and which when he tends and propagates them, constitute one of the highest avocations of, and form one of the most exalted honors which can be conferred on man.
Davis too, like those we have been considering, entered on the wide field of nationality : he, like many of those gifted men, whose genius shall never be forgotten, had thought that his talents and energies could not have been better einployed than in working for his country's welfare. So, giving up all dreams of glory in another sphere, all ambition for literary distinction in contemplative abstract subjects, or in universal themes, which might be more pleasing to a foreiga ear, he set himself right manfully to carry out the great object, which had patriotism for its motto. A poor weaver by trade, hard at work from morning until night, in earning his bread, he still continued to soatch a moment at intervals, to devote to his darling occupation. But indeed Davis does not confine himself merely to patriotic subjects : well does he know the art, to make the tears of sympathy to flow.'' Power
fully can he touch the tender chords in our hearts, which melt us to compassion, or chill us to despair. He affords us sufficient instances of that wonderful ability, which can realize the agonized incurable state of the human breast, which forbids all consolation, renders useless all attempts to assuage its intensity, and feeds with a sullen eagerness on the object of its grief. In evidence we shall lay before the reader, a graphic illustration of this species of poetical creation, which merely to peruse is to behold the greatness of its high dramatic merit.
A MOTHER'S LAMENT.
When Heaven calls its own;
Is but a living stone ?
Will waste the mother's cheek;
The mother's heart would break ?
With no redeeming ray, Win Heaven blame me if I try To weep that cloud away?
Sweet Saviour, dear,
Look down, and tear Her shadow from my view ;
Or take-oh, take,
For mercy's sake, The mother to thee too.
I see the blackness of my soul,
Where all looked bright before :
The waves before my door ;
Half weeping, half in shame :
When breathing sister's name :
Some shadow by my door:
Oh no! oh no!
My lamb of snow,
And broad and bright
With holy light,
Here, many a holy hour I've sat,
When none bat God did see;
My beauty, pillowed thee;
O'er thee and future years ;
A little well of tears;
In infant chuekling rise,
My babe, my dove!
Oh, father above,
She's thine, she's thine!
But what are mine?
I look upon the flowery mounds
Her snowy hands did make;
And kiss them for her sake;
Beneath my scalding tear,
Mounts, laughing on my ear!
For twining through her hair,
That eye, that cheek-
Speak, Heaven! speak !
My child, my child,
Thy mother's wild:
Like every one deserving the name of a Poet, Francis Davis can nourish in his inmost heart the most sensitive feelings of Love, can conjure up before his mind the most golden imaginings of a lover's bliss, and can express with nature's most graphic power, the spiritualized sentiments which are akin to the tender passion. It would not be perhaps altogether just to compare him in this particular to those whose works bave occupied the preceding pages, as they have been so eminent in iuditing love songs, that they are as remarkable for excellence in this branch of the poetic art, as they are in any of its others. However, that all votaries of Venus will willingly concede to him a respectable share of admiration for his accomplishments as an amatory minstrel, will not be doubted by the reader of the lines that follow.
While the false to the false did say:
· For the work of a future day,
And they're gathered my tears and sighs;
All, all that betwixt us rise.
And your limb without a chain;
Oh, come to my breast again!
Heared haughtily pile o'er pile;
Were as nought to his softest smile:
And the crumbling of bastions strong!
1s his soul-creating song!
Oh, I'd frown on the world for thee!
That you ever shall find in me!
In the true spirit of literature, which never permits the gall
of political acerbity to interfere with our appreciation of that which is beautiful, and apparently the warm outpouring of the heart, we must needs (whatever vur creed or principles inay be,) divest ourselves of all prejudices, if we wish to form an estimate of the worth of the fiery poeins of Francis Davis. Let us regard them in the light of compositions created for a certain end, an end which by every appearance the author considered a correct and honest one, and which, if it fell short of being so, was more occasioned by the want of clear-sightedness on his part, than by any other cause. Those narrowing influences which have, alas, too often regulated the taste, or distaste of many, for cotemporary literature, cannot be indulged in, with any semblance either of reason, becoming feeling, or common justice, and we are as much bound to admire the literary beauties (provided they are unstained by vicious thoughts,) of the poet whose volume was brought out yesterday, with mayhap the approving stamp of some sect obnoxious to the generality of readers, merely because they profess different religious principles, as we are to admire the artistic beauties and sublimities of the ancient writers. Convinced that none of our readers will peruse any of the following patriotic ballads in any other than a generous, and impartial spirit, we will now offer them a specimen worthy their attentionON AGAIN.
Then on again, And so the would-be storm is past,
A chain's a chain, And truemen have outlived it ;
And though a king should make it, Can truth be bowed by falsehood's blast,
A slave, though freed,
Were he indeed,
Who dare not try to break it.
That hide each past endeavour,
Give freemen's tongues to truemen's souls, And though a king should make it,
Or damn the terms for ever :
Let baseness wander through the dark,
And hug its own restriction, Is he who dare not break it.
But, oh! be ours the guiding spark ! 'Tis not in slander's poisonous lips
Produced by mental friction :
Then on again,
A chain's a chain,
And though a king should make it, But not the fount of verdure :
Be this our creed, For he who feels his country's dole,
d slave indeed By nought can be confounded,
Is he who dare not break it. But onward sweeps his fearless soul,
Though death be walking round it:
Davis is a “facile princeps” in his choice and management of metre, that truant and rebellious offspring of the Muse, which it requires so much carefulness to keep in anything like order. With inimitable taste he selec's a light and easy flowing measure to suit his ingenious and fancy-clad thoughts, and blending with admirable skill, the art of the scholar with the active imaginings of the poet, he weaves, as we shall now behold, a brilliant woof of Poesy, remarkable for its rich colouring, and epigrammatic point.
FOUR ON THE STEM.
And now that our elves and their castle
of ether Oh, who has not heard of the mystical (Since Erin and knowledge were talking power,
together) Which lives in that sweet little emerald Have changed into goblins of sabie and flower,
Oh no, men for foemen
And malice and knavery,
Slipped round us, and bound as
In darkness and slavery,
Then led us and bled us,
In spite of our bravery, Oh, seek ye a shamrock with four on the For this we could number but three en stem!
the stem! When wizards were charming, with mysti- Then bail to the union of spirits and cal bothers,
flowers The eyes and the ears of our elf-fearing the past to the foe, but the fature be mothers,
ours, It winged each delusion, or 60 said our For Ulster has found in her own blooming fathers,
bowers, And why should their children its powers The gay golden leaf that completed the condemn ?
gen. Then ap with it, step with it,
Then up with it, step with it,
Up with it merrily ;
Forward 1 from norward
And southward come cheerily: :
Munster and Leinster,
And Connaught an wearily, Mocking delusion with four on the stem! Tell Erin's foes she has four on the stem !
We are compelled very reluctantly to pass over great numbers of the beautiful pieces of poetry with which the volume before us abounds. They who wish to fathom the bright depths of Davis's fancy must read for themselves; we cannot do more than exhibit a few brilliants from the inexhaustible mine of his prolific and sparkling genius. The following lines are typical of almost oriental, imaginative opulence.
DREAM OF A WANDERER.
I looked upon the ocean,
And I looked upon the strand; I looked upon the heaven
That o'erhung the stranger's land:
And the robe of many dyes,
Where my native mountains rise.
In their darkly-glistening shrouds, Rose and tlung their silvery helmets
In the pathway of the clouds :
But the breeze of bracing freshness,
That my fevered frame did seek,
And I found me,
As around me