rivalry their peculiar and intense influences over him. They succeeded in making him greater than either, by making him master of both. This song is entitled: TO A FALSE FRIEND. "Our hands have met, but not our hearts; Our hands will never meet again. I only know I loved in vain. "Then farewell to heart and hand! I would our hands had never met: Must be resigned with SOME REGRET. If I my wrong could e'er forget. I would our hands had never met!" The courage of sorrowful desperation is more strongly portrayed in those lines than any we are aware of. It opens with a determination, evidently the effect of much thought, beautifully expressed, the condensed essence of a great effort on the part of the deceived, and suggests to the reader all the thoughts and feelings which must have led to such a conclusion. In the third and fourth lines the determination is amplified on with emphatic nervousness: "Friends if we have ever been, Friends we cannot now remain." Then follows a hinting of the reason, the natural sequence of the foregone expressions; the why, the wherefore. There has been a deep love, and a deep disappointment; there is no hint at deception. The love has been so deep and so earnest, that it cannot easily convince itself of wrong in the object" once" beloved; will not, with the true spirit and logic of the heart, allow such a thought more than a transient location in the mind. It only knows it "loved in vain." Perhaps the heart argues with itself that its failure was its own fault, but the break-off is indis pensable for its own truth, its safety, which is a small concern, but more probably its injured pride,-ay, its pride, which acts on the will: what mortal, even lover though he be, that has not pride?-and the determination of separation is more intensely and sorrowfully settled in the mind than before: "Our hands will never meet again." The "farewell" in the opening of the second stanza is the natural consequence of a deep affection, which, though it no longer can be made apparent for its own reasons, still lingers in the bosom of the lover. The heart-wrung wish that "their hands had never met" is the last struggle in the heart yielding for ever the object it loved. By a retrospective analysis of his heart, he passes through the days, the hours, the objects, and little incidents of his love, until he comes to the source of all-the first meeting; and in wild despair in himself leaps at that, sees it as the Lethe fount of all his unhappiness, and most naturally prays it had never been. This shows one of the truest phases in the life of love it always snatches for consolation at something which cannot give it. A moment's thought would show its impracticability, but what real lover ever was practicable? Immediately follows another glance into the metaphysics of the heart,-the selfattachment, merely the outward "form of pacifying argument that there was no real love;" and then, as an excuse for the evi : dent weakness into which his soul-talk has led him, finding it holds him firmer than he could have thought, or for the purpose of appearances, he adds that "Even the outward form of love Must be resigned with some regret." The real lover is still apparent in him. The allowed too much for its own rest even in excess of love is still manifest. The heart regretting its resignation, and little more would make him as open and unregardful a devotee as ever. He is lingering around his Affection is growing is returning He admits that love. "Friends we still might seem to be;" but if they seemed, if they met, he would be lost; and his pride again rises supreme: "If I my wrong could e'er forget;" and then, in the strength of his renewed spirit, he turns to his first thoughts of their fort to think it all a dream; to go back beyond hearts not joining, and concludes with an eftheir meeting, "I would our hands had never met,"― and live forward as though it had not been There is a great intensity of feeling and deep metaphysical analysis in those simple but beautiful lines. The knowledge of the human heart is wide, and no doubt presents a phase in the existence of that of the harrowed soul of the author. Those lines cast over us a feeling of deep sadness, and to hear them sung to the beautiful melody composed for them, and which but more deeply portrays the feelings of the words, makes us melancholy for the night. The air, by one of the most gifted of living composers, William Vincent Wallace, is extremely beautiful, and one of the most exquisitely melodious of modern compositions. The composer seems to have caught up every feeling, to anticipate every thought. It is really metaphysical melody, perfect in its expression of the determination, sorrow, and loving doubts and reminiscences of the poet. He has caught the poet's heart into his own, and sent it out with the raiment of deep and melancholy sound such as it has appealed to us in. It has never appealed in vain. These two songs we have quoted are perfect of their kind, and carry out our idea of the construction of lyrical compositions. They are direct, comprehensive, suggestive. From the opening of Shirley's plaint to the exquisite concluding couplet, 'Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust," it shows a deep analytical insight into life, and through cant and hypocrisy; and casting off the clouds and dire vapors that hang over the social heaven, seeks the pure air, the clear atmosphere of the soul itself; catches the lightning through the cloud, and brings its living truth face to face with man. In Hood's poem, the unity is almost miraculous. In two short verses, he presents the whole torture of a rich and welling love under disappointment. Opening with a determination to conquer his own feelings, he tells a world of woes by a few electric touches, short as they are rapid, but large enough to admit us to his full heart-confidence; and concludes as he began, binding up as it were the kernel within the shell. The thought he started with he ends with; and all that is said or done in the interim moves and speaks like the machinery of a watch, wheels within wheels, all within the case and face, for the true perfection and regularity of] which the interior toils and has a mechanic being. In songs of a more vivacious, a light love or Bacchanalian character, where personal peculiarities or characteristics are introduced, drolleries grafted in, or witticisms discharged, the greatest fear of failure is in diffuseness. Earnestness through all must be the guiding star. The most ludicrous or humorous reflection, expressed in lackadaisical diffuseness, produces, if any, but a tithe of the effect it would produce if given in an earnest and direct manner. It should rather startle by its unique suddenness, like sun-light breaking into a darkened room through a small opening of the blind. It should astonish by its clearness, like the ring of a rifle-shot, heard to be fully understood and then extinct. Its magic is suggestive, and its earnestness leaves no doubt but that something was intended. In songs of pure affection this curse of diffuseness is even more to be dreaded. The fact of the poet embodying a lover's thoughts leads to a multitude of feelings regarding the mistress sung of or sung to, and it is more than probable the work of amplification and reiteration is carried to an extent which renders the performance disgustingly flattering or weakly meaningless. It is in this emergency the true poet, as the true general, takes the outposts, the keys to the whole campaign, and catches at those points which suggest his mastery over the whole ground. He sees through the character, and gives the little heart-touches of expression which clearly set before the reader a perfect history or a perfect likeness. The following verse of Moore's brings a beautiful picture to our mind, and yet he has not filled in his sketch with the slightest tint of color, but the "smiling eyes," and the "hope,' "joy," and "light" in them lead us to the ideal expression of an accompanying face, the face to a form, all grace and sweetness; and we have a gentle, lovable form before us, as true as if the graceful pencil of Kenny Meadows or the rich color of Maclise had been at work: "Whene'er I see those smiling eyes, So full of hope, and joy, and light, As if no cloud could ever rise To dim a heav'n so purely bright, I sigh to think how soon that brow In grief may lose its every ray, And that light heart, so joyous now, Almost forget it once was gay." The cloudless, "purely bright" eyes, the grief less brow, and the "light heart," convey the whole idea of her of whom such is said, even as the mariner can prophesy the day or the morrow by the sky signs of the dawn or the evening. Here is another verse from the "Melodies," which always struck us as inexpressibly beautiful, and which one could linger over by the hour. It tells a whole history of literary life, and its truth is read in all literary biography: "Though the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth's past; Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, To smile at last; He'll never meet In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And at every close, she blush'd to hear The one loved name." These quotations carry out our idea of song-writing. We have a very sweet song before us which we do not remember to have ever met in print. We have looked through several volumes which we thought likely to contain it, but in vain have we sought a clue to its authorship. We have taken it down from the recitation of a lady who sings it, and who recollects it from childhood. We have applied to several literary friends for information as to its parentage, but without finding any more than we knew ourself. Here is the foundling: "Oh! thou art the lad of my heart, Willie! "But of vows so soft as thy vows, Willie, Oh! who would not like me be proud!- The chief beauty of this song, and it is a true song, is its naturalness-the spontaneity with which it bursts forth. There is no art in its composition at all as regards metre, yet the contrasts have all the art which true heart manifests. It is in this particular that the songs of Burns excel; in the true spirit, embodying what rushes to every mind, and entrapping as an illustration to his main object every little occurrence, making every thing and all things subservient to his occasion. The song we have quoted is a beautiful burst of affection and passionate pride. The opening line is excessively musical; it bounds with conscious joy, and almost suggests a tune. The amplification of the praises of her Willie in the three succeeding lines is most natural, showing the delight with which the maiden singer loves to dwell on the appearance of her beloved, and her connecting with his "bounding step" and "bonnie blue e'e," all the love, hope, and joy which her natural and maiden pride suggests to her mind as the beau-ideal of a young lovable hero. Every true woman thinks thus, and associates with the object of her love all the manhood and hope and bliss which it is possible for her mind to imvaries woman's love. The more a woman agine. It is this power of idealizing which thinks her lover is, the more heroic, the intense is her affection for him. The true more manly he is to her notion, the more soul of woman finds congenial labor here. What woman could love a coward? duces the great likeness between those who faculty and feeling it must be which prolove. For a woman must be noble to idealize a noble man, and the man to appreciate the feelings and grandeur of such a woman must have the true soul actuating and guiding him-a soul capable of understanding and participating in noble actions. This "But, oh! how my heart was torn, Willie," and concluding lines of the first stanza, present a beautiful insight to the maiden's heart, and is the most natural turn of thought to the preceding. Having won him, she thinks back to the time her heart was torn with doubt and despair, and shows that strong silent love so characteristic of a deep-seated affection. Her modesty, too, in fearing competition with the other maidens, tells a whole heart-history. The contrast of her present the more forcibly makes her think of the past, and the amplification of the joy in the opening is the more natural on this very account, for she has had her sorrow: "Oh! how my heart was torn, Willie; Should ever be won by me!" In the opening of the second stanza she recurs to his vows and to the pride they should naturally entail on her, keeping in mind that he who "won the lasses all" was now hers alone. The break-off in the third line, with an apostrophe to the lark, to us appears most natural, and is one of those (can we say?) tricks of application which love makes for the heightening of its own purpose. She implores the lark to come down, that she might compare her own love with the love of its mate for him, as pure and joyous. The maidenhood of the expression in the line, "But tell to thy mate alone," He rough, but always natural. He knew no George H. Colton, the author of "Te- Colton had is very suggestive, and conveys all the modesty and silent-love characteristics spoken of before in connection with the fifth line of the first stanza. "Tell to thy mate alone," as she would tell her Willie. Her love is alone for him, and needs be told to no other; and conscious of being beloved in return, she is as "merry and light" as the lark's mate, cleaving with its loving wings the congenial sky of heaven. In our opinion it is a very beautiful song, and carries out our idea of the song proper, in its spontaneity, heart, and suggestiveness. We have before alluded to its inartistic qualities; they are evident. It may be that the memory of the lady from whom we have it has dropped some words and introduced others, but we rather give the song as we have it than alter it. It is most likely, however, that it stands on our page as it was written, with some very trivial difference, and we should think it between half a century and seventy years old. The directness, uniqueness, heart, and sug-peating them once to our friend, he remarked gestiveness which we idealize as the combination necessary to the being of a song, will be found to be present in the works of those lyrists who hold on the public ear; those who live through the fashionable season, and who make for the reception of their thought all seasons fashionable. Look to the three greatest lyrists of our time, perhaps of any time, Moore, Burns, and Béranger, and we find in them all those elements we contend for. Burns's great quality is his thorough candor, heart, and humor. He is often "Had we never loved sae kindly, We had ne'er been broken-hearted," without tears coming to his eyes. These lines were favorites of Colton's, and on re with exceeding truth that they were among We necessity of the song proper. These four both the Scotch and Irish bards, he is very sarcastic when he has an opportunity, and deals heavy blows, and leaves life-scars on the objects of his wrath. He is very suggestive, and his unity is a great feature in his songs; being written with some certain purpose, they give a daguerreotype which suggests the time, influence, or person, under whose inspiration he wrote. Republican France is the pole to which his soul has been magnetized, and he has kept his head, hand and heart firmly in that direction through all vicissitudes, storms, and prison windows. He is always in earnest, and the arrows of his Cupid are as sharp as his freedom-seeking lance. He is honest, daring, natural, and national, bounding with heart and good-humor. We rarely meet a translation of one of his songs to come up with our idea of him, they are so difficult of English rendering by the localisms, idiosyncrasies, and naïveté of the author. The best, we might say the only really characteristic translations we have met, are those by Dr. Maginn, Father Prout, (Rev. F. Mahony,) and William Dowe: these are to be found only in Fraser's, the Dublin University, and lately Sartain's Magazines. Why not Dowe make a collection?* Moore, as a lyrist, is far the most perfect and brilliant we can name; and it is as a lyrist he will flow over the rapids and cataracts of Time undisturbed. For Time's old stream does not always flow smoothly, O reader. It has its whirlpools and cataracts: we all witnessed one of the latter, nor long since either '48. Time worked itself to fever heat then. It roared till we almost thought it had changed its voice for aye. The old sinner abated, thinking he had cried enough for his misdeeds, but left an echo to perform that which he needs must have left unwept for, and which thunders in his wake like the haunting conscience of a great crime. Moore will outlive those cataracts, and lull the old man's wrath. Moore's power of language is exceeding; he strikes the finest chords of feeling by a word, and enraptures by a wellpointed metaphor: we speak especially of his songs. His periods curl as gracefully as the whitened locks of sea-foam coming near a coast when a gay land-breeze kisses them; they wave and sparkle like diamonds. The construction of his songs is perfection; his wit brilliant, and suiting its place and opportunity as the flowers the seasons. When he rises into a purely national feeling, his emotions are strong and nervous, embodying the spirit of his land, its sorrow, glory, or gallantry. He is musical beyond compare, and tender to blessedness. His pathos is of a refined and exquisite nature, those lyrics, to wit, "Oh, breathe not his name;" "Has sorrow thy young days shaded?" "The Harp that once through Tara's Halls;" and a crowd of others which cling to the reader's memory. His deviltry is rather impish than diabolic, and his Bacchanalian songs are decidedly intoxicating, if not in themselves intoxicated. He is a true minstrel, in his wit, wassail, war, and women. The songs of such poets as we have alluded to live in the future as traditions and family legends. The first airs that lullaby the occupant of the cradle, they will grow with the child up through his youth and manhood as a part of him; and though he never had the books, or knew how even to read if he had them, he shall be haunted by the song as his good or evil genius, the star under which he was born. He shall leave it to his children as a legacy, and to his children's children shall croon it in the chimney-corner, or under the Liberty-trees or hawthorns of his own youthhood. The songs of Haynes Bailey following paragraph, which, even more literally Since writing the above, we have met the than we could have imagined, carries out our idea of the suggestiveness of the true song. The Paris correspondent of the London Literary Gazette writes: "Within the last few months the worldrenowned Lisette,' the 'Grandmère,'' Roger BonBéranger, without Moore's finish, has more temps,' and I know not how many other of Béstyle than Burns, with all the latter's natu- ranger's exquisite songs, have been transformed ralness. He is boisterous, humorsome, witty, into plays; and this week, there have been 'La pointed in a like degree, and possesses a certière et le Croque-Mort."" Colton's remark on Gotton' spun out into five acts, and 'La Bouquetain forcible pith, born of his undying polit- Burns's lines is made a fact, as regards the forical zeal, which is perfectly electric. Like tunate French lyrist. |
