"That night before high heaven
Fervent he prayed and long,
That both might be forgiven
For folly or for wrong."

Beyond some fragments nothing remains of a poem called "The Temple," written in his boyish days, and voluntarily destroyed, but of which a pleasant memory is still preserved in the minds of a few friends. It was a ponderous epic, such as young folks love to scheme and labour on unceasingly, and, whilst it grows in bulk, dream out an immortality of fame for it and themselves; anticipated grandeur, which becomes very slender and vague, when the prosaic fact of publication is looked at closely, in the items of print, paper, binding, and advertisements. Nevertheless, the achievement in manuscript has been a proved fact, and seldom altogether useless or unimportant in forming the character for after life. In the limbo of destroyed MSS. must remain many a thousand possibilities of greatness inartistically shaped, but touched with something of that better light than ever was dependent on mere popularity:

"The light that never was on sea or land,

The consecration and the Poet's dream."

Therefore, only as frail memorials of what has perished, and of which
they are chance morsels, do we claim a value for the following:-
(A FRAGMENT REGAINED FROM "THE TEMPLE.")

"A palm or two, and several cedars tall,
Between the river and the temple wall
Cast their still shadow o'er this gentle pair:
Still, for there was no motion in the air
Nor any sound, save of the quiet song
The river murmured as it passed along
To the tall lilies that it rocked among:
Like Angels whispering to us in our dreams,
And wooing us to answer them with smiles.
But hark! he speaks."

And for this, another fragment of the same poem, or of its companion epic, "The Visionary" :—

"The young and wanton shoots of early.corn
Erect and unabashed receive the rain

And sunshine, and the aura-laden winds;
But when the field is ripe with golden grain
Each ear doth bend with reverent loveliness.

So, in my youth, heaven showered her gifts on me,
Nor knew I that my powers were not my own,
But now grown lowly as I rise in grace,
Acknowledging as best I can, as most

Adorns my state, the source of life and joy.

The action of the poem was laid in Egypt, amid pyramids, sphynx, and lotus pools, palm trees, and expanse of deserts; and we can dimly

remember some scenes of dreamy beauty on the Nile, and a slumberous melody and sense of vastness. Almost everything else has faded, with the exception of these lines,-another fragment-which perversely stays after more valuable matter has glided to oblivion:

"She cannot have forgotten-Shame, O Shame!

That I'... he scarce had uttered when she came
Out of the cedar gloom into the light,

Thinly arrayed in sacerdotal white,

Like a pale moonbeam through the clouds of night."

Eleven years have passed since the date of which we speak, and when we listened to the poem, many a summer evening, in Edinburgh. Brereton, the writer of that forgotten epic, has bent his strength to other work than verse-making, and has seen other poetry in the world than what then had coloured his Egyptian narrative. Like Thomas Lovell Beddoes (to whom he has some other features of resemblance) it has been his lot to live in professional contact with disease in all its horrible forms, to learn the secrets which only great bereavement teaches, to enter on the mournfulness and dreariness of every pause from activity; but not, as Beddoes did, to feel the odour of the grave infecting the perfume of the flowers which grow around and over it. In his home far away we may be sure that not idly pass the hours, but at quiet moments come back old recollections of the time when all was yet unwon, and when in the phantasy-haunted realm two youths drew closer to each other's side than separate paths allowed in after years. And with such stilly contemplation comes the justification of his first attempts at verse, when life's noble purposes began to dawn, and he obeyed

"High instincts before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised;
those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,

Which, be they what they may,

Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet the master light of all our seeing."

Nor he, nor any one, need doubt that if he goes on fearlessly, with a humble sense of his own inherent weakness, but a proud consciousness of strength received in answer to his cry, the Poet when he set himself to grapple with stern facts that meet him in the path of duty, will be less capable of working out his purpose, than the prosaic realist would be, who never saw the spiritual aspect of this common world. There are more ways of accomplishing a poem than writing it, and we can safely leave the lyre to other fingers. But words are solemn things and potent in their way; more so, perhaps, in our old country than on the Australian shore where bone and sinew find a ready market. So we accept these imports from Sydney, and in the same breath utter Welcome to his poems and a Farewell to Brereton. ST JOHN'S, CAMBRIDGE, February 1861.

VOL. XXXI.

J. W. E.

SONGS OF THE COVENANT TIMES.*

can

"NEITHER gods, nor men, nor the publishers," says Horace, tolerate mediocre poetry.". The dictum is still true, notwithstanding numerous instances that apparently point in the opposite direction. Plenty of trash in the shape of rhyme or blank verse finds its way into print, under the name of poetry; for there is nothing to hinder any man-who can pay for it-giving his effusions to the world. Occasionally, by judicious puffing, and other means, mediocre poetry does gain a certain popularity-witness various productions of the spasmodic school, which had a brief" run" some years ago; but eventually the verdict of the world is a just one, and all the poetry that does not deserve immortality sinks into oblivion. In poetry, of all things, we must have excellence.

It is,

We are not going to predict the fate of the "Songs of the Covenant Times" by an Ayrshire minister. It would be difficult to do so. Opening the book at one place, we should be inclined to augur well for its voyage down the stream of time; while, if we turned to another page, we might assume a less confident tone in our predictions of its success. The truth is, that the book is of very unequal merit. like Nebuchadnezzar's image, part of iron-or, let us rather say, part of gold, and part of clay. The pure gold by itself would have made no doubt a smaller image; but the image would have been more perfect and beautiful than it now is. Such as it is, however, we give the book a hearty welcome; and, if our praise cannot be unqualified, it will be at least sincere.

The Ayrshire minister prefaces his songs with a historical introduction of some fifty pages in length. It is the old story :

"Gemino bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo."

He begins with the introduction of Christianity into Scotland, and comes down the stream, noticing the Culdees, the Lollards, the early struggles with Rome, the Reformation, the tulchan bishops, &c., as a necessary prelude to a sketch of the history of the covenant times. All this, we conceive is entirely unnecessary. If everbody proceeded on the same principle, histories and historical introductions would become an intolerable nuisance. We grant that it is well written"; but two-thirds of it need never have been written at all, so far as this book is concerned.

The "Songs" are fifteen in number. We do not quarrel with the title, although it is scarcely appropriate to some of the poems in the book, which are in blank verse, or other measures not very suitable for singing. Most of the pieces are founded on incidents that took place in the district in which lies the sphere of the author's ministrations. "About three hundred yards eastwards from his door the parish graveyard is situated, and there lie the remains of Alexander Peden, Thomas Richards, Simon Paterson, and David Dunn. A few

Songs of the Covenant Times. By an Ayrshire Minister. Edinburgh: Nimmo. London: Simpkin, Marshall, & Co.

minutes walk in the same direction will conduct the visitor to the spot where the dust of John M'Geachin, who was shot at Bellopath, awaits the summons to that final gathering where justice equal-handed shall be meted out to all. One hour more, and he reaches the wilds of Ayr's, the death scene of Richard Cameron, and those who fell with him, fighting back to back, right against might. The grave of William Adams, in Midwellwood, is but a few miles further onwards; and, if a more extended expedition be contemplated, there is the last earthly resting-place of John Brown, the Christian carrier, in the distance; and, a few points to the southwards, he may stand before the martyrs' graves at Cairn, on the borders of the parishes of New Cummock and Kirkconnel; and, thence proceeding westward, he will come to the lone grave on the heights of Corsegellioch, and other spots well-known in the district as the haunts of those who were frequenters of conventicles, and harbourers of persecuted ministers in the covenanting times."

The first and the longest poem in the book is entitled, "The Hill Preacher, Alexander Peden." It is written in blank verse-apparently one of the easiest, but in reality one of the most difficult kinds of poetical composition. It is, no doubt, one of the simplest things in the world to write any number of lines consisting of ten syllables each, and possessing more or less of an equable flow. It is the fatal facility of this that tempts many people to try their hand at blank verse, under the pleasing idea that they are writing poetry. Now, we do not scruple to assert, that to write blank verse well requires powers of a high order. To confine ourselves to the mere lines, irrespective of the poetry of which they are the vehicle, we hold that the blank verse of Shakspere and Milton, or even that of Thomson, Graham, and Tennyson, is as much superior to the ordinary description of blank verse which is constantly issuing from the press, as the immortal lyrics of Burns are to those of his humblest imitators. The Ayrshire Minister's blank verse is, in our opinion, the worst part of his book. It is smooth enough; but in general it is monotonous and deficient in energy. "The Hill Preacher," nevertheless, contains one or two fine passages, which, both in form and expression, would be not unworthy of Graham, (whom, by the way, our author has in his eye in his description of a conventicle among the hills, p. 72-75). There is a description of a Covenanter's wedding in this poem, p. 61-72, which contains some good things. Perhaps the teetotallers may not be pleased to find at this wedding (as at another eighteen hundred years ago,)—

"The moderate cup itself, not e'en denied,
But held a creature comfort'-not abused."

Here is a description of a youth with a squint :-
"A ready hand he had, and steady eye-
Albeit that he looked not straight ahead;
But rather, as each eye, with purpose cross,
Were singling out an object of its own."

Two songs, or rather hymns, are sung at the wedding. One of them, entitled "Adversity," is a very beautiful piece. It is

"A feigned conceit, a harmless parable,

Couched 'neath the strivings of a hapless lark,
That tried its wing against a winter storm."

We quote the first and the last verse:

"

Happy creature, let me hail thee,

Singing, though the sunbeams fail thee!
Soaring still, though rudely shaken,
By the eastern blast o'ertaken,
And the drifting snow;
Wherefore art thou forth so early,
Ere the buds have blossomed fairly,
In the woods below?

Ere the stream, released from fetters,
Joys with thee through all its waters—
Laughing as they flow?

"Woe worth the day! And must thou yield thee?
Would, poor warbler, I might shield thee!

Where thou'st slanted down to cower
Beneath this bitter, biting shower,

And the gale so strong;

Patience, sweet, and thou shalt hover
Over fields of scented clover,

In thy happy song;

Trilling wild and artless measures,
Pouring forth thy soul's rich treasures,
All the summer long!"

Leaving "The Hill Preacher," we turn to "The Retrospect," the other blank verse poem in the book. We think the latter piece much finer than the former, and may quote from it two short passages as specimens :

"But for the eye of Faith, which looks afar
Beyond the crude anomalies of sense,

'Tis a strange world we live in-passing strange;
So full of sights incongruous, contrasts rude,

And inconsistencies of endless hue!

How puzzling this, supprest the happy thought
A God of mercy overrules the whole!

But, I have seen, oft, on an evening calm

Though massive blocks of cloud, wedge upon wedge,
Like giant turrets starting from the sea,
Threw sombre shades up half the welkin-bend—
A light break forth before the sun went down,
Touching the heavens with colours manifold,
Wherewith, at first, the west was mottled o'er,
Till, growing fairer, lovelier by degrees,
It brightened like a sea of molten gold!
And thus it will be ever, when at length
The good man, who has long been sorrow-bound,
Looks upward, joyful, at his journey's end,

And, through the clouds, beholds his Father's home."