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[BRYAN WALLER PROCTER was born in London Nov. 21, 1787. He was educated, with Byron, at Harrow; studied as a solicitor in the country; returned to London to live in 1807. His period of literary activity extended from 1815 to 1823. In 1832 he was made Metropolitan Commissioner of Lunacy, a post which he resigned in 1861. He died Oct. 4, 1874. His principal works, all published under the pseudonym of Barry Cornwall, are Dramatic Scenes, 1819; Marcian Colonna, 1820; A Sicilian Story, 1821; Mirandola, 1821; The Flood of Thessaly, 1823; English Songs, 1832.]

Barry Cornwall was a very fluent and accomplished artist in verse rather than what we usually understand by a poet. He had nothing bardic or prophetic in his nature, he was burdened with no special message to mankind, and he gave no sign of ever feeling very strongly on any particular point or occasion. The critic is curiously baffled in seeking for a poetical or personal individuality in his verse, for he never seems to be expressing anything in his own person. This negative quality forms the chief characteristic of his best work, his English Songs. All other known lyrists have either recorded in their songs their personal experiences in emotion, or they have so framed their verses as to seem to do so; Barry Cornwall alone has contrived to write songs of a purely and obviously impersonal and artificial kind, dealing dramatically with feelings which the poet does not himself pretend to experience. His fragments of drama are lyrical, his lyrics dramatic, and each class suffers somewhat from this intrusion into the domain of the other. We hardly do justice to the merit of verse which is so impartial as to become almost uninteresting, and Procter has suffered from his retiring modesty no less than other poets from their arrogance. His lyrics do not possess passion or real pathos or any very deep magic of melody, but he has written more songs

that deserve the comparative praise of good than any other modern writer except Shelley and Tennyson. There is a sort of literary insincerity about Barry Cornwall's verse that found no counterpart in the beautiful character of Mr. Procter. We wonder at rapturous addresses to the ocean,

'I'm on the Sea! I'm on the Sea!
I am where I would ever be,'

from the landsman who could never, in the course of a long life, venture on the voyage from Dover to Calais, and at bursts of vinous enthusiasm from the most temperate of valetudinarians; but the poet would have defended his practice by his own curious theory that 'those songs are most natural which do not proceed from the author in person.' Procter's verse has been much admired and much neglected, and will never, in all probability, gain the ear of the public again to any great extent. His merits are more than considerable, but the mild lustrous beauty of his verse is scarcely vivid enough to attract much attention. There would be more to say about his writings if they were less faultless and refined.



Now whilst he dreams, O Muses, wind him round! Send down thy silver words, O murmuring Rain! Haunt him, sweet Music! Fall, with gentlest sound,—

Like dew, like night, upon his weary brain! Come, Odours of the rose and violet,-bear Into his charmed sleep all visions fair!

So may the lost be found,

So may his thoughts by tender Love be crowned,

And Hope come shining like a vernal morn,

And with its beams adorn

The Future, till he breathes diviner air,

In some soft Heaven of joy, beyond the range of Care!


The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round;

It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the Sea! I'm on the Sea!

I am where I would ever be ;

With the blue above, and the blue below,

And silence wheresoe'er I go;

If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love (oh! how I love) to ride
On the fierce foaming bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the south-west blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull tame shore,
But I lov'd the great Sea more and more,
And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest ;
And a mother she was, and is to me;
For I was born on the open Sea!

The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the Ocean-child!

I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a sailor's life,
With wealth to spend and a power to range,
But never have sought, nor sighed for change;
And Death, whenever he come to me,

Shall come on the wide unbounded Sea!


Sing! Who sings

To her who weareth a hundred rings?
Ah, who is this lady fine?

The VINE, boys, the VINE!

The mother of mighty Wine.

A roamer is she

O'er wall and tree,

And sometimes very good company.

Drink!-Who drinks

To her who blusheth and never thinks?
Ah! who is this maid of thine?

The GRAPE, boys, the GRAPE!

O, never let her escape
Until she be turned to Wine!
For better is she,

Than vine can be,

And very very good company!

Dream-who dreams

Of the God that governs a thousand streams?

Ah, who is this Spirit fine?

'Tis WINE, boys, 'tis WINE!

God Bacchus, a friend of mine.

O better is he

Than grape or tree,

And the best of all good company.


She sleeps amongst her pillows soft,
(A dove, now wearied with her flight),
And all around, and all aloft,

Hang flutes and folds of virgin white:
Her hair out-darkens the dark night,

Her glance out-shines the starry sky; But now her locks are hidden quite, And closed is her fringed eye!

She sleepeth: wherefore doth she start?
She sigheth; doth she feel no pain?
None, none! the Dream is near her heart;
The Spirit of sleep is in her brain.
He cometh down like golden rain,

Without a wish, without a sound;
He cheers the sleeper (ne'er in vain),
Like May, when earth is winter-bound.

All day within some cave he lies,
Dethroned from his nightly sway,-
Far fading when the dawning skies

Our souls with wakening thoughts array. Two Spirits of might doth man obey;

By each he's wrought, from each he learns: The one is Lord of life by day;

The other when starry Night returns.

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