"Light! all is not corrupt; for thou art pure, A guide no more, I seem to want a guide, The Sabbath-walk of the toil-freed townsman, with his little children, to whom the very air of Heaven is a rich banquet, is, in tenderness and sweetness, the counterpart of similar descriptions in Grahame; and then we have the skailing of the kirk, which gives room for many little shrewd and sarcastic strokes and sketches of character. We see the spiritless, scorned curate; and are told of the reduced English yeoman and his degenerate successor, and see the ancient home, "where once dwelt Matthew Hayes, A trading yeoman of the bygone days. It is useless to follow a common history. The yeoman and his wife die broken-hearted beggars. Their ill-educated son supports a life of degradation and low debauchery, by poaching and theft. Let us turn for comfort to the dwelling, and forget the perished inmates. The English home "that sternly could withstand The storms of more than twice a hundred years! Its tower of clustered chimneys, tufted o'er With ivy, ever green amid the grey; The carven stone!" The following sketch of an intelligent, reasoning, reflecting, instructed artisan, is a piece of first-rate Radical poetry. Let us hope, and, with 151 many late convincing proofs, the very existence of such a man as Elliott "Alas! Miles Gordon ne'er will walk again; Nor have they gorged his soul. Thrall though he be Works hard, reads usefully, with no mean skill Oh, with what rapture he prepares to fly From streets and courts, with crime and sorrow strewed, Elliott's early passion for flowers breaks forth in the sequel to this description, as in many other places of his poetry; but all this we give up, deeming, since we cannot transfer his volumes altogether to our pages, the useful better than the beautiful. Our Artisan-poet, in his pride of intelligence, and intellectual superiority, is occasionally somewhat severe, if not unjust, in speaking of agricultural labourers. And yet, with saddened hearts, we must subscribe to the painul truth of this picture. The writer is describing the worst con dition of the toil-worn artisan, dragging the chain of life along, all but hopeless; and still, in all that distinguishes man from brute, so far above the rural labourer : "How unlike thee, though once erect and proud, Is England's peasant slave, the trodden down, The comparison between Jem poaching in the squire's covers, and the Tory poaching on society at large is felicitous. By this time the reader surely sees that our Radical Poet is no ordinary versifier,-power, beauty, tenderness, are alike his elements. We have given instances of them all, and might multiply them, page after page, if this were admissable. He only fails decidedly in attempts at light humour; for abruptness, and occasional want of attention to minute finish, produce only those trivial blemishes which are not worthy notice. His vocation, as a poet and as a man, is to furnish the original metal in rods and bars, leaving to the less strong-armed, though more patient workman, to mould and finish into all kinds of useful instruments or pretty toys. Elliott is indeed too earnest and conscientious to succeed in humour. He is too deeply affected with his subject to sport, and dally, and trifle with it. We therefore feel Alice Green, and all about that old lady, tiresome, and out of place; and this is the more provoking, as we suspect our author, without any affection for Alice himself, has introduced her, mistakingly enough, for the entertainment and relief of his readers. But, by this time, Mr. Elliott knows that the public are in the vein of witnessing his tragedy and serious comedy, without interlude of any kind. The world, for nearly four hundred years, has never been in so earnest a temper as now, nor in one so fitted to relish the poetry which grows out of this disposition-his Radical poetry. With whatever reluctance, we must pass all Mr. Elliott's heartfelt and beautiful descriptions of the scenery around Sheffield. They will survive to ennoble his town when much of it, of great present value, shall have for ever perished. It is enough that he has made us familiar with the finest aspects of the streams, the moors, and the hills of Hallamshire, in strains of noble poetry. The desperate, reckless grinder, who, "Born to die young, nor fears nor man nor death"we must also pass; and, what is more important, the vision, philosophic and political, of old Enoch, to whom the spirit of the regicide Bradshaw comes, in the night-watches, running over, with a spirit's fiery glance, the history of degenerate England. In this Dante vision, Pitt and Castlereagh" ice-hearted dog!"—are not forgotten; and long shall we look 153 in fashionable pages for poetry of the same boldness and energy. It would . "Children of Enoch and of Mary Wray." Let us hasten to the close. In a lovely April evening, the patriarch sits in the cheerful sun, " stooping his tresses grey, To hear the stream, his ancient neighbour, run, Heaven's gates are like an angel's wing, with plumes Through rifts of mount'nous clouds, the light illumes O'er blue bells and ground ivy, on their wings Mary bends o'er him mute. Her youngest lad Grasps, with small hand, his grandsire's finger fast. Well knows the old man that the boy is sad; And the third Mary, as she hurries past, Trembles, and looks towards the town aghast." These symptoms foretell an execution for rent in the house of his sonin-law, where his old age had long found refuge: "The Bible of his sires is marked for sale; But degradation is to him despair. The hour is come which Enoch cannot bear; But he can die!" And the Village Patriarch dies, the "last of England's king-souled -"Bid the mountains weep for Enoch Wray, Who numbers worlds, and writes their names in light, Ere long, oh, Earth! will look in vain for thee, And start, and stop, in his unerring flight, And, with his wings of sorrow and affright, Veil his impassioned brow." NO. VIII.-VOL. II. L The Corn-Law Rhymes, we have said, are a collection of poems all bearing on one great point, but of unequal merit. The longest is entitled the Ranter; which, with Elliott, means a field preacher of the bold and free spirit of the old Scottish Covenanters. He is the same Miles Gordon lamented by the Village Patriarch. The home of the many-childed widow, in whose humble dwelling he occupies a prophet's chamber! the Sabbath morning preparations, the out-door worship "on Shirecliffe's lofty side," the surrounding scenery, the gradual dispersion of the mists, and the brightening of the morning, are all beautifully described; but our readers will prize more a few "notes" of the energetic RadiAnd first, we have a denunciation of the Wesleyan Methodists, and an assertion of the right of out-door worship. cal sermon. "Wo be unto you, Scribes and Pharisees, And wandering forth, while blew the Sabbath breeze, Abjure the house where Wesleyans bend the knee? And truth, and faith, and grace, are not, with me, We hate not the religion of bare walls; We scorn not the cathedral'd pomp of prayer; For sweet are all our Father's festivals, If contrite hearts the heavenly banquet share, In field or temple: God is everywhere! But we hate arrogance and selfishness, Come where they may-and most beneath the roof No love for him who feels no self-reproof When in God's house he stands from God aloof. Nor worship we grim Mars the homicide; Our prayers are not for slaughter; we behold With scorn, sectarian and prelatic pride, Slaves, if not bought, too willing to be sold, Christians misnamed, whose gods are blood and gold, Where their recorded execrations, pour'd On blood stain'd tyrants, and the servile horde? When earth wept blood, that wolves might lap and swill, Basely they pander'd to the slayer's will; And still their spells they mutter in the storm, |