[Footnote 5: We have received this notice of Mellen's Poems from a
personal friend, in whose judgment we have implicit reliance--of
course we cannot deviate from our rules by adopting the criticism as
Editorial.]
_The Martyr's Triumph; Buried Valley; and other Poems. By Grenville
Mellen. Boston, 300 pp._
We took up this book with the conviction that we should be pleased
with its contents, and our highly wrought expectations have not in any
degree been disappointed. It is as high praise as we are able to
bestow upon it, that we have read most of its contents with the very
associations around us, which are required for the perfect production
of the impressions intended to be produced by the poet--and that we
have, in each and all, still found those impressions strengthening and
deepening upon our minds, as we perused the pages before us. "The
Buried Valley," in which is portrayed the well remembered tragedy of
the avalanche, which, in 1826, buried a peaceful cottage situated at
the foot of the White Mountains, with all its inhabitants, at
midnight, is not perhaps the best, though a most deeply interesting
part of the volume. It is too unequal in its style, and at times too
highly wrought, perhaps, as a picture. But the idea which it gives the
reader of the wild and magnificent spot upon which this terrible
catastrophe occurred is perfect, and the description of the
circumstances and incidents of the scene most faithful.
The Scenery of the White Mountains of New Hampshire forms the
inspiration of another poem also in this collection, which we boldly
place beside any emanation from the most gifted of our poets. We
allude to "Lines on an Eagle," on pp. 130 and 131. We must be chary of
our space, and can therefore give but a single stanza, in
corroboration of our opinion.
Sail on, thou lone imperial bird,
Of quenchless eye and tireless wing;
How is thy distant coming heard,
As the night-breezes round thee ring!
Thy course was 'gainst the burning sun,
In his extremest glory--how!
Is thy unequall'd daring done,
Thou stoop'st to earth so lowly now!
The "Martyr's Triumph" is a most splendid poem, and deserves all the
praise it has received from reader and critic. What can be more
beautiful than the exordium?
Voice of the viewless spirit! that hast rung
Through the still chambers of the human heart,
Since our first parents in sweet Eden sung
Their low lament in tears--thou voice, that art
Around us and above us, sounding on
With a perpetual echo, 'tis on thee,
The ministry sublime to wake and warn!--
Full of that high and wondrous Deity,
That call'd existence out from Chaos' lonely sea!
And what more purely inspired than the following?
Thou wast from God when the green earth was young,
And man enchanted rov'd amid its flowers,
When faultless woman to his bosom clung,
Or led him through her paradise of bowers;
Where love's low whispers from the Garden rose,
And both amid its bloom and beauty bent,
In the long luxury of their first repose!
When the whole earth was incense, and there went
Perpetual praise from altars to the firmament.
And these are but single "bricks from Babel." Specimens, only, of the
beauty and grace with which the poem abounds.
Were we looking for faults, doubtless we should be able to find them,
for who is faultless? But that is not our aim. Yet would we suggest to
the author that the use of the word _dulce_ in stanza six, is somewhat
forced,--and though a sweet word in itself, is yet "like sweet bells
jangled, harsh, and out of tune," on account of its rarity, which
induces the reader to note its strangeness rather than to admire its
application. The whole book abounds with proofs of _Mellen's_ fine
musical ear, and therefore does it seem to us a fault that he should
have suffered the compositor to do him the injustice of printing such
a line as this.
"Before ill-starr'd Dunsinane's waving wood!"
But it is for the minor, or shorter pieces which the volume contains,
that it is most highly to be valued. _Mellen_ is delightful in his
"occasional poems." Take the following, addressed to one of the
sweetest singers, whose strains, like angel-harmonies from heaven,
ever floated upon the rapt ear of the poet, as a proof.