He feels it in the beauty of woman—in
      the grace of her step—in the lustre of her eye—in the melody
      of her voice—in her soft laughter, in her sigh—in the harmony
      of the rustling of her robes. He deeply feels it in her winning
      endearments—in her burning enthusiasms—in her gentle charities—in
      her meek and devotional endurances—but above all—ah, far above
      all, he kneels to it—he worships it in the faith, in the purity, in
      the strength, in the altogether divine majesty—of her love. Let me conclude by—the recitation of yet another brief poem—one
      very different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by
      Motherwell, and is called “The Song of the Cavalier.” With our modern and
      altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare, we are
      not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize with the
      sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the poem. To do
      this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul of the old
      cavalier:—

     Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
         And don your helmes amaine:
     Deathe’s couriers. Fame and Honor call
         No shrewish teares shall fill your eye
     When the sword-hilt’s in our hand,—
         Heart-whole we’ll part, and no whit sighe
     For the fayrest of the land;
         Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
     Thus weepe and poling crye,
         Our business is like men to fight. OLD ENGLISH POETRY (*)


      It should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection with
      which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be-attributed to
      what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry-we mean to the simple love
      of the antique-and that, again, a third of even the proper _poetic
      sentiment inspired_by their writings should be ascribed to a fact
      which, while it has strict connection with poetry in the abstract, and
      with the old British poems themselves, should not be looked upon as a
      merit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost every devout
      admirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their productions,
      would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense of dreamy,
      wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable delight; on being
      required to point out the source of this so shadowy pleasure, he would be
      apt to speak of the quaint in phraseology and in general handling. This
      quaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct to ideality, but in the
      case in question it arises independently of the author’s will, and is
      altogether apart from his intention. Words and their rhythm have varied. Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid delight, and which delight, in
      many instances, may be traced to the one source, quaintness, must have
      worn in the days of their construction, a very commonplace air. This is,
      of course, no argument against the poems now-we mean it only as against
      the poets _thew. _There is a growing desire to overrate them. The old
      English muse was frank, guileless, sincere, and although very learned,
      still learned without art. No general error evinces a more thorough
      confusion of ideas than the error of supposing Donne and Cowley
      metaphysical in the sense wherein Wordsworth and Coleridge are so. With
      the two former ethics were the end-with the two latter the means. The poet
      of the “Creation” wished, by highly artificial verse, to inculcate what he
      supposed to be moral truth-the poet of the “Ancient Mariner” to infuse the
      Poetic Sentiment through channels suggested by analysis. The one finished
      by complete failure what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the
      other, by a path which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at a
      triumph which is not the less glorious because hidden from the profane
      eyes of the multitude. But in this view even the “metaphysical verse” of
      Cowley is but evidence of the simplicity and single-heartedness of the
      man. And he was in this but a type of his school-for we may as well
      designate in this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound up
      in the volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a very
      perceptible general character. They used little art in composition. Their
      writings sprang immediately from the soul-and partook intensely of that
      soul’s nature. Nor is it difficult to perceive the tendency of this _abandon-to
      elevate _immeasurably all the energies of mind-but, again, so to mingle
      the greatest possible fire, force, delicacy, and all good things, with the
      lowest possible bathos, baldness, and imbecility, as to render it not a
      matter of doubt that the average results of mind in such a school will be
      found inferior to those results in one _(ceteris _paribus) more
      artificial. We can not bring ourselves to believe that the selections of the “Book of
      Gems” are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearest possible
      idea of the beauty of the school-but if the intention had been merely to
      show the school’s character, the attempt might have been considered
      successful in the highest degree. There are long passages now before us of
      the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond that of their
      antiquity. The criticisms of the editor do not particularly please us. His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid not to be false. His opinion,
      for example, of Sir Henry Wotton’s “Verses on the Queen of Bohemia”—that
      “there are few finer things in our language,” is untenable and absurd. In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes of Poesy
      which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout all time. Here
      every thing is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly concealed. No prepossession
      for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no other
      prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of poetry,
      a series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments, stitched,
      apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, and without
      even an attempt at adaptation. In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with “The
      Shepherd’s Hunting” by Withers—a poem partaking, in a remarkable
      degree, of the peculiarities of “Il Penseroso.” Speaking of Poesy the
      author says:

     “By the murmur of a spring,
     Or the least boughs rustleling,
     By a daisy whose leaves spread,
     Shut when Titan goes to bed,
     Or a shady bush or tree,
     She could more infuse in me
     Than all Nature’s beauties can
     In some other wiser man.