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This is not, however, a characteristic sonnet. There are others among the few Mr. Benjamin has written which - beside being more nearly adapted to the right sonnetform

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- are, in themselves, clever and thoughtful poems. Here is one of them, addressed simply to

"M. J.

"Born in the North, and reared in tropic lands;
Her mind has all the vigor of a tree

Sprung from a rocky soil beside the sea,
And all the sweetness of a rose that stands
In the soft sunshine on some sheltered lea.
She seems all life, and light, and love to me!
No winter lingers in her glowing smile,
No coldness in her deep melodious words;
But all the warmth of her dear Indian isle,
And all the music of its tuneful birds.
With her conversing of my native bowers
In the far South, I feel the genial air

Of some delicious morn, and taste those flowers,
Which like herself are bright above compare!"

The sonnet to "A Great Name " has just escaped fulfilling all the conditions necessary to a sonnet of the strictly legitimate type : —

"Time! thou destroyest the relics of the Past!
And hidest all the footprints of thy march,
On sheltered column, and on crumbled arch,
By moss, and ivy growing green and fast :
Hurled into fragments by the tempest blast,
The Rhodian monster lies; - the Obelisk
That with sharp line divided the broad disk
Of Egypt's sun, down to the sands was cast;
And where these stood, no remnant trophy stands,
And even the art is lost by which they rose;
Thus with the monuments of other lands,
The place that knew them now no longer knows ;
Yet triumph not, O Time! strong towers decay,
But a great Name shall never pass away!"

The sonnets of William H. Burleigh "possess," as Leigh Hunt says of Shelley's "Ozymandias," "the right comprehensiveness," and I have doubted their structure is in some cases so correct - whether they might not be fairly ranked among the legitimate sonnets. "The Brook," and "Solitude," both to be found among our selections, will justify this remark,

The most original and salient of the irregular sonneteers of the South is William Gilmore Simms, whose fertile genius has contributed so much to the vindication of the intellect and patriotism of his part of the country. His sonnets are numerous and of every variety of construction. Their chief merit resides in the character of the thought, which is seldom otherwise than strong, suggestive, and perspicuous. A rugged and impetuous power, and, where the topic admits of it, a passionate intensity of feeling, rising almost into vehemence, leave the author no time to consider the "proprieties of verse"; he rushes on with the energy of the improvvisatore, so that frequently he constrains himself to make use of the sonnet as a stanza, the limit of fourteen lines appearing to be insufficient to the full exercise either of his imagination or his enthusiasm. Yet many of his sonnets are complete and "rounded," possessing a fine metrical balance, and leaving consequently little to desire in reference to their construction. The following is a good example :

"Sudden the mighty nation goes not down;
There is no mortal fleetness in its fate : -
Time, many omens, still anticipate
The peril that removes its iron crown
And shakes its homes with ruin. Centuries
Fleet by in the long struggle, and great men
Rush mounted to the break where victory lies,
And personal virtue brings us life again.

Were it not thus, my Country! were this hope
Not ours, the present were a fearful time;
Vainly we summon mighty hearts to cope
With thy oppressors, — vanity and crime.
These ride thee as upon some noble beast,

The scoundrel jackal hurrying to his feast."

Mr. Simms in the choice of his subjects adheres mostly to the gravest themes. The solemn or fearful aspects of national events, the dark mysteries of human fate and experience, demanding in their consideration the exercise of the metaphysical faculty, these are the burden of his

sonnets.

--

"The thing," as Wordsworth expresses it, becomes " a trumpet in his hands," when he would awaken the dormant patriotism of his people; or it serves him as the medium of philosophical inquiry in those regions of speculation which only imagination, sublimated by faith, should dare to enter.

In a word, the sonnets of this writer are valuable, not as matured art-products, but as stern embodiments of individual will and passion, no less than as specimens of genuine subtlety and reach of thought.

Henry T. Tuckerman is the author of about twentyeight sonnets of a miscellaneous nature, written in the form of three quatrains, concluded by the usual heroic couplet. Griswold says that "Mr. Tuckerman's sonnets display some of the most perfect examples of that kind of writing that adorn American literature." I cannot subscribe to this assertion, which proves how superficial Griswold's knowledge of the sonnet, and its requirements, must have been; nor do I believe that Mr. Tuckerman himself - whose candor as a critic equals his ability will quarrel with me for denying it. Let us

admit, however, that his sonnets, if not worthy this degree of praise, are unquestionably graceful, polished, and pleasing compositions. Every line seems to have been carefully revised, and the ultimate effect is a Pope-like ease and flow of rhythm, and great propriety of diction, not without a special charm of their own. I call the reader's special attention to the sonnets entitled "To One Deceived," "Freedom," "Sleep," and "The Balcony," all included in this work, and all confirming, I think, what has been said.

Mr. Epes Sargent, in his "Summer Voyage to Cuba,” has employed a stanza of fourteen lines, the last line of which is invariably a rhymed Alexandrine,— which brings his stanzas technically under the head of the most irregular of quatorzens. Some of them are so picturesque that I have thought proper to extract them into our volume. The younger poets of America, who have won distinction in other departments of their art, I refer here particularly to Bayard Taylor, Aldrich, and Stoddard,—have published few sonnets, but those few are meritorious. instance Taylor's manly and earnest dedication to George H. Boker, which introduces his "Poems of Home and Travel," a sonnet not unworthy of Boker himself; also his sonnet to "Life,” and “To the Mountains."

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Since this essay was planned and almost executed, Mr. T. B. Aldrich has risen so rapidly into poetical fame, through the deserved honors bestowed upon him both in this country and in England, that I would call particular attention to such of his sonnets as I have quoted from his "Poems," published by Messrs. Ticknor and Fields in 1865. Hitherto Mr. Aldrich has been distinguished for the exquisite beauty of his lyrics, and the grand passages

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to be found in his Scriptural poem of "Judith," rather than for any achievements in the peculiar and difficult branch of poetry of which I treat. I think, however, that a careful consideration of the sonnets hereafter quoted will convince the reader that Mr. Aldrich occupies no second rank amongst living sonneteers, and that the care and polish which he has bestowed upon his works give promise of a higher future excellence in this department. I refer to the sonnets entitled respectively Egypt" and "Accomplices," as admirable specimens of Mr. Aldrich's powers. According to the strict rules laid down by the Italian writers, these sonnets are not constructed on the legitimate model, but they approach it so nearly in form, and are so far elevated above mere forms by the genius which embodies them, as to disarm extreme criticism, and content us with their own beauties. A further study and cultivation of the "Sonnet's scanty plot" will add not only to Mr. Aldrich's growing reputation, but to the literary wealth of America in a branch of refined poetical art in which she grievously needs representation.

The following to "T. B."-Bayard Taylor, I presume — is one of the best of the few sonnets which Richard Henry Stoddard, the American Keats, has as yet written:

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"Though Youth is fresh upon us, we are squires
Of Poesy, and swell her`shining train,
With all the belted knights, whose prowess fires
Our hearts to do what noble deeds remain ;
The golden spurs are ours ere many days,
If we are true; then let us join our hands,

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