The book of gemsThe modern poets and artists of Great Britain . , with few exceptions, have not been received as nationalsongs. We have seen writers far inferior enjoying a much wider popularity: composi-tions of comparatively little merit have been made familiar as household words, be-cause they treat of matters common to aU, in language understood by all, while theadmirers of Barry Cornwall have been limited to those who have a refined taste, anda delicate appreciation of what is truly excellent. Our extracts will sufficiently provethe fine and masterly power of the Poet. A sound mind, a ric
The book of gemsThe modern poets and artists of Great Britain . , with few exceptions, have not been received as nationalsongs. We have seen writers far inferior enjoying a much wider popularity: composi-tions of comparatively little merit have been made familiar as household words, be-cause they treat of matters common to aU, in language understood by all, while theadmirers of Barry Cornwall have been limited to those who have a refined taste, anda delicate appreciation of what is truly excellent. Our extracts will sufficiently provethe fine and masterly power of the Poet. A sound mind, a rich fancy, a rare and exqui-site skill in dealing with words, and a pure style of versification, is evident in themall. Mr. Procter has, however, kept the promise of his genius. Among the Poets ofGreat Britain he holds a very foremost rank; if, now that his judgment is matured,he would again essay dramatic composition, he might occupy a station still higher,—and take his undisputed seat beside the glorious creators of a gone-by age, whose fameis PROCTER. THE PISHEHMAN. A PERILOUS life, and sad as life may be, Hath the lone fisher on the lonely sea. In the wild waters labouring, far from home, For some bleak pittance eer compelled to roam ! Few friends to cheer him through his dangerous life And none to aid him in the stormy strife : Companion of the sea and silent air. The lonely fisher thus must ever fare ; Without the comfort, hope,—with scarce a friend, He looks through life, and only sees—its end ! Eternal ocean ! Old majestic sea ! Ever love I from shore to look on thee, And sometimes on thy billowy back to ride. And sometimes oer thv summer breast to glide ; Ff 218 PROCTER. Hut let me Jive on land, where rivers run,—Where shady trees may screen me from t1ie sun ;Where I may feel, secure, the fragrant air ;Where (whateer toil or wearying pains I bear) Those eyes, which look away all human shed on me their still, sweet, constant light:And the li
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Keywords: ., bookauthorwordsworthcollection, bookce, booksubjectenglishpoetry
