The book of gemsThe modern poets and artists of Great Britain . ,—the Maid of Elvar,—is, perhaps, his best: thescene of this little rustic epic, as he correctly styles it, is laid in his native vale ; andmany of the delicious pictures it contains, with a true vein of poetry throughout, aredrawn from rural life. It is, however, written in a measure ill calculated to becomeextensively popular. The poetical reputation cf Allan Cunningham has been made,and is sustained, by his ballads and lyrical pieces. They are exquisite in feeling—chaste and elegant in style—graceful in expression, and natural
The book of gemsThe modern poets and artists of Great Britain . ,—the Maid of Elvar,—is, perhaps, his best: thescene of this little rustic epic, as he correctly styles it, is laid in his native vale ; andmany of the delicious pictures it contains, with a true vein of poetry throughout, aredrawn from rural life. It is, however, written in a measure ill calculated to becomeextensively popular. The poetical reputation cf Allan Cunningham has been made,and is sustained, by his ballads and lyrical pieces. They are exquisite in feeling—chaste and elegant in style—graceful in expression, and natural in conception: theyseem, indeed, the mere and unstudied out-pourings of the heart; yet will bear thestrictest and most critical inspection of those who consider elaborate finish to be atleast the second requisite of writers of song. His own country has supplied him withhis principal themes; and the peculiar dialect of Scotland—in which he frequentlywrites—his good taste prevents him from ever rendering harsh, or even inharmonious,to Southern CUNNINGHAM. THE TOWN AND COUNTRY CHILD. Child of the country ! free as airArt thou, and as the sunshine fair ;Born, hke the lily, where the dewLies odorous when the day is new;Fed mid the May-flowers like the bee,Nursd to sweet music on the knee,Lulld in the breast to that glad tuneWhich winds make mong the woods of JuneI sing of thee ;—tis sweet to singOf such a fair and gladsome thing. Child of the town ! for thee I sighA gilded roofs thy golden sky,A carpet is thy daisied sod,A narrow street thy boundless road. 146 CUNNINGHAM. Thy rushing deers the clattering tramp Of watchmen, thy best lights a lamp,— Through smoke, and not through trellised vines And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines : I sing of thee in sadness; where Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair. Child of the country ! thy small feetTread on strawberries red and sweet;With thee I wander forth to seeThe flowers which most dehght the bee ;The bush oer w
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Keywords: ., bookauthorwordsworthcollection, bookce, booksubjectenglishpoetry
