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[page 10, column 2, continued:]
THE MAGAZINES.
The American Review for July has some very admirable papers, among which we notice especially “Marshal Macdonald” by the clever author of” Letters from Italy,” and a discriminative review of Mr. Griswold's “Poets and Poetry of England,” by Mr. Whipple, undoubtedly one of our finest I critics. We are truly delighted to find him so keenly appreciating the magnificent genius of Tennyson. This number contains, also, a poem, “The Gods of Old” which does high credit to its author, Mr. Win. Wallace. Speaking of it the editor of the Review says: —
The following highly imaginative poem adds a third to the list on a beautiful and suggestive subject. It is a little remarkable that neither of them bears any resemblance in the conception or execution. Miss Barrett's idea is the absolute death of the ancient Divinities — [page 11:] Schiller laments the decay of their influence — the following Ode is based on their continued existence as poetical creations which delight the human mind. —
It cannot be doubted that Mr. Wallace's conception is the best of the three, and he has handled it in a masterly manner. We quote the concluding stanza.
V.
Like far off stars that glimmer in a cloud,
Deathless, O Gods! shall ye illume the PAST:
To ye the Poet-Voice will cry aloud,
Faithful among the faithless to the last: —
Ye must not die!
Long as the dim robes of the Ages trail
O’er Delphi's steep or Tempe's flowery tale —
An awful Throng —
Borne upward on the sounding wings of Song
That cast the Beautiful o’er Land, o’er Sea,
Ye shall not die:
Though Time and storms our calm, old temples rend,
And, rightly, men to the “ONE ONLY” bend. —
Your Realm is MEMORY!
The Knickerbocker for July has also some meritorious contributions — but neither man nor devil can dissuade its editor from a monthly farrago of type so small as to be nearly invisible, and so stupid as to make us wish it were quite so. In three lines devoted to the “Broadway Journal” intended to be complimentary, we believe, although we sincerely hope not, he makes use of what he supposes to be a French proverb, and writes it Chaçon à son goüt, taking great pains to place a grave accent on the verb, mistaking it fur the preposition, and complimenting the hard c with a cedilla. Within the compass of the same three lines, he talks about a nil admirari critic; some person, we presume, having quizzed hint with the information that the meaning of nil admirari is “to admire nothing.” We certainly do not admire Mr. Clarke — nor his wig — but the true English of the Latin phrase is “to wonder at nothing,” and we plead guilty to having wondered at nothing since we have found the Knickerbocker sinking day by day in the public opinion in despite of the brilliant abilities and thoroughly liberal education of Mr. Lewis Gaylord Clarke.
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Notes:
This review was attributed as being by Poe by W. D. Hull.
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[S:0 - BJ, 1845] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - Criticism - Literary (Poe?, 1845)