Text: N. P. Willis (?), Review of C. P. Cranch, Poems, Evening Mirror (New York), January 13, 1845, vol. 1, no. 83, p. 2, col. 6

[page 2, column 6, continued:]

LITERARY.

POEMS: By Christopher Pease Cranch. — The poet occupies the middle ground between Nature and Soul, and stands as Interpreter for both. The whirlwind of emotion and thought seizes him at one time, and bears him hither and thither, up and down, and no means of escape offered save on the condition that he finds or creates an expression for them. Again, at another time, appears to him the beautiful face of Nature, the Sphinx, speaking riddles to be expounded at the peril of his life. The Poet of the highest rank, however, is he who can stand firmly in his place of disinterested translator and remain unembarrassed by the questions and propositions of either. It will be sufficient to cite our example of the ideal Poet, — it is doubtful if we could do more — in our Shakspeare; though perhaps even he is not without a decided bias. The practical Poets — the best, it seems, the muses are disposed to send us in these times, may be divided into two classes: the Poets of Nature, and the Poets of Thought and Feeling. Without going intoparticu-lars, giving a list of poets who are eminent on one tide or the other of the true “golden mean,” which would require more space and time than we have ro spare, we judge that Mr. Cranch has been under such influences as to make what he calls the “in world” predominate over the outer. His attention (excuse the contradiction) has been intention — a looking and stretching in; and he speaks dispairingly sometimes of the power of expression; finds no words to tell us what he feels — a common case with all who are much addicted to introspection. But this despair is a good thing, provided it be but deep enough, and drives one to the right place; to the boundless treasury of Nature, who has more words than we have thoughts, and cannot be exhausted.

We confess we prefer the leaning to the other side, — that we believe eyes were given to see, and ears to hear; that we like the old orthodox doctrine, that children might be taught words and good store of them, before they were capable of understanding their meaning. Let the poet cover his all-holding retinue with bright forms of stars and flowers for the fastidious muse to select from to compose her bouquet, we shall no longer hear complaints of the inadequacy of the power of expression. But we ate not disposed to find fault with those who have opposite tendencies, — who can say with Mr. Crutch in his “Blind Leer,”

There is good evidence in this book that Mr. Cranch is a poet, — one of a religious, though somewhat soft and feminine purity, and of a “good ear for music.” The following poem pleased us most:

We have not room for further quotations, and can only say that there are other poems of equal merit to the one we have selected. Among them are “Endymion” and a sweet sermon, — from a text in Wordsworth's “Intimations of Immortality” — called “Ocean.” In so small a book we ought not to look for a great variety of topics, and the writer is young and has not probably yet exhausted the first vein he struck. He has done so well, however, here in this coup d’essui, as to deserve a niche in the temple of public hope; and we recommend all who do not despair of the success of our republic of letters to read this book for their further encouragement.