Since the publication of Anne Boleyn, Mr. Boker has written two plays, The Betrothal, and All the World a Mask, both of which have been produced on the stage in Philadelphia with the most entire success. Calaynos was also played for a number of nights, Mr. Murdoch taking the principal part. The Betrothal was performed in New-York and Baltimore, with equal success. It is admirably adapted for an acting play. The plot is not tragic, though the closing scenes have a tragic air. The dialogue is more varied than in Anne Boleyn or Calaynos—now sparkling and full of point, now pithy, shrewd, and pregnant with worldly wisdom, and now tender, graceful, and poetic. All the World a Mask is a comedy of modern life. We have not seen it represented, and it has not yet been published; yet no one familiar with the fine healthy humor displayed in portions of Calaynos and The Betrothal can doubt the author's ability to sustain himself through a five-act comedy.
In addition to these plays, Mr. Boker has published from time to time, in the literary magazines, lyrics and ballads that would of themselves entitle him to rank among our most worthy poets. It is rare that a dramatic author possesses lyric genius, and vice versa, yet the true lyric inspiration is no less perceptible in Mr. Boker's Song of the Earth and Vision of the Goblet, than the true dramatic faculty in his Anne Boleyn.
There is a fresh, manly strength in his poetry, which may sometimes jar the melody a little, but never allows his verse to flag. The life which informs it was inhaled in the open air; it is sincere and earnest, and touched with that fine enthusiasm which is the heart's-blood of lyric poetry. Take, for instance, this glorious Bacchic, from the Vision of the Goblet:
"Joy! joy! with Bacchus and his satyr train,
In triumph throbs our merry Grecian earth;
Joy! joy! the golden time has come again,
A god shall bless the vine's illustrious birth!
Io, io, Bacche!
"O breezes, speed across the mellow lands,
And breathe his coming to the joyous vine;
Let all the vineyards wave their leafy hands
Upon the hills to greet this pomp divine!
Io, io, Bacche!
"O peaceful triumph, victory without tear,
Or human cry, or drop of conquered blood!
Save dew-beads bright, that on the vine appear,
The choral shouts, the trampled grape's red flood!
Io, io, Bacche!
"Shout, Hellas, shout! the lord of joy is come,
Bearing the mortal Lethe in his hands,
To wake the wailing lips of Sorrow dumb,
To bind sad Memory's eyes with rosy bands:
Io, io, Bacche!"
In the Song of the Earth, which shows a higher exercise of the poetic faculty than any thing else Mr. Boker has written, he has enriched the language with a new form of versification. Except in this poem, we do not remember ever to have seen dactylic blank verse attempted in the English language. The majestic and resonant harmonies of the measure are strikingly adapted to the poet's theme. The concluding Chorus of Stars, rebuking the Earth for her pride as the dwelling-place of the human soul, is a splendid effort of the imagination. We know not where to find surpassed the sounding sweep of the rhythm in the final lines:
"Heir of eternity, Mother of Souls,
Let not thy knowledge betray thee to folly!
Knowledge is proud, self-sufficient, and lone,
Trusting, unguided, its steps in the darkness.
Thine is the wisdom that mankind may win,
Gleaned in the pathway between joy and sorrow;
Ours is the wisdom that hallows the child
Fresh from the touch of his awful Creator,
Dropped like a star on thy shadowy realm,
Falling in splendor, but falling to darken.
Ours is the simple religion of Faith,
Trusting alone in the God who o'errules us;
Thine are the complex misgivings of Doubt,
Wrested to form by imperious Reason.
Knowledge is restless, imperfect, and sad;
Faith is serene, and completed, and joyful.
Bow in humility, bow thy proud forehead,
Circle thy form with a mantle of clouds,
Hide from the glittering cohorts of evening,
Wheeling in purity, singing in chorus:
Howl in the depths of thy lone, barren mountains,
Restlessly moan on the deserts of ocean,
Wail o'er thy fall in the desolate forests,
Lost star of Paradise, straying alone!"
In the flush of youth, fortunate in all the relations of life, and with a fame already secured, there is perhaps no American author to whom the future promises more than to Mr. Boker. He has that faithful reverence for his art which makes harmless the breath of praise, more dangerous to the poet than that of censure, and there are yet many years before him ere his mind attains its full scope and stature. That all these promises may be fulfilled, to his own honor and that of American literature, is the earnest hope of