Such is the sovereign stillness of the time! Such is the grand ovation of the Moon! Her footsteps strown with heaps of glittering flowers, She walks beneath the sublime arch o' the world, In calm, and bright, and deep serenity. (P. 7.) Mystic next proceeds to inquire why he cannot be at rest like all things else; and, after some metaphysical meditations, finds sufficient reasons, which are given with the bitterness of reality, and remind us of Otway. The roughness of versification is not out of place. He finds that he is standing on the brink of death, Loaden with weighty griefs and sallow To stand, I say this world upon my back, Galling my un-atlantic shoulders; these fell dogs Close at my heels pursuing-and the next My grim tormentors baffled in the teeth, silence, Pent up in futile boards or chok'd with clay. (P. 9, 10.) There is sometimes a mixture of metaphysics in the poem which would be better expurgated. We never saw metaphysics and poetry combined with advantage, except in Mr. Coleridge's productions, and those too are in all other respects sui generis, and of a kind which the world seems to think more extraordinary than entertaining. The following fantasy is more poetical than the metaphysics. I seem like one lost in a deep blue sea, Down, down beneath the billows many a mile, Where nought of their loud cloquence is heard, Save a dead murmur of the rushing waves The imminent stars shoot unrefracted rays, The sea-bed hath a scenery of its own, of air: Hills, dells, rocks, groves, sea-flow'rs, and (P. 15, 16.) The line in Italics is so distinguished, because we desire to point out the character of versification observable in this and in some other passages especially, and which belongs to much more of the poem in a less eminent degree. That power of numbers which modulates the mind in which they are repeated has been perhaps less frequently exemplified since the prevalence of lyrical verse, which is so pleasing to the ear that a further power is not attempted. The merely auricular melody carries it off with a good grace; the senses are gratified, and, at the same time, impressed more or less, according to the force of the words, but not according to the impression on the sense. In the line which we have indicated, any one with a mind and ear apprehensive of such things cannot fail to perceive a motion of ascent. To impress the idea of altitude it was necessary that the mind of the reader should rise from the bottom to the top, and accordingly it rises foot by foot with the verse. Blank verse, for the very reason that it is less metrical, favours more than any other the exercise of the higher and less sensual powers of versification. We shall have occasion, indeed we could not quote a page and avoid it, to give some further specimens of felicity in the modulations of language. Before we proceed, we gather up one or two which have been left behind. This truth dumb Earth to the extravagance of the design; nor are the remarks of the Mountain or River Spirits introduced by Walter Scott less hyper-physical Her Serene Highness than this. commences her address with an allusive metaphor not unbecoming the altitude of her station. Poor errant worm! that sparklest i' the dusk Of a most gloomy vale; O' the breathing earth? She then takes occasion to advert to the many miseries which she has to endure the sight of, in her various phases. vail, And blest the dark transgression of the Which hid me from such woes. Speaks out! and Ocean o'er its undulant Mine eye hath seen too much. flood, &c. I deck the pall, Which Night spreads over many a tombless But stretch'd and senseless, like a sheet of foam, form. And screaming sea-fowl pluck her dainty (P. 23, 24, 25.) In this last part, a passage of genuine poetry be it observed, we would remark the skill with which the parts of the picture are chosen. The scene is one on which the moon looks down. It is an Italian sea;-which images to the mind the stillness and deep hue peculiar to the seas of that country and the skies reflected in them. That which plunges into this still and deep-blue sea is a white-invested form. Nothing could bring the effect more vividly to the eye. The form immerges, and again floats on the surface, but stretched and senseless like a sheet of foam." Analysis rather spoils than aids the effect of such a passage, but we give it, as critics, to point out the strong faculty of combination, and the taste with which it is exercised. Mystic pursues the specification of his mental maladies; and we characterize the following passage, or rather it characterizes itself, as one of Shaksperian spirit. I'm framed, the fool of Sensibility! waves, ; And cry, "'tis good in faith," or "sooth 'tis fair," But my whole spirit rushes through my eyes, And mingles with the motion of the flood, (P. 26.) The Moon rebukes this violence of sensation, and appears prepared with some good advice, but Mystic interrupts her: Veil'd spirit! must I then untune my soul, Thou speak'st not sweeter language than the jay, Or any other ruffian-throated bird Shatters the ear with lesser dissonance?" The Moon further expostulates, and again Mystic answers: Mystic. Why then I'll pray the Heav'ns To paralyze the tetchy nerves o' the brain, Moon. Still in extremes ! Though I stand The bitter salutation of the night, (P. 31, 32.) A Poet's complaints of poverty are taining by the well-fed. We indulge thought very whimsical and enterthem with the following: Mystic. Dear inspiration of my better Is't not desertion, total casting-off, When the crackling skin scarce keeps the And the famish'd blood grows thin and ichorous ? When the rootless hair drops from the Look here! Mystic, though appearing to have profited little by the conference, is loth to be left; but the Moon grows There is an end of the poem. Though it is a work of youth, and, as we have said, in parts deformed by extravagance, it will not be lightly treated by those who are capable of comprehending its merits. All its merits it is not to be expected that any large class of readers will perceive; but we have quoted passages which few will have read without admiring. The public have been satiated, and poetry is now little relished. With regard to that taste for it which is left, it is of a kind which we desire to see improved, and it belongs to such men as this author, in the approaching maturity of his powers, to correct and amend what is amiss in it. Certain minora sidera who have become apparent in the present twilight of our poetry (we speak of only the last five or six years) have prided themselves on the weaknesses of their nature as composing the poetical temperament. Intellect is a dry property of the schools, and never interferes with the muster of lamentable phrases which they designate as the language of passion. Or, if in some there be a portion of intellect, it is employed for the lowest purposes of vanity or gain in the corruption of religious faith. Of these poetical people there are better and worse. The best of them are weaklings whose follies and affectations, and ambition to be thought libertines and freethinkers, deserve little more than nursery castigation. The worst are to be described in language which we would rather borrow than invent, 66 a sort of men whose fifth element is malediction, whose life is infamy, whose death damnation, whose days are surfeiting, whose nights lecherie, yea such as Nanna could never teach Pippa, nor Comare and Balia discourse of, and whose couches are Spintrie; whose communication is atheism, contention, detraction, or paillardise; most of lewdness, seld of virtue, never of charitie; whose spare time is vanitie or villanie." This poet deserves to be strongly contrasted with the writers of whom we speak. His is a work as well of intellect as of temperament, although his fancy has been inadequately controlled. His poetry, though faulty enough, is to be blamed for the wildness of imagination, not the weakness of sensuality. There are no effeminacies, no allusions to the innocence of adultery and the omnipotence of love. His are not the tones of a discontented infidel or an emasculated melodist. The language of the author is too abundant in uncommon words. We do not object to such words in moderation, especially when, as often in this book, they are peculiarly suitable to the verse. In this case also they belong to the language of a scholar, and appear to have been derived from a familiarity with various branches of knowledge. But some belong too peculiarly to such branches to be fit for general use; and the frequency of their occurrence makes the whole appear somewhat whimsical and eccentric. It is not without reason to give a preference to uncommon words upon particular occasions, for most of our common ones, by the wear and tear of ages, have lost the point and fine edge of their meaning. We see and hear them daily applied to improper purposes, and have a less definite sense of the meaning which is justly belonging to them. It is from this cause that words which are more or less obsolete and uncommon derive their greater aptitude and more acuminated significance. But the effect is injured when they appear often and with insufficient cause. There are a few smaller pieces appended to the poem, of which some are fanciful and pretty, others are without merit. The following deserves to be quoted: The Rebellion of the Waters. "Arise!-the Sea-god's groaning shell Cries madly from his breathless caves, And staring rocks its echoes tell Along the wild and shouting waves. Arise! awake! ye other streams Ida's dark sons, have burst their dreams, Than wear the plains of ruin'd Troy, And shake the very hills for joy." Press'd by the King of Tides, from far, With nostril split, and blood-shot eye, The web-foot minions of his car Shriek at the wave they lighten by. The noise of total hell was there, As fled the rebel deeps along; A reckless, joyous prank they dare, Though thunder fall from Neptune's tongue. (P. 56.) THE OLD OAK. TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH. 1. HERE have I stood the pride of the park: In winter, with snow on my frozen bark; In spring, 'mong the flowers that round me were spread, And among my own leaves when summer was fled. Three hundred years my top I have raised; Three hundred years I have sadly gazed O'er Nature's wide extended scene, O'er rushing rivers and meadows green; For, though I was always willing to rove, I never could yet my firm foot move. 2. They fell'd my brother who stood by my side, How I envy him, for how blest is he, I once was too haughty and proud to complain, 3. A night like this, so calm and clear, I have not seen for many a year; The milk-white doe and her tender fawn Are skipping about on the moon-light lawn; And on the verge of my time-worn root This night would almost my sad heart cheer, G. O. B. |