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THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
PLATT AND TODD, 
 
 Printers, Courant Office, Haymarket, Sheffield. 
 
THE 
 
 POETICAL REVIEW, 
 
 SELECT SPECIMENS OF BRITISH POETRY; 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 NUMEROUS AND ELEGANT CRITIQUES, &C. 
 
 EXTRACTED FROM THE BEST REVIEWS AND MAGAZINES 
 
 IN THE LANGUAGE, 
 
 AND FROM THE WORKS OF THE MOST CELEBRATED AUTHORS 
 
 IN ENGLISH LITERATURE. 
 
 EDITED BY HENRY KELVEY. 
 
 Poetry is the highest branch of literature,— the highest effort of the 
 human mind,— and it is that also in which England may proudly chal- 
 lenge competition with the world— Quart. Rev. Oct. 1814. 
 
 J. PEARCE, GIBRALTAR-STREET AND HIGH-STREET. 
 
 MDCCCXX1X. 
 
 c 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Nothing seems more easy than to make what is called a Selec- 
 tion ; the labour is trifling, aud seems to require only an or- 
 dinary share of common sense. Yet how comes it, that, from 
 the Elegant Extracts downwards, we have not a good selection 
 of poetry in the language ? This task, which invites by ap- 
 parent facility, is found to be one of real difficulty, and to re- 
 quire a very rare union of raste, judgment, and extensive read- 
 ing."— Eclec. Rev. Oct. 1825. 
 
 Though the Editor is not so vain as to suppose 
 that he possesses that "rare union" of which the 
 Reviewer speaks, yet he thinks it no presumption 
 to "mingle with the multitude" of Compilers, 
 and endeavour to produce a Selection that may 
 obtain the approbation of the Lovers of Poetry. 
 And that approbation he flatters himself he could 
 have ensured had he had " ample room and verge 
 enough" for the systematic arrangement of all 
 the critiques and specimens that have been com- 
 
vi. PREFACE. 
 
 piled ; but being confined, not from choice, to a 
 single volume, he has been compelled to give 
 rather an unconnected series of extracts from the 
 principal poets, and must, therefore, submit the 
 present volume with the greater deference to the 
 admirers of poetry. 
 
 Shakespear is the only poet from whom the 
 Editor has taken any dramatic extracts, but could 
 he have accomplished bis original design he 
 would have given numerous specimens from all 
 the elder dramatic poets — from Marlowe, whose 
 " thoughts burn within him like a furnace with 
 bickering flames,"* to Shirley, " the last of that 
 bright line of poets whose glory has run thus far 
 into the future, and must last as long as passion, 
 and profound thought, and fancy, and imagina- 
 tion, and wit, shall continue to be honoured."f 
 Nor would the illustrious names from Otway to 
 Milman have been forgotten. — Had a plan, so 
 extensive as originally intended, been adopted, 
 the Editor would have given, from the larger 
 poems of the British Bards, a regular and conse- 
 cutive series of specimens, that would have formed 
 an epitome of the poem from which they had been 
 selected. He would, for instance, have taken the 
 tragedy of Macbeth, and have anatomized it, and 
 given the extracts and critiques in such order 
 
 ' Huzlttt. t Edinburgh Review. 
 
PREFACE. vii. 
 
 that the plot would have been fully developed. 
 The same plan would have been adopted with 
 Paradise Lost, and with other poems. At present 
 the selection " has been made"'' with very little 
 regard to that order. From Chaucer, he has se- 
 lected only from " The Prologue to the Canter- 
 bury Tales." He has given but two specimens 
 from Spenser, " Pride and her Attendants," and 
 " The Allegory of Despair." He has not taken 
 from a tithe of Shakespear's Dramas, and the ex- 
 tracts are " few and far between." From Para- 
 dise Lost, specimens have been taken only from 
 the first six books : — and Cowley, Dry den, Pope, 
 &c. have equally and unavoidably shared the 
 same fate. But should the Poetical Review meet 
 with approbation, it will be an inducement to en- 
 large a future edition with a greater number of 
 extracts from the poets already given, and also 
 to give another volume that shall contain speci- 
 mens of dramatic poetry from the Elizabethan 
 age to the present, including, too, the names of 
 Gower, Lydgate, Douglas, &c. of "the olden 
 time ;" Parnell, Gay, Shenstone, &c. of the last 
 century; and Montgomery, Moore, Campbell, 
 Southey, Wordsworth, &c. of the present period. 
 
 The Editor's object has not been to select such 
 specimens, in particular, as were generally un- 
 known, or, rather, unnoticed. He has, without 
 
via PREFACE. 
 
 reserve, taken what he considered the best pieces, 
 whether unknown or unnoticed, whether popular 
 or not popular, for the finest poetry is frequently 
 unpopular ; — " pure poetry is in fact a mystery 
 to the million, and may, without any impeach- 
 ment of its excellence, be unintelligible to the 
 sciolist in belles lettres and the drawing-room 
 critic, or fail to amuse or strike the superficial 
 multitude."* But while the specimens have 
 been thus freely taken, the compilation has been 
 attended with considerable difficulty, for, when 
 selecting, the Editor frequently found himself in 
 a " wilderness of sweets" — specimens presented 
 themselves in abundance, and that very abun- 
 dance was one cause of the difficulty, for, " to 
 choose the best among many good, is," as Dr. 
 Johnson observes, " one of the most hazardous 
 attempts of criticism." And a writer in Black- 
 wood's Magazine for May, 1820, judiciously re- 
 marks, that " there is something exquisitely dis- 
 couraging in the conclusions to which a calm re- 
 view of the effects of contemporary criticism in 
 England must lead every man of tolerably sound 
 judgment ; and in regard to no department of 
 literary exertions are these necessary conclusions 
 so discouraging as in that of the criticism of po- 
 etry." When along with these difficulties, it is 
 considered that, after having rifled the poetical 
 
 * British Review. 
 
PREFACE. ix. 
 
 treasuries of Great Britain, the Editor is " coop'd 
 in" and confined to the compass of one small 
 volume, he hopes he may plead forgiveness in ex- 
 tenuation of failure, and adopt the words of old 
 Tubervile, 
 
 " Accept my paynes, allow me thankes, 
 
 If 1 deserue the same ; 
 If not, yet lette not meaning well 
 
 Be payde with checke and blame." 
 
 Care has been taken not to admit any piece of 
 an immoral tendency. Expressions that would 
 not be endured at the present day, were not only 
 tolerated, but even admired, by our ancestors. It 
 is true, as Mr. Lewis observes in his edition of 
 Chaucer, that " the plain speaking of our ances- 
 tors, however it may oifend delicacy, is not calcu- 
 lated to excite passion. Their homely phrase is 
 infinitely less injurious to the morals of society 
 than the polished sentences of the modern novel 
 writer, impregnated as they too often are with 
 sentiments as false as they are pernicious." But 
 Mrs. Montagu, in her " Essay on the Writings 
 and Genius of Shakespear," beautifully and justly 
 remarks, that " there are delicacies of decorum in 
 one age unknown to another age, but whatever 
 is immoral is equally blamable in all ages, and 
 every approach to obscenity is an offence for 
 
x. PREFACE. 
 
 which wit cannot atone, nor the barbarity or the 
 corruption of the times excuse." The Editor, 
 therefore, pleads to be excused for having occa- 
 sionally omitted a line or a couplet which some- 
 times marred the beauty of the whole specimen, 
 and hopes that no extract will be found that " a 
 father may not read to his daughter — or a son to 
 his mother."* 
 
 Sheffield, Nov. 11, 1829. 
 
 British Review. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 On Poetry— i/a Witt 1 
 
 On the Advantages of Criticism— Lord Karnes 5 
 
 On the Criticism of Poetry — Edin. Rev. 8 
 
 On Poetry as a Luxury — Edin. Rev. .. . ... .. .... 10 
 
 On the Immortality of Poets— Eclec. Rev. . . «. 12 
 
 On the Despotism of the Imagination over uncultivated minds— Edin. 
 
 Rev. .. .... .... .. .... 13 
 
 Poetry Defined — Montgomery .... . . .... 16 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Campbell. 
 The Soul's Errand .... 35 
 
 Burns, Robert. 
 
 On Burns's Yotivy—Lauerwinkel .... 246 
 
 On the Character of Burns — Blackwood 's Mag . . 247 
 
 To a Mountain Daisy ..248 
 
 Dr. Currie. 
 To a Mouse 250 
 
 Dr. Currie— G. Burns— Hazittt. 
 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night 251 
 
 Epistle to Davie Sillar, a Brother Poet 256 
 
 Dr. Currie. — G. Burns. 
 The Twa Dogs 259 
 
 Campbell— Lockhart . 
 To Mary in Heaven 265 
 
 Lockhart, 
 
 Highland Mary 267 
 
 On Burns's Songs— Allan Cunningham 269 
 
 Bonnie Jean 270 
 
 O were Ion Parnassus Hill . . .... 272 
 
 Fair Eliza 272 
 
 Groves o' sweet myrtle 273 
 
 Fare thee Weel . . 273 
 
 Syme. — Edin. Rev. 
 
 Bruce's Address to his Army 274 
 
 John Anderson mv Jo .. 276 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Byron, George Gordon, Lord 
 
 On the Private Life of Authors — Blackwood's Mag. 317 
 
 On the Personal Character of Lord Byron — London Mag 318 
 
 Lord Byron's Poetical Character — Blackwood's Mag. _ . . . . 320 
 
 Midnight Scene at the Siege of Corinth .. .. .. 321 
 
 The Frenzy of Love .. .. .. .. .. ..324 
 
 On the Misanthropy of Lord Byron's Heroes — Quart. Rev 326 
 
 Character of Conrad . . ... . . . . 327 
 
 Ambition .. .. .... ..329 
 
 Albuera . . . . . . 330 
 
 Brit. Rev. 
 
 "Waterloo . . . . . . . . . . 332 
 
 Quart. Rev. 
 Reflections by the Lake of Geneva .... .. 330 
 
 Brit. Rev. 
 Death of the Princess Charlotte . . 339 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 Description of an Italian Evening .. 342 
 
 Brit. Rev. 
 
 Greece . . . . .'. . . . . . . . . 343 
 
 The Greek Bard's Song . . . . . . . . . . 345 
 
 The Destruction of the Assyrians 348 
 
 Blackwood's Mag. 
 Lines . . . . . . . . . . . . 348 
 
 Carew, Thomas. 
 
 Carew's Poetical Character — Campbell .. . . .. 110 
 
 Persuasions to Love ..111 
 
 Song. — Ask me no more ., .... .. ..112 
 
 Chaucer, Geoffrey. 
 
 On Chaucer's Poetry— Hazlitt .. .. .. ..18 
 
 On Chaucer's Metres— Panoramic Miscellany .. .. ..19 
 
 T. Warton. 
 The Prioress . . . . . . . . . . 20 
 
 T. Warton. 
 The Monk .. .... 23 
 
 Dry den. 
 
 The Friar . . . . 24 
 
 The Parson .... 27 
 
 T. Warton. 
 The Frankelein .. ... .. .. .. ..28 
 
 T. Warton. 
 The Reve .. .. .... .. ..30 
 
 T. Warton. 
 
 TheSompnour .. .. .. ..31 
 
 The Pardoner .. .. .. .. .. ..33 
 
 The Miller ..34 
 
 Collins, William. 
 
 Collins's Poetical Character— Hazlitt .. .. ..217 
 
 Ode to Evening .. .. .. .. .. ..218 
 
 Ode to Fear — .. 219 
 
 Dr. Lang home. 
 
 Ode— On the Passions .. .. .. .. ..221 
 
CONTENTS. xiii. 
 
 PAGE. 
 Anon. 
 Ode— On the Poetical Character . . 224 
 
 Cowley, Abraham. 
 
 Cowley's Poetical Character — Montgomery 119 
 
 Neele. 
 
 Ode on Liberty 120 
 
 Dr. Aikin — Dr. Johnsen. 
 The Chronicle .... .... .... .... ....123 
 
 Cowper, William. 
 
 On Cowper's Poetry — Edin. Rev. .... .... 277 
 
 On Cowper as a Satirist— Blackwood's Mag 279 
 
 On the Personal Character of Cowper — Edin. Rev 280 
 
 On the Morality of Cowper's Poetry — Quar. Rev .... 281 
 
 Campbell. 
 The Sophist . . .... .... .... .... 282 
 
 Character of Dubious .... .... , 283 
 
 Nuisances of Colloquial Intercourse .. 284 
 
 Bashfulness .. .. .. ., .... 286 
 
 Montgomery. 
 The Wonders of Creation . . . . . . . . . . 287 
 
 Remarks on the Task— Montgomery 288 
 
 Campbell. 
 Country Scene Described .. .. .. .. .. 289 
 
 London .. .. .. .. .. ., .. 290 
 
 Reflectionson War and Slavery 292 
 
 Montgomery. 
 
 The Philosophy that stops at Secondary Causes reproved 293 
 
 A Mistake concerning the Course of Nature corrected . . . . 294 
 
 Apostrophe to England .. .. .. .. .. 296 
 
 Campbell 
 Domestic Happiness 296 
 
 Montgomery. 
 
 The Effect of Bells heard at a distance 299 
 
 Liberty 301 
 
 The Christian Freeman 302 
 
 Acquaintance with God necessary to the enjoyment of His works. . 304 
 On Cowper's Minor Poems — Montgomery 306 
 
 Lady Hesketh — Johnstone — Dr. Aikin. 
 To Mary 307 
 
 Quarterly Review — Cowper. 
 On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture 309 
 
 Platts. 
 Verses supposed to have been written by Alexander Selkirk .. ..313 
 
 Drummond, William, of Hawthomden. 
 
 On the Sonnet— Sismondi 115 
 
 Hazlitt. 
 
 Sounet— Slide soft, fair Forth 116 
 
 Sonnet — Thrice happy he .... .... 116 
 
 Dr. Drake. 
 
 Sonnet— Trust not, sweet soul 117 
 
 Sonnet— Ah ! burning thoughts 117 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Dryden, John. 
 
 Dryden's Poetical Character— Edin. Rev 176 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 Ode to the Memory of Mrs. Killegrew 176 
 
 Dr. Aikin—Dr. Jamieson — Dr. Warton. 
 Alexander's Feast 1S2 
 
 Goldsmith, Oliver. 
 
 Goldsmith's Poetical Character— Campbell 24? 
 
 The Village Curate 243 
 
 The Country Schoolmaster 244 
 
 The Village Ale-house 245 
 
 Gray, Thomas. 
 Dr. Aikin. 
 Elegy written in a Country Church yard 237 
 
 Herrick, Robert. 
 
 On Herrick's Poetry— Univer. Mag 108 
 
 Campbell. 
 -Song— Gather the rose-buds .. 108 
 
 Hazlitt. 
 The Captive Bee .. .. .... .. .. ..109 
 
 Milton, John. 
 
 On Epic Poetry— Dr. Johnson .... 126 
 
 Milton's Poetical Character — Dr. Charming . . .. •• 129 
 
 On the Composition of Paradise Lost — Blackwood's Mag 130 
 
 The Fall of Satan .. .. .. ..131 
 
 Hazlitt. 
 
 Conference of Satan and Beelzebub 131 
 
 On the Agency of Supernatural Beings — Edin. Rev 134 
 
 Satan rears his Standard and comforts his Compeers with the hope 
 
 of regaining Heaven .. .. .. •• 137 
 
 Eclectic Review. 
 The Almighty's Speech to his Son, who had offered himself a Ran- 
 som for Mau .. .. . .. 140 
 
 Song of the Angels after the Almighty's Speech .... .. 142 
 
 Dr. Hawker. 
 Satan's Address to the Sun .. .. .. .. .. 144 
 
 Dr. Channing. 
 Description of Paradise 147 
 
 Dr. Hawker. 
 
 Conjugal Felicity .. .. .. .. 152 
 
 Conversation of Adam and Eve on retiring to rest 155 
 
 Addison. 
 Adam and Eve's Morning Hymn .... 158 
 
 Addison. 
 Messiah routs the Satanic Hosts 160 
 
 Edinburgh Review — Sir William Jones. 
 
 L'Allegro " .. .... 164 
 
 On Melancholy— H. K. White .. 169 
 
 1 1 Penseroso .. . . . . . . . 170 
 
 Montgomery. 
 Sonnet — On his own blindness .... 175 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Pope, Alexander. 
 
 Pope's Poetical Character— Hazlilt .. 187 
 
 On the Order of Nature ..188 
 
 On LoH Bolinbroke's Influence over Pope— Edin. Rev 190 
 
 On Happiness 192 
 
 Dr. Warton. 
 Sir Balaam 194 
 
 Dr Warton. — Montgomery. 
 The Messiah— A Sacred Eclogue . . . . 1 95 
 
 Dr. Warton. 
 The Dying Christian to his Soul 198 
 
 Qoarles, Francis. 
 
 Quarles's Poetical Character— Montgomery 112 
 
 Conquer Thyself 113 
 
 Vain Boasting . .... .... 114 
 
 Shakespear, William. 
 
 Shakespear's Poetical Character — Hazlitt 5g 
 
 On the Fame of Shakespear — H. Neele 59 
 
 Isabella pleading for her brother Ciaudio 61 
 
 Mercy .... .... .... 63 
 
 Mrs. Griffith. 
 Love Scene between Silvius and Phoebe .... .. .. ..64 
 
 On Epic and Dramatic Poetry— H. Neele 07 
 
 . Hazlitt. 
 Macbeth, at theimportunity of his Lady, resolvesto murder Duncan 69 
 The Murder of Duncan 72 
 
 Lord Karnes. 
 Macduff informed of the murder of his Wife and Children 74 
 
 Cumberland. 
 Lady Macbeth walking in her sleep 77 
 
 Holinshed. 
 Macbeth informed of the approach of the English Army .. .. 79 
 The King and Queen's Remonstrance with Hamlet 83 
 
 H. Neele 
 
 The Ghost'sappearance to Horatio .... .. 85 
 
 The Ghost incites Hamlet to revenge his murder .. 89 
 
 Hume — Mrs. Montagu. 
 Heury IV. demands the Prisoners of Hotspur .. 91 
 
 Henry. 
 The Death of Humphrey Duke of Gloucester 97 
 
 Turner. 
 The Death of Cardinal Beaufort .. .. ]nn 
 
 Lingard — Cumberland. 
 Tticbard III. informed of Richmond's approach to claim the Ciown 102 
 
 On Shakespear's Poems— Blackwood's Mag. 106 
 
 Sonnet — When in disgrace with fortune .. .. .... |67 
 
 Sonnet— Some glory in their birth .. .. .. 107 
 
 Sonnet — Let me not to the marriage .... .. .. ,. 107 
 
 Smart, Christopher. 
 Montgomery. 
 David .. .. .... .. .. .. ..235 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Spenser, Edmund. 
 
 On Spenser's Poeiry—Hazlitt .... . . . . 38 
 
 On the Spenserian Stanza— Quart. Rev 39 
 
 Pride and her Attendants .. .. .. .. ..66 
 
 Pride .. .. .. .. ..40 
 
 The 1st. Attendant — Idleness .... .. .. .... 41 
 
 2nd Gluttony .. .. 42 
 
 3rd Lechery .. .... .. .... 43 
 
 4th Avarice .... .... .. ..44 
 
 5th Envy .... .... .... ..44 
 
 6th Wrath 45 
 
 Dr- Aikin. 
 
 The Allegory of Despair .... .... .. • 46 
 
 The Knight flying from Despair .. 47 
 
 Despair in his Cave .... .. .. 51 
 
 T. Warton. 
 The Knight receiving the Dagger .... .... 54 
 
 Thomson, James 
 
 Thomson's Poetical Character — Dr. Johnson .... 200 
 
 Vernal Showers .... .. .. 201 
 
 Influence of Spring on Birds 202 
 
 Storm of Thunder and Lightning, .... .... ....204 
 
 On Thomson's Versification— H. Neele ..T. 205 
 
 First Approach of Winter .. .. .. .. .. 207 
 
 The Driving of the Snows, and a Man perishing in the Storm .... 209 
 
 Reflections on a Future State .... .... 210 
 
 Montgomery . 
 Hymn on a Review of the Seasons .... .... ....21! 
 
 Montgomery. 
 Rule Britannia 214 
 
 Wither, George. 
 Percy. 
 The Shepherd's Rjsolution .. 118 
 
 Young, Edward. 
 
 Remarks on the Night Thoughts— Campbell .. 227 
 
 Picture of a Good Man 228 
 
 Reflections on the Starry Heavens 230 
 
 The Conflagration 233 
 
ON THE ADVANTAGES OF CRITICISM. 
 
 Manifold are the advantages of criticism, when 
 studied as a rational science. In the first place, a 
 thorough acquaintance with the principles of the fine 
 arts, redoubles the pleasure we derive from them. To 
 the man who resigns himself to feeling without inter- 
 posing any judgment, poetry, music, and painting 
 are mere pastime. In the prime of life, indeed, they 
 are delightful, being supported by the force of novelty, 
 and the heat of the imagination ; but in time they lose 
 their relish, and are generally neglected in the maturity 
 of life, which disposes to more serious and more impor- 
 tant occupations. To those who deal in criticism as a 
 regular science, governed by just principles, and giving 
 scope to judgment as well as to fancy, the fine arts 
 are a favourite entertainment ; and in old age main- 
 tain that relish which they produce in the morning 
 of life. 
 
 In the next place, a philosophical inquiry into the 
 principles of the fine arts, inures the reflecting mind 
 to the most enticing sort of logic : the practice of rea- 
 soning upon subjects so agreeable tends to a habit; and 
 a habit, strengthening the reasoning faculties, prepares 
 the mind for entering into subjects more intricate and 
 abstract. To have, in that respect, a just conception 
 of the importance of criticism, we need but reflect 
 upon the ordinary method of education ; which, after 
 some years spent in acquiring languages, hurries us, 
 without the least preparatory discipline, into the most 
 profound philosophy. A more effectual method to 
 
alienate the tender mind from abstract science, is be- 
 yond the reach of invention ; and accordingly, with 
 respect to such speculations, our youth generally con- 
 tract a sort of hobgoblin terror, seldom, if ever, sub- 
 dued. Those who apply to the arts, are trained in 
 a very different manner ; they are led, step by step, 
 from the easier parts of the operation, to what are more 
 difficult ; and are not permitted to make a new mo- 
 tion, till they are perfected in those which go before. 
 Thus, the science of criticism may be considered as a 
 middle link, connecting the different parts of educa- 
 tion into a regular chain. This science furnisheth an 
 inviting opportunity to exercise the judgment; we de- 
 light to reason upon subjects that are equally pleasant 
 and familiar ; we proceed gradually in the simpler to 
 the more involved cases ; and, in a due course of dis- 
 cipline, custom, which improves all our faculties, be- 
 stows acuteness on that of reason, sufficient to un- 
 ravel all the intricacies of philosophy. 
 
 Nor ought it to be overlooked, that the reasonings 
 employed on the fine arts are of the same kind with 
 those which regulate our conduct. Mathematical and 
 metaphysical reasonings have no tendency to im- 
 prove our knowledge of man, nor are they applicable 
 to the common affairs of life ; but a just taste of the 
 fine arts, derived from rational principles, furnishes 
 elegant subjects for conversation, and prepares us for 
 acting in the social state with dignity and propriety. 
 
 The science of rational criticism tends to improve 
 the heart no less than understanding. It tends, in 
 the first place, to moderate the selfish affections : by 
 
sweetening and harmonizing the temper, it is a strong 
 antidote to the turbulence of passion, and violence of 
 pursuit; it procures to a man so much mental enjoy- 
 ment, that, in order to be occupied, he is not tempted 
 to deliver up his youth to hunting, gaming, drinking, 
 nor his middle age to ambition ; nor his old age to 
 avarice. Pride and envy, two disgustful passions, 
 find in the constitution no enemy more formidable 
 than a delicate and discerning taste ; the man upon 
 whom nature and culture have bestowed this blessing, 
 delights in the virtuous dispositions and actions of 
 others ; he loves to cherish them, and to publish them 
 to the world ; faults and failings it is true, are to him 
 no less obvious ; but these he avoids, or removes out 
 of sight, because they give him pain. On the other 
 hand, a man void of taste, upon whom even striking 
 beauties make but a faint impression, indulges pride 
 or envy without control, and loves to brood over errors 
 and blemishes. In a word, there are other passions 
 that, upon occasion, may disturb peace of society more 
 than those mentioned ; but not another passion is so 
 unwearied an antagonist to the sweets of social inter- 
 course. 
 
 In the next place, delicacy of taste tends no less to 
 invigorate the social affections, than to moderate those 
 that are selfish. To be convinced of that tendency 
 we need only reflect, that delicacy of taste necessarily 
 heightens our feeling of pain and pleasure ; and of 
 course our sympathy, which is the capital branch of 
 every social passion. Sympathy invites a communi- 
 cation of joys and sorrows, hopes and fears ; such 
 
8 
 
 exercise, soothing and satisfactory in itself, is neces- 
 sarily productive of mutual good will and affection. 
 
 One other advantage of rational criticism is reserved 
 to the last place, being of all the most important ; 
 which is, that it is a great support to morality. I in- 
 sist on it with entire satisfaction, that no occupation 
 attaches a man more to his duty, than that of cultivat- 
 ing a taste in the fine arts : a just relish of what is 
 beautiful, proper, elegant, and ornamental, in writing 
 or painting, in architecture or gardening, is a fine pre- 
 paration for the same just relish of these qualities in 
 character and behaviour. 
 
 LORD KAMES. 
 
 ON THE CRITICISM OF POETRY. 
 
 In all the branches of physical and moral science 
 which admit of perfect analysis, he who can resolve 
 will be able to combine. But the analysis which cri- 
 ticism can effect of poetry, is necessarily imperfect. 
 One element must for ever elude its researches ; and 
 that is the very element by which poetry is poetry. 
 In the description of nature, for example, a judicious 
 reader will easily detect an incongruous image. But 
 he will find it impossible to explain in what consists 
 the art of a writer, who, in a few words, brings some 
 spot before him so vividly that he shall know it as if 
 he had lived there from childhood ; while another, 
 employing the same materials, the same verdure, the 
 same water, and the same flowers, committing no 
 
THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 ON POETRY. 
 
 Poetry is the language of the imagination and the 
 passions. It relates to whatever gives immediate plea- 
 sure or pain to the human mind. It comes home to 
 the bosoms and businesses of men ; for nothing but 
 what so comes home to them in the most general and 
 intelligible shape, can be a subject for poetry. Poetry 
 is the universal language which the heart holds with 
 nature and itself. He who has a contempt for poetry, 
 cannot have much respect for himself, or for anything 
 else. It is not a mere frivolous accomplishment, (as 
 some persons have been led to imagine,) the trifling 
 amusement of a few idle readers or leisure hours — 
 it has been the study and delight of mankind in all 
 ages. Many people suppose that poetry is something 
 to be found only in books, contained in lines of ten 
 syllables, with like endings : but wherever there is a 
 sense of beauty, or power, or harmony, as in the mo- 
 tion of a wave of the sea, in the growth of a flower 
 
that " spreads its sweet leaves to the air, and dedicates 
 its beauty to the sun," — there is poetry, in its birth. 
 Poetry is not a branch of authorship : it is " the stuff 
 of which our life is made." The rest is " mere obli- 
 vion," a dead letter : for all that is worth remember- 
 ing in life, is the poetry of it. Fear is poetry, hope 
 is poetry, love is poetry, hatred is poetry ; contempt, 
 jealousy, remorse, admiration, wonder, pity, despair, 
 or madness, are all poetry. Poetry is that fine parti- 
 cle within us, that expands, rarefies, refines, raises our 
 whole being : without it " man's life is poor as beast's." 
 Man is a poetical animal : and those of us who 
 do not study the principles of poetry, act upon them 
 all our lives, like Moliere's Bourgeois Gentilhomme, 
 who had always spoken prose without knowing it. 
 The child is a poet in fact, when he first plays at hide- 
 and-seek, or repeats the story of Jack the Giant-killer ; 
 the shepherd-boy is a poet, when he first crowns his 
 mistress with a garland of flowers ; the countryman, 
 when he stops to look at the rainbow ; the city-ap- 
 prentice, when he gazes after the Lord Mayor's show ; 
 the miser, when he hugs his gold ; the courtier, who 
 builds his hopes upon a smile ; the savage, who paints 
 his idol with blood ; the slave, who worships a tyrant, 
 or a tyrant, who fancies himself a god ; — the vain, the 
 ambitious, the proud, the choleric man, the hero and 
 the coward, the beggar and the king, the rich and the 
 poor, the young and the old, all live in a world of 
 their own making ; and the poet does no more than 
 describe what all others think and act. 
 
 Poetry then is an imitation of nature, but the im- 
 
3 
 
 agination and the passions are a part of man's nature. 
 We shape things according to our wishes and fancies, 
 without poetry ; but poetry is the most emphatical 
 language that can be found for those creations of the 
 mind *' which ecstacy is very cunning in." Neither 
 a mere description of natural objects, nor a mere de- 
 lineation of natural feelings, however distinct or forci- 
 ble, constitutes the ultimate end and aim of poetry, 
 without the heightenings of the imagination. The 
 light of poetry is not only a direct, but also a reflected 
 light, that while it shows us the object, throws a spark- 
 ling radiance on all around it : the flame of the pas- 
 sions, communicated to the imagination, reveals to 
 us, as with a flash of lightning, the inmost recesses of 
 thought and penetrates our whole being. Poetry 
 represents forms chiefly as they suggest other forms ; 
 feelings, as they suggest forms or other feelings. Poe- 
 try pats a spirit of life and motion into the universe. 
 It describes the flowing, not the fixed. It does not 
 define the limits of sense, or analyze the distinctions 
 of the understanding, but signifies the excess of the 
 imagination beyond the actual or ordinary impression 
 of any object or feeling. The poetical impression of 
 any object is that uneasy, exquisite sense of beauty or 
 power that cannot be contained within itself; that is 
 impatient of all limit ; that (as flame bends to flame) 
 strives to link itself to some image of kindred beauty 
 or grandeur ; to enshrine itself, as it were, in the high- 
 er forms of fancy, and to relieve the aching sense of 
 pleasure by expressing it in the boldest manner, and 
 by the most striking examples of the same quality in 
 
4 
 
 other instances. Poetry, according to Lord Bacon, 
 for this reason " has something divine in it, because 
 it raises the mind and hurries it into sublimity, by 
 conforming the shows of things to the desires of the 
 soul, instead of subjecting the soul to exte rnalthings* 
 as reason and history do." It is strictly the language 
 of the imagination ; and the imagination is that faculty 
 which represents objects, not as they are in them- 
 selves, but as they are moulded by other thoughts and 
 feelings, into an infinite variety of shapes and com- 
 binations of power. This language is not the less true 
 to nature, because it is false in point of fact; but so 
 much the more true and natural, if it conveys the 
 impression which the object under the influence of 
 passion makes on the mind. Let an object, for in- 
 stance, be presented to the senses in a state of agita- 
 tion or fear — and the imagination will distort or 
 magnify the object, and convert it into the likeness of 
 whatever is most proper to encourage the fear. " Our 
 eyes are made the fools" of other faculties. This is 
 the universal law of the imagination — 
 
 " That if it would but apprehend some joy, 
 It comprehends some bringer of that joy : 
 Or in the night imagining some fear, 
 How easy is each bush suppos'd a bear !" 
 
 HAZLITT. 
 
inaccuracy, introducing nothing which can be positive- 
 ly pronounced superfluous, omitting nothing which 
 can positively be pronounced necessary, shall produce 
 no more effect than an advertisement of a capital resi- 
 dence, and a desirable pleasure ground. To take an- 
 other example, the great features of the character of 
 Hotspur are obvious to the most superficial reader. We 
 at once perceive that his courage is splendid, his thirst 
 of glory intense, his animal spirits high, his temper 
 careless, arbitrary, and petulant ; that he indulges his 
 own humour without caring whose feelings he may 
 wound, or whose enmity he may provoke, by his 
 levity. Thus far criticism will go. But something is 
 still wanting. A man might have all those qualities, 
 and every other catalogue of the virtues and faults of 
 Hotspur, and yet he would not be Hotspur. Almost 
 every thing that we have said of him applies equally 
 to Falconbridge. Yet, in the mouth of Falconbridge, 
 most of his speeches seem out of place. In real life, 
 this perpetually occurs. We are sensible of wide 
 differences between men whom, if we were required 
 to describe them, we should describe in almost the 
 same terms. If we were attempting to draw elaborate 
 characters of them, we should scarcely be able to 
 point out any strong distinction ; yet we approach 
 them with feelings altogether dissimilar. We can- 
 * not conceive of them as using the expressions or 
 the gestures of each other. Let us suppose that a 
 zoologist should attempt to give an account of some 
 animal, a porcupine for instance, to people who 
 had never seen it. The porcupine, he might say, 
 c 
 
10 
 
 is of the genius mammalia, and the order glires. 
 There are whiskers on its face ; it is two feet long ; 
 it has four toes before, five behind, two fore-teeth, 
 and eight grinders. Its body is covered with hair 
 and quills. And when all this had been said, 
 would any one of the auditors have formed a just 
 idea of a porcupine ? Would any two of them 
 have formed the same idea ? There might exist in- 
 numerable races of animals, possessing all the charac- 
 teristics which have been mentioned, yet altogether 
 unlike to each other. What the description of our 
 naturalist is to a real porcupine, the remarks of 
 criticism are to the images of poetry. What 
 it so imperfectly decomposes, it cannot perfectly re- 
 construct. It is evidently as impossible to produce 
 an Othello or a Macbeth by reversing an analytical 
 process so defective, as it would be for an anatomist 
 to form a living man out of the fragments of his dis- 
 secting room. In both cases, the vital principle eludes 
 the finest instruments, and vanishes in the very instant 
 in which its seat is touched. 
 
 From the Edinburgh Review, January 1829. 
 
 ON POETRY, AS A LUXURY. 
 
 There are certain gradations in society which require 
 different employments. There are the rude, the civi- 
 lized, and the luxurious or refined. The human mind 
 in one state cannot digest what it is eager for in an- 
 other. In rude society, the mechanic and agricul- 
 
11 
 
 turist are the most important characters. Afterwards, 
 the legislator and the moralist insist upon precedence ; 
 and, finally, the poet is elevated into renown. If, 
 after all, it be asked, what is the most important 
 science ? the answer is probably, — all. It is not suf- 
 ficient to say, in opposition to the claims of the poet, 
 that the state of refinement is the most unnatural, or 
 that poetry is a luxury and a delusion only, and con- 
 sequently little better than vice. For luxury is bad 
 only, in so far as it injures the moral constitution of 
 a people. Poetry, perhaps, may be considered as a 
 luxury — we shall not dispute about terms ; but so are 
 all the products of all the arts and sciences. Our 
 very houses are a great luxury, and all that they con- 
 tain — and most of our food and our dress also. There 
 is not a single comfort that we enjoy which is not 
 liable to this imputation. We have all something 
 beyond what absolute necessity requires : — 
 
 " Our basest beggars 
 Are in the poorest things superfluous." 
 
 But shall we therefore abandon every luxury, every 
 comfort ? There is, we think, at least as much of 
 vice and folly, in spuming at the beneficence of 
 nature, as in receiving the gifts which she bestows on 
 us, readily, and using them with discretion. 
 
 From the Edinburgh Review, January 1828. 
 
12 
 ON THE IMMORTALITY OF POETS. 
 
 There is nothing so difficult to obtain as an earthly 
 immortality. — It is probably true that every man 
 living desires distinction, and in some point or other 
 so far excels his neighbours as to imagine himself en- 
 titled, in this respect at least, to pre-eminence. This 
 " fondness of fame, this avarice of air," differs rather 
 in degree, than in kind, for that " longing after im- 
 mortality" on earth, which is almost peculiar to 
 heroes and authors. — It may, however, be accidental- 
 ly observed, that heroes and authors do not aspire to 
 precisely the same species of immortality ; — the first 
 hope to be remembered for, the second by, their per- 
 formances : the former expect to live in the writings 
 of other men, the latter in their own. The poets, we 
 suppose, are by far the most sanguine candidates 
 for fame. Five hundred thousand millions of human 
 beings have probably lived and died in this world 
 since the creation. It would be idle to guess how 
 many of these have been poets in their age, and 
 expected to be poets through all succeeding gener- 
 ations : it is certain there is but one Homer, — one 
 Virgil, — one Horace, — one Shakspeare, — one Milton, 
 surviving in verse to this day ; and these, with about 
 three hundred names of secondary note, comprehend 
 the poets of all times and all countries, who are still 
 partially or generally admired, and who have obtain- 
 ed only a poet of their infinite wish for universal re- 
 nown. It is impossible to wish for what is evidently 
 impossible to obtain ; but though the chance of five 
 
13 
 
 hundred thousand millions to one is next impossi- 
 ble, yet since it is not quite impossible, and as there 
 is one Homer — one Virgil — one Horace, in that num- 
 ber of human beings, — there may be another, — and 
 " I may be He i" So reasons every poet, in whose 
 breast is once kindled the flame that burns for im- 
 mortality. It is a flame that eclipses, involves, and 
 outlives every other. No feeling, no passion of our 
 nature, is so early and exquisitely quickened, so deep- 
 ly and intensely felt, so late and so reluctantly relin- 
 quished. 
 
 Eclectic Review, January, 1811. 
 
 ON THE DESPOTISM OF THE IMAGINATION 
 OVER UNCULTIVATED MINDS. 
 
 Perhaps no person can be a poet, or even enjoy 
 poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind, if 
 anything which gives so much pleasure ought to be 
 called unsoundness. By poetry we mean, not of 
 course all writing in verse, nor even all good writing 
 in verse. Our definition excludes many metrical 
 compositions which, on other grounds, deserve the 
 highest praise. By poetry we mean, the art of em- 
 ploying words in such a manner as to produce an 
 illusion on the imagination, the art of doing by means 
 of words what the painter does by means of colours. 
 Thus the greatest of poets has described it, in lines 
 universally admired for the vigour and felicity of their 
 diction, and still more valuable on account of the 
 
 D 
 
14 
 
 just notion which they convey of the art in which he 
 excelled : 
 
 "As imagi nation bodies forth 
 The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
 Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 
 A local habitation and a name." 
 
 These are the fruits of the " fine frenzy" which he 
 ascribes to the poet, — a fine frenzy doubtless, but still 
 a frenzy. Truth indeed, is essential to poetry ; but 
 it is the truth of madness. The reasonings are just ; 
 but the premises are false. After the first supposi- 
 tions have been made, every thing ought to be con- 
 sistent ; but those first suppositions require a degree 
 of credulity which almost amounts to a partial and 
 temporary derangement of the intellect. Hence of all 
 people children are the most imaginative. They 
 abandon themselves without reserve to every illusion. 
 Every image which is strongly presented to their 
 mental eye produces on them the effect of reality. — 
 No man, whatever his sensibility may be, is ever af- 
 fected by Hamlet or Lear, as a little girl is affected 
 by the story of poor Red Riding-hood. She knows 
 that iy is all false, that wolves cannot speak, that there 
 are no wolves in England. Yet in spite of her know- 
 ledge she believes, she weeps, she trembles; she dares 
 not go into a dark room lest she should feel the teeth 
 of the monster at her throat. Such is the despotism 
 of the imagination over uncultivated minds. 
 
 In a rude state of society men are children with a 
 greater variety of ideas. It is therefore in such a 
 
15 
 
 state of society that we may expect to find the poeti- 
 cal temperament in its highest perfection. In an en- 
 lightened age there will be much intelligence, much 
 science, much philosophy, abundance of just classifi- 
 cation and subtle analysis, abundance of wit and elo- 
 quence, abundance of verses and even of good ones, — 
 but little poetry. Men will judge and compare ; but 
 they will not create. They will talk about the old 
 poets, and comment on them, and to a certain degree 
 enjoy them. But they will scarcely be able to con- 
 ceive the effect which poetry produced on their ruder 
 ancestors, the agony, the extacy, the plenitude of be- 
 lief. The Greek Rhapsodists, according to Plato, 
 could not recite Homer without almost falling into 
 convulsions. The Mohawk hardly feels the scalping- 
 knife while he shouts his death-song. The power 
 which the ancient bards of Wales and Germany exer- 
 cised over their auditors seems to modern readers 
 almost miraculous. Such feelings are very rare in a 
 civilized community, and most rare among those who 
 participate most in its improvements. They linger 
 longest amongst the peasantry. 
 
 Poetry produces an illusion on the eye of the mind, 
 as a magic lantern produces an illusion on the eye of 
 the body. And as the magic lantern acts best in a 
 dark room, poetry effects its purpose most completely 
 in a dark age. As the light of knowledge breaks in 
 upon its exhibitions, as the outlines of certainty be- 
 come more and more definite, and the shades of pro- 
 bability more and more distinct, the hues and linea- 
 ments of the phantoms which it calls up grow fainter 
 d2 
 
16 
 
 and fainter. We cannot unite the incompatible ad- 
 vantages of reality and deception, the clear discern- 
 ment of truth and the exquisite enjoyment of fiction. 
 Edinburgh Review, August, 1825. 
 
 POETRY DEFINED. 
 
 Dr. Johnson says, " the essence of true poetry is in- 
 vention ;" his own romance of Rasselas is a poem, on 
 this vague principle. Poetry must be verse, and all 
 the ingenuity of man cannot supply a better defini- 
 tion. Every thing else that may be claimed as essen- 
 tial to good poetry, is not peculiar to it, but may be 
 associated, occasionally at least, with prose. Prose* 
 on the other hand, cannot be changed into verse, 
 without ceasing to be prose. It is true, according to 
 common parlance, that poetry may be prosaic, that 
 is, it may have the ordinary qualities of prose, though 
 it be in metre ; and prose may be poetical, that is, it 
 may be invested with all the ordinary qualities of 
 poetry, except metre. There is reason, as well as 
 usage, in the conventional simplicity which distin- 
 guishes prose, and the conventional ornament which 
 is allowed to verse; but gorgeous ornament is no 
 more essential to verse, than naked simplicity to prose. 
 
 J. MONTGOMERY. 
 
1)3 
 
18 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER, DIED 1400, AGED 72. 
 
 ON CHAUCER'S POETRY. 
 
 Chaucer speaks of what he wishes to describe with the accuracy, 
 the discrimination of one who relates what has happened to him- 
 self, or has had the best information from those who have been 
 eye-witnesses of it. He dwells on the essential, or that which 
 would be interesting to the persons really concerned : yet as he 
 never omits any material circumstance, he is prolix from the 
 number of points on which he touches, without being diffuse on 
 any one ; and is sometimes tedious from the fidelity with which 
 he adheres to his subject, as other writers are from the frequency 
 of their digressions from it The chain of history is composed of 
 a number of fine links closely connected together, and rivetted by 
 a single blow. He is contented to find grace and beauty in truth. 
 He exhibits for the most part the naked object, with little 
 drapery thrown over it. His metaphors, which are few, are not 
 for ornament, but use, and as like as possible to the things them- 
 selves. He does not affect to show his po^er over the reader's 
 mind, but the power which his subject has over his own. The 
 readers of Chaucer's poetry feel more nearly what the persons he 
 describes must have felt, than perhaps those of any other poet. 
 His sentiments are not voluntary effusions of the poet's fancy, 
 but founded on the natural impulses and habitual prejudices of 
 the characters he has to represent. There is au inveteracy of 
 
CHAUCER. 19 
 
 purpose, a sincerity of feeling, which never relaxes or grows vapid, 
 iD whatever they do or say. There is no artificial, pompous dis- 
 play, hut a strict parsimony of the poet's materials, like the rude 
 simplicity of the age in which he lived. hazlitt. 
 
 ON CHAUCER'S METRES. 
 
 Though much has been said of the supposed imperfectuess of 
 Chaucer's metres, and his imagined neglect of quantities aud?wm= 
 her, patient analysis, guided by correct principles, and assisted by 
 some research into the evidences of the customary and habitual 
 pronunciation of our forefathers, will go far to prove, that these 
 supposed deficiencies are rather in the misapprehensions and false 
 systems of the modern reader, than in themselves. The seat of 
 the pulsation, or heavy poise in dissyllabic and polysyllabic words, 
 has, in some instances, been evidently shifted since the days of 
 Shakespear,— and even since those of Milton; but to a much 
 more extensive degree had such changes taken place, between the 
 time of Chaucer, and that of our great dramatic bard. This alone 
 would be sufficient to cause much embarrassment to the modern 
 reader : but there is still a greater difficulty in the way of the due 
 appreciation of the harmony of our elder poets, in the ascertaina- 
 ble, but too little considered licence of the olden time of retaining 
 or omitting the syllabic sound of the feminine or faint e, in the 
 plural, and other inflections of the nouns, verbs, &c. : so that the 
 same succession of letters, represented, indifferently, one or two 
 syllables, and were so pronounced according to the satisfaction of 
 the ear, or the convenience of organic action. Thus what is writ- 
 ten strondes, shires, &c. would be pronounced either stron-des, or 
 stronds ; shires, or shirs ; and goddes would be either god-des, or 
 gods. So also sote (sweet), rote (root), would be either sot-e, or 
 sote ; rot-e, or rote ; and seke, either seek-e, or seek, &c. Nor 
 would it, perhaps, be difficult to elicit some general rules, even in- 
 
20 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 dependent of the necessities of the versification, relative to the 
 circumstances under which the final vowel should, and under which 
 it should not be syllabicated, — which would show that Chaucer was 
 not quite so arbitrary in the discretionary assignment of the sylla- 
 bic numbers in this particular, as would, at first blush, appear ; 
 and, it is even more than probable, that so much licence, as he 
 thus used for the convenience of his verse, was no more, and no 
 other, than was familiar to the prose conversation of his day : and, 
 certain it is, that we have contemporary authority of the most un- 
 questionable kind, that our ancestors, even to the time of Henry 
 VIII., were in the habit of indulging in a much more full and 
 vowelative pronunciation, than is in the usage of the present day. 
 Of a similar description, and of like importance, in ascertaining 
 the measure and harmony of our elder poets, is the demonstrable 
 fact, that several of our termiaative particles, — as the frequently 
 occurring tion, for example, — were, heretofore, pretty generally, if 
 not universally, pronounced as two full syllables, shi-on, &c. 
 though now almost universally crushed into one — shon, shun, or 
 even shin, or shn, &c. : a snuffling mutilation of our speech, evi- 
 dently undreamt of, not only by Chaucer, but by Shakespear, and 
 the poets who succeeded him, — as might be proved by innumera- 
 ble references : — a mutilation which seems to have been introduced 
 together with many other deteriorations of our speech, and of the 
 genius of our versification and poetry, in compliment to the 
 Frenchified taste of the Restoration Court. 
 
 Panoramic Miscellany, June, 1826. 
 
 THE PRIORESS. 
 
 Chaucer's vein of humour, although conspicuous in the Canter- 
 bury Tales, is chiefly displayed in the characters with which they 
 are introduced. In these his knowledge of the world availed him 
 n a peculiar degree, and enabled him to give such an accurate 
 
CHAUCER. 21 
 
 picture of ancient manners, as no contemporary nation has trans 
 mitted to posterity. It is here that we view the pursuits and em- 
 ployments, the customs and diversions, of our ancestors, copied 
 from the life, and represented with equal truth and spirit, by a 
 judge of mankind, whose penetration qualified him to discern 
 their foibles or discriminating peculiarities; and by an artist, who 
 understands that proper selection of circumstances, and those pre- 
 dominant characteristics, which form a finished portrait. The cha- 
 racter of the Prioress is chiefly distinguished by an excess of deli- 
 cacy and decorum, and an affectation of courtly accomplishments. 
 She has even the false pity and sentimentality of many modern 
 ladies. t. warton. 
 
 Ther was also a nonne, a Prioresse, 
 That of hire smiling was ful simple and coy j 
 Hire gretest othe n'as but by seint Loy j 
 And she was cleped madame Eglentine. 
 Ful wel she sange the service devine 5 
 
 Eutuned in hire nose ful swetely ; 
 And Frenche she spake ful fayre and fetisly, 
 After the scole of Stratford atte bo we, 
 For Frenche of Paris was to hire unknowe, 
 At mete was she wel ytaughte withalle; 10 
 
 She lette no morsel from hire lippes falle, 
 Ne wette hire fingers in hire sauce depe. 
 Wel coude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe, 
 Thatte no droppe ne fell upon hire brest. 
 In curtesie was sette ful moche hire lest. lo 
 
 Hire over lippe wiped she so clene, 
 
 Line 2. Hire— The pronouns them, their, her, are written in Chaucer hem,hir, 
 hire. 
 3. N'as— was not. 
 
 3. Seint Loy— So all the manuscripts have it, though Tyrwhitt and 
 
 Chalmers have followed Urry, and written Eloy, thereby destroy- 
 ing the metre. Othe ought to be pronounced as a dissyllable. — 
 This saint in Latin is called Sanclus Eligius. — W. G.Lewis. 
 
 4. Cleped— called. 
 
 7. Fetisly — properly. 
 
 10. Ytaught — taught. What the power of y, at the beginning of words, 
 may have been originally, it is difficult now to determine. In 
 Chaucer it does not appear to have any effect upon the sense of a 
 word. 
 
 12. Depe— dip. 
 
 13. Kepe — take care. 
 
 15. Lest— desire to please. 
 
22 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 That iu hire cuppe was no ferthiug sene 
 
 Of grese, whan she dronken hadde hire draught. 
 
 Ful semely after hire mete she raught. 
 
 And sikerly she Avas of grete disport, 20 
 
 And ful plesant, and amiable of port, 
 
 And peined hire to contrefeten chere 
 
 Of court, and ben estatelich of mauere, 
 
 And to ben holden digne of reverence. 
 
 But for to speken of hire conscience, 25 
 
 She was so charitable and so pitous, 
 She wolde wepe if that she saw a mous 
 Caughte in a trappe, if it were ded or bledde. 
 Of smale houndes hadde she, that she fedde 
 With rosted flesh, and milk, and wastel brede. 30 
 
 But sore wept she if on of hem were dede, 
 Or if men smote it with a yerde smert : 
 And all was conscience and tendre herte. 
 
 Ful semely hire wimple ypinched was ; 
 Hire nose tretis •, hire eyen gray as glas ; 35 
 
 Hire mouth ful smale, and therto soft and red ; 
 But sikerly she hadde a fayre forehed. 
 It was almost a spanne brode I trowe; 
 For hardily she was not undergrowe. 
 Ful fetise was hire cloke, as I was ware. 40 
 
 Of smale corall aboute hire arm she bare 
 A pair of bedes, gauded all with grene ; 
 And theron heng a broche of gold ful shene, 
 On whiche was first ywriten a crowned A, 
 And after, Amor vincit omnia. 45 
 
 Line 17. No ferthing— not the smallest spot. 
 
 19. Raught— belched. 
 
 20. Sikerly— surely. 
 
 20. Disport— diversion. 
 
 21. Port—behaviour. 
 
 22. And peined hire, &c.— i.e. She took great pains to imitate the ap- 
 
 pearance of court, and to be stately of carriage, and considered 
 
 worthy of reverence. 
 30. Waslel brede — bread of a finer sort. 
 32. With a yerde smert — i. e. smartly with a staff. 
 
 34. Wimple— a coveringfor the neck. 
 
 35. Tretis— long and well proportioned. 
 
 45. Amor vincit omnia— Love conquers all things. The whole passage 
 descriptive of the prioress, but particularly the lines beginning 
 " But for to speken of her conscience," are uncommonly beautiful. 
 — W. G.Lewis. 
 
CHAUCER. 23 
 
 THE MONK. 
 
 The Monk is represented as more attentive to horses and hounds 
 than to the rigorous and obsolete ordinances of Saint Benedict. 
 Such are his ideas of secular pomp and pleasure, that he is even 
 qualified to be an abbot. He is ambitious of appearing a conspi- 
 cuous and stately figure on horseback : a circumstance represented 
 with great elegance. The gallantry of his riding dress, and genial 
 aspect, is painted in lively colours. — The Friar is equally fond of 
 diversion and good living; but the poverty of his establishment 
 obliges him to travel about the country, and to pursue various ar- 
 tifices to provide money for his convent, under the sacred character 
 of a confessor. — With these unhallowed and untrue sons of the 
 church is contrasted the Parson, or parish priest : in describing 
 whose sanctity, simplicity, sincerity, patience, industry, courage, 
 and conscientious impartiality, Chaucer shows his good sense and 
 good heart. t. warton. 
 
 A Monk there was, a fayre for the maistrie, 
 An out-rider, that loved venerie ; 
 A manly man, to ben an abbot able. 
 Ful many a deinte hors hadde he in stable : 
 And whan he rode, men mighte his bridel here, o 
 
 Gingeling in a whistling wind as clere, 
 And eke as loude, as doth the chapell belle, 
 Ther as this lord was keper of the celle. 
 
 The reule of seint Maure and of seint Beneit, 
 Because that it was olde and somdele streit, 10 
 
 This ilke monk lette olde thinges pace, 
 And held after the newe world the trace. 
 He yave not of the text a pulled hen, 
 That saith, that huuters ben not holy men ; 
 Ne that a monk, whan he is rekkeles. 15 
 
 Line 2. Venerie— hunting-. 
 
 10. Somdele — somewhat. 
 
 11. like— same. 
 
 11. Pace — pass away. 
 
 13. A pulled hen— i. e. He did not care a straw for the text, which says 
 that hunters are not holy men. 
 
 15. Rekkeles— "As the known senses," says Mr. Tyrwhitt, "of rekkeles, 
 viz. careless, negligent, by no means suit with this passage, I am 
 inclined to think that Chaucer wrote regnelles, i. e. without rule " 
 
24 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Is like to a fish that is waterles ; 
 
 This is to say, a monk out of his cloistre. 
 
 This ilke text held he not wroth an oistre. 
 
 And I say his opinion was good. 
 
 What shulde he studie, and make himselven wood, 20 
 
 Upon a hook in cloistre alway to pore, 
 
 Or swinken with his hondes, and laboure, 
 
 As Austin bit? how shal the world be served ? 
 
 Let Austin have his swink to him reserved. 
 
 Therefore he was a prickasoure a right : 25 
 
 Greihoundes he hadde as swift as foul of flight : 
 
 Of pricking and of hunting for the hare 
 
 Was all his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. 
 
 I saw his sieves purfiled at the hond 
 With gris, and that the finest of the lond. 30 
 
 And for to fasten his hood under his chinne, 
 He hadde of gold ywrought a curious pinne : 
 A love-knotte in the greter end therwas. 
 His hed was balled, and shone as any glas, 
 And eke his face, as it hadde ben anoint. 35 
 
 He was a lord ful fat and in good point. 
 His eyen stepe, and rolling in his hed, 
 That stemed as a forneis of a led. 
 His botes souple, his hors in gret estat, 
 Now certainly he was a fayre prelat. 40 
 
 He was not pale as a forpined gost. 
 A fat swan loved he best of any rost. 
 His palfrey was as broune as is a bery. 
 
 THE FRIAR. 
 
 I cannot blame Chaucer for inveighing so sharply against the 
 vices of the Clergy in his age ; their pride, their ambition, their 
 pomp, their avarice, their worldly interest deserved the lashes 
 which he gave them : — neither has his contemporary Boccace 
 
 Line 20. Wood — mad. 
 
 22. Swinken — work. 
 
 23. Bit— bids. 
 
 25. A prickasoure— a hard rider. 
 
 30. Gris— his sleeves were worked upou the edge with a fuer called grig. 
 
 36. Point— condition. 
 
 41. Forpined — tormented. 
 
CHAUCER. 25 
 
 spared them. Yet both these poets lived in much esteem with 
 good and holy men in orders : lor the scandal which is given by 
 particular priests, reflects not on the sacred function. Chaucer's 
 Monk, and his Friar, took not from the character of his good Par- 
 son. A satirical poet is the check of the laymen, on bad priests. 
 We are only to take care, that we involve not the innocent with 
 the guilty iD the same condemnation. The good cannot be too 
 much honoured, nor the bad too coarsely used ; for the corruption 
 of the best becomes the worst. dryden. 
 
 A Frere there was, a wanton and a mery, 
 A limitour, a full solempne man. 
 In all the ordres foure is non that can 
 So moche of daliance and fayre language. 
 He hadde ymade ful many a mariage 5 
 
 Of yonge wimmen, at his owen cost. 
 Until his order he was a noble post. 
 Ful wel beloved, and familier was he 
 With frankeleins over all in his contree, 
 And eke with worthy wimmen of the toun : 10 
 
 For he had power of confession, 
 As saide himselfe, more than a curat, 
 For of his ordre he was licenciat. 
 Ful swetely herde he confession, 
 
 And plesant was his absolution. 15 
 
 He was an esy man to give penance, 
 Ther as he wiste to han a good pitance : 
 For unto a poure ordre for to give 
 Is signe that a man is wel yshrive. 
 
 For if he gave, he dorste make avant, 20 
 
 He wiste that a man was repentant. 
 For many a man so hard is of his herte, 
 He may not wepe although him sore smerte. 
 Therfore in stede of weping and praieres, 
 Men mote give silver to the poure freres. 25 
 
 His tippet was ay farsed ful of knives, 
 And pinnes, for to given fayre wives. 
 And certainly he had a mery note. 
 
 Line 2. A limitour— a friar licensed to beg or hear confessions within a cer- 
 tain district. 
 3. Ordres foure— the four orders of mendicants. 
 7. Post— support. 
 9. Frankeleins — large freeholders. 
 26. Farsed— stuffed. 
 
 £ 
 
26 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Wei coulde he singe and plaien on a rote. 
 
 Of yeddinges he bare utterly pris. 30 
 
 His nekke was white as is the flour de lis. 
 
 Thereto he strong was as a champioun, 
 
 And knew wel the tavernes in every toun, 
 
 And every hosteler and gay tapstere, 
 
 Better than a lazer or a beggere, 35 
 
 For unto swiche a worthy man as he 
 
 Accordeth nought, as by his faculte, 
 
 To haven with sike lazars acquaintance. 
 
 It is not honest, it may not advance, 
 
 As for to delen with no swiche pouraille, 40 
 
 But all with riche, and sellers of vitaille. 
 
 And over all, ther as profit shuld arise, 
 Curteis he was, and lowly of servise. 
 Ther n'as no man no wher so vertuous. 
 He was the beste beggar in all his hous : 45 
 
 And gave a certain e ferme for the grant, 
 Nou of his bretheren came in his haunt. 
 For though a widewe hadde but a shoo, 
 (So plesant was his In principle) 
 
 Yet wold he have a ferthing or he went. 50 
 
 His pourchas was wel better than his rent 
 And rage he coude as he hadde ben a whelp 
 In lovedayes, ther coude he mochel help 
 For ther was he nat like a cloisterere, 
 With thredbare cope, as is a poure scolere, 55 
 
 But he was like a maister or a pope. 
 Of double worsted was his semicope, 
 That round was as a belle out of the presses 
 Somewhat he lisped for his wantonnesse, 
 To make his English swete upon his tonge ; 60 
 
 And in his harping, whan that he hadde songe, 
 His eyen twinkeled in his hed aright, 
 As don the sterres in a frosty night. 
 
 Line 29. Rote— a musical instrument. Notker, who lived in the tenth cen- 
 tury, says, that it was the ancient Psalteriura, but altered in its 
 shape, and with an additional number of strings. 
 30 Yeddinges— " May perhaps mean story-telling."— ZTartoB. " A kind 
 
 of son j from the Saxon Geddian, to sing." — W. G. Lewis. 
 34. Hosteler— an inn. keeper. 
 
 34. Tapstere— a woman, who in Chaucer's time, had the care of the tap 
 
 in a public house. 
 
 35. Lazar— a leper. 
 
 45. Hous— convent. 
 
 46. Ferme— farm. 
 
 
CHAUCER. 27 
 
 THE PARSON. 
 
 A good man ther was of religioun, 
 That was a poure Persoxe of a toun : 
 But riche he was of holy thought and werk. 
 He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 
 
 That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche. 5 
 
 His parisheus devoutly wolde he techa. 
 Benigne he was, and wonder diligent, 
 And in adversite ful patient : 
 And swiche he was ypreved often sithes. 
 Ful loth were, him to cursen for his tithes, 10 
 
 But rather wolde he yeven out of doute, 
 Unto his poure parishens aboute, 
 Of his offring, and eke of his substance. 
 He coude in litel thiog have suffisanee. 
 Wide was his parish, and houses fer asonder, 15 
 
 But he ne left nought for no rain ne thonder, 
 In sikenesse and in mischief to visite 
 The ferrest in his parish, moche and lite, 
 Upon his fete, and in his hand a staf. 
 This noble ensample to his shepe he yaf 20 
 
 That first he wrought, and afterwards he taught. 
 Out of the gospel he the wordes caught, 
 And this figure he added yet thereto, 
 That if gold ruste, what shuld iren do ? 
 For if a preest be foule, on whom we trust, *25 
 
 No wonder is a lewed man to rust: 
 And shame it is, if that a preest take kepe, 
 To see a filthy shepherd, and elene shepe : 
 Wei ought a preest ensample for to yeve, 
 By his clenenesse, how his shepe shulde live. 30 
 
 He sette not his benefice to hire, 
 And lette his shepe acombred in the mire, 
 And ran unto London, unto Seint Poules, 
 To seken him a chanterie for soules, 
 Or with a brotherhede to be withold : -35 
 
 But dwelt at home, and kepte wel his fold, 
 So that the wolf ne made it not miscarie. 
 He was a shepherd, and no mercenarie. 
 And though he holy were, and vertuous, 
 
 Line 9. Sithes— times. 
 II. Yeven — given. 
 
 17. Mischief— misfortune. 
 
 18. Ferrest — furthest. 
 
 18. Moche and lite— i. e. rich and poor. 
 20. Yaf-gave. 
 
 e2 
 
THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 He was to sinful men not dispitous, 40 
 
 Ne of his speche dangerous ne digne, 
 
 But in his teaching discrete and benigDe. 
 
 To drawen folk to Heven, with fairenesse, 
 
 By good ensample, was his besinesse : 
 
 But it were any persone obstinat, 45 
 
 What so he were of highe, or low estat, 
 
 Him wolde he snibben sharply for the nones. 
 
 A better preest I trowe that no wber non is. 
 
 He waited after no pompe ne reverence, 
 
 He maked him no spiced conscience, 50 
 
 But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, 
 
 He taught, but first he folwed it himselve. 
 
 THE FRANKELEIN. 
 
 The Fraukelein is a country gentleman, whose estate consisted 
 in free land, and was not subject to feudal services or payments. 
 He is ambitious of showing his riches by the plenty of his table : 
 but his hospitality, a virtue much more practicable among our an- 
 cestors than at present, often degenerates into luxurious excess. 
 His impatience if his sauces were not sufficiently poignant, and 
 every article of his dinner in due form and readiness, is touched 
 with the hand of Pope or Boileau. He had been a president at 
 the sessions, knight of the shire, a sheriff, and a coroner. 
 
 1. BARTON. 
 
 A Frankelein was in this compagnie; 
 White was his herd, as is the dayesie. 
 Of his complexion he was sanguin. 
 Wei loved he by the morwe a sop in win. 
 To liven in delit was ever his wone, 5 
 
 For he was Epicures owen sone, 
 That held opinion, that plein delit 
 
 Line 40. Dispitous— angry to excess. 
 41. Ne digne— nor disdainful. 
 47. Nones — occasion. 
 51. Lore— doctrine. 
 
 4. A sop in win— he much loved in the morning a sop of wine. 
 
 5. Wone— custom. 
 
CHAUCER. 29 
 
 Was veraily felicite parfite. 
 
 An householder, and that a grete was he : 
 
 Seint Julian he was in his contree. 1 
 
 His hrede, his ale, was alway after on ; 
 
 A better envyned man was no wher non. 
 
 Withouten bake mete never was his hous, 
 
 Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous, 
 
 It snewed in his house of mete and drinke, 15 
 
 Of alle deintees that men coud of thinke, 
 
 After the sondry sesons of the yere, 
 
 So changed he his mete and his soupere. 
 
 Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in mewe, 
 
 And many a breme, and many a luce in stewe. 20 
 
 Wo was his coke, but if his sauce were 
 
 Poinant and sharpe, and ready all his gere. 
 
 His table dormant in is halle alway 
 
 Stode redy covered alle the longe day. 
 
 At sessions ther was he lord and sire. 25 
 
 Ful often time he was knight of the shire. 
 An auelace, and a gipciere all of silk, 
 Heng at his girdel, white as morwe milk. 
 A shereve hadde he ben, and a countour. 
 Was no wher swiche a worthy vavasour. 30 
 
 Line 8. Felicite parfite— perfect felicity. 
 
 10. Seint Julian— Simon the leper, at whose house our Saviour lodged 
 
 in Bethany, is called in the legends, Julian the good herborow, 
 and Bishop of Beryn. Seint Julian was celebrated for supplying 
 his votaries with good lodgings and all sorts of accommodation. 
 
 11. After on — alike. 
 
 12. Envyned— stored with wine. 
 
 20. Luce — pike. 
 
 21. But if— unless. 
 
 27. Anelace— a kind of knife or dagger. 
 27. Gipciere — a purse. 
 
 29. Countour — This word is changed in Urry's edition to coroner, but 
 
 upon what authority is not said. The MSS. all read it countour 
 or comptour. At the same time it is not easy to say what office is 
 meant, but probably a steward of some court, or keeper of the 
 accounts.— W. G. Lewis. 
 
 30. Vavasour — The import of this word is not very obvious, but it pro- 
 
 bably means here, a landlord or country gentleman. 
 
 e3 
 
30 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 THE REVE. 
 
 The character of the Reve, tin officer of much greater trust and 
 authority during the feudal constitution than at present, is happily 
 pictured. His attention to the care and custody of the manors, 
 the produce of which was then kept in hand for furnishing his 
 lord's table, perpetually employs his time, preys upou his thoughts, 
 and makes him lean and choleric. He is the terror of bailiffs and 
 hinds ; and is remarkable for his circumspection y vigilance, and 
 subtlety. He is never in arrears, and no auditor is able to over- 
 reach or detect him in his accounts; yet he makes more commo- 
 dious purchases for himself than for his master, without forfeiting 
 the good will or bounty of the latter. Amidst these strokes of 
 satire, Chaucer's genius for descriptive painting breaks forth in 
 this simple and beautiful description of the Reve's rural habitation : 
 " His wonning was ful fayre upon an heth, 
 With grene trees yshadewed was his place." 
 
 T. WARTON. 
 
 The Reve was a slendre colerike man, 
 His berd was shave as neighe as ever he can. 
 His here was by his eres round yshorne. 
 His top was docked like a preest beforne. 
 Ful longe were his legges, and ful lene, 5 
 
 Ylike a staff, ther was no calf ysene. 
 Wei coude he kepe a garner and a binne : 
 There was non auditour coude on him wmne. 
 Wei wiste he by the drought, and by the rain, 
 The y elding of his seed, and of his grain. 10 
 
 His lordes shepe, his nete, and his deirie, 
 His swine, his hors, his store, and his pultrie, 
 Were holly in this reves gouerning, 
 And by his covenant yave he rekening, 
 Sin that his lord was twenty yere of age ; 15 
 
 Ther coude no man bring him in arerage ; 
 Ther n'as bailliff, ne herde, ne other hine. 
 
 Line 3. Here— hair. 
 3. Eres — ears. 
 11. Nete — neat, cattle. 
 13 Holly— wholly. 
 
 16. Arerage— arrear. 
 
 17. Herde— keeper. 
 17. Hiue— servant. 
 
CHAUCER. 31 
 
 That he ne knew his sleight and his covine : 
 
 They were adradde of him, as of the deth. 
 
 His wonning was ful fayre upon an heth, 20 
 
 With grene trees yshadewed was his place. 
 
 He coude better than his lord pourchase. 
 
 Ful rich he was ystored privily. 
 
 His lord wel coude he plesen subtilly, 
 
 To yeve and lene him of his owen good, 25 
 
 And have a thank, and yet a cote and hood. 
 
 In youth he lerned hadde a good mistere : 
 
 He was a wel good wright, a carpentere. 
 
 ?|is reve sate upon a right good stot, 
 hat was all pomelee grey, and highte Scot. 30 
 
 A long surcote of perse upon he hade, 
 And by his side he bare a rusty blade. 
 Of Norfolk was this reve, of which I tell, 
 Besides a toun, men clepen Baldeswell. 
 Tucked he was, as is a frere, about, 35 
 
 And ever he rode the hinderest of the route. 
 
 THE SOMPNOUR. 
 
 The Sompnour, whose office it was to summon uncanonical 
 offenders into the Archdeacon's court, where they were very rigor- 
 ously punished, is humorously drawn as counteracting his profession 
 by his example : he is libidinous and voluptuous, and his rosy 
 countenance belies his occupation. This is an indirect satire on 
 the ecclesiastical proceedings of those times. His affectation of 
 Latin terms, which he had picked up from the decrees and plead 
 ings of the court, must have formed a character highly ridiculous. 
 He is with great propriety made the friend and companion of the 
 Pardoner, or dispenser of indulgences, who is just arrived from the 
 
 Line 18. Covine— secret contrivances. 
 20. Wonning— dwelling. 
 25. Lene— lend or grant. 
 27. Mistere— trade. 
 
 29. Stot— a steed. 
 
 30. Pomelee— dappled. 
 30. Highte— called. 
 34. Clepen— call. 
 
32 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Pope " brimful of pardons come from Rome all hote;" aud who 
 carries in his wallet among other holy curiosities, the Virgin Mary's 
 veil, and part of the sail of Saint Peter's ship. T. Warton. 
 
 A Sompnour was ther with us in that place, 
 That hadde a fire red cherubinnes face, 
 For sausefleme he was, with eyen narwe. 
 As hote he was, and likerous as a sparwe, 
 With scalled browes blake, and pilled berd : 5 
 
 Of his visage children were sore aferd. 
 Ther n'as quiksilver, litarge, ne brimston, 
 Boras, ceruse, ne oile of tartre non, 
 Ne ointmeut that wolde dense or bite, 
 That him might helpen of his whelkes white, 10 
 
 Ne of the knobbes sitting on his chekes. 
 Wei loved he garlike, onions, and lekes, 
 And for to driuke strong win as rede as blood. 
 Than wolde he speke, aud crie as he were wood. 
 And whan that he wel dronken had the win, 15 
 
 Than wold he speken no word but Latin. 
 A fewe termes coude he, two or three, 
 That he had lerned out of som decree j 
 No wonder is, he herd it all the day. 
 And eke ye knowen wel, how that a jay 20 
 
 Can clepen watte, as wel as can the pope. 
 But who so wolde in other thing him grope, 
 Than hadde he spent all his philosophic, 
 Ay, Questio quid juris, wolde he crie. 
 
 He was a gentil harlot and a kind ; 25 
 
 A better felaw shulde a man not find. 
 He wolde sufFre for a quart of wine, 
 A good felaw to have his concubine 
 A twelve month, and excuse him at the full. 
 Ful prively a finch eke coude he pulL- 
 And if he found owhere a good felawe, 
 He wolde techen him to have non awe 
 
 Line 3. Sausefleme— red, pimpled. 
 5. Scalled— scabby or scurfy. 
 
 7. Litarge— lead. 
 
 8. Ceruse— white lead. 
 14. Wood — mad. 
 
 22. Grope — examine. 
 
 25. Harlot— This word thongh now generally applied to women, is 
 
 equally applicable to men. It is derived from a Saxon word sig. 
 
 nifying to hire. 
 
 30. Finch— To pull a finch, meant to rob a man. 
 
 31. Owhere— anywhere. 
 
CHAUCER. 33 
 
 In swiche a cas of the archedekenes curse ; 
 
 But if a mannes soule were in his purse ; 
 
 For in his purse he shulde ypunished be. 35 
 
 Purse is the archedekens helle, said he. 
 
 But wel I wote, he lied right in dede. 
 
 THE PARDONER. 
 
 With him ther rode a gentil Pardonere 
 Of Rouncevall, his frend and his compere, 
 That streit was comen from the court of Rome. 
 Ful loude he sang, Come hither, love, to me. 
 This pardoner had here as yelwe as wax, 5 
 
 But smoth it heng, as doth a strike of flax : 
 By unces heng his lokkes that he hadde, 
 And therwith he his shulders overspradde. 
 Ful thinne it lay, by culpons on and on, 
 But hode, for jolite, ne wered he non, 10 
 
 For it was trussed up in his wallet. 
 Him thought he rode al of the newe get, 
 Dishevele, sauf his cappe, he rode all bare. 
 Swiche glaring eyen hadde he, as an hare. 
 A vernicle hadde he sewed upon his cappe. 15 
 
 His wallet lay beforne him in his lappe, 
 Bret-ful of pardons come from Rome al hote. 
 A vois he hadde, as smale as hath a gote. 
 No berd hadde he, ne never non shulde have, 
 As smothe it was as it were newe shave ; 20 
 
 I trowe he were a gelding or a mare. 
 
 But of his craft, fro Berwike unto Ware, 
 Ne was ther swiche an other pardonere. 
 For in his male he hadde a pilwebere, 
 Which, as he saide, was our ladies veil : 25 
 
 ine 2. Rouncevall— perhaps the name of some fraternity now unknown. 
 
 5. Here— hair. 
 
 6. Strike— a line or streak. 
 9. Culpons— shreds. 
 
 12. The newe get— the new fashion. 
 
 13. Sauf— except. 
 
 15. Vernicle— a picture of Christ. 
 
 17. Bret-ful— top ful. 
 
 24. Male— wallet. 
 
 24. Pilwebere— pillow-cover. 
 
THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 He saide, he hadde a gobbet of the seyl 
 
 Thatte Seint Peter had, whan that he went 
 
 Upon the see, till Jesu Crist him hent. 
 
 He had a crois of laton ful of stones, 
 
 And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. 30 
 
 But with these relikes, whaune that he fond 
 
 A poure persone dwelling up on lond, 
 
 Upon a day he gat him more moneie 
 
 Than that the persone gat in monethes tweie. 
 
 And thus with fained flatterring and japes, 35 
 
 He made the persone, and the peple, his apes. 
 
 But trewely to tellen atte last, 
 He was in church a noble ecclesiast. 
 Weld coude he rede a lesson or a storie, 
 But alderbest he sang an offertorie : 40 
 
 For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe, 
 He muste preche, and wel afile his tonge, 
 To winne silver, as he right wel coude : 
 Therfore he sang the merier and loude. 
 
 THE MILLER. 
 
 The Miller was a stout carl for the nones, 
 Ful bigge he was of braun, and eke of bones j 
 That proved wel, for over allther he came, 
 At wrastling he wold bere away the ram. 
 He was short shuldered, brode, a thikke gnarre, 5 
 
 Ther n'as no dore, that he u'olde heve of barre, 
 Or breke it at a renning with his hede. 
 His berd as any sowe or fox was rede, 
 And therto brode, as though it were a spade. 
 Upon the cop right of his nose he hade 10 
 
 A wert, and thereon stode a tufte of heres, 
 
 Line 26. A gobbet of the seyl— a bit of the sail. 
 23. Hent— caught. 
 
 29. A crois of laton— a cross made of a mixed metal resembling brass. 
 32. Persone— parson. 
 35. Japes— tricks. 
 40. Alderbest— best of all. 
 40. Offertorie— a part of the mass. 
 42. Afile— polish. 
 
 4. Ram— a ram was the usual prize at wrestlir 
 11. Heres— hairs. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 35 
 
 Rede as the bristles of a sowes eres. 
 
 His nose-thirles blacke were and wide. 
 
 A swerd and bokeler bare he by his side. 
 
 His mouth as wide was as a forneis. 15 
 
 He was a jangler, and a goliardeis, 
 
 And that was most of siune, and harlotries. 
 
 Wei coude he stelen corn, and tollen thries. 
 
 And yet he had a thomb of gold parde. 
 
 A white cote and a blew hode wered he, 20 
 
 A baggepipe wel coude he blowe and soune, 
 
 A therwithall he brought us out of toune. 
 
 ANONYMOUS, 1593. 
 
 THE SOUL'S ERRAND. 
 
 1 know not how this short production has ever affected other 
 readers, but it carries to my imagination an appeal which I cannot 
 easily account for from a few simple rhymes. It places the last 
 and inexpressibly awful hour of existence before my view, and 
 sounds like a sentence of vanity on the things of this world, pro- 
 nounced by a dying man, whose eye glares ou eternity, and whose 
 voice is raised by strength from another world. — This bold and 
 spirited poem has been ascribed to several authors, but to none 
 on satisfactory authority. It can be traced to MS. of a date as 
 early as 1593. t. campbell. 
 
 Go, Soul, the body's guest, 
 Upon a thankless errand, 
 Fear not to touch the best, 
 The truth shall be thy warrant ; 
 Go, since I need must die, 
 And give the world the lie. 
 
 Line 12. Eres— ears. 
 
 16. A goliardeis— a follower of Golias, the founder of the jovial sect so 
 called. 
 
 18. Thries— thrice. 
 
 19. A thomb of gold— the proverb says, " every honest miller has a 
 
 thumb of gold." 
 
36 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Go, tell the Court it glows, 
 And shines like rotten wood ; 
 Go, tell the Church it shows 
 What's good and doth no good ; 
 If Church and Court reply 
 Then give them both the lie. 
 
 Tell potentates they live, 
 
 Acting by others' actions, 
 
 Not lov'd, unless they give, 
 
 Not strong, but by their factions ; 
 
 If potentates reply, 
 
 Give potentates the lie. 
 
 Tell men of high condition 
 That rule affairs of state, 
 Their purpose is ambition, 
 Their practice only hate ; 
 And if they once reply, 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell them that brave it most, 
 They beg for more by spending, 
 Who in their greatest cost, 
 Seek nothing but commending j 
 And if they make reply, 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell Zeal it lacks devotion, 
 Tell Love it is but lust, 
 Tell Time it is but motion, 
 Tell Flesh it is but dust ; 
 And wish them not reply, 
 For thou must give the lie. 
 
 Tell Age it daily wasteth, 
 Tell Honour how it alters, 
 Tell Beauty how it blasteth, 
 Tell Favour how she falters ; 
 And as they shall reply, 
 Give every one the he. 
 
 Tell Wit how much it wrangles 
 In treble points of niceness, 
 Tell Wisdom she entangles 
 Herself in overwiseness ; 
 And when they do reply 
 Straight give them both the lie. 
 
ANONYMOUS, 1593. 37 
 
 Tell Physic of her boldness, 
 Tell Skill it is pretension, 
 Tell Charity of coldness, 
 Tell Law it is contention ; 
 And as they do reply, 
 So give them still the lie. 
 
 Tell Fortune of her blindness, 
 
 Tell Nature of decay, 
 
 Tell Friendship of unkindness, 
 
 Tell Justice of delay ; 
 
 And if they will reply, 
 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell Arts they have no soundness, 
 
 "But vary by esteemiug, 
 
 Tell Schools they want profoundness, 
 
 And stand too much on seeming ; 
 
 If Arts and Schools reply 
 
 Give Arts and Schools the lie. 
 
 Tell Faith it's fled the city, 
 Tell how the Country erreth, 
 Tell Manhood shakes, off pity, 
 Tell Virtue least preferreth > 
 And if they should reply, 
 Spare not to give the lie. 
 
 And when thou hast, as I 
 Commanded thee, done blabbing, 
 Although to give the lie 
 Deserves no less than stabbing ; 
 Yet stab at thee who will, 
 No stab the Soul can kill. 
 
38 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER, DIED 1598, AGED 45. 
 
 ON SPENSER S POETRY. 
 
 Of all the poets, Spenser is the most poetical. There is an origin- 
 ality, richness, and variety in his allegorical personages and fic- 
 tions, which almost vie with the splendour of the ancient mytho- 
 logy. He waves his wand of enchantment, and at once embodies 
 airy beings, and throws a delicious veil over all actual objects. — 
 The two worlds of reality and of fiction are poised on the wings of 
 his imagination. His ideas, indeed, seem more distinct than his 
 perceptions. He is the painter of abstractions, and describes them 
 with dazzling minuteness. The love of beauty, however, and not 
 of truth, is the moving principle of his mind;* and he is guided in 
 his fantastic delineations by no rule but the impulse of au inex- 
 haustible imagination. He has been unjustly charged with a want 
 of passion and of strength. He has both in an immense degree. — 
 He has not indeed the pathos of immediate action or suffering, 
 which is more properly the dramatic ; but he has all the pathos of 
 sentiment and romance, all that belongs to distant objects of ter- 
 ror, and uncertain, imaginary distress. His strength, in like 
 manner, is not strength of will or action, of bone and muscle, nor 
 is it coarse and palpable ; but it assumes a character of vastuess 
 
 " Spenser's Hero is always Honour, Truth, Valour, Courtesy, but it is not 
 Man. His Heroine is Meekness, Chastity, Constancy, Beauty, but it is not 
 Woman ; — his landscapes are fertility, magnificence, verdure, splendour, but 
 they are not Nature. His pictures have no relief; they are all light, or all 
 shadow ; they are all wonder but no truth. Still do I not complain of them ; 
 nor would I have them other than what they are. They are delightful, and 
 matchless in their way. They are dreams: glorious soul-entrancing dreams. 
 They are audacious, but magnificent falsehoods. — H. Neele. — [Ed.~\ 
 
SPENSER. 39 
 
 and sublimity seen through the same visionary medium, and 
 blended with the appalling associations of preternatural agency. — 
 His versification is, at once, the most smooth and the most sound- 
 ing in the language. It is a labyrinth of sweet sounds, 
 
 " in many a winding bout 
 Of linked sweetness long drawn out," 
 
 that would cloy by their very sweetness, but that the ear is con- 
 stantly relieved and enchanted by their continued variety of modu- 
 lation, dwelling on the pauses of the action, or flowing on in a 
 fuller tide of harmony with the movement of the sentiment. It 
 has not the bold dramatic transitions of Shakespear's blank verse, 
 nor' the high raised tone of Milton's; but it is the perfection of 
 melting harmony, dissolving the soul in pleasure, or holding it 
 captive in the chains of suspense. Spenser was the poet of our 
 waking dreams ; and he has invented not only a language, but a 
 music of his own for them. The undulations are infinite, like those 
 of the waves of the sea : but the effect is still the same, lulling the 
 senses into a deep oblivion of the jarring noises of the world, from 
 which we have no wish to be ever recalled. hazlitt. 
 
 ON THE SPENSEKIAN STANZA. 
 
 The stanza of the Faery Queen is framed with such consummate 
 skill that all its parts are indivisibly interlaced, and the rhythm 
 proceeds with increasing strength and fulness through the whole 
 till it is wound up in an harmonious, rich, and perfect close. — 
 Never indeed did ignorance more impudently expose itself than 
 when it awarded to Waller the praise of having first refined our 
 verse, and to Pope that of having perfected it ! Spenser is the 
 great master of English versification. We have been told that he 
 who wishes to excel in writing prose, should give his days and nights 
 to the study of Addison ; more truly might it be said that the poet 
 who would learn the mysteries of bis art, should take Spenser for 
 f2 
 
40 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 bis master, and drink of his poetry as from a well, — not indeed of 
 English undefiled, but of perpetual harmony, pure thoughts, de- 
 lightful imagery, and tender feeling. Considering him merely as 
 a versifier, he has left in the common couplet an example of 
 terseness, which Pope has never excelled. 
 
 Full little knowest thou that hast not spied 
 What hell it is in suing long to bide ; 
 To lose good days that might be better spent, 
 To waste long nights in pensive discontent j 
 To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow ; 
 To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow ; 
 To have thy prince's grace, yet want her peers; 
 To have thy asking, yet wait many years ; 
 To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares ; 
 To eat thy heart through comfortless despairs ; 
 To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run ; 
 To spend, to give, to want, to be undone. 
 
 Quarterly Review, October, 1814. 
 
 PRIDE AND HER ATTENDANTS. 
 
 PRIDE. 
 
 High above all a cloth of state was spread, 
 And a rich throne, as bright as sunny day ; 
 On which there sat, most brave embellished 
 With royal robes and gorgeous array, 
 A maiden queen, that shone as Titan's ray, 
 In glistering gold and peerless precious stone ; 
 Yet her bright blazing beauty did assay 
 To dim the brightness of her glorious throne, 
 As envying herself, that too exceeding shone. 
 
 Of grisly Pluto she the daughter was, 
 And sad Proserpina, the queen of hell ; 
 Yet did she think her peerless worth to pas* 
 
 * Surpass. 
 
SPENSER. 41 
 
 That parentage ; with pride so did she swell : 
 And thundering Jove, that high in heaven doth dwell, 
 And wield the world, she claimed for her sire ; 
 Or if that any else did Jove excel : 
 For to the highest she did still aspire ; 
 Or if ought higher were than that, did it desire. 
 
 And proud Lucifera men did her call, 
 That made herself a queen, and crown'd to be ; 
 Yet rightful kingdom she had none at all, 
 Ne heritage of native sovereignty ; 
 But did usurp with wrong and tyranny 
 Upon the sceptre, which she now did hold : 
 Ne rul'd her realm with laws, but policy, 
 And strong advisement of six wizards old, 
 That with their counsels bad, her kingdom did uphold. 
 
 Sudden upriseth from her stately place 
 
 The royal dame, and for her coach doth call : 
 
 All hurtlen* forth, and she with princely pace ; 
 
 As fair Aurora in her. purple pall, 
 
 Out of the east the dawning day doth call. 
 
 So forth she comes: — 
 
 Her coach was drawn of six unequal beasts, 
 On which her six sage counsellors did ride, 
 Taught to obey their bestial behests, 
 With like conditions to their kinds applied. 
 
 THE FIRST ATTENDANT. — IDLENESS. 
 
 -The first- 
 
 Was sluggish Idleness, the nurse of sin ; 
 Upon a slothful ass he chose to ride, 
 Array 'd in habit black, and amisf thin ; 
 Like to a holy monk, the service to begin. 
 
 And in his hand his portesse|| still he bare, 
 That much was worn, but therein little read ; 
 For of devotion he had little care, 
 Still drown'd in sleep, and most of his days dead 
 
 * Rush. 
 
 t Apparel. 
 
 II A prayer book. 
 
 f3 
 
42 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Scarce could he once uphold his heavy head? 
 To looken whether it were night or day. 
 May seem the wain* was very evil lead, 
 When such a one had guiding of the way, 
 That knew not, whether right he went or else astray. 
 
 From worldly cares himself he did esloyne,* 
 And greatly shunned manly exercise ; 
 From every work he challenged essoyne,|| 
 For contemplation sake : yet otherwise 
 His life he lead in lawless riotise ; 
 By which he grew to grievous malady : 
 For in his lustless limbs, through evil guise, 
 A shaking fever reign'd continually. 
 Such one was Idleness, first of this company. 
 
 THE SECOND ATTENDANT. — GLUTTONY* 
 
 And by his side rode loathsome Gluttony, 
 Deformed creature, on a filthy swine ; 
 His belly was upblown with luxury, 
 And eke with fatness swollen were his eyne; 
 And like a crane his neck was long and fine, 
 With which he swallow'd up excessive feast, 
 Foi want whereof poor people oft did pine : 
 And all the way, most like a brutish beast, 
 He spued up his gorge, that all did him deteast. 
 
 In green vine leaves he was right fitly clad ; 
 For other clothes he could not wear for heat : 
 And on his head an ivy garland had, 
 From under which fast trickled down the sweat : 
 Still as he rode, he somewhat still did eat, 
 And in his haud did bear a bousing can, 
 Of which he supp'd so oft, that on his seat 
 His drunken corse he scarce upholden can : 
 In shape and life more like a monster than a man. 
 
 Unfit he was for any wordly thing, 
 And eke unable once to stir or go ; 
 Not meet to be of counsel to a king, 
 
 * Coach. 
 + Withdraw, 
 II Excuse. 
 
SPENSER. 43 
 
 Whose miud in meat and drink was drowned so, 
 That from his friend he seldom knew his foe : 
 Full of diseases was his carcass bine, 
 And a dry dropsy thro' his flesh did flow, 
 Which by misdiet daily greater grew. 
 Such one was Gluttony, the second of that crew. 
 
 THE THIRD ATTENDANT.— LECHERY. 
 
 And next to him rode lustful Lechery 
 Upon a bearded goat, whose rugged hair, 
 And whaly* eyes, (the sign of jealousy) 
 Was like the person self, whom he did bear : 
 Who rough, and black, and filthy did appear ; 
 Unseemly man to please fair ladies' eye : 
 Yet he of ladies oft was loved dear, 
 When fairer faces were bid standen by. 
 O who does know the bent of women's fantasy ? 
 
 In a green gown he clothed was full fair, 
 Which underneath did hide his filthiness ? 
 And in his hand a burning heart he bare, 
 Full of vain follies and new-fangleness :f 
 For he was false, and fraught with fickleness, 
 And learned had to love with secret looks, 
 And well could dance, and sing with ruefulness, j| 
 And fortunes tell, and read in loving books ; 
 And thousand other ways, to bait his fleshly hooks. 
 
 Inconstant man, that loved all he saw, 
 And lusted after all, that he did love ; 
 Ne would his looser life be tied to law, 
 But joy'd weak women's hearts to tempt and prove, 
 If from their loyal loves he might them move : 
 Which lewdness fill'd him with reproachful pain, 
 Of that foul evil, which all men reprove, 
 That rots the marrow, and consumes the brain. 
 Such one was Lechery, the third of all this train. 
 
 * Marked in streaks. 
 
 t A love of novelty and changes. 
 
 II Pity or tenderness. 
 
44 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 THE FOURTH ATTENDANT. — AVARICE. 
 
 And greedy Avarice by him did ride, 
 Upon a camel loaden all with gold ; 
 Two iron coffers hung on either side, 
 With precious metal full as they might hold ; 
 And in his lap a heap of coin he told : 
 For of his wicked pelf his God he made, 
 And unto hell himself for money sold : 
 Accursed usury was all his trade ; 
 And right and wrong ylike in equal balance waide.* 
 
 His life was nigh unto death's door yplaste ;f 
 And thread-bare coat, and cobbled shoes he ware ; 
 Ne scarce good morsel all his life did taste ; 
 But both from back and belly still did spare, 
 To fill his bags, and riches to compare : 
 Yet child ne kinsman living had he none 
 To leave them to ; but thorough daily care 
 To get, and nightly fear to lose his own, 
 He had a wretched life, unto himself unknown. 
 
 Most wretched wight, whom nothing might suffice, 
 Whose greedy lust did lack in greatest store ; 
 Whose need had end, but no end covetise ; 
 Whose wealth was want, whose plenty made him pooi 
 Who had enough, yet wished evermore. 
 A vile disease, and eke in foot and hand 
 A grievous gout tormented him full sore ; 
 That well he could not touch, nor go, nor stand. 
 Such one was Avarice, the fourth of this fair band. 
 
 THE FIFTH ATTENDANT.— ENVY. 
 
 And next to him malicious Envy rode 
 
 Upon a ravenous wolf, and still did chaw 
 
 Between his canker'd teeth a venomous toad, 
 
 That all the poison ran about his jaw ; 
 
 But inwardly he chewed his own maw 
 
 At neighbours' wealth, that made him ever sad : 
 
 Weighed. 
 II Placed. 
 
SPENSER. 45 
 
 For death it was, when any good he saw, 
 And wept, that cause ot weeping none he had ; 
 But when he heard of harm, he waxed wondrous glad. 
 
 All in a kirtle* of discolour'd sayf 
 He clothed was, ypainted full of eyes ; 
 And in his bosom secretly there lay 
 An hateful snake, the which his tail upties 
 In many folds, and mortal sting implies. 
 Still as he rode, he gnash' d his teeth to see 
 Those heaps of gold with griple|| covetise 
 And grudged at the great felicity 
 Of proud Lucifera, and his own company. 
 
 He hated all good works and virtuous deeds, 
 And him no less, that any like did use : 
 And who with gracious bread the hungry feeds, 
 His alms for want of faith he doth accuse ; 
 So every good to bad he doth abuse. 
 And eke the verse of famous poets' wit 
 He does backbite, and spiteful poison spues 
 From leprous mouth on all that ever writ. 
 Such one vile Envy was, that fifth in row did sit. 
 
 THE SIXTH ATTENDANT.— WRATH. 
 
 And him beside rides fierce revenging Wrath, 
 Upon a lion, loath for to be lead ; 
 And in his hand a burning brand he hath, 
 The which he brandisheth about his head : 
 His eyes did hurl forth sparkles fiery red, 
 And stared stern on all that him beheld, 
 As ashes pale of hue, and seeming dead ; 
 And on his dagger still his hand he held, 
 Trembling thro' hasty rage, when choler in him swell'd. 
 
 His ruffian raiment all was stain'd with blood, 
 Which he had spilt, and all to rags yrent ; 
 
 * A woman's gown. 
 
 + A thin sort of silk stuff. 
 
 II Greedy. 
 
46 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Thro' unadvised rashness woxen wood ;* 
 For of his hands he had no government, 
 Ne car'd for Wood in his avengement; 
 But when the furious fit was overpast, 
 His cruel facts he often would repent; 
 Yet (wilful man) he never would forecast, 
 How many mischiefs should ensue his heedless hast. 
 
 Full many mischiefs follow cruel wrath ; 
 Abhorred bloodshed, and tumultuous strife, 
 Unmanly murder, and unthrifty scath,f 
 Bitter despite, with rancour's rusty knife ; 
 And fretting grief, the enemy of life : 
 All these, and many moe|| haunt ire, 
 The swelling spleen, and frenzy raging rife, 
 The shaking palsy, and saint Francis' fire 
 Such one was Wrath, the last of this ungodly tire. 
 
 And after all upon the wagon beam 
 Bode Satan with a smarting whip in hand, 
 With which he forward lash'd the lazy team, 
 So oft as Sloth still in the mire did stand. 
 Huge routs of people did about them baud, 
 Shouting for joy, and still before their way 
 A foggy mist had cover' d all the land ; 
 And underneath their feet, all scatter'd lay 
 Dead skulls and bones of men, whose life had gone astray. 
 
 THE ALLEGORY OF DESPAIR, 
 
 The groundwork of all Spenser's fictions is the system of chivalry, 
 as displayed in the romances of the time, and in the principal 
 productions of Italian poetry. Knights wandering in search of 
 adventures, distressed ladies, giants, Saracens, savages, dragons, 
 enchantments, forests, and castles, were the materials with which 
 these creations of the fancy were fabricated. — In all the records of 
 poetry, no author can probably be found who approaches Spenser 
 
 Grew mad. 
 t Injury. 
 
 II More. 
 
SPENSER. 47 
 
 in the facility with which he embodies abstract ideas and converts 
 them into actors in his fable. — He may, on the whole, be reckoned 
 the greatest master of personification that ever existed ; and more 
 original delineations of this kind are to be met with in the Faery 
 Queene, than, perhaps, in all other poems united. Some of these 
 are truly excellent, and are wrought into scenes of wonderful 
 power. The Allegory of Despair may be placed at the head of all 
 such fictions, as well for just conception and skilful management, 
 as for unrivalled strength of description. It seems impossible by 
 the medium of words to call up visual images in the mind with 
 more force and distinctness, than is done in the pictures of the 
 Knight Flying from Despair, of Despair himself in his cave, and 
 of the Red- cross Knight receiving the dagger from his hands. 
 
 DR. AIKIN. 
 
 THE KNIGHT FLYING FROM DESPAIR. 
 
 Una now weighing the decayed plight, 
 And shrunken sinews of her chosen knight, 
 Would not a while her forward course pursue, 
 Ne bring him forth in face of dreadful fight, 
 Till he recover'd had his former hue : 
 For him to be yet weak and weary well she knew. 
 
 So as they travell'd, lo they gan espy 
 An armed knight towards them gallop fast, 
 That seemed from some feared foe to fly, 
 Or other grisly thing, that him aghast.* 
 Still as he fled, his eye was backward cast, 
 As if his fear still followed behind : 
 Alsjj flew his steed, as he his bands had brast,f 
 And with his winged heels did tread the wind, 
 As he had been a foal of Pegasus's kind. 
 
 Nigh as he drew, they might perceive his head 
 To be unarm'd, and curl'd uncombed hairs 
 
 * Frightened, 
 t Also. 
 II Burst. 
 
THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Upstaring stiff, dismay'd with uncouth dread : 
 Nor drop of blood in all his face appears, 
 Nor life in limb ; and, to increase his fears, 
 (In foul reproach of knighthood's fair degree) 
 About his neck an hempen rope he wears, 
 That with his glistring arms does ill agree : 
 But he of rope, or arms, has now no memory. 
 
 The Red-cross knight towards him crossed fast, 
 To weet* what mister wightf was so dismay'd : 
 There him he finds all senseless and aghast,|| 
 That of himself he seem'd to be afraid ; 
 Whom hardly he from flying forward stay'd, 
 Till he these words to him delivered might ; 
 " Sir knight, aread,| who hath ye thus array' d, 
 Aud eke from whom make ye this hasty flight ? 
 7or never knight I saw in such misseeming plight." 
 
 He answer'd nought at all ; but adding new 
 Fear to his first amazement, staring wide 
 With stony eyes and heartless hollow hue, 
 Astonish'd stood, as one that had espied 
 Infernal Furies with their chains untied. 
 Him yet again, and yet again bespake 
 The gentle knight, who nought to him replied ; 
 But trembling every joint did inly quake, 
 Andfaultring tongue at last these words seem'd forth to shake. 
 
 " For God's dear love, sir knight, do me not stay ; 
 For lo ! he comes, he comes fast after me." 
 Eft§ looking back would fain have run away ; 
 But he him forc'd to stay, and tellen free 
 The secret cause of his perplexity : 
 Yet nathemorelT by his bold hardy speech 
 Could his blood frozen heart embolden'd be ; 
 But thro' his boldness rather fear did reach: 
 Yet forc'd at last he made thro' silence sudden breach ; 
 
 " And am I now in safety sure," quoth he, 
 " From him, that would have forced me to die ? 
 And is the point of death now turn'd from me, 
 That I may tell this hapless history ?" 
 
 Know. t Sort of person. II Frightened. % Declare or tell. 
 \ Then or again. M Never more. 
 
SPENSER. 49 
 
 " Fear nought," quoth he, " no danger now is nigh." 
 " Then shall I you recount a rueful case," 
 Said he, " the which with this unlucky eye 
 I late beheld, and, had not greater grace 
 Me reft from it, had been partaker of the place. 
 
 "I lately chanc'd (would I had never chanc'd !) 
 With a fair knight to keepen company, 
 Sir Terwin hight,* that well himself advanc'd 
 In all affairs, and was both bold and free - y 
 But not so happy as motef happy be : 
 He lov'd as was his lot, a lady gent, 
 That him again lov'd in the least degree : 
 For she was proud, and of too high intent, 
 And joy'd to see her lover languish and lament. 
 
 From whom returning sad and comfortless, 
 As on the way together we did fare, 
 We met that villain, (God from him me bless !) 
 That cursed wight, from whom I scap'd why leare,|j 
 A man of hell, that calls himself Despair : 
 Who first us greets, and after fair areads^: 
 Of tidings strange, and of adventures rare : 
 So creeping close, as snake in hidden weeds, 
 Inquireth of our states and of our knightly deeds. 
 
 " Which when he knew, and felt our feeble hearts 
 Emboss'd with bale§ and bitter biting grief, 
 Which love had launched with his deadly darts ; 
 With wounding words, and terms of foul reprief,! 
 He pluck'd from us all hope of due relief, 
 That erst us held in love of ling'ring life : 
 Then hopeless, heartless, gan the cunning thief 
 Persuade us die, to stint* * all further strife : 
 
 To me he lent this rope, to him a rusty knife. 
 
 " With which sad instrument of hasty death, 
 That woeful lover, loathing longer light, 
 A wide way made to let forth living breath. 
 But I more fearful, or more lucky wight, 
 Dismay'd with that deformed dismal sight, 
 Fled fast away, half dead with dying fear ; 
 Ne yet assur'd of life by you, sir knight, 
 Whose like infirmity like chance may bear: 
 But God you never let his charmed speeches hear !" 
 
 Called. t Might. II Sometime before. + Discourses. 
 5 Misery. IT Reproof " Stop. 
 
 G 
 
50 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 "How may a man," said he, " with idle speech 
 Be won to spoil the castle of his health ?" 
 " I wote,"* quoth he, " whom trial late did teach, 
 That like would not for all this worldes wealth. 
 His subtile tongue like dropping honey melt'h 
 Into the heart, and searcheth every vein, 
 That ere one be aware, by secret stealth 
 His power is reft, and weakness doth remain. 
 O never, sir, desire to try his guileful train." 
 
 " Certes,"f said he, " hence shall I never rest, 
 Till I that treachour's|| art have heard and tried : 
 And you, sir knight, whose name mote I request, 
 Of grace do me unto his cabin guide." 
 " I that bight J Trevisan," quoth he, " will ride 
 Against my liking back, to do you grace : 
 But not for gold nor glee will I abide 
 By you, when ye arrive in that same place 
 For lever had§ I die than see his deadly face." 
 
 Ere long they come, where that same wicked wight 
 His dwelling has, low in a hollow cave, 
 Far underneath a craggy cliff ypight,! 
 Dark, doleful, dreary, like a greedy grave, 
 That still for carrion carcasses dolh crave : 
 On top whereof ay" dwelt the ghastly owl, 
 Shrieking his baleful note, which ever drave 
 Far from that haunt all other cheerful fowl ; 
 And all about it wand'ring ghosts did wail and howl. 
 
 And all about old stocks and stubs of trees, 
 Whereon nor fruit nor leaf was ever seen, 
 Did hang upon the ragged rocky knees ; 
 On which had many wretehes hanged been, 
 Whose carcasses were scatter'd on the green, 
 And thrown about the cliffs. Arrived there, 
 That bare-head knight, for dread and doleful teen, 
 Would faiu have fled, ne durst approachen near ; 
 But th' other forc'd him stav, aud comforted in fear. 
 
 Know. + CertaLuly. II Traitors. •: Am called. \ Rather would 
 n Placed. •' Ever. 
 
SPENSER. 51 
 
 DESPAIR IN HIS CAVE. 
 
 That darksome cave they enter, where they find 
 That cursed man, low sitting on the ground, 
 Musing full sadly in his sullen mind ; 
 His grisly locks long growen and unbound, 
 Disorder'd hung about his shoulders round, 
 And hid his face; thro' which his hollow eyne* 
 Look'd deadly dull, and stared as astound ;t 
 His raw-bone cheeks, thro' penury and pine, 
 Were shrunk into his jaws, as he did never dine. 
 
 His garment, nought but many ragged clouts, 
 "With thorns together pinn'd and patched was, 
 The which his naked sides he wrapt abouts : 
 And him beside there lay upon the grass 
 A dreary corse, whose life away did pass, 
 All wallow'd in his yet lukewarm blood, 
 That from his wound yet welled fresh, alas ! 
 In which a rusty knife fast fixed stood, 
 And made an open passage for the gushing flood. 
 
 Which piteous spectacle approving true 
 The woeful tale that Trevisan had told, 
 When as the gentle Red-cross Knight did view, 
 With fiery zeal he burnt in courage bold 
 Him to avenge, before his blood were cold ; 
 And to the villain said, " Thou damned wight, 
 The author of this fact we here behold, 
 What justice can but judge against the right, 
 With thine own blood to price his blood, here shed in sight?" 
 
 " What frantic fit," quoth he, " hath thus distraught |j 
 Thee, foolish man, so rash a doom to give ? 
 What justice ever other judgment taught, 
 But he should die, who merits not to live ? 
 None else to death this man despairing drive, 
 But his own guilty mind deserving death. 
 Is then unjust to each his due to give ? 
 Or let him die, that loatheth living breath ? 
 Or let him die at ease, that liveth here uneath ?J 
 
 " Who travels by the weary waud'ring way, 
 To come unto his wished home in haste, 
 And meets a flood, that doth his passage stay, 
 Is not great grace to help him over past, 
 
 * Eyes. t Astonished. II Distracted. % With difficult}. 
 F 2 
 
52 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Or free his feet, that in the mire stick fast ? 
 Most envious man, that grieves at neighbour's good, 
 And fond, that joyest in the woe thou hast, 
 Why wilt not let him pass, that long hath stood 
 Upon the bank, yet wilt thyself not pass the flood? 
 
 " He there does now enjoy eternal rest 
 And happy ease, which thou dost want and crave, 
 And further from it daily wanderest : 
 What if some little pain the passage have, 
 That makes frail flesh to fear the bitter wave ? 
 Is not short pain well borne that brings long ease, 
 And lays the soul to sleep in quiet grave ? 
 Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, 
 Ease after war, death after life, does greatly please." 
 
 The knight much wondered at his sudden wit, 
 And said, " The term of life is limited, 
 Ne may a man prolong, nor shorten it : 
 The soldier may not move from watchful sted 3 * 
 Nor leave his stand, until his captain bed.''+ 
 " Who life did limit by almighty doom," 
 Quoth he, " knows best the terms established ; 
 And he that points the centinel his room, 
 Doth license him depart at sound of morning droom.|| 
 
 " Is not his deed, what ever thing is done 
 In heaveu and earth ? did not he all create 
 To die again ? all ends, that was begun : 
 Their times in his eternal book of fate 
 Are written sure, and have their certain date. 
 Who then can strive with strong necessity, 
 That holds the world in his still-changing state ? 
 Or shun the death ordained by destiny ? 
 When hour of death is come, let none ask whence nor why. 
 
 " The longer life, I wote the greater sin ; 
 The greater sin, the greater punishment : 
 All those great battles, which thou boasts to win, 
 Thro' strife, and bloodshed, and avengement, 
 Now prais'd, hereafter dear thou shalt repent : 
 For life must life, and blood must blood repay. 
 Is not enough thy evil life forespent? 
 For he, that once hath missed the right way, 
 The further he doth go, the further he doth stray. 
 
 Station. t Bid. II Drum. 
 
SPENSER. 53 
 
 ** Then do no further go, no further stray j 
 But here lie down, and to thy rest betake, 
 Th'ill to prevent, that life ensewen* may. 
 For what hath life, that may it loved make, 
 Aud gives not rather cause it to forsake ? 
 Fear, sickness, age, loss, labour, sorrow, strife, 
 Pain, hunger, cold, that make the heart to quake, 
 And ever fickle fortune rageth rife ; 
 All which, and thousands more do make a loathsome life. 
 
 " Thou, wretched man, of death hast greatest need, 
 If in true balance thou wilt weigh thy state ; 
 For never knight, that dared warlike deed, 
 More luckless disadventures did amate : f 
 Witness the dungeon deep, wherein of late 
 Thy life shut up for death so oft did call ; 
 And tho' good luck prolonged hath thy date, 
 Yet death then would the like mishaps forestal, 
 Into the which hereafter thou may'st happen fall. 
 
 " Why then dost thou, O man of sin, desire 
 To draw thy days forth to their last degree ? 
 Is not the measure of thy sinful hire 
 High heaped up with huge iniquity, 
 Against the day of wrath, to burden thee ? 
 Is not enough, that to this lady mild 
 Thou falsed|| hast thy faith with perjury, 
 And sold thyself to serve Duessavild,^: 
 With whom in all abuse thou hast thyself defil'd. 
 
 " Is not he just, that all this doth behold 
 From highest heaven, and bears an equal eye ? 
 Shall he thy sins up in his knowledge fold, 
 And guilty be of thine impiety ? 
 Is not his law, Let every sinner die ; 
 Die shall all flesh? what then must needs be done, 
 Is it not better to die willingly, 
 Thau linger till the glass be all out-run ? 
 Death is the end of woes : die soon, O faries' son !" 
 
 The knight was much enmoved with his speech, 
 That as a sword's point thro' his heart did pearce, 
 And in his conscience made a secret breach, 
 Well knowing true all that he did rehearse, 
 And to his fresh remembrance did reverse 
 The ugly view of his deformed crimes ; 
 
 * Ensue. t Attend. II Falsified. $ Vile. 
 
 g3 
 
64 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 That all his manly powers it did disperse, 
 As he were charmed with enchanted rhymes ; 
 That oftentimes he quak'd, and fainted oftentimes. 
 
 THE KNIGHT RECEIVING THE DAGGER. 
 
 It is a trite observation, that we paint that best, which we have 
 felt most. Spenser's whole life seems to have consisted of dis- 
 appointments and distress ; so that be, probably, was not un- 
 acquainted with the bitter agonies of a despairing mind, which 
 the warmth of his imagination, and, what was its consequence, 
 his sensibility of temper, contributed to render doubly severe. Un- 
 merited and unpitied indigence ever struggles hardest with true 
 genius ; and a good taste, for the same reason that it enhances 
 the pleasures of life, sustains with uncommon torture the miseries 
 of that state. t. warton. 
 
 Then gan the villain him to overcraw,* 
 And brought unto him swords, ropes, poison, fixe, 
 And all that might him to perdition draw ; 
 And bade him choose, what death he would desire : 
 For death was due to him, that had provok'd God's ire. 
 
 But whenas none of them he saw him take, 
 He to him raughtt a dagger sharp and keen, 
 And gave it him in hand ; his hand did quake, 
 And tremble like a leaf of aspin green, 
 And troubled blood thro' his pale face was seen 
 To come and go with tidings from the heart, 
 As it a running messenger had been. 
 At last resolv'd to work his final smart, 
 He lifted up his hand, that back again did start. 
 
 Which whenas Una saw, thro' every vein 
 The cradled cold ran to her well of life, 
 
 Insult t Reached. 
 
SPENSER. 55 
 
 As in a swoon ; but soon reliv'd* again, 
 Out of his hand she snatch'd the cursed knife, 
 And threw it to the ground, euraged rife,f 
 And to him said, " Fie, fie, faint-hearted knight, 
 What meanest thou by this reproachful strife ? 
 Is this the battle, which thou vaunt'st to fight 
 With that fire-mouthed dragon, horrible and bright ? 
 
 " Come, come away, frail, feeble, fleshly wight, 
 Ne let vain words bewitch thy manly heart, 
 Ne devilish thoughts dismay thy constant spright.|| 
 In heavenly mercies hast thou not a part ? 
 Why shouldst thou then despair, that chosen art? 
 Where justice grows, there grows eke greater grace, 
 The which doth quench the brond| of hellish smart, 
 And that accurs'd hand-writing doth deface. 
 Arise, sir knight, arise, and leave this cursed place.'' 
 
 So up he rose, and thence amounted straight. 
 Which when the carl§ beheld, and saw his guest 
 Would safe depart, for all his subtle sleight, 
 He chose a halter from among the rest, 
 And with it hung himself, unbid, unbless'd. 
 But death he could not work himself thereby ; 
 For thousand times he so himself had dress'd, 
 Yet nathelessll it could not do him die, 
 Till he should die his last, that is eternally. 
 
 Brought to life. t Greatly. II Cheerfulness. t Fire-brand. 
 ? Churl. "TT Nevertheless. 
 
56 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 WM. SHAKESPEAR, DIED 1616, AGED 53. 
 
 SHAKESPEAR'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 
 
 The striking peculiarity of Shakespear's mind was its generic 
 quality, its power of communication with all other minds — so that 
 it contained a universe of thought and feeling within itself, and 
 had no one peculiar bias, or exclusive excellence more than au- 
 other. He not only had in himself the germs of every faculty 
 and feeling, but he could follow them by anticipation, intuitively, 
 into all their conceivable ramifications, through every change of 
 fortune or conflict of passion, or turn of thought. His genius 
 shone equally on the evil and the good, on the wise and the fool- 
 ish, the monarch and the beggar ; " all comers of the earth, kings, 
 queens, and states, maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave," 
 are hardly hid from his searching glance. He was like the genius 
 of humanity, changing places with all of us at pleasure, aud play- 
 ing with our purposes as with his own. He turned the globe round 
 for his amusement, and surveyed the generations of men, and the 
 individuals as they passed, with their different concerns, passions, 
 follies, vices, virtues, actions, and motives — as well those that they 
 knew, as those which they did not know, or acknowledge to them- 
 selves. The dreams of childhood, the ravings of despair, were the 
 toys of his fancy. Airy beings waited at his call, and came at his 
 bidding. Harmless fairies " nodded to him, and did him curtesies:" 
 and the night-hag bestrode the blast at the command of " his so 
 potent art." The world of spirits lay open to him, like the world 
 of real men and women : and there is the same truth in his delinea- 
 tions of the one as of the other •> for if the preternatural charac- 
 ters he describes could be supposed to exist, they would speak, and 
 fed, and act, as he makes them. He had only to think of any 
 
SHAKES PEAR. 57 
 
 thing in order to become that thing, with all the circurnstauces 
 belonging to it. When he conceived of a character, whether real 
 or imaginary, he not only entered into all its thoughts and feelings, 
 but seemed instantly, and as if by touching a secret spring, to be 
 surrounded with all the same objects, "subject to the same skyey 
 influences," the same local, outward, and unforeseen accidents 
 which would occur in reality. In reading this author, you do not 
 merely learn what his characters say, — you see their persons. By 
 something expressed or understood, you are at no loss to decipher 
 their peculiar physiognomy. A word, an epithet, paints a whole 
 scene, or throws us back whole years in the history of the person 
 represented. How well the silent anguish of Macduff is conveyed 
 to the reader, by the friendly expostulation of Malcolm — 
 
 " What ! man, ne'er pull your bat upon your brows !" 
 
 That which more than anything else distinguishes the dramatic 
 productions of Shakespear from all others, is his wonderful truth 
 and individuality of conception. Each of his characters is as much 
 itself, and as absolutely independent of the rest, as well as of the 
 author, as if they were living persons, not fictions of the mind. 
 The poet may be said, for the time, to identify himself with the 
 character he wishes to represent, and to pass from one to another, 
 like the same soul successively animating differing bodies. His 
 dialogues are carried on without any consciousness of what is to 
 follow, without any appearance of preparation or premeditation. 
 The gusts of passion come and go like sounds of music borne on 
 the wind. Nothing is made out by formal inference and analogy, 
 by climax and antithesis : all comes or seems to come, immedi- 
 ately from nature. Each object and circumstance exists in his 
 mind, as it would have existed in reality : each several traiu of 
 thought and feeling goes on of itself, without confusion or effort. 
 In the world of his imagination, every thing has a life, a place, 
 and being of its own. 
 
 The passion in Shakespear is of the same nature as his delinea- 
 tion of character. It is not someone habitual feeling or sentiment 
 
58 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 preying upon itself, growing out of itself, and moulding every 
 thing to itself ; it is passion modified by passion, by all the other 
 feelings to which the individual is liable, and to which others are 
 liable with him; subject to all the fluctuations of caprice and ac- 
 cident ; calling into play all the resources of the understanding, 
 and all the energies of the will; irritated by obstacles or yielding 
 to them ; rising from small beginnings to its utmost height ; 
 now drunk with hope, now stung to madness, now sunk in despair, 
 and now raging like a torrent. Nearly all the dialogues in Shake- 
 spear, where the interest is wrought up to its highest pitch, afford 
 examples of this dramatic fluctuation of passion. The interest in 
 Chaucer is quite different ; it is like the course of a river, strong, 
 and full, and increasing. In Shakespear, on the contrary, it is 
 like the sea, agitated this way and that, and loud lashed by furious 
 storms; while in the still pauses of the blast, we distinguish only 
 the cries of despair, or the silence of death ! 
 
 Shakespear's language and versification are like the rest of 
 him. He has magic power over words : they come winged at his 
 bidding; and seem to know their places. They are struck out at a 
 heat, on the spur of the occasion, and have all the truth and vivid- 
 ness which arise from an actual impression of the objects. His 
 epithets and single phrases are like sparkles thrown off from an 
 imagination fired by the whirling rapidity of its own motion. His 
 language is hieroglyphical. It translates thoughts into visible 
 images. It is the only blank verse in the language, except Mil- 
 ton's, that for itself is readable. It is not stately and uniformly 
 swelling like his, but varied and broken by the inequalities of the 
 ground it has to pass over in its uncertain course, 
 
 " And so by many winding nooks it strays, 
 With willing sport to the wild ocean." 
 
 The faults of Shakespear are not so many or so great as they have 
 been represented; what there are, are chiefly owing to the follow- 
 ing causes : — The universality of his genius was, perhaps, a dis- 
 advantage to his single works ; the variety of bis resources, some- 
 times diverting him from applying them to the most effectual 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 59 
 
 purposes. He might be said to combine the powers of JEschylus 
 and Aristophanes, of Dante and Rabelais, in his own mind. If he 
 had been only half what he was, he would perhaps have appeared 
 greater. The natural ease and indifference of his temper made 
 him somttimes less scrupulous than he might have been. His 
 rery facility of production would make him set less value on his 
 own excellences, and not care to distinguish nicely between what 
 he did well or ill. His blunders in chronology and geography do 
 not amount to above half a dozen, and they are offences against 
 chronology and geography, not agaiust poetry. As to the unities, 
 he was right in setting them at defiance. He was fonder of puns* 
 than became so great a man. His barbarisms were those of his 
 age. His genius was his own. He had no objection to float down 
 with the stream of common taste and opinion : he rose above it 
 by his own buoyancy, and an impulse which he could not keep 
 under, in spite of himself or others, and " his delights did show 
 most dolphin-like." hazlitt. 
 
 ON THE FAME OF SHAKESPEAR. 
 
 The fame of Shakespear has naturally suggested an enquiry as to 
 the peculiar powers of that mind, which could acquire such an in- 
 fluence over the minds of others. What was the talisman that 
 worked these wonders ? Wherein did he surpass that world which 
 has paid him such extraordinary honours ? The answers to these 
 enquiries have been as various as the tastes and opinions of readers. 
 His wit, his imagination, his sublimity, have all been suggested as 
 the distinguished characteristics of his mind; — but whatever may 
 
 AsFalstaff, whom Shakespear certainly intended to be perfectly witty, is 
 less addicted to quibble and play on words, than any of his comic charac- 
 ters, I think we may fairly conclude, our author was sensible that it was but 
 false kind of wit, which he practised from the hard necessity of the times : 
 for in that age, the Professor quibbled in his chair, the Judge quibbled on 
 the bench, the Prelate quibbled in the pulpit, the Statesman quibbled at 
 the council. board ; nay, even Majesty quibbled on the throne. — Mrs. Mon- 
 tagu— [Ed.] 
 
60 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 have been the strongest marked feature in the mind of our author, 
 we are convinced that the theory which refers his astonishing fame 
 to the possession of any one peculiar quality, is erroneous. His 
 distinguishing characteristic is the union of many excellencies: 
 each of which he possessed in a degree unequalled by any other 
 Poet. Shakespear will be found pre-eminent, if we consider his 
 sublimity, his pathos, his imagination, his wit, or his humour • 
 his union in his own person of the highest tragic and comic ex- 
 cellence, and his knowledge of nature, animate, inanimate, and 
 human. To excel in any one of these particulars would form a 
 great Poet; to unite two or three of them, is a lot too lofty even 
 for the ambition of highly favoured mortals ; but to combine all, 
 as Shakespear has done, in one tremendous intellect, is indeed, — 
 
 " To get the start of the majestic world 
 And bear the palra alone !" 
 
 The genius of Shakespear cannot be illustrated by a reference to 
 that of any other poet ; for, with whom is he to be compared ? 
 Like his own Richard — 
 
 " He has no brother, is like no brother, 
 He is himself alone !" 
 
 Geniuses of the most colossal dimensions become dwarfed by his 
 side. Like Titan, he is a giant among giants, Like him too, he 
 piles up his magnificent thoughts Olympus high ; he grasps the 
 lightnings of creative Jove ; and speaks the words that call spirits, 
 and mortals, and worlds, into existence. He has faults, doubt- 
 less ; faults which it is not my purpose either to extenuate, or to 
 deny, but the critic who thinks that such faults are of much 
 weight, when opposed to his genius, would be likely to condemn 
 the Apollo Belvidere, for a stain upon the pedestal. The very 
 brightness of transcendant excellence renders its faults and imper- 
 fections but the more visible ; nothing appears faultless but medio- 
 crity. The moon and the stars shine with unsullied brightness; 
 the sun alone exhibits spots upon his disk ! henry neele. 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 61 
 
 ISABELLA PLEADING FOR HER BROTHER 
 CLAUDIO. 
 
 Isabella. I am a woeful suitor to your honour, 
 Please but your honour hear me. 
 
 Angelo. Well ; what's your siut ? 
 
 Isab. I have a brother is condemn'd to die : 
 I do beseech you, let it be his fault, 
 And not my brother. 
 
 Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it ' 
 Why, every fault's condemn'd, ere it be done : 
 Mine were the very cipher of a function, 
 To find the faults, whose fine stands in record, 
 And let go by the actor. 
 
 Isab. O just, but severe law ! 
 Must he needs die? 
 
 Ang. Maiden, no remedy. 
 
 Isab. Yes; I do think that you mightpardon him, 
 And neither heaven, nor man, grieve at the mercy. 
 
 Ang. He's sentenc'd; tis too late. 
 
 Isab. Too late? why, no ; I, that do speak a word, 
 May call it back again : Well, believe* this, 
 No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, 
 Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, 
 The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, 
 Become them with one half so good a grace, 
 As mercy does. If he had been as you, 
 And you as he, you would have sliptlike him ; 
 But he, like you, would not have been so stern. 
 
 Ang. Pray you, begone. 
 
 Isab. I would to heaven I had your potency, 
 And you were Isabel ! should it then be thus ? 
 No ; I would tell what 'twere to be a j udge, 
 And what a prisoner. 
 
 Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law, 
 And you but waste yoar words. 
 
 Isab. Alas! alas! 
 Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once ; 
 And He that might the vautage best have took, 
 Fouud out the remedy : How would you be, 
 If He, which is the top of judgment, should 
 But judge you as you are ? O, think on that ; 
 And mercy then will breathe within your lips, 
 Like man new made. 
 
 Ang. Be you content, fair maid; 
 It is the law, not I, condemns your brother : 
 
 * Be assured of. 
 H 
 
62 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son, 
 
 It should be thus with him; — he must die to-morrow. 
 
 Isab. To-morrow ? O, that's sudden ! spare him, spare him 
 Yet show some pity. 
 
 Ang. I show it most of all, when I show justice ; 
 For then I pity those I do not know, 
 Which a dismiss' d offence would after gall ; 
 And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong, 
 Lives not to act another. Be satisfied ; 
 Your brother dies to-morrow. 
 
 Isab. O, it is excellent 
 To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous 
 To use it like a giant. 
 Could great men thunder 
 
 As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, 
 For every pelting, petty* officer, 
 
 Would use his heaven for thunder; nothing but thunder. 
 
 Merciful heaven ! 
 
 Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, 
 
 Split's^ the unwedgeable and gnarledf oak, 
 
 Than the soft myrtle : — O, but man, proud man ! 
 
 Drest in a little brief authority ; 
 
 Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd, 
 
 His glassy essence, — like an angry ape, 
 
 Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, 
 
 As make the angels weep ; who, with our spleens, 
 
 Would all themselves laugh mortal. 
 
 We cannot weigh our brother with ourself : 
 
 Great men may jest with saints : 'tis wit in them ; 
 
 But, in the less, foul profanation. 
 
 That in the captain's but a choleric word, 
 
 Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. 
 
 Ang. Why do you put these sayings upon me ? 
 
 Isab Because authority, though it err like others, 
 Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself, 
 That skins the vice o' the top : Go to your bosom ; 
 Knock there; and ask your heart, what it doth know 
 That's like my brother's fault : if it confess 
 A natural guiltiness, such as is his, 
 Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue 
 Against my brother's life. 
 
 Ang. Well : come to me 
 To-morrow. 
 
 Isab. At what hour to-morrow 
 Shall I attend your lordship ? 
 
 Ang. At any time 'forenoon. 
 
 Isab. Save your honour. [Exit.] 
 
 * Paltry, 
 t Knotted. 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 63 
 
 Ang. From thee ; even from thy virtue ! — 
 What's this ? what's this ? Is this her fault or mine ? 
 The tempter, or the tempted, who sins most? Ha ! 
 Not she ; nor doth she tempt : but it is I, 
 That lying by the violet, in the sun, 
 Do, as the carrion does, not as the flower, 
 Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be, 
 That modesty may more betray our sense 
 Than woman's lightness? Having waste ground enough, 
 Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary, 
 And pitch our evils there ? O, fie, fie, fie ! 
 What dost thou ? or what art thou, Angelo 
 Dost thou desire her foully, for those things 
 That make her good ? O, let her brother live ; 
 Thieves for their robbery have authority, 
 When judges steal themselves. What? do I love her, 
 That I desire to hear her speak again, 
 And feast upon her eyes ? What is't I dream on ? 
 O, cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, 
 With saiuts dost bait thy hook ! Most daugerous 
 Is that temptation, that doth goad us on 
 To sin in loving virtue. 
 
 MERCY. 
 
 Portia : Do you confess the bond? 
 
 Antonio : I do. 
 
 Portia : Then must the Jew be mereiful. 
 
 Shylock : On what compulsion must I ? tell me (hat. 
 
 Portia: The quality of mercy is not straiu'd ; 
 It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven 
 Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless'd ; 
 It blesseth him that gives and him that takes : 
 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 
 The throned monarch better than his crown : 
 His septre shows the force of temporal power, 
 The attribute to awe and majesty, 
 Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings : 
 But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 
 It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 
 It is an attribute to God himself; 
 And earthly power doth then show likest God's, 
 When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
 Though justice be thy plea, consider this, — 
 
 G 2 
 
64 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 That, in the course of justice, none of us 
 Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; 
 And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
 The deeds of mercy. 
 
 SILVIUS AND PHEBE. 
 
 There is no passion which Shakespear more frequently, or more 
 poetically describes, than that of love ; and as it is the one which' 
 by its despotism in our youthful years, often forms the destiny of 
 our future life, and holds so immediate^, relation to morals, we 
 should suffer no occasion to pass unnoticed, however humorously 
 or ludicrously expressed, which either defines its nature, or marks 
 upon its effects. MRS. GRIFFITH. 
 
 Silvius : Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe : 
 Say, that you love me not ; but say not so 
 In bitterness : The common executioner, 
 Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard, 
 Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck, 
 But first begs pardon : Will you sterner be 
 Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops ? 
 
 Enter Rosalind, in man's attire, at a distance. 
 
 Phebe : I would not be thy executioner; 
 I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. 
 Thou tell'st me, there is murder in mine eye : 
 'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable, 
 That eyes, — that are the frail'st and softest things, 
 Who shut their coward gates on atomies, — 
 Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers ! 
 Now I do frown on thee with all my heart ; 
 And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee ; 
 Now counterfeit to swoon ; wiry now fall down; 
 Or, if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame, 
 Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers. 
 Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee : 
 Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains 
 Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush 
 The cicatrice and capable impressure 
 Thy palm some moment keeps : but now mine eye 
 Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not ; 
 Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes 
 That can do hurt. 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 65 
 
 Silvius : O dear Phebe, 
 If ever, (as that ever may be near,) 
 You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,* 
 Then shall you know the wounds invisible 
 That love's keen arrows make. 
 
 Phe. But, till that time, 
 Come not thou near me : and, when that time comes, 
 Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not ; 
 As, till that time, I shall not pity thee. 
 
 Ros. And why, I pray you ? {Advancing.'] Who might 
 be your mother, 
 That you insult, exult, and all at once, 
 Over the wretched ? What though you have more beauty, 
 Must you be therefore proud and pitiless ? 
 Why, what means this? Why do you look came; 
 I see no more in you, than in the ordinary 
 Of nature's sale-work :f — Od's my little life! 
 I think, she means to tangle my eyes too t — 
 No, 'faith, proud mistress, hope not after it 
 'Tis not your inky brows, your black-silk hair, 
 Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheek of cream, 
 That can entame my spirits to your worship. — 
 You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her, 
 Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain ? 
 'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her ; 
 And out of you she sees herself more proper, 
 Than any of her lineaments can show her. — 
 But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees, 
 And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love ; 
 For I must tell you friendly in your ear, — 
 Sell when you can ; you are not for all markets : 
 Cry the man mercy ; love him ; take his offer ; 
 Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer. || 
 So take her to thee, shepherd ; — fare you well. 
 
 Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together ; 
 I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo. 
 
 Ros. He's fallen in love with her foulness, and she'll fall 
 in love with my anger : If it be so, as fast as she answers thee 
 with frowning looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words. — Why look 
 you so upon me ? 
 
 * Love. 
 
 + i. e. Those works that nature makes up carelessly and without exact- 
 ness. The allusion is to the practice of mechanics, whose work, when 
 ordered, is hetter finished, than that which is made up for chance cus- 
 tomers — Warburlon. 
 
 H This isa just thought; and it would he well if it were more attended 
 to. No persons have a right to censure others, who are not free from blame 
 themselves. This maxim, if extended to the strictness of it, would silence 
 all scandal, detraction, and reproach ; and indeed it has been often observed , 
 that the most faultless persons are generally the least severe.— Mrs. Griffith. 
 
 H 3 
 
66 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Phe. For no ill will I bear you. 
 
 Ros. I pray yon, do not fall in love with me, 
 For I am falser than vows made in wine : 
 Besides, I like you not. 
 
 [Exit.] 
 
 Phe. Dead shepherd ! now I find thy saw of might; 
 Who everlov'd, that lov'd not at first sight ? 
 
 Sil. Sweet Phebe,— 
 
 Phe. Ha! what say 'st thou Silvius ? 
 
 Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me. 
 
 Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius. 
 
 Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be ; 
 If you do sorrow at my grief in love, 
 By giving love, your sorrow and my grief 
 Were both extermin'd. 
 
 Phe. Thou hast my love ; Is not that neighbourly > 
 
 Sil. I would have you. 
 
 Phe. Why, that were covetousness. 
 Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee; 
 And yet it is not, that I bear thee love : 
 But since that thou canst talk of love so well, 
 Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, 
 
 I will endure.- 
 
 Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me ere while ? 
 
 Sil. Not very well, but 1 have met him oft. 
 
 Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him ; 
 Tis but a peevish* boy : — yet he talks well ; — 
 But what care I for words ? yet words do well, 
 When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. 
 It is a pretty youth ; — not very pretty : — 
 But, sure, he's proud ; and yet his pride becomes him : 
 He'll make a proper man : The best thing in him 
 Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue 
 Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. 
 He is not tall ; yet for his years he's tall : 
 His leg is but so so ; and yet 'tis well : 
 There was a pretty redness in his lip ; 
 A little riper and more lusty red 
 
 Than that mix'd in his cheek ; 'twas just the difference 
 Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. 
 There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him 
 In parcels as I did, would have gone near 
 To fall in love with him : but, for my part, 
 I love him not, nor hate him not , and yet 
 I have more cause to hate him than to love him : 
 For what had he to do to chide at me ? 
 He said, mine eyes were black, and my hair black ; 
 
 * Silly. 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 67 
 
 And, now I am remember'd, scorn'd at me : 
 
 I marvel, why I answer'd not again : 
 
 But that's all one ; omittance is no quittance. 
 
 ON EPIC AND DRAMATIC POETRY. 
 
 There are critics who consider the Drama entitled to a higher 
 rank than the Epopee. For my own part, I would rather 
 
 " Bless the Sun, than reason how it shines:—" 
 
 I would rather enjoy the beauties of the Epic and the Dramatic 
 Muses, than oppose them to each other, and awaken controversy 
 as to their relative excellencies. As the subject, however, forces 
 itself upon us, and as 1 mean to touch it reverently, for, — 
 
 " We do it wrong, being so majesiical, 
 To offer it the show of violence," 
 
 I will venture a few observations upon it. The Drama is to Epic 
 Poetry, what Sculpture is to Historical Painting. It is, perhaps, 
 on the whole, a severer art. It rejects many adventitious aids of 
 which the Epic may avail itself. It has more unity and simplicity. 
 Its figures stand out more boldly, and in stronger relief. But then 
 it has no aerial background ; it has no perspective of enchantment ; 
 it cannot draw so largely on the imagination of the spectator; it 
 must present to the eye, and make palpable to the touch, what 
 the Epic Poet may steep in the rainbow hues of Fancy, and veil, 
 but with a veil of light, woven in the looms ot his Imagination. — 
 The Epopee comprises narration and description, and yet must be, 
 in many parts, essentially Dramatic. The Epic Poet is the Dra- 
 matic Author and Actor combined. The fine characteristic speech 
 which Milton puts into the mouth of Moloch, in the second book 
 of " Paradise Lost," proves him to have been possessed of high 
 
68 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 powers for dramatic writing; and when, after the speech is con- 
 cluded, the Poet adds, — 
 
 " He ended frowning, and his look denounced 
 Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous 
 To less than Gods : — " 
 
 He personates the character with a power and eDergy worthy of 
 the noblest Actor. I have said that the Epic Poet is the Dramatist 
 and the Actor combined ; but he is more. He must not only write 
 the dialogue, and create the actors who are to utter it, but he 
 must also erect the stage on which they are to tread, and paint 
 the scenes in which they are to appear. Still, the Drama, by the 
 very circumstances which condense and circumscribe its powers, 
 becomes capable of exciting a more intense aud tremendous in- 
 terest. Hence there are pieces of Dramatic writing which, even 
 in the perusal only, have an overwhelming power, to which Epic 
 Poetry canuot attain. — Perhaps, to sum up the whole question, 
 what the Epic Poet gains in expansion and variety, the Dramatic 
 Poet gains in condensation and intensity. When Desdemona says 
 to Othello,— 
 
 " And yet I fear, 
 When your eyes roll so ;" 
 
 we have as vivid a portrait of the Moor's countenance, as the most 
 laboured description could give us. Again, how powerfully is the 
 frown on the features of the Ghost in " Hamlet" pictured to us in 
 two lines: — 
 
 " So frown'd he once, when in an angry parle, 
 He smote the sledded Polack on the ice." 
 
 Such descriptions would be meagre and unsatisfactory in Epic 
 Poetry; more diffuse ones would mar the interest, and impede the 
 action in the Drama. In the Drama the grand pivot upon which 
 the whole moves is Action ; in Epic Poetry it is Narration. Nar- 
 ration is the fitter medium for representing a grand series of 
 events; and Action for exhibiting the power and progress of a pas- 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 69 
 
 sion, or the consequences of an incident. — The Epic Poet takes a 
 loftier flight ; the Dramatist treads with a firmer step. The one 
 dazzles ; the other touches. The Epic iswowdered at ; the Drama 
 is felt. We lift Milton like a conqueror above our heads ; we 
 clasp Shakespear like a brother to our hearts. h. neele. 
 
 3IACBETH,AT THE IMPORTUNITY OF HIS LADY, 
 RESOLYES TO MURDER DUNCAN. 
 
 Macbeth is full of horrnr at the thoughts of the murder of 
 Duncan. He is not equal to the struggle with fate and conscience. 
 He now "bends up each corporal instrument to the terrible 
 feat;" at other times his heart misgives him, and he is cowed 
 and abashed by his success. " The deed, no less than the at- 
 temptj confounds him." His mind is assailed by the stings of 
 remorse, and full of " preternatural solieitings." His speeches 
 and soliloquies are dark riddles on human life, baffliug solution, 
 and entangling him in their labyrinths. In thought he is absent 
 and perplexed, sudden and desperate in act, from a distrust of his 
 own resolution. His energy springs from the anxiety and agita- 
 tion of his mind. His blindly rushing forward on the objects of 
 his ambition and revenge, or his recoiling from them, equally be- 
 trays the harrassed state of his feelings. This part of his charac- 
 ter is admirably set off by being brought in connection with that 
 of Lady Macbeth, whose obdurate strength of will and masculine 
 firmness give her the ascendancy over her husband's faultering 
 virtue. She at once siezes on the opportunity that offers for the 
 accomplishment of all their wished-for greatness, and never 
 flinches from her object till all is over. The magnitude of her 
 resolution almost covers the magnitude of her guilt. She is a 
 great bad woman, whom we hate, but whom we fear more than 
 hate. hazlitt. 
 
70 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Macbeth. If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere 
 well 
 It were done quickly : If the assassination 
 Could trammel up the consequence, and catch, 
 With his surcease, success ; that but this blow 
 Might be the be-all aud the end-all here, 
 But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, — 
 We'd jump the life to come. — But, in these cases, 
 We still have judgment here ; that we but teach 
 Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return 
 To plague the inventor: This even handed justice 
 Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice 
 To our own lips. He's here in double trust : 
 First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, 
 Strong both against the deed ; then, as his host, 
 Who should against his murderer shut the door, 
 Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan 
 Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been 
 So clear in his great office, that his virtues 
 Will plead like angels, trumpet- tongued, against 
 The deep damnation of his taking-off : 
 And pity, like a naked new born babe, 
 Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, hors'd 
 Upon the sightless couriers* of the air, 
 Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, 
 That tears shall drown the wind. — I have no spur 
 To prick the sides of my intent, but only 
 Vaulting ambition, which o'er-leaps itself, 
 And falls on the other. — How now, what news? 
 
 Enter Lady Macbeth. 
 
 Lady M. He has almost supp'd ; Why have you left thf 
 chamber ? 
 
 Macb. Hath he ask'd for me ? 
 
 Lady M. Know you not, he has ? 
 
 Macb. We will proceed no further in this business : 
 He hath houour'd me of late ; and I have bought 
 Golden opinions from all sorts of people, 
 Which would be worn now in their newest gloss. 
 
 Lady M. Was the hope drunk, 
 Wherein you dress'd yourself ? hath it slept since ? 
 And wakes it now, to look so green and pale 
 At what it did so freely ? From this lime, 
 Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard 
 To be the same in thine own act and valour, 
 As thou art in desire ? Would'st thou have that 
 Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, 
 
 * Winds, sightless is invisible. 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 71 
 
 And live a coward in thine own esteem ; 
 Letting I dare not wait upon I would, 
 Like the poor cat i'the adage ? 
 
 Macb. Pr'ythee, peace : 
 I dare do all that may become a man ; 
 Who dares do more, is none. 
 
 Lady M. What beast was it then, 
 That made you break this enterprize to me? 
 When you durst do it, then you were a man ; 
 And, to be more than what you were, you would 
 Be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place, 
 Did then adhere,* and yet you would make both : 
 They have made themselves, and that their fitness now 
 Does unmake you. I have given suck ; and know 
 How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me : 
 I would, while it was smiling in my lace, 
 Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums, 
 And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn, as you 
 Have done to this. 
 
 Macb. If we should fail, 
 
 Lady M. We fail ! 
 But screw your courage to the sticking-place, 
 And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep, 
 (Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey 
 Soundly invite him,) his two chamberlains 
 Will I with wine and wasself so convince, [j 
 That memory, the warder^ of the brain, 
 Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason 
 A limbeck only : When in swiuish sleep 
 Their drenched natures lie, as in a death, 
 What cannot you and I perfoim upon 
 The unguarded Duncan ? what not put upon 
 His spongy officers ; who shall bear the guilt 
 Of our great quell ?$ 
 
 Macb. Bring forth men-children only ! 
 Por thy undaunted mettle should compose 
 Nothing but males. Will it not be received, ^[ 
 When we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two 
 Of his own chamber, and used their very daggers, 
 That they have don't ? 
 
 Lady M. Who dares receive it other, 
 As we shall make our griefs and clamour roar 
 Upon his death ? 
 
 Macb. I am settled, and bend up 
 Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. 
 Away, and mock the time with fairest show : 
 False face must hide what the false heart doth know. 
 
 * In the same sense as cohere. 
 
 t An ancient beverage of ale, apples, and honey mixed. 
 
 M Overpower. j Sentinel. { Murder. *T Apprehended. 
 
72 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 THE MURDER OF DUNCAN. 
 
 Lady M. That which halh made them drunk, hath made 
 me hold : 
 What hath quench'd them hath given me fire :— Hark !— Peace ! 
 It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman, 
 Which gives the stem'st good-night. He is about it : 
 The doors are open : and the surfeited grooms 
 Do mock their charge with snores : I have drugg'd their 
 
 possets, 
 That death and nature do contend about them, 
 Whether they live, or die. 
 
 Macb. [Within.] Who's there? — what, ho ! 
 
 Lady M. Alack ! I am afraid they have awak'd, 
 And 'tis not done ; — the attempt, and not the deed, 
 Confounds us : — Hark ! — I laid their daggers ready, 
 He could not miss them. — Had he not resembled 
 My father as he slept, I had done't. — My husband ? 
 
 Enter Macbeth. 
 
 Macb. I have done the deed : — Didst thou not hear a noise ? 
 
 Lady; M. 1 heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry. 
 Did ) ou not speak ? 
 
 Macb. When ? 
 
 Lady M. Now. 
 
 Macb. As I descended ? 
 
 Lady M. Ay. 
 
 Macb. Hark! — 
 Who lies i'the second chamber? 
 
 Lady M. Donaldbain. 
 
 Macb. This is a sorry sight. 
 
 [Looking on his hands. 
 
 Lady M. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. 
 
 Macb. There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried, 
 murder ! 
 That they did wake each other; I stood and heard them : 
 But they did say their prayers, and address'd them 
 Again to sleep. 
 
 Lady M. There are two lodged together. 
 
 Macb. One cried, God bless us ! and Amen, the other; 
 As* they had seen me, with these hangman's hands, 
 Listening their fear — 1 could not say, Amen, 
 When they did say, God bless us. 
 
 Lady M. Consider it not so deeply. 
 
 Macb. But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen ? 
 I had most need of blessing, and Amen 
 Stuck in my throat. 
 
 • As if. 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 73 
 
 Lady M. These deeds must not be thought 
 After these ways ; so, it will make us mad. 
 
 Macb. Me thought I heard a \oice cry, Sleep no more ! 
 Macbeth does murder sleep, the innocent sleep ; 
 Sleep, that knits up the ravelUd slcave* of- care, 
 The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, 
 Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, 
 Chief nourisher in life's feast! 
 
 Lady M. What do you mean ? 
 
 Macb. Still it cried, Sleep no more ! to all the house : 
 Glamis has murder' d sleep ,• and therefore Cawdor 
 Shall sleep no more. Macbeth shall sleep no more ! 
 
 Lady M. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worth y 
 thane, 
 You do unbend your noble strength, to think 
 So brainsickly of things : — Go, get some water, 
 And wash this filthy witness from your hand. — 
 Why did you bring these daggers from the place r 
 They must lie there : Go, carry them ; and smear 
 The sleepy grooms with blood. 
 
 Macb. I'll go no more : 
 I am afraid to think what I have done ; 
 Look on't again, I dare not. 
 
 Lady M. Infirm of purpose ! 
 Give me the daggers : The sleeping, and the dead, 
 Are but as pictures : 'tis the eye of childhood, 
 That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, 
 I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, 
 For it must seem their guilt. 
 
 [Exit. Knocking within.] 
 
 Macb. Whence is that knocking ? 
 How is't with me, when every noise appals me ? 
 What hands are here ? Ha ! they pluck out mine eyes ! 
 Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood 
 Clean from my hand? No ; this my hand will rather 
 The multitudinous seas incarnardiueyf 
 Making the green — one red. 
 
 Re-enter Lady Macbeth. 
 
 Lady M. My hands are of your colour ; but I shame 
 To wear a heart so white. [Knock.} I hear a knocking 
 At the south entry : — retire we to our chamber: 
 A little water clears us of this deed : 
 How easy is it then ? Your constancy 
 Hath left you unattended. — [Knocking.'] Hark! more 
 
 knocking : 
 Get on your nightgown, least occasion call us, 
 
 * Sleave is wrought silk. t To incarnardine is to stain of a flesh colour. 
 I 
 
74 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 And show us to be watchers : — Be not lost 
 So poorly in your thoughts. 
 
 Macb. To know my deed, — 'twere best not know myself. 
 
 [Knock.] 
 Wake Duncan with thy knocking ! Would thou could'st ! 
 
 MACDUFF INFORMED OF THE MURDER OF HIS 
 WIFE AND CHILDREN. 
 
 There is an enchanting picture of deep distress in Macbeth, 
 wher Macduff is represented lamenting his wife and children, in- 
 humanly murdered by the tyrant. Stung to the heart with the 
 news, he questions the messenger over and over; not that he 
 doubted the fact, but that his heart revolted against so cruel a 
 misfortune. After struggling some time with his grief, he turns 
 from his wife and children to their savage butcher, and then gives 
 vent to his resentment, but still with manliness and dignity. 
 
 The whole scene is a delicious picture of human nature. One 
 expression only seems doubtful; in examining the messenger, 
 Macduff expresses himself thus : 
 
 " He hath no children. — All my pretty ones? 
 Did you say, all?— What all?— O hell-kite !— All? 
 What, all my pretty little chickens, and their dam, 
 At one fell swoop? 
 
 Metaphorical expression, I am sensible, may sometimes be used 
 with a grace, where a regular simile would be intolerable ; but 
 there are situations so severe and dispiriting, as not to admit even 
 the slightest metaphor. It requires great delicacy of taste to de- 
 termine with firmness, whether the present case be of that kind ; I 
 incline to think it is ; and yet I would not willingly alter a single 
 word of this admirable scene. lord kames. 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 75 
 
 Macd. See, who comes here ? 
 
 Enter Rosse. 
 
 Malcolm. My countryman ; but yet I know him not. 
 
 Macd. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither. 
 
 Mal. I know him now ; Good God, betimes remove 
 1 he means that make us strangers ! 
 
 Rosse. Sir, Amen. 
 
 Macd. Stands Scotland where it did ? 
 
 Rosse. Alas, poor country ; 
 Almost afraid to know itself! It caunot 
 Be call'd our mother, but our grave : where nothing, 
 But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile ; 
 Where sighs and groans, and shrieks that rend the air, 
 Are made, not mark'd ; where violent sorrow seems 
 A modern ecstacy ;* the dead mau's knell 
 Is there scarce ask'd for who ; and good men's lives, 
 Expire before the flowers in their caps, 
 Dying, or ere they sicken. 
 
 Macd. O relation, 
 Too nice 3 and yet too true ! 
 
 Mal. What is the newest grief ? 
 
 Rosse. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker; 
 Each minute teems a new one. 
 
 Macd. How does my wife? 
 
 Rosse. Why, well. 
 
 Macd. And all my children? 
 
 Rosse. Well too. 
 
 Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace ? 
 
 Rosse. No ; they were well at peace, when I did leave them. 
 
 Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech; How goes it ? 
 
 Rosse. When I came hither to transport the tidings, 
 Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour 
 Of many worthy fellows that were out ; 
 Which was to my belief witness'd the rather. 
 For that I saw the tyrant's power a-foot : 
 Now is the time of help ; your eye in Scotland 
 Would create soldiers, make our women fight, 
 To dofff their dire distresses. 
 
 Mal. Be it their comfort, 
 We are coming thither ; gracious England hath 
 Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men ; 
 An older and a better soldier none 
 That Christendom gives out. 
 
 Rosse. 'Would I could answer 
 This comfort with the like ! But I have words, 
 That would be howl'd out in the desert air, 
 
 * Common distress of raind. t Put off. 
 
 I 2 
 
76 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Where hearing should not latch* them. 
 
 Macd. What concern they ? 
 The general cause ? or is it a fee grief, f 
 Due to some single breast ? 
 
 Rosse. No mind, that's honest, 
 But in it shares some woe : though the main part 
 Pertains to you alone. 
 
 Macd. If it be mine, 
 Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. 
 
 Rosse. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, 
 Which shall possess them with the heaviest souud, 
 That ever yet they heard. 
 
 Macd. Humph ! 1 guess at it. 
 
 Rosse. Your castle is surprizM: your wife and babes 
 Savagely slaughter'd : to relate the manner, 
 Were, on the qT\arry|| of these murder'd deer, 
 To add the death of you. 
 
 Mal. Merciful heaven ! 
 What man ! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows ; 
 Give sorrow words : the grief, that does not speak, 
 Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break. 
 
 Macd. My children loo ? 
 
 Rosse. Wife, children, servants, all 
 That could be found. 
 
 Macd. And I must be from thence ! 
 My wife kill'd too ? 
 
 Rosse. I have said. 
 
 Mal. Be comforted : 
 Let's make us med'eines of our great revenge, 
 To cure this deadly grief. 
 
 Macd. He has no children. — All my pretty ones ? 
 Did you say, all?— O, hell-kite !— All ? 
 What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam, 
 At one fell swoop ? 
 
 Mal. Dispute it like a man. 
 
 Macd. I shall do so : 
 But I must also feel it as a man; 
 I cannot but remember such things were, 
 That were most precious to me.— Did heaven look on, 
 And would not take their part ? Sinful Macduff, 
 They were all struck for thee ! naught that I am, 
 Not for their own demerits, but for mine, 
 Fell slaughter on their souls : Heaven rest them now ! 
 
 Mal. Be this the whetstone of your sword : let grief 
 Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it. 
 
 Macd. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes, 
 And braggart with my tongue ! But, gentle heaven, 
 
 ' Catch. t A grief that has a single owner 
 II The Game after it is killed. 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 77 
 
 Cut short all intermission ;* front to front, 
 Bring thou this fiend of Scotland, and myself; 
 Within my sword's length set him ; if he 'scape, 
 Heaven forgive him too ! 
 
 Mal. This tune goes manly. 
 Come, go we to the king ; our power is ready ; 
 Our lack is nothing but our leave : Macbeth 
 Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above 
 Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may ;, 
 The night is long, that never finds the day. 
 
 LADY MACBETH WALKING IN HER SLEEP. 
 
 The intrepidity of Lady Macbeth's character is so marked that we 
 may well suppose no waking terrors could shake it, and in this light 
 it must be acknowledged a very natural expedient to make her 
 vent the agonies of her conscience in sleep. Drearrs have been a 
 dramatic expedient ever since there has been a drama ; JEschylus 
 recites the dieam of Clytemnestra immediately before Orestes kills 
 her ; she fancies she has given birth to a dragon, — 
 
 " This new born dragon, like an infant child 
 Laid in the cradle, seem'd in want of food ; 
 And in her dream she held it to her breast : 
 The milk he drew was mixed with clotted blood." 
 
 This which is done by iEschylus has been done by hundreds after 
 him ; but to introduce upon the scene the very person, walking in 
 sleep, and giving vent to the horrid fancies that haunt her dream, 
 in broken speeches expressive of her guilt, uttered before witnesses, 
 and accompanied with that natural and expressive action of wash- 
 ing the blood from her defiled hands, was reserved for the original 
 and bold genius of Shakespear only. It is an incident so full of 
 tragic horror, so daring, and at the same time so truly character- 
 istic, that it stands out-as a promineut feature in the most sublime 
 drama in the world. r. Cumberland. 
 
 * All pause 
 
 l 3 
 
78 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Doctor. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive 
 no truth in your report. When was it she last walked ? 
 
 Gentlewoman. Since his majesty went into the field, I have 
 seen her rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon her, 
 unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, 
 afterwards seal it, and again return to bed ; yet all this while in a 
 most fast sleep. 
 
 Doc. A great perturbation in nature ! to receive at once the 
 benefit of sleep, and to do the effects of watching. — In this 
 slumbry agitation, besides her walking, and other actual perform- 
 ances, what, at any time, have you heard her say ? 
 
 Gent. That, Sir, which I will not report after her. 
 
 Doct. You may, to me ; and 'tis most meet you should. 
 
 Gent. Neither to you, nor any one ; having no witness to con- 
 firm my speech. 
 
 Enter Lady Macbeth, with a Taper. 
 
 Lo you, here she comes ! This is her very guise ; and, upon my 
 life, fast asleep. Observe her ; stand close. 
 
 Doct. How came she by that light ? 
 
 Gent. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 
 'tis her command. 
 
 Doct. You see, her eyes are open. 
 
 Gent. Ay, but their sense is shut. 
 
 Doct. What is it she does now ? Look, how she rubs her 
 hands. 
 
 Gent. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus 
 washing her hands; I have known her continue in this a quarter 
 of an hour. 
 
 Lady M. Yet here's a spot. 
 
 Doct. Hark, she speaks : I will set down what comes from 
 her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. 
 
 Lady M. Out, damned spot! out, I say! — One; Two; 
 
 Why, then 'tis time to do't: -Hell is murky !* — Fie, my lord, 
 
 fie! a soldier, and afear'd? What need we fear who knows it, 
 when none can call our power to account ! — Yet who would have 
 thought the old man to have so much blood in him? 
 
 Doct. Do you mark that ? 
 
 Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife; Where is she now? 
 
 What, will these hands ne'er be clean ? — No more o'that, my 
 
 lord, no more o'that : you mar all with this starting. 
 
 Doct. Go to, go to ; you have known what you should not. 
 
 Gent. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that : 
 Heaven knows what she has known. 
 
 Lady M. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes 
 of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh ! oh ! 
 
 Doct. What a sight is there ! The heart is sorely charged. 
 
 Dark. 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 79 
 
 GfcNT. I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the 
 dignity of the whole body. 
 
 Doct. This disease is beyond my practice : Yet I have known 
 those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in 
 their beds. 
 
 Lady. M. Wash your hands, put on your night-gown ; look 
 not so pale:— I tell you yet again Banquo's buried; he cannot 
 come out of his grave. 
 
 Doct. Even so ? 
 
 Lady M. To bed, to bed ; there's knocking at the gate. — Come, 
 come, come, come, give me your hand ; What's done, cannot be 
 undone ; To bed, to bed, to bed. 
 
 [Exit Lady Macbeth.] 
 
 Doct. Will she go now to bed ? 
 
 Gent. Directly. 
 
 Doct. Foul whisperings are abroad: Unnatural deeds 
 Do breed unnatural troubles : Infected minds 
 To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. 
 More needs she the divine, than the physician. — » 
 Look after her ; 
 
 Remove from her the means of all annoyance, 
 And still keep eyes upon her: — So, good night: 
 My mind she's mated,* and amaz'd my sight : 
 I think, but dare not speak. 
 
 Gent. Good night, good doctor. 
 
 MACBETH INFORMED OF THE APPROACH OF 
 THE ENGLISH ARMY. 
 
 In the mean time, Malcolm purchased such favour at King 
 Edward's hands, that old Siward, Earl of Northumberland, was 
 appointed with ten thousand men to go with him into Scotland, 
 to support him in this enterprise, for the recovery of his right. 
 After these news were spread abroad in Scotland, the nobles drew 
 into two several factions, the one taking part with Macbeth, and 
 the other with Malcolm. — But Macbeth had such confidence in 
 bis prophecies, that he believed he should never be vanquished, 
 till Birnam Wood were brought to Dunsinane ; nor yet to be 
 slain with any man, that should be or was bom of any woman, 
 
 * Confounded 
 
80 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Malcolm following hastily after Macbeth, came the night before 
 the battle unto Birnam Wood, and when his army had rested 
 awhile there to refresh them, he commanded every man to get a 
 bough of some tree or other of that wood in his hand as big as he 
 might bear, and to march forth therewith in such wise, that on the 
 next morrow they might come closely and without sight in this 
 manner within view of his enemies. On the morrow when Mac- 
 beth beheld them coming in this sort, he first marvelled what the 
 matter meant, but in the end remembered himself that the pro- 
 phecy which he had heard long before that time, of the coming 
 of Birnam Wood to Dunsinane Castle, was likely to be now ful- 
 filled. Nevertheless, he brought his men in order of battle, 
 and exhorted them to do valiantly, howbeit his enemies had scarce- 
 ly cast from them their boughs, when Macbeth perceiving their 
 numbers, betook him straight to flight, whom Macduff pursued 
 with great hatred even till he came unto Lunfaonain, where Mac- 
 beth perceiving that Macduff was hard at his back, leaped beside 
 his horse, saying, " thou traitor, what meaneth it that thou 
 shouldest thus in vain follow me, that am not appointed to be 
 slain by any creature that is born of woman, come on therefore, 
 and receive thy reward which thou hast deserved for thy pains,' r 
 and therewithal he lifted up his sword thinking to have slain him.. 
 But Macduff quickly avoiding from his horse, ere he came at him, 
 answered (with his naked sword in his hand) saying, " it is true- 
 Macbeth, and now shall thy insatiable cruelty have an end, for I 
 am even he that thy wizards have told thee of, who was never 
 born of my mother, but ripped out of her womb :" therewithal he 
 stepped unto him, and slew him in the place. Then cutting his 
 head from his shoulders, he set it upon a pole, and brought it unto 
 Malcolm. This was the end of Macbeth, after he had reigned 
 seventeen years (from 1040 to 1057) over the Seottishmen. 
 
 HOLINSHED. 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 81 
 
 Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants. 
 
 Macb. Bring me no reports ; let then* fly all ; 
 Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinaue, 
 1 cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm ? 
 Was he not born of woman ? The spirits that know 
 All mortal consequents, pronounc'd me thus : 
 Fear not, Macbeth : no man, that's horn of woman, 
 
 Shall e'er have power on thee. Then fly, false thanes, 
 
 And mingle with the English epicures : 
 The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear, 
 Shall never sag* with doubt, nor shake with fear 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Thon cream-fac'd loon !f 
 
 Where got'st thou that goose look? 
 
 Serv. There is ten thousand 
 
 Macb. Geese, villain ? 
 
 Serv. Soldiers, Sir. 
 
 Macb. Go, prick thy face, and over-red thy fear, 
 Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch ?J| 
 Death of thy soul ! those linen cheeks of thine 
 Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face ? 
 
 Serv. The English force, so please you. 
 
 Macb. Take thy face hence. — Seyton! — I am sick at heart. 
 When I behold — Seyton, I say ! — This push 
 Will cheer me ever, or disseat me now. 
 I have liv'd long enough : my way of life 
 Is falPn into the sear,t the yellow leaf: 
 Aud that which should accompany old age, 
 As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, 
 I must not look to have ; but, in their stead, 
 Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath, 
 Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare not, 
 Seyton ! 
 
 Enter Seyton. 
 
 Sey. What is your gracious pleasure ? 
 
 Macb. What news more ? 
 
 Sey. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported. 
 
 Macb. IT1 fight, till from my bones my flesh be hack'd. 
 Give me my armour. 
 
 Sey. 'Tis not needed yet. 
 
 Macb. I'll put it on. 
 Send out more horses, skirr§ the country round ; 
 Hang those that talk of fear. — Give me miue armour. 
 How does your patient, doctor? 
 
 ink t Base fellow. i| An appellation ot coutenn't 
 
 t Dry. ] Scour. 
 
82 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Doct. Not so sick, my lord, 
 As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, 
 That keep her from her rest. 
 
 Macb. Cure her of that : 
 Caust thou not minister to a mind diseas'd ; 
 Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow ; 
 Raze out the written troubles of the brain ; 
 And, with some sweet oblivious antidote, 
 Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff, 
 Which weighs upon the heart ? 
 
 Doct. Therein the patient 
 Must minister to himself. 
 
 Macb. Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it. — 
 Come, put mine armour on ; give me my staff: — 
 Seyton, send out. — Doctor, the thanes fly from me : — 
 Come, Sir, despatch: — If thou could'st, doctor, cast 
 The water of my land, find her disease, 
 And purge it to a sound and pristine health, 
 I would applaud thee to the very echo, 
 That should applaud again. — Pull't off, I say. — 
 What rhubarb, senna ; or what purgative drug, 
 Would scour these English hence! — Hearest thou of them? 
 
 Doct. Ay, my good lord ; your royal preparation 
 Makes us hear something. 
 
 Macb. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; 
 The cry is still, They come : Our castle's strength 
 Will laugh a siege to scorn : here let them lie, 
 Till famine and the ague eat them up : 
 Were they not forc'd with those that should be our's, 
 We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, 
 And beat them backward home. What is that noise ? 
 
 {A cry within, of Women.] 
 
 Sey. It is the cry of women, my good lord. 
 
 Macb. I have almost forgot the taste of fears : 
 The time has been, my senses would have cool'd 
 To hear a night- shriek ; and my fell* of hair 
 Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir 
 As life were in't : I have supp'd full with horrors : 
 Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts, 
 Cannot once start me. — Wherefore was that cry ? 
 
 Sey. The queen, my lord, is dead. 
 
 Macb. She should have died hereafter ; 
 There would have been a time for such a word. — 
 To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, 
 Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 
 To the last syllable of recorded time; 
 And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
 
 ■* Skin. 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 83 
 
 The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle ! 
 Life's but a walking shadow ; a poor player, 
 That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
 And then is heard no more : it is a tale 
 Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
 
 Signifyiug nothing. 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 Thou com'st to use thy tongue ; thy story quickly. 
 
 Mess. Gracious my lord, 
 I shall report that which I say I saw, 
 But know not how to do it, 
 
 Macb. Well, say, Sir. 
 
 Mess. As I did stand my watch upon the hills, 
 I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, 
 The wood began to move. 
 
 Macb. Liar and slave ! 
 
 [Striking him.~\ 
 
 Mess. Let me endure your wrath, if 't be not so : 
 Within this three mile may you see it coming ; 
 I say, a moving grove. 
 
 Macb. If thou speak'st false, 
 Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, 
 Till famine cling* thee : if thy speech be sooth, 
 I care not if thou dost for me as much. — 
 I pull in resolution ; and begin 
 To doubt the equivocation of the fiend, 
 That lies like truth : Fear not, till Birnam wood 
 Do come to Dunsinane ; — and now a wood 
 
 Comes toward Dunsinane. — Arm, arm, and out ! 
 
 If this which he avouches, does appear, 
 
 There is nor flying hence, nor tarrying here, 
 
 I 'gin to be a- weary of the sun, 
 
 And wish the estate o'the world were now undone. — 
 
 Ring the alarum bell : — Blow, wind ! come, wrack ! 
 
 At least we'll die with harnessf on our back. 
 
 THE KING AND QUEEN'S REMONSTRANCE 
 WITH HAMLET. 
 
 King. Now, cousin Hamlet, and my son, 
 
 How is it, that the clouds still hang on you ? 
 
 ' Shrivel. +• Armour. 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 84 
 
 Ham. Not so, my lord. I am too much i'the sun. 
 
 Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy nightly colour off, 
 And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. 
 Do not, for ever, with thy veiled lids* 
 Seek for thy noble father in the dust : 
 Thou know'st 'tis common ; all that live must die j 
 Passing through nature to eternity. 
 
 Ham. Ay, madam, it is common. 
 
 Queen. If it be, 
 Why seems it so particular with thee ? 
 
 Ham. Seems, madam ! nay, it is ; I know not seems. 
 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, 
 Nor customary suits of solemn black, 
 Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath, 
 No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, 
 Nor the dejected haviour of the visage, 
 Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief, 
 That can denote me truly: These, indeed, seem, 
 For they are actions that a man might play : 
 But I have that within, which passeth show. — 
 These, but the trappings and the suits of woe. 
 
 King. 'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, 
 To give these mourning duties to your lather: 
 But, you must know, your father lost a father ; 
 That father lost his ; and the survivor bound 
 In filial obligation, for some term 
 To do obsequious sorrow : but to persever 
 In obstinate condolement, is a course 
 Of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief: 
 It shows a will most incorrect to heaven ; 
 A heart unfortified, or mind impatient ; 
 An understanding simple and unschool'd ; 
 For what we know must be, and is as common 
 As any the most vulgar thing to sense, 
 Why should we, in our peevish opposition, 
 Take it to heart ? Fie ! 'Tis a fault to heaven. 
 A fault against the dead, a fault to nature, 
 To reason most absurd ; whose common theme 
 Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried, 
 From the first corse, till he that died to-day, 
 This must be so. We pray you, throw to earth 
 This uuprevailing woe ; and think of us 
 As of a father : For let the world take note, 
 You are the most immediate to our throne ; 
 And with no less nobility of love, 
 Than that which dearest father bears his son, 
 Do I impart toward you. For your intent 
 Tn going back to school in Wittenberg, 
 
 * Lowering eyes. 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 85 
 
 It is most retrograde* to our desire ; 
 And, we beseech you, bend you to remain 
 Here, in the cheer and comfort of our eye, 
 Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son. 
 
 Queen. Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet ; 
 I pray thee, stay with us ; go not to Wittenberg. 
 
 Ham. I shall in all my best obey you, madam. 
 
 King. Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply ; 
 Be as ourself in Denmark. — Madam, come ; 
 This gentle and unforc'd accord of Hamlet 
 Sits smiling to my heart : in grace whereof, 
 No jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day, 
 But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell, 
 And the king's rousef the heaven shall bruitj again, 
 Re-speaking earthly thunder. 
 
 THE GHOST'S APPEARANCE TO HORATIO. 
 
 The introduction to the entrance of the Ghost in Hamlet, shows 
 infinite taste and judgement. Just as our feelings are powerfully 
 excited by the narration of its appearance on the foregoing evening, 
 the speaker is interrupted by "the majesty of buried Denmark" 
 once more standing before him : — 
 
 " The bell then beatiug one,— 
 
 But soft, break off !— look where it comes again !" 
 
 then the solemn adjurations to it to speak ; the awful silence which 
 it maintains; the impotent attempts to strike it; and the exclam- 
 ation of Horatio, when it glides away 
 
 " We do it wrong, being so majestical, 
 To offer it the show of violence," 
 
 present to us that shadowy and indistinct, but at the same time, 
 appalling and fearfully interesting picture, which constitutes one of 
 the highest efforts of the sublime. The interview with Hamlet is a 
 master-piece. The language of this awful visitant is admirably 
 
 5 Contrary. t Draught. t Report. 
 
 K 
 
86 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 characteristic. It is not of this world. It savours of the last long 
 resting place of mortality ; " of worms, and graves, and epitaphs." 
 It evinces little of human feeling and frailty. Vengeance is the 
 only passion which has survived the wreck of the body ; and it is 
 this passion which has burst the cerements of the grave, and sent 
 its occupant to revisit " the glimpses of the moon." Its discourse 
 is of murder, incest, suffering and revenge ; and gives us awful 
 glimpses of that prison house, the details of which are not permit, 
 ted to " ears of flesh and blood." Whether present or absent, we 
 are continually reminded of this perturbed Spirit. When on the 
 stage, " it harrows us with fear and wonder;" and when absent, we 
 see it in its influence on the persons of the drama, especially Ham- 
 let; The sensations of horror and revenge which at first possess 
 the mind of this Prince ; then his tardiness and irresolution, which 
 are chided by the re-appearance of the Spectre ; and his fears 
 notwithstanding all the evidence to the contrary, that it may be an 
 evil spirit, which, — 
 
 *' Out of his weakness and his melancholy, 
 Abuses him to damn him," 
 
 form one of the most affecting and interesting pictures in the 
 whole range of Shakespear's dramas. H. neele. 
 
 Horatio. What, has this thing appear'd again to-night ? 
 
 Bernardo. I have seen nothing. 
 
 Marcellus. Horatio says, 'tis but our fantasy; 
 And will not let belief take hold of him, 
 Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us : 
 Therefore I have entreated him, along 
 With us to watch the minutes of this night, 
 That, if again this apparition come, 
 He may approve* out eyes and speak to it. 
 
 Hor. Tush ! tush ! 'twill not appear. 
 
 Ber. Sit down awhile ; 
 And let us once again assail your ears, 
 That are so fortified against our story, 
 What we two nights have seen. 
 
 Hor. Well, sit we down, 
 And let us hear Bernardo speak of this. 
 
 " Make good or establish 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 87 
 
 Ber. Last night of all, 
 When yon same star, that's westward from the pole, 
 Had made his course to illume that part of heaven 
 Where now it burns, Marcellus, and myself, 
 The bell then beating one, — 
 
 Mar. Peace, break thee off — look, where it comes again i 
 
 Enter Ghost. 
 
 Ber. In the same figure like the king that's dead. 
 
 Mar. Thou art a scholar, speak to it, Hoiatio. 
 
 Ber. Looks it not like the king ? mark it, Horatio. 
 
 Hor. Most like : — It harrows me with fear, and wonder. 
 
 Ber. It would be spoke to. 
 
 Mar. Speak to it, Horatio. 
 
 Hor. What art thou, that usurp'st this time of night, 
 Together with that fair and warlike form 
 In which the majesty of buried Denmark 
 Did sometimes march ? — By heaven I charge thee, speak 1 
 
 Mar. It is offended. 
 
 Ber. See! it stalks away. 
 
 Hor. Stay j speak : speak I charge thee, speak. 
 
 {Exit Ghost.] 
 
 Mar. 'Tis gone, and will not answer. 
 
 Ber. How now, Horatio ? you tremble, and look pale : 
 Is not this something more than fantasy ? 
 What think you of it ? 
 
 Mar. Is it not like the king ? 
 
 Hor. As thou art to thyself : 
 Such was the very armour he had on. 
 When he the ambitious Norway combated : 
 So frown'd he once, when, in an angry parle,* 
 He smote the sleddedf Polackj; on the ice. 
 'Tis strange. 
 
 Mar. Thus, twice before, and jump|| at this dead hour, 
 With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch. 
 
 Hor. In what particular thought to work, 1 know not ; 
 But, in the gross and scope of mine opinion, 
 This bodes some strange eruption to our state — 
 
 Re-enter Ghost. 
 But. soft ; behold ! lo, where it comes again ! 
 I'll cross it, though it blast me. — Stay, illusion ! 
 If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, 
 Speak to me: 
 
 If there be any good thing to be done, 
 That may to thee do ease, and grace to me, 
 
 •Dispute. t Sledge, i An inhabitant of Poland. II Just. 
 
 k2 
 
THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Speak to me : 
 
 If thou art privy to thy country's fate, 
 
 Which, happily, foreknowing, may avoid, 
 
 O, speak ! 
 
 Or, if thou hast uphoarded in thy life 
 
 Extorted treasure in the womb of earth, 
 
 For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death, 
 
 [Cock crows.} 
 Speak of it: — stay, and speak. — Stop it, Marcellus. 
 
 Mar. Shall I strike at it with my partizan ? 
 
 Hon. Do, if it will not stand. 
 
 Ber. 'Tis here ' 
 
 Hor. 'Tis here ! 
 
 Mar. 'Tis gone ! 
 
 [Exit Ghost.] 
 We do it wrong, being so majestical, 
 To offer it the show of violence ; 
 For it is, as the air, invulnerable, 
 And our vain blows malicious mockery. 
 
 Ber. It was about to speak, when the cock crew. 
 
 Hor. And then it started like a guilty thing 
 Upon a fearful summons. I have heard, 
 The cock, that is the trumpet of the morn, 
 Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat 
 Awake the god of day ; and, at his warning, 
 Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, 
 The extravagant and erring* spirit hies 
 To his confine : and of the truth herein 
 This present object made probation.f 
 
 Mar. It faded on the crowing of the cock. 
 Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes 
 Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
 This bird of dawning singeth all night long : 
 And then they say no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
 The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, 
 No fairy tales, nor witch hath power to charm, 
 So hallow'd and so gracious is the time. 
 
 Hor. So I have heard, and do in part believe it. 
 But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, 
 Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill : 
 Break we our watch up ; and, by my advice, 
 Let us impart what we have seen to-night 
 Unto young Hamlet : for, upon my life, 
 This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him. 
 
 * Wandering. + Proof. 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 89 
 
 THE GHOST INCITES HAMLET TO REVENGE 
 HIS MURDER. 
 
 Ham. Whither wilt thou lead me ? Speak ; I'll go no fur- 
 ther. 
 Ghost. Mark me. 
 Ham. I will. 
 
 Ghost. My hour is almost come, 
 When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames 
 Must render up myself. 
 Ham. Alas, poor ghost ! 
 
 Ghost. Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing 
 To what I shall unfold. 
 
 Ham. Speak, I am bound to hear. 
 Ghost. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear. 
 Ham. What? 
 
 Ghost. I am thy father's spirit ; 
 Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night ; 
 And, for the day, confin'd to fast in fires,* 
 Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature, 
 Are burn'd and purg'd away. But that I am forbid 
 To tell the secrets of my prison-house, 
 I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word 
 Would harrow up thy soul ; freeze thy young blood ; 
 Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres ; 
 Thy kuotted and combined locks to part, 
 Like quills upon the fretful porcupine : 
 But this eternal blazonf must not be 
 To ears of flesh and blood : — List, list, O list ! — 
 
 If thou didst ever thy dear father love, 
 
 Ham. O heaven ! 
 
 Ghost. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder. 
 Ham. Murder? 
 
 Ghost. Murder most foul, as in the best it is ; 
 But this most foul, strange, and unnatural. 
 
 Ham. Haste me to know it ^ that I, with wings as swift 
 As meditation, or the thought of love, 
 May sweep to my revenge. 
 Ghost. I find thee apt ; 
 And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed 
 That rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf, 
 Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear ; 
 'Tis given out, that sleeping in mine orchard,^ 
 A serpent stung me ; so the whole ear of Denmark- 
 Is by a forged process of my death 
 
 This is a Romish purgatory, 
 t Displaj . + Garden. 
 
 k3 
 
90 THE POETICAL REVIEW, 
 
 Rankly abus'd : but know, thou noble youth, 
 The serpent that did! sting thy father's life, 
 Now wears his crown. 
 
 Ham. O, my prophetic soul! my uncle f 
 Ghost. Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, 
 With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts, 
 (O wicked wit, and gifts, that have the power 
 So to seduce !) won to his shameful lust 
 The will of my most seeming virtuous- queen r 
 O, Hamlet, what a falling-off was there? 
 From me, whose love was of that dignity, 
 That it went hand in hand pven with the vow 
 I made to her in marriage j and to decline 
 Upon a wretch, whose natural gifts were poor 
 To those of mine ! 
 
 But virtue, as it never will be mov r d, 
 Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven j 
 So lust, though to a radiant angel link'd, 
 Will sate* itself in a celestial bed, 
 And prey on garbage. 
 
 But, soft ! methinks I scent the morning air ; 
 Brief let me be : — Sleeping within mine orchard.. 
 My custom always of the afternoon, 
 Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole, 
 With juice of cursed hebenonf in a vial, 
 And in the porches of mine ears did pour 
 The leperous distilment ; whose effect 
 Holds such an enmity with blood of man, 
 That, swift as quicksilver, it courses through 
 The natural gates and alleys of the body ; 
 And, with a sudden vigour, it doth posset 
 And curd, like eager droppings into milk, 
 The thin aud wholesome blood : so did it mine. 
 Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand, 
 Of life, of crown, of queen, at once despatch'd : $ 
 Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, 
 Unhousel'd, disappointed, unanel'd : |j 
 
 * Satiate. t Henbane. % Bereft. 
 
 II This line, the subject of so much criticism and controversy, reads as it 
 generally stands both harshly and unintelligibly ; nor am I at all satisfied 
 with any of its amended readings, that I have yet met with — Housel, or 
 Housil, is an obsolete word in Chaucer to give or receive the Sacrament— I 
 therefore conceive the line to have been wiittcn originally thus — 
 
 " Unhousel'd, unanointed, and unknell'd;" 
 that is, cut off without receiving the last sacrament, without the grace of 
 extreme unction beingadministered, and without a passing knell, to proclaim 
 his departure, and call on every one within its sound (as was its original de- 
 sign) to pray for the peace of his departing soul. These were all affecting 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 91 
 
 No reckoning made, but sent to my account 
 With all my imperfections on my head. 
 
 Ham. O horrible ! O horrible ! most horrible ! 
 
 Ghost. If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not ; 
 Let not the royal bed of Denmark be 
 A couch for luxury and damned incest. 
 But, howsoever thou pursu'st this act, 
 Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive 
 Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven, 
 And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, 
 To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once ! 
 The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, 
 And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire : 
 Adieu, adieu, adieu ! remember me. [Exit.'] 
 
 Ham. O all you host of heaven ! O earth ! What else ? 
 And shall I couple hell ? — O fie ! — Hold, hold, my heart ; 
 And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, 
 But bear me stiffly up 1 — Remember thee ? 
 Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat 
 In this distracted globe.* Remember thee ? 
 Yea, from the table of my memory 
 I'll wipe away all trivial fond records, 
 All sawsf of books, all forms, all pressures past, 
 That youth and observation copied there ; 
 And thy commandment all alone shall live 
 Within the book and volume of my brain, 
 Unmix'd with baser matter. 
 
 HENRY IV. DEMANDS THE PRISONERS OF 
 HOTSPUR. 
 
 As Glendower committed devastations promiscuously on all the 
 English, he infested the estate of the Earl of March,! an( * s ^ r 
 Edmund Mortimer, uncle to that nobleman, led out the retainers 
 of the family, and gave battle to the Welsh chieftain : his troops 
 
 circumstances according to the superstition of the age when Shakespear sup- 
 posed Hamlet and his father to have lived. With such an exposition the 
 text is perfectly clear and intelligible.—/. F. Pennie. 
 
 * Head. t Sayings, sentences. 
 % Henry IV was weanng the crown which, by hereditary right, belonged 
 to this Earl, Edmund Mortimer. His sister Ann's grandson was Edward 
 lV.-[Edl 
 
92 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 were routed, and he was taken prisoner. At the same time the 
 Earl himself, who had been allowed to retire to his castle of Wig ■ 
 more, and who, though a mere boy, took the field with his follow - 
 ers, fell also into Glendower's hands, and was carried by him into 
 Wales. As Henry dreaded and hated all the family of March, he 
 allowed the Earl to remain in captivity ; and though that young 
 nobleman was nearly allied to the Percies, to whose assistance he 
 himself owed his crown, he refused to the Earl of Northumber- 
 land permission to treat of his ransom with Glendower. 
 
 In the subsequent season, Archibald Earl of Douglas, at the 
 head of 12,000 men, and attended by many of the principal nobi- 
 lity of Scotland, made an irruption into England, and committed 
 devastations on the northern counties. On his return home, he 
 was overtaken by the Percies at Homeldon, on the borders of 
 England, and a fierce battle ensued, where the Scots were com- 
 pletely routed. Douglas himself was taken prisoner; as was 
 Mordac Earl of Fife, son of the Duke of Albany, and nephew of 
 the Scottish King, with the Earls of Angus, Murray, and Orkney, 
 and many others of the gentry and nobility. When Henry re- 
 ceived intelligence of this victory, he sent the Earl of Northum- 
 berland orders not to ransom his prisoners, which that nobleman 
 regarded as his right by the laws of war received in that age. 
 The King intended to detain them, that he might be able, by their 
 means, to make an advantageous peace with Scotland ; but by 
 this policy he gave disgust to the family of Percy. HUME. 
 
 The stern authority the King assumes on Hotspur's disobedience 
 to his commands, could not fail to inflame a warm young hero 
 flushed with recent victory, and elate with the consciousness of 
 having so well defended a crown, which his father and uncle had in 
 a manner conferred. As Shakespear designed Percy should be an 
 interesting character, his disobedience to the King, in regard to 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 93 
 
 the prisoners, is mitigated by his pleading the unfitness of the person 
 and unfavourableness of the occasion to urge him on the subject. 
 To this effeminate courtier, says he 
 
 ■' I then, all smarting' with my wounds being cold, 
 Out of my grief and my impatieuce 
 To be so pester'J with a popinjay, 
 Answer'd neglectingly — I know not what." 
 
 Thus has the poet artfully taken from the rebel the hateful crimes 
 of premeditated revolt and deep laid treachery. He is hurried by 
 an impetuosity of soul out of the sphere of obedience, and, like 
 a comet, though dangerous to the general system, is still an object 
 of admiration and wonder to every beholder. It is marvellous, 
 that Shakespear, from bare chronicles, coarse history, and tradi- 
 tional tales, could thus extract the wisdom and caution of the 
 politician Henry, and catch the fire of the martial spirit of Hot- 
 spur. His misdemeanors rise so naturally out of his temper, and 
 that temper is so noble, that we are almost as much interested for 
 him as for a more virtuous character. 
 
 " His trespass may be well forgot, 
 
 It hath th' excuse of youth and heat of blood, 
 
 And an adopted name of privilege, 
 
 An hair-brain'd Hotspur govern' d by a spleen." 
 
 The great aspiring soul of Hotspur bears out rebellion : it seems, 
 in him, to flow from an uncontrollable energy of soul, born to 
 give laws, too potent to receive them. In every scene he appears 
 with the same animation ; he is always that Percy — 
 
 " Whose spirit lent a fire 
 Even to the dullest peasant in the camp, 
 Led ancient lords and reverend bishops on 
 To bloody Dattles, and to bruising arms." 
 
 MRS. MONTAGU. 
 
04 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 King Henry, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur, .Sir 
 Walter Blunt, and others. 
 
 K. Hen. My blood hath been too cold and temperate, 
 Unapt to stir at these indignities, 
 And you have found me ; for accordingly, 
 You tread upon my patience ; but, be sure, 
 I will from henceforth rather be myself, 
 Mighty, and to be fear'd, than my condition ;* 
 Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down, 
 And therefore lost that title of respect, 
 Which the proud soul ne'er pays but to the proud. 
 
 Wor. Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves 
 The scourge of greatness to be used on it ; 
 And that same greatness too which our own bands 
 Have holp to make so portly. 
 
 Norih. My lord, — 
 
 K. Hen. Worcester, get thee gone, for I see danger 
 And disobedience in thine eye ; O, Sir, 
 Your presence is too bold aud peremptory, 
 And majesty might never yet endure 
 The moody frontierf of a servant brow. 
 You have good leave* to leave us; when we need 
 Your use and counsel, we shall send for you. — 
 
 [Exit Worcester. 
 You were about to speak. [To North. 
 
 North. Yea, my good lord. 
 Those prisoners in your highness' name demanded, 
 Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took, 
 Were, as he says, not with such strength denied 
 As is deliver'd to your majesty : 
 Either envy, therefore, or misprison 
 Is guilty of this fault, and not my son: 
 
 Hot. My liege, I did deny no prisoners. 
 But, I remember, when the fight was done, 
 When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil, 
 Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword 
 Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress'd, 
 Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new reap'd, 
 Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest home ; 
 He was perfumed like a milliner ; 
 And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held 
 A pouncet-box,|| which ever and anon 
 He gave his nose, and took't away again ; — 
 Who, therewith angry, when it next came there, 
 Took it in snuff:— and still he smil'd, and talk'd ; 
 And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, 
 
 * Disposition. t Forehead. % Ready assent. 
 
 II A small box for musk and other perfumes. 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 95 
 
 He call'd them- — untaught knaves, unmannerly, 
 
 To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse 
 
 Betwixt the wind and his nobility. 
 
 With many holiday and lady terms 
 
 He question'd me ; among the rest demanded 
 
 My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf. 
 
 I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold, 
 
 To be so pester'd with a popinjay,* 
 
 Out of my grieff and my impatience, 
 
 Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what; 
 
 He should, or he should not; for he made me mad, 
 
 To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, 
 
 And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman, 
 
 Of guns, and drums, and wounds, 
 
 And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth 
 
 Was parmaceti, for an inward bruise ; 
 
 And that it was great pity, so it was, 
 
 That villanous saltpetre should be digg'd 
 
 Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, 
 
 Which many a good tall X fellow had destroy 'd 
 
 So cowardly ; and, but for these vile guns, 
 
 He would himself have been a soldier. 
 
 This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, 
 
 I answer'd indirectly, as I said ; 
 
 And, I beseech you, let not this report 
 
 Come current for an accusation. 
 
 Betwixt my love and your high majesty. 
 
 Blunt. The circumstance consider'd, good my lord, 
 Whatever Harry Percy then hath said, 
 To such a person, and in such a place, 
 At such a time, with all the rest re-told, 
 May reasonably die, and never rise 
 To do him wrong, or any way impeach 
 What then he said, so he unsay it now. 
 
 K. Hen. Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners, 
 But with proviso, and exception, — 
 That we, at our own charge, shall ransom straight 
 His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer ; 
 Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray'd 
 The lives of those that he did lead to fight 
 Against the great magician, damn'd Glendower ; 
 Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March 
 Hath lately married. Shall our coffers then 
 Be emptied, to redeem a traitor home? 
 Shall we buy treason ? and indent|| with fears, 
 When they have lost and forfeited themselves ? 
 No, on the barren mountains let him starve ; 
 
 Parrot. + Pain. t Brave. II Sign an indenture. 
 
96 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 For I shall never hold that man my friend, 
 Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost 
 To ransom home revolted Mortimer. 
 
 Hot. Revolted Mortimer ! 
 He never did fall off, my sovereign liege, 
 But by the chance of war : To prove that true, 
 Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds, 
 Those mouthed wounds which valiantly he took, 
 When on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank, 
 In single opposition, hand to hand, 
 He did confound the best part of an hour 
 In changing hardiment* with great Glendower : 
 Three times they breath'd, and three times did they drink,f 
 Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood; 
 Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks, 
 Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds, 
 And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank, 
 Blood-stained with these valiant combatants. 
 Never did bare and rotten policy 
 Colour her working with such deadly wounds ; 
 Nor never could the noble Mortimer 
 Receive so many, and all willingly : 
 Then let him not be slander'd with revolt. 
 
 K. Hen. Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him 
 He never did encounter with Glendower : 
 I tell thee, 
 
 He durst as well have met the devil alone, 
 As Owen Glendower for an enemy. 
 Art not ashamed ? But, Sirrah, henceforth 
 Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer : 
 Send me your prisoners with the speediest means, 
 Or you shall hear in such a kind from me 
 As will displease you. — My lord Northumberland, 
 We license your departure with your son : — 
 Send us your prisoners, or you'll hear of it. 
 
 [Exeunt King Henry, Blunt, and Train.] 
 Hot. And if the devil come and roar for them, 
 I will not send them : — I will after straight, 
 And tell him so ; for I will ease my heart, 
 Although it be with hazard of my my head. 
 
 * Hardiness. 
 + When any two knights had fought so long as to be fatigued, they fairly 
 and easily departed, and sat themselves down by the side of a stream and 
 took off their helmets. On being refreshed they donned their armour, and 
 returned to the fight.— Mills's History of Chivalry .—[Ed.] 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 97 
 
 THE DEATH OF HUMPHREY DUKE OF 
 GLOUCESTER. 
 
 The Queen,* the Cardinal,! ana " Suffolk,]: thinking they might now 
 attempt and execute anything with impunity, determined to rid 
 themselves of their most formidable adversary the Duke of Glou- 
 cester. || The last parliament had been so obsequious, that they 
 seem to have imagined they could procure his legal condemnation. 
 With this view a parliament was summoned to meet at St. Ed- 
 mundsbury, February 10, 1447. The Duke, dreading no danger, 
 «ame from his castle of the Devizes, with a small retinue, to the 
 place appointed. At the opening of the parliament every thing 
 was transacted in the usual form, and nothing appeared to excite 
 suspicion. But on the next day, the Lord Beaumont, constable of 
 England, attended by the Duke of Buckingham, and several other 
 peers of Suffolk's party, arrested and imprisoned the Duke of 
 Gloucester, seizing at the same time all his attendants, and com- 
 mitting them to different prisons. The courtiers gave out, that 
 the Duke had formed a conspiracy to kill the king, and place him- 
 self on the throne ; to deliver his duchess from prison and make 
 her Queen of England ; and that he was to be immediately 
 brought to trial for high treason. But finding that this impro- 
 bable tale, of which they could produce no evidence, met with no 
 credit, they changed their plan, and resolved to dispatch him pri- 
 vately, rather than bring him to a public trial. Accordingly, some 
 time after his commitment, he was one morning found dead in 
 his bed, though he had been in perfect health on the preceding 
 evening. His dead body, which had no marks of violence upon 
 it, was exposed to the view of the parliament and of the people, 
 to persuade them that he had died a natural death. But in this 
 they had but little success ; for though the several reports that 
 were circulated concerning the manner of his death were probably 
 
 * Margaret of Anjou, Queen of Henry VI. 
 
 t Cardinal Beaufort, brother to Henry IV. 
 
 i William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk. 
 
 !! Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, son of Henry IV. and uncle to Henry VI. 
 
98 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 no better than mere conjectures, it was universally believed that 
 he had fallen a victim to the malice aud cruelty of his three capi 
 tal enemies; who on that account became the objects of public 
 hatred. One of the most inveterate of these enemies, the rich, 
 cunning, and ambitious Cardinal of Winchester, did not long sur- 
 vive him, dying April 11, in great horror, and bitterly reproach- 
 ing his riches, because they could not prolong his Life. 
 
 Henry's History of Great Britain 
 
 Warwick. It is reported, mighty sovereign, 
 That good duke Humphrey traitorously is murder'd 
 By Suffolk and the cardinal Beaufort's means, 
 The commons, like an angry hive of bees, 
 That want their leader, scatter up and down, 
 And care not whom they sting in his revenge. 
 Myself have calm'd their spleenful mutiny, 
 Until they hear the order of his death. 
 
 K. Hen. That he is dead, good Warwick, 'tis too true; 
 But how he died, God knows, not Henry. 
 
 The folding Doors of an inner Chamber are thrown open, and 
 Gloster is discovered lying dead in his Bed. 
 
 War. Come hither, gracious sovereign, view this body. 
 
 K. Hen. That is to see how deep my grave is made : 
 For, with his soul, fled all my worldly solace; 
 For seeing him, I see my life in death.* 
 
 War. As surely as my soul intends to live 
 With that dread King that took our state upon him 
 To free us from his Father's wrathful curse, 
 I do believe that violent hands were laid 
 Upon the life of this thrice-famed duke. 
 
 Suffolk. A dreadful oath, sworn with a solemn tongue 1 
 What instance gives lord Warwick for his vow ? 
 
 War. See, how the blood is settled in his face ! 
 Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost, t 
 Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale, and bloodless, 
 Being all descended to the labouring heart ; 
 Who, in the conflict that it holds with death, 
 Attracts the same for aidance 'gainst the enemy ; 
 Which with the heart there cools and ne'er returneth 
 To blush and beautify the cheek again. 
 But, see, his face is black, and full of blood ; 
 His eye-balls farther out than when he liv'd, 
 
 * i. e. I see my life destroyed or endangered by his death. 
 
 i A body become inanimate in the common course of nature j to which 
 
 violence has not brought a timeless end. 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 99 
 
 Staring full ghastly like a strangled man : 
 His hair uprear'd, his nostrils stretch'd with struggling ; 
 His hands abroad display'd, as one that grasp'd 
 And tugg'd for life, and was by strength subdued. 
 Look on the sheets, his hair, you see, is sticking ; 
 His well-proportioned beard made rough and rugged, 
 Like to the summer's corn by tempest lodg'd. 
 It cannot be, but he was murder' d here ; 
 The least of all these signs were probable. 
 
 Suf. Why, Warwick, who should do the duke to death ? 
 Myself, and Beaumont, had him in protection ; 
 And we, I hope, Sir, are no murderers. 
 
 War. But both of you were vow'd duke Humphrey's foes ; 
 And you, forsooth, had the good duke to keep : 
 'Tis like you would uot feast him like a friend ; 
 And 'tis well seen he found an enemy. 
 
 Q. Mar. Then you, belike suspect these Noblemen 
 As guilty of duke Humphrey's timeless death. 
 
 War. Who finds the heifer dead, and bleeding fresh, 
 And sees fast by a butcher with an axe, 
 But will suspect 'twas he that made the slaughter ? 
 Who find's the partridge in the puttock's nest, 
 But may imagine how the bird was dead, 
 Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak ? 
 Even so suspicious is this tragedy. 
 
 Q. Mar. Are you the butcher, Suffolk ; where's your knife ? 
 Is Beaufort term'd a kite ? where are his talons? 
 
 Sur. I wear no knife, to slaughter sleeping men; 
 But here's a vengeful sword, rusted with ease. 
 That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart, 
 That slanders me with murder's crimson badge : 
 Say, if thou dar'st, proud lord of Warwickshire, 
 That I am faulty in duke Humphrey's death. 
 
 War. What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk dare him ? 
 
 Q. Mar. He dares not calm his contumelious spirit, 
 Nor cease to be au arrogant controller, 
 Though Suffolk dare him twenty thousand times. 
 
 War. Madam, be still : with reverence may I say, 
 For every word you speak in his behalf, 
 Is slander to your royal dignity. 
 
 Suf. Blunt- witted lord, ignoble in demeanor; 
 If ever lady wrong'd her lord so much, 
 Thy mother took into her blameful bed 
 Some stern untutor'd churl, and noble stock 
 Was graft with crab- tree slip ; whose fruit thou art, 
 And never of the Nevils' noble race. 
 
 War. But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee, 
 And I should rob the deathsman of his fee, 
 Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames, 
 And that my sovereign's presence makes me mild, 
 L 2 
 
KX) THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 I would, false murdeious coward, on thy knee r 
 Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech : 
 And, after all this fearful homage done, 
 Give thee thy hire, and send thy soul to hell, 
 Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men ! 
 
 Suf. Thou shalt be wakisg, while I shed thy blood, 
 If from this presence thou dar'st go with me. 
 
 War. Away even now, or I will drag thee hence : 
 Unworthy though thou art, I'll cope with thee, 
 And do some service to duke Humphrey's ghost. 
 
 [Exeunt Suffolk and Warwick. ]. 
 
 K. Hen. What stronger breast-plate than a heart untainted ? 
 Thrice is he arm'd, that hath his quarrel just ; 
 And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, 
 Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. 
 
 THE DEATH OF CARDINAL BEAUFORT. 
 
 We owe to Hall an account of Cardinal Beaufort's death-bed 
 feelings, which, coming from his own chaplain, may be considered 
 as authentic. As he lay upon that pillow from which be was 
 never to rise in this world, he was heard to exclaim, " Why 
 should I die, having so much riches ? If the whole realm would 
 save my life, I am able, either by policy to get it, or by riches to 
 buy it. Fie ! will not death be hindered ? nor will money do nothing ? 
 When my nephew of Bedford died, I thought myself half up the 
 wheel: but when I saw mine other nephew of Gloucester de- 
 ceased, then I thought myself able to be equal with kings; and 
 so thought to increase my treasure, in hope to have worn a triple 
 crown. But I see now the world faileth me ; and so I am de- 
 ceived. I pray you all to pray for me."* 
 
 The end of those who were concerned in the arrest, if not in 
 the murder, of the Duke of Gloucester, was peculiarly unhappy. 
 The Duke of Somerset, his nephew, in less than twelve months 
 
 " That he expired in the agonies of despair, is a fiction, which we owe 
 to the imagination of Shakespear: from an eyewitness we learn that dur- 
 ing a lingering illness, he devoted most of his time to religious exercises. — 
 Lingard.— [Ed.~] 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 101 
 
 afterwards, committed suicide because that courtly favour waned, 
 which, by his co-operation with its worst measures, he had sought 
 to secure. The Duke of Suffolk perished violently. The Duke 
 of Buckingham was wounded in the first, and killed in the third 
 battle of the civil war, in which Lord Beaumont fell ; and the 
 most distinguished other members of the administration were mur- 
 dered by a future insurgent mob. The Queen herself, so far from 
 profiting by it, found all her ambitious hopes defeated by its oc- 
 currence. Crime usually disappoints the hope that adopts it. 
 Sharon Turner's History of England during the Middle Ages . 
 
 King Henry, Salisbury, Warwick, and others. — The Car- 
 dinal in Bed ; Attendants with him. 
 
 K. Hen. How fares my lord? Speak, Beaufort, to thy 
 
 sovereigu. 
 Car. If thou be'st death, I'll give thee England's treasure, 
 Euough to purchase such another island, 
 So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain. 
 
 K. Hen. Ah ! what a sie;n it is of evil life, 
 When death's approach is seen so terrible ! 
 
 War. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee. 
 Car. Bring me uuto my trial when you will. 
 Died he not in his bed ? where should he die ? 
 Can I make men live, whe'r they will or no ? 
 Oh ! torture me no more, I will confess. — 
 Alive again ? Then show me where he is ; 
 I'll give a thousand pounds to look upon him. — 
 He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them. — 
 Comb down his hair ; look ! look ! it stands upright, 
 Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul ! — 
 Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary 
 Bring the strong poison that I bought of him. 
 
 K. Hen. O thou eternal Mover of the heavens, 
 Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch ! 
 O beat away the busy meddling fiend, 
 That lays strong siege upon this wretch's soul, 
 And from his bosom purge this black despair ! 
 War. See how the pangs of death do make him grin. 
 Sal. Disturb him not, let him pass peaceably. 
 K. Hen. Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure be ! 
 Lord Cardinal, if thou think'st on heaven's bliss, 
 Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. — 
 He dies, and makes no sign ; O God, forgive him ! 
 War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life. 
 
 l3 
 
102 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 K. Hen. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.- 
 Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close ; 
 And let us all to meditation. 
 
 RICHARD III. INFORMED OF RICHMOND'S 
 APPROACH TO CLAIM THE CROWN. 
 
 No one gave the King more anxiety than Lord Stanley, a nobleman 
 of extensive influence in Cheshire and Lancashire. On the one hand 
 he had hitherto served Richard with unwearied zeal : on the other 
 he had married the mother of the pretender to the crown. To 
 attach him more firmly to the royal interests, the king had lavished 
 favours upon him : but at the same time to keep him always un- 
 der his own eye, he had made him steward of the household. 
 When at last, Lord Stanley urged his former services to obtain 
 permission to visit his estates, Richard consented with reluctance, 
 but retained at court the Lord Strange as a hostage for the fidelity 
 of his father. lingard. 
 
 It is not only a curious but a delightful task to examine by 
 what subtle and almost imperceptible touches Shakespear contrives 
 to set such marks upon his characters,- as give them the most liv- 
 ing likenesses that can be conceived. In this above all poets that 
 ever existed, he is a study and model of perfection. The great 
 distinguishing passions every poet may describe ; but Shakespear 
 gives you their humours, their minutest foibles, those little starts- 
 and caprices, which nothing but the most intimate familiarity 
 brings to light. Other authors write characters like historians ; 
 he like the bosom friend of the person he describes. 
 
 I am persuaded I need not point out to the reader's sensibility 
 the fine turn in the expression, good Catesby ! How can we be 
 surprised if such a poet makes us in love even with his villains? 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 103 
 
 Lord Stanley reports to Richard — 
 
 Richmond is on the seas. 
 K. RICH. There let him sink, and be the seas on' him ! 
 White-Iiver'd runagate, what doth he there? 
 
 This reply is pointed with irouy and invective : there are two 
 causes in nature and character for this ; first, Richard was before 
 informed of the news ; his person was not taken by surprise, and 
 he was enough at ease to make a play upon Stanley's words — on 
 the seas — and retort — be the seas on him! — Secondly, Stanley 
 was a suspected subject, Richard was therefore interested to show 
 a contempt of his competitor before a man of such doubtful alle- 
 giance. In the spirit of this impression he urges Stanley to give 
 an explicit answer to the question — What doth he there? Stan- 
 ley endeavours to evade by answering that he knows not but by 
 guess : the evasion only strengthens Richard's suspicions, and he 
 again pushes him to disclose what he only guesses — Well as you 
 guess — Stanley replies — 
 
 He makes for England here to claim the crown. 
 
 K. RICH. Is the chair empty? Is the sword unsway'd ? 
 Ts the king dead ? The empire unpossess'd ? 
 What heir of York is there alive but we ? 
 And vho is England's king, but great York's heir ? 
 Then, tell me, what makes he upon the seas? 
 
 What a cluster of characteristic excellencies are here ? All these 
 interrogatives are ad hominem ; they fit no man but Stanley, they 
 can be uttered by no man but Richard, and they can flow from the 
 conceptions of no poet but the poet of nature. 
 
 Stanley's whole scene ought to be investigated, for it is full of 
 beauties, but I confess myself exhausted with the task, and lan- 
 guage does not suffice to furnish fresh terms of admiration, which 
 a closer scrutiny would call forth. n. Cumberland. 
 
104 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 K. Richard. How now ? what news ? 
 
 Enter Ratcliff ; Catesby /oZZon;m(jr. 
 
 Rat. Most mighty sovereign, on the western coast 
 Rideth a puissant navy ; to the shore 
 Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends, 
 Unarm' d, aud unresolv'd to beat them back : 
 'Tis thought, that Richmond is their admiral ; 
 And there they hull, expecting but the aid 
 Of Buckingham, to welcome them ashore. 
 
 K. Rich. Some light-foot friend post to the duke of Nor- 
 folk:— 
 Ratcliff, thyself, — or Catesby ; where is he ? 
 
 Cate. Here, my good lord. 
 
 K. Rich. Catesby, fly to the duke. 
 
 Cate. I will, my lord, with all convenient haste. 
 
 K. Rich. Ratcliff, come hither > Post to Salisbury ; 
 When thou com'st thither, — Dull unmindful villain, 
 
 [To Catesby.] 
 
 Why stay'st thou here, and goest not to the duke ? 
 
 Cate. First, mighty liege, tell me your highness' pleasure, 
 What from your grace 1 shall deliver to him. 
 
 K. Rich. O, true, good Catesby ; — Bid him levy straight 
 The greatest strength aud power he can make, 
 And meet me suddenly at Salisbury. 
 
 Cate. I go. [Exit.] 
 
 Rat. What, may it please you, shall I do at Salisbury ? 
 
 K. Rich. W T hy, what would'st thou do there, before I go ? 
 
 Rat. Your highness told me, I should post before. 
 
 Enter Stanley. 
 
 K.Rich. My mind is chang'd.--Stanley, what news with you ? 
 
 Stan. Mone good, my liege, to please you with the hearing ; 
 Nor none so bad, but well may be reported. 
 
 K. Rich. Heyday, a riddle ! neither good nor bad ! 
 What need'st thou run so many miles about, 
 When thou may'st tell thy tale the nearest way ? 
 Once more what news ? 
 
 Stan. Richmond is on the seas. 
 
 K. Rich. There let him sink, and be the seas on him ! 
 White-liver'd runagate, what doth he there ? 
 
 Stan. I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess. 
 
 K. Rich. Well, as you guess ? 
 
 Stan. Stirr'd up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton, 
 He makes for England here to claim the crown. 
 
 K. Rich. Is the chair empty? is the sword unsway'd ? 
 Is the king dead ? The empire unpossess'd ? 
 What heir of York is there alive, but we ? 
 And who is England's king, but great York's heir ? 
 
SHAKESPEAR. 105 
 
 Then, tell me, what makes he upon the seas ? 
 
 Stan Unless for that, my liege, I canuot guess. 
 
 K. Rich. Unless for that he comes to be your liege. 
 You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes. 
 Thou wilt revolt, and fly to him, I fear. 
 
 Stan. No, mighty liege ; therefore mistrust me not. 
 
 K. Rich. Where is thy power then, to beat him back ? 
 Where be thy tenants and thy followers } 
 Are they not now upon the western shore, 
 Safe conducting the rebels from their ships ? 
 
 Stan. No, my good lord, my good friends are in the north, 
 
 K. Rich. Cold friends to me : what do they in the north, 
 When they should serve their sovereign in the west ? 
 
 Stan. They have not been commanded, mighty king : 
 Pleaseth your majesty to give me leave, 
 I'll muster up my friends ; and meet your graee, 
 Where and what time your majesty shall please. 
 
 K. Rich. Ay, ay, thou would'st be gone to join with 
 Richmond : 
 I will not trust you, Sir, 
 
 Stan. Most mighty sovereign, 
 You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful ; 
 1 never was nor never will be false. 
 
 K. Rich. Well, go muster men. But, hear you, leave 
 behind 
 Your son, George Stanley j look your heart be firm, 
 Or else his head's assurance is but frail. 
 
 Stan. So deal with him, as I prove true to you. 
 
 [Exit Stanley.} 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 Mess. My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire* 
 As I by friends am well advertised, 
 Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty plelate, 
 Bishop of Exeter, his elder brother, 
 With many more confederates are in arms. 
 
 Enter another Messenger. 
 
 2 Mess. In Kent, my liege, the Guildfords are in arms ; 
 And every hour more competitors* 
 
 Flock to the rebels, and their power grows strong. 
 
 Enter another Messenger. 
 
 3 Mess. My lord, the army of great Buckingham— 
 
 K. Rich. Out on ye, owls ! nothing but songs of death ? 
 
 [He strikes him.] 
 % Associates. 
 
106 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 There, take thou that, till thou bring better news. 
 
 3 Mess. The news I have to tell your majesty, 
 Is, — that by sudden floods and fall of waters, 
 Buckingham's army is dispers'd and scatter'd ; 
 And he himself wander'd away alone, 
 No man knows whither. 
 
 K. Rich. Oh ! I cry you mercy : 
 There is my purse to cure that blow of thine. 
 Hath any well advised friend proclaim'd 
 Reward to him that brings the traitor in ? 
 
 3 Mess. Such proclamation hath been made, my liege. 
 
 ON shakespear's poems. 
 
 Shakespear's poems are almost all lost in the glory of his 
 Dramas. Even they who know them, and are capable of under- 
 standing and feeling their numerous beauties, do not, unless we 
 greatly err, recur so often as they ought to do to their pei usal j 
 while the ordinary readers of poetry are satisfied with believing, 
 that they are every thing that good judges have said of them — but 
 go no farther. It is with Shakespear as with a great conqueror 
 whose many inferior achievements are forgotten in the fame of 
 his splendid and decisive victories. — Wyat, Surrey, Watson, Sid- 
 ney, Daniel, Spenser, and Drayton, had all written beautiful son- 
 nets before Shakespear — and if his be compared with the finest of 
 those writers, it will be at once seen, that while there is nothing in 
 which he does not equal them, he far excels them all in originality 
 of illustration, ingenuity of sentiment, delicacy of pathos, strength 
 of passion, and profound reflection on human life. A question of 
 much difficulty, and certainly of no little interest, has long existed 
 among critics, as to the person to whom these sonnets were ad- 
 dressed. Farmer, Steevens, and Malone, though differing in opin- 
 ion concerning some other points connected with the dispute, 
 agree in believing, that the greatest number of them were addressed 
 to a man, and perhaps twenty-eight to a lady. Dr. Drake is of 
 opinion that the person to whom they are addressed, was Lord 
 Southampton — and we think that he has succeeded in proving his 
 point. Blackwood's Magazine, Aug. 1818. 
 
SHAKESPEAR, 107 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 
 1 all alone beweep my out-cast state, 
 
 And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, 
 And look upon myself, and curse my fate, 
 
 Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 
 Featur'd like him, like him vrith friends possess'd, 
 
 Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, 
 With what I most enjoy contented least: 
 
 Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, 
 Haply I think on thee, — and then my state 
 
 (Like to the lark at break of day arising 
 From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate ; 
 
 For thy sweet love remember' d, such wealth brings. 
 
 That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 
 
 Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, 
 Some in their wealth, some in their body's force ; 
 
 Some in their garments tho' new-fangled ill, 
 Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse ; 
 
 And every humour hath its adjunct pleasure, 
 Wherein it finds a joy above the rest ; 
 
 But these particulars are not my measure, 
 All these 1 better in one general best. 
 
 Thy love is better than high birth to me, 
 Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost, 
 
 Of more delight than hawks or horses be ; 
 And having thee, of all men's pride I boast. 
 
 Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take 
 
 All this away, and me most wretched make. 
 
 Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
 Admit impediments. Love is not love 
 
 Which alters when it alteration finds, 
 Or bends with the remover to remove : 
 
 no ! it is an ever-fixed mark, 
 
 That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; 
 
 It is the star to every wandering bark, 
 Whose worth's unknown, altho' his height be taken. 
 
 Love's not Time's fool, tho' rosy lips and cheeks 
 Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 
 
 Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
 But bears it out e'en to the edge of doom. 
 
 If this be error, and upon me prov'd, 
 
 1 never writ, nor no man ever lov'd. 
 
108 
 
 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 ROBT. HERRICK, FLOURISHED ABOUT 1630. 
 
 ON HERRICK'S POETRY. 
 
 Among the numerous poets who possess considerable merit, but 
 who flourished in fame only for a short season, and are now 
 scarcely known, must be mentioned Robert Herrick. Few enter- 
 tained more harmless vanity than he. His works are replete with 
 predictions respecting the future good fortune of his poetical 
 children. He reposed on posterity with confidence; but poets, 
 like heroes, are very little able to judge of the rank to which they 
 may be assigned by their successors. Ordinary readers of poetry 
 do not know the name of Herrick ; and most of the critical and 
 curious lovers of versification pass over his name without examin- 
 ing his productions. No man has ever written more unequally 
 than Herrick; and all which he wrote he injudiciously made 
 public* His beauties have, consequently, been lost amidst the 
 heap of rubbish in which they lie. These beauties are like dia- 
 monds when foTind at the base of Golconda, they are often en- 
 cased in a coarse and sordid soil; but still are they of an exquisite 
 
 water. 
 
 Universal Magazine, April, 1811. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Herrick's vein of poetry is very irregular, but where the ore is 
 pure, it is of high value. His song beginning, " Gather the rose | 
 buds while ye may," is sweetly Anacreontic. t. campbell. 
 
 * The consequence lias been, that productions, wh^ch Marlowe or Milton 
 might have owned with pleasure, have been concealed, and nearly buried, 
 in a crude and undigested mass. Dr. Drake.— lEd.~\ 
 
HERRICK. 109 
 
 father the rose buds while ye may 
 
 Old Time is still a flying ; 
 And this same flower that smiles to-day 
 
 To-morrow will be dying. 
 
 The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 
 
 The higher he's a getting, 
 The sooner will his race be run, 
 
 And nearer he's to setting. 
 
 The age is best which is the first, 
 When youth and blood are warmer ; 
 
 But being spent, the worse and worst 
 Times still succeed the former. 
 
 Then be not coy, but use your time, 
 And, whilst ye may, go marry ; 
 
 For having lost but once your prime. 
 You may for ever tarry. 
 
 THE CAPTIVE BEE. 
 
 Herkick was an amorist, with perhaps more fancy than feeling, 
 though he has been called by some the English Anacreon. — He 
 has point and ingenuity, but I think little of the spirit of love or 
 wine. — His poems, from their number and size are " like the 
 motes that play in the sun's beams;" that glitter to the eye of 
 fancy, but leave no distinct impression on the memory. His Cap- 
 tive Bee is a successful and spirited imitation of Anacreon. 
 
 HAZLITT. 
 
 As Julia once a slumbering lay, 
 
 It chanc'd a Bee did fly that way, 
 
 After a dew or dew-like shower, 
 
 To tipple freely in a flower. 
 
 Tor some rich flower he took the lip 
 
 Of Julia, and began to sip : 
 
 But when he felt he suck'd from thence 
 
 Honey, and in the quintessence ; 
 
 He drank so much he scarce could stir . 
 
 So Julia took the pilferer. 
 
110 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 And thus surpris'd, as filchers use, 
 He thus began himself t' excuse : 
 Sweet lady-flower ! I never brought 
 Hither the least one thieving thought : 
 But taking those rare lips of yours 
 For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers 
 I thought I might there take a taste, 
 Where so much syrup ran to waste: 
 Besides, know this, I never sting 
 The flower that gives me nourishing- 
 But with a kiss or thanks, do pay 
 For honey that I bear away. 
 This said, he laid his little scrip 
 Of honey 'fore her ladyship : 
 And told her as some tears did fall, 
 That that he took, and that was all. 
 At which she smil'd, and bid him go, 
 And take bis bag, but thus much know 
 When next he came a pilfering so, 
 He should from her full lips derive 
 Honey enough to fill his hive. 
 
 THOMAS CAREW, DIED 1639, AGED 50. 
 
 CAREW'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 
 
 The want of boldness and expansion in Carew's thoughts and sub. 
 jects, excludes him from rivalship with great poetical names ; 
 nor is it difficult, even within the narrow pale of his works, to dis- 
 cover some faults of affectation, and of still more objectionable in- 
 delicacy. But among the poets who have walked in the same 
 limited path, he is pre-eminently beautiful, and deservedly ranks 
 among the earliest of those who gave a cultivated grace to our 
 lyrical strains. His slowness in composition was evidently that 
 sort of care in the poet, which saves trouble to his reader. His 
 poems have touches of elegance and refinement, which their 
 trifling subjects could not have yielded without a delicate and de- 
 
CAREW. Ul 
 
 liberate exercise of the fancy ; aud he unites the point and polish 
 of later times, with many of the genial and warm tints of the 
 elder muse. t. campbell. 
 
 PERSUASIONS TO LOVE. 
 
 Think not, 'cause men flattering say 
 You're fresh as April, sweet as May, 
 Bright as is the morning-star, 
 That you are so ; — or though you are, 
 Be not therefore proud, and deem 
 All men unworthy your esteem. 
 Nor let brittle beauty make 
 You your wiser thoughts forsake : 
 For that lo\ely face will fail ; — 
 Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail; 
 'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done, 
 Than summer's rain, or winter's sun : 
 Most fleeting when it is most dear; 
 'Tis gone, while we but say 'tis here. 
 These curious locks so aptly twin'd, 
 Whose every hair a soul doth bind, 
 Will change their auburn hue, and grow 
 White and cold as winter's snow. 
 That eye which now is Cupid's nest 
 Will prove his grave, and all the rest 
 Will follow; in the cheek, chin, nose, 
 Nor lily shall be found, nor rose ; 
 And what will then become of all 
 Those, whom now you servants call ? 
 Like swallows when your summer's done 
 They'll fly and seek some warmer sun. 
 The snake each year fresh skin resumes. 
 And eagles change their aged plumes ; 
 The faded rose each spring receives 
 A fresh red tincture on her leaves : 
 But if your beauties once decay, 
 You never know a second May. 
 Oh, then, be wise, and whilst your season 
 Affords you days for sport, do reason ; 
 Spend not in vain your life's short hour, 
 But crop in time your beauty's flower. 
 
 m2 
 
112 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 
 When June is past, the fading rose ; 
 For in your beauties orient deep 
 These flowers, as in their causes sleep. 
 
 Ask me no more, whither do stray 
 The golden atoms of the day : 
 For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
 Those powders to enrich your hair. 
 
 Ask me no more, whither doth haste 
 The nightingale when May is past ; 
 For in your sweet dividing throat 
 She winters, and keeps warm her note. 
 
 Ask me no more, where those stars light, 
 That downwards fall in dead of night ; 
 For in your eyes they sit and there 
 Fixed become, as in their sphere. 
 
 Ask me no more, if east or west, 
 The phcenix builds her spicy nest ; 
 For unto you at last she flies, 
 And in your fragrant bosom dies. 
 
 FRANCIS QUARLES, DIED 1644, AGED 52. 
 
 QUARLES'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 
 
 There is not in English Literature a name more wronged than 
 that of Quarles, — wronged, too, by those who best ought to have 
 discerned, and most generously acknowledged his merits in con- 
 tradistinction to his defects. " Quarles and Wither," for more 
 than a century, were the " Bcevius and Mcevms," of every poet 
 and poetaster who imagined himself a Horace. It must be con- 
 fessed, that our author, as well as Wither, has injured his own fair 
 
QUA RUES. 113 
 
 fame more than the slanders of his brethren, and the neglect of pos- 
 terity could do, — by the quantity of crude, indigestible matter with 
 which he has encumbered his finer conceptions, as well as the base 
 phraseology with which he has denied the pure and felicitous dic- 
 tion that frequently clothes his loveliest thoughts in the seemliest 
 words, apparently without any effort of his own. In fact his faults 
 are so laboured, that they seem to have been committed on pur- 
 pose, while his beauties are so spontaneous, that they alone, amidst 
 his anomalous compositions seem to be natural to him. 
 
 J. MONTGOMERY. 
 
 CONQUER THYSELF. 
 
 Conquer thyself, thy rebel thoughts repel, 
 
 And chase those false affections that rebel. 
 
 Hath heaven despoil'd what his full hand hath given thee ? 
 
 Nipt thy succeeding blossoms ? or bereaven thee 
 
 Of thy dear latest hope, thy bosom friend ? 
 
 Doth sad despair deny these griefs an end ? 
 
 Despair's a whispering rebel, that within thee 
 
 Bribes all thy field, and sets thyself again thee : 
 
 Make keen thy faith, and with thy force let flee, 
 
 If thou not conquer him, he'll conquer thee : 
 
 Advance thy shield of patience to thy head, 
 
 And when grief strikes, 'twill strike the striker dead. 
 
 Iu adverse fortunes be thou strong and stout, 
 And bravely win thyself, heaven holds not out 
 His bow, for ever bent. The disposition 
 Of noblest spirits doth, by opposition, 
 Exasperate the more : a gloomy night 
 Whets on the morning to return more bright ; 
 A blade, well tried, deserves a treble price, 
 And virtue's purest, most opposed by vice; 
 Brave minds oppress'd, should in despite of fate, 
 Look greatest, like the sun, in lowest state : 
 But ah ! shall God thus strive with flesh and blood ; 
 Receives He glory from, or reaps He good 
 In mortal's ruin, that He leaves man so 
 To be o'erwhelm'd by his unequal foe ? 
 May not a potter, that from out the ground 
 Hath framed a vessel, search if it be sound ? 
 
 m3 
 
14 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Or, if by furbishing he take more pain 
 
 To make it fairer, shall the pot complain ? 
 
 Mortal, thou art but clay : then shall not He 
 
 That framed thee for hia. service, season thee ? 
 
 Man, close thy lips, be thou no undertaker 
 
 Of God's designs, dispute not with thy Maker. 
 
 Lord, 'tis against thy nature to do ill, 
 
 Then give me power to bear, and work thy will j 
 
 Thou know'st what's best, make thou thine own conclusion- 
 
 Be glorified, altho' in my confusion. 
 
 VAIN BOASTING. 
 
 Can he be fair, that withers at a blast ? 
 
 Or he be strong, that airy breath can cast ? 
 
 Can he be wise, that knows not how to live? 
 
 Or he be rich, that nothing hath to give ? 
 
 Can he be young, that's feeble, weak, and wan ? 
 
 —So fair, strong, wise, so rich, so young is man. 
 
 So fair is man, that death a parting blast, 
 
 Blasts his fair flower, and makes him earth at last 5 
 
 So stroug is man, that with a gasping breath 
 
 He totters, and bequeaths his strength to death ; 
 
 So wise is man, that if with death he strive 
 
 His wisdom cannot teach him how to live ; 
 
 So rich is man, that all his debts being paid, 
 
 His wealth's the winding-sheet wherein he's laid ; 
 
 So young is man, that, broke with care and sorrow, 
 
 He's old enough to-day, to die to-morrow : 
 
 Why bragg'st thou then, thou worm of five-feet long ? 
 
 Thou'rt neither fair, nor strong, nor wise, nor rich, nor young. 
 
DRUMMOND. 115 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND, DIED 1649, AGED 64. 
 
 ON THE SONNET. 
 
 The Sonnet is composed of two quatrains and two tercets, and has 
 generally four, and never more than five rhymes.* Its admirers 
 discover the most harmonious grace iu the regularity of the mea- 
 sure ; in the two quatrains, which, with their corresponding 
 rhymes, open the subject and prepare the mind of the reader ; and 
 in the two tercets, which, moving more rapidly, fulfil the expecta- 
 tion which has been excited, complete the image, and satisfv the 
 poetical feeling. The sounet is essentially musical, aud essentially 
 founded ou the harmony of sound, from which its name is derived. f 
 The richness and fullness of the rhymes constitute a portion of its 
 grace. The return of the same sounds makes a more powerful im- 
 pression, in proportion to their repetition and completeness; and 
 we are astonished when we thus find ourselves affected, almost 
 without the power of being able to ascertain the cause of our 
 emotion. sismondi. 
 
 * The riiymes of the first four lines are repealed in the next four, while 
 the last six, which wind up the thought, are in like manner interwoven ; so 
 that the whole forms a system as closely connected as the Spenserian stanza 
 of nine lines or the ottava rima stanza of eight. — Eclectic Review— \_Ed.~\ 
 
 t The name bears evident affinity to the Italian sonaire " to resound" — 
 " sing around," which originated in the Latin sonans, " sounding, jingling, 
 ringing;" or indeed it may come from the French sonner, "to sound, or 
 ring," in which language it is observable, we first meet with the word son. 
 neite, where it signifies " a little bell," and sonnelier, " a maker of little bells." 
 — H. K. Witte.-lEd.l 
 
116 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 SONNET TO THE RIVER FORTH : 
 
 ON WHICH HIS MISTRESS HAD EMBARKED. 
 
 Drummond's Sonnets are in the highest degree elegant, harmo- 
 nious, and striking. It appears to me that they are more in the 
 manner of Petrarch than any others that we have, with a certain 
 intenseness in the sentiment, an occasional glitter of thought, and 
 a uniform terseness of expression. — This sonnet to the English 
 reader will express the very soul, of Petrarch, the molten breath of 
 sentiment conveited into the glassy essence of a set of glittering 
 but still graceful conceits. hazlitt. 
 
 Slide soft, fair Forth, and make a chrystal plain, 
 
 Cut your white locks, and on your fuamy face 
 
 Let not a wrinkle be, when you embrace 
 
 The boat that earth's perfections doth contain. 
 
 Winds wonder and thro' wondering hold your peace, 
 
 Or if that you your hearts cannot restrain 
 
 From sending sighs, feeling a lover's case, 
 
 Sigh, and in her fair hair yourselves enchain, 
 
 Or take these sighs, which absence makes arise 
 
 From my oppressed breast, and fill the sails, 
 
 Or some sweet breath new brought from Paradise. 
 
 The floods do smile, love o'er the winds prevails, 
 
 And yet huge waves arise; — the cause is this, 
 
 The Ocean strives with Forth the boat to kiss. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Thrice happy he who by some shady grove, 
 
 Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own, 
 
 'I ho' solitary, who is not alone, 
 
 But doth converse with that eternal love : 
 
 O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan, 
 
 Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, 
 
 Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, 
 
 Which make good doubtful, do the evil approve ! 
 
 O how niore sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath 
 
 And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flowers unfold, 
 
 Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath ! 
 
 How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold ! 
 
 The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights ; 
 
 Woods, harmless shades, have only true delights. 
 
DRUMMOND. 117 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 The frail and transitory existence of youth and female charms was 
 never more impressively whispered in the ear of unrelenting 
 beauty, than through the medium of the following sonnet. 
 
 DR. DRAKE. 
 
 Trust not, sweet soul, those curled waves of gold, 
 
 With gentle tides that on your temples flow ; 
 
 Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow ; 
 
 Nor snow of cheeks, with Tyrian grain enroll'd : 
 
 Trust not those shining lights which wrought my woe, 
 
 When first I did their azure rays behold ; 
 
 Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do show 
 
 Than of the Thracian harper have been told. 
 
 Look to this dying lily, fading rosp, 
 
 Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams 
 
 Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice, 
 
 And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes. 
 
 The cruel tyrant that did kill those flowers 
 
 Shall once, ah me ! not spare that spring of yours. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Ah ! burning thoughts, now let me take some rest, 
 And your tumultuous broils awhile appease : 
 Is't not enough, stars, fortune, love molest 
 Me all at once, but ye must too displease ? 
 Let hope, tho' false, yet lodge within my breast ; 
 My high attempt, tho' dangerous, yet praise : 
 What tho' I trace not right heaven's steepy ways, 
 It doth suffice my fall shall make me blest. 
 I do not doat on days, I fear not death, 
 So that my life be good, I wish't not long; 
 Let me renown'd live from the worldly throng, 
 And when Heaven lists, recal this borrow'd breath. 
 Men but like visions are, time all doth claim^ 
 He lives who dies to win a lasting name. 
 
1J8 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 GEORGE WITHER, DIED 1667, AGED 79. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. 
 
 This beautiful old song was written by a poet whose name would 
 have been utterly forgotten, if it had not been preserved by Swift 
 as a term of contempt. " Dryden and Wither " are coupled by 
 him like the Ba^vius and Maevius of Virgil. Dr)'den, however, has 
 had justice done him by posterity ; and as for Wither, though of 
 subordinate merit, that he was not altogether devoid of genius 
 will be judged from the following stanzas. The truth is, Wither 
 was a very voluminous poetry-writer ; and as bis political and sa- 
 tirical strokes rt-ndered him extremely popular in his life-time ; 
 so afterwards, when these were no longer relished, they totally 
 consigned his writings to oblivion. Percy's reliqtjes. 
 
 Shall I, wasting in despair, 
 
 Die because a woman's fair? 
 
 Or make pale my cheeks with care, 
 
 'Cause another's rosy are ? 
 
 Be she fairer than the day, 
 
 Or the flowery meads in May, 
 
 If she be not so to me, 
 
 What care I how fair she be ! 
 
 Should my heart be griev'd or pined 
 'Cause I see another kind ? 
 Or a well disposed nature 
 Joined with a lovely feature ? 
 Be she meeker, kinder, than 
 Turtle dove or pelican, 
 
 If she be not so to me, 
 
 What care 1 how good she be ! 
 
 Shall a woman's virtues move 
 Me to perish for her love ? 
 Or, her well deservings known, 
 
COWLEY. 119 
 
 Make me quite forget my own ? 
 Be she with that goodness hlest 
 Which may gain her name of Best, 
 
 If she be not such to me, 
 
 What care I how good she be ! 
 
 'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
 Shall I play the fool and die? 
 Those that bear a noble mind, 
 Where they want of riches find, 
 Think what with them they would do 
 That without them dare to woo ; 
 
 And, unless that mind I see, 
 
 What care I tho' great she be ! 
 
 Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
 I will ne'er the more despair : 
 If she love me this believe, 
 I will die ere she shall grieve : 
 If she slight me when I woo, 
 I can scorn and let her go : 
 
 For, if she be not for me, 
 
 What care I for whom she be ! 
 
 ABRAHAM COWLEY, DIED 1667, AGED 49. 
 
 COWLEY'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 
 
 Cowley, the most miscellaneous of all our poets, attempted 
 every species of composition, except that of Tragedy, and, it may 
 be added, distinguished himself in each above all his contempora- 
 ries except Milton, who, however, in his range of writing, was far 
 less various than he. Cowley was such a prodigal of his genius, 
 that he seems to have spent nearly his whole patrimony of fame 
 during his life time, by expending all the riches of a most accom- 
 plished mind on the fashions of his age in literature, which, like 
 other fashions, necessarily passed away with the generation that 
 bred them. The very artifices of style, which once were the glory 
 
120 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 of his verse, are now the eclipsing shadows that obscure it, aud 
 the fine gold of his poetry is but dimly discernible amidst the 
 rusted ornaments, of baser metal, that formerly outshone it ; so 
 that it has been the fate of one of the most brilliant intellects that 
 ever arose in this country, never to be estimated by its real ex- 
 cellence. ^J. MONTGOMERY. 
 
 ODE ON LIBERTY. 
 
 Cowley is one of the earliest names of eminence in the history of 
 English Lyrical Poetry, aud it is principally in reading his Odes 
 that we lament those metaphysical conceits, which obscure the 
 reputation of a genius of first-rate ability. But " the light that 
 led astray was light from heaven." His very faults are the off- 
 spring of Genius; they are the exuberances of a mind " o'er-in- 
 formed with meaning ;" the excrescences of a tree, whose waste 
 foliage, if properly pruned and arranged, would form an immortal 
 wreath on the brows of any humbler genius. h. neele. 
 
 Freedom with Virtue takes her seat ; 
 
 Her proper place, her only scene, 
 
 Is in the golden mean, 
 She lives not with the poor nor with the great. 
 The wings of those Necessity has dipt, 
 
 And they're in Fortune's bridewell whipt 
 
 To the laborious task of bread ; 
 These are by various tyrants captive led. 
 Now wild Ambition with imperious force 
 Rides, reins, and spurs, them, like th' unruly horse ; 
 
 And servile Avarice yokes them now, 
 
 Like toilsome oxen, to the plough ; 
 And sometimes Lust, like the misguided light, 
 Draws them through all the labyrinths of night. 
 If any few among the great there be 
 
 From these insulting passions free, 
 
 Yet we ev'n those, too, fetter'd see 
 By custom, business, crowds, and formal decency. 
 And, wheresoe'er they stay, and wheresoe'er they go, 
 
 Impertinencies round them flow : 
 
COWLEY. 121 
 
 These are the small uneasy things 
 
 Which about greatness still are found, 
 
 And rather it molest than wound : 
 Like gnats, which too much heat of summer brings ; 
 But cares do swarm there, too, and those have stings : 
 As, when the honey does too open lie, 
 
 A thousand wasps about it fly : 
 Nor will the master even to share admit ; 
 The master stands aloof, and dares not taste of it. 
 
 'Tis morning : well ; I fain would yet sleep on : 
 
 You cannot now; you must be gone 
 
 To court, or to the noisy hall : 
 Besides, the rooms without are crowded all; 
 
 The stream of business does begin, 
 And a spring-tide of clients is come in. 
 Ah cruel guards, which this poor prisoner keep 5 
 
 Will they not suffer him to sleep ? 
 Make an escape ; out at the postern flee, 
 And get some blessed hours of liberty : 
 With a few friends, and a few dishes, dine, 
 
 And much of mirth and moderate wine. 
 To thy bent mind some relaxation give, 
 And steal one day out of thy life to live. 
 Oh happy man (he cries) to whom kind Heaven 
 
 Has such a freedom always given ! 
 Why, mighty madman, what should hinder thee 
 
 From being every day so free ? 
 
 In all the freeborn nations of the air, 
 
 Never did a bird a spirit so mean and sordid bear, 
 
 As to exchange his native liberty 
 
 Of soaring boldly up into the sky, 
 
 His liberty to sing, to perch, or fly, 
 
 When and whatever he thought good, 
 And all his innocent pleasures of the wood, 
 For a more plentiful or constant food. 
 
 Nor ever did ambitious rage 
 
 Make him into a painted cage. 
 Or the false forest of a well-hung room, 
 
 For honour and preferment, come. 
 Now, blessings on you all, ye heroic race, 
 Who keep your primitive powers and rights so well, 
 
 Though men and angels fell ! 
 Of all material lives the highest place 
 
 To you is justly given ; 
 And ways and walks the nearest heaven. 
 Whilst wretched we, yet vain and proud, think fit 
 To boast, that we look up to it. 
 
122 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Ev'n to the universal tyrant, Love, 
 
 You homage pay but once a -year : 
 None so degenerous and unbirdly prove, 
 
 As his perpetual yoke to bear; 
 None, but a few unhappy household fowl, 
 
 Whom human lordship does control ; 
 
 Who from their birth corrupted were 
 By bondage, and by man's example here. 
 
 He's no small prince, who, every day 
 
 Thus to himself can say : 
 Now will I sleep, now eat, now sit, now walk, 
 Now meditate alone, now with acquaintance talk ; 
 This I will do, here 1 will stay, 
 Or, if my fancy call me away, 
 My man and I will presently go ride 
 (For we, before, have nothing to provide, 
 Nor, after, are to render an account) 
 To Dover, Berwick, or the Cornish mount. 
 
 If thou but a short journey take, 
 
 As if thy last thou wert to make, 
 Business must be dispatch'd, ere thou canst part, 
 
 Nor canst thou stir, unless there be 
 
 A hundred horse and men to wait on thee, 
 
 And many a mule, and many a cart ; 
 
 What an unwieldly man thou art ; 
 
 The Rhodian Colussus so 
 
 A journey, too, might go. 
 
 Where honour, or where conscience does not bind, 
 
 No other law shall shackle me ; 
 
 Slave to myself I will not be, 
 Nor shall my future actions be confin'd 
 
 By my own present mind. 
 Who by resolves and vows engag'd does stand 
 For days that yet belong to fate, 
 Does, like an uuthrift, mortgage his estate 
 
 Before it falls into his hand : 
 
 The bondman of the cloister so, 
 All that he does receive, does always owe ; 
 And still as time comes in, it goes away 
 
 Not to enjoy, but debts to pay. 
 Unhappy slave, and pupil to a bell, 
 Which his hours-work, as well as hours, does tell ! 
 Unhappy, till the last, the kind releasing knell. 
 
COWLEY. 123 
 
 THE CHRONICLE. 
 
 Cowley's ballad called "The Chronicle" is certainly the spright- 
 liest, pleasantest thing of the class in our language. The idea of 
 comparing a succession of mistresses to a line of sovereigns is sup- 
 ported with wonderful fancy and vivacity ; and the concluding 
 enumeration of the arts and instruments of female sway is very 
 elegantly sportive. The talent of trifling with grace is commonly 
 thought no part of English genius; hut our liveliest neighbours 
 may be challenged to produce a happier trifle than this Chronicle. 
 
 DR. AIKIN. 
 
 The Chronicle is a composition unrivalled and alone : such gaiety 
 of fancy, such facility of expression, such varied similitude, such a 
 succession of images, and such a dance of words, it is in vain to 
 expect except from Cowley. His strength always appears in his 
 agility ; his volatility is not the flutter of a light, but the bound of 
 au elastic mind. His levity never leaves his learning behind it; 
 the moralist, the politician, and the critic, mingle their influence 
 even in tbis airy frolic of genius. To such a performance, Suck- 
 ling could have brought the gaiety, but not the knowledge : Dryden 
 could have supplied the knowledge, but not the gaiety. 
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 Margarita first possess'd, 
 
 If I remember well, my breast, 
 
 Margarita, first of all ; 
 But when awhile the wanton maid 
 AVith my restle s s heart had play'd, 
 
 Martha took the flying ball. 
 
 Martha soon did it resign 
 To the beauteous Catherine. 
 
 Beauteous Catherine gave place 
 (Tho' loth and angry she to part 
 With the possession of my heart) 
 
 To Eliza's conquering face. 
 
 m2 
 
124 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Eliza to this hour might reign, 
 Had she not evil counsels ta'en : 
 
 Fundamental laws she hroke, 
 And still new favourites she chose, 
 Till up in arms my passions rose, 
 
 And cast away her yoke. 
 
 Mary then, and gentle Ann, 
 Both to reign at once began, 
 
 Alternately they sway'dj 
 And sometimes Mary was the fair, 
 And sometimes Ann the crown did wear, 
 
 And sometimes both I obey'd. 
 
 Another Mary then arose, 
 And did rigorous laws impose ; 
 
 A mighty tyrant she ! 
 Long, alas, should I have been, 
 Under that iron-scepter'd queen, 
 
 Had not Rebecca set me free. 
 
 When fair Rebecca set me free, 
 'Twas then a golden time for me, 
 
 But soon those pleasures fled : 
 For the gracious princess died, 
 In her youth and beauty's pride, 
 
 And Judith reigned in her stead. 
 
 One month, three days, and half an hour, 
 Judith held the sov'reign pow'r, 
 
 Wondrous beautiful her face ; 
 But so weak and small her wit, 
 That she to govern was unfit, 
 
 And so Susannah took her place. 
 
 But when Isabella came, 
 Arm'd with a resistless flame, 
 
 And th' artillery of her eye ; 
 While she proudly march'd about 
 Greater conquests to find out, 
 
 She beat out Susan by the bye. 
 
 But in her place I then obey'd 
 Black-ey'd Bess, her vicery maid, 
 
 To whom ensued a vacancy ; 
 Thousand worse passions then possess'd 
 The interregnum of my breast ; 
 
 Bless me from such an anarchy ! 
 
COWLEY. 125 
 
 Gentle Henrietta then, 
 
 And a third Mary next began ; 
 
 Then Joan, and Jane, and Andria, 
 And then a pretty Thomasine, 
 And then another Catharine, 
 
 And then a long et caetera. 
 
 But should I now to you relate 
 
 The strength and riches of their state, 
 
 The powder, patches, and the pins, 
 The ribands, jewels, and the rings, 
 The lace, the paint, and warlike things, 
 
 That make up all their magazines : 
 
 If I should tell the politic arts 
 To take and keep men's hearts; 
 
 The letters, embassies, and spies, 
 The frowns, the smiles, and flatteries, 
 The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, 
 
 Numbeiless, nameless, mysteries ! 
 
 And all the little lime-twigs laid 
 By Machiavel, the waiting maid ; 
 
 I more voluminous should grow 
 (Chiefly if I, like them, should tell 
 All change of weather that befel) 
 
 Than Holinshed or Stow. 
 
 But I will briefer with them be, 
 Since few of them were long with me j 
 
 A higher and a nobler strain 
 My present empress does claim, 
 Eleonora,* first o' the name, 
 
 Whom God grant long to reign. 
 
 " Cowley, in the latter part of his life, showed a sort of aversion for wo- 
 men, and would leave the room when they came in : 'twas prohably from a 
 disappointment in love. He was much in love with his Leonora, who is 
 mentioned at the end of that good ballad of his, on his different mistresses. 
 She was married to Dean Sprat's brother, and Cowley never was in love with 
 any body after.— Pope.— [Ed.~\ 
 
 i 
 
 m3 
 
126 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 JOHN MILTON, DIED 1674, AGED 66. 
 
 ON EPIC POETRY. 
 
 By the general consent of critics, the first praise of genius is due 
 to the writer of an epic poem, as it requires an assemblage of all the 
 powers which are singly sufficient for other compositions. Poetry 
 is the art of uniting pleasure with truth, by calling imagination 
 to the help of reason. Epic poetry undertakes to teach the most 
 important truths by the most pleasing precepts, and therefore 
 relates some great event in the most affecting manner. History 
 must supply the writer with the rudiments of narration, which he 
 must improve and exalt by a nobler art, must animate by drama- 
 tic energy, and diversify by retrospection and anticipation ; 
 morality must teach him the exact bounds, and different shades of 
 vice and virtue ; from policy, and the practice of life, he has to 
 learn the discriminations of character, and the tendency of the 
 passions, either single or combined ; and physiology must supply 
 him with illustrations and images. To put these materials to 
 poetical use, is required an imagination capable of painting 
 nature, and realizing fiction. Nor is he yet a poet till he has 
 attained the whole extension of his language, distinguished all the 
 delicacies of phrase, and all the colours of words, and learned to 
 adjust their different sounds to all the varieties of metrical 
 modulation. 
 
 Bossuet is of opinion, that the poet's first work is to find a moral,| 
 which his fable is afterwards to illustrate and establish. This 
 seems to have been the process only of Milton ; the moral ol 
 other poems is incidental and consequent ; in Milton's only it it 
 essential and intrinsic. His purpose was the most useful and th< 
 most arduous ; to vindicate the ways of God to man ; to show tht 
 
MILTON. 127 
 
 reasonableness of religion, and the necessity of obedience to the 
 Divine Law. 
 
 The subject of an epic poem is naturally an event of great im- 
 portance. That of Milton is not the destruction of a city, the 
 conduct of a colony, or the foundation of an empire. His subject 
 is the fate of worlds, the revolutions of Heaven and of Earth ; 
 rebellion, against the supreme King, raised by the highest order 
 of created beings ; the overthrow of their host, and the punish- 
 ment of their crime; the creation of a new race of reasonable 
 creatures; their original happiness and innocence, their for- 
 feiture of immortality, and their restoration to hope and peace. 
 
 Great events can be hastened or retarded only by persons of 
 elevated dignity. Before the greatness displayed in Milton's 
 poem, all other greatness shrinks away. The weakest of his 
 agents are the highest and noblest of human beings, the original 
 parents of mankind ; with whose actions the elements consented ; 
 on whose rectitude, or deviation of will, depended the state of 
 terrestrial nature, and the condition of all the future inhabitants 
 of the globe. 
 
 Of the other agents in the poem, the chief are such as it is 
 irreverence to name on slight occasions. The rest were lower 
 powers — 
 
 " Of which the least could wield 
 Those elements, and arm him with the force 
 Of all their regions;" 
 
 powers, which only the controul of Omnipotence restrains from 
 laying creation waste, and filling the vast expanse of space with 
 ruin and confusion. To display the motives and actions of beings 
 thus superior, so far as human reason can imagine them, or 
 human imagination represent them, is the task which this mighty 
 poet has undertaken and performed. 
 
 The characteristic quality of " Paradise Lost" is sublimity. 
 Milton sometimes descends to the elegant, but his element is the 
 great. He can occasionally invest himself with grace ; but his 
 natural port is gigantic loftiness. He can please when pleasure is 
 
128 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 required ; but it is his peculiar power to astonish; He seems to have 
 been well acquainted with his own genius, and to know what it was 
 that Nature had bestowed upon him more bountifully than upon 
 others ; the power of displaying the vast, illuminating the splen- 
 did, enforcing the awful, darkening the gloomy, and aggravating 
 the dreadful; he therefore chose a subject on which too much 
 could not be said, on which he might tire his fancy without the 
 censure of extravagance. The appearances of nature, and the 
 occurrences of life, did not satiate his appetite of greatness. To 
 paint things as they are, requires a minute attention, and employs 
 the memory rather than the fancy. Milton's delight was to 
 sport in the wide regions of possibility; reality was a scene too 
 narrow for his mind. He sent his faculties out upon discovery, 
 into worlds where only imagination can travel, and delighted to 
 form new modes of existence, and furnish sentiment and action to 
 superior beings, to trace the counsels of Hell, or accompany the 
 choirs of Heaven. 
 
 Of his moral sentiments it is hardly praise to affirm that they 
 excel those of all other poets; for this superiority he was indebted 
 to his acquaintance with the sacred writings. The ancient epic 
 poets, wanting the light of Revelation, were very unskilful teach- 
 ers of virtue; their principal characters may be great, but they 
 are not amiable. The reader may rise from their works with 
 a greater degree of active or passive fortitude, and sometimes 
 of prudence; but he will be able to carry away few precepts of 
 justice, and none of mercy. In Milton every line breathes sanc- 
 tity of thought, and purity of manners, except when the train of 
 the narration requires the introduction of the rebellious spirits ; 
 and even they are compelled to acknowledge their subjection to 
 God, in such a manner as excites reverence and confirms piety. 
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
MILTON. 129 
 
 MILTON'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 
 
 In delineating Milton's character as a poet, we are saved the ne- 
 cessity of looking far for its distinguishing attributes. His name 
 is almost identified with sublimity. He is in truth the sublimest 
 of men. He rises not by effort or discipline, but by a native ten- 
 dency and a godlike instinct, to the contemplation of objects of 
 grandeur and awfulness. He always moves with a conscious 
 energy. There is no subject so vast or terrific, as to repel or in- 
 timidate him. The overpowering grandeur of a theme kindles 
 and attracts him. He enters on the description of the infernal 
 regions with a fearless tread, as if he felt within himself a power to 
 erect the prison-house of fallen spirits, to encircle them with flames 
 and horrors worthy of their crimes, to call forth from them shouts 
 which should " tear hell's concave," and to embody in their chief 
 an Archangel's energies and a Demon's pride and hate. Even the 
 stupendous conception of Satan seems never to oppress his facul- 
 ties. Hell and hell's king have a terrible harmony, and dilate 
 into new grandeur and awfulness, the longer we contemplate them. 
 From one element, " solid and liquid fire," the poet has framed a 
 world of horror and suffering, such as imagination had never tra- 
 versed. But fiercer flames, than those which encompass Satan, 
 burn in his own soul. Revenge, exasperated pride, consuming 
 wrath, ambition though fallen, yet unconquered by the thunders 
 of the Omnipotent, and grasping still at the empire of the uni- 
 verse, — these form a picture more sublime and terrible than Hell. 
 Hell yields to the spirit which it imprisons. The intensity of its 
 fires reveals the inteuser passions and more vehement will of Satan ; 
 and the ruined Archangel gathers into himself the sublimity of the 
 scene which surrounds him. We see mind triumphant over the 
 most terrible powers of nature. We see unutterable agony subdued 
 by energy of soul. We have not indeed in Satan those bursts of 
 passion, which rive the soul as well as shatter the outward frame 
 of Lear. But we have a depth of passion which only an Arch- 
 angel could manifest. The all- enduring, all-defying pride of 
 Satan, assuming so majestically Hell's burning throne, and coveting 
 
130 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 the diadem which scorches his thunder-blasted brow, is a creation 
 requiring in its author almost the spiritual energy with which he 
 invests the fallen seraph. dr. channing. 
 
 ON THE COMPOSITION OF PARADISE LOST. 
 
 To compose a great poem of which the basis is religion, such as 
 Paradise Lost, requires more transcendant power of poetry, than 
 to compose one, of which the basis was the conflicts of men with 
 men, in the turmoil of their earthly passions, and with weapons of 
 metal, iron, or steel, like the Iliad. For the same elementary pas- 
 sions, thoughts, and feelings, were handled in both — but in the 
 former, purified and elevated to the utmost pitch to which they 
 could be brought by the united fires of Piety and Genius. The 
 whole frame of Milton's intellectual and moral being was sublimer 
 far than that of Homer — as the Christian religion is sublimer far 
 than the idolatrous and mythological creed of the old Greeks : 
 Milton has accomplished his mightier task as completely as Homer 
 has accomplished his, for the instruments with which he wrought 
 on divine materials were themselves divine. Whatever might have 
 been his genius, no poet could have composed Paradise Lost who 
 had not the religious soul of Milton — as religious as a human soul 
 can he, in all its entrances into the realms of imagination. Neither 
 in like manner, could any poet have composed the Iliad, whatevi 
 had been his genius, who had not, like Homer, a soul that lived in 
 magnificent dreams of war, and held constant communication, as 
 it were, with the shades of warriors. Both bards were equal to 
 " their high argument." Born each in the age of the other, Homer 
 might have been Milton, Milton Homer. He who sung so glori- 
 ously of Jupiter, might have dared to sing of Jehovah — he who 
 sung of the hallelujahs of glorified saints, might have sung of tht 
 war- cry of heroes. 
 
 Blackwood's Magazine, Nov. 1827. 
 
MILTON. 131 
 
 THE FALL OF SATAN. 
 
 Him the Almighty Power 
 Hurl'd headlong flaming from the etherial sky, 
 With hideous ruin and combustion, down 
 To bottomless perdition ; there to dwell 
 In adamantine chains and penal fire, 
 Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms. 
 Nine times the space that measures day and night 
 To mortal men, he with his horrid crew 
 Lay vanquish'd, rolling in the fiery gulf, 
 Confounded, though immortal: But his doom 
 Reserved him to more wrath ; for now the thought 
 Both of lost happiness, and lasting pain, 
 Torments him : round he throws his baleful eyes, 
 That witness' d huge affliction and dismay 
 Mix'd with obdurate pride and steadfast hate : 
 At once, as far as Angels ken, he views 
 The dismal situation waste and wild: 
 A dungeon horrible on all sides round 
 As one great furnace flamed; yet from those flames 
 No light ; but rather darkness visible 
 Served only to discover sights of woe, 
 Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace 
 And rest can never dwell ; hope never comes 
 That comes to all; but torture without end 
 Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed 
 With ever burning sulphur unconsumed : 
 Such place Eternal Justice had prepared 
 For those rebellious; here their prison ordain'd 
 In utter darkness, and their portiou set 
 As far removed from God and light of Heaven 
 As from the centre thrice to the utmost pole. 
 
 CONFERENCE OF SATAN AND BEELZEBUB. 
 
 Satan's love of power and contempt for suffering are never once 
 relaxed from the highest pitch of intensity. His thoughts burn 
 like a hell within him ; but the power of thought holds dominion 
 in his mind over every other consideration. The consciousness of 
 a determined purpose, of "that intellectual being, those thoughts 
 that wander through eternity," though accompanied with endless 
 pain, he prefers to nonentity, to " being swallowed up and lost in 
 
132 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 the wide womb of uncreated night." He expresses the sum and 
 substance of all ambition in one line. " Fallen cherub, to be weak 
 is miserable, doing or suffering!" After such a conflict as his, 
 and such a defeat, to retreat in order, to rally, to make terms, to 
 exist at all, is something ; but he does more than this — he founds 
 a new empire in hell, and from it conquers this new world, whi- 
 ther he bends his undaunted flight, forcing his way through " up- 
 per, nether, and surrounding fires." The poet has not in all this 
 given us a mere shadowy outline ; the strength is equal to the 
 magnitude of the conception. The Achilles of Homer is not more 
 distinct j the Titans were not more vast; Prometheus chained to 
 his rock was not a more terrific example of suffering and of crime. 
 Wherever the figure of Satan is introduced, whether he walks or 
 flies, " rising aloft incumbent on the dusky air," it is illustrated 
 with the most striking and appropriate images : so that we see it 
 always before us, gigantic, irregular, portentous, uneasy, and dis- 
 turbed — but dazzling in its faded splendour, the clouded ruins of 
 a god. HAZLITT. 
 
 If thou beest he ; but O, how fallen ! how changed 
 From him, who, in the happy realms of light, 
 Clothed with transcendant brightness, didst outshine 
 Myriads though bright ! If be whom mutual league, 
 United thoughts and counsels, equal hope 
 And hazard in the glorious enterprise, 
 Join'dwith me once, now misery hath join'd 
 In equal ruin ! Into what pit thou seest, 
 From what highth fallen ; so much the stronger proved 
 He with his thunder: and till then who knew 
 The force of those dire arms ? Yet not for those, 
 Nor what the potent victor in his rage 
 Can else inflict, do 1 repent or change, 
 Though changed in outward lustre, that fix'd mind, 
 And high disdain from sense of injured merit, 
 That with the Mightiest raised me to contend, 
 And to the fierce contention brought along 
 Innumerable force of Spirits arm'd, 
 That durst dislike his reign, and, me preferring, 
 His utmost power with adverse power opposed 
 In dubious battle on the plains of Heaven, 
 And shook his throne. What though the field be lost ? 
 All is not lost ; the unconquerable will, 
 And study of revenge, immortal hate, 
 
MILTON. 133 
 
 And courage never to submit or yield, 
 And what is else not to be overcome ; 
 That glory never shall his wrath or might 
 Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace 
 With suppliant knee, and deify his power, 
 Who from the terror of this arm so late 
 Doubted his empire ; that were low indeed, 
 That were an ignominy, aud shame beneath 
 This downfal : since, by fate, the strength of Gods 
 And this empyreal substance caonot fail ; 
 Since through experience of this great event 
 In arms not worse, in foresight much advanced, 
 We may with more successful hope resolve 
 To wage, by force or guile, eternal war 
 Irreconcilable to our grand Foe, 
 Who now triumphs, and, in the' excess of joy 
 Sole reigning, holds the tyranny of Heaven. 
 
 So spake the' apostate Angel, though in pain, 
 Vaunting aloud, but rack'd with deep despair: 
 And him thus answer'd soon his bold compeer. 
 
 O Prince, O Chief of many throned Powers, 
 That led the' embattled Seraphim to war 
 Under thy conduct, and in dreadful deeds 
 Fearless endanger'd Heaven's perpetual king, 
 And put to proof his high supremacy, 
 Whether upheld by strength, or chance, or fate ; 
 Too well I see and rue the dire event, 
 That with sad overthrow, and foul defeat, 
 Hath lost us Heaven, and all this mightv host 
 In horrible destruction laid thus low, 
 As far as Gods and heavenly essences 
 Can perish : for the mind and spirit remain 
 Invincible, and vigour soon returns, 
 Though all our glory' extinct, and happy state 
 Here swallow'd up m endless misery. 
 But what if he our Conqueror (whom I now 
 Ot force believe Almighty, since no less 
 Thau such could have o'erpower'd such force as ours) 
 Have left us this our spirit and strength entire 
 Strongly to suffer and support our pains, 
 That we may so suffice his vengeful ire, 
 Or do him mightier service as his thralls 
 By right of war, whate'er his business be, 
 Herein the heart of Hell to work in fire, 
 Or do his errands in the gloomy deep ; 
 What can it then avail, though yet we feel 
 Strength undiminish'd, or eternal being, 
 
134 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 To undergo eternal punishment? 
 
 Whereto with speedy words the' Archfiend replied. 
 
 Fallen Cherub ! to be weak is miserable, 
 Doing or suffering : but of this be sure, 
 To do aught good never will be our task, 
 But ever to do ill our sole delight, 
 As being the contrary to his high will 
 Whom we resist. If then his providence 
 Out of our evil seek to bring forth good, 
 Our labour must be to pervert that end, 
 And out of good still to find means of evil ; 
 Which oft-times may succeed, so as perhaps 
 Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb 
 His inmost counsels from their destine'd aim. 
 But see ' the angry Victor hath recall'd 
 His ministers of vengeance and pursuit 
 Back to the gates of Heaven : the sulphurous hail, 
 Shot after us in storm, o'erblown, hath laid 
 The fiery surge, that from the precipice 
 Of Heaven receive'd us falling ; and the thunder, 
 Wing'd with red lightning and impetuous rage, 
 Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases now 
 To bellow through the vast and boundless deep. 
 Let us not slip the' occasion, whether scorn, 
 Or satiate fury, yield it from our Foe. 
 Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild, 
 The seat of desolation, void of light, 
 Save what the glimmering of these livid flames 
 Casts pale and dreadful ? Thither let us tend 
 From off the tossing of these fiery waves ; 
 There rest, if any rest can harbour there; 
 And, re-assembling our afflicted Powers, 
 Consult how we may henceforth most offend 
 Our Enenvy ; our own loss how repair ; 
 How overcome this dire calamity ; 
 What reinforcement we may gain from hope - y 
 If not, what resolution from despair. 
 
 ON THE AGENCY OF SUPERNATURAL BEINGS. 
 
 Of all the poets who have introduced into their works the agency 
 of supernatural beings, Milton has succeeded best. — But as this is 
 a point on which many rash and ill considered judgments have 
 
MILTON. 135 
 
 been pronounced, we feel inclined to dwell on it a little longer. — 
 The most fatal error which a poet can commit in the management 
 of his machinery, is that of attempting to philosophize too much. 
 Milton has been often censured for ascribing to spirits many func- 
 tions of which spirits must be incapable. But these objections, 
 though sanctioned by eminent names, originate, we venture to say, 
 in profound ignorance of the art of poetry. 
 
 What is spirit ? What are our own minds, the portion of spirit 
 with which we are best acquainted ? We observe certain pheno- 
 mena. We cannot explain them into material causes. We there- 
 fore infer that there exists something which is not material. But 
 of this something we have no idea. We can defiue it only by 
 negatives. We can reason about it only by symbols. We use the 
 word; but we have no image of the thing; and the business of 
 poetry is with images, and not with words. The poet uses words 
 indeed ; but they are merely the instruments of his art, not its ob- 
 jects. They are the materials which he is to dispose in such a 
 manner as to present a picture to the mental eye. And, if they 
 are not so disposed, they are no more entitled to be called poetry 
 than a bale of canvas and a box of colours to be called a painting. 
 
 Logicians may reason about abstractions. But the great mass 
 of mankind can never feel an interest in them. They must have 
 images. The strong tendency of the multitude in all ages and na- 
 tions to idolatry can be explained on no other principle. The 
 first inhabitants of Greece, there is every reason to believe, wor- 
 shipped one invisible Deity. But the necessity of having some- 
 thing more definite to adore, produced, in a few centuries, the in- 
 numerable erowd of Gods aud Goddesses. In like manner the 
 ancient Persians thought it impious to exhibit the Creator under a 
 human form. Yet even these transferred to the suu the worship 
 which, speculatively, they considered due only to the Supreme 
 Mind. The history of the Jews is the record of a continued strug- 
 gle between pure Theism, supported by the most terrible sanctions, 
 and the strangely fascinating desire of having some visible and tan- 
 gible object of adoration. — God, the uncreated, the incomprehen- 
 sible,, the invisible, attracted few worshippers. A philosopher 
 
 o 2 
 
136 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 might admire so noble a conception : but the crowd turned away 
 in disgust from words which presented no image to their minds. — 
 Soon after Christianity had achieved its triumph, the principle 
 which had assisted it began to corrupt it. It became a new Pa- 
 ganism. Patron saints assumed the offices of household gods. St. 
 George took the place of Mars, St. Elmo consoled the mariner for 
 the loss of Castor and Pollux. The Virgin Mother and Cecilia 
 succeeded to Venus and the Muses, The fascination of sex and 
 loveliness was again joined to that of celestial dignity; and the 
 homage of chivalry was blended with that of religion. Reformers 
 have often made a stand against these feelings ; but never with 
 more than apparent an 1 partial success. The men who demolished 
 the images in Cathedrals have not always been able to demolish 
 those which were enshrined in their minds. 
 
 From these considerations, we infer, that no poet, who should 
 affect that metaphysical accuracy, for the want of which Milton 
 has been blamed, would escape a disgraceful failure. Still, how- 
 ever, there was another extreme which, though far less dangerous, 
 was also to be avoided. The imaginations of men are in a great 
 measure under the control of their opinions. The most exquisite 
 art of poetical colouring can produce no illusion, when it is em- 
 ployed to represent that which is at once perceived to be incon- 
 gruous and absurd. Milton wrote in an age of philosophers and 
 theologians. It was necessary therefore for him to abstain from 
 giving such a shock to their understandings as might break the 
 charm which it was his object to throw over their imaginations. — 
 This is the real explanation of the indistinctness and inconsistency 
 with which he has often been reproached. Dr. Johnson acknow- 
 ledges that it was absolutely necessary for him to clothe his spirits 
 with material forms. " But,'' says he, " he should have secured 
 the consistency of his system by keeping immateriality out of sight, 
 and seducing the reader to drop it from his thoughts." This is 
 easily said ; but what if he could not seduce the reader to drop it 
 from his thoughts ? What if the contrary opinion had taken so full 
 a possession of the minds of men as to leave no room even for the 
 quasi belief which poetry requires ? Such we suspect to have been 
 
MILTON. 137 
 
 the case. It was impossible for the poet to adopt altogether the ma- 
 terial or the immaterial system. He therefore took his stand on 
 the debateable ground. He left the whole in ambiguity. He has 
 doubtless by so doing, laid himself open to the charge of incon- 
 sistency. But, though philosophically in the wrong, we caunot 
 but believe that he was poetically in the right. This task, which 
 almost any other writer would have found impracticable, was easy 
 to him. The peculiar art which he possessed of communicating 
 his meaning circuitously, through a long succession of associated 
 ideas and of intimating more than he expressed, enabled him to 
 disguise those incongruities which he could not avoid. 
 
 Edinburgh Review, August, 1825. 
 
 SATAN HEARS HIS STANDARD, AND COMFORTS 
 
 HIS COMPEERS WITH THE HOPE OF 
 
 REGAINING HEAVEN. 
 
 Satan commands, that at the warlike sound 
 Of trumpets loud and clarions be upreare'd 
 His mighty standard : that proud honour claim'd 
 Azazel as his right, a Cherub tall ; 
 Who forthwith from the glittering staff unfurl'd 
 The imperial ensign ; which, full high advanced, 
 Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind, 
 With gems and golden lustre rich emblaze'd, 
 Seraphic arms and trophies ; all the while 
 Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds : 
 At which the universal host up sent 
 A shout, that tore Hell's concave, and beyond 
 Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night. 
 All in a moment through the gloom were seen 
 Ten thousand banners rise into the air 
 With orient colours waving: with them rose 
 A forest huge of spears ; and thronging helms 
 Appear'd, and serried shields* in thick array 
 Of depth immeasurable : Anon they move 
 In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood 
 
 * Locked together one within another, 
 
 o3 
 
138 THE POETICAL REVIEW, 
 
 Of flutes and soft recorders; such as raise'd 
 To height of noblest temper heroes old 
 Arming to battle; and instead of rage 
 Deliberate valour breathe'd, firm and unmoved 
 With dread of death to flight or foul retreat; 
 Nor wanting power to mitigate and swage 
 With solemn touches troubled thoughts, and chase 
 Anguish, and doubt, and fear, and sorrow, and pain. 
 From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they, 
 Breathing united force, with fixed thought, 
 Move'd on in silence to soft pipes, that charmed 
 Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil : and now 
 Advance'd in view they stand; a horrid front 
 Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in guise 
 Of warriors old with order'd spear and shield \ 
 Awaiting what command their mighty Chief 
 
 Had to Impose.- He, above the rest 
 
 In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
 
 Stood like a tower : his form had yet not lost 
 
 All her original brightness; nor appear'd 
 
 Less than Archangel ruin'd, and the excess 
 
 Of glory' obscure'd : as when the sun, new risen, 
 
 Looks through the horizontal misty air 
 
 Shorn of his beams;* or from behind the moon, 
 
 In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 
 
 On half the nations, and with fear of change 
 
 Perplexes monarchs. Darken'd so, yet shone 
 
 Above them all the' Archangel : but his face 
 
 Deep scars of thunder had intrench'd : and care 
 
 Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows 
 
 Of dauntless courage, and considerate pride 
 
 Waiting revenge: cruel bis eye, but cast 
 
 Signs of remorse and passion, to behold 
 
 The fellows of his crime, the followers rather 
 
 (Far other once beheld in bliss), condemn'd 
 
 For ever now to have their lot in pain ; 
 
 Millions of Spirits for his fault amerced 
 
 Of Heaven, and from eternal splendours flung 
 
 For his revolt; yet faithful how they stood, 
 
 Their glory wither'd : as from Heaven's fire 
 
 Hath scathe'd the forest oaks, or mountain pines, 
 
 With singed top their stately growth, though bare, 
 
 Stands on the blasted heath. He now prepare'd 
 
 ■ In this passage, the loftiness of the stature, and fixed firmness of Satan;, 
 are the only points of correspondence between the fallen angel and the tower. 
 And when the poet has swelled the mind with these gigantic images, he sad- 
 dens it by a second comparison with the sun "shorn of his beams." This 
 commingling of great and gloomy images is the grand sublime.— Rev. C. 
 Newtonx 
 
MILTON. 139 
 
 To speak; whereat their doubled ranks they bend 
 From wing to wing, and half enclose bim round 
 With all his peers . Attention held them mute. 
 Thrice he essay'd, aud thrice, in spite of scorn, 
 Tears, such as Angels weep, burst forth : at last 
 Words, interwove with sighs, found out their way. 
 
 O Myriads of immortal Spirits!* O Powers 
 Matchless, but with the Almighty ! and that strife 
 Was not inglorious, though the event was dire 
 As this place testifies, and this dire change 
 Hateful to utter : but what power ofmir.d, 
 Foreseeing or presaging, from the depth 
 Of knowledge past or present, could have fear'd. 
 How sueh united force of Gods, how such 
 As stood like these, could ever know repulse? 
 For who can yet believe, though after loss, 
 That all these puissant legions, whose exile 
 Hath emptied Heaven, shall fail to re-ascend 
 Self-rais'd, and repossess their native seat? 
 For me, be witness all the host of Heaven, 
 If counsels different, or dangers shunn'd 
 By me have lost our hopes. But he, who reigns 
 Monarch in Heaven, till then as one secure 
 Sat on his throne, upheld by old repute, 
 Consent or custom ; and his regal state 
 Put forth at full, but still his strength conceal'd, 
 Which tempted our attempt, and wrought our fall. 
 Henceforth his might we know, and kuow our own ,' 
 So as not either to provoke, or dread 
 New war, provok'd : our better part remains 
 To work in close design, by fraud or guile, 
 What force effected not : that he no less 
 At length from us may find, who overcomes 
 By force, hath overcome but half his foe. 
 Space may produce new worlds ; whereof so rife 
 There went a fame in Heaven that he ere long 
 Intended to create, and therein plant 
 A generation, whom his choice regard 
 Should favour equal to the sons of Heaven : 
 Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps 
 
 ' The Spirits of Milton are unlike those of almost all other writers. His 
 Fiends, in particular, are wonderful creations. They are not metaphysical 
 abstractions. They are not wicked men. They are not ugly beasts. They 
 have no horns, no tails, none of the fee-faw-fum of Tasso and Klopslock. — 
 They have just enough in common with human nature to be intelligible to 
 human beings. Their characters arc, like their forms, marked by a certain 
 dim resemblance to those of men, but exaggerated to gigantic dimensions, 
 and veiled in mysterious gloom.— Edinburgh Review, August, 1825.— [Ed.~] 
 
140 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Our first eruption ; thither or elsewhere : 
 For this infernal pit shall never hold 
 Celestial Spirits in bondage, nor the' abyss 
 Long under darkness cover. But these thoughts 
 Full counsel must mature : Peace is despair'd ; 
 For who can think submission ? War then, War 
 Open or understood must be resolved. 
 
 He spake : and, to confirm his words, out flew 
 Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs 
 Of mighty Cherubim ; the sudden blaze 
 Far round illumine'd hell: Highly theyrage'd 
 Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms 
 Clash'd on their sounding shields the din of war, 
 Hurling defiance toward the vault of heaven. 
 
 THE ALMIGHTY'S SPEECH TO HIS SON, WHO 
 HAD OFFERED HIMSELF A RANSOM 
 
 FOR MAN. 
 
 Milton's system of theology has been characterized as a cornbin* 
 ation of " arianism, anabaptism, latitudinarianism, quakerism, 
 and (in reference to his opinions on polygamy) mohammedism." 
 No existing sect can lay claim to the honour or the shame of hav- 
 ing engendered the theological monster, upon which is entailed 
 the fate of all hybrids ; it will perpetuate no new variety. No 
 Miltonists will arise to form an article in the catalogue of sects and 
 opinions. As a theologist, not less than as a poet, Milton must 
 stand alone. The Baptists disown him; theSocinians can have no 
 fellowship with him ; he soars above the Arians ; he would not be 
 admitted among the gentle followers of Penn. Too heterodox 
 for the orthodox, he is by far too orthodox for the sceptical and 
 misbelieving school. In short, he must be admitted to rank within 
 the pale of the true church, from the impossibility of classing him 
 with any other than devout and faithful men. But within that 
 divine inclosure, he dwells apart, an intellectual hermit, a sect con- 
 
MILTON. 141 
 
 sisting of the individual, a genus with one species, in society with 
 himself. Yet though thas isolated as regards his opinions, he is 
 no sectarian in spirit, but most truly Catholic. 
 
 Eclectic Review, Jan. 1826. 
 
 O thou in Heaven and Earth the only peace 
 Found out for mankind under wrath ! O thou 
 My sole complacence ! well thou know'st how dear 
 To me are all my works, nor man the least, 
 Though last created ; that for him I spare 
 Thee from my bosom and right hand, to save, 
 By losing thee a while, the whole race lost. 
 Thou, therefore, whom thou only canst redeem, 
 Their nature also to thy nature join ; 
 And be thyself Man among men on earth, 
 Made flesh, when time shall be, of virgin seed, 
 By wondrous birth : Be thou in Adam's room 
 The head of all mankind, though Adam's son, 
 As in him perish all men, so in thee, 
 As from a second root, shall be restore'd 
 As many as are restore'd, without thee none. 
 His crime makes guilty all his sons ; thy merit, 
 Imputed, shall absolve them who renounce 
 Their own both righteous and unrighteous deeds, 
 And live in thee transplanted, and from thee 
 Receive new life. So Man, as is most just, 
 Shall satisfy for man, be judged and die, 
 And dying rise, and rising with him raise 
 His brethren, ransom'd with his own dear life. 
 So heavenly love shall outdo hellish hate, 
 Giving to death, and dying to redeem ; 
 So dearly to redeem what hellish hate 
 So easily destroy'd, and still destroys 
 In those who, when they may, accept not grace. 
 Nor shalt thou, by descending to assume 
 Man's nature, lessen or degrade thine own. 
 Because thou hast, though throne'd in highest bliss 
 Equal to God, and equally enjoying 
 God-like fruition, quitted all, to save 
 A world from utter loss, and hast been found 
 By merit more than birthright Son of God, 
 Found worthiest to be so by being good, 
 Far more than great or high ; because in thee 
 Love hath abounded more than glory' abounds j 
 Therefore thy' humiliation shall exalt 
 With thee thy manhood also to this throne : 
 Here thou shalt sit incarnate, here shalt reign 
 Both God and Man, Sou both of God and Man,, 
 
142 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 • 
 Anointed universal King ; all power 
 [ give thee; reign for ever, and assume 
 Thy merits ; under thee, as head supreme, 
 Thrones, Princedoms, Powers, Dominions I reduce : 
 All knees to thee shall how, of them that bide 
 In Heaven, or Earth, or under Earth in Hell. 
 When thou, attended gloriously from Heaven, 
 Shalt in the sky appear, and from these send 
 The summoning Archangels to proclaim 
 Thy dread tribunal ; forthwith from all winds, 
 The living, and forthwith the cited dead 
 Of all past ages, to the general doom 
 Shall hasten ; such a peal shall rouse their sleep. 
 Then, all thy saints assembled, thou shalt judge 
 Bad Men and Angels ; they, arraign'd shall sink 
 Beneath thy sentence ; Hell, her numbers full, 
 Thenceforth shall be for ever shut. Meanwhile 
 .The world shall burn, and from her ashes spring 
 New Heaven and Earth, wherein the just shall dwell, 
 And, after all their tribulations long, 
 See golden days fruitful of golden deeds, 
 With joy and love triumphing, and fair truth. 
 Then thou thy regal sceptre shalt lay by, 
 For regal sceptre then no more shall need, 
 God shall be all in all. But, all ye Gods, 
 Adore him, who to compass all this dies ; 
 Adore the Sou, and honour him as me. 
 
 SONG OF THE ANGELS AFTER THE 
 ALMIGHTY'S SPEECH. 
 
 No sooner had the' Almighty cease'd, but all 
 The multitude of Angels, with a shout 
 Loud as from numbers without number, sweet 
 As from bless'd voices, uttering joy, Heaven rung 
 With jubilee, and. loud Hosannas fill'd 
 Th*' eternal regions: Lowly reverent 
 Towards either throne they bow, and to the ground 
 With solemn adoration down they cast 
 Their crowns inwove with amaraut and gold ; 
 Immortal amarant, a fiowt-r which once 
 In Paradise, fast by the tree of life, 
 Began to bloom ; but soon for mau's offence 
 To Heaven remove'd, where first it grew, there grows 
 And flowers aloft shading the fount of life, 
 
MILTON. 143 
 
 And where the river of bliss through rnidst of Heaven 
 
 Rolls o'er Elysian flowers her amber stream ; 
 
 With these that never fade the Spirits elect 
 
 Bind their resplendent locks inwreathe'd with beams ; 
 
 Now in loose garlands thick thrown off, the bright 
 
 Pavement, that like a sea of jasper shone, 
 
 Impurpled with celestial roses smiled. 
 
 Then, crown'd again, their golden harps they took, 
 
 Harps ever tune'd, that glittering by their side 
 
 Like quivers hung, and with preamble sweet 
 
 Of charming symphony they introduce 
 
 Their sacred song, and waken raptures high ; 
 
 No voice exempt, no voice but well could join 
 
 Melodious part, such concord is in Heaven. 
 
 Thee, Father, first they sung Omnipotent, 
 Immutable, Immortal, Infinite, 
 Eternal King ; the Author of all being, 
 Fountain ot light, thyself invisible 
 Amidst the glorious brightness where thou sit'st 
 Throne'd inaccessible, but when thou shadest 
 The full blaze of thy beams, and, through a cloud 
 Drawn round about thee like a radiant shrine, 
 Dark with excessive bright thy skirts appear ;* 
 Yet dazzle Heaven, that brightest Seraphim 
 Approach not, but with both wings veil their eyes. 
 Thee next they sang of all creation first, 
 Begotten Son, Divine Similitude, 
 In whose conspicuous countenance, without cloud 
 Made visible, the' Almighty Father shines, 
 Whom else no creature can behold ; on thee 
 Impress'd the' effulgence of his glory' abides, 
 Transfuse'd on thee his ample Spirit rests. 
 • He Heaven of Heavens aud all the Powers therein 
 By thee created ; and by thee threw down 
 The' aspiring Dominations : Thou that day 
 Thy Father's dreadful thunder didst not spare, 
 Nor stop thy flaming chariot wheels, that shook 
 Heaven's everlasting frame, while o'er the necks 
 Thou drove'st of warring Angels disarray'd. 
 Back from pursuit thy Powers with loud acclaim 
 Thee only' extoll'd, Son of thy Father's might, 
 To execute fierce vengeance on his foes, 
 
 * Wht an idea of glory! not even the skirts to be looked ou by the 
 beings nearest to God, but when doubly or trebly shaded by a cloud and 
 both wings. What then is the full blaze !— Richardson. The effulgence of 
 splendour described in this line as surrounding the Deity, is one of the 
 happiest and most picturesque images ever couceived by human imagin- 
 ation — /. Williams. 
 
144 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Not so on Man : Him through their malice fallen, 
 Father of mercy' and grace, thou didst not doom 
 So strictly, but much more to pity' incline : 
 No sooner did thy dear and only Son 
 Perceive thee purpose'd not to doom frail Man 
 So strictly, but much more to pity' incline'd, 
 He to appease thy wrath, and end the strife 
 Of mercy' and justice in thy face discern'd, 
 Regardless of the bliss wherein he sat 
 Second to thee, offered himself to die 
 For Man's offence. O unexampled lo\e ! 
 Love no where to be found less than Divine ! 
 Hail, Son of God, Saviour of Men ! Thy name 
 Shall be the copious matter of my song 
 Henceforth, and never shall my heart thy praise 
 Forget, nor from thy Father's praise disjoin. 
 
 SATAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN. 
 
 This address of Satan to the sun, has been thought by almost 
 every commentator on Paradise Lost, as among the first beauties, 
 if not the very first, in the whole poem. There is something very 
 striking in the recollection brought to the Arch-fiend's mind by 
 the view of the sun. Whether this be alike common to spirits and 
 to men, I will not determine ; but certain it is, let a man fall into 
 sin, and let that sin be so perpetrated that either place or person 
 where, or before whom it was committed, be afterwards brought 
 before the mind, either in reality or in memory, it brings with it 
 the image of the whole offence. Thus the sons of Jacob when in 
 Egypt, from the prison their consciences had then in prospect, 
 called to remembrance the pit from whence they had sold their 
 brother, instantly connected their impending punishment with 
 their former guilt, and brought the whole together. The sight of 
 the sun brought to Satan's remembrance, both his former state, 
 and the rebellion which cast him down. I do not venture to call 
 in question the correctness of our great poet in what follows, of 
 the devil's confession of his sin, and the Lord's just punishment of 
 it. There will be a day when the Lord will judge the world in 
 
MILTON. 145 
 
 righteousness, and all shall acknowledge, both men and devils, the. 
 just judgment of God. But during the present time-state of the 
 world, it is not in exact agreement with the obduracy of devils to 
 confess either their own sin, or God's justice. We must overlook, 
 however, the correctness of the statement of our poet in respect to 
 the truth of it on scripture grounds, to admire the beauty of the 
 description ; than which nothing cau be more admirably drawn. 
 
 DR. HAWKER. 
 
 Satan, now first inflam'd with rage, came down, 
 The tempter ere the accuser of mankind, 
 To wreak on innocent frail Man his loss 
 Of that first battle, and his flight to Hell : 
 Yet, not rejoicing in his speed, though bold 
 Far off and fearless, nor with cause to boast, 
 Begins his dire attempt ; which nigh the birth 
 Now rolling boils in his tumultuous breast, 
 And like a devilish engine back recoils 
 Upon himself; horror and doubt distract 
 His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir 
 The Hell within him ; for within him Hell 
 He brings, and round about him, nor from Hell 
 One step, no more than from himself, can fly 
 By change of place : Now conscience wakes despair, 
 That slumber'd ; wakes the bitter memory 
 Of what he was, what is, and what must be 
 Worse; of worse deeds worse suffering must ensue. 
 Sometimes towards Eden, which now in his view 
 Lay pleasant, his griev'd look he fixes sad ; 
 Sometimes towards Heaven, and the full-blazing sun, 
 Which now sat high in his meridian tower : 
 Then, much revolving, thus in sighs began : 
 
 O thou, that, with surpassing glory crown'd, 
 Look'st from thy sole dominion like the God 
 Of this new world ; at whose sight all the stars 
 Hide their diminished heads; to thee I call, 
 But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, 
 
 Sun! to tell thee how 1 hate thy beams, 
 That bring to my remembrance from what state 
 
 1 fell, how glorious once above thy sphere ; 
 Till pride and worse ambition* threw me down 
 Warring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless King : 
 
 * The poet seems to mean by pride, the vice considered in itself; and, by 
 ambition, the vice that carried him to aim at being equal with God, Satan 
 always lays the bhme on his ambition.— Bishop Newton, 
 
14f> THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Ah, wherefore ! he deserved no such return 
 
 From me, whom he created what I was 
 
 In that bright eminence, and with his good 
 
 Upbraided none ; nor was his service hard. 
 
 What could be less than to afford him praise, 
 
 The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks, 
 
 How due ! yet all his good prov'd ill in me, 
 
 And wrought but malice ; lifted up so high 
 
 I 'sdein'd subjection, and thought one step higher 
 
 Would set me high'st, and in a moment quit 
 
 The debt immense of endless gratitude, 
 
 So burdensome still paying, still to owe : 
 
 Forgetful what from him I still receiv'd, 
 
 And understood not that a grateful mind 
 
 By owing owes not, but still pays, at once 
 
 Indebted and discharg'd ; what burden then ? 
 
 O, had his powerful destiny ordain'd 
 
 Me some inferior Angel, I had stood 
 
 Then happy ; no unbounded hope had rais'd 
 
 Ambition ! Yet why not ? some other Power 
 
 As great might have aspir'd, and me, though mean, 
 
 Drawn to his part ; but other Powers as great 
 
 Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within 
 
 Or from without, to all temptations arm'd. 
 
 Hadst thou the same free-will and power to stand ? 
 
 Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to' accuse, 
 
 But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all? 
 
 Be then his love accurs'd, since love or hate, 
 
 To me alike, it deals eternal woe. 
 
 Nay, curs'd be thou; since against his thy will 
 
 Chose freely what it now so justly rues. 
 
 Me miserable ! which way shall I fly 
 
 Infinite wrath and infinite despair ? 
 
 Which way I fly is Hell ; myself am Hell ; 
 
 And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep 
 
 Still threatening to devour me opens wide, 
 
 To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven. 
 
 O, then, at last relent : Is there no place 
 
 Left for repentance, none for pardon left? 
 
 None left but by submission ; and that word 
 
 Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame 
 
 Among the Spirits beneath, whom I seduc'd 
 
 With other promises and other vaunts 
 
 Than to submit, boasting I could subdue 
 
 The' Omnipotent. Ah me ! they little know 
 
 How dearly I abide that boast so vain, 
 
 Under what torments, inwardly I groan, 
 
 While they adore me on the throne of Hell. 
 
 With diadem and sceptre high advanc'd, 
 
 The lower still I fall, only supreme 
 
MILTON. 147 
 
 In misery : Such joy ambition finds. 
 
 But say I could repent, and could obtain, 
 
 By act of grace, my former state ; how soon 
 
 Would height recall high thoughts, how soon unsay 
 
 What feign'd submission swore ? Ease would recant 
 
 Vows made in pain, as violent and void. 
 
 For never can true reconcilement grow, 
 
 Where wounds of deadly hate have pierc'd so deep : 
 
 Which would but lead me to a worse relapse 
 
 And heavier fall ; so should I purchase dear 
 
 Short intermission bought with double smart. 
 
 This knows my Punisher ; therefore as far 
 
 From granting he, as I from begging, peace ; 
 
 All hope excluded thus, behold, in stead 
 
 Of us out-cast, exil'd, his new delight, 
 
 Mankind created, and for him this world. 
 
 So farewell, hope : and with hope farewell, fear ; 
 
 Farewell, remorse ! all good to me is lost ; 
 
 Evil, be thou my good ; by thee at least 
 
 Divided empire with Heaven's King I hold, 
 
 By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;* 
 
 As Man, ere long, and this new world shall know. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF PARADISE. 
 
 From Hell we flee to Paradise, a region as lovely as Hell is terri- 
 ble, and which to those who do not know the universality of true 
 genius, will appear doubly wonderful, when considered as the 
 creation of the same mind which had painted the infernal world. 
 
 Paradise and its inhabitants are in sweet accordance, and toge- 
 ther form a scene of tranquil bliss, which calms and' soothes, whilst 
 it delights the imagination. Adam and Eve, just moulded by the 
 hand, and quickened by the breath of God, reflect in their coun- 
 tenances and forms, as well as minds, the intelligence, benignity, 
 and happiness of their author. Their new existence has the fresh- 
 
 * i. e. Evil be thou my good ; be thou all ray delight, all ray happiness ; by 
 *hee I hold at least divided empire with Heaven's King: at present I rule in 
 Hell, as God in Heaven : and in a short time will reign perhaps more than 
 half in this new world as well as in Hell, as man ere long, and this new 
 world shall know.— Bishop Newton. 
 
 p2 
 
148 THE TOETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 ness and peacefulness of the dewy morning. Their souls, unsated 
 and untainted, find an innocent joy in the youthful creation, 
 which spreads and smiles around them. Their mutual love is deep, 
 for it is the love of young, unworn, unexhausted hearts, which 
 meet in each other the only human objects on whom to pour forth 
 their fullness of affection ; and still it is serene, for it is the love 
 of happy beings, who know not suffering even by name, whose in- 
 nocence excludes not only the tumults but the thought of jealousy 
 and shame, who " imparadis'd in one another's arms," scarce 
 dream of futurity, so blessed is their present being. We will not 
 say that we envy our first parents ; for we feel that there may be 
 higher happiness than theirs, a happiness won through struggle with 
 inward and outward foes, the happiness of power and moral vic- 
 tory, the happiness of disinterested sacrifices and wide spread love, 
 the happiness of boundless hope, and of " thoughts which wander 
 thro' eternity." Still there are times, when the spirit, oppressed 
 with pain, worn with toil, tired of tumult, sick at the sight of guilt, 
 wounded in its love, baffled in its hope, and trembling in il& faith, 
 almost longs for the " wings of a dove, that it might fly away," 
 and take refuge amidst the " shady bowers," the " vernal airs," 
 the " roses without thorns," the quiet, the beauty, the loveliness 
 of Eden. dr. channing. 
 
 Satan to the border comes 
 Of Eden, where delicious Paradise, 
 Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green, 
 As with a rural mound, the champaign head 
 Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides 
 With thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild, 
 Access denied ; and overhead up grew 
 Insuperable highth of loftiest shade, 
 Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, 
 A silvan scene ; and, as the ranks ascend 
 Shade above shade, a woody theatre 
 Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops 
 The verdurous wall of Paradise up sprung : 
 Which to our general sire gave prospect large 
 Into his nether empire neighbouring round. 
 And higher than that wall a circling row 
 Of goodliest trees, laden with fairest fruit, 
 Blossoms and truits at once of golden hue 
 
MILTON. 149 
 
 Appear'd, with gay enamel' d colours mix'd ; 
 
 On which the sun more glad impress' d his beams 
 
 Than on fair evening cloud or humid bow, 
 
 When God hath shower'd the earth ; so lovely seem'd 
 
 That landscape : and of pure now purer air 
 
 Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires 
 
 Vernal delight and joy, able to drive 
 
 All sadne-s but despair : Now gentle gales, 
 
 Fauning their odoriferous wings, dispense 
 
 Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole 
 
 Those balmy spoils. As when to them who sail 
 
 Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are pass'd 
 
 Mozambic,* off at sea north-east winds blow 
 
 Sabeauf odours from the spicy shore 
 
 Of Araby the bless'd; with such delay 
 
 Well pleas'd they slack their course, and many a league 
 
 Cheer'd with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles : 
 
 So entertaiu'd those odorous sweets the Fiend 
 
 Who came their bane ; though with them better pleas'd 
 
 Than Asmodeus with the fishy fume 
 
 That drove him, though enamour'd from the spouse 
 
 Of Tobit's son, and with a vengeance sent 
 
 From Media Post to Egypt, there fast bound.J 
 
 Now to the' ascent of that steep savage hill 
 Satan had journey'd on, pensive and slow : 
 But further way found none, so thick entwin'd, 
 As one continued brake, the undergrowth 
 Of shrubs and tangling bushes had perplex'd 
 All path of man or beast that pass'd that way. 
 One gate there only was, and that look'd east 
 On the other side : which when the' Arch-felon saw, 
 Due entrance he disdain'd : and, in contempt, 
 At one slight bound high overleap'd all bound 
 Of hill or highest wall, and sheer within 
 Lights on his feet. As when a prowling wolf, 
 Whom hunger drives to seek new haunt for prey, 
 Watching where shepherds pen their flocks at eve 
 In hurdled cotes amid the field secure 
 Leaps o'er the fence with ease into the fold : 
 Or as a thief, bent to unhoard the cash 
 Of some rich burgher, whose substantial doors, 
 Cross barr'd and bolted fast, fear no assault, 
 Iu at the window climbs, or o'er the tiles : 
 So clomb this first graud thief into God's fold ; 
 
 * An island on the coast of Africa. 
 •t An epithet derived from Saba, a city of Arabia Felix, or "Araby the 
 bless'd." 
 
 t See the book of Tobit, in the Apocrypha. 
 
 p"3 
 
J 50 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 So since into his church lewd hirelings climbv 
 
 Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life, 
 
 The middle tree and highest there that grew, 
 
 Sat like a cormorant ; yet not true life 
 
 Thereby regain'd, but sat devising death 
 
 To them who hVd ; nor on the virtue thought 
 
 Of that life-giving plant, but only used 
 
 For prospect, what well used had been the pledge 
 
 Of immortality. So little knows 
 
 Any, but God alone r to value right 
 
 The good before him, but perverts best things 
 
 To worst abuse or to their meanest use. 
 
 Beneath him with new wonder now he views, 
 
 To all delight of human sense expos'd, 
 
 In narrow room, Nature's whole wealth, yea more. 
 
 A Heaven on Earth : For blissful Paradise 
 
 Of God the garden was, by him in the' east 
 
 Of Eden planted ; Eden stretch'd her line 
 
 From Auran* eastward to the royal towers 
 
 Of great Selucia, built by Grecian kings, 
 
 Or where the sons of Eden long before 
 
 Dwelt in Telassar :f In this pleasant soil 
 
 His far more pleasant garden God ordain'd ; 
 
 Out of the fertile ground he caus'd to grow 
 
 All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste ', 
 
 And all amid them stood the tree of life, 
 
 High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit 
 
 Of vegetable gold • and' next to life, 
 
 Our death, the tree of knowledge, grew fast by, 
 
 Knowledge of good bought dear by knowing ill. 
 
 Southward through Eden went a river large. 
 
 Nor chang'd his course, but through the shaggy hill 
 
 Pass'd underneath ingulf d; for God had thrown 
 
 That mountain as his garden mound high raised 
 
 Upon the rapid current, which, through veins 
 
 Of porous earth with kindly thirst updrawn, 
 
 Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill 
 
 Water'd the garden ; thence united fell 
 
 Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood, 
 
 Which from his darksome passage now appears,. 
 
 And now, divided into four main streams, 
 
 Runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm 
 
 And country, whereof here needs no account ; 
 
 But rather to tell how, if Art could tell, 
 
 How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks^ 
 
 Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold, 
 
 With mazy error under pendent shades 
 
 * Or Haran the chief city of Mesopotamia. 
 t Soleuciaand Telassar were cities of Mesopotamia, 
 
MILTON. 15 J 
 
 Ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed 
 
 Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice Art 
 
 In beds and curious knots, but Nature boon 
 
 Pour'd forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain, 
 
 Both where the morning sun first warmly smote 
 
 Tbe open field, and where the unpierc'd shade 
 
 Imbrown'd the noontide bowers : Thus was this place 
 
 A happy rural seat of various view ; 
 
 Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm 7 
 
 Others whose fruit, burnish d with golden rind, 
 
 Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true, 
 
 If true, here only, and of delicious taste : 
 
 Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks 
 
 Grazing the tender herb, were interpos'd, 
 
 Or palmy hillock ; or the flowery lap 
 
 Of some irriguous valley spread her store, 
 
 Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose : 
 
 Another side, umbrageous grots and caves 
 
 Of cool recess, o'er which the mantling vine 
 
 Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps 
 
 Luxuriant; meanwhile murmuring waters fall 
 
 Down the slope hills, dispers'd, or in a lake, 
 
 That to the fringed bank with myrtle crown'd 
 
 Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams, 
 
 The birds their quire apply : airs, vernal airs. 
 
 Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune 
 
 The trembling leaves, while universal Pan, 
 
 Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance, 
 
 Led on the' eternal Spring.* There the Fiend 
 
 Saw undelighted, all delight, all kind 
 Of living creatures, new to sight, and strange. 
 Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall, 
 Godlike erect, with native honour clad 
 In naked majesty, seem'd lords of all: 
 And worthy seem'd ; for in their looks divine 
 The image of their glorious Maker shone, 
 Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure, 
 (Severe, but in true filial freedom placed), 
 Whence true authority in men ; though both 
 Not equal, as their sex not equal seem'd ; 
 For contemplation he and valour form'd ; 
 For softness she and sweet attractive grace ; 
 He for God only, she for God in him: 
 His fair large front and eve sublime declar'd 
 Absolute rule ; and hyacinthine locks 
 Round from his parted forelock manly hung 
 
 * The ancients personized eveiy thing, the Graces are the beautiful sea- 
 sons, and the Hours are the time requisite for the production and perfection 
 of things. — Richardson. 
 
152 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad ; 
 She, as a veil, down to the slender waist 
 Her unadorned golden tresses wore 
 Dishevel'd, but in wanton ringlets wav'd 
 As the vine curls her tendrils, which implied 
 Subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway, 
 And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd; 
 Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, 
 And sweet, reluctant, amorous delav. 
 
 CONJUGAL FELICITY. 
 
 The speech of Adam to Eve is wonderfully expressive, in denoting 
 somewhat characteristic of the man. It is equally interesting with 
 that of our first mother's ; but is more expressive, as suited to the 
 great father of the human race, masculine, noble, and godly. — 
 Adam, as his office taught him, in the midst of all the affection of 
 the husband, calls Eve's attention to the higher concern of love 
 and obedience to Him from whom all their mercies came, the Lord 
 God and Creator of both. And it is not the smallest excellence of 
 our first father's address to our first mother, that he calls her at- 
 tention and dwells with peculiar earnestness upon the uulooked 
 for and altogether unmerited blessings which they were called into 
 being to enjoy. '" Who at his hand,'' saith Adam, "have nothing 
 merited, nor can perform." These points are certainly interesting, 
 and they form the prominent beauties m Adam's speech ; though 
 it should be observed, that they contain no less the utmost tender- 
 ness and love to her, the " sole partner and sole part" of all 
 his joys. 
 
 In the speech of Eve we discover the most engaging, affectionate, 
 and delicate expressions, suited and graceful in the female cha- 
 lacter. That indescribable softness, that winning manner, that 
 certain attracting love which captivates as if without design, the 
 every endearment which can make us love our first fair mother in 
 her original state of unfallen innocence, tender, beautiful, aud un- 
 conscious of ill — all are blended in the view given us in her speech 
 
MILTON. 153 
 
 to Adam. And what a world of sweetness is there m the account 
 she gives of the consciousness of being to which she awoke at her 
 creation ! How struck with the resemblance of herself in the wa- 
 ter's surface ! The effect she felt in first hearing her own voice ; 
 insensibly following the invitation of it until she found herself in 
 Adam's presence ; the feelings of her mind when first beholding 
 the majesty of her husband in his manhood, while observing at the 
 same time less loveliness of soft attraction than in her own image 
 in the river — these, with several other beauties, are described with 
 such artless simplicity and such unblushing gracefulness (for inin- 
 nocency there existed no cause for shame) as perhaps are not ex- 
 celled in any part of this first of all poems, and no where equalled 
 in any other composition merely human, but such only as are found 
 in other portions of Paradise Lost. dr. hawker. 
 
 Sole partner and sole part of all these joys, 
 Dearer thyself than all ; needs must the Power 
 That made us, and for us this ample world, 
 Be infinitely good, and of his good 
 As liberal and free as infinite . 
 That rais'd us from the dust, and plac'd us here 
 In all this happiness, who at his hand 
 Have nothing merited, nor can perform 
 Aught whereof he hath need; he who requires 
 From us no other service than to keep 
 This one, this easy charge, of all the trees 
 In Paradise that bear delicious fruit 
 So various, not to taste that only tree 
 Of knowledge, planted by the tree of life : 
 So near grows death to life, whate'er death is, 
 Some dreadful thing no doubt ; for well thou know'st 
 God hath pronounc'd it death to taste that tree, 
 The only sign of our obedience left, 
 Among so many signs of power and rule 
 Conferr'd upon us, and dominion given 
 Over all other creatures that possess 
 Earth, air, and sea. Then let us not think hard 
 One easy prohibition, who enjoy 
 Free leave so large to all things else, and choice 
 Unlimited of manifold delights : 
 But let us ever praise him, and extol 
 His bounty, following our delightful task, 
 To prune these growing plants and tend these flowers 
 Which were it toilsome, yet with thee were sweet. 
 
154 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 To whom thus Eve replied : O thou for whom 
 And from whom I was form'd, flesh of thy flesh, 
 And without whom am to no end, my guide 
 And head ! what thou hast said is just and right. 
 For wt to him indeed all praises owe 
 And daily thanks; I chiefly, who enjoy 
 So far the happier lot, enjoying thee 
 Pre-eminent hv so much odds, while thou 
 Like consort to thyself canst no where find. 
 That day I oft remember, when from sleep 
 I first awak'd, and found myself repos'd 
 Under a shade on flowers, which wondering where 
 And what I was, whence thither brought and how. 
 Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound 
 Of waters issued from a cave, and spread 
 Into a liquid plain, then stood unmov'd 
 Pure as the expanse of Heaven ; I thither went 
 With unexperienc'd thought, and laid me down 
 On the green bank, to look into the clear 
 Smooth lake, that to me seem'd another sky. 
 As I bent down to look, just opposite 
 A shape within the watery gleam appear'd, 
 Bending to look on me : I started back ; 
 It started back : but pleased I soon return'd ; 
 Pleas'd it return'd as soon with answering looks 
 Of sympathy and love : There I had fix'd 
 Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire, 
 Had not a voice thus warn'd me ; " What thou seest, 
 What there thou seest, lair Creature, is thyself; 
 With thee it came and goes : but follow me, 
 And I will bring thee where no shadow stays 
 Thy coming, and thy soft embraces, he 
 Whose image thou art ; him thou shalt enjoy 
 Inseparably thine, to him shalt bear 
 Multitudes like thyself, aud thence be calFd 
 Mother of human race." What could I do, 
 But follow straight, invisibly thus led? 
 Till I espied thee, fair indeed and tall, 
 Under a platane ; yet me thought less fair, 
 Less winning soft, less amiably mild, 
 Thau that smooth watery image : back I turn'd ; 
 Thou following criedst aloud, " Return, fair Eve ; 
 Whom fliest <hou ? whom thou fliest, of him thou art, 
 His flesh, his bone ; to give thee being I lent 
 Out of my side to thee, nearest my heart, 
 Substantial life, to have thee by my side 
 Henceforth an individual solace dear; 
 Part of my soul I seek thee, and thee claim 
 My other half:" With that thy gentle hand 
 Seized mine: I yielded; and from that time see 
 
MILTON. 155 
 
 How beauty is excell'd by manly grace, 
 And wisdom, which alone is truly fair. 
 
 So spake our general mother, and with eyes 
 Of conjugal attraction unreprov'd, 
 And meek surrender, half-embracing lean'd 
 On our first father; half her swelling breast 
 Naked met his, under the flowing gold 
 Of her loose tresses hid : he in delight, 
 Both of her beauty and submissive charms, 
 Smil'd with superior love, as Jupiter 
 On Juno smiles, when he impregns the clouds 
 That shed May flowers; and press'd her matron lip 
 With kisses pure. 
 
 CONVERSATION OF ADAM AND EVE ON 
 RETIRING TO REST. 
 
 Now came still Evening on, and Twilight gray 
 Had in her sober livery all things clad ; 
 Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird, 
 They to their grassy couch, these to their nests, 
 Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale; 
 She all night long her amorous descant sung; 
 Silence was pleas'd : Now glow'd the firmament 
 With living sapphires : Hesperus, that led 
 The starry host rode brightest, till the moon, 
 Rising in clouded majesty, at length 
 Apparent queen unveil'd her peerless light, 
 And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 
 
 When Adam thus to Eve : Fair Consort, the hour 
 Of night, and all things now retir'd to rest, 
 Mind us of like repose ; since God hath set 
 Labour and rest, as day and night to men 
 Successive; and the timely dew of sleep, 
 Now falling with soft slumbrous weight, inclines 
 Our eyelids : Other creatures all daylong 
 Rove idle, unemployed, and less need rest ; 
 Man hath his daily work of body' or mind 
 Appointed, which declares his dignity, 
 And the regatd of heaven on all his ways ; 
 While other animals inactive range, 
 And of their doings God takes no account. 
 
156 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east 
 With first approach of light, we must be risen, 
 And at our pleasant labour, to reform 
 Yon flowery arbours, yonder alleys green, 
 Our walk at noon with branches overgrown, 
 That mock our scant manuring, and require 
 More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth : 
 Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, 
 That lie bestrown, unsightly and unsmooth, 
 Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease ; 
 Meanwhile, as Nature wills, night bids us rest. 
 
 To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty' adorn'd, 
 My Author and Disposer, what thou bidd'st 
 Unargued I obey : So God ordains : 
 God is thy law, thou mine : To know no more 
 Is woman's happiest knowledge, and her praise. 
 With thee conversing, I forget all time ; 
 All seasons, and their change, all please alike. 
 Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet, 
 With charm of earliest birds : pleasant the sun, 
 When first on this delightful land he spreads 
 His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, 
 Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth 
 After soft showers ; and sweet the coming on 
 Of grateful Evening mild ; then silent Night, 
 With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, 
 And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train : 
 But neither breath of Morn, when she ascends 
 With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun 
 On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flower, 
 Glistering with dew ; nor fragrance after showers ; 
 Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent Night, 
 With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon, 
 Or glittering starlight, without thee, is sweet. 
 But wherefore all night long shine these ? for whom 
 This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes ? 
 
 To whom our general ancestor replied : 
 Daughter of God and Man, accomplish'd Eve, 
 These have their course to finish round the earth, 
 By morrow evening, and from land to laud 
 In order, though to nations yet unborn, 
 Ministering light prepar'd, they set and rise ; 
 Lest total Darkness should by night regain 
 Her old possession, and extinguish life 
 In Nature and all things ; which these soft fires 
 Not only' enlighten, but with kindly heat 
 Of various influence foment and warm, 
 
MILTON. 157 
 
 Temper or nourish, or in part shed down 
 
 Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow 
 
 On earth, made hereby apter to receive 
 
 Perfection from the sun's more potent ray. 
 
 These then, though unbeheld in deep of night, 
 
 Shine not in vain ; nor think, though men were none, 
 
 That Heaven would want spectators, God want praise. 
 
 Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 
 
 Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep ; 
 
 All these with ceaseless praise his works behold 
 
 Both day and night : How often from the steep 
 
 Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard 
 
 Celestial voices to the midnight air, 
 
 Sole, or responsive each to other's note, 
 
 Singing their great Creator ? oft in bands 
 
 While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, 
 
 With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds 
 
 In full harmonic number join'd, their songs 
 
 Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. 
 
 Thus talking, hand in hand alone they pass'd 
 On to their blissful bower : it was a place 
 Chosen by the Sovran Planter, when he fram'd 
 All things to Man's delightful use : the roof 
 Of thickest covert was inwoven shade 
 Laurel and myrtle, and what higher grew 
 Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side 
 Acanthus, and each odorous bushy shrub, 
 Feuc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flower, 
 Iris all hues, roses, and jessamine, 
 Rear'd high their flourished heads between, and wrought 
 Mosaic ; underfoot the violet, 
 Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay 
 Broider'd the ground, more colour'd than with stone 
 Of costliest emblem : Other creatures here, 
 Bird, beast, insect, or worm, durst enter none, 
 Such was their awe of Man. 
 
 Thus, at their shady lodge arriv'd, both stood, 
 Both turn'd, and under open sky ador'd 
 The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heaven, 
 Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent globe, 
 And starry pole : Thou also mad'st the night, 
 Maker Omnipotent, and thou the day 
 Which we, in our appointed work employ'd, 
 Have finish'd, happy in our mutual help 
 And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss 
 Ordain'd by thee : and this delicious place 
 For us too large, where thy abundance wants 
 
158 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Partakers, and uncropp'd falls to the ground. 
 But thou hast promis'd from us two a race 
 To fill the earth, who shall with us extol 
 Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake 
 And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. 
 
 ADAM AND EVE'S MORNING HYMN. 
 
 The morning hymn is written in imitation of one of those psalms, 
 where, in the overflowings of gratitude and praise, the psalmist 
 calls not only upon the angels, but upon the most conspicuous 
 parts of the inanimate creation, to join with him in extolling their 
 common Maker. Invocations of this nature fill the mind with 
 glorious ideas of God's works, and awaken that divine enthusiasm,^ 
 which is so natural to devotion. But if this calling upon the dead- 
 parts of nature, is at all times a proper kind of worship; it was in 
 a particular manner suitable to our first parents, who had the cre- 
 ation fresh upon their minds, and had not seen the various dispen- 
 sations of Providence, nor consequently could be acquainted with 
 those many topics of praise which might afford matter to the de- 
 votions of their posterity. I need not remark the beautiful spirit 
 of poetry which runs through the whole hymn, or the holiness of 
 that resolution with which it concludes. addison. 
 
 Soon as they forth were come to open sight 
 Of day-spring, and the sun, who, scarce uprisen, 
 With wheels yet hoveriug o'er the ocean-brim, 
 Shot parallel to th' earth his dewy ray, 
 Discovering in wide landscape all the east 
 Of Paradise and Eden's happy plains ; 
 Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began 
 Their orisons, each morning duly paid 
 In various style ; for neither various style 
 Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise 
 Their Maker, in fit strains pronounc'd, or sung 
 Unmeditated : such prompt eloquence 
 Flow'd from their lips, in prose or numerous verse, 
 More tuneable than needed lute or harp, 
 To add more sweetness; and they thus began : 
 
 
MILTON. 159 
 
 These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, 
 Almighty ! Thine this universal frame, 
 Thus wondrous fair ; thyself how wondrous then ! 
 Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens 
 To us invisible, or dimly seen 
 In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare 
 Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 
 Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, 
 Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs 
 And choral symphonies, day without night, 
 Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in Heaven. 
 On Earth join, all ye creatures, to extol 
 Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. 
 Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, 
 If better thou belong not to the dawn, 
 Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn 
 With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, 
 While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
 Thou Sun, of this great world both eye and soul, 
 Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise 
 In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, 
 And when high noon hast gaiu'd, and when thou fall'st. 
 Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fliest, 
 With the fix'd Stars, fix'd in their orb that flies •> 
 And, ye five other wandering Fires, that move 
 In mystic dance not without song, resound 
 His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light. 
 Air, and, ye Elements, the eldest birth 
 Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion ruu 
 Perpetual circle, multiform ; and mix 
 And nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change 
 Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 
 Ye Mists and Exhalations, that dow rise 
 From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray, 
 Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, 
 In honour to the world's great Author rise; 
 Whether to deck with clouds the' uncolour'd skv, 
 Or whet the thirsty earth with falling showers, 
 Rising or falling still advauce his praise. 
 His praise, ye Winds, that from four quarters blow, 
 Breathe soft or loud ; and, wave your tops, ye Pines, 
 With every plant, in sign of worship wave. 
 Fountains, and ye that warble, aa ye flow, 
 Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. 
 Join voices, all ye living Souls: Ye Birds, 
 That singing up to Heaven-gate ascend, 
 Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. 
 Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 
 The earth, aud stately tread or lowly creep : 
 Witness if I be silent, morn or even, 
 
 Q 2 
 
160 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade, 
 Made vocal by my song, aud taught his praise. 
 Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous still 
 To give us only good ; and if the night 
 Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd, 
 Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark ! 
 
 MESSIAH ROUTS THE SATANIC HOSTS 
 
 Those who look into Homer, are surprised to find his battles still 
 rising one above another, and improving in horror, to the conclu- 
 sion of the Iliad. Milton's fight of angels is wrought up with the 
 same beauty. It is ushered in with such signs of wrath as are suit- 
 able to Omnipotence incensed. The first engagement is carried 
 on under a cope of fire, occasioned by the flights of innumerable 
 burning darts and arrows which are discharged from each host. 
 The second onset is still more terrible, as it is filled with those ar- 
 ficial thunders, which seem to make the victory doubtful, and pro- 
 duce a kind of consternation even in the good angels. This is 
 followed by the tearing up of mountains and promontories; till 
 in the last place Messiah comes forth in the fullness of majesty 
 and terror. The pomp of his appearance amidst the roarings of 
 his thunders, the flashes of his lightnings, and the noise of his 
 chariot wheels is described with the utmost flights of imagination* 
 
 ADDISON. 
 
 Messiah, o'er his sceptre bowing, rose 
 From the right hand of Glory where he sat ; 
 And the third sacred morn began to shine, 
 Dawning through Heaven. Forth rush'd with whirlwind 
 
 sound 
 The chariot of Paternal Deity, 
 Flashing thick flames, wheel within wheel undrawn, 
 Itself instinct with Spirit, but convoy'd 
 By four Cherubic shapes ; four faces each 
 Had wondrous ; as with stars, their bodies all 
 And wings were set with eyes ; with eyes the wheels 
 Of beryl, and careering fires between ; 
 Over their heads a crystal firmament, 
 
MILTON. 161 
 
 Whereon a sapphire throne, inlaid with pure 
 
 Amber, and colours of the showery arch. 
 
 He, in celestial panoply all arin'd 
 
 Of radiant Urira, work divinely wrought, 
 
 Ascended ; at his right hand Victory 
 
 Sat eagle-wiug'd ; beside him hung his bow 
 
 And quiver with three-bolted thunder stor'd ; 
 
 And from about him fierce effusion roll'd 
 
 Of smoke and bickering flame and sparkles dire ; 
 
 Attended with ten thousand thousand Saints, 
 
 He onward came ; far off his coming shone; 
 
 And twenty thousand (I their number heard) 
 
 Chariots of God, half on each hand, were seen ; 
 
 He on the wings of Cherub rode sublime 
 
 On the crystalline sky, in sapphire thron'd, 
 
 Illustrious far and wide ; but by his own 
 
 First seen; them unexpected joy surpris'd, 
 
 When the great ensign of Messiah blaz'd 
 
 Aloft by Angels borne, his sign in Heaven ; 
 
 Under whose conduct Michael soon reduc'd 
 
 His army, circumfus'd on either wing, 
 
 Under their Head embodied all in one. 
 
 Before him Power Divine his way prepar'd ; 
 
 At his command the' uprooted hills retir'd 
 
 Each to his place ; they heard his voice, and went 
 
 Obsequious ; Heaven his wonted face renew'd, 
 
 And with fresh flowerets hill and valley smil'd. 
 
 This saw his hapless foes, but stood obdur'd, 
 
 And to rebellious fight rallied their Powers, 
 
 Insensate, hope conceiving from despair. 
 
 In heavenly Spirits could such perverseness dwell ? 
 
 But to convince the proud what signs avail, 
 
 Or wonders move the obdurate to relent ? 
 
 They, harden'd more by what might most reclaim, 
 
 Grieving to see his glory, at the sight 
 
 Took envy ; and, aspiring to his height, 
 
 Stood re- embattled fierce, by force or fraud 
 
 Weening to prosper, and at length prevail 
 
 Against God and Messiah, or to fall 
 
 In universal ruin last ; and now 
 
 To final battle drew, disdaining flight, 
 
 Or faint retreat ; when the great Son of God 
 
 To all his host on either hand thus spake : 
 
 Stand still in bright array, ye Saints ; here stand, 
 Ye Angels arm'd ; this day from battle rest : 
 Faithful hath been your warfare, and of God 
 Accepted, fearless in his righteous cause ; 
 And as ye have received, so have ye done, 
 
 Q3 
 
162 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Invincibly : but of this cursed crew 
 The punishment to other hand belongs ; 
 Vengeance is his, or whose he sole appoints . 
 Number to this day r s work is not ordain'd, 
 Nor multitude ; stand only, and behold 
 God's indignation on these godless pour'd, 
 Ey me; not you, hut me they have despised, 
 Yet envied : against me is all their rage, 
 Because the Father, to' whom in Heaven supreme 
 Kingdom and power and glory appertains, 
 Hath honour'd me, according to his will. 
 Therefore to me their doom he hath assign'd ; 
 That they may have their wish, to try with me 
 In battle which the stronger proves ; they all, 
 Or I alone against them ; since by strength 
 They measure all, of other excellence 
 Not emulous, nor care who them excels ; 
 Nor other strife with them do I vouchsafe. 
 
 So spake the Son, and into teiror chang'd 
 His count'nance too severe to be beheld, 
 And full of wrath bent on his enemies. 
 At once the Four spread out their starry wings 
 With dreadful shade contiguous, and the orbs 
 Of his fierce chariot roll'd, as with the sound 
 Of torrent floods, or of a numerous host. 
 He on his impious foes right onward drove, 
 Gloomy as night; under his burning wheels 
 The steadfast empyrean shook thoughout 
 All but the throne itself of God. Full soon 
 Among them he arriv'd ; in his right hand 
 Grasping ten thousand thunders, which he sent 
 Before him, such as in their souls infix' d 
 Plagues : they, astonish'd, all resistance lost, 
 All courage ; down their idle weapons dropp'd : 
 O'er shields and helms and helmed heads he rode 
 Of Thrones and mighty Seraphim prostrate, 
 That wish'd the mountains now might be again 
 Thrown on them, as a shelter from his ire. 
 Nor less on either side tempestuous fell 
 His arrows, from the fourfold-visag'd Four 
 Distinct with eyes, and from the living wheels 
 Distinct alike with multitude of eyes ; 
 One Spirit in them rul'd ; and every eye 
 Glar'd lightning, and shot forth pernicious fire 
 Among th' accurs'd, that wither' d all their strength. 
 And of their wonted vigour left them drain'd, 
 Exhausted, spiritless, afflicted, fallen. 
 Yet half his strength he put not forth, but check'd 
 His thunder in mid volley ; for he meant 
 
MILTON. 163 
 
 Not to destroy, but root them out of Heaven : 
 The overthrown he rais'd ; and, as a herd 
 Of goats or timorous flock together throng'd, 
 Drove them before him thunderstruck, pursu'd 
 With terrors, and with furies, to the bounds 
 And crystal wall of Heaven ; which, opening wide, 
 Roll'd inward, and a spacious gap disclosed 
 Into the wasteful deep : the monstrous sight 
 Struck them with horror backward, but far worse 
 Urged them behind : headlong themselves they threw 
 Down from the verge of Heaven ; eternal wrath 
 Burn'd after them to the bottomless pit. 
 
 Hell heard the unsufferable noise, Hell saw 
 Heaven ruining* from Heaven, and would have fled 
 Affrighted ; but strict Fate had cast too deep 
 Her dark foundations, and too fast had bound. 
 Nine days they fell : confounded Chaos roar'd, 
 And felt tenfold confusion in their fall 
 Through his wild anarchy, so huge a rout 
 Encumber'd him with ruin : Hell at last 
 Yawning receiv'd them whole, and on them clos'd ; 
 Hell, their fit habitation, fraught with fire 
 Unquenchable, the house of woe and pain. 
 Disburden'd Heaven rejoic'd, and soon repair'd 
 Her mural breach, returning whence it roll'd. 
 Sole victor, from the' expulsion of his foes, 
 Messiah his triumphal chariot turn'd : 
 To meet him all his Saints, who silent stood 
 Eye-witnesses of his almighty acts, 
 With jubilee advauc'd; and, as they went, 
 Shaded with branching palm, each Order bright 
 Sung triumph, and him sung victorious King, 
 Son, Heir, and Lord, to him dominion given, 
 Worthiest to reign : He, celebrated, rode 
 Triumphant through mid Heaven, into the courts 
 And temple of his Mighty Father throu'd 
 Ou high ; who into glory him receiv'd, 
 Where now he sits at the right hand of bliss. 
 
 * From the Ttalian, and signifies fa lling headlong— an idea replete with 
 force in this connection. 
 
164 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 L' ALLEGRO, OR THE CHEERFUL MAN. 
 
 In none of the works of Milton is his peculiar manner more hap- 
 pily displayed than in the Allegro and the Peuseroso. It is im- 
 possible to conceive that the mechanism of language can be 
 brought to a more exquisite degree of perfection. These poems 
 differ from others as ottar of roses differs from ordinary rose 
 water, the close packed essence from the thin diluted mixture. 
 They are indeed not so much poems, as collections of hints from 
 each of which the reader is to make out a poem for himself 
 Every epithet is a text for a Canto. 
 
 Edinburgh Review, August, 1825. 
 
 I set out in the morning, in company with a friend, to visit a place 
 where Milton spent some part of his life, and where, in all proba- 
 bility, he composed several of his earliest productions. It is a 
 small village, situated on a pleasant hill, about three miles from 
 Oxford, and called Forest Hill, because it formerly lay contiguous 
 to a forest, which has since been cut down. The poet chose this 
 place of retirement after his first marriage; and he describes the 
 beauties of his retreat in that fine passage of his L' Allegro : — 
 
 " Strait mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
 Whilst the landscape round it measures: 
 Russet lawns, and fallows grey, 
 Where the nibbling flocks do stray; 
 Mountains on whose barren breast, 
 The labouring clouds do often rest; 
 Meadows trim, with daisies pied, 
 Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ; 
 Towers and battlements it sees. 
 Bosom'd high in tufted trees. 
 
 Hard by a cottage chimney smokes, 
 From betwixt two aged oaks." &c. 
 
MILTON. 165 
 
 It was neither the proper season of the year nor the time of the day 
 to hear all the rural sounds, and see all the objects mentioned in 
 this description ; but, by a pleasing concurrence of circumstances, 
 we were saluted, upon our approach to the village, with the music 
 of the mower and his scythe ; we saw the ploughman intent upon 
 his labour, and the milkmaid returning from her country employ- 
 ment. 
 
 As we ascended the hill, the variety of beautiful objects, the 
 agreeable stillness and natural simplicity of the whole scene, gave 
 us the. highest pleasure. We at length reached the spot whence 
 Milton undoubtedly took most of his images : it is on the top of 
 the hill, from which there is a most extensive prospect on all sides : 
 the distant mountains that seem to support the clouds, the villages 
 and turrets, partly shaded with trees of the finest verdure, and 
 partly raised above the groves that surrounded them, the dark plains 
 and meadows of a greyish colour, where the sheep were feeding 
 at large ; in short, the view of the streams aud rivers, convinced 
 us that there was not a single useless or idle word in the above 
 mentioned description, but that it was a most exact and lively re- 
 presentation of nature. Thus will this fine passage, which has al- 
 ways been admired for its elegance, receive an additional beauty 
 from its exactness. After we had walked, with a kind of poetical 
 enthusiasm, over this enchaated ground we returned to the village. 
 
 It must not be omitted that the groves near this village are 
 famous for nightingales, which are so elegantly described in the 
 Penseroso. Most of the cottage windows are overgrown with 
 sweetbriars, vines, and honey-suckles; and that Milton's habita- 
 tion had the same rustic ornament, we may conclude from his de- 
 scription of the lark bidding him good-morrow, 
 
 Through the sweetbriar, or the vine, 
 Or the twisted eglantine : 
 
 For it is evident, that he meant a sort of honeysuckle by the 
 eglantine ; though that word is commonly used for the sweetbriar, 
 which he could not mention twice in the same couplet- 
 
 SIR WILLIAM JONES. 
 
166 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Hence loathed Melancholy, 
 Of Cerberus, and blackest Midnight born, 
 In Stygian cave forlorn, 
 
 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy, 
 Find out some uncouth cell, 
 
 Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, 
 And the night raven sings; 
 
 There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, 
 As ragged as thy locks, 
 
 In dark Cimmerian* desart ever dwell. 
 
 But come thou Goddess fair and free, 
 In heav'n yclep'd Euphrosyne, 
 And by men, heart-easing Mirth, 
 Whom lovely Venus at a birth 
 With two sister Graces more 
 To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; 
 Or whether (as some sages sing) 
 The frolic wind that breathes the spring, 
 Zephyr, with Aurora playing, 
 As he met her once a Maying, 
 There on beds of violets blue, 
 And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew, 
 Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair, 
 So bucksom, blithe, and debonair. 
 
 Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee 
 Jest and youthful Jollity, 
 Quips and Cranks,f and wanton Wiles, 
 Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, 
 Such as hang on Hebe's iheek, 
 And love to live in dimple sleek ; 
 Sport that wrinkled care derides, 
 And, Laughter, holding both his sides, 
 Come, and trip it as you go 
 On the light fantastic toe, 
 And in thy right hand lead with thee 
 The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ; 
 And, if I give thee honour due, 
 Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 
 To live, with her, and live with thee, 
 In unreproved pleasures free ; 
 To hear the lark begin his flight, 
 And singing startle the dull night,, 
 From his watch tower in the skies, 
 
 * Cimmerian— an epithet formed from Cimmerii, a people who inhabited 
 Campania, and lived in caves near the sea shore, 
 -r A quip is a satirical joke, a smart repartee ; a crank is a gambol. 
 
MILTON. 167 
 
 'Till the dappled dawn doth rise; 
 Then to come in spite of sorrow, 
 And at. my window bid good -morrow, 
 Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, 
 Or the twisted eglantine : 
 While the cock with lively din 
 Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 
 And to the stack, or the barn-door, 
 Stoutly struts his dames before : 
 Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn 
 Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn, 
 From the side of some hoar hill, 
 Through the high wood echoing shrill : 
 Sometime walking not unseen 
 By hedge-row elms, of hillocks green, 
 Right against the eastern gate, 
 Where the great sun begins his state, 
 Rob'd in flames, and amber light, 
 The clouds in thousand liveries dight, 
 While the plough-man near at hand 
 Whistles o'er the furrow' d land, 
 And the milk-maid singeth blithe, 
 And the mower whets his scythe,- 
 And every shepherd tells his tale* 
 Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
 
 Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
 Whilst the landscape round it measures, 
 Russet lawns, and fallows gray. 
 Where the nibbling flocks do stray* 
 Mountains on whose barren breast 
 The labouring clouds do often rest, 
 Meadows trim with daisies pied, 
 Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. 
 Towers and battlements it sees, 
 Bosom'd high in tufted treees, 
 Where perhaps some beauty lies 
 The Cynosuref of neighbouring eyes. 
 Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes, 
 From betwixt two aged oaks, 
 Where Cory don and Thyrsis met, 
 Are at their savoury dinner set 
 Of herbs, and other country messes, 
 Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses ; 
 And then in haste her bower she leaves, 
 
 * The word (ale here does not mean stories told by shepherds, it is a 
 technical term for numbering sheep. 
 
 t The polar star. 
 
168 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 
 
 Or if the earlier season lead 
 
 To the tann'd hay-cock in the mead. 
 
 Sometimes with secure delight 
 The upland hamlets will invite. 
 When the merry bells ring round, 
 And the jocund rebecks* sound 
 To many a youth, and many a maid, 
 Dancing in the chequer' d shade ; 
 And young and old come forth to play 
 On a sunshine holiday, 
 Till the live-long day -light fail ; 
 Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 
 With stories told of many a feat, 
 How fairy Mab the junketsf eat ; 
 She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said, 
 And he, by friar's lanthorn led, 
 Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat 
 To earn his cream-bowl duly set. 
 When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, 
 His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn 
 That ten day-labourers could not end ; 
 Then lies him .down the lubbar fiend, 
 And stretch'd out all the chimney's length, 
 Basks at the fire his hairy strength, 
 And cropful out of doors he flings, 
 Ere the first cock his mattin rings. 
 Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 
 By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep. 
 Tow'red cities please us then; 
 And the busy hum of men, 
 Where throngs of knights and barons bold 
 In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, 
 With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
 Rain influence, and judge the prize 
 Of wit, or arms, while both contend 
 To win her grace, whom all commend. 
 There let Hymen oft appear 
 In saffron robe, with tapir clear, 
 And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 
 With mask and antique pageantry, 
 Such sights as youthful poets dream, 
 On Summer eves by haunted stream. 
 Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
 If Jonson's learned sock be on, 
 Or sweetest Shakespear, Fancy's Child, 
 Warble his native wood-notes wild. 
 
 * A three-stringed fiddle. + Sweetmeats. 
 
MILTON. *69 
 
 And ever against eating cares 
 Lap me in sofc Lydian airs, 
 Married to immortal verse, 
 Such as the meeting soul may pierce, 
 In notes, with many a winding bout 
 Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 
 With wanton heed, and giddy cunning, 
 The melting voice through mazes running, 
 Untwisting all the chains that tie 
 The hidden souls of Harmony ; 
 That Orpheus' self may heave his head 
 From golden slumber on a bed 
 Of heap'd Elysian flowers, aud hear 
 Such strains as would have won the ear 
 Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
 His half-regain'd Eurydice. 
 
 These delights if thou can'st give, 
 Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 
 
 ON MELANCHOLY. 
 
 Philosophers have divested themselves of their natural apathy, 
 and poets have risen above themselves in descanting on the plea- 
 sures of melancholy. There is no mind so gross, no understand- 
 ing so uncultivated, as to be incapable, at certain moments, and 
 amid certain combinations, of feeling that sublime influence upon 
 the spirits which steals the soul from the petty anxieties of the 
 world, 
 
 " And fits it to hold converse with the gods." 
 
 I must confess, if such there be who never felt the divine abstrac- 
 tion, I envy them not their insensibility. For my own part, it'is 
 from the indulgence of this soothing power that I derive the most 
 exquisite gratifications ; at the calm hour of moonlight, amid all 
 the sublime serenity, the deep stillness of the night ; or when the 
 howling storm rages in the heavens, the rain pelts on my roof, 
 and the winds whistle through the crannies of my apartment, I 
 R 
 
170 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 feel the divine mood of melancholy; I imagine myself placed 
 upon an eminence, above the crowds who paut below in the dusty 
 tracks of wealth and honour. The black catalogue of crimes and 
 of vice; the sad tissue of wretchedness and woe, pass in review 
 before me, and I look down upon man with an eye of pity and 
 commisseration. Though the scenes which I survey be mourulul, 
 and the ideas which they excite equally sombre; though the tears 
 gush as I contemplate them, and my heart feels heavy with the 
 sorrowful emotions which they inspire; yet are they not unaccom- 
 panied with sensations of the purest and most ecstatic bliss. 
 
 It is to the spectator alone that melancholy is forbidding; in 
 herself she is soft and interesting, and capable of affording pure 
 and unalloyed delight. Ask the lover why he muses by the side of 
 the purling brook, or plunges into the deep gloom of the forest ? 
 Ask the unfortuna f e why he seeks the still shades of solitude ? or 
 the man who feels the pangs of disappointed ambition, why he re- 
 tires into the silent walks of seclusion ? and he will tell you that 
 he derives a pleasure therefrom, which nothing else can impart. 
 It is the delight of melancholy; but the melancholy of these 
 beings is as far removed from that of the philosopher, as are the 
 narrow and contracted complaints of selfishness, from the mourn- 
 ful regrets of expansive philanthropy; — as are the desponding in- 
 tervals of insanity, from the the occasional depressions of benevo- 
 lent sensibility. h. k. white. 
 
 IL PENSEROSO, OR THE MELANCHOLY MAN. 
 
 Hence vain deluding joys, 
 The brood of Folly, without father bred ? 
 How little you bested, 
 
 Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! 
 Dwell in some idle brain, 
 And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, 
 As thick and numberless 
 
 As the gay motes that people the sun-beams, 
 Or likest hovering dreams, 
 
 The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 
 
MILTON. 171 
 
 But hail, thou Goddess, sage and holy, 
 Hail divinest Melancholy, 
 Whose saintly visage is too bright 
 To hit the sense of human sight, 
 And therefore to our weaker view, 
 O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue ; 
 Black, but such as in esteem, 
 Prince Memnen's sister might beseem, 
 Or that starr'd Ethiop queen* that strove 
 To set her beauty's praise above 
 The sea nymphs, and their powers offended : 
 Yet thou art higher far descended ; 
 The bright hair'd Vesta, long of yore, 
 To solitary Saturn bore ; 
 His daughter she {in Saturn's reign 
 Such mixture was not held a stain) 
 Oft in glimmering bowers, and glades 
 He met her, and in secret shades 
 Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
 While yet there was no fear of Jove. 
 
 Come, pensive nun, devout and pure. 
 Sober, stedfast, and demure, 
 All in a robe of darkest grain, 
 Flowing with majestic train, 
 And sable stole of cypress lawn, 
 Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
 •Come, but keep thy wonted state, 
 With even step, and musing gait, 
 And looks commercing with the skies, 
 Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes ; 
 There, held in holy passion still, 
 Forget thyself to marble, till 
 With a sad leaden downward cast, 
 Thou fix them on the earth as fast : 
 And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 
 Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth diet, 
 And hear the Muses in a ring 
 Aye round about Jove's altar sing ; 
 And add to these retired Leisure, 
 That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ; 
 
 " Cassiope, the wife of Cepheus, king of Ethiopia, boasted that she was 
 more beautiful than the sea nymphs. The Nereids, in revenge of their in- 
 sulted beauty, persuaded Neptune to send a prodigioDS monster into Ethio- 
 pia to ravage the country. Cassiope, to appease this monster, was directed to 
 expose her daughter Andromeda; but Perseus delivered Andromeda, of 
 whom he was enamoured, and transported Cassiope into heaven, where she 
 l>ecame a constellation. 
 
172 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 But first, and chiefest, with thee bring- 
 Him that yon soars on golden wing, 
 Guiding the fiery wheeled throne, 
 The cherub Contemplation : 
 And the mute Silence hist along, 
 'Less Philomel* will deign a song, 
 In hei sweetest, saddest plight, 
 Smoothing the rugged brow of night, 
 While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, 
 Gently o'er the' accustom'd oak ; 
 Sweet bird that shun'st the noise of folly, 
 Most musical, most melancholy ! 
 Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among, 
 I woo to hear thy evening song : 
 And missing thee, I walk unseen 
 On the dry smooth-shaven green, 
 To behold the wandering moon, 
 Riding near her highest noon, 
 Like one that had been led astray 
 Through the heaven's wide pathless way ; 
 And oft, as if her head she bow'd, 
 Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
 
 Oft on a plat of rising ground, 
 I hear the far off Curfew sound, 
 Over some wide-water'd shore, 
 Swinging slow with sullen roar. 
 
 Or if the air will not permit, 
 Some still removed place will fit, 
 Where glowing embers through the room. 
 Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, 
 Far from all resort of mirth, 
 Save the cricket on the hearth, 
 Or the bellman's drowsy charm, 
 To bless the doors from nightly harm. 
 
 Or let my lamp at midnight hour, 
 Be seen in some high lonely tow'r, 
 Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, 
 With thrice great Hermes, + or unsphere 
 
 * A name that was giveu to the nightingale, because the melancholy 
 cast of her song accorded with the situation of Philomela (a daughter of Pan- 
 dion, king of Athens,) who died of grief. 
 
 + Hermes Trismegistus, a priest and philosopher of Egypt, so called 
 from his threefold knowledge in the cultivation of the olive, the measuring 
 of lands, and the understanding of hieroglyphics. He flourished near the 
 time of Moses. 
 
MILTON. 173 
 
 The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
 What worlds, or what vast regions hold 
 The' immortal mind that hath forsook 
 Her mansion in this fleshy nook : 
 And of those daemons that are found 
 In fire, air, flood, or under groxind. 
 Whose power hath a true consent 
 With planet, or with element. 
 
 Sometimes let gorgeous Tragedy 
 In scepter'd pall come sweeping by, 
 Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, 
 Or the tale of Troy divine, 
 Or what (though rare) of later age, 
 Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. 
 
 But, O sad virgin that thy power 
 Might raise Musaeus from his bower, 
 Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
 Such notes as warbled to the string, 
 Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, 
 And made hell grant what love did seek : 
 Or call up him* that left half-told 
 The story of Cambuscan bold,f 
 Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
 And who had Canace to wife, 
 That own'd the virtuous ring and glass, 
 And of the wond'rous horse of brass, 
 On which the Tartar king did ride ; 
 And if aught else great bards beside 
 In sage and solemn tunes have sung, 
 Of tourneys and of trophies hung, 
 Of forests and enchantments drear, 
 Where more is meant than meets the ear, 
 Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career. 
 Till civil-suited Morn appear 
 Not trick'd and frounc'd as she was wont 
 With the Attic boy to hunt, 
 But kerchief d in a comely cloud, 
 While rocking winds are piping loud 
 Or usher'dwith a shower still, 
 When the gust hath blown his fill, 
 Ending on the rustling leaves, 
 With minute drops from off the eaves. 
 
 And when the sun begins to fling 
 His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring 
 
 * Chaucer. 
 An allusion to " The Squieres Tale" which Chaucer left unfinished. 
 
 r3 
 
174 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 To arched walks of twilight groves, 
 
 And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves. 
 
 Of pine, or monumental oak, 
 
 Where the rude axe with heaved stroke., 
 
 Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, 
 
 Or fright them from their, hallotv'd haunt. 
 
 There in close covert by some brook, 
 
 Where no profaner eye may look, 
 
 Hide me from day's garish eye, 
 
 While the bee with honey'd thigh, 
 
 That at her flow'ry work doth sing, 
 
 And the waters mui'muring, 
 
 With such concert as they keep, 
 
 Entice the the dewy-feather'd sleep : 
 
 And let some strange mysterious dream? 
 
 Wave at his wings in airy stream 
 
 Of lively portraiture display'd, 
 
 Softly on my eye-lids laid ; 
 
 And as I wake sweet music breathe 
 
 Above, about, or underneath, 
 
 Sent by some spirit to mortals good, 
 
 Or th' unseen Genius of the wood. 
 
 But let my due feet never fail 
 To walk the studious cloisters pale, 
 And love the high embowed roof, 
 With antique pillars massy proof, 
 And storied windowsf richly dight,* 
 Casting a dim religious light. 
 There let the pealing organ blow 
 To the full voiced quire below, 
 In service high, and anthems clear, 
 As may with sweetness, through mine ear 
 Dissolve me into ecstasies, 
 And bring all heav'n before mine eyes. 
 
 And may at last my weary age, 
 Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
 The hairy gown and mossy cell, 
 Where I may sit and rightly spell 
 Of ev'ry star that heav'n doth shew, 
 And ev'ry herb that sips the" dew ; 
 'Till old experience do attain 
 To something like prophetic strain. 
 
 These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 
 And I with thee will choose to live. 
 
 * Windows on which historical events are painted -r Ornamented, 
 
MILTON. 175 
 
 SONNET ; ON HIS OWN BLINDNESS. 
 
 This sonnet, though severely simple in style, and remarkably ab- 
 rupt in rhythm, is, nevertheless, in quiet grandeur of sentiment, 
 one of the noblest records of human feeling, at once subdued and 
 sublimed by resignation to the divine will. Milton is never more 
 himself than when he speaks of himself. Here we are let into the 
 immortal sanctuary of his mind, and hearken (as it were) to the 
 invisible Spirit communing with itself, amidst the darkness of ex- 
 ternal nature, till light from heaven, suddenly breaking in, reveals 
 God in his " kingly state," served equally by those who do, and 
 those who suffer his will. j. Montgomery. 
 
 When I consider how my light is spent 
 
 Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 
 And that one talent which is death to hide, 
 
 Lodg'd with me useless, tho' my soul more bent 
 
 To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
 
 My true account, lest he returning chide ; 
 
 Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ? 
 
 I fondly ask: But patience to prevent 
 
 That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need 
 
 Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best 
 
 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best : his state 
 Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, 
 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
 They also serve who only stand and wait. 
 
176 THE POETICAL REVIEW, 
 
 JOHN DRYDEN, DIED 1701, AGED 70, 
 
 dryden's poetical character. 
 
 The public voice has assigned to Dryden the first place in the 
 second rank of our poets, — no mean station in a table of intel- 
 lectual precedency so rich in illustrious names. It is allowed that, 
 even of the few who were his superiors in genius, none has exer- 
 cised a more extensive or permanent influence on the national 
 habits of thought and expression. His life was commensurate with 
 the period during which a great revolution in the public taste was 
 effected; and in that revolution he played the part of Cromwell. 
 By scrupulously taking the lead in its wildest excesses, he obtained 
 the absolute guidance of it. By trampling on laws, he acquired 
 the authority of a legislator. By signalizing himself as the most 
 daring and irreverent of rebels, he raised himself to the dignity of 
 a recognized prince. He commenced his career by the most fran- 
 tic outrages. He terminated it in the repose of established sov- 
 ereignty, — the author of a new code, the root of a new dynasty. 
 Edinburgh Review, January, 1828. 
 
 ODE — TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. ANN KILLI- 
 
 GREW, EXCELLENT IN THE TWO SISTER 
 
 ARTS OF POESY AND PAINTING. 
 
 This ode, which singularly exhibits the strong grasp and compre- 
 hensive range of Dryden's fancy, as well as the harmony of his 
 numbers, seems to have been a great favourite of Dr. Johnson, 
 
DRYDEN. 177 
 
 who in one place, does not hesitate to compare it to the famous 
 ode on St. Cecilia; and, in another, calls it "undoubtedly the no- 
 blest ode that our language has ever produced."* Although it is 
 probable that few will subscribe to the judgment of that great 
 critic in the present instance, yet the verses can never be read with 
 indifference by auy admirer of poetry. We are, it is true, sometimes 
 affronted by a pun, or chilled by a conceit ; but the general power 
 of thought and expression resumes its sway, in despite of the in- 
 terruption given by such instances of bad taste. In its arrange- 
 ment, the ode is what the seventeenth century called Pindaric; 
 freed, namely, from the usual rules of order and arrangement. — 
 This licence, which led most poets, who exercised it, to extrava- 
 gance and absurdity, only gave Dryden a wider scope for the ex- 
 ercise of his wonderful power of combining and uniting the most 
 dissimilar ideas, in a manner as ingenious as his numbers are har- 
 monious. Images and scenes, the richest, though most incon- 
 sistent with each other, are swept together by the flood of song ; 
 we neither see whence they arise, nor whither they are going; but 
 are contented to admire the richness and luxuriance in which the 
 poet has arrayed them. The opening of the poem has been highly 
 praised by Dr. Johnson. " The first part,'' says that critic, 
 " flows with a torrent of enthusiasm, — Ferveb immensmque rxiit. 
 All the stanzas, indeed, are not equal. An imperial crown cannot 
 be one continued diamond, the gems must be held together by 
 some less valuable matter." sir walter scott. 
 
 Thou youngest virgin -daughter of the Skies, 
 Made in the last promotion of the bless'd ; 
 Whose palms, new pluck'd from Paradise, 
 In spreading branches more sublimely rise, 
 Rich with immortal green above the rest : 
 Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star, 
 Thou roll'st above us in thy wandering race, 
 
 * Dr. Warton severely remarks, that "examples of bad writing, of tumid 
 expressions, violent metaphors, far sought conceits, hyperbolical adulations, 
 unnatural amplifications, interspersed, as usual, with fine lines, might be col- 
 lected from this applauded ode."— The British Review (Oct. 1812.) justly ob- 
 serves " we cannot help thinking that a latent grudge against Dr. Johnson 
 has produced these animadversions," — Ed. 
 
178 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Or, in procession fix'd and regular, 
 
 Mov'd with the heavn's majestic pace ; 
 
 Or, call'd to more superior bliss, 
 
 Thou tread'st with seraphims, the vast abyss: 
 
 Whatever happy region is thy place, 
 
 Cease thy celestial song a little space ; 
 
 Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, 
 
 Since Heaven's eternal year is thine. 
 
 Hear, then, a mortal muse thy praise rehearse 
 
 In no ignoble verse; 
 
 But such as thy own voice did practice here, 
 
 When thy first fruits of poesy were giv'n 
 
 To make thyself a welcome inmate there ; 
 
 While yet a young probationer, 
 
 And candidate of Heav'n. 
 
 If by traduction came thy mind, 
 
 Our wonder is the less to find 
 
 A soul so charming from a stock so good ; 
 
 Thy father was transfus'd into thy blood ; 
 
 So wert thou born into a tuneful strain, 
 
 An early, rich, and inexhausted vein, 
 
 But if thy pre-existing soul 
 
 Was form'd, at first with myriads more, 
 
 It did through all the mighty poets roll, 
 
 Who Greek or Latiu laurels wore, 
 
 And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. 
 
 If so, then cease thy flight, O heav'n born mind ! 
 
 Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore; 
 
 Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find, 1 
 
 Than was the beauteous frame she left behind : > 
 
 Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind. J 
 
 May we presume to say, that at thy birth, 
 
 New joy was sprung in heaven, as well as here on earth ? 
 
 For sure the milder planets did combine 1 
 
 On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, > 
 
 And e'en the most malicious were in trine. j 
 
 Thy brother-angels at thy birth 
 
 Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high, 
 
 That all the people of the sky 
 
 Might know a poetess was born on earth ; 
 
 And then, if ever, mortal ears 
 
 Had heard the music of the spheres. 
 
 And it no clustering swarm of bees 
 
 On thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew, 
 
 'Twas that such vulgar miracles 
 
 Heaven had not leisure to renew: 
 
 For all thy bless'd fraternity of love 
 
 Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holy-day above. 
 
DRYDEN. J 79 
 
 O gracious God ! how far have we 
 
 Profan'd thy heavenly gift of poesy ? 
 
 Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, 
 
 Debas'd to each obscene and impious use, 
 
 Whose harmony was first oHain'd above 
 
 For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love ? 
 
 O wretched we ! why were we hurried down 
 
 This lubrique and adulterate age, 
 
 (Nay, added fat pollutions of our own) 
 
 To' increase the streaming ordures of the stage • 
 
 What can we say to' excuse our second fall ? 
 
 Let this thy vestal, Heaven, atone for all : 
 
 Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd. ) 
 
 Unmix'd with foreign filth, and undefiPd ; C 
 
 Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child. ) 
 
 Art she had none, yet wanted none, 
 
 For Nature did that want supply ; 
 
 So rich in treasures of her own, 
 
 She might our boasted stores defy : 
 
 Such noble vigour did her verse adorn, 
 
 That it seems borrow'd, where 'twas only born. 
 
 Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred, ) 
 
 By great examples daily fed, C 
 
 What iu the best of books, her father's life, she read. \ 
 
 And to be read herself she need not fear ; ) 
 
 Each test, and every light, her Muse will bear, C 
 
 Though Epictetus, with his lamp were there. \ 
 
 E'en love, for love sometimes her Mnse exprest 
 
 Was but a lambent flame which play'd about her breast, 
 
 Light as the vapours of a morning dream ; 
 
 So cold herself while she such warmth express'd, 
 
 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream. 
 
 Born to the spacious empire of the Nine, 
 
 One would have thought she should have been content 
 
 To manage well that mighty government ; 
 
 But what can young ambitious souls confine? 
 
 To the next realm she stretch'd her sway, ^ 
 
 For Painture near adjoining lay, C 
 
 A plenteous province, and alluring prey. ) 
 
 A Chamber of Dependencies was fram'd, 
 
 (As conquerors will never want pretence, 
 
 When arm'd, to justify the' offence) 
 
 And the old fief, iu right of poetry, she claim'd. 
 
 The country open lay without defence ; 
 
 For poets frequent inroads there had made, 
 
 And perfectly could represent 
 
 The shape, the face, with every lineament, 
 
 And all the large domains which the dumb sister sway'd j 
 
180 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 All bow'd beneath her government, 
 Receiv'd in triumph wheresoe'er she went. 
 
 Her pencil drew whate'er her soul design'd, 
 
 And oft the happy draught surpass'd the image in her mind 
 
 The silvau scenes of herds and flocks, 
 
 And fruitful plains, and barren rocks, 
 
 Of shallow brooks that flow'd so clear, 
 
 The bottom did the top appear ; 
 
 Of deeper too and ampler floods, 
 
 Which, as in mirrors, show'd the woods; 
 
 Of lofty trees, with sacred shades, 
 
 And perspectives of pleasant glades, 
 
 Where nymphs of brightest form appear, 1 
 
 And shaggy Satyrs standing near, > 
 
 Which them at once admire and fear. j 
 
 The ruins, too, of some majestic piece, 
 
 Boasting the power of ancient Rome or Greece, 
 
 Whose statues, friezes, columns, broken lie, 
 
 And, though defac'd the wonder of the eye ; 
 
 What Nature, Art, bold Fiction, e'er durst frame, 
 
 Her forming hand gave feature to the name. 
 
 So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before, 
 
 But when the peopled Ark the whole creation bore. 
 
 The scene then chang'd, with bold erected look 
 
 Our martial King the sight with reverence strook : 
 
 For, not content to' express his outward part, 
 
 Her hand call'd out the image of his heart : 
 
 His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear, 
 
 His high-designing thoughts were figur'd there, 
 
 As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear. 
 
 Our phcenix Queen waspourtray'd, too, so bright, 
 
 Beauty alone could beauty take so right : 
 
 Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace, 
 
 Were all observ'd, as well as heavenly face. 
 
 With such a peerless majesty she stands, 
 
 As, in that day she took the crown from sacred hands, 
 
 Before a train of heroines was seen 
 
 In beauty foremost, as in rank, the Queen. 
 
 Thus nothing to her genius was denied, 
 
 But like a ball of fire, the farther thrown, 
 
 Still with a greater blaze she shone, 
 
 And her bright soul broke out on every side. 
 
 What next she had design'd Heaven only knows : 
 
 To such immoderate growth her conquest rose, 
 
 That Fate alone its progress could oppose. 
 
 Now all those charms, that blooming grace, 
 The well-proportion'd shape, and beauteous face, 
 
DRYDEN. J 81 
 
 Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes ; 
 
 In earth the much-lamented virgin lies. 
 
 Not wit, nor piety could Fate prevent ; 
 
 Nor was the cruel Destiny content 
 
 To finisb all the murder at a blow, 
 
 To sweep, at once her life and beauty too ; 
 
 But, like a harden'd felon, took a pride 
 
 To work more mischievously slow, 
 
 And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd. 
 
 O double sacrilege on things divine, 
 
 To rob the relic, and deface the shrine ! 
 
 But thus Orinda died : 
 
 Heav'n, by the same disease, did both translate : 
 
 As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate. 
 
 Meantime her warlike brother on the seas 
 
 His waving streamers to the winds displays, 
 
 And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays. 
 
 Ah, generous youth, that wish forbear, 
 
 The winds too soon will waft thee here ! 
 
 Slack all thy sails, and fear to come, 
 
 Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wreck'd at home I 
 
 No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face, 
 
 Thou hast already had her last embrace. 
 
 But look aloft, and if thou ken'st from tar, 
 
 Among the Pleiads a new kindled star ; 
 
 If any sparkles than the rest more bright, 
 
 'Tis she that shines in that propitious light. 
 
 When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, 
 
 To raise the nations under ground; 
 
 When, in the valley of Jehoshaphat, 
 
 The judging God shall close the book of Fate, 
 
 And there the last assizes keep 
 
 For those who wake and those who sleep ; 
 
 When rattling bones together fly, 
 
 From the four corners of the sky ; 
 
 When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread, 
 
 Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead; 
 
 The sacred Poets first shall hear the sound, 
 
 And foremost from the tomb shall bound, 
 
 For they are cover'd with the lightest ground; 
 
 And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing, 
 
 Like mountiug larks, to the new morning sing. 
 
 There thou, sweet saint ! before the quire shalt go, 
 
 As harbinger of Heav'n, the way to show, 
 
 The wav which thou so well hast learn'd below. 
 
182 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 ALEXANDER'S FEAST : AN ODE FOR ST. 
 CECILIA'S DAY. 
 
 The universal applause with which this piece has been received, 
 is a proof how much more congenial to the mind is the interest 
 arising from an historical fact, than that excited by mythological 
 or allegorical fiction. Its effect is obviously enhanced by that 
 rapid, uninterrupted flow of narration, which does not suffer the 
 reader's attention to flag, but carries him on from scene to scene 
 with unchecked ardour. It has that unity of subject which is es- 
 sential to the production of warm emotions ; and in this respect 
 it is widely different in its construction from the generality of 
 lyric poems, in which the rule seems to have been, to introduce as 
 much variety as possible, with the most sudden and unexpected 
 transitions. The changes of measure seem to flow spontaneously 
 from those in the action. Perhaps it would not be easy to show 
 the exact and exclusive adaptation of each strain to its particular 
 subject; yet, in general, the ear is satisfied and recognises that 
 concordance between the sound and the sense which it was the 
 poet's aim to exhibit. — There is an air of freedom and facility in 
 the whole, which renders probable the tradition that it was "struck 
 off at a heat;" whereas the ode of Pope on the same occasion 
 bears all the marks of study and labour. dr. aikin. 
 
 Alexander's Feast, by Dryden, has gained universal fame, and 
 it seems to deserve all the reputation it has attained. It is diffi- 
 cult to decide whether the sentiments or the composition merit 
 the most praise. The sentiments are admirably suited to the 
 personages whom they describe, and the composition is fitted with 
 equal propriety to the sentiments. The sentiments are artfully 
 contrasted, a circumstance which, added to their natural ex- 
 cellence, displays them in the most captivating light. A train of 
 grand and sublime thoughts is succeeded by a series of gay and 
 pleasant ones ; a set of outrageous and furious conceptions, is 
 
DRYDEN. 183 
 
 contrasted xith a group of gentle and tender ones. The poet 
 shakes the spheres with Jupiter, revels with Bacchus, raves aud 
 destroys with the Furies, and drops a tear with his hero over the 
 misfortunes of Darius. dr. jamieson. 
 
 Mr. St. John, afterwards Lord Bolinghroke, happening to pay a 
 morning visit to Drydeu, found him in an unusual agitation of 
 spirits, even to a trembling. On enquiring the cause, " I have 
 been up all night," replied the old bard, " my musical friends 
 made me promise to write them an ode for their feast of St. 
 Cecilia: I have been so struck with the subject which occurred to 
 me, that I could not leave it till I had completed it; here it is, 
 finished at one sitting." And immediately showed him this ode, 
 which places the British lyric poetry above that of any other na- 
 tion. — The rapidity, and yet the perspicuity of the thoughts, the 
 glow and the expressiveness of the images, those certain marks of 
 the first sketch of a master conspire to corroborate the truth of 
 the fact. dr. WARTON, 
 
 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won 
 By Philip's warlike son : 
 Aloft in awful state 
 The god-like hero sate 
 On his imperial throne : 
 His valiant peers were plac'd around ; 
 Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound : 
 So should desert in arms be crown'd. 
 The lovely Thais* by his side 
 Sat, like a blooming eastern bride, 
 In flower of youth, and beauty's pride. 
 Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
 None but the brave, 
 None but the brave, 
 None but the brave deserves the fair \ 
 Timotheusf plac'd on high, 
 Amid the tuneful choir, 
 
 * Thais wasa celebrated beauty of Athens, aud the courtezan of Alexander. 
 
 t There were two bards or rausiciaus, of the name of Timotheus ; one horn 
 at Miletus, and the other in Bceotia. The latter of these was the favouriu 
 of Alexander. 
 
 s2 
 
184 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 With flying fingers touch'd the lyre : 
 The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
 And heavenly joys inspire. 
 
 The song began from Jove ; 
 Who left his blissful seats above, 
 (Such is the power of mighty love !) 
 A dragon's fiery form belied the god : 
 Sublime on radiant spheres he rode, 
 When he to fair Olympia press'd,* 
 And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'reign of the world ; 
 The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound ; 
 A present deity ! they shout around; 
 A present deity ! the vaulted roofs rebound ; 
 With ravish' d ears, 
 The monarch hears, 
 Assumes the god, 
 Affects to nod,f 
 And seems to shake the spheres. 
 
 The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung ; 
 Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young : 
 The jolly god in triumph comes; 
 Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ; 
 Flush'd with purple grace, 
 He shews his honest face. 
 Now give the hautboys breath — he comes, he comes ! 
 Bacchus, ever fair and young, 
 
 Drinking joys did first ordain : 
 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
 Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; 
 Rich the treasure, 
 Sweet the pleasure ; 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 
 
 Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain ; 
 
 Fought all his battles o'er again; 
 
 And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. 
 
 The master saw the madness rise, 
 
 His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; 
 
 And while he h^av'n and earth defy'd. 
 
 Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride. 
 He chose a mournful muse, 
 
 * This idea is founded on the declaration of Olympia, the mother of Alex- 
 ander, that not Philip her husband, but Jupiter in the form of a dragon 
 was the progenitor of her illustrious son. 
 
 -r According to Homer, and others of the ancient poets, the nod of Jupiter 
 was sufficient to move heaven and earth. 
 
DRYD£N« 185 
 
 Soft pity to infuse : 
 Me sung Darius, great and good ! 
 By too severe a fate 
 FaJI'n, fall'n, fall'n, fali'n, 
 Fall'n from his high estate. 
 And welt'ring in his blood : 
 Deserted, at his utmost need, 
 By those his former bounty fed ; 
 On the bare earth expos' d he lies, 
 With not a friend to close his eyes. 
 
 With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 
 Revolving in his alter'd soul 
 
 The various turns of chance below j 
 And now and then a sigh he stole, 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 The mighty master smil'd to see 
 That love was in the next degree ; 
 'Twas but a kindred sound to move s 
 For pity melts the mind to love. 
 
 Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,* 
 Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. 
 War, he sung, is toil and trouble, 
 Honour but an empty bubble ; 
 
 Never ending, still beginning, 
 Fighting still, and still destroying : 
 
 If the world be worth thy winning* 
 Think, O think it worth enjoying ! 
 Lovely Thais sits beside thee; 
 Take the good the gods provide thee. 
 The many rend the skies with loud applauses 
 So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause, 
 The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
 Gaz'd on the fair 
 Who caus'd his care, 
 Sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, 
 Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again. 
 At length, with love and wine at once opprest, 
 The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast, 
 
 Now strike the golden lyre again : 
 
 A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
 
 Break his bands of sleep asunder, 
 
 And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. 
 
 Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
 
 Has rais'd up his head, 
 
 • Of all the several modes of music adopted by the ancient Greeks, none 
 *v» to tender aud melting; as that borrowed from the luxurious Lydians. 
 
 s3 
 
186 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 As awak'd from the dead, 
 
 And, amaz'd, he stares around. 
 Revenge, revenge ! Timotheus cries :* 
 See the furies arise ! 
 
 See the snakes how they rear, 
 
 How they hiss in the air ! 
 And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 
 
 Behold a ghastly band, 
 
 Each a torch in his hand, 
 These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, 
 
 And unburied remain, 
 
 Inglorious on the plain : 
 
 Give the vengeance due 
 
 To the valiant crew. 
 Behold how they toss their torches on high, 
 
 How they point to the Persian abodes, 
 
 And glitt'ring temples of their hostile gods ! — 
 The princes applaud with a furious joy, 
 And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy 
 Thais led the way, 
 To light him to his prey, 
 And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy.f 
 
 Thus, long ago, 
 
 Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, 
 While organs yet were mute ; 
 Timotheus, to his hreathiug flute 
 Aud sounding lyre, 
 Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
 The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
 Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds, 
 And added length to solemn sounds, 
 With Nature's mother-wit, aud arts unknown before. 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
 
 Or both divide the crown ; 
 
 He rais'd a mortal to the skies, 
 
 She drew an angel down. 
 
 * The whole train of imagery in this stanza is alive, sublime, and animated 
 to an unparalleled degree. — Dr. Warton. 
 
 + Thais, who accompanied Alexander in his Asiatic expedition, acquired 
 such an ascendancy over him, that at her instigation, he burnt the royal 
 palace of Persepolis, the capital of the Persian Empire. 
 
POPE. 18/ 
 
 ALEXANDER POPE, DIED 1744, AGED 56. 
 
 pope's poetical character. 
 
 Pope was not distinguished as a poet of lofty enthusiasm, of strong 
 imagination, with a passionate sense of the beauties of nature, or a 
 deep insight into the workings of the heart ; but he was a wit, and 
 a critic, a man of sense, of observation aud the world, with a keen 
 relish for the elegancies of art, or of nature when embellished by 
 art, a quick tact for propriety of thought and mauners as estab- 
 lished by the forms and customs of society, a refined sympathy 
 with the sentiments and habitudes of human life, as he felt them 
 within the little circle of his family and frieuds. He was, in a word, 
 the poet, not of nature, but of art.* His Muse was on a peace- 
 establishment, and grew somewhat effeminate by long ease and in- 
 dulgence. He lived in the smiles of fortune, and basked in the 
 favour of the great. In his smooth and polished verse we meet 
 with no prodigies of nature, but with miracles of wit; the thunders 
 of his pen are whispered flatteries; its forked lightnings pointed 
 sarcasms; for " the gnarled oak" he gives us " the soft myrtle:" 
 for rocks, and seas, and mountains, — artificial grass-plats, gravel 
 walks, and tinkling rills; for earthquakes and tempests, the break- 
 ing of a flower pot, or the fall of a china jar ; for the tug and war 
 of the elements, or the deadly strife of the passions, we have " calm 
 contemplation and poetic ease." 
 
 ' Pope carried his art to such perfection, as far as poetry is an art, that 
 the very excellence proved injurious to his poetical character ; it inspired 
 despair, and his baffled rivals fancied they had broken the provoking speli 
 by declaring it to be nothing but art .'—Quarterly Review, July, 1820.— lEd.-i 
 
188 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Yet within this retired and narrow circle how much, and that 
 how exquisite, was contained ! What discrimination, what wit, 
 what delicacy, what fancy, what lurking spleen, what elegance of 
 thought, what pampered refinement of sentiment ! It is like look- 
 ing at the world through a microscope, where every thing assumes 
 a new character and a new consequence, where things are seen in 
 their minutest circumstances and slightest shades of difference ; 
 where the little becomes gigantic, the deformed beautiful, and the 
 beautiful deformed. The wrong end of the magnifier is, to be sure, 
 held to every thing, but still the exhibition is highly curious, and 
 we know not whether to be most pleased or surprised. Such, at 
 least, is the best account I am able to give of this extraordinary 
 man, without doing injustice to him or others. hazlItt. 
 
 ON THE ORDER OF NATURE, 
 
 See, thro' this air, this ocean, and this earth, 
 All matter quick, and bursting into birth, 
 Above, how high progressive life may go ! 
 Around, how wide ! how deep extend below ! 
 Vast chain of Being ! which from God began, 
 Natures ethereal, human, angel, man ; 
 Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, 
 No glass can reach ; from Infinite to thee, 
 From thee to Nothing.— On superior pow'rs 
 Were we to press, inferior might on ours : 
 Or in the full creation leave a void, 
 Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd j 
 From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, 
 Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. 
 
 And, if each system in gradation roll 
 Alike essential to th' amazing Whole, 
 The least confusion but in one, not all 
 That system only, but the whole must fall. 
 Let earth, unbalanc'd from her orbit fly, 
 Planets and Suns run lawless thro' the sky; 
 Let ruling Angels from their spheres be hurl'd, 
 Being on Being wreck'd, and world on world ,• 
 Heav'o'e whole foundations to their centre nod, 
 
POPE. 189 
 
 And Natuie tremble to the throne of God. 
 
 All this dread Order break — for whom ? for thee ? 
 
 Vile worm ! — Oh Madness ! Pride ! Impiety ! 
 
 What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, 
 Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head? 
 What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd 
 To serve mere engines to the ruling Mind ? 
 Just as absurd for any part to claim 
 To be another, in this geu'ral frame : 
 Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains, 
 The great directing Mind of All ordains. 
 
 All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
 Whose body Nature is, and God the soul : 
 That, chang'd thro' all, and yet in all the same, 
 Great in the earth, as in the' ethereal frame, 
 Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 
 Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, 
 Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent, 
 Spreads undivided, operates unspent; 
 Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 
 As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 
 As full, as perfect, in vile Man that mourns, 
 As the rapt Seraph that adores and burns : 
 To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
 He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. 
 
 Cease then, nor Order Imperfection name : 
 Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
 ' Know thy own point : This kind, this due degree 
 Of bliudness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee. 
 Submit. — In this or any other sphere, 
 Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear : 
 Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r, 
 Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 
 All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee ; 
 All Chance, Direction, which thou caust not see ; 
 All Discord, Harmony not understood ; 
 All partial Evil, universal Good : 
 And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, 
 One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right. 
 
190 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 ON LORD BOLINBROKE'S INFLUENCE 
 OVER POPE. 
 
 Lord Bolingbroke somehow obtained an extraordinary ascen- 
 dancy over Pope, and led his understanding blindfold, by a parade 
 of words and flimsy pretensions to a higher sort of wisdom. The 
 true way indeed to seem wise, and to dictate your opinions to 
 others, is to pretend to understand what both they and you are 
 entirely in the dark about. — Bolingbroke's art in conversation 
 appears to have consisted in talking upon subjects supposed to be 
 beyond the reach of his hearers, and in deciding confidently upon 
 moot points in philosophy. Thus for instance — 
 
 "As to our senses, we are made in the best manner that we possibly could. 
 If we were so formed as to see into the most minute configuration of a post, 
 we should break our shins against it. We see for use, and not for curiosity. 
 Was our sight so fine as to pierce into the internal make of things, we 
 •hould distinguish all the fine ducts and the contrivances of each canal for 
 the conveyance of the juices in every one of those leaves: but then we 
 should lose this beautiful prospect: it would be only a heap and confusion- 
 to the eye." — Lord Bolingbroke. 
 
 Now this no more follows, than that it is impossible for the eye 
 to be so constructed (as it now is) as to see a leaf and a mountain 
 at the same time. If there were none but short-sighted people, 
 it would be quite accurate, according to this way of reasoning, to 
 conclude, that there could be no other. But on what grounds 
 does the noble Lord assume that there could not be a race of 
 beings with their organs so constituted as to take in both extremes 
 of near and remote ; to unite the powers of the telescope and the 
 microscope together ? To say so, would be a most impious and 
 unphilosophical limitation of the power of Providence within 
 bounds which even the art of man has surpassed. It is true, we 
 are not so made; and we do not know of any creature that is so 
 made : but it is plainly quite absurd to conclude from this, that 
 it is impossible we should have been so made. Again, even allow- 
 ing the incompatability of different advantages with a given con 
 
POPE. 191 
 
 formation, how does this prove that the particular conformation 
 
 we happen to possess is the best of all others ? By changing it 
 
 we should lose something ; but how do we know that we might 
 
 not gain much more than we lose ? The proposition, in short, 
 
 does not make for a system of optimism, but of indifference — for 
 
 a balance of blessings, not an exclusive claim of superiority. 
 
 There are other beings in the world differently constituted from 
 
 us, all benevolently and wisely, and for their good, no doubt, each 
 
 in their kind and degree ; some lower in the scale of existence 
 
 than ourselves; and some higher. That we are here, and for our 
 
 good, is all that we are bound to believe, or permitted to know of 
 
 our present state: but to maintain that our present condition, 
 
 either moral or physical, is the best possible, and that it could 
 
 receive neither addition nor alteration that would not be for the 
 
 worse, is to be " wise above what is written," and is one of those 
 
 scholastic interpolations on the genuine text of common sense and 
 
 true piety, iu which there is neither religion nor philosophy, 
 
 neither wisdom nor humility. — Of such idle maxims, and vain 
 
 sophistry, is the greatest part of the Essay on Man composed ; in 
 
 which Pope did nothing more than translate into sounding verse 
 
 Lord Bolingbroke's hollow reasonings;* who unhappily thought 
 
 himself admitted, by some peculiar privilege, into the cabinet 
 
 council of Nature; and set about balancing the laws of the 
 
 Universe, as he might have done the interests of some petty state 
 
 in Germany. 
 
 Edinburgh Review, May, 1820. 
 
 The late Lord Bathurst repeatedly assured me, that he had read the 
 whole scheme of the Essay on Man, in the hand writing of Bolingbroke, and 
 drawn up in a series of propositions, which Pope was to versify and illustrate. 
 In doing which, our poet, it must he confessed, left several passages so ex- 
 pressed, as to be favourable to fatalism and necessity, notwithstanding all the 
 pains that can be taken, and the turns that can be given to those passages, to 
 place them on the side of religion, and make them coincide with the funda- 
 mental doctrines of revelation.— Dr. JParton.—lEd.] 
 
192 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 ON HAPPINESS. 
 
 Oh Happiness ! our being's end and aim ! 
 Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content ! whate'er thy name ; 
 That something still which prompts the' eternal sigh, 
 For which we bear to live or dare to die ; 
 Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, 
 O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool, and wise. 
 Plant of celestial seed ! if dropt below, 
 Say, in what mortal soil thou deign 'st to grow ? 
 Fair op'ning to some Court propitious shine, 
 Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine ? 
 Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield, 
 Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field ? 
 Where grows ? — where grows it not ? If vain our toil, 
 We ought to blame the culture, not the soil : 
 Fix'd to no spot is Happiness sincere, 
 'Tis nowhere to be found, or ev'ry where; 
 'Tis never to be bought, but always free, 
 And, fled from monarcbs, St. John !* dwells with thee. 
 
 Ask of tbe Learn'd the way ? The Learn'd are blind ; 
 This bids to serve, aud that to shun mankind : 
 Some place the bliss in action, some in ease, 
 Those call it Pleasure, aud Contentment these ; 
 Some, sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in pain ; 
 Some, swell'd to Gods, confess ev'n Virtue vain ; 
 Or indolent, to each extreme they fall, 
 To trust in every thing, or doubt of all. 
 
 Who thus define it, say they more or less 
 Than this, that Happiness is Happiness ? 
 
 Take Nature's path, and mad Opinions leave : 
 AH states can reach it, and all heads conceive ; 
 Obvious her goods, in no extreme they dwell; 
 There needs but thinking right, and meaning well ; 
 And mourn our various portions as we please, 
 Equal is Common Sense, and Common Ease. 
 
 Remember, Man, " the Universal Cause 
 " Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws ;" 
 And makes what Happiness we justly call 
 Subsist not in the good of one, but all. 
 There's uot a blessiug Individuals find, 
 But some way leans and hearkens to the kind ; 
 
 * Lord Bolingbroke, 
 
POPE. 193 
 
 No Bandit fierce, no Tyrant mad with pride, 
 No cavern'd Hermit, rests self-satisfied : 
 Who most to shun or hate Mankind pretend, 
 Seek an admirer, or would fix a friend : 
 Abstract what others feel : what others think, 
 All pleasures sicken, and all glories sink : 
 Each has his share ; and who would more obtain 
 Shall find, the pleasure pays not half the pain. 
 
 Order is Heav'n's first law ; and this confest, 
 Some are, and must be, greater than the rest. 
 More rich ; more wise ; but who infers from hence 
 That such aie happier, shocks all common sense. 
 Heav'n to mankind impartial we confess, 
 If all are equal in their Happiness: 
 But mutual wants this Happiness increase ; 
 All Nature's difference keeps all Nature's peace, 
 Condition, circumstance, is not the thing ; 
 Bliss is the same in subject or in king ; 
 In who obtain defence, or who defend, 
 In him who is, or him who finds a friend : 
 Heav'n breathes thro' every member of the whole 
 One common blessing, as one common soul. 
 But Fortune's gifts if each alike possess'd, 
 And each were equal, must not all contest? 
 If then to all men Happiness was meant, 
 God in Externals could not place content. 
 
 Fortune her gifts may variously dispose, 
 And these be happy call'd, unhappy those; 
 But Heav'n's just balance equal will appear, 
 While those are plac'd in Hope, and these in Fear : 
 Not present good or ill, the joy or curse, 
 But future views of better, or of worse. 
 Oh sons of earth ! attempt ye still to rise, 
 By mountains pil'd on mountains, to the skies ! 
 Heav'n still with laughter the vain toil surveys, 
 And buries madmen in the heaps they raise. 
 
 Know, all the good that individuals find, 
 Or God and Nature meant to mere mankind, 
 Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of Sense, 
 Lie in three words, Health, Peace, and Competence. 
 
194 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 SIR BALAAM. 
 
 This tale of Sir Balaam, his progress and change of manners, 
 from being a plodding, sober, plain, and punctual citizen, to his 
 becoming a debauched and dissolute courtier and seuator, abounds 
 in much knowledge of life, aud many strokes of (rue humour, and 
 will bear to be compared with the exquisite history of Corusodes, 
 in one of Swift's Intelligencers. dr. warton. 
 
 Where London's column, pointing at the skies 
 Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies; 
 There dwelt a Citizen of sober fame, 
 A plain good man, and Balaam was his name; 
 Religious, punctual, frugal, aud so forth ; 
 His word would pass for more than he was worth, 
 One solid dish his weekly meal affords, 
 An added pudding solemuiz'd the Lord's : 
 Constant at Church, and 'Change; his gains were sure, 
 His givings rare, save farthings to the poor. 
 
 The Devil was piqu'd such saintship to behold, 
 Aud long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old : 
 But Satan now is wiser than of yore, 
 And tempts by making rich, not making poor. 
 
 Rous'd by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep 
 The surge, and plunge his Father in the deep ; 
 Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, 
 And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore. 
 
 Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks, 
 He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes: 
 " Live like yourself," was soon my Lady's word; 
 And lo ! two puddings smoak'd upon the board. 
 
 Asleep and naked as an Indian lay, 
 An honest factor stole a gem away ; 
 He pledg'd it to the knight ; the knight had wit, 
 So kept the Di'mond, and the rogue was bit. 
 Some scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought, 
 " I'll now give six-pence where I gave a groat ; 
 " Where once I went to church, I'll now go twice — 
 " And am so clear too of all other vice." 
 
 The Tempter saw his time ; the work he ply'd ; 
 Stocks and Subscriptions pour on every side, 
 
POPE. 195 
 
 'TjU all the Daemon makes his full descent 
 In one abundant show'r of Cent, per Cent. 
 Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole, 
 Then dubs Director, and secures his soul. 
 
 Behold Sir Balaam now a man of spirit, 
 Ascribes his gettings to bis parts and merit ; 
 What late he call'd a Blessing, now was Wit, 
 And God's good Providence, a lucky Hit. 
 Things change their titles, as our manners turn : 
 His Compting-house employ'd the Sunday morn : 
 seldom at Church ('twas such a busy life) 
 But duly sent his family and wife, 
 There (so the Devil ordain'd) one Christmas-tide 
 My good old Lady catch'd a cold and died. 
 
 A Nymph of Quality admires our Knight, 
 He marries, bows at Court, and grows polite : 
 Leaves the dull Cits, and joins (to please the Fair) 
 lhe well bred cuckolds in St. James's air : 
 In Britain's Senate he a seat obtains, 
 And one more Pensioner St. Stephen gains. 
 My Lady folk to play ; so bad her chance, 
 He must repair it ; takes a bribe from France : 
 lhe House impeach him; Coningsby harangues; 
 1 he Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs. 
 Wife, son, and daughter, Satan ! are thy own, 
 His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the Crown ; 
 The Devil and the King divide the prize, 
 Aud sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies.' 
 
 THE MESSIAH. 
 
 Our author, who had reeeived an early tincture of religion, a 
 reverence for which he preserved to the last, was with justice con- 
 vinced, that the Scriptures of God contained not only the purest 
 precepts of morality, but the most elevated and sublime strokes of 
 genuine poesy ; strokes, as much superior to any thing Heathenism 
 can produce, as is Jehovah to Jupiter. This is the case more 
 particularly in the exalted prophecy of Isaiah, which Pope has so 
 successfully versified in an Eclogue, that incontestably surpasses 
 T 2 
 
196 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 the Pollio of Virgil : although perhaps the dignity, the energy, 
 and the simplicity of the original are in a few passages weakened 
 and diminished by florid epithets, and useless circumlocutions. 
 
 DR. WARTON. 
 
 Pope's Messiah leaves all his original productions immeasurably 
 behind it, in elevation of thought, affluence of imagery, beauty 
 of diction, and fervency of spirit. Indeed this poem is only de- 
 preciated in the eyes of ordinary and prejudiced readers by that 
 which constitutes its glory and supreme worth — that every senti- 
 ment and figure in it is taken directly from the prophecies of 
 Isaiah ; compared with which it is indeed but as the moon reflect- 
 ing light borrowed from the sun ; yet, considered in itself, it 
 cannot be denied, that had Pope been the entire author of the 
 poem just as it stands, (or with no other prototype than Virgil's 
 Pollio before him) and drawn the whole from the treasures of his 
 own imagination, he would have been the first poet in rank, to 
 whom this country has given birth ; for in the works of no other 
 will be found so many and sueh transcendant excellencies as are 
 comprised in this small piece. j. Montgomery. 
 
 Ye nymphs of Solyma ! begin the song ; 
 To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. 
 The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades, 
 The dreams of Pindus, and the' Aonian maids, 
 Delight no more — O thou my voice inspire 
 Who touch'd Isaiah's hallow'd lips with fire ! 
 
 Rapt into future times, the bard begun : 
 A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a son ! 
 From Jesse's root behold a branch arise, 
 Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies : 
 The' etherial spirit o'er its leaves shall move, 
 And on its top descends the mystic dove. 
 Ye heavens ! from high the dewy nectar pour, 
 And in soft silence shed the kindly show'r ! 
 The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid, 
 From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. 
 All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail ; 
 Returning Justice lift aloft her scale ; 
 
POPE. 197 
 
 Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, 
 And white-rob'd Innocence from Heav'n descend. 
 Swift fly the years, and rise the' expected morn ! 
 O spring to light, auspicious babe, be born. 
 See Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, 
 With all the incense of the breathing spring ; 
 See lofty Lebanon his head advance, 
 See nodding forests on the mountains dance ; 
 See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, 
 And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies! 
 Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers : 
 Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears ! 
 A God, a God ! the vocal hills reply ,• 
 The rocks proclaim the' approaching Deity. 
 Lo, earth receives him from the bending skies ! 
 Sink down, ye mountains, and, ye vallies, rise ; 
 With heads declin'd, ye cedars, homage pay; 
 Be smooth, ye rocks ; ye rapid floods, give way ! 
 The Saviour comes, by ancient bards foretold : 
 Hear him, ye deaf, and all ye blind, behold ! 
 He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, 
 And on the sightless eye-ball pour the day : 
 'Tis he the' obstructed paths of sound shall clear, 
 And bid new music charm the' unfolding ear : 
 The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, 
 And leap exulting like the bounding roe. 
 No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear, 
 From every face he wipes off every tear. 
 In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, 
 And Hell's grim tyrant feel the' eternal wound. 
 As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, 
 Seeks freshest pasture and the purest air, 
 Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs, 
 By day o'ersees them, and by night protects ; 
 The tender lambs he raises in his arms, 
 Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms; 
 Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage, 
 The promis'd father of the future age. 
 No more shall nation against nati@n rise, 
 Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes. 
 Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er, 
 The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more; 
 But useless lances into scythes shall bend, 
 And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end. 
 Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son 
 Shall finish what his short-liv'd sire begun; 
 Their viues a shadow to their race shall yield, 
 And the same hand that sow'd shall reap the field. 
 The swain in barren deserts with surprise 
 Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise ; 
 t3 
 
198 THE POETICAL REVIEW 
 
 And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds to hear 
 
 New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 
 
 On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes, 
 
 The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. 
 
 Waste sandy vallies, once perplex'd with thorn. 
 
 The spiry fir and shapely box adorn ; 
 
 To leafless shrubs the flowering palms succeed, 
 
 And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. 
 
 The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead- 
 
 And boys in bowery bands the tiger lead ; 
 
 The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, 
 
 And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet; 
 
 The smiling infant in his hand shall take 
 
 The ciested basilisk and speckled snake, 
 
 Pleas'd, the green lustre of the scales survey, 
 
 And with their forky tongue shall innocently play. 
 
 Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise ! 
 
 Exalt thy towery head, and lift thine eyes ; 
 
 See a long race thy spacious courts adorn, 
 
 See future sons and daughters, yet unborn, 
 
 In crowding ranks on every side arise. 
 
 Demanding life, impatient for the skies ! 
 
 See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, 
 
 Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ; 
 
 See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings, 
 
 And heap'd with products of Sabaaan springs ; 
 
 For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, 
 
 And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. 
 
 See Heav'n its sparkling portals wide display, 
 
 And break upon thee in a flood of day. 
 
 No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, 
 
 Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 
 
 But lost dissolv'd in thy superior rays, 
 
 One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze 
 
 O'erflow thy courts : the light himself shall shine 
 
 Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine ! 
 
 The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, 
 
 Rocks fall to dust and mountains melt away ; 
 
 But fix'd his word, his saving pow'r remains ; — 
 
 Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns r 
 
 THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 
 
 This ode was written at the desire of Steele ; and our poet in a 
 letter to him on that occasion, says, "You have it, as Cowley 
 
POPE. 199 
 
 calls it, just warm from the brain ; it came to me the first moment 
 I waked this morning ; yet you'll see, it was not so absolutely 
 inspiration, but that I had in my head, not only the verses of 
 Adrian, but the fine fragment of Sappho.'' It is possible, how- 
 ever, that our author might have had another composition in his 
 head, besides those he here refers to ; for there is a close and sur- 
 prising resemblance between this ode of Pope, and an obscure and 
 forgotten rhymer of the age of Charles the second, namely Thomas 
 Flatman. The following stanza is perhaps the only valuable one 
 Flatman has produced. 
 
 " When on my sick bed I languish, 
 
 Full of sorrow, full of anguish, 
 
 Fainting, gasping, trembling, crying, 
 
 Panting, groaning, speechless, 'lying ; 
 Methinks I hear some gentle spirit say, 
 Be not fearful, come away." 
 
 The third and fourth lines are eminently good and pathetic, and 
 the climax well preserved ; the very turn of them is closely copied 
 by Pope j as is likewise the striking circumstance of the dying 
 man's imagining he hears a voice calling him away. 
 
 DR. VvARTON, 
 
 Vital spark of heav'nly flame ! 
 
 Quit, oh ! quit this mortal frame ! 
 
 Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, 
 
 Oh ! the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
 Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, 
 And let me langiiish into life. 
 
 Hark ! they whisper ; angels say, 
 
 Sister spirit, come away. 
 
 What is this absorbs me quite ? 
 
 Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
 Drowns my spirits, draws my breath, 
 Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 
 
 The world recedes ; it disappears ! 
 Heav'n opens on my eyes ! my ears 
 
 With sounds seraphic ring : 
 Lend, lend your wings ! 1 mount ! I fly ! 
 O grave ! where is thy victory ? 
 
 O death ! where is thy sting ? 
 
200 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 JAMES THOMSON, DIED 1748, AGED 48. 
 
 THOMSON'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 
 
 Thomson looks around on Nature and on Life with the eye 
 which Nature bestows only on a poet ; the eye that distinguishes 
 in every thing presented to its view, whatever there is on which 
 imagination can delight to be detained, and with a mind that 
 at once comprehends the vast and attends to the minute. The 
 reader of " The Seasons" wonders that he never saw before what 
 Thomson shows him, and that he never yet has felt what Thomson 
 impresses. His descriptions of extended scenes and general effects 
 bring before us the whole magnificence of Nature, whether pleas- 
 ing or dreadful. The gaiety of Spring, the splendour of Summer, 
 the tranquillity of Autumn, and the horror of Winter, take in their 
 turns possession of the mind. The poet leads us through the 
 appearances of things as they are successively varied by the vicis- 
 situdes of the year, and imparts to us so much of his own enthu- 
 siasm, that our thoughts expand with his imagery, and kindle with 
 his sentiments. or. johnson. 
 
 Thomson is the best of our descriptive poets ; for be gives most 
 of the poetry of natural description. Nature in his descriptions 
 is seen growing around us fresh and lusty as in itself. We feel 
 the effect of the atmosphere, its humidity or clearness, its heat or 
 cold, the glow of summer, the gloom of winter, the tender pro- 
 mise of the spring, the full overshadowing foliage, the declining 
 pomp and deepening tints of autumn. He transports us to the 
 scorching heat of vertical suns, or plunges us into the chilling 
 
THOMSON. 201 
 
 horrors and desolation of the frozen zone. We hear the snow 
 drifting against the broken casement without, and see the fire 
 blazing on the hearth within. The first scattered drops of a ver- 
 nal shower patter on the leaves above our heads, or the coming 
 storm resounds through the leafless groves. In a word, he des- 
 cribes not to the eye alone, but to the other senses, and to the 
 whole man. He puts his heart into his subject, writes as he feels, 
 and humanises whatever he touches. He makes all his descriptions 
 teem with life and vivifying soul. His faults were those of his 
 style — of the author and the man ; but the original genius of the 
 poet, the pith and marrow of his imagination, the fine natural 
 mould in which his feelings were bedded, were too much for him 
 to counteract by neglect, or affectation, or false ornament. 
 
 HAZLITT, 
 
 VERNAL SHOWERS. 
 
 The north-east spends his rage ; he now shut up 
 Within his iron cave, the* effusive south 
 Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven 
 Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent. 
 At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise, 
 Scarce staining ether; but, by swift degrees, 
 In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapour sails 
 Along the loaded sky, aud mingling deep 
 Sits on the' horizon round a settled gloom : 
 Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed, 
 Oppressing life ; but lovely, gentle, kind, 
 And full of every hope and every joy, 
 The wish of Nature. Gradual sinks the breeze 
 Into a perfect calm ; that not a breath 
 Is heard to quiver through the closing woods, 
 Or rustliug turn the many twinkling leaves, 
 Of aspen tall. The' uncurling floods, diffused 
 In glassy breadth, seem through delusive lapse 
 Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all, 
 And pleasing expectation. Herds aud flocks 
 Drop the dry sprig, aud mute imploring eye 
 The falling verdure. Hush'd in short suspense, 
 The plumy people streak their wings with oil, 
 To throw the lucid moisture trickling off: 
 
202 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 And wait the' approaching sign to strike, at once, 
 
 Into the general choir. Even mouutains, vales, 
 
 And forests seem impatient to demand 
 
 The promis'd sweetness. Man superior walks 
 
 Amid the glad creation, musing praise, 
 
 And looking lively gratitude. At last, 
 
 The clouds consign their treasures to the fields ; 
 
 And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool 
 
 Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow, 
 
 In large effusion, o'er the freshen'd world. 
 
 The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard, 
 
 By such as wander through the forest walks, 
 
 Beneath the' umbrageous multitude of leaves. 
 
 But who can hold the shade while Heaven descends 
 
 In universal bounty, shedding herbs 
 
 And fruits and flowers on Nature's ample lap ! 
 
 Swift Fancy fired anticipates their growth ; 
 
 And, while the milky nutrimeut distils, 
 
 Beholds the kindling country colour rouud. 
 
 Thus all day long the full distended clouds 
 Indulge their genial stores, and well shower'd earth 
 Is deep enrich'd with vegetable life; 
 Till, in the western sky, the downward sun 
 Looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush 
 Of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam. 
 The rapid radiance instantaneous strikes 
 The' illumined mountain, through the forest streams, 
 Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist, 
 Far smoking o'er the' interminable plain, 
 In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems. 
 
 INFLUENCE OF SPRING ON BIRDS. 
 
 When first the soul of love is sent abroad, 
 Warm through the vital air, and on the heart 
 Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin, 
 In gallant thought, to plume the painted wing, 
 And try again the long forgotten strain, 
 At first faint warbled. But no sooner grows 
 The soft infusion prevalent and wide, 
 Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows 
 In music uuconfin'd. Up springs the lark, 
 Shrill-voiced and loud, the messenger of morn ; 
 Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings 
 Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts 
 
THOMSON. 203 
 
 Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse 
 Deep tangled, tree irregular, and bush 
 Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads 
 Of the coy quiristers that lodge within, 
 Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush 
 And woodlark, o'er the kind contending throng 
 Superior heard, run through the sweetest length 
 Of notes; when listening Philomela deigns 
 To let them joy, and purposes, in thought 
 Elate, to make her night excel their day. 
 The blackbird whistles from the thorny brake, 
 The mellow bull-finch answers from the grove : 
 Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze 
 Pour'd out profusely, silent. Join'd to these 
 Iunumerous songsters, in the freshening shade 
 Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix 
 Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw, 
 And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone, 
 Aid the full concert : while the stockdove breathes 
 A melancholy murmur through the whole. 
 
 'Tis love creates their melody, and all 
 This waste of music is the voice of love ; 
 That even to birds and beasts the tender arts 
 Of pleasing teaches. Hence the glossy kind 
 Try every winning way inventive love 
 Can dictate, and in courtship to their mates 
 Pour forth their little souls. First, wide around. 
 With distant awe, in airy rings they rove, 
 Endeavouring by a thousand tricks to catch 
 The cunning, conscious, half averted glance 
 Of the regardless charmer. Should she seem 
 Softening the least approvance to bestow, 
 Their colours burnish, and, by hope inspired, 
 They brisk advance ; then, on a sudden struck, 
 Retire disorder'd ; then again approach ; 
 In fond rotation spread the spotted wing, 
 And shiver every feather with desire. 
 
 What is this mighty breath, ye sages, say, 
 That, in a powerful language, felt, not heard, 
 Instructs the fowls of heaven ? and through their breast 
 These arts of love diffuses ? What, but God ? 
 Inspiring God ? who, boundless Spirit all, 
 And unremitting Energy, pervades, 
 Adjusts, sustains, and agitates the whole. 
 He ceaseless works alone ; and yet alone 
 Seems not to work : with such perfection framed 
 Is this complex stupendous scheme of things. 
 
204 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 But, though conceal'd to every purer eye 
 The' informiug Author in his works appears : 
 Chief, lovely Spring, in thee, and thy soft scenes, 
 The Smiling God is seen ; while water, earth, 
 And air attest his bounty ; which exalts 
 The brute creation to this finer thought, 
 And annual melts their undesigning hearts 
 Profusely thus in tenderness and joy. 
 
 STORM OF THUNDER AND LIGHTNING. 
 
 Behold, slow-settling o'er the lurid grove 
 , Unusual darkness broods ; and growing gains 
 The full possession of the sky, surcharged 
 With wrathful vapour, from the secret beds, 
 Where sleep the mineral generations, drawn. 
 Thence nitre, sulphur, and the fiery spume 
 Of fat bitumen, steaming on the day, 
 With various tinctured trains of latent flame, 
 Pollute the sky, and in yon baleful cloud, 
 A reddening gloom, a magazine of fate 
 Torment ; till, by the touch etherial roused, 
 The dash of clouds, or irritating war 
 Of fighting winds, while all is calm below, 
 They furious spring. A boding silence reigns, 
 Dread through the dun expanse ; save the dull sound 
 That from the mountain, previous to the storm, 
 Rolls o'er the mutteiing earth, disturbs the flood, 
 And shakes the forest-leaf without a breath. 
 Prone, to the lowest vale, the aerial tribes 
 Descend : the tempest-loving raven scarce 
 Dares wing the dubious dusk. In rueful gaze 
 The cattle stand, and ou the scowling heavens 
 Cast a deploring eye; by man forsook, 
 Who to the crowded cottage hies him fast, 
 Or seeks the shelter of the downward cave. 
 
 'Tis listening fear, and dumb amazement all : 
 When to the startled eye the sudden glance 
 Appears far south, eruptive through the cloud ; 
 And, following slower, in explosion vast, 
 The Thunder raises his tremendous voice. 
 At first, heard solemn o'er the verge of heaven, 
 The tempest growls ; but as it nearer comes, 
 And rolls its awful burden on the wind, 
 
THOMSON. 205 
 
 The lightnings flash a larger curve, and naoe 
 The noise astounds : till over head a sheet 
 Of livid flame discloses wide; then shuts, 
 And opens wider; shuts and opens still 
 Expansive, wrapping ether in a blaze. 
 Follows the loosen'd aggravated roar, 
 Enlarging, deepening, mingling ; peal on peal 
 Crush'd horrible, convulsing heaven and earth. 
 
 Down comes a deluge of sonorous hail, 
 Or prone-descending rain. Wide-rent the clouds 
 Pour a whole flood ; and yet, its flame unquench'd, 
 The' unconquerable lightning struggles through, 
 Kagged and fierce, or in red whirling balls, 
 And fires the mountains with redoubled rage. 
 Black from the stroke, above, the smouldering pine 
 Stands a sad shatter' d trunk ; and, stretch'd below, 
 A lifeless group the blasted cattle lie : 
 Here the soft flocks, with that same harmless look 
 They wore alive, and ruminating still 
 In fancy's eye; and there the frowning bull, 
 And ox half-raised. Struck on the castled cliff, 
 The venerable tower aud spiry fane 
 Resign their aged pride. The gloomy woods 
 Start at the flash, and from their deep recess, 
 Wide-flaming out, their trembling inmates shake. 
 Amid Carnarvon's mountains rages loud 
 The repercussive roar : with mighty crush, 
 Into the flashing deep, from the rude rocks 
 Of Penmanmaur heap'd hideous to the sky, 
 Tumble the smitten cliffs : and Snowden's peak, 
 Dissolving, instant yeilds his wintry load. 
 Far seen, the heights ot heathy Cheviot blaze, 
 And Thule bellows through her utmost isles. 
 
 ON THOMSON'S VERSIFICATION. 
 
 ever existed. To begin with the least pleasing part of our subject, 
 it is artificial and elaborate ; tumid and pompous ; deserting sim- 
 plicity without attaining dignity. It scorns the earth without being 
 able to soar into the air. In the best passages of his Poetry, the 
 power aud splendour of his thoughts burst through the clouds, in 
 V 
 
206 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 which his versification shrouds them ; and, like the Sun, impart a 
 portion of their own lightness to that which would obscure them. 
 His ideas spriug up so naturally and unforced, that he seems to 
 think himself bound to clothe them in a cumbrous and elaborate 
 versification, before he ventures to exhibit them to the world. 
 He could not believe that in their naked simplicity and beauty 
 they were fit for the public gaze. His versification, however, is 
 but the husk and stalk ; the fruit which grows up with them is of 
 a delicious taste and flavour. Thomson is the genuine child of 
 nature. He seems equally at home in the sun-shine, and in the 
 storm ; in the smiling vallies of Arcadia, and in the icy wastes of 
 Nova Zembla ; amidst the busy hum of mankind, and the solitude 
 and silence of deserts. The following lines present as perfect and 
 well defined a picture to the eye, as ever was embodied on the 
 canvass: — 
 
 " Home from his morning task the swain retreats, 
 His flock before him stepping to the fold : 
 While the full-udder'd mother lows around 
 The cheerful cottage, then expecting food, 
 The food of innocence and health ! the daw, 
 The rook, and magpie, to the grey-grown oaks 
 That calm the village in their verdant arms, 
 Sheltering, embrace, direct their lazy flight: 
 Where on the mingling boughs they sit embower'd 
 All the hot noon, till cooler hours arise. 
 Faint, underneath, the household fowls convene ; 
 And, in a corner of the buzzing shade, 
 The house-dog with the vacant greyhound lies, 
 Out-stretch'd and sleepy." 
 
 Here the versification is less stilted than that of Thomson 
 generally is ; but even here it is loaded with expletives ; such as 
 the "mingling boughs," the "household fowls," the "vacant 
 greyhound," and " the grey-grown oaks." Thomson's epithets 
 are laboured, and encumber instead of assisting his descriptions. 
 Shakespear's, on the contrary, are artless, and seem scarcely 
 
THOMSON. 207 
 
 sought for; but every word is a picture. Instance his description 
 of the martlet, building his nest outside Macbeth's castle; — 
 
 " This guest of Summer, 
 The temple-haunting maitlet, doth approve, 
 By his loved mansionry, that the Heaven's breath 
 Smells wooingly here." 
 
 Or his description of the infant sons of Edward the Fourth, 
 sleeping in the Tower : — 
 
 " Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, 
 That in their Summer beauty kiss'd each other." 
 
 Again, the following description, in "The Seasons," of that 
 period of the year, when the Winter and the Spring are contend- 
 ing for the mastery, is perfectly true and natural : 
 
 " As yet the trembling Year is unconfirm'd, 
 And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze ; 
 Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets 
 Deform the day delightless; so that scarce 
 Tht bittern knows his time, with bill ingulph'd 
 To shake the sounding marsh, or from the shore 
 The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath, 
 And sing their wild notes to the listening waste " 
 
 But how are the beauty and fidelity of the picture deformed by 
 such harsh inversions and tumid epithets as " day delightless," and 
 ■'■ bill ingulphed." H. neele. 
 
 FIRST APPROACH OF WINTER. 
 
 Now when the cheerless empire of the sky 
 To Capricorn the Centaur Archer yields, 
 And fierce Aquarius stains the' inverted year; 
 Hung o'er the furthest verge of heaven, the sun 
 Scarce spreads through ether the dejected day. 
 
 u2 
 
208 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Faint are his gleams, and ineffectual shoot 
 His struggling rays, in horizontal lines, 
 Through the thick air; as cloth'd in cloudy storm, 
 Weak, wan, and broad, he skirts the southern sky; 
 And, soon descending, to the long dark night, 
 Wide-shading all, the prostrate world resigns. 
 Nor is the night unwish'd ; while vital heat, 
 Light, life, and joy the dubious day forsake. 
 Meantime, in sable cincture, shadows vast, 
 Deep-ting'd and damp, and congregated clouds, 
 And all the vapoury turbulence of heaven, 
 Involve the face of things. Thus Winter falls, 
 A heavy gloom oppressive o'er the world, 
 Through Nature shedding influence malign, 
 And reuses up the seeds of dark disease. 
 The soul of man dies in him, loathing life, 
 And black with more than melancholy views 
 The cattle droop ; and o'er the furrow'd land, 
 Fresh from the plough, the dun discolour'd flocks, 
 Untending spreading, crop the wholesome root. 
 Along the woods, along the moorish fens, 
 Sighs the sad Genius of the coming storm : 
 And up among the loose disjointed cliffs, 
 And fractured mountains wild, the brawling brook 
 And cave, presageful send a hollow moan, 
 Resounding long in listening Fancy's ear. 
 
 Then comes the father of the tempest forth, 
 Wrapp'd in black gloom. First joyless rains obscure 
 Drive through the mingling skies with vapour foul : 
 Dash on the mountain's brow, and shake the woods, 
 That grumbling wave below. The' unsightly plain 
 Lies a brown deluge; as the low-bent clouds 
 Pour flood on flood, yet unexhausted still 
 Combine, and deepening into night shut up 
 The day's fair face. The wanderers of heaven, 
 Each to his home, retire ; save those that love 
 To take their pastime in the troubled air, 
 Or skimming flutter round the dimply pool. 
 The cattle from the' un tasted fields return, 
 And ask with meaning lowe, their wanted stalls 
 Or ruminate in the contiguous shade. 
 Thither the household feathery people crowd, 
 The crested cock, with all his female train, 
 Pensive, and dripping; while the cottage- hind 
 Hangs o'er the' enlivening blaze, and taleful there 
 Recouuts his simple frolic: much he talks, 
 And much he laughs, nor recks the storm that blows 
 Without and rattles on his humble roof. 
 
THOMSON. 209 
 
 Wide o'er the brim, with many a torrent swell : d, 
 And the mix'd ruin of its banks o'erspread, 
 At last the roused-up river pours along : 
 Resistless, roaring, dreadful, down it comes, 
 From the rude mountain, and the mossy wild, 
 Tumbling through rocks abrupt, and sounding far ; 
 Then o'er the sanded valley floating spreads, 
 Calm, sluggish, silent ; till again, constraiu'd 
 Between two meeting hills, it bursts away, 
 Where rocks and woods o'erhang the turbid stream ; 
 There gathering triple force, rapid, and deep, 
 It boils and wheels and foams and thunders through. 
 
 THE DRIVING OF THE SNOW, AND A MAN 
 PERISHING IN THE STORM. 
 
 Now the keen tempests rise ; and fuming dun 
 From all the livid east, or piercing north 
 Thick clouds ascend; in whose capacious womb 
 A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congeal'd. 
 Heavy they roll their fleecy world along ; 
 And the sky saddens with the gather'd storm. 
 Through the hush'd air the whitening shower descends. 
 At first thin wavering ; till at last the flakes 
 Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day 
 With a continual flow. The cherish' d fields 
 Put on their winter robe of purest white. 
 'Tis brightness all; save where the new snow melts 
 Along the mazy curreut. Low the woods 
 Bow their hoar head ; and ere the languid sun 
 Faint from the west emits his evening ray, 
 Earth's universal face, deep hid, and chill, 
 Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide 
 The works of man. 
 
 As thus the snows arise ; and foul, and fierce, 
 All Winter drives along the darken'd air; 
 In his own loose revolving fields, the swain 
 Disaster' d stands ; sees other hills ascend. 
 Of unknown joyless brow ; and other scenes, 
 Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain : 
 Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid 
 Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on 
 From hill to dale, still more and more astray ; 
 Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, 
 
 IT 3 
 
210 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Stung with the thoughts of home ; the thoughts of home 
 
 Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth 
 
 In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul; 
 
 What black despair, what horror fill his heart ! 
 
 When for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd 
 
 His tufted cottage rising through the snow, 
 
 He meets the roughness of the middle waste, 
 
 Far from the track and bless'd abode of man ! 
 
 While round him night resistless closes fast, 
 
 And every tempest howling o'er his head, 
 
 Renders the savage wilderness more wild. 
 
 Then throng the busy shapes into his mind 
 
 Of cover'd pits, un fathom ably deep, 
 
 A dire descent ! beyond the power of frost ! 
 
 Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge, 
 
 Smooth'd up with snow ; and, what is land, unknown, 
 
 What water, of the still uufrozen spring, 
 
 In the loose marsh or solitary lake, 
 
 Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. 
 
 These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks 
 
 Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift. 
 
 Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, 
 
 Mix'd with the tender anguish Nature shoots 
 
 Through the wrung bosom of the dying man, 
 
 His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. 
 
 In vain for him the' officious wife prepares 
 
 The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm ; 
 
 In vain his little children, peeping out 
 
 Into the mingling storm, demand their sire, 
 
 With tears of artless innocence. Alas ! 
 
 Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold, 
 
 Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve 
 
 The deadly Winter seizes; shuts up sense ; 
 
 And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold, 
 
 Lays him along the snows, a stiffen'd corse, 
 
 Stretch'd out, and bleaching in the northern blast. 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON A FUTURE STATE. 
 
 'Tis done ! dread Winter spreads his latest glooms, 
 And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year. 
 How dead the vegetable kingdom lies ! 
 How dumb the tuneful ! horror wide extends 
 His desolate domain. Behold, fond man ! 
 See here thy pictured life ; pass some few years, 
 Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength, 
 
THOMSON. 211 
 
 Thy sober Autumn fading into age, 
 And pale concluding Winter comes at last, 
 And shuts the scene. Ah ! whither now are fled 
 Those dreams of greatness ? those unsolid hopes 
 Of happiness ? those longings after fame ? 
 I hose restless cares ? those busy bustling days ? 
 Those gay-spent, festive nights? those veering thoughts, 
 Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life ? 
 All now are vanish' d ! Virtue sole survives, 
 Immortal never failing friend of Man, 
 His guide to happiness on high. And see ! 
 'Tis come, the glorious morn ! the second birth 
 Of heaven and earth ! awakening Nature hears 
 The new creating word, and starts to life, 
 In every heighten'd form, from pain and death 
 For ever free. The great eternal scheme, 
 Involving all, and iu a perfect whole 
 Uniting, as the prospect wider spreads, 
 To reason's eye refined clears up apace. 
 Ye vainly wise ! ye blind presumptuous ! now, 
 Confounded in the dust, adore that Power 
 And Wisdom oft arraign'd : see now the cause, 
 Why unassuming worth in secret lived, 
 And died neglected : why the good man's share 
 In life was gall and bitterness of soul : 
 Why the lone widow and her orphans pined 
 In starving solitude ; while Luxury, 
 In palaces, lay straining her low thought,. 
 To form unreal wants: why heaven-born truth, 
 And moderation fair, wore the red marks 
 Of superstition's scourge : why licensed pain, 
 That cruel spoiler, that embosom'd foe, 
 Embitter'd all our bliss. Ye good distress'd ! 
 Ye noble few ! who here unbending stand 
 Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up awhile, 
 And what your bounded view, which only saw 
 A little part, deem'd evil is no more : 
 The storms of Wintry Time will quickly pass, 
 And one unbounded Spring encircle all. 
 
 HYMN ON A REVIEW OF THE SEASONS. 
 
 Of the Seasons, it may be said, that one of its greatest charms is 
 the pure and elevated spirit of devotion which occasionally breaths 
 out amidst the reveries of fancy and the descriptions of nature, 
 
212 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 as though the poet had sudden and transporting glimpses of the 
 Creator himself through the perspective of his works ; while the 
 crowning Hymn of the whole is one of the most magnificent spe- 
 cimens of verse in any language, and only inferior to the inspired 
 original in the Book of Psalms, of which it is for the most part a 
 paraphrase. J. Montgomery. 
 
 These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
 Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
 Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring 
 Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness, and love. 
 Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; 
 Echo the mountains round : the forest smiles ; 
 And every sense, and every heart is joy. 
 Then comes Thy glory in the Summer months, 
 With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun 
 Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; 
 And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks : 
 And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, 
 By brooks and groves, in hollow- whispering gales. 
 Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined, 
 And spreads a common feast for all that live. 
 In Winter awful Thou ! with clouds and storms 
 Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd. 
 Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing, 
 Riding sublime, Thou bidst the world adore, 
 And humblest Nature with Thy northern blast. 
 
 Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine, 
 Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train, 
 Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, 
 Such beauty and beneficence combined ; 
 Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade; 
 And all so forming an harmonious whole ; 
 That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
 But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, 
 Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty hand, 
 That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; 
 Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence 
 The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring : 
 Flings from the sun direct the flaming day ; 
 Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; 
 And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, 
 With transport touches all the springs of life. 
 
 A-.l*.^.v, u,n,i^u^ . jvm, ^.v^.jr Jiriug auu 
 
 Beneath the spacious temple of the sky. 
 
THOMSON. 213 
 
 In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise 
 
 One general song ! To Him, ye vocal gales, 
 
 Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes : 
 
 Oh, talk of Him in solitary glooms ! 
 
 Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine 
 
 Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 
 
 And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 
 
 Who shake the' astonished world, lift high to heaven 
 
 The' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 
 
 His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; 
 
 And let me catch it as I muse along. 
 
 Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound ; 
 
 Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 
 
 Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 
 
 A secret world of wonders in thyself, 
 
 Sound His stupendous praise ; whose greater voice 
 
 Or bids you roar or bids your roarings fall. 
 
 Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, 
 
 In mingled clouds to Him ; whose sun exalts, 
 
 Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. 
 
 Ye forests, bend; ye harvests, wave to Him; 
 
 Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, 
 
 As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. 
 
 Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep 
 
 Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, 
 
 Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 
 
 Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 
 
 Great source of day ! best image here below 
 
 Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 
 
 From world to world, the vital ocean round, 
 
 On Nature write with every beam His praise. 
 
 The thunder rolls : be hush'd the prostrate world, 
 
 While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 
 
 Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks, 
 
 Retain the sound : the broad responsive lowe, 
 
 Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns ; 
 
 And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. 
 
 Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song 
 
 Burst from the groves ! and when the restless day, 
 
 Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 
 
 Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm 
 
 The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. 
 
 Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, 
 
 At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, 
 
 Crown the great hymn ; in swarming cities vast, 
 
 Assembled men, to the deep organ join 
 
 The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear, 
 
 At solemn pauses, through the swelling base ; 
 
 And, as each mingling flame increases each, 
 
 In one united ardour rise to heaven. 
 
214 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Or if you rather choose the rural shade, 
 And find a fane in every sacred grove ; 
 There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, 
 The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, 
 Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll ! — 
 For me, when I forget the darling theme, 
 Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray 
 Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams, 
 Or Winter rises in the blackening east ; 
 Be my tongue mute, may fancy paint no more, 
 And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! 
 
 Should fate command me to the farthest verge 
 Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, 
 Rivers unknown to song, where first the sun 
 Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting bpam 
 Flames on the' Atlantic isles; 'tis nought to me : 
 Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
 In the void waste as in the city full ; 
 And where He vital breathes there must be joy. 
 When even at last the solemn hour shall come, 
 And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 
 I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers, 
 Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go 
 Where Universal Love not smiles around, 
 Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; 
 From seeming Evil still educing Good, 
 And better thence again, and better still, 
 In infinite progression. But I lose 
 Myself in Him, in Light ineffable ! 
 • Come then, expressive Silence, muse His praise. 
 
 RULE BRITANNIA. 
 
 A wise statesman (and well-he understood human nature,) once 
 said, "Let me write the national songs, and let who will make the 
 laws, I will govern the people." — That man, whoever he was, to 
 whom we are indebted for the words, humble and homely as they 
 are, of " God save the King," did more for his country in his day, 
 than thousands and tens of thousands of beings, incomparably 
 more gifted, have done by the exercise of their talents. But there 
 is in the English language a song, worthy of the theme, worthy of 
 
THOMSON. 215 
 
 the nation, and imperishably glorious to the poet: — in subject, 
 sentiment, and style, it ranks among the highest lyrics of any 
 age ; — in influence it triumphs over them all. That song is 
 " Rule Britannia." When Thomson composed this prophetic 
 strain, Britannia did not rule the waves ; her empire was disputed 
 by the Dutch, the Danes, the Portuguese, the French, and the 
 Spaniards ; since then she has mastered them all ; — how far the 
 inspiration of this very song may have contributed towards hasten- 
 ing its own accomplishment, may be a difficult question to deter- 
 mine, but that it has done much, cannot be doubted by those who 
 know what power there is in popular verse, not only to move the 
 passions, but to direct the actions, and form the character, of a 
 brave, a free, and a loyal people ; and it may be confidently pre- 
 dicted, that while the national chorus of — 
 
 " Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
 Britons never will be slaves," 
 
 Shall be heard in our assemblies, our dominion on the deep will 
 be invincibly maintained, and our freedom at home secured 
 against any oppressor. J. Montgomery. 
 
 When Britain first, at heaven's command, 
 
 Arose from out the azure main, 
 This was the charter, the charter of the land, 
 And guardian angels sung the strain : 
 Rule, Britannia, 
 Britannia rule the waves, 
 Britons never shall be slaves. 
 
 The nations, not so bless' d as thee, 
 Must in their turn to tyrants fall, 
 
 While thou shalt flourish, great and free, 
 The dread and envy of them all. 
 Rule, Britannia, &c. 
 
 Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 
 
 More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; 
 
 As the loud blast that rends the skies 
 Serves but to root thy native oak. 
 Rule, Britannia, &c. 
 
216 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Thee, haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ; 
 
 All their attempts to bend thee down 
 Will but arouse thy generous flame, — 
 
 Eut work their woe and thy renown. 
 Rule, Britannia, &c. 
 
 To thee belongs the rural reign, 
 Thy cities shall with commerce shine, 
 
 All thine shall be the subject main, 
 And every shore encircles thine. 
 Rule, Britannia, &c. 
 
 The Muses still with freedom found, 
 Shall to thy happy coasts repair, 
 
 Bless'd Isle ! with matchless beauty crown'd, 
 And manly hearts to guard the fair. 
 Rule, Britannia, &c. 
 
COLLINS. 217 
 
 WILLIAM COLLINS, DIED 1756, AGED 28. 
 
 COLLINS'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 
 
 Collins had that true vivida vis, that genuine inspiration, which 
 alone can give birth to the highest efforts of poetry. He leaves 
 stings in the minds of his readers, certain traces of thought and 
 feelings which never wear out, because nature had left them in his 
 own mind. He is the only one of the minor poets of whom, if he 
 had lived, it cannot be said that he might not have done the 
 greatest things. The germ is there. He is sometimes affected, 
 unmeaning, and obscure ; but he also catches rich glimpses of the 
 bowers of Paradise, and has lofty aspirations after the highest seats 
 of the Muses. With a great deal of tinsel and splendid patch- 
 work, he has not been able to hide the solid sterling ore of genius. 
 In his best works there is an attic simplicity, a pathos, and fervour 
 of imagination, which make us the more lament that the efforts of 
 his mind were at first depressed by neglect and pecuniary embar- 
 rassment, and at length buried in the gloom of an unconquerable 
 and fatal malady. How many poets have gone through all the 
 horrors of poverty and contempt, and ended their days in moping 
 melancholy or moody madness ! 
 
 " We poets in our youth begin in gladness, 
 
 But thereof comes in th' end despondency and madness." 
 
 Is this the fault of themselves, of nature in tempering them of too 
 fine a clay, or of the world, that spurner of living, and patron of 
 dead merit? Read the account of Collins — with hopes frustrated, 
 with faculties blighted, at last, when it was too late for himself 
 X 
 
218 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 or others, receiving the deceitful favours of relenting Fortune, 
 which served only to throw their sunshine on his decay, and to 
 light him to an early grave. He was found sitting with every 
 spark of imagination extinguished, and with only the faint traces 
 of memory and reason left — with only one book in his room, the 
 Bible ; " but that," he said, " was the best." A melancholy damp 
 hung like an unwholesome mildew upon his faculties — a canker 
 had consumed the flower of his life. He produced works of genius, 
 and the public regarded them with scorn : he aimed at excellence 
 that should be his own, and his friends treated his efforts as the 
 wanderings of fatuity. The proofs of his capacity are, his Ode on 
 Evening, his Ode on the Passions, his Ode to Fear, the Dirge in 
 Cymbeline, the Lines on Thomson's Grave, and his Eclogues, 
 parts of which are admirable. But perhaps his Ode on the Poet- 
 ical Character is the best of all. A rich distilled perfume emanates 
 from it like the breath of genius; a goldeu cloud envelopes it; a 
 honeyed paste of poetic diction encrusts it, like the cmdied coat of 
 the auricula. His Ode to Evening shews equal genius in the 
 images and versification. The sounds steal slowly over the ear, 
 like the gradual coming on of evening itself. hazlitt. 
 
 ODE TO EVENING. 
 
 If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 
 May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest ear, 
 
 Like thy own solemn springs, 
 
 Thy springs, and dying gales, 
 O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright hair'd sun 
 Sits on yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts 
 
 With brede ethereal wove, 
 
 O'erhang his wavy bed : 
 Now air is hush'd, save were the weak-eyed bat, 
 With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, 
 
 Or where the beetle winds 
 
 His small but sullen horn, 
 As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, 
 Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum, 
 
COLLINS. 219 
 
 Now teach me, maid compos'd, 
 To breathe some softened strain, 
 Whose numbers stealing through thy dark'niug vale, 
 May not unseemly with its stillness suit, 
 
 As musing slow, I hail 
 
 Thy genial lov'd return ! 
 For when thy folding star arising shows 
 His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 
 
 The fragrant Hours, and Elves 
 
 Who slept in flow'rs the day, 
 And many a Nymph who wreathes her brow, with sedge, 
 And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lovelier still, 
 
 The pensive Pleasures sweet 
 
 Prepare thy shadowy car. 
 Then lead, calm Vot'ress, where some sheety lake 
 Cheers the lone heath, or some time hallowed pile, 
 
 Or upland fallows gray 
 
 Reflect its last cool gleam. 
 But when chiil blust'ring winds, or driving rain, 
 Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut, 
 
 That from the mountain's side, 
 
 Views wilds, and swelling floods, 
 And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, 
 And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all 
 
 Thy dewy fingers draw 
 
 The gradual dusky veil. 
 While spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont. 
 And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve ! 
 
 While summer loves to sport 
 
 Beneath thy lingering light : 
 While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves : 
 Or Winter yelling through the troublous air, 
 
 Affright thy shrinking train, 
 
 And rudely rends thy robes ; 
 So long, sure-found beneath the Sylvan shed, 
 Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose- lip'd Health. 
 
 Thy gentlest influence own, 
 
 And hymn thy fav'rite name ! 
 
 ODE TO FEAR. 
 
 Thou, to whom the world unknown 
 
 With all its shadowy shapes is shown, 
 Who seest appall'd th' unreal scene, 
 While Fancy lifts the veil between : 
 
 Ah Fear ! ah frantic Fear ! 
 
 1 see, I see thee near. 
 
 x2 
 
220 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye I 
 Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly, 
 For lo, what monsters in thy train appear ! 
 Danger, whose limbs of giaut mould 
 What mortal eye can fix'd behold ? 
 Who stalks his round, an hideous form, 
 Howling amidst the midnight storm, 
 Or throws him on the ridgy steep 
 Of some loose hanging rock to sleep : 
 And with him thousand phantoms join'd, 
 Who prompt t ) deeds accurs'd the mind : 
 And those, the fiends, who near allied, 
 O'er Nature's wounds, and wrecks preside ; 
 While Vengeance, in the lurid air, 
 Lifts her red arm, exposed and bare : 
 On whom that ravening brood of fate, 
 Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait : 
 Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see, 
 And look not madly wild, like thee ? 
 
 Thou who such weary lengths hast past, 
 Where wilt thou rest, mad Nymph, at last ? 
 Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell, 
 Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell ? 
 Or in some hollow'd seat, 
 'Gainst which the big waves beat, 
 Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought ! 
 Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted thought I 
 Be mine, to read the visions old, 
 Which thy awakening bards have told, 
 And, lest thou meet my blasted view, 
 Hold each strange tale devoutly true ; 
 Ne'er be I found, by thee o'er aw'd, 
 In that thrice hallow'd eve abroa'd, 
 When ghosts, as cottage maids believe, 
 Their pebbled beds permitted leave, 
 And goblins haunt from fire, or fen, 
 Or mine, or flood, the walks of men ! 
 
 O thou whose spirit most possest 
 The sacred seat of Shakespear's breast f 
 By all that from thy prophet broke, 
 In thy divine emotions spoke ! 
 Hither again thy fury deal, 
 Teach me but once like him to feel : 
 His cypress wreath my meed decree, 
 And I, O Fear ! will dwell with thee. 
 
COLLINS. 221 
 
 ODE ON THE PASSIONS. 
 
 In this ode we have the whole soul and power of poetry. — Though 
 the measure is the same in which the musical efforts of Fear, An- 
 ger, and Despair are described, yet by the variation of the cadence, 
 the character and operation of each is strongly expressed. The 
 picture of Hope is beautiful, almost beyond imitation. The de- 
 scriptions of Joy, Jealousy, and Revenge are excellent; though 
 not equally so. Those of Melancholy and Cheerfulness are su- 
 perior to every thing of the kind : and upon tbe whole there may 
 be very little hazard in asserting, that this is tbe finest ode in the 
 English language. dr. langhorne. 
 
 When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
 While yet in early Greece she sung, 
 The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
 Throng'd around her magic cell, 
 Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
 Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting,- 
 By turns they felt the glowing mind 
 Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refiued. 
 'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
 Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, 
 From the supporting myrtles round 
 They snatch'd her instruments of sound, 
 Aud, as they oft had heard apart 
 Sweet lessous of her forceful art, 
 Each, for Madness ruled the hour, 
 Would prove his own expressive power. 
 
 First Fear, his hand its skill to try, 
 
 Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, 
 And back recoil'd he knew not why, 
 
 Even at the sound himself had made. 
 
 Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, 
 In lightnings own'd his secret stings, 
 
 In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 
 
 And swept with hurried hand the strings. 
 
 With woful measures wan Despair — 
 Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled, 
 
 V sullen, strange, and mingled air, 
 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 
 
 x3 
 
222 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 But thou, O Hope ! with eyes so fair, 
 
 What was thy delighted measure ? 
 
 Still it whisper'd promised pleasure, 
 And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 
 Still would her touch the strain prolong, 
 And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 
 
 She call'd on Echo still, through all the song ; 
 
 And where her sweetest theme she chose, 
 
 A soft responsive voice was heard at every close. 
 And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. 
 
 And longer had she sung, — but, with a frown, 
 
 Revenge impatient rose, 
 He threw his blood stain' d sword in thunder down, 
 And, with a withering look, 
 The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
 And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
 Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo. 
 And ever and anon he beat 
 The doubling drum with furious heat ; 
 And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, 
 Dejected Pity at his side, 
 Her soul subduing voice applied, 
 Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, 
 While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. 
 
 Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd, 
 
 Sad proof of thy distressful state ! 
 Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, 
 
 And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate. 
 
 With eyes upraised, as oue inspired, 
 Pale Melancholy sat retired, 
 And from her wild sequester'd seat, 
 In notes by distance made more sweet, 
 Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul : 
 And dashing soft from rocks around, 
 Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ; 
 Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, 
 Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, 
 Round an holy calm diffusing, 
 Love of peace and lonely musing, 
 In hollow murmurs died away. 
 
 But O ! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone ! 
 When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 
 
 Her bow across her shoulders flung, 
 Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, 
 
 Blew an inspiring air that dale and thicket rung, 
 
COLLINS. 223 
 
 The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known ; 
 The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen, 
 Satyrs and Sylvan hoys were seen, 
 Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 
 Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, 
 And Sport leap'd up, and seiz'd his beechen spear. 
 
 Last came Joy's ecstatic trial ; 
 
 He with viny crown advancing, 
 First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ; 
 But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, 
 
 Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. 
 They would have thought who heard the strain, 
 They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, 
 Amidst the festal sounding shades, 
 To some unwearied minstrel dancing, 
 While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, 
 Love framed with Mirth, a gay fantastic round, 
 Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound : 
 And he, amidst his frolic play, 
 As if he would the charming air repay, 
 Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. 
 
 O Music, sphere -descended maid, 
 Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid, 
 Why, goddess, why to us denied, 
 Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? 
 As in that loved Atheuian bower, 
 You learn'd an all commanding power, 
 Thy mimic soul, O nymph, endear'd ! 
 Can well recall what then it heard. 
 Where is thy native simple heart, 
 Devote to virtue, fancy, art ? 
 Arise, as in that elder time, 
 Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime ! 
 Thy wonders, in that god-like age, 
 Fill thy recording Sister's page — 
 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, 
 Thy humblest reed could more prevail, 
 Had more of strength, diviner rage, 
 Than all which charms this laggard age, 
 E'en all at once together found 
 Cecilia's mingled world of sound — 
 O bid our vain endeavours cease 
 Revive the just designs of Greece ; 
 Return in all thy simple state ! 
 Confirm the tales her sons relate ! 
 
224 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER. 
 
 This ode is so infinitely abstracted, and replete with high enthu- 
 siasm, that it will find few readers capable of entering into the 
 spirit of it, or of relishing its beauties. There is a style of sen- 
 timent as utterly unintelligible to common capacities, as if the 
 subject were treated in an unknown language; and it is on the 
 same account that abstracted poetry will never have many ad- 
 mirers. The authors of such poems must be content with the 
 approbation of those heaven- favoured geniuses who, by a simi- 
 larity of taste and sentiment, are enabled to penetrate the high 
 mysteries of inspired fancy, and to pursue the loftiest flights of 
 enthusiastic imagination. Nevertheless the praise of the distin- 
 guished few is certainly preferable to the applause of the undis. 
 cerning million ; for all praise is valuable in proportion to the 
 judgment of those who confer it. 
 
 As the subject of this ode is uncommon, so are the style and 
 expression highly metaphorical and abstracted ; thus the sun is 
 called " the rich-haired youth of Morn ;" the ideas are termed 
 " the shadowy tribes of mind," &c. We are struck with the 
 propriety of this mode of expression here, and it affords us new 
 proofs of the analogy that subsists between language and sen- 
 timent. 
 
 Nothing can be more loftily imagined than the creation of the 
 cestns of Fancy in this ode ; the allegorical imagery is rich and 
 sublime; and the observation that the dangerous passions kept 
 aloof during the operation, is founded on the strictest philosophi- 
 cal truth : for poetical fancy can exist only in minds that are per- 
 fectly serene, and in some measure abstracted from the influences 
 of sense. 
 
 The scene of Milton's " inspiring hour" is perfectly in character, 
 and described with all those wild-wood appearances of which the 
 great poet was so enthusiastically fond. anon. 
 
COLLINS. 225 
 
 As once, if not with light regard, 
 I read aright that gifted bard, 
 — Him whose school above the rest 
 His loveliest elfin queen has blest; — 
 One, only one, unrivall'd* fair, 
 Might hope the magic girdle wear, 
 At solemn turney hung on high, 
 The wish of each love-darting eye. 
 
 Lo ! to each other nymph in turn applied, 
 
 As if, in air unseen, some hovering hand, 
 Some chaste and angel-rriend to virgin fame, 
 
 With whisper'd spell had burst the starting band, 
 It left unblest her loath'd dishonour'd side; 
 Happier, hopeless fair, if never 
 Her baffled hand with vain endeavour 
 Had touch'd that fatal zone to her denied ! 
 
 Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name, 
 
 To whom, prepar'd and bath'd in heaven, 
 
 The cest of amplest power is given : 
 
 To few the god- like gift assigns, 
 
 To gird their blest prophetic loins, 
 And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmix'd her flame ! 
 
 The band, as fairy legends say 
 
 Was wove on that creating day 
 
 When He, who call'd with thought to birth 
 
 Yon tented sky, this laughing earth, 
 
 And drest with springs and forests tall, 
 
 And pour'd the main engirtiug all, 
 
 Long by the lov'd enthuisiast woo'd, 
 
 Himself in some diviner mood, 
 
 Retiring, sat with her alone, 
 
 And plac'd her on his sapphire throne ; 
 
 The whiles, the vaulted shrine around, 
 
 Seraphic wires were heard to sound, 
 
 Now sublimest triumph swelling, 
 
 Now on b>ve and mercy dwelling ; 
 
 And she, from out the veiling cloud, 
 
 Breath'd her magic notes aloud : 
 
 And thou, thou rich-hair'd youth of morn, 
 
 And all thy subject life was bom ! 
 
 The dangerous passions kept aloof, 
 
 Far from the sainted growing woof : 
 
 But near it sat ecstatic Wonder, 
 
 Listening the deep applauding thunder; 
 
 * Florirael. — See Spenser. 
 
226 THE TOETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 And Truth, in sunny vest array'd, 
 
 By whose the Tarsel's eyes were made ; 
 
 All the shadowy tribes of Mind, 
 
 In braided dance their murmurs joiu'd, 
 
 And all the bright uncounted Powers 
 
 Who feed on heaven's ambrosial flowers. 
 
 Where the bard whose soul can now 
 
 Its high presuming hopes avow ? 
 
 Where he who thinks, with rapture blind, 
 
 This hallowed work for him design'd ? 
 
 High on some cliff, to heaven up-pil'd, 
 Of rude access, of prospect wild, 
 Where, tangled round the jealous steep, 
 Strange shades o'erbrow the valleys deep, 
 And holy Genii guard the rock, 
 Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock, 
 While on its rich ambitious head, 
 An Eden, like his own, lies spread. 
 
 I view that oak, the fancied glades among, 
 By which as Milton lay, his evening ear, 
 
 From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal dew, 
 
 Night spher'd in heaven, its native strains could bear 
 
 On which that ancient trump he reach'd was hung : 
 Thither oft, his glory greeting, 
 From Waller's myrtle shades retreating, 
 
 With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue, 
 
 My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue ; 
 In vain— Such bliss to one alone, 
 Of all the sous of soul was known, 
 And Heaven, and Fancy, kindred powers, 
 Have now o'erturu'd th' inspiring bowers, 
 
 Or curtain'd close such scene from ev'ry future view. 
 
YOUNG. 227 
 
 EDWARD YOUNG, DIED 1765, AGED 84 
 
 REMARKS ON THE NIGHT THOUGHTS. 
 
 The Night Thoughts certainly contain many splendid and happy 
 conceptions, but their beauty is thickly marred by false wit and 
 overlaboured antithesis : indeed his whole ideas seem to have 
 been in a state of antithesis while he composed the poem. One 
 portion of his fancy appears devoted to aggravate the picture of 
 his desolate feelings, and the other half to contradict that picture 
 by eccentric images and epigrammatic ingenuities. As a poet he 
 was fond of exaggeration, but it was that of the fancy more than 
 of the heart. This appears no less in the noisy hyperboles of his 
 tragedies, than in the studied melancholy of the Night Thoughts, 
 i which he pronounces the simple act of laughter to be half im- 
 moral. That he was a pious man, and had felt something from 
 
 i the afflictions described in the Complaint, need not be called in 
 question, but he seems covenanting with himself to be as desolate 
 as possible, as if he had continued the custom ascribed to him at 
 college, of studying with a candle stuck in a human skull ; while, 
 at the same time, the feelings and habits of a man of the world, 
 which still adhere to him, throw a singular contrast over his re- 
 nunciation of human vanity. He abjures the world in witty 
 metaphors, commences his poem with a sarcasm on sleep, deplores 
 his being neglected at court, and compliments a lady of quality by 
 
 { asking the moon if she would choose to be called the "fair Port- 
 
 ! land of the skies." He was, in truth, not so sick of life as of 
 missing its preferments, and was still ambitious not only of cou- 
 
 ! verting Lorenzo, but of shining before this utterly worthless and 
 
228 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 wretched world as a sparkling, sublime, and witty poet. Hence 
 his poetry has not the majestic simplicity of a heart abstracted 
 from human vanities, and while the groundwork of his sentiments 
 is more darkly shaded than is absolutely necessary either for poetry 
 or religion, the surface of his expression glitters with irony and 
 satire, and with thoughts sometimes absolutely approaching to 
 pleasantry. 
 
 The above remarks have been made with no desire to depre- 
 ciate what is genuine in his beauties. The reader most sensitive to 
 his faults must have felt, that there is in him a spark of origi- 
 nality which is never long extinguished, however far it may be 
 from vivifying the entire mass of his poetry. Many and exquisite 
 are his touches of sublime expression, of profound reflection, and 
 of striking imagery. It is recalling but a tew of these to allude to 
 his description, in the eighth book, of the man whose thoughts are 
 not of this world, to his simile of the traveller at the opening of 
 the ninth book, to his spectre of the antedeluvian world, and to 
 some parts of his very unequal description of the conflagration ; 
 above all to that noble and familiar image, 
 
 " When final Ruin fiercely drives 
 Her ploughshare o'er Creation." 
 
 It is true that he seldom if ever maintains a flight of poetry long 
 free from oblique associations, but he has individual passages 
 which Philosophy might make her texts, and Experience select for 
 lier mottos. t. Campbell. 
 
 PICTURE OF A GOOD MAN. 
 
 Some angel guide my pencil, while I draw, 
 What nothing less than angel can excped, 
 A man on earth devoted to the skies ; 
 Like ships in seas, while in, above the world. 
 
YOUNG. 229 
 
 With aspect mild, and elevated eye, 
 Behold him seated on a mount serene, 
 Above the fogs of Sense, and Passion's storm ; 
 All the black cares and tumults of this life, 
 Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet, 
 Excite his pity, not impair his peace. 
 Earth's genuine sons, the sceptred and the slave;, 
 A mingled mob ! a wandering herd ! he sees, 
 Bewilder'd in the vale ; in all unlike ! 
 His full reverse in all ! what higher praise ? 
 What stronger demonstration of the right ? 
 
 The present all their care, the future his. 
 When public welfare calls, or private want, 
 They give to Fame ; his bounty he conceals. 
 Their virtues varnish Nature, his exalt. 
 Mankind's esteem they court, and he his own. 
 Theirs the wild chase of false felicities ; 
 His, the composed possession of the true. 
 Alike throughout is his consistent peace, 
 All of one colour, and an even thread ; 
 While party-colour'd shreds of happiness, 
 With hideous gaps between, patch up for them 
 A madman's robe; each puff of Fortune blows 
 The tatters by, and shows their nakedness. 
 
 He sees with other eyes than their's : where they 
 Behold a sun, he spies a Deity. 
 What makes them only smile, makes him adore. 
 Where they see mountains, he but atoms sees. 
 An empire, in his balance, weighs a grain. 
 They things terrestrial worship as divine ; 
 His hopes, immortal, blow them by as dust 
 That dims his sight, and shortens his survey, 
 Which longs, in infinite, to lose all bound. 
 Titles and honours (if they prove his fate) 
 He lays aside to find his dignity ; 
 No dignity they find in aught besides. 
 They triumph in externals, (which conceal 
 Man's real glory) proud of an eclipse : 
 Himself too much he prizes to be proud. 
 And nothing thinks so great in man, as man. 
 Too dear he holds his interest to neglect 
 Another's welfare, 01 his right invade : 
 Their interest, like a lion, lives on prey. 
 They kindle at the shadow of a wrong ; 
 Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on Heaven, 
 Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe : 
 Nought but what wounds his virtue wounds his peace. 
 
230 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 A cover'd heart their character defends ; 
 A cover'd heart denies him half his praise. 
 With nakedness his innocence agrees, 
 While their broad foliage testifies their fall. 
 Their no joys end where his full feast begins, 
 His joys create, theirs murder, future bliss. 
 To triumph in existence his alone ; 
 And his alone, triumphantly to think 
 His true existence is not yet begun. 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON THE STARRY HEAVENS. 
 
 Lorenzo ! come, and warm thee : thou, whose heart, 
 Whose little heart, is moor'd within a nook 
 Of this obscure terrestrial, anchor weigh ; 
 Another ocean calls, a nobler port : 
 I am thy pilot, I thy prosperous gale : 
 Gainful thy voyage through yon azure main, 
 Main without tempest, pirate, rock or shore, 
 And whence thou mayst import eternal wealth, 
 And leave to beggar'd minds the pearl and gold. 
 
 Above our atmosphere's intestine wars, 
 Rain's fountain-head, the magazine of hail ; 
 Above the northern nests of feather'd snows," 
 The brew of thunders, and the flaming forge 
 That forms the crooked lightning : 'bove the caves 
 Where infant tempests wait their growing wings, 
 And tune their tender voices to that roar, 
 Which soon, perhaps, shall shake a guilty world ; 
 Above misconstrued omens of the sky, 
 Far travell'd comets' calculated blaze, 
 Elance thy thought, and think of more than man : 
 Thy soul, till now contracted, whither'd, shrunk, 
 Blighted by blasts of Earth's unwholesome air, 
 Will blossom here ; spread all her faculties 
 To these bright ardours; every power unfold, 
 And rise into sublimities of thought. 
 
 This prospect vast, what is it ? — Weigh'd aright 
 'Tis nature's system of divinity, 
 And every student of the night inspires. . 
 'Tis elder Scripture, writ by God's own hand ; 
 Scripture authentic ! uncorrupt by man. 
 Lorenzo ! with my radius (the rich gift 
 
 
YOUNG. 231 
 
 Of thought nocturnal) I'll point out to thee 
 Its various lessons ; some that may surprise 
 An uuadept in mysteries of Night ; 
 Little, perhaps, expected in her school, 
 Nor thought to grow on planet or on star ; 
 Bulls, lions, scorpions, monsters here we feigu, 
 Ourselves more monstrous, not to see what here 
 Exists, indeed, — a lecture to mankind ! 
 
 What read we here ? — the' existence of a God ? 
 Yes : and of other beings, man above ; 
 Natives of ether ! sons of higher climes ! 
 And, what may move Lorenzo's wonder more, 
 Eternity is written in the skies, 
 And whose eternity ? — Lorenzo ! thine ; 
 Mankind's eternity. Nor faith alone, 
 Virtue grows here ; here springs the sovereigu cure 
 Of almost every vice, but chiefly thine, 
 Wrath, pride, ambition, and impuie desire. 
 
 Why from yon arch, that infinite of space, 
 With infinite of lucid orbs replete, 
 Which set the living firmament on fire, 
 At the first glance, in such an overwhelm 
 Of wonderful on man's astonish'd sight 
 Rushes Omnipotence? — To curb our pride, 
 Our reason rouse, and lead it to that Power 
 Whose love lets down these silver chains of light ; 
 To draw up man's ambition to himself, 
 And bind our chaste affections to his throne. 
 Thus the three virtues, least alive on earth, 
 And welcomed on heaven's coast with most applause 
 An humble, pure, and heavenly minded heart, 
 Are here inspired ; and canst thou gaze too long ? 
 
 Nor stands thy wrath deprived of its reproof, 
 Or unupbraided by this radiant choir. 
 The planets of each system represent 
 Kind neighbours; mutual amity prevails; 
 Sweet interchange of rays, received, return'd, 
 Enlightening and enlighten'd ! all, at once, 
 Attracting and attracted ! patriot-like, 
 None sins against the welfare of the whole ; 
 But their reciprocal, unselfish aid, 
 Affords an emblem of millenial love. 
 Nothing in nature, much less conscious being, 
 Was e'er created solely for itself. 
 Thus man his sovereign duty learns in this 
 Material picture of benevolence. 
 
 Y 2 
 
232 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 And yet Lorenzo calls for miracles, 
 To give his tottering faith a solid hase. 
 Why call for less than is already thine ? 
 Thou art no novice in theology ; 
 What is a miracle ? — 'Tis a reproach, 
 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind, 
 And while it satisfies, it censures too. 
 To common sense great Nature's course proclaims 
 A Deity : When mankind falls asleep. 
 A miracle is sent as an alarm 
 To wake the world, and prove him o'er again, 
 By recent argument, but not more strong. 
 Say which imports more plenitude of power, 
 Or Nature's laws to fix, or to repeal ? 
 To make a Sun, or stop his mad career ? 
 To countermand his orders, and send back 
 The flaming courier to the frighted East, 
 Warm'd and astonish'd at his evening ray ; 
 Or bid the Moon, as with her journey tired, 
 In Ajalon's soft flowery vale repose ? 
 Great things are these ? still greater to create. 
 From Adam's bower look down through the whole train 
 Of miracles; — resistless is their power ? 
 They do not, cannot, more amaze the mind, 
 Than this,, call'd unmiraculous survey, 
 If duly weigh'd, if rationally seen, 
 If seen with human eyes. The brute, indeed, 
 Sees nought but spangles here ; the fool, no more. 
 Say'st thou, 'The course of Nature governs all?' 
 The course of Nature is the Art of God. 
 The miracles, thou call'st for, this attest ; 
 For say, could Nature Nature's course control ? 
 
 But, miracles apart, who sees him not 
 Nature's Controller, Author, Guide, and End ? 
 Who turns his eye on Nature's midnight face, 
 But must inquire — " What hand behind the scene, 
 What arm Almighty, put these wheeling globes 
 In motion, and wound up the vast machine ? 
 Who rounded in his palm these spacious orbs ? 
 Who bowl'd them flaming through the dark profound, 
 Numerous as glittering gems of morning dew, 
 Or sparks from populous cities in a blaze, 
 And set the bosom of old Night on fire, 
 Peopled her desert, and made Horror smile ?" 
 Or if the military style delights thee, 
 (For stars have fought their battles, leagued with man) 
 " Who marshals this bright host ? enrols their names, 
 Appoints their post, their marches, and returns, 
 Punctual, at stated periods ? who disbands 
 These veteran troops, their final duty done^ 
 
YOUNG. "23S 
 
 IF e'er disbanded ?'' — He, whose potent, word, 
 Like the loud trumpet, levied first their powers 
 In Night's inglorious empirq, where they slept 
 In beds of darkness ; arm'd them with fierce flames ; 
 Arrang'd, and disciplin'd, and cloth' d in gold, 
 And call'd them out of Chaos to the field, 
 Where now they war with Vice and Unbelief. 
 O let us join this army ! joining these 
 Will give us hearts intrepid, at that hour 
 When brighter flames shall cut a darker night ; 
 When these strong demonstrations of a God 
 Shall hide their heads, or tumble from their spheres, 
 And one eternal curtain cover all ! 
 
 THE CONFLAGRATION. 
 
 Lorenzo! far the rest above, 
 
 Of ghastly nature, and enormous size, 
 
 One form assaults my sight, and chills my blood, 
 
 And shakes my frame. Of one departed world 
 
 I see the mighty shadow : oozy wreath 
 
 And dismal sea-weed crown her : o'er her urn 
 
 Reclined, she weeps her desolated realms, 
 
 And bloated sons; and, weeping, prophesies 
 
 Another's dissolution, soon, in flames : 
 
 But, like Cassandra, prophesies in vain : 
 
 In vain to many ; not, I trust, to thee. 
 
 For, kuow'st thou not, or art thou loath to know, 
 The great decree, the council of the skies ? 
 Deluge and Conflagration, dreadful powers ! 
 Prime ministers of vengeance ! chain'd in caves 
 Distinct, apart, the giant furies roar ; 
 Apart, or such their horrid rage for ruin, 
 In mutual conflict would they rise, and wage 
 Eternal war, till one was quite devour'd. 
 But not for this ordain'd their boundless rage. 
 When Heaven's inferior instruments of wrath, 
 War, famine, pestilence, are found too weak 
 To scourge a world for her enormous crimes, 
 These are let loose alternate : down they rush, 
 Swift and tempestuous, from the' eternal throne, 
 With irresistible commission arm'd, 
 The world, in vain corrected, to destroy ; 
 And ease Cieation of the shocking scene. 
 
 Seest thou, Lorenzo! what depends on man ? 
 y3 
 
234 
 
 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 The fate of Nature, as for man her birth. 
 Earth's actors change Earth's transitory scenes> 
 And make Creation groan with human guilt. 
 How must it groan, in a new deluge whelm'd, 
 But not of waters ! At the destined hour, 
 By the loud trumpet summon'd to the charge, 
 See all the formidable sons of fire, 
 Eruptions, earthquakes, comets, lightnings, play 
 Their various engines : all at once disgorge 
 Their blazing magazines ; and take, by storm, 
 This poor terrestrial citadel of man. 
 
 Amazing period ! when each mountain height 
 Outburus Vesuvius ; rocks eternal pour 
 Their melted mass, as rivers once they pour'd ; 
 Stars rush, and final Ruin fiercely drives 
 Her ploughshare o'er Creation ! — while aloft, 
 More than astonishment ! if more can be ! 
 Far other firmament than e'er was seen, 
 Than e'er was thought by man ! far other stars ! 
 Stars animate, that govern these of fire; 
 Far other sun! — a Sun, O how unlike 
 The Babe at Bethlehem ! how unlike the Man 
 That groan'd on Calvary ! — yet He it is ; 
 That Man of sorrows ! O how changed ! what pomp ' 
 In grandeur terrible all Heaven descends ! 
 And gods, ambitious, triumph in his train, 
 A swift archangel, with his golden wing, 
 As blots and clouds that darken and disgrace 
 The scene divine, sweeps stars and suns aside. 
 And now, all dross removed, Heaven's own pure day, 
 Full on the confines of our ether flames, 
 While (dreadful contrast !) far, how far beneath ! 
 Hell, bursting, belches forth her blazing seas 
 And storms sulphureous ; her voracious jaws 
 Expanding wide, and roaring for her prey. 
 Lorenzo ! welcome to this scene ; the last 
 In Nature's course, the first in Wisdom's thought. 
 This strikes, if aught can strike thee ; this awakes 
 The most supine ; this snatches man from death. 
 
 At midnight, when mankind is wrapp'd in peace., 
 And worldly Fancy feeds on golden dreams,. 
 To give more dread to man's most dreadful hour ; 
 At midnight, 'tis presumed, this pomp will burst 
 From tenfold darknes, sudden as the spark 
 From smitten steel ; from nitrous grain the blaze. 
 Man, starting from his couch, shall sleep no more ! 
 The day is broke, which never more shall close ! 
 Above, around, beneath, amazement all ! 
 Terror and glory join'd in their extremes ! 
 Our God in grandeur, and our world ou fire 1 
 
SMART. 235 
 
 CHRISTOPHER SMART, DIED 1770, AGED 48. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 Nothing from the hand of Smart can be compared to the following 
 stanzas, said to have been indented by him, with the end of a key, 
 on the wainscot of a room, in which he was confined as a maniac, 
 and debarred the use of pen, ink, and paper. There is an affecting 
 incoherency in the thought and images, which glauce like spectres 
 through the author's mind, as a disordered medium ; but the fre- 
 quent felicity of phrase and general splendour of conception, must 
 strike every reader of taste as evidence of that " fine madness," 
 which is said to reign in the intellect of every true poet. The last 
 stanza alone might give immortality to any name : it is a most 
 perfect specimen of the sublime. The poem, of which this is an 
 interlude, describes the royal Psalmist and the themes which he 
 was wont to sing to the Harp of Zion. J. Montgomery. 
 
 Sublime, — invention ever-young, 
 Of vast conception, towering tongue, 
 
 To God the' eternal theme ; 
 Notes from your exaltations caught, 
 Unrivall'd royalty of thought, 
 
 O'er meaner thoughts supreme. 
 
 His muse, bright angel of his verse, 
 Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce, 
 
 For all the pangs that rage : 
 Blest light still gaining on the gloom, 
 ■> The more than Michal of his bloom, 
 The' Abishag of his age. 
 
236 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 He sang of God, the mighty source 
 Of all things, — that stupendous force, 
 
 On which all strength depends ; 
 From whose right arm, beneath whose eyes, 
 All period, power, and enterprize 
 
 Commences, reigns, and ends. 
 
 The world, the clustering spheres He made, 
 The glorious light, the soothing shade, 
 
 Dale, champaign, grove and hill; 
 The multitudinous abyss, 
 Where secresy remains in bliss ; , 
 
 And wisdom hides her skill. 
 
 " Tell them, I AM," Jehovah said 
 To Moses, while earth heard in dread ; 
 
 And, smitten to the heart, 
 At once, above, beneath, around, 
 All Nature, without voice or sound, 
 
 Replied, " O Lord, thou art.*' 
 
GRAY. 237 
 
 THOMAS GRAY, DIED 1771, AGED 55. 
 
 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH 
 YARD* 
 
 No performance of the elegiac kind can compare with this Elegy 
 either in splendour or in dignity. Not a line flows negligently ; 
 not an epithet is applied at random. Sensible objects are repre- 
 sented with every picturesque accompaniment, and sentiments are 
 impressed with all the force of glowing and pointed diction. The 
 general strain of thinking is such as meets the assent of every feel- 
 ing and cultivated mind. It consists of those reflections upon 
 human life which inspire a soothing melancholy, and peculiarly 
 accord with that serious and elevated mood in which true poetry is 
 most relished. There are, however, some obscure passages; and 
 i the connexion of the thoughts is not always manifest.f It may 
 
 ■"The Church-yard of Stoke Pogis, Buckinghamshire. It adjoios Stoke 
 Park. The church is a plain rustic edifice, of some antiquity, with a low 
 tower, and conical-shaped spire; but has few of those strongly marked fea- 
 tures by which it is so admirably characterized in the poem, and the "rug- 
 
 ; ged elms," aud " yew tree shade," if ever they existed, are now no more. — 
 Some of the surrounding scenerv, however, finely corresponds, particularly 
 to the south park, where the eye is directed over a large sheet of water to 
 the majestic Castle of Windsor, beyond which Cooper's Hill and the forest 
 woods close the prospect.— The Unique. 
 
 + Gray is nowhere so obscure as not to be intelligible by recurring to the 
 passage. And it may be further observed, that his lyrical obscurity never 
 
 ] arises, as in some writers, from undefined ideas or paradoxical sentiments. 
 
 I On the contrary, his moral spirit is as explicit as it is majestic ; and deeply 
 read as he was in Plato, he is never metaphysically perplexed.— His lyrical 
 pieces are like paintings on glass, which must be placed in a strong light to 
 give out the perfect radiance of their colouring.— T. Campbell.— [ Ed.~\ 
 
238 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 also be questioned whether a good effect is produced by calling off 
 the attention from the real fortunes and characters of the inhabi- 
 tants of a village, to tho^e of the imaginary poet with whose epi- 
 taph the piece concludes. — Notwithstanding these defects, however, 
 this poem has merited that extraordinary popularity which has 
 been testified by innumerable imitations, parodies, and transla- 
 tions into ancient and modern languages. Its success affords a 
 remarkable proof of the power of poetry, which, by the charm of 
 melodious verse and splendid diction, could raise so much admira- 
 tion and interest from so slender a fund. dr. aikin. 
 
 The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 
 
 The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. 
 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain 
 
 Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bower, 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, 
 
 Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
 
 The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 
 
 The swallow twitt'riug from the straw built shed, 
 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care : 
 
 No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
 
 How jocuud did they drive their team afield ! 
 
 How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 
 
 
GRAY. 23y 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
 
 Await alike the' inevitable hour. 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault, 
 If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
 
 Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 
 
 Can storied urn or animated bust 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
 
 Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 
 Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death? 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
 
 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire : 
 
 Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
 Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 
 
 But knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
 Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll ; 
 
 Chill Penury repress' d their noble rage, 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, 
 The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear : 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
 The little Tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
 
 Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
 Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood, 
 
 Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, 
 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
 To scattei plenty o'er a smiling land, 
 
 And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, 
 
 Their lot forbad : nor circumscribed alone 
 
 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 
 
 Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 
 
240 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
 
 Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
 With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
 Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; 
 
 Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 
 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
 
 Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse. 
 
 The place of fame and elegy supply : 
 And many a holy text around she strews, 
 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 
 This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, 
 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind ? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 
 
 Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
 Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires. 
 
 For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 
 
 If chance, by lonely Contemplation led. 
 Some kindred Spirit shall inquire thy fate, 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, 
 ' Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
 
 Brushing with hasty steps the dews away 
 To meet the sun upon the uplaud lawn. 
 
 ' There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
 That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
 
 His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
 And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 
 
 ' Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
 Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; 
 
 Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, 
 Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 
 
GRAY. 241 
 
 * One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, 
 Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; 
 
 Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 
 
 4 The next with dirges due in sad array 
 
 Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. 
 Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 
 
 Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.' 
 
 THE EPITAPH. 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
 A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown : 
 
 Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
 And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
 Heav'n did a recompence as largely send : 
 
 He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, 
 
 He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 
 
 No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
 
 (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. 
 
242 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH, DIED 1774, AGED 45. 
 
 GOLDSMITH'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 
 
 Goldsmith's poetry enjoys a calm and steady popularity. It in- 
 spires us, indeed, with no admiration of daring design, or of fertile 
 invention ; but it presents, within its narrow limits, a distinct and 
 unbroken view of poetical delightfulness. His descriptions and 
 sentiments have the pure zest of nature. He is refined with- 
 out false delicacy, and correct without insipidity. Perhaps 
 there' is an intellectual composure in his manner, which 
 may, in some passages, be said to approach to the reserved 
 and prosaic; but he unbends from this graver strain of reflection, 
 to tenderness, and even to playfulness, with an ease and grace 
 almost exclusively his own ; and conntcts extensive views of the 
 happiness and interests of society, with pictures of life, that touch 
 the life by their familiarity. His language is certainly simple,' 
 though it is not cast in a rugged or careless mould. He is no dis- 
 ciple of the gaunt and famished school of simplicity. Deliberately 
 as he wrote, he cannot be accused of wanting natural and idiomatic 
 expression ; but still it is select and refined expression. He uses the 
 ornaments which must always distinguish true poetry from prose ; 
 and when he adopts colloquial plainness, it is with the utmost 
 care and skill, to avoid a vulgar humility. The tendency towards 
 abstracted observation in his poetry agrees peculiarly with the 
 compendious form of expression ivhich he studied ; whilst the 
 homefelt joys, on which his fancy loved to repose, required at once 
 the chastest and sweetest colours of language, to make them har- 
 monize with the dignity of a philosophical poem. His whole 
 manner has a still depth of feeling and reflection, which gives 
 back the image of nature unruffled and minutely. He has no re- 
 dundant thoughts, or false transports ; but seems, on every occa- 
 sion, to have weighed the impulse to which he surrendered himself. 
 
GOLDSMITH. 243 
 
 "Whatever ardour or casual felicities he may have thus sacrificed, 
 he gained a high degree of purity and self-possession. His chaste 
 pathos makes him an insinuating moralist, and throws a charm of 
 Claude-like softness over his descriptions of homely objects that 
 would seem only fit to he the subjects of Dutch painting. But his 
 quiet enthusiasm leads the affections to humble things without a 
 vulgar association ; and he inspires us with a fondness to trace the 
 simplest recollections of Auburn, till we count the furniture of its 
 ale-house, and Hsten to 
 
 u The varoish'd clock that click'd behind the door." 
 
 T. CAMPBELL. 
 
 THE VILLAGE CURATE. 
 
 Vear yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year : 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor 'ere had chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place ; 
 Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, 
 By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; 
 Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, 
 More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
 He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain : 
 The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast : 
 The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
 Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd : 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
 Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away ; 
 Wept o'er his wounds; or, tales of sorrow done, 
 Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won. 
 Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow. 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
 His pity gave e'er charity began. 
 
 z 2 
 
244 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 And e'en his failings lean'd to Virtue's side ; 
 But in his duty prompt at every call, 
 He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all : 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
 To tempt its new fledg'd offspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, 
 Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
 His looks adorn'd the venerable place . 
 Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 
 And fools, who came to scoff, remain' d to pray. 
 The service past, around the pious man, 
 With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran; 
 E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, 
 And pluck'd his gown to share the good man's smile. 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd ; 
 Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd : 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given ; 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven ; 
 As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 
 THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 Beside yon straggling fence, that skirts the way, 
 With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, 
 There, in his noisy mansion, skill' d to rule, 
 The village master taught his little school : 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
 I knew him well and every truant knew : 
 Well had the boding tremblers 1 earn' d to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face . 
 Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee, 
 At all his jokes ; for many a joke had he ; 
 Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
 Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd : 
 Yet he was kind ; or if severe in aught, 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault : 
 The village all declar'd how much he knew ; 
 'Twas certain hs could write and cipher too: 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage i 
 And e'en the story ran, that he could gauge. 
 
 
GOLDSMITH. 245 
 
 In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill ; 
 For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still; 
 While words of learned strength, and thundering sound, 
 Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around ; 
 And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew, 
 That one small head could carry all he knew. 
 But past is all his fame. The very spot, 
 Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. 
 
 THE VILLAGE ALEHOUSE. 
 
 Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
 Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
 Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd, 
 Where grey- beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd 
 Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, 
 And news much older than their ale went round. 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
 The parlour splendors of that festive place ; 
 The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor ; 
 The varnish'd clock that click' d behind the door; 
 The chest, contriv'd a double debt to pay, 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
 The pictures, plac'd for ornament and use ; 
 The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
 The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, 
 With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay ; 
 While broken teacup?, wisely kept for show, 
 Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'din a row. 
 
 Vain transitory splendor ! could not all 
 Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ! 
 Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
 An hour's importance to the poor man's heart : 
 Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
 To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
 No more the farmer'^ news, the barber's tale, 
 No more the woodman's ballad, shall prevail ; 
 No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
 Relax his pond'rous strength, and leau to hear ; 
 The host himself no longer shall be found 
 Careful to see the mautling bliss go round ; 
 Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd, 
 Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 
 
 z 3 
 
246 
 
 THE POETICAL REVIEW, 
 
 ROBERT BURNS, DIED 1796, AGED 37. 
 
 He pass'd thro' life's tempestuous night, 
 
 A brilliant, trembling, northern light ; 
 
 Thro' years to come he'll shine from far, 
 
 A fix'd, unsettling, polar star. J. MONTGOMERY. 
 
 ON BURNS S POETRY. 
 
 
 There are few things more worthy of being studied, either in 
 their character or in their effects, than the poems of Robert 
 Burns. This man, born and bred a peasant, was taught, like all 
 other Scotsmen, to read his Bible, and learned by heart, in his 
 infancy, the heroic ballads of his nation. Amidst the solitary 
 occupations of his rural labours, the soul of the ploughman fed 
 itself with high thoughts of patriotism and religion, and with that 
 happy instinct which is the best prerogative of genius, he divined 
 every thing that was necessary for being the poet ot his country. 
 The men of his nation, high and low, are educated men ; medi- 
 tative in their spirit, proud in their recollections, steady in their 
 patriotism, and devout in their faith. At the time, however, 
 when he appeared, the completion of their political union with a 
 greater and wealthier kingdom, and the splendid success which 
 had crowned their efforts in adding to the general literature of 
 Britain — but above all, the chilling nature of the merely specu- 
 lative philosophy, which they had begun to cultivate, seemed to 
 threaten a speedy diminution of their fervent attachment to that 
 which was peculiarly their own. This mischievous tendency was- 
 stopped by a peasant, and the noblest of his land are the debtor?: 
 
BURNS. 247 
 
 of his genius. He revived the spark that was about to be extin- 
 guished — and taught men to reverence with increasing homage, 
 that enthusiasm of which they were beginning to he ashamed. 
 The levity of many of his descriptions, the coarseness of many of 
 his images, cannot conceal from our eyes the sincerity with which, 
 at the bottom of his heart, this man was the worshipper of the 
 pure genius of his country. The improprieties are superficial, the 
 excellence is ever deep. The man might be guilty in his own 
 person of pernicious trespasses, but his soul came back, like a 
 dove, to repose amidst images of purity. The chaste and lowly 
 affection of the village maiden was the only love that appeared 
 worthy in his eyes, as he wandered beneath the virgin radiance of 
 the harvest moon. In the haunts of the dissolute, the atmos- 
 phere of corruption might seize upon him, and taint his breath 
 with the coldness of its derision ; but he returned to right thoughts 
 in the contemplation of the good, and felt in all its fulness, when 
 he bent Lis knee by the side of " the Father and the Priest," the 
 gentle majesty of that religion which consoles the afflicted and 
 elevates the poor. — He is at present, the favourite poet of a vir- 
 tuous, a pious, and patriotic people; and the first symptom of 
 their decay in virtue, piety, and patriotism, will be seen on the 
 instant when Scotsmen shall cease to treasure in their hearts the 
 " Highland Mary," the " Cotter's Saturday Night," and the 
 " Song of Bannockburn." baron von lauerwinkel.* 
 
 ON THE CHARACTER OF BURNS. 
 
 If the vices of Burns were drawn in deepest shadows, his virtues 
 were drawn in brightest sunbeams ; and over the gloom, and over 
 the glory, there was the light of genius. Therefore his country is 
 neither afraid nor ashamed to see his character reflected with all 
 its stains and all its purity in his works ; but she looks with par- 
 don, pity, and pride, — and her heart and her eyes fill as she gazes 
 
 * See Blackwood's Magazine, Oct. 1818. 
 
248 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 on his pale marble bust. She will suffer no one to preach and 
 moralize over his errors, except from his lips she hears— 
 
 " The still sad music of humanity, 
 
 Not harsh, nor grating, but of amplest power 
 
 To soften and subdue." 
 
 His faults aud frailties, errors and vices, were all far more than 
 redeemed, had they been many times greater than they were, by 
 his generous and noble virtues ; and it is felt now over all Scot- 
 land, and in every land trodden by the feet of her sons, that the 
 bad belonging to the character of a great man, may without dan- 
 ger be buried in his grave, from whence it will never cease to send 
 up admonitory whispers ; and that it is true wisdom and true reli- 
 gion to elevate the good into the light, and hold it for ever there, 
 as an encouragement and an example. 
 
 Blackwood's Magazine, March, 1828. 
 
 *TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 
 
 ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tipped fiow'r, 
 Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
 For I maun crush atnang the stoure 
 
 Thy slender stem ; 
 To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 
 
 Thou bonnie gem. 
 
 Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
 The bonnie Lark, companion meet ! 
 Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 
 
 Wi' spreckled breast, 
 When upward-springing, blythe, to greet 
 
 The purpling east. 
 
 Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
 Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
 Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
 
 Amid the storm, 
 Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 
 
 Thy tender form. 
 
 * See -the Glossary at the end of the Volume. 
 
BURNS. 249 
 
 The Haunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
 High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield, 
 But thou beneath the random bield 
 
 O' clod or stane, 
 Adorns thehistie stibble field, 
 
 Unseen, alane. 
 
 There in thy scanty mantle clad, 
 Thy snawy bosom sunward spread, 
 Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
 
 In humble guise ; 
 But now the share uptears thy bed, 
 
 And low thou lies ! 
 
 Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
 Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 
 By love's simplicity betray'd, 
 
 And guileless trust, 
 Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 
 
 Low i' the dust. 
 
 Such is the fate of simple Bard, 
 
 On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 
 
 Unskilful he to note the card 
 
 Of prudent lore, 
 Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 
 
 And whelm him o'er ! 
 
 Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, 
 Who long with wauts and woes has striv'n, 
 By human pride or cunning driv'n 
 
 To mis'ry's brink, 
 Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav ? n, 
 
 He, ruin'd, sink ! 
 
 Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
 That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
 Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 
 
 Full on thy bloom, 
 Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 
 
 Shall be thv doom ! 
 
250 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 TO A MOUSE, 
 
 ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE 
 PLOUGH. 
 
 It is difficult to decide whether the Address to a Mouse, should 
 be considered as serious or comic. Be that as it may, the poem 
 is one of the happiest and most finished of his productions. If we 
 smile at the " bickering bratlle" of this little animal, it is a smile 
 of tenderness and pity. The descriptive part is admirable; the 
 moral reflections beautiful, and arising directly out of the occa- 
 siou; and in the conclusion there is a deep melancholy, a senti- 
 ment of doubt and dread, that rises to the sublime. DR. currie. 
 
 Wee, sleekit, cow'riu, tim'rous beastie, 
 O, what a panic's in thy breaslie ! 
 Thou needna start awa sae hasty, 
 
 Wi' bickering brattle! 
 I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 
 
 Wi' murdering pattle ! 
 
 I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
 Has broken Nature's social union, 
 An' justifies that ill opinion, 
 
 Which maks thee startle 
 At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 
 
 An' fellow mortal ! 
 
 I doubtna, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
 What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
 A daimen-icker in a thrave 
 
 'S a sma' request; 
 I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, 
 
 And never miss't ! 
 
 Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
 Its silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 
 An' naething now, to big a new ane, 
 
 O' foggage green ! 
 An' bleak December's winds eusuin, 
 
 Baith snell an' keen ! 
 
 Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
 An' weary winter comin fast, 
 An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 
 
 Thou thought to dwell; 
 Till crash ! the cruel coulter past, 
 
 Out-thro' thy cell. 
 
 
BURNS. 251 
 
 That wee bit heap o' leaves an stibble, 
 Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
 Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble. 
 
 But house or hald, 
 To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 
 
 An' cranreuch cauld ! 
 
 But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
 In proving foresight may be vain : 
 The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 
 
 Gang aft a-gley, 
 An' lea'e us naught but grief and pain. 
 
 For promis'd joy. 
 
 Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! 
 The present only touches thee : 
 But, och ! I backward cast my ee 
 
 On prospects drear ! 
 An' forward, tho' I canna see, 
 
 I guess an' fear. 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 The Farmer''^ Ingle of Fergusson evidently suggested the plan of 
 this poem ; but after the plan was formed, Burns trusted entirely 
 to his own powers for the execution. The Cotter's Saturday Night 
 is tender and moral, it is solemn and devotional, and rises at length 
 into a strain of moral grandeur and sublimity, which modern 
 poetry has not surpassed. Such poetry is not to be estimated by 
 the degree of pleasure it bestows; it sinks deeply into the heart, 
 and is calculated, far beyond any other human means, for giving 
 permanence to the scenes and characters it so exquisitely describes. 
 
 DR. CURRIE. 
 
 Although the Cotter, in the " Saturday Night," is an exact copy 
 of my father in his manners, his family devotion, and exhortations, 
 yet the other parts of the description do not apply to our family. 
 
 GILBERT BURNS- 
 
252 
 
 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night is a noble and pathetic picture of 
 human manners, mingled with a fine religious awe. It comes over 
 the mind like a slow and solemn strain of music. The soul of the 
 poet aspires from this scene of low-thoughted care, and reposes in 
 trembling hops on " the bosom of its Father and its God." 
 
 HAZLITT. 
 
 November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; 
 
 The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
 The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 
 
 The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose; 
 The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 
 
 This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 
 
 Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
 And weary o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 
 
 At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
 
 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
 Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher thro' 
 
 To meet their Dad, wi' flichtering noise an' glee. 
 His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily, 
 
 His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, 
 The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
 
 Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile, 
 An' maks him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 
 
 Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 
 
 At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
 Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 
 
 A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
 Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 
 
 In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her ee, 
 Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, 
 
 Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee, 
 To help her parents dear if they in hardship be. 
 
 Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 
 
 An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers : 
 The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet ; 
 
 Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; 
 The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; 
 
 Anticipation forward points the view. 
 The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 
 
 Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
 The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 
 
BURNS. 253 
 
 Their master's an' their mistress's command, 
 
 The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
 ' An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 
 
 An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
 An' 1 oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 
 
 An' mind your duty, duly, mom an : night, 
 Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
 
 Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
 They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright ! 
 
 But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 
 
 Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
 Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 
 
 To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
 The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
 
 Sparkle in Jenny's ee, and flush her cheek ; 
 Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, 
 
 While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
 Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. 
 
 Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 
 
 A strappau youth ; he taks the mother's eye ; 
 Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
 
 The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
 The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 
 
 But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; 
 The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
 
 What maks the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; 
 Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 
 
 O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 
 
 O heart- felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
 I've paced much this weary mortal round, 
 
 And sage experience bids me this declare — 
 * If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure s-pare, 
 
 One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
 
 In other's arms breath out the tender tale, 
 ' Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.' 
 
 Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 
 
 A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
 That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 
 
 Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
 Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! 
 
 Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? 
 Is there no pity, uo relenting ruth, 
 
 Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? 
 Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild ? 
 
 A a 
 
254 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 But now the supper crowns their simple board, 
 
 The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food : 
 The soupe their only Hawkie does afford, 
 
 That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood : 
 The dame brings forth in complimental mood. 
 
 To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell,. 
 An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
 
 The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
 How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 
 
 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 
 
 They, round the iogle, form a circle wide ; 
 The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 
 
 The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
 His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 
 
 His lyart haffets weariug thin an' bare; 
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 
 
 He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
 And 'Let us worship God !' he says, with solemn air. 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
 
 They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
 Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, 
 
 Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name : 
 Or noble Elgin beets the heav'nward flame, 
 
 The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
 Compar'd with these, Italian thrills are tame ; 
 
 The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
 Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 
 
 The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
 
 How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
 Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
 
 With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
 Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
 
 Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; 
 Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
 
 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
 Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 
 
 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
 
 How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
 How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, 
 
 Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
 How his first followers and servants sped; 
 
 The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
 How He, who lone in Patmos banished, 
 
 Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
 And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heav' 
 -command. 
 
BURNS. 255 
 
 Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 
 
 The saint, the father, anil the husband prays : 
 Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing,' 
 
 That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
 There ever bask in uncreated rays. 
 
 No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
 Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
 
 In such society , yet still more dear ; 
 While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 
 
 Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 
 
 In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
 When men display to congregations wide 
 
 Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
 The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 
 
 The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole : 
 But haply, in some cottage far apart, 
 
 May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul ; 
 And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 
 
 Then homeward all take off their sev'ralway; 
 
 The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
 The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 
 
 And proffer up to Heaven the warm request — ■ 
 That He who stiHs the raven's clam'rous nest, 
 
 And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 
 Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 
 
 For them and for their little ones provide ; 
 But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 
 
 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 
 
 That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 
 Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
 
 ' An honest man's the noblest work of God:' 
 And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, 
 
 The cottage leaves the palace far hehind; 
 What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, 
 
 Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
 Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 
 
 O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
 
 For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
 Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 
 
 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content 1 
 And, Oh ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 
 
 From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
 Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
 
 A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
 And stauda wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. 
 
 a2 
 
256 THE POETICAL REVIEW 
 
 EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 
 
 While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw. 
 And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 
 
 And hing us owre the ingle, 
 I set me down to pass the time, 
 And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 
 
 In namely, westlin jingle. 
 While frosty winds blaw in the drift. 
 
 Ben to the chimla lug, 
 I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, 
 That live sae bien an' snug : 
 I tent less, and want less 
 Their roomy fire-side ; 
 But hanker and canker, 
 To see their cursed pride. 
 
 It's hardly in a body's pow'r 
 
 To keep, at times, frae being sour, 
 
 To see how things are shar'd : 
 How best o' chiels are whiles in want, 
 While coofs on countless thousands rant, 
 
 And kenna how to wair't : 
 But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 
 
 Tho' we hae little gear, 
 We're fit to win our daily bread, 
 As lang's we're hale and fier : 
 ' Mair spierna, nor fearna,' 
 
 Auld age ne'er mind a feg, 
 The last o't, the warst o't, 
 Is only for to beg. 
 
 To lie in kilns and bams at e'en, 
 
 When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, 
 
 Is, doubtless, great distress j 
 Yet then content would mak us blest; 
 Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste 
 
 Of truest happiness. 
 The honest heart that's free frae a' 
 
 Intended fraud or guile, 
 However fortune kick the ba', 
 Has aye some cause to smile : 
 And mind still, you'll find still, 
 
 A comfort this no sma' ; 
 Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
 Nae farther can we fa'. 
 
 What tho', like commoners of air, 
 We wander out, we know not where, 
 
 But either house or hall ? 
 Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods., 
 
BURNS. 257 
 
 The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 
 
 Are free alike to all. 
 In days when daisies deck the ground, 
 
 And blackbirds whistle clear, 
 With honest joy our hearts will bound, 
 To see the coming year : 
 
 On braes when we please, then, 
 
 We'll sit an' sowth a tune ; 
 Syne rhyme tilPt, we'll time till't, 
 And sing't when we hae doae. 
 
 It's no in titles nor in rank ; 
 
 it's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 
 
 To purchase peace and rest ; 
 It's no in making muckle mair: 
 It's no in books ; its no in lear, 
 
 To make us truly blest : 
 If happiness hae not her seat 
 
 And centre in the breast, 
 We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
 But never can be blest : 
 
 Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 
 Could mak us happy lang ; 
 The heart aye's the part aye, 
 That maks us right or wrang. 
 
 Think ye that sic as you and I, 
 
 Wha drudge and drive thro' wet and dry, 
 
 Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
 Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
 Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 
 
 As hardly worth their while ; 
 Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 
 God's creatures they oppress ! 
 Or else neglecting a' that's guid, 
 They riot in excess ! 
 
 Baith careless, and fearless 
 Of either heav'n or hell ! 
 Esteeming and deeming 
 It's a' an idle tale ! 
 
 Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
 Nor mak our scanty pleasures less, 
 
 By pining at our state ; 
 And, even should misfortunes come, 
 I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 
 
 An's thankfu', for them yet. 
 They gie the wit of age to youth ; 
 
 They let us ken oursel ; 
 
 A3 
 
258 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 They mak us see the naked truth, 
 The real guid and ill. 
 Tho' losses, and crosses, 
 
 Be lessons right severe, 
 There's wit there, ye'Il get there, 
 Ye'll find nae other where. 
 
 But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 
 
 ( To say ought less wad wrang the cartes, 
 
 And flatt'ry I detest) 
 This life has joys for you and I ; 
 And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 
 
 And joys the very best. 
 There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 
 
 The lover an' the frien ; 
 Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, 
 And I my darling Jean ! 
 It warms me, it charms me, 
 
 To mention but her name : 
 It heats me, it beets me, 
 And sets me a' on flame ! 
 
 O all ye pow'rs who rule above ; 
 O Thou, whose very self art love ! 
 Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
 The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
 Or my more dear immortal part, 
 
 Is not more fondly dear ! 
 When heart-corroding care and grief 
 
 Deprive my soul of rest, 
 Her dear idea brings relief 
 And solace to my breast. 
 Thou Being, All-seeing, 
 
 O hear my fervent pray'r ; 
 Still take her, and make her 
 Thy most peculiar care ! 
 
 All hail, ye tender feelings dear ; 
 The smile of love, the friendly tear, 
 
 The sympathetic glow ; 
 Long since, this world's thorny ways 
 Had number'd out my weary days, 
 
 Had it not been for you ! 
 Fate still has blest me with a friend, 
 
 In every care and ill ; 
 And oft a more endearing band, 
 A tie more tender still. 
 It lightens, it brightens 
 The tenebrific scene, 
 To meet with, and greet with 
 My Davie or my Jean. 
 
BURNS. 259 
 
 THE TWA DOGS. 
 A TALE. 
 
 In this poem the poet's plan seems to be to inculcate a lesson of 
 contentment on the lower classes of society, by showing that their 
 superiors are neither much better nor happier than themselves ; 
 and this he chooses to execute in the form of a dialogue between two 
 dogs. He introduces this dialogue by an account of the persons 
 and characters of the speakers. The first, whom he has named 
 Ccesar, is a dog of condition, and though high-bred, full of conde- 
 descension. The other, Luath, is a " ploughman's collie," but a cur 
 of good heart and a sound understanding. Never were twa dogs so 
 exquisitely delineated. Their gambols before they sit down to mora- 
 lize, are described with an equal degree of happiness; and through 
 the whole dialogue, the character, as well as the different condition 
 of the two speakers, is kept in view. The dogs of Burns, except in 
 their talent for moralizing, are downright dogs; and not like the 
 horses of Swift, or the Hind and Panther of Dryden, men in 
 the shape of brutes. It is this circumstance that heightens 
 the humour of the dialogue. The twa dogs are constantly kept 
 before our eyes, and the contrast between their form and charac- 
 ter as dogs, and the sagacity of their conversation, heightens the 
 humour, and deepens the impression of the poet's satire. Though 
 in this poem the chief excellence may be considered as humour, 
 yet great talents are displayed in its composition ; the happiest 
 powers of description, and the deepest insight into the human 
 heart. dr. currie. 
 
 The " Tale of the Twa Dogs" was composed after the resolution 
 of publishing was nearly taken. Robert had had a dog which he 
 called Luath, that was a great favourite. The dog had been 
 killed by the wanton cruelty of some person the night before my 
 father's death. Robert said to me, that he should like to confer 
 
260 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 such immortality as he could bestow upon his old friend Luath, and 
 that he had a great mind to introduce something into the book 
 under the title of "Stanzas to the Memory of a quadruped 
 Friend :" but this plan was given up for the Tale as it now stands. 
 Caesar was merely the creature of the poet's imagination, created 
 for the purpose of holding chat with his favourite Luath. 
 
 GILBERT BURNS. 
 
 'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
 That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
 Upon a bonnie day in June, 
 When weariug thro' the afternoon, 
 Twa dogs that werena thrang at hame, 
 Forgather'd ance upon a time. 
 
 The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar, 
 Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 
 His, hair, his size, bis mouth, his lugs, 
 Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs; 
 But whalpit some place far abroad, 
 Where sailors gang to fish for Cod. 
 
 His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
 Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar ; 
 But though he was o' high degree, 
 The fient o' pride nae pride had he ; 
 But wad hae spent an hour caressin, 
 Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin. 
 At kirk or market, mill or smidciie, 
 Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'ersae duddie, 
 But he wad stand, as glad to see him, 
 And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 
 
 The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
 A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
 Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 
 And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
 After some dog in Highland sang,* 
 Was made lang syne— Lord knows how lang. 
 
 He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
 As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 
 His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
 Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
 
 * Cuchullin's dog in Ojsian'sFiugal, 
 
 
BURNS. 261 
 
 His breast was white, his towzie back 
 Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
 His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
 Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl. 
 
 Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
 An' unco pack an' thick thegither; 
 Wi' social nose whyles snuff' d and snowkit ; 
 Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkiti 
 Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, 
 An' worry'd ither in diversion ; 
 Until wi' damn weary grown, 
 Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
 And there began a lang digression 
 About the lords o' the creation. 
 
 I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
 What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
 An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
 What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 
 
 Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
 His coals, his kain, and a' his stents : 
 He rises when he likes himsel : 
 His flunkies answer at the bell : 
 He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
 He draws a bonnie silken purse 
 As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks, 
 The yellow letter' d Geordie keeks. 
 
 Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, 
 At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
 And tho' the gentry first are stechin, 
 Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan 
 Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, 
 That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
 An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
 I own it's past my comprehension. 
 
 Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't enough 
 A cotter howkin in a sheugh, 
 Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 
 Baring a quarry, and sic like. 
 Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, 
 A smyrtrie o' wee duddie weans, 
 
262 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 An' nought but his han' darg, to keep 
 Them right and tight in thack an' rape. 
 
 An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
 Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, 
 Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
 An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger 
 But, how it comes, I never kenn'd it, 
 They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
 An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, 
 Are bred in sic a way as this is. 
 
 But then to see how ye're negleckit, 
 How hufPd, and cufPd, and disrespeckit ! 
 Why, man, our gentry care as little 
 For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle; 
 They gang as saucy by poor fo'k, 
 As I wad by a stinking brock. 
 
 I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day, 
 An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
 Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
 How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
 He'll stamp an' threaten, cur&e an' swear, 
 He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
 While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, 
 An' hear it a' an' fear and tremble ! 
 I see how folk live that hae riches : 
 But surely poor folk maun be wretches ! 
 
 LUATH. 
 
 They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think 
 Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
 They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
 The view o't gies them little fright. 
 
 Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
 They're aye in less or mair provided ; 
 An' tho' fatign'd wi' close employment, 
 A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 
 
 The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
 Their grushie weans an faithfu' wives : 
 The prattling things are just their pride, 
 That sweetens a' their fire-side. 
 An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
 Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
 
BURNS. 263 
 
 They lay aside their private cares, 
 To mind the Kirk and State affairs : 
 They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
 Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, 
 Or tell what new taxation's comin, 
 An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 
 
 As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, 
 They get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
 When rural life, o' ev'ry station, 
 Unite in common recreation ; 
 Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, 
 Forgets there's care upo' the earth. 
 
 That merry day the year begins, 
 They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
 The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
 An' sheds a heart inspiring steam ; 
 The luntin pipe, and sneeshin mill, 
 Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
 The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, 
 The young aues rautin thro' the house,- 
 My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
 That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 
 
 Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
 Sic game is owre aften play'd. 
 There's monie a creditable stock 
 C decent, honest, fawsont fo'k, 
 Are riven out baith root and branch, 
 Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
 Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
 In favour wi' some gentle Master, 
 Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin, 
 For Britain's guid his saul indentin — 
 
 Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; 
 For Britain's guid ! guid faith ! I doubt it. 
 Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 
 An' saying ay or no's they bid him : 
 At operas an' plays parading, 
 Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading : 
 Or maybe, in a frolic daft, 
 To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 
 To make a tour, an' tak a whirl, 
 To learn bon ton an' see the woiT. 
 
264 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Hech, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
 They waste sae mouy a braw estate ! 
 Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
 For gear to gang that gate at last ? 
 
 O would they stay aback frae courts, 
 An' please themsels wi' countra sports, 
 It wad for ev'ry ane be better, 
 The Laird, the Tenaut, an' the Cotter ! 
 Tor thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, 
 Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ! 
 Except for breakin o' their timmer, 
 Or speaking lightly o' their limmer, 
 Or shooting o' a hare or moorcock, 
 The ne'er a bit they're Ul to poor folk. 
 
 But will ye tell me. Master Caesar, 
 Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ! 
 Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, 
 The vera thought o't needna fear them. 
 
 Why, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, 
 The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 
 
 It's true, they needna starve or sweat, 
 Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat ; 
 They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
 An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes : 
 But human bodies are sic fools, 
 For a' their colleges and schools, 
 That when nae real ills perplex them, 
 They mak enow themselves to vex them ; 
 An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, 
 In like proportion less will hurt them. 
 A eountry fellow at the pleugh, 
 His acres till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
 A country girl at her wheel, 
 Her dizzens done, she's unco weel : 
 But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
 Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. 
 They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; 
 Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy : 
 Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 
 Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless : 
 An' e'en their sports, their balls an' races, 
 Their galloping thro' public places, 
 
BURNS. 265 
 
 There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
 The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
 The men cast out in party matches, 
 Then sowther a' in deep debauches ; 
 The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
 As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
 But bear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
 They're a' ruu deils an' jads thegither. 
 Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, 
 They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
 Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks 
 Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
 Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
 An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 
 
 There's some exception, man an' wo a: an 
 But this is Gentry's life in common. 
 
 By this, the sun was out o' sight, 
 An' darker gloaming brought the night : 
 The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
 The kye stood rowtin i' the loan ; 
 When up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
 Rejoic'd they werena men but dogs ; 
 An' each took aff his several way, 
 Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 
 
 TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 
 
 The object of Burns's first attachment was a Highland girl, 
 named Mary Campbell, who was his fellow reaper in the same 
 harvest-field. She died very young ; and when Burns heard of 
 her death, he was thrown into an ecstacy of suffering much be- 
 yond what even his keen temperament was accustomed to feel. 
 Nor does he seem ever to have forgotten her. His verses "To 
 Mary in Heaven :" his invocation to the star that rose on the 
 anniversary of her death ; his description of the landscape that 
 was the scene of their day of love and parting vows, " where flowers 
 sprang wanton to bepress'd;'' the whole luxury and exquisite 
 Bb 
 
266 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 passion of that strain, evince that her image had survived many 
 important changes in himself. t. campbbll. 
 
 This celebrated poem was composed by Burns in September, 
 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he heard of the 
 death of his early love, Mary Campbell ; but Mr. Cromek has 
 thought fit to dress up the story with circumstances that did not 
 occur. Mrs. Burns, the only person who could appeal to personal 
 recollection on this occasion, and whose recollections of all cir- 
 cumstances connected with the history of her husband's poems, 
 are represented as being remarkably distinct and vivid, gives what 
 may at first appear a more prosaic edition of the history. Accord- 
 ing to her, Burns spent that day, though labouring under cold, 
 in the usual work of his harvest, and apparently in excellent 
 spirits. But as the twilight deepened, he appeared to grow " very 
 sad about something," and at length wandered out into the barn- 
 yard, to which his wife, in her anxiety for his health, followed 
 him, entreating him in vain to observe that frost had set in, and 
 to return to the fireside. On being again and again requested to 
 do so, he always promised compliance — but still remained where 
 he was, striding up and down slowly, and contemplating the sky, 
 which was singularly clear and starry. At last Mrs. Burns found 
 him stretched ou a mass of straw, with his eyes fixed on a beauti- 
 ful planet "that shone like another moon;" and prevailed on 
 him to come in. He immediately, on entering the house, called 
 for his desk, and wrote exactly as they now stand, with all the 
 ease of one copying from memory, the (following) sublime and 
 pathetic verses. lockhart. 
 
 Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, . 
 
 That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
 Again thou usher'st in the day 
 
 My Mary from my soul was torn. 
 
 O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
BURNS. -26-; 
 
 That sacred hour can I forget f 
 
 Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 
 Where, by the winding Ayr we met, 
 
 To live one day of parting love ? 
 
 Eternity will not efface 
 
 Those records dear of transports past , 
 Thy image at our last embrace ; 
 
 Ah ! little thought -we 'twas our last ! 
 
 Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, 
 
 O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning greeu ; 
 
 The fragraut birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
 Twin'd arn'rous round the raptur'd scene. 
 
 The flowers spraug wanton to be prest, 
 
 The birds sang love on ev'ry spray. 
 Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
 
 Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 
 
 Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 
 
 And fondly broods with miser care ! 
 Time bnttbe impression deeper makes, 
 
 As streams their channels deeper wear. 
 
 My Mary ! dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid r 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 
 
 HIGHLAND 3IARY. 
 
 Burns says, — "After a pretty long trial of the most ardeut re- 
 ciprocal affection, we (himself and Mary Campbell) met by ap- 
 pointment on the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot by 
 the banks of Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farewell be- 
 fore she should embark for the West Highlands, to arrange mat- 
 ters among her friends for our projected change of life. At the 
 close of the autumn following she crossed the sea to meet me at 
 Greenock, where she had scarce landed when she was seized with 
 a malignant fever, which hurried my dear girl to her grave in a 
 r 9 
 
268 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 few days, before I could even hear of her illness." Mr. Cromek, 
 speaking of the same " day of parting love," gives, though with- 
 out mentioning his authority, some further particulars, which no 
 one would willingly believe to be apocryphal. " This adieu," 
 says that zealous inquirer into the details of Burns's story, "was 
 performed with all those simple and striking ceremonials, which 
 rustic sentiment has devised to prolong tender emotions, and to 
 impose awe. The lovers stood on each side of a small purling 
 brook — they laved their hands in the limpid stream — and, hold- 
 ing a Bible between them, pronounced their vows to be faithful 
 to each other. They parted — never to meet again." It is pro- 
 per to add, that Mr. Cromek's story, which even Allan Cunning- 
 ham was disposed to receive with suspicion, has recently been con- 
 firmed very str ngly by the accidental discovery of a Bible pre- 
 seuted by Burns to Mary Campbell, in the possession of her sister 
 at Ardrossan. Upon the boards of the first volume is inscribed, 
 in Burns's band-writing, — "And ye shall not swear by my name 
 falsely — I am the Lord. — Levit. xix. 12." On the second volume, 
 — " Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the 
 Lord thine oath.— St. Matthew v. 33." And on a blank leaf of 
 each — " Robert Burns, Mossgiel." 
 
 LOCKHART. 
 
 Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 
 
 The castle o' Montgomery, 
 Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 
 
 Your waters never drumlie ! 
 There simmer first unfald her robes, 
 
 And there the langest tarry; 
 For there I took my last fareweel 
 
 O' my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 
 
 How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
 As underneath their fragrant shade, 
 
 I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
 The golden hours, on angel wings, 
 
 Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
 For dear to me, as light and life, 
 
 Was my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
BURNS. 269 
 
 WP mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 
 
 Our parting was fu' tender ; 
 And, pledging aft to meet again, 
 
 We tore oursels asunder ; 
 But Oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 
 
 That nipt my flower sae early ! 
 Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 
 
 That wraps my Highland Mary ! 
 
 O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 
 
 I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
 And closed for aye the sparkling glance, 
 
 That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
 And mould'ring now in silent dust, 
 
 That heart that loe'd me dearly ! 
 But still within my bosom's core, 
 
 Shall live my Highland Mary. 
 
 ON BURNS'S SONGS. 
 
 The beauty and the variety of his songs, their tenderness and 
 truth, their pathetic sweetness, their inextinguishable humour, 
 their noble scorn of whatever is mean and vile, and their deep 
 sympathy with the feelings of humble worth, are felt by all, and 
 acknowledged by all. His original power, and his happy spirit, 
 were only equalled by his remarkable gift of entering into the 
 characters of our ancient songs, and the skill with which he abated 
 their indelicacy, or eked out their imperfections. No one felt 
 more fondly the presence of beauty, could express admiration, 
 hope, or desire, in more glowing language, or sing of the calm 
 joys of wedded love, or the unbounded rapture of single hearts 
 and mutual affection, with equal force or felicity. All his songs 
 are distinguished, more or less, by a happy carelessness, by a 
 bounding elasticity of spirit, a singular and natural felicity of ex- 
 pression, by the ardour of an enthusiastic heart, and the vigour of 
 a clear understanding. He had the rare gift of expressing himself 
 according to the rank and condition of mankind, the stateliness of 
 matron pride, the modesty of virgin affection, the querulousness 
 of old age, and the overflowing enthusiasm and vivacity of youth. 
 b3 
 
270 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 His simplicity is the simplicity of strength : he is never mean, 
 never weak, seldom vulgar, and but rarely coarse ; and his un- 
 rivalled power of clothing his thoughts in happy and graceful 
 language, never forsakes him. Capricious and wayward as his 
 musings sometimes are, mingling the moving with the comic, and 
 the sarcastic with the solemn, all he &ays is above the mark of 
 other men — he sheds a redeeming light on all he touches; what- 
 ever his eye glances on rises into life and beauty, and stands con- 
 secrated and imperishable. His language is familiar, yet digni- 
 fied ; careless, yet concise ; and he touches on the most perilous 
 or ordinary themes with a skill so rare and felicitous, that good 
 fortune seems to unite with good taste in carrying him over the 
 mire of rudeness and vulgarity, in which, since his time, so maD y 
 inferior spirits have wallowed. His love, his enthusiasm, his de- 
 votion, his humour, his domestic happiness, and his homeliest 
 joy, is everywhere characterised by a brief and elegant simplicity, 
 at once easy to him and unattainable to others. No one has such 
 power in adorning the humble, and dignifying the plain, and in 
 extracting sweet and impassioned poetry from the daily occur- 
 rences of human life : his simplicity is without childishness, his 
 affection without exaggeration, and his sentiment without conceit. 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 BONNIE JEAN. 
 
 There was a lass, and she was fair, 
 At kirk and market to be seen, 
 
 When a' the fairest maids were met, 
 The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 
 
 And aye she wrought her mamnnVs wark, 
 And aye she sang sae merrily : 
 
 The blithest bird upon the bush 
 Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 
 
 But hawks will rob the tender joys 
 That bless the little lintwhite's nest; 
 
 And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 
 And love will break the soundest rest. 
 
 
BURNS. 271 
 
 Young Robie was the brawest lad, 
 
 The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 
 And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, 
 
 And wanton naigies nine or ten. 
 
 He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 
 
 He danc'dwi' Jeanie on the down; 
 And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 
 
 Her heart was tint, her peace Was stown. 
 
 As in the bosom o' the stream 
 
 The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en j 
 So trembling, pure, was tender love, 
 
 Within the breast o' bonuie Jean. 
 
 And now she warks her mammie's walk, 
 
 And aye she sighs wi' care and pain ; 
 Yet wistna what her ail might be, 
 
 Or what wad mak her weel again. 
 
 But didna Jeanie's heart loup light, 
 
 And didna joy blink in her ee, 
 As Robie tauld a tale o' love, 
 
 Ae e'enin on the lily lea ? 
 
 The sun was sinking in the west, 
 
 The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 
 His cheek to her's he fondly prest, 
 
 And whisper'd thus his tale o' love : 
 
 O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear; 
 
 O canst thou think to fancy me ? 
 Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 
 
 And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 
 
 At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge, 
 
 Or naething else to trouble thee ; 
 But stray amang the heather-bells, 
 
 And tent the waving corn wi' me. 
 
 Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 
 
 She had nae will to say him na : 
 At length she blush'd a sweet consent, 
 
 And love was aye between them twa. 
 
272 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 *0 WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL ! 
 
 were I on Parnassus' hill ! 
 Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
 That I might catch poetic skill, 
 
 To sing how dear I love thee. 
 But Nith maun be my muse's well, 
 My muse maun be thy bonnie sel ; 
 On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell, 
 
 And write how dear I love thee. 
 
 Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 
 For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 
 
 1 coudna sing, I coudna say, 
 
 How much, how dear I love thee. 
 1 see thee dancing o'er the green, 
 Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
 Thy tempting looks, thy roguish een — 
 
 By heaven and earth I love thee ! 
 
 By night, by day, a- field, at hame, 
 
 The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 
 
 And aye 1 muse and sing thy name, 
 
 I only live to love thee. 
 Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, 
 Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
 Till my last weary sand was run ; 
 
 Till then — and then I'd love thee. 
 
 FAIR ELIZA. 
 
 Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 
 
 Ae kind blink before we part, 
 Rew on thy despairing lover ! 
 
 Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ? 
 Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 
 
 If to love thy heart denies, 
 For pity hide the cruel sentence 
 
 Under friendship's kind disguise ! 
 
 Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 
 
 The offence is loving thee ; 
 Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 
 
 Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 
 
 This song was written in honour of Mrs. Burns, soon after marriage; 
 
BURNS. 271 
 
 While the life beats in my bosom, 
 Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 
 
 Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 
 Ae sweet smile ou me bestow. 
 
 Not the bee upon the blossom, 
 
 In the pride o' sunny noon ; 
 Not the little sporting fair}', 
 
 All beneath the simmer moon ; 
 Not the poet in the moment 
 
 Fancy lightens in his ee, 
 Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 
 
 That thy presence gies to me. 
 
 GROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE. 
 
 Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon* 
 
 Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume ; 
 Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 
 
 WP the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. 
 Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 
 
 Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen : 
 For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
 
 A listening the liunet, aft wanders my Jean. . 
 
 Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys^ 
 
 And cauld, Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
 Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, 
 
 What are they ? The haunt of the tyrant and slave ! 
 The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, 
 
 The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
 He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 
 
 Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. 
 
 FARE THEE WE EL. 
 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! 
 Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
 Deep in heart-rung tears I'll pledge thee, 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
 Who shall say that fortune grieves him 
 While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
 Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
 Dark despair around benights me. 
 
274 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
 Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
 But to see her was to love her; 
 Love hut her and love for ever. 
 Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
 Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
 Never met — or never parted, 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 
 
 Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest J 
 Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
 Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
 Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure. 
 Ae fond kiss and then we sever; 
 Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
 Deep in heart-rung tears I'll pledge thee, 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
 
 BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY AT 
 BANNOCKBURN. 
 
 On the 27th of July, 1793, the Poet Burns and Mr. Syme left 
 Dumfries to make an excursion through Galloway; they arrived 
 at Kenmore in the evening, and spent three days there. Mr. 
 Syme, in a letter to Dr. Currie, says — u We left Kenmore and 
 went to Gatehouse . I took him the moor-road, where savage and 
 desolate regions extended wide around. The sky was sympathetic 
 with the wretchedness of the soil; it became lowering and dark. 
 The hollow winds sighed, the lightnings gleamed, and the thunder 
 rolled. The poet enjoyed the awful scene — he spoke not a word, 
 but seemed rapt in meditation. — What do you think he was 
 about ? He was charging the English army, along with Bruce, 
 at Bannockburn. He was engaged in the same manner on our 
 ride home from St. Mary's Isle, and I did not disturb him. Next 
 day he produced me the address of Bruce to his troops." 
 
BURNS. 275 
 
 Why should we speak of Scots, wha hae wV Wallace bled ; siuce 
 all know it, from the King to the meanest of his subjects ? This 
 dithyrambic was composed on horseback ; in riding in the middle 
 of tempests, over the wildest Galloway moor, in company with a 
 Mr. Syme, who, observing the poet's looks, forbore to speak, — 
 judiciously enough — for a man composing Bruce' s Address might 
 be unsafe to trifle with. Doubtless this stern hymn was singing 
 itself, as he formed it, through the soul of Burns : but to the 
 material ear, it should be sung with the note of the whirlwind. So 
 long as there is warm blood in the heart of Scotchman or man, it 
 will move in fierce thrills under this war-ode, the best, we believe, 
 that was ever written by any pen. 
 
 Edinburgh Review, December, 1828. 
 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
 Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
 Welcome to your gory bed, 
 Or to glorious victorie. 
 
 Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
 See the front o' battle lower; 
 See approach proud Edward's power— 
 Edward ! chains and slaverie ! 
 
 Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
 Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
 Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
 
 Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 
 
 Wha for Scotland's king and law 
 Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
 Free-man stand, or free-man fa' ? 
 Caledoniau ; on wi' me ! 
 
 By oppression's woes and pains ! 
 By your sons in servile chains ' 
 We will drain our dearest veins, 
 But they shall be — shall be free ' 
 
 r i 
 
 Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
 Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
 Liberty's in every blow ! 
 Forward ! let us do or die 
 
276 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 JOHN ANDERSON MY JO, JOHN 
 
 John Anderson my jo, John, 
 
 When we were first acquent, 
 Your locks were like the raven, 
 
 Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
 But now your brow is held, John, 
 
 Your locks are like the snaw ; 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 
 John Anderson my jo. 
 
 John Anderson my jo, John, 
 
 We clamb the hill thegither ; 
 And mony a canty day, John, 
 
 We've had wi' ane anither: 
 Now we maun totter down, John, 
 
 But hand in hand we'll go, 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 John Anderson my jo. 
 
 
COWPER. -2i: 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER, DIED 1800, AGED 69. 
 
 ON COWPER'S POETRY. 
 
 The great merit of this writer appears to us to consist in the 
 boldness and originality of his composition, and in the fortunate 
 audacity with which he has carried the dominion of poetry into 
 regions that had been considered as inaccessable to her ambition . 
 The gradual refinement of taste had, for nearly a century, been 
 weakening the figure and original genius. Our poets had become 
 timid and fastidious, and circumscribed themselves both in the 
 choice and the management of their subjects, by the observance of 
 a limited number of models, who were thought to have exhausted 
 all the legitimate resources of the art. Cowper was one of the 
 first who crossed this enchanted circle, who regained the natural 
 liberty of invention, and walked abroad in the open field of ob- 
 servation as freely as those by whom it was originally trodden ; he 
 passed from the imitation of nature, and ventured boldly upon 
 the representation of objects that had not been sanctified by the 
 description of any of his predecessors. In the ordinary occupa- 
 tions and duties of domestic life, and the consequences of modern 
 manners, in the common scenery of a rustic situation, and the ob- 
 vious contemplation of our public institutions, he has found a 
 multitude of subjects for ridicule and reflection, for pathetic and 
 picturesque description, for moral declamation, and devotional 
 rapture, that would have been looked upon with disdain, or with 
 despair, by most of our poetical adventurers. He took as wide a 
 range in language, too, as in matter; and, shaking off the tawdry 
 incumbrance of that poetical diction which had nearly reduced 
 the art to the skilful collocation of a set of appropriated phrases, 
 c c 
 
278 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 he made no scruple to set down in verse every expression that 
 would have been admitted in prose, and to take advantage of all 
 the varieties with which our language could supply him. 
 
 But while, by the use of this double licence, he extended the 
 sphere of poetical composition, and communicated a singular 
 character of freedom, force, and originality, to his own perform- 
 ances, it must not be dissembled, that the presumption which be- 
 longs to most innovators, has betrayed him into many defects. In 
 disdaining to follow the footsteps of others, he has frequently mis- 
 taken the way, and has been exasperated, by their blunders, to 
 rush into an opposite extreme, in his contempt for their scrupu- 
 lous selection of topics, he has introduced some that are unques- 
 tionably low and uninterestiug ; and in his zeal to strip off the 
 tinsel and embroidery of their language, he has torn it (like Jack's 
 coat in the Tale of a Tub) into terrible rents and beggarly tatters. 
 He is a great master of English, and evidently values himself upon 
 his skill and facility in the application of its rich and diversified 
 idioms : but he has indulged himself in this exercise a little too 
 fondly, and has degraded some grave and animated passages by 
 the .unlucky introduction of expressions unquestionably too collo- 
 quial and familiar. — It is impossible to say any thing of the de- 
 fects of Cowper's writings, without taking notice of the occasional 
 harshness and inelegance of his versification. From his corres- 
 pondence, however, it appears that this was not with him the 
 effect of negligence merely, but that he really imagined that a 
 rough and incorrect line now and then had a very agreeable effect 
 in a composition of any length. This prejudice, we believe, is as 
 old as Cowley among English writers ; but we do not Jmow that it 
 has of late received the sanction of any one poet of eminence. — 
 With all these defects, however, Cowper will probably very Jong 
 retain his popularity with the readers of English poetry. The 
 great variety and truth of his descriptions; the minute and correct 
 painting of those home-scenes, and private feelings with which 
 every one is internally familiar; the sterling weight and sense of 
 most of his observations, and, above all, the great appearance of 
 facility with which every thing is executed, and the happy use he 
 
COWPER. 279 
 
 has so ofteu made of the most common and ordinary language > 
 
 all concur to stamp upon his poems the character of original 
 
 genius, and remind us of the merits that have secured immortality 
 
 to Shakespear. 
 
 Edinburgh Review, April, 1803. 
 
 ON COWPER AS A SATIRIST. 
 
 Cowper's satire is sublime. There is not anywhere that we know 
 of in the language such satires as his Table Talk, Progress of Error, 
 Truth, Expostulation, Hope, Charity, Conversation, Retirement. 
 Perhaps we ought to call those compositions by some other name, 
 for they are full of almost all kinds of the noblest poetry. Never 
 were the principles of the real wealth of nations more grandly 
 ■expounded, illustrated, and enforced — national honour, faith, 
 freedom, patriotism, independence, religion, all sung in magnifi- 
 cent strains, kindled alternately by the pride and indignation of a 
 Briton, exulting in, or ashamed of, the land of saints and heroes. 
 No want of individual portraits of foools, knaves, and even ruffians. 
 The same man, who was well satisfied to sit day after day beside 
 an elderly lady sewing caps and tippets, except when he was 
 obliged to go and water the flowers, or fced the rabbits, rose up, 
 when Poetry came upon him, sinewy and muscular as a mailed 
 man dallying for a while with a two-edged sword, as if to try its 
 weight and temper, when about to sheer down the Philistines. 
 Cowper goes forth in his holy ire like a man inspired and commis- 
 sioned. You see his soul glowing aud burning with fires kindled on 
 the altar of religion. He comes strong from the study of the old 
 prophets. And in some of his most magnificent marches, you think 
 that you hear the bible transformed into another shape of poetry, 
 the essence being the same; nor are the sacred strains profaned by 
 being sounded to a lyre smote by such a hand— a haud uplifted 
 doily, many times and oft, besides night and morn, in prayer, and 
 ever " opeu as day to melting charity." How be sheds sudden 
 day into the midnight darkness of London, lying bare with all her 
 c2 
 
280 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 sins and iniquities ! The dark city quakes as she is suddenly 
 brightened, and stands confessed in all her guilt, in which she 
 dares not to glory, now that the hand of heaven seems stretched 
 forth to avenge and destroy. There is nothing in Byron of such 
 sustained majesty as Cowper's expostulation with this Queen of the 
 Cities of the earth. — Even as a personal satirist — that is, the 
 satirist of particular vices as they are exhibited in individual cha- 
 racters whose portraits are unsparingly drawn, we know of nobody 
 with whom Cowper may not take rank; while, as a general satirist 
 of that mysterious compound of good and evil, Man, we know 
 nobody who may take rank with him ; — for spleen, rancour, bile, 
 in his loftiest moods, he has none,* — there is a profound melan- 
 choly often mingling with his ire, for he knows that he too is of the 
 same blind race, whom he upbraids with their folly and their 
 wickedness ; he hates sin, but he loves and pities the sinner; — his 
 is not the railing of sanctimonious pride, but as a Christian he 
 feels he u does well to be angry;*' his morality is always pure 
 and high, but his Religion is a power purer and higher far — its 
 denunciations are altogether of a different nature, appealing to 
 other fears, and other hopes, and other sanctions; and in the spirit 
 of religion alone will any satire ever be poured from the lips of 
 man, which, because of its influence on human happiness and vir- 
 tue, may be named sacred, holy, divine, and enrolled among the 
 other records of Immortal Song. 
 
 Blackwood's Magazine, June, 1828. 
 
 ON THE PERSONAL CHARACTER OF COWPER. 
 
 The personal character of Cowper is easily estimated, from the 
 writings he has left. He seems to have been chiefly remarkable 
 for a certain feminine gentleness, and delicacy of character, that 
 
 * There is no barbarous wit iu Cowper; not an inhuman joke in all his 
 writings. His satire lias a whip of scorpions, but it is only wielded against 
 villainy and false philosophy, when the cast igat ion of wickedness is mercy to 
 mankind.—/. Montgomery.— [Ed."] 
 
COWPER. 281 
 
 shrank back from all that was boisterous, presumptuous, or 
 rude. His secluded life, and awful impressions of religiou, 
 concurred in fixing upon his manners something of a saintly 
 purity and decorum, and in cherishing that pensive and con- 
 templative turn of mind, by which he was so much distinguished. 
 His temper appears to have been yielding and benevolent; 
 and though sufficiently steady and confident in the opinions 
 he had adopted* he was very little inclined, in general, to 
 force them upon the conviction of others. The warmth of his 
 religious zeal made an occasional exception : but the habitual 
 temper of his mind was toleration and indulgence ; and it would 
 be difficult, perhaps, to name a satirical and popular author so 
 entirely free from jealousy and fastidiousness, or so much disposed 
 to show the. most liberal and impartial favour to the merit of 
 others in literature, in politics, and in the virtues and accomplish- 
 ments of social life. No angry or uneasy passions seem at any 
 time to have found a place in his bosom ; and being incapable of 
 malevolence himself, he probably passed through life, without 
 having once excited that feeling in the breast of another. 
 
 Edinburgh Review, April, 1803. 
 
 ON THE MORALITY OF COWPER 5 S POETRY. 
 
 In the morality of his poems, Cowper is honourably distinguished 
 from most of his brethren. Our poets have too often deviated 
 into an incorrect system of morals, coldly delivered ; a smooth, 
 polished, filed-down Christianity; a medium system, between the 
 religion of the Gospel and the heathen philosophy, and intended 
 apparently to accommodate the two. There is nothing to comfort 
 or guide us, no satisfying centre on which to fix our desires ; no 
 line is drawn between good and evil ; we wander on amid a waste 
 of feelings sublimated to effeminacy, desires raised beyond the 
 possibility of gratification, and passions indulged till their indul- 
 gence seems almost a necessary of life. We rise with heated 
 minds, and feel that something still is wanting. In Cowper, on 
 c3 
 
282 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 the contrary, all is reality ; there is no doubt, no vagueness-of opj- 
 Dion ; the only satisfactory object on which our affections can be 
 fixed, is distinctly and fully pointed ont; the afflicted are con- 
 soled, the ignorant enlightened. A perfect line is drawn between 
 truth and error. The heart is enlisted on the side of religion ; 
 every precept is just, every motive is efficacious. Sensible that 
 every vice is connected with the rest; that the voluptuous will 
 become hard-hearted, and the unthinking licentious ; he aims his 
 shafts at all : and as Gospel truth is the base of morality, it is the 
 ground work of his precepts. 
 
 Quarterly Review, Oct. 1816. 
 
 THE SOPHIST. 
 
 There is much of the full distinctness of Theophrastus, and of 
 the nervous and concise spirit of La Bruyere, in Cowper's piece 
 entitled M Conversation," with a cast of humour superadded, which 
 is peculiarly English, and not to be found out of England. No- 
 where have the sophist, the dubious man, whose evidence, 
 
 " For want of prominence and just relief, 
 Would hang an honest man, and save a thief," — 
 
 the solemn fop, an oracle behind an empty cask — the sedentary 
 weaver of long tales — the emphatic speaker, 
 
 " who dearly loves to' oppose, 
 In contact inconvenient, nose to nose," — 
 
 nowhere have these characters, and all the most prominent nui- 
 sances of colloquial intercourse, together with the bashful man, 
 who is a nuisance to himself, been more happily delineated. 
 
 T. CAMPBELL. 
 
COWPER. 283 
 
 Ye powers who rule the tongue, if such there are, 
 And make colloquial happiness your care, 
 Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate, 
 A duel in the form of a debate. 
 The clash of arguments and jar of words, 
 Worse than the mortal brunt of rival swords, 
 Decide no question with their tedious length, 
 For opposition gives opinion strength, 
 Divert the champions prodigal of breath, 
 And put the peaceably disposed to death. 
 
 thwart me not, sir Soph, at every turn, 
 Nor carp at every flaw you may discern, 
 Though syllogisms hang not on my tongue, 
 
 1 am not surely always in the wrong; 
 'Tis hard if all is false that I advance, 
 
 A fool must now and then be right by chance. 
 
 Not that all freedom of dissent I blame ; 
 
 No — there I grant the privilege I claim. 
 
 A disputable point is no man's ground ; 
 
 Rove where you please, 'tis common all around. 
 
 Discourse may want an animated — No, 
 
 To brush the surface, and to make it flow ; 
 
 But still remember, if you mean to please, 
 
 To press your point with modesty and ease. 
 
 The mark, at which my juster aim I take, 
 
 Is contradiction for its own dear sake. 
 
 Set your opinion at whatever pitch, 
 
 Knots and impediments make something hitch : 
 
 Adopt his own, 'tis equally in vain, 
 
 Your thread of argument is snapp'd again ; 
 
 The wrangler rather than accord with you, 
 
 Will judge himself deceived, and prove it too. 
 
 Vociferated logic kills me quite, 
 
 A noisy man is always in the right — 
 
 I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair, 
 
 Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare, 
 
 And when I hope his blunders are all out, 
 
 Reply discreetly — To be sure — no doubt ! 
 
 CHARACTER OF DUBIOUS, 
 
 Dubious is such a scrupulous good man — 
 Yes — you may catch him tripping, if you can. 
 He would not with a peremptory tone, 
 Assert the nose upon his face his own ; 
 
284 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 With hesitation admirably slow, 
 
 He humbly hopes, presumes it may be so. 
 
 His evidence, if he were call'd by law 
 
 To swear to some enormity he saw, 
 
 For want of prominence and just relief, 
 
 Would hang an honest man, and save a thief. 
 
 Through constant dread of giving truth offence, 
 
 He ties up all his hearers in suspense ; 
 
 Knows what he knows, as if he knew it not, 
 
 What he remembers seems to have forgot j 
 
 His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall, 
 
 Centring at last in having none at all. 
 
 Yet though he tease and balk your listening ear, 
 
 He makes one usefnl point exceeding clear j 
 
 Howe'er ingenious on his darling theme 
 
 A sceptic in philosophy may seem, 
 
 Reduced to practice, his beloved rule 
 
 Would only prove him a consummate fool ; 
 
 Useless alike in him both brain and speech, 
 
 Fate having placed all truth above his reach, 
 
 His ambiguities his total sum, 
 
 He might as well be blind, and deaf, and dumbi 
 
 NUISANCES OF COLLOQUIAL INTERCOURSE. 
 
 The' emphatic speaker dearly loves to' oppose, 
 
 In contact inconvenient, nose to nose, 
 
 As if the gnomon on his neighbour's phiz, 
 
 Touch' d with a magnet, had attracted his. 
 
 His whisper'd theme, dilated and at large, 
 
 Proves after all a windgun's airy charge, 
 
 An extract of his diary — no more, 
 
 A tasteless journal of the day before; 
 
 He walk'd abroad, o'ertaken in the rain. 
 
 Call'd on a friend, drank tea, stepp'd home again, 
 
 Resumed his purpose, had a world of talk 
 
 With one he stumbled on, and lost his walk. 
 
 I interrupt him with a sudden bow, 
 
 Adieu, dear sir, lest you should loose it now. 
 
 I cannot talk with civet in the room, 
 A fine puss gentleman that's all perfume ; 
 The sight's enough — no need to smell a beau — 
 Who thrusts his nose into a rareeshow ? 
 
COWPER. 285 
 
 His odoriferous attempts to please 
 Perhaps might prosper with a swarm of bees j 
 But we that make no honey, though we sting, 
 Poets, are sometimes apt to maul the thing. 
 'Tis wrong to bring into a mix'oVresort, 
 What makes some sick, and others a- la-mort, 
 An argument of cogence, we may say, 
 Why such a one should keep himself away. 
 
 A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see, 
 Quite as absurd, though not so light as he : 
 A shallow brain behind a serious mask, 
 An oracle within an empty cask. 
 The solemn fop : significant and budge ; 
 A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge ; 
 He says but little, and that little said 
 Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead. 
 His wit invites you by his looks to come, 
 But when you knock it never is at home ; 
 'Tislikea parcel sent you by the stage, 
 Some handsome present, as your hopes presage ; 
 'Tis heavy, bulky, and bids fair to prove 
 An absent friend's fidelity and love ; 
 But, when unpack'd, your disappointment groans, 
 To find it stuff' d with brickbats, earth, and stones. 
 
 Some men employ their health, an ugly trick, 
 In making known how oft they have been sick, 
 And give us in recitals of disease 
 A doctor's trouble, but without the fees; 
 Relate how many weeks they kept their bed, 
 How an emetic or cathartic sped ; 
 Nothing is slightly touch'd, much less forgot ; 
 Nose, ears, and eyes, seem present on the spot. 
 Now the distemper, spite of draught or pill. 
 Victorious seem'd, and now the doctor's skill : 
 And now — alas, for unforeseen mishaps ! 
 They put on a damp nightcap and relapse ; 
 They thought they must have died, they were so bad ; 
 Their peevish hearers almost wish they had. 
 
 Some fretful tempers wince at every touch, 
 You always do too little or too much : 
 You speak with iife, in hopes to entertain, 
 Your elevated voice goes through the brain ; 
 You fall at once into a lower key, 
 That's worse — the drone-pipe of an humble bee. 
 The southern sash admits too strong a light, 
 You rise and drop the cur tain — now 'tis night. 
 
286 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 He shakes with cold — you stir the fire and strive 
 To make a blaze — that's roasting him alive. 
 Serve him with venison, and he chooses fish ; 
 Withsoal — that's just the sort he would not wish. 
 He takes what he at first professed to loathe, 
 And in due time feeds heartily on both; 
 Yet still, o'erclouded with a constant frown, 
 He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. 
 Your hope to please him vain on every plan, 
 Himself should work that wonder — if he cau — 
 Alas ! his efforts double his distress, 
 He likes yours little, and hi> own still less. 
 Thus always teasing others, always teased, 
 His ouly pleasure is — to be displeased. 
 
 BASHFULNESS. 
 
 I pity bashful men, who feel the pain 
 
 Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain, 
 
 And bear the marks upon a blushing face 
 
 Of needless shame, and self-imposed disgrace. 
 
 Our sensibilities are so acute, 
 
 The fear of being silent makes us mute. 
 
 We sometimes think we could a speech produce 
 
 Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loose ; 
 
 But, being tried, it dies upon the lip, 
 
 Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip : 
 
 Our wasted oil un profitably burns, 
 
 Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns. 
 
 Few Frenchmen of this evil have complaiu'd ; 
 
 It seems as if we Britons were ordain'd 
 
 By way of wholesome curb upon our pride, 
 
 To fear each other, fearing none beside. 
 
 The cause perhaps inquiry may descry, 
 
 Self-searching with an introverted eye, 
 
 Conceal'd within an unsuspected part, 
 
 The vainest corner of our own vain heart : 
 
 For ever aiming at the World's esteem, 
 
 Our self-importance ruins its own scheme ; 
 
 In other eyes our talents rarely shown, 
 
 Become at length so splendid in our own, 
 
 We dare not risk them into public view, 
 
 Lest they miscarry of what seems their due. 
 
COWPER, 287 
 
 THE WONDERS OF CREATION. 
 
 Cowper's poetry often seems, indeed it too often is, ordinary and 
 conventional ; but there is no author since Drydeu, more purely 
 English in his diction, nor since Pope, more elegant and compact 
 in composition when he pleaded to be so. He has an affluence of 
 terms always at command, but he rarely selects them with much 
 pains, or lavishes them in prodigality of ornament ; he can never 
 be suspected of poverty, though he seldom displays riches. In the 
 following specimen we have a proof of consummate skill in com- 
 bining words and images, and making both express as much mean- 
 ing, in as small compass as our tongue itself can afford ; especially 
 in the lines respecting the minutest wonders of creation, where 
 the verse becomes an intellectual microscope, through which we 
 see the objects with as much accuracy and distinctness, as the op- 
 tical instrument itself could present them ; but without that ineffa- 
 ble horror and shrinking, with which some people gaze through 
 the latter, on the magnified limbs of animaleulae, converted into 
 " Gorgons, Hydras, and chimeras dire." J. Montgomery. 
 
 How sweet to muse upon his skill display'd 
 
 (Infinite skill) in all that he has made ! 
 
 To trace in Nature's most minute design 
 
 The signature and stamp of power diviue, 
 
 Contrivance intricate, express'd with ease, 
 
 Where unassisted sight no beauty sees, 
 
 The shapely limb and lubricated joint, 
 
 Within the small dimensions of a point, 
 
 Muscle aud nerve miraculously spun, 
 
 His mighty work, w r ho speaks and it is done, 
 
 The' invisible in things scarce seen reveal'd, 
 
 To whom an atom is an ample field ; 
 
 To wonder at a thousand insect forms, 
 
 These hatch'd, aud those resuscitated worms, 
 
 New life oidain'd and brighter scenes to share, 
 
 Once prone on earth, now buoyant upon air, 
 
 Whose shape would make them, had they bulk and size, 
 
 More hideous foes than fancy can devise ; 
 
 With helmet-heads and dragon-scales adorn'd, 
 
 r I he mighty myriads, now securely scorn'd, 
 
 Would mock the majesty of man's high birth, 
 
 Despise his bulwarks, and unpeople earth : 
 
THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Then with a glance of fancy to survey, 
 
 Far as the faculty can stretch away, 
 
 Ten thousand rivers pour'd at his command 
 
 From urns, that never fail, through every land : 
 
 This like a deluge with impetuous force, 
 
 Those winding modestly a silent course ; 
 
 The cloud-surmounting Alps, the fruitful vales ; 
 
 Seas on which every nation spread their sails ; 
 
 The sun, a world whence other worlds drink light, 
 
 The crescent moon, the diadem of night: 
 
 Stars countless, each in his appointed place, 
 
 Fast anchorM in the deep abyss of space — 
 
 At such a sight to catch the poet's flame, 
 
 And with a rapture like his own exclaim, 
 
 These are thy glorious works, thou Source of good, 
 
 How dimly seen, how faintly understood ! 
 
 Thine, and. upheld by thy paternal care, 
 
 This universal frame, thus wondrous fair ; 
 
 Thy power divine, and bounty beyond thought 
 
 Adored and praised in all that thou hast wrought. 
 
 Absorb'd in that immensity I see, 
 
 I shrink abased, and yet aspire to thee : 
 
 Instruct me, guide me to that heavenly day 
 
 Thy words more clearly than thy works display ; 
 
 That, while thy truths my grosser thoughts refine, 
 
 I may resemble thee and call thee mine. 
 
 REMARKS ON THE TASK. 
 
 " The Task'' is a poem of singular construction, consisting of 
 excursions of thought, in which the successive topics are no more 
 necessarily connected, than the successive objects of natural scenery, 
 occurring on walks in various directions, which might be inter- 
 changed, altered, omitted, or others entirely different substituted. 
 The chief art of the poet to make materials so diverse, and fre- 
 quently so anomalous, harmoniously combine, is perceptible in the 
 quiet and apparently natural transitions from one strain to ano- 
 ther, by some obvious associations, in which the reader instantly 
 acquiesces, and forgets what he has left behind, in looking at what 
 is before him ; or some sudden affinity, not at all anticipated, 
 which pleasantly surprises when discovered, and reconciles him at 
 
COWPER. 289 
 
 once to the new theme. Any man accustomed to ruminate, and 
 at the same time, to note external objects by the way, whatever 
 they are, mean or magnificent — men, animals, trees, sounds, mo- 
 tions, colours — need only ramble half a-dozen miles, letting his 
 ideas take their own course ; — then, at the close, if he will minutely 
 retrace his cross-musings, and set them down on paper, he will 
 find an argument for a new book, of The Task, sufficiently rich 
 and pregnant for a genius like Cowper's to work up with propor- 
 tionate effect. In truth, nothing can be more natural than the 
 plan of The Task, heterogeneous as it appears at first ; for the 
 mind feels no incongruity in discursive contemplation, whereas all 
 concatenated reasoning or discourse is palpably artificial. The 
 charm of this poem is the reality of every thiDg in it. The cha- 
 racters are living ones, the landscapes are local, the sentiments 
 are those of conversation, and all that pleased, transported, awed, 
 or saddened in the perusal, seems to have arisen out of actual cir- 
 cumstances on the spot. j. Montgomery. 
 
 COUNTRY SCENE DESCRIBED. 
 
 The fiat country where Cowper resided certainly exhibited none 
 of those wilder graces of nature, which he had sufficient genius to 
 have delineated ; and yet there are perhaps few romantic descrip- 
 tions of rocks, precipices, and torrents, which we should prefer to 
 the calm English character and familiar repose of the following 
 landscape. It is in the finest manner of Cowper, and unites all 
 his accustomed fidelity and distinctness with a softness and deli- 
 cacy, which are not always to be found in his specimens of the 
 picturesque. — The whole scene is so defined, that one longs to see 
 it transferred to painting. t. campbell. 
 
 How oft upon yon eminence our pace 
 Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne 
 The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, 
 While Admiration, feeding at the eye, 
 
 Dd 
 
290 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 And still unsated, dwell'd upou the scene, 
 
 Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd . 
 
 The distant plough slow moving, and beside 
 
 His labouring team, that swerved not from the track, 
 
 The sturdy swain diminished to a boy! 
 
 Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain 
 
 Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, 
 
 Conducts the eye along his sinuous course 
 
 Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, 
 
 Stand, never overlook'd, our favourite elms, 
 
 That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; 
 
 While far beyond, and overthwart the stream, 
 
 That as with molten glass, inlays the vale, 
 
 The sloping land recedes into the clouds ; 
 
 Displaying on its varied side the grace 
 
 Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower, 
 
 Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells 
 
 Just undulates upon the listening ear, 
 
 Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote. 
 
 LONDON. 
 
 But though true worth and virtue in the mild 
 And genial soil of cultivated life 
 Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there, 
 Yet not in cities oft : in proud, and gay, 
 And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow, 
 As to a common and most noisome sewer, 
 The dregs and feculence of every land. 
 In cities, foul example on most minds 
 Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds, 
 In gross and pamper'd cities, sloth and lust, 
 And wantonness, and gluttonous excess. 
 In cities, vice is hidden with most ease, 
 Or seen with least reproach ; and virtue, taught 
 By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there 
 Beyond the' achievement of successful flight. 
 I do confess them nurseries of the arts, 
 In which they flourish most; where, in the beams 
 Of warm encouragement, and in the eye 
 Of public note, they reach their perfect size. 
 Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd 
 The fairest capital of all the world, 
 By riot and incontinence the worst. 
 There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes 
 
COWPER. 291 
 
 A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees 
 All her reflected features. Bacon there 
 Gives more than female beauty to a stone, 
 And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips. 
 Nor does the chisel occupy alone 
 The powers of Sculpture, but the style as much ; 
 Each province of her art her equal care. 
 With nice incision of her guided steel 
 She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil 
 So steril with what charms soe'er she will, 
 The richest scenery and the loveliest forms. 
 Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye, 
 With which she gazes at yon burning disk 
 Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots ? 
 In London: where her implements exact, 
 With which she calculates, computes, and scans, 
 All distance, motion, magnitude, and now 
 Measures an atom, and now girds a world ? 
 In London : where has commerce such a mart, 
 So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied, 
 As London — opulent, enlarged, and still 
 Increasing London ? Babylon of old 
 Not more the glory of the Earth than she, 
 A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now. 
 
 She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two, 
 That so much beauty would do well to purge ; 
 And show this queen of cities, that so fair, 
 May yet be foul ; so witty, yet not wise. 
 It is not seemly, nor of good report, 
 That she is slack in discipline ; more prompt 
 To' avenge than to prevent the breach of law : 
 That she is rigid in denouncing death 
 On petty robbers, and indulges life, 
 And liberty, and oft-times honour too, 
 To peculators of the public gold : 
 That thieves at home must hang; but he that puts 
 Into his overgorged and bloated purse 
 The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes. 
 Nor is it well, nor can it come to good, 
 That, through profane and infidel contempt 
 Of holy writ, she has presumed to' annul 
 And abrogate, as roundly as she may, 
 The total ordinance and will of God; 
 Advancing Fashion to the post of Truth, 
 And centring all authority in modes 
 And customs of her otvn, till sabbath rites 
 Have dwindled into uninspected forms, 
 And knees and hassocks are well nigh divorced. 
 
 d2 
 
292 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 O thou, resort and mart of all the earth, 
 Checker'd with all complexions of mankind, 
 And spotted with all crimes ; in whom I see 
 Much that I love, and more that I admire, 
 And all that I abhor ; thou freckled fair, 
 That pleasest and yet shock'st me, I can laugh, 
 And I can weep, can hope, and can despond, 
 Feel wrath and pity, when 1 think on thee ! 
 Ten righteous would have saved a city once, 
 And thou hast many righteous. — Well for thee — 
 That salt preserves thee ; more corrupted else, 
 And therefore more obnoxious at this hour, 
 Than Sodom in her day had power to be, 
 For whom God heard his Abraham plead in vain. 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON WAR AND SLAVERY. 
 
 O for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
 
 Some boundless contiguity of shade, 
 
 Where rumour of oppression and deceit, 
 
 Of unsuccessful or successful war, 
 
 Might never reach me more. My ear is pain'd, 
 
 My soul is sick, with every day's report 
 
 Of wrong and outrage, with which Earth is fill'd. 
 
 There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, 
 
 It does not feel for man : the natural bond 
 
 Of brotherhood issever'd as the flax, 
 
 That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 
 
 He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 
 
 Not colour'd like his own; and having power 
 
 To' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
 
 Dooms and devotes him as a lawful prey. 
 
 Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
 
 Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 
 
 Make enemies of nations, who had else 
 
 Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 
 
 Thus man devote" his brother, and destroys ; 
 
 And, worse than all, and most to be deplored 
 
 As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 
 
 Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
 
 With stripes, that Mercy with a bleeding heart 
 
 Weeps, when she sees inflicted on a beast. 
 
 Then what is man ? And what man, seeing this, 
 
 And having human feelings, does not blush, 
 
 And hang his head, to think himself a man t 
 
COWPER. 293 
 
 ! would not have a slave to till my ground, 
 
 To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 
 
 And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth, 
 
 That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. 
 
 No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
 
 Just estimation prized above all price, 
 
 I had much rather be myself the slave, 
 
 And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 
 
 We have no slaves at home — Then why abroad ? 
 
 And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave 
 
 That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. 
 
 Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs 
 
 Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 
 
 They touch our country, and their shackles fall. 
 
 That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
 
 And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, 
 
 And let it circulate through every vein 
 
 Of all your empire ; that, where Britain's power 
 
 Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY THAT STOPS AT SECONDARY 
 CAUSES REPROVED. 
 
 The frequency and poignancy of the contempt with which 
 Cowper alludes to philosophy, (even natural and experimental,) 
 both in The Task, and his other argumentative pieces, must 
 sound in many ears illiberal, and would indeed be so, were not his 
 sarcasm and invectives aimed solely at those who look for every 
 thing in nature but God, and, whatsoever else they find in her, 
 take special care not to find Him. j. Montgomery. 
 
 Happy the man, who sees a God employ'd 
 In all the good and ill that checker life ! 
 Resolving all event?, with their effects 
 And manifold results, into the will 
 And arbitration wise of the Supreme. 
 Did not his eye rule all things, and intend 
 The least of our concerns (since from the least 
 The greatest oft originate) ; could chance 
 Find place in his dominion, or dispose 
 One lawless particle to thwart his plan ; 
 Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen 
 
 d3 
 
294 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Contingenee might alarm him, and disturb 
 
 The smooth and equal course of his affairs. 
 
 This truth Philosophy, though eagle-eyed 
 
 In Nature's tendencies, oft overlooks ; 
 
 And, having found his instrument, forgets, 
 
 Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, 
 
 Denies the power that wields it. God proclaim* 
 
 His hot displeasure against foolish men, 
 
 That live an atheist life : involves the Heavens 
 
 In tempests ; quits his grasp upon the winds, 
 
 And gives them all their fury ; bids a plague 
 
 Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin,. 
 
 And putrify the breath of blooming Health. 
 
 He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend 
 
 Blows mildew from between his shrivel'd lips, 
 
 And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines 
 
 And desolates a nation at a blast. 
 
 Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells 
 
 Of homogeneal and discordant springs 
 
 And principles ; of causes how they work 
 
 By necessary laws their sure effects; 
 
 Of action and reaction : he has found 
 
 The source of the disease that Nature feels, 
 
 And bids the world take heart and banish fear. 
 
 Thou fool ! will thy discovery of the cause 
 
 Suspend the' effect, or heal it ? Has not God 
 
 Still wrought by means since first he made the world 
 
 And did he not of old employ his means 
 
 To drown it ? What is his creation less 
 
 Than a capacious reservoir of means 
 
 Form'd for his use, and ready at his will ? 
 
 Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve; ask of him, 
 
 Or ask of whomsover he has taught ; 
 
 And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. 
 
 A MISTAKE CONCERNING THE COURSE OF 
 NATURE CORRECTED. 
 
 Some say that in the origin of things, 
 
 When all creation started into birth, 
 
 The infant elements received a law, 
 
 From which they swerve not since. That under force 
 
 Of that controling ordinance they move, 
 
 And need not his immediate hand, who first 
 
 Prescribed their course, to regulate it now. 
 
COWPER. 295 
 
 Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God 
 
 The' encumbrance of his own concerns, and spare 
 
 The great artificer of all that moves 
 
 The stress of a continual act, the pain 
 
 Of unremitted vigilance and care, 
 
 As too laborious and severe a task. 
 
 So man, the moth, is not afraid, it seems, 
 
 To span omnipotence, and measure might, 
 
 That knows no measure, by the scanty rule 
 
 And standard of his own, that is to-day, 
 
 And is not ere to-morrow's sun go down. 
 
 But how should matter occupy a charge, 
 
 Dull as it is, and satisfy a law 
 
 So vast in its demands, unless impell'd 
 
 To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force, 
 
 And under pressure of some conscious cause ? 
 
 The Lord of all, himself through all diffused, 
 
 Sustains, and is the life of all that lives. 
 
 Nature is but a name for an effect, 
 
 Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire, 
 
 By which the mighty process is maintain' d, 
 
 Who sleeps not, is not weary ; in whose sight 
 
 Slow circling ages are as transient days; 
 
 Whose work is without labour ; whose designs 
 
 No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts ; 
 
 And whose beneficence no charge exhausts. 
 
 Him blind antiquity profaned, not served, 
 
 With self taught rites, and under various names, 
 
 Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan, 
 
 And Flora, and Vertumnus ; peopling earth 
 
 With tutelary goddesses and gods, 
 
 That were not; and commending as they would 
 
 To each some province, garden, field, or grove. 
 
 But all are under one. One spirit — His, 
 
 Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows, 
 
 Rules universal Nature. Not a flower 
 
 But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain, 
 
 Of his unrival'd pencil. He inspires 
 
 Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues, 
 
 And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, 
 
 In grains as countless as the seaside sands, 
 
 The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth. 
 
 Happy who walks with him ! whom what he finds 
 
 Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower, 
 
 Of what he views of beautiful or grand 
 
 In Nature, from the broad majestic oak 
 
 To the green blade that twinkles in the sun, 
 
 Prompts with remembrance of a present God. 
 
296 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO ENGLAND. 
 
 England, with all thy faults i love thee still- 
 
 My country ! and while yet a nook is left, 
 
 Where English minds and manners may be found, 
 
 Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy clime 
 
 Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd 
 
 With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, 
 
 I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, 
 
 And fields without a flower, for warmer France 
 
 With all her vines ; nor for Ausonia's groves 
 
 Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. 
 
 To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime 
 
 Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire 
 
 Upon thy foes, was never meant my task : 
 
 But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake 
 
 Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart 
 
 As any thunderer there. And I can feel 
 
 Thy follies too ; and with a just disdain 
 
 Frown at effeminates, whose very looks 
 
 Reflect dishonour on the land I love. 
 
 DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 
 
 Cowper is one of the few poets, who have indulged neither in 
 descriptions nor acknowledgments of the passion of love ; but 
 there is no poet, who has given us a finer conception of the amenity 
 of female influence. Of all the verses that have been ever devoted 
 to f he subject of domestic happiness, those in his Winter Evening,* 
 at the opening of the fourth book of the Task, are the most 
 beautiful. In perusing that sceue of " intimate delights," "fire- 
 side enjoyments," and " home-born happiuess," we seem to re- 
 cover a part of the forgotten value of existence, when we recognize 
 the means of its blessedness so widely dispensed, and so cheaply 
 attainable, and find them susceptible of description at once so 
 enchanting and so faithful. t. Campbell. 
 
 * Such an evening, indeed, has seldom been spent, " in prose or rhyme,'' 
 within the compass of a book ; but thousands and tens of thousands of de- 
 lighted readers have enjoyed it over again at their own firesides, and mil- 
 lions, in ages to come, will, each in turn, be the imaginary guests in this 
 happy parlour. — J. Montgomery.— [Ed J 
 
COWPER. 297 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge,. 
 
 That with its wearisome but needful length 
 
 Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon 
 
 Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright ; — 
 
 He comes, the herald of a noisy world, 
 
 With spatter'dboot, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks; 
 
 News from all nations lumbering at his back. 
 
 True to his charge, the close pack'd load behind, 
 
 Yet careless what he brings, his one concern 
 
 Is to conduct it to the destined ion ; 
 
 And, having dropp'd the' expected bag, pass on. 
 
 He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, 
 
 Cold and yet cheerful; messenger of grief 
 
 Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some ; 
 
 To him indifferent whether grief or joy. 
 
 Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, 
 
 Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet 
 
 With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks 
 
 Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, 
 
 Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, 
 
 Or nymphs responsive, equally affect 
 
 His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 
 
 But O the' important budget ! usher'd in 
 
 With such heart-shaking music, who can say 
 
 What art- its tidings ? have our troops awaked ? 
 
 Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd, 
 
 Snore to the nrurmurs of the' Atlantic wave ? 
 
 Is India free ! and does she wear her plumed 
 
 Andjewel'd turban with a smile of peace, 
 
 Or do we grind her still ? The grand debate, 
 
 The popular harangue, the tart reply, 
 
 The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, 
 
 And the loud laugh — I long to know them all ; 
 
 I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free, 
 
 And give them voice and utterance once again. 
 
 Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, 
 Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, 
 And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
 Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, 
 That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 
 So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 
 Not such his evening, who with shining face 
 Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed 
 And bored with elbow points through both his sides, 
 Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage: 
 Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, 
 And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath 
 Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, 
 Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles 
 
298 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 This folio of four pages, happy work ! 
 
 Which not e'en critics criticise ; that holds 
 
 Inquisitive Attention, while I read, 
 
 Fast hound in chains of silence, which the fair, 
 
 Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break > 
 
 What is it, but a map of busy life, 
 
 Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns? 
 
 Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge, 
 
 That tempts ambition. On the summit see 
 
 The seals of office glitter in his eyes ; 
 
 He climbs, he pants, he grasps them ! At his heels, 
 
 Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, 
 
 And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down, 
 
 And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. 
 
 Here rills of oily eloquence in soft 
 
 Meanders lubricate the course they take ; 
 
 The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved, 
 
 To' engross a moment's notice, and yet begs, 
 
 Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, 
 
 However trivial all that he conceives. 
 
 Swept bashfulness! it claims at least this praise ; 
 
 The dearth of information and good sense, 
 
 That it foretells us, always comes to pass. 
 
 Cataracts of declamation thunder here ; 
 
 There forests of no meaning spread the page, 
 
 In which all comprehension wanders lost ; 
 
 While fields of pleasantry amuse us there 
 
 With merry descants on a nation's woes. 
 
 The rest appears a wilderness of strange 
 
 But gay confusion ; roses for the cheeks, 
 
 And lilies for the brows of faded age, 
 
 Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, 
 
 Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their sweets, 
 
 Nectarious essences, Olympian dews, 
 
 Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs, 
 
 iEtherial journeys, submarine exploits, 
 
 And Katterfelto, with his hair on end 
 
 At his own wonders, wondering for his breath 
 
 'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, 
 
 To peep at such a world ; to see the stir 
 
 Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd ; 
 
 To hear the roar she sends through all her gates 
 
 At a safe distance, where the dying sound 
 
 Falls a soft murmur on the' uninjured ear. 
 
 Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease 
 
 The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced 
 
 To some secure and more thau mortal height, 
 
 That liberates and exempts me from them all. 
 
 It turns, submitted to my view, turns round 
 
 With all its generations ; I behold 
 
COWPER. 299 
 
 The tumult, and am still. The sound of war 
 Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me ; 
 Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride 
 And avarice that make man a wolf to man ; 
 Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats, 
 By which he speaks the language of his heart, 
 Aud sigh, but never tremble at the sound. 
 
 THE EFFECT OF BELLS HEARD AT A DISTANCE. 
 
 " The sympathy of souls with sounds," to which attention is 
 called by the village bells, must touch to the quick all 
 who have souls, and have heard sounds that awakened their most 
 secret emotions. After the meditation which follows, and which 
 is so natural, that it seems rather the spontaneous reflection of 
 our own mind, than poured into it through melodious verse, the 
 reader is suddenly reminded of the Poet at his side, when the 
 1 atter takes up his wonted parable, and describes the scenery of 
 " The Winter Walk at Noon," unexpectedly recurring to the 
 original cause of the precediug rumination, in three lines, wherein 
 the ideas of sound and sight, music and picture, are inimitably 
 blended : — 
 
 " Again the harmony comes o'er the vale ; 
 
 Aud through the trees I view th' embattled tower, 
 
 Whence all the music " 
 
 *. 
 
 Who at this pause, does not stand still, in imagination, to hearken 
 to the bells, look out before him for the chu*ch, and perceive, 
 through his inmost spirit, 
 
 " The soothing influence of the wafted strains?" 
 
 J. MONTGOMERY 
 
 There is in souls a sympathy with sounds, 
 And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased 
 With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave ; 
 Some chord in unison with what we hear 
 Is touoh'd within us, and the heart replies 
 
300 
 
 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 How soft the music of those village bells, 
 
 Falling at intervals upon the ear 
 
 In cadence sweet, now dying all away, 
 
 Now pealing loud again, and louder still, 
 
 Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on ! 
 
 With easy force it opens all the cells 
 
 Where Memory slept. Wherever I have heard 
 
 A kindred melody, the scene recurs, 
 
 And with it all its pleasures and its pains. 
 
 Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, 
 
 That in a few short moments I retrace 
 
 (As in a map the voyager his course) 
 
 The windings of my way through many years. 
 
 Shortasin retrospect the journey seems, 
 
 It seem'd not always short ; the rugged path, 
 
 And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn, 
 
 Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length. 
 
 Yet feeling present evils, while the past 
 
 Faintly impress the mind or not at all, 
 
 How readily we wish time spent revoked, 
 
 That we might try the ground again, where once 
 
 (Through inexperience, as we now perceive), 
 
 We miss'd that happiness we might have found ! 
 
 Some friend is gone, perhaps, his son's best friend, 
 
 A father, whose authority, in show 
 
 When most severe, and mustering all its force, 
 
 Was but the graver countenance of love ; 
 
 Whose favour like the clouds of spring might lour, 
 
 And utter now and then an awful voice, 
 
 But had a blessing in its darkest frown, 
 
 Threatening at once and nourishing the plant. 
 
 We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand 
 
 That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, allured 
 
 By every gilded folly, we renounced 
 
 His sheltering side, and wilfully forewent 
 
 That converse, which we now in vain regret. 
 
 How gladly would the man recall to life 
 
 The boy's neglected sire ! a mother too, 
 
 That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still, 
 
 Might he demand them at the gates of death. 
 
 Sorrow has, since they went, subdued and tamed 
 
 The playful humour; he could now endure 
 
 (Himself grown sober in the vale of tears), 
 
 And feel a parent's presence no restraint. 
 
 But not to understand a treasure's worth, 
 
 Till time has stolen away the slighted good, 
 
 Is cause of half the poverty we feel, 
 
 And makes the World the wilderness it is. 
 
 The few that pray at all pray oft amiss, 
 
 And seeking grace to' improve the prize they hold, 
 
 Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. 
 
COWPER. 301 
 
 The night was winter in its roughest mood ; 
 The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon 
 Upon the southern side of the slant hills, 
 And where the woods fence off the northern blast, 
 The season smiles, resigning all its rage, 
 And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue 
 Without a cloud, and white without a speck 
 The dazzling splendour of the sceue below. 
 Again the harmony comes o'er the vale ; 
 And through the trees I view the' embattled tower, 
 Whence all the music. I again perceive 
 The soothing influence of the wafted strains, 
 And settle in soft musings as I tread 
 The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, 
 Whose outspread branches over-arch the glade. 
 The roof, though moveable through all its length 
 As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, 
 And, intercepting in their silent fall 
 The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. 
 No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. 
 The redbreast warbles still, but is content 
 With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd : 
 Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light 
 From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes 
 From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, 
 That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below. 
 Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, 
 Charms more than silence. Meditation here 
 May think down hours to moments. Here the heart 
 May give a useful lesson to the head, 
 And Learning wiser grow without his b >oks. 
 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 'Tis liberty alone, that gives the flower 
 Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume ; 
 And we are weeds without it. All constraint, 
 Except what wisdom lays on evil men, 
 Is evil : hurts the faculties, impedes 
 Their progress in the road of science; blinds 
 The eyesight of Discovery ; and begets 
 In those that suffer it a sordid mind 
 Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit 
 To be the tenant of man's noble form. 
 Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art, 
 With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezed 
 
 e e 
 
302 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 By public exigence, till annual food 
 
 Fails for the craving hunger of the state, 
 
 Thee I account still happy, and the chief 
 
 Among the nations, seeing thou art free ; 
 
 My native nook of earth ! Thy clime is rude, 
 
 Replete with vapours, and disposes much 
 
 All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine : 
 
 Yet being free I love thee : for the sake 
 
 Of that one feature can be well content, 
 
 Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art. 
 
 To seek no sublunary rest beside. 
 
 But once enslaved, farewell ! I could endure 
 
 Chains no where patiently : and chains at home 5 
 
 Where I am free by birthright, not at all. 
 
 But there is yet a liberty, unsung 
 By poets, and by senators unpraised, 
 Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the powers 
 Of Earth and Hell confederate take away : 
 A liberty, which persecution, fraud, 
 Oppression, prisons, have no power to bind ; 
 Which whoso tastes can be enslaved no more. 
 'Tis libeity of heart derived from Heaven, 
 Bought with his blood, who gave it to mankind; 
 And seal'd with the same token. It is held 
 By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure 
 By the' unimpeachable and awful oath 
 And promise of a God. His other gifts 
 All bear the royal stamp, that speaks them his, 
 And are august ; but this transcends them all. 
 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN FREEMAN. 
 
 He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, 
 And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain, 
 That hellish foes, confederate for his harm, 
 Can wind around him, but he casts it off, 
 With as much ease as Samson his green withes. 
 He looks abroad into the varied field 
 Of nature, and though poor perhaps, compared 
 With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, 
 Calls the delightful scenery all his own. 
 His are the mountains, and the vallies his, 
 And the resplendent rivers. His to' enjoy 
 With a propriety that none can feel, 
 But who, with filial confidence inspired. 
 
COWPER. 303 
 
 Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye. 
 
 And smiling say — My Father made them all!* 
 
 Are they not his by a peculiar right, 
 
 And by an emphasis of interest his, 
 
 Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, 
 
 Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind 
 
 With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love, 
 
 That plann'd, and built, and still upholds a world 
 
 So clothed with beauty for rebellious man ! 
 
 Yes — ye may fill your garners, ye that reap 
 
 The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good 
 
 In senseless riot; but ye will not find 
 
 In feast, or in the chase, in song or dance, 
 
 A liberty like his, who unimpeach'd 
 
 Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, 
 
 Appropriates Nature as his Father's work, 
 
 And has a richer use of yours than you. 
 
 He /is indeed a freeman. Free by birth 
 
 Of no mean city ; plann'd or ere the hills 
 
 Were built, the fountains opeu'd, or the sea 
 
 With all his roaring multitude of waves. 
 
 His freedom is the same in every state ; 
 
 And no condition of this changeful life, 
 
 So manifold in cares, whose every day 
 
 Brings its own evil with it, makes it less : 
 
 For he has wings, that neither sickness, pain, 
 
 Nor penury can cripple or confine. 
 
 No nook so narrow but he spreads them there 
 
 With ease, and is at large. The' oppressor holds 
 
 His body bound; but knows not what a range 
 
 His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain ; 
 
 And that to bind him is a vain attempt 
 
 Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells. 
 
 " I could spend whole days, and moon-light nights, in feeding upon a 
 lovely prospect ! My eyes driuk the rivers as they flow. If every human 
 being upon earth, could think for one quarter of an hour, as I have done for 
 many years, there might perhaps be many miserable men among them, but 
 not an unawakened one could be found, from the arctic to the antarctic 
 circle. At present, the difference between them and me is greatly to their 
 advautage. I delight in baubles, and know them to be so ; for, rested in, 
 and viewed, without a reference to their Author, what is the earth, what are 
 the planets, what is the sun itself, but a bauble ? Better for a man never to 
 have seen them or to see them with the eyes of a brute, stupid and uncon- 
 scious of what he beholds, than not to be able to say, " The Maker of all 
 these wonders is my friend V'—Cowper.—[Ed.'] 
 
 E 2 
 
304 
 
 THE POETICAL REVIEW 
 
 ACQUAINTANCE WITH GOD NECESSARY TO 
 THE ENJOYMENT OF HIS WORKS. 
 
 Acquaint thyself with God, if them wouldst taste 
 
 His works. Admitted once to his embrace, 
 
 Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before : 
 
 Thine eye shall be instructed ; and thine heart 
 
 Made pure shall relish, with divine delight 
 
 Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought. 
 
 Brutes graze the mountain top, with faces prone 
 
 And eyes intent upon the scanty herb 
 
 It yields them ; or, recumbent on its brow, 
 
 Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread 
 
 Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away 
 
 Erom inland regions to the distant main. 
 
 Man views it and admires ; but rests content 
 
 With what he views. The landscape has his praise, 
 
 But not its Author. Unconcern'd who form'd 
 
 The Paradise he sees ; he finds it such, 
 
 And, such well pleas'd to find it, asks no more. 
 
 Not so the mind that has been touched from Heaven, 
 
 And in the school of sacred wisdom taught, 
 
 To read his wonders, in whose thought the world, 
 
 Fair as it is, existed ere it was. 
 
 Nor for its own sake merely, but for his 
 
 Much more, who fashion'd it he gives it praise ; 
 
 Praise that from earth resulting, as it ought, 
 
 To earth's acknowledged sovereign, finds at once 
 
 Its only just proprietor in Him. 
 
 The soul that sees him or receives sublimed 
 
 New faculties, or learns at least to' employ 
 
 More worthily the powers she own'd before, 
 
 Discerns in all thiugs what, with stupid gaze 
 
 Of ignorance, till then she overlook'd, 
 
 A ray of heavenly light, gilding all forms 
 
 Terrestrial in the vast and the minute ; 
 
 The unambiguous footsteps of the God, 
 
 Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing, 
 
 And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds. 
 
 Much conversant with Heaven, she often holds, 
 
 With those fair ministers of light to man, 
 
 That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp, 
 
 Sweet conference. Inquires what strains were they 
 
 With which Heaven rang, when every star, in haste 
 
 To gratulate the new created Earth, 
 
 Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God 
 
 Shouted for joy. — Tell me, ye shining hosts, 
 
 
COWPER. 305 
 
 That navigate a sea that knows no storms, 
 
 Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud, 
 
 If from your elevation, whence ye view 
 
 Distinctly scenes invisible to man, 
 
 And systems of whose birth no tidings yet 
 
 Have reach'd this nether world, ye spy a race 
 
 Favour'd as ours ; transgressors from the womb, 
 
 And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise, 
 
 And to possess a brighter heaven than yours? 
 
 As one, who, long detain'd on foreign shores, 
 
 Pants to return, and when he sees afar 
 
 His country's weather-bleach'd and batterd rocks, 
 
 From the green wave emerging, darts an eye 
 
 Radiant with joy towards the happy land ; 
 
 So I with animated hopes behold, 
 
 And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, 
 
 That show like beacons in the blue abyss, 
 
 Ordain'd to guide the' embodied spirit home 
 
 From toilsome life to never ending rest. 
 
 Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires, 
 
 That give assurance of their own success, 
 
 And that, infused from Heaven, must thither tend. 
 
 So reads he Nature, whom the lamp of truth 
 Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word ! 
 Which whoso sees no longer wanders lost, 
 With intellects bemazed in endless doubt, 
 But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built 
 With means, that were not till by thee employ'd, 
 Worlds, that had never been hadst thou in strength 
 Been less, or less benevolent than strong. 
 They are thy witnesses, who speak thy power 
 And goodness infinite, but speak in ears 
 That hear not or receive not their report. 
 In vain thy creatures testify of thee, 
 Till thou proclaim thyself. Theirs is indeed 
 A teaching voice ; but 'tis the praise of thine, 
 That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn, 
 And with the boon gives talents for its use. 
 Till thou art heard, imaginations vain 
 Possess the heart, and fables false as Hell; 
 Yet, deem'd oracular, lure down to death 
 The uninform'd and heedless souls of men. 
 We give to chauce, blind chance, ourselves as blind, 
 The glory of thy work ; which yet appears 
 Perfect and unimpeachable of blame, 
 Challenging human scrutiny, and proved 
 Then skilful most when most severely judged. 
 But chance is not ; or is not where thou reign' st: 
 Thy Providence forbids that fickle power 
 
 e3 
 
306 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 (If power she be, that works but to confound), 
 
 To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws. 
 
 Yet thus we dote, refusing while we can 
 
 Instruction, and inventing to ourselves 
 
 Gods such as guilt makes welcome ; gods that sleep, 
 
 Or disregard our follies, or that sit 
 
 Amused spectators of this bustling stage. 
 
 Thee we reject, unable to abide 
 
 Thy purity, till pure as thou art pure, 
 
 Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause, 
 
 For which we shunn'd and hated thee before. 
 
 Then we are free. Then liberty, like day, 
 
 Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from Heaven 
 
 Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. 
 
 A voice is heard, that mortal ears hear not, 
 
 Till thou hast touch'd them ; 'tis the voice of song — 
 
 A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works; 
 
 Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, 
 
 And adds his rapture to the general praise. 
 
 In that bless'd moment Nature, throwing wide 
 
 Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile 
 
 The author of her beauties, who, retired 
 
 Behind his own creation, works unseen 
 
 By the impure, and hears his power denied. 
 
 Thou art the source and centre of all minds, 
 
 Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! 
 
 From thee departing, they are lost, and rove 
 
 At random, without honour, hope, or peace. 
 
 From thee is all that sooths the life of man, 
 
 His high endeavour, and his glad success, 
 
 His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. 
 
 But O thou bounteous Giver of all good, 
 
 Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown ! 
 
 Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor ; 
 
 And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away. 
 
 ON COWPER'S MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Occasional Verses are often the most indifferent compositions of 
 great poets. Cowper had a peculiar talent for these; a playful 
 fancy, as well as a certain recondite ingenuity of thought, unex- 
 pectedly working itself out into forms the most amusing and curi- 
 ous. With these he possessed a sovereign command of words, 
 
COWPER. 307 
 
 though he did not always select them well ; partly through wilful 
 carelessness, and partly because his ear was indifferently refined? 
 not from want of delicacy of sense, but from neglect of culture, 
 in that portion of life when, by other poets, the gratification of 
 that nice organ is most studied. Many of his minor pieces, parti- 
 cularly the courtly ones, are the best of the species in the language. 
 They have more grace and nature than Prior's, seldom offend 
 against (rood taste, and never against good manners. Though he 
 does not uniformly overcome the petty difficulties of these, there 
 is always some sally of humour, some gay surprise, or subtle allu- 
 sion, that redeems the least successful from the disgrace of failure. 
 Among the serious ones, the Verses supposed to have been written 
 by Alexander Selkirk, those On receiving his Mother's Picture, 
 and My Mary, are, by the common consent of all readers, the 
 most permanently affecting. They might be repeated for ever 
 without tiring ; and the world never will be weary of repeating 
 them. J. MONTGOMERY. 
 
 .TO MARY, 
 
 Mrs. Unwin does seem in real truth, to have no will left on earth 
 but for his (Cowper's) good, and literally no will but his. How 
 she has supported herself as she has done, the constant attendance 
 day and night which she has gone through for thirteen years, is to 
 me, I confess incredible; and injustice to her, I must say, she 
 does it all with an ease that relieves you from any apprehension 
 of its being a state of suffering. lady hesketh. 
 
 The lines to Mary, written after Mrs. Unwin's illness, are the 
 most touchingly pathetic that ever the pure spirit of tenderness 
 and affection dictated. They were addressed to a helpless para- 
 lytic, and very old woman. They sprung from neither youth, 
 
308 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 beauty, passion, nor the softening recollection of any early charm, 
 not even from the sympathies of kindred blood, yet they breathe 
 theetherial essence of the love that is indestructible. 
 
 J.JOHNSTONE. 
 
 If you wish to see the full force of the simple pathetic, raised by 
 no other art than the selection of little circumstances, which could 
 only have suggested themselves to an exquisitely sensible heart? 
 you must turn to the piece addressed to the beloved companion of 
 so many years, his Mary. All the studied elegies and monodies 
 that were ever written are poor in effect to this effusion. 
 
 DR. AIKIN. 
 
 The twentieth year is well nigh pass'd, 
 
 Since first our sky was overcast, 
 
 Ah would that this might be the last ! 
 
 Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
 I see thee daily weaker grow — 
 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, 
 
 Thy needles, once a shining store, 
 For my sake restless heretofore, 
 Now rust disused, and shine no more, 
 
 For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
 The same kind office for me still, 
 Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 My Mary! 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, 
 And all thy threads with magic art 
 Have wound themselves about this heart, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy indistinct expressions seem 
 
 Like language utter'd in a dream ; 
 
 Yet me they charm, whatever the theme, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
COWPER. 309 
 
 Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
 Are still more lovely in my sight 
 Than golden beams of orient light, 
 
 For could I view nor them nor thee, 
 "What sight worth seeing could I see ? 
 The sun would rise in vain for me, 
 
 Partakers of thy sad decline, 
 Thy hands their little force resign ; 
 Yet, gently press'd, press gently mine, 
 
 Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, 
 That now at every step thou movest 
 Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest, 
 
 My Mary 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 My Mary 
 
 My Mary 
 
 And still to love, though press'd with ill, 
 In wintry age to feel no chill, 
 With me is to be lovely still, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 But ah ! by constant heed I know, 
 How oft the sadness that I show 
 Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And should my future lot be cast 
 With much resemblance of the past, 
 Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 
 
 My Mary I 
 
 ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 
 OUT OF NORFOLK. 
 
 THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANNE BODHAM. 
 
 Cowper's lines on his mother's picture display remarkably his 
 powers of pathos. Such a stiain of mellowed and manly sonow, 
 
310 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 such affectionate reminiscences of childhood unmixed with trifling, 
 such a union of regret with piety, is seldom to be found in any 
 language. 
 
 Quarterly Review, October, 1828. 
 
 I am delighted with Mrs. Bodham's kindness in giving me the 
 only picture of my Mother that is to be found, I suppose, in all 
 the world. I would rather possess it than the richest jewel in the 
 British crown, for I loved her with an affection that her death, 
 fifty-two years since, has not in the least abated. I remember 
 her, too, young as I was when she died, well enough to know that 
 it is a very exact resemblance of her, and as such it is to me in- 
 valuable. 
 
 Cowper to Lady Hesketh. 
 
 The world could not have furnished 3 ! ou with a present so ac- 
 ceptable to me, as the picture which you have so kindly sent me, 
 I received it the night before last, and viewed it with a trepidation 
 of nerves and spirits somewhat akin to what I should have felt, 
 had the dear original presented herself to my embraces. I kissed 
 it, and hung it where it is the last object that I see at night, and, 
 of course, the first on which I open my eyes in the morning. 
 
 Cowper to Mrs. Bodham. 
 
 I wrote my picture verses not without tears, therefore I presume 
 it may be that they are felt by others. cowper. 
 
 O that those lips had lauguage ! Life has pass'd 
 With me but roughly since 1 heard thee last. 
 Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 
 The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 
 Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
 ' Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !' 
 
COWPER. 311 
 
 The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
 (Bless'd be the art that can immortalize, 
 The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
 To quench it) here shines on me still the same. 
 
 Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 
 
 welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
 Who biJd'sl me honour with an artless song, 
 Affectionate, a mother lost so long, 
 
 1 will obey, not willingly alone, 
 
 But gladly, as the precept were her own : 
 And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
 Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
 Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
 A momentary dream, that thou art she. 
 
 My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
 Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
 Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? 
 Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ; 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
 Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
 I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
 And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
 But was it such ? — It was — where thou art gone, 
 Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
 May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
 The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! 
 Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, 
 Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
 What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, 
 And, disappointed still, was still deceived. 
 By expectation every day beguiled. 
 Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
 Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
 Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
 I learn'd at last submission to my lot, 
 But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 
 
 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, 
 Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
 And where the gardener Robin, day by day, 
 Drew me to school along the public way, 
 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 
 'Tis now become a history little known, 
 
312 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. 
 
 Short lived possession ! hut the record fair 
 
 That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
 
 Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced 
 
 A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
 
 That thou mighst know me safe and warmly laid ; 
 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
 
 The biscuit, or confectionary plum ; 
 
 The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd 
 
 By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd ; 
 
 All this, and more endearing still than all, 
 
 Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 
 
 Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, 
 
 That humour interposed too often makes ; 
 
 All this still legible in memory's page, 
 
 And still to be so to my latest age, 
 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
 
 Such honours to thee as my numbers may ; 
 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 
 
 Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here. 
 
 Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, 
 When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 
 The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
 I prick'd them into paper with a pin 
 (And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
 Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile), 
 Could those few pleasant days again appear, 
 Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ? 
 I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
 Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. — 
 But no — what here we call our life is such, 
 So little to be loved, and thou so much, 
 That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
 Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 
 
 Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
 (The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) 
 Shoots into port at some well haven'd isle, 
 Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
 There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
 Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
 While airs impregnated with incense play 
 Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 
 So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd the shore 
 " Where tempests never beat nor billows roar*,'' 
 
 • Gartli. 
 
 
 
cowper. 
 
 And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
 Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. 
 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 
 Always from port withheld, always distress'd — 
 Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest toss'd, 
 Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost. 
 And day by day some current's thwarting force 
 Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
 Yet O the thought that thou art safe, and he ! 
 That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
 My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 
 From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; 
 But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
 The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 
 And now farewell — Time unrevoked has run 
 His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. 
 By Contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
 I seem to' have lived my childhood o'er again ; 
 To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, 
 Without the sin of violating thine ; 
 And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, 
 And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
 Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
 Thyself removed, thy power to sooth me left 
 
 VERSES 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, DURING HIS 
 SOLITARY ABODE ON THE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ. 
 
 This person, whose adventures gave rise to a well-known histo- 
 "rical romance, Robinson Crusoe, was born at Largo, in Fife, in 1676, 
 and was bred a seaman. He went from England, in 1703, in the 
 capacity of a sailing master of a small vessel, called the Cinque - 
 Ports, Charles Pickering, Captain, burden 90 tons, with 26 guns 
 and 68 men ; and iu September, the same year, sailed from Cork, 
 in company with another ship of 26 guns and 120 men, called the 
 St. George, commanded by that famous navigator William 
 Dampier, intending to cruize, against the Spaniards in the South 
 Sea, on the coast of Brazil. Pickering died, and was succeeded 
 in his command by his lieutenant, Thomas Stradling. They pro- 
 Ff 
 
314 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 ceeded on their voyage round Cape Horn to the island of Juan 
 Fernandez, whence they were driven by the appearance of two 
 French ships, of 36 guns each, and left five of Stradling's men 
 there on shore, who were taken off by the French. Hence they 
 sailed to the coast of America, where Dampier and Stradling quar- 
 relled, and separated by agreement, on the 19th of May, 1704. 
 !n September following, Stradling came again to the island of 
 Juan Fernandez, where Selkirk and his Captain had a difference, 
 which, with the circumstance of the ship's being leaky and in very 
 bad condition, induced him to determine on staying there alone; 
 but when his companions were about to depart, his resolution was 
 shaken, and he desired to be taken on board again. The Captain, 
 however, refused to admit him, and he was obliged to remain, 
 having nothing but his clothes, bedding, a gun, and a small quan- 
 tity of powder and ball ; a hatchet, knife, and kettle; his books, 
 and mathematical and nautical instruments. He kept up his 
 spirits tolerably till he saw the vessel put off, when, as he after- 
 wards related, his heart yearned within him, and melted at parting 
 with his comrades and all human society at once. Such is the 
 rooted love we bear mankind, ruffians as too many of them are. 
 
 Thus left sole monarch of the island, with plenty of the neces- 
 saries of life, he found himself in a situation hardly supportable. 
 He had fish, goats' flesh, with turnips and other vegetables ; yet 
 he grew dejected, languid, and melancholy, to such a degree as 
 to be scarcely able to refrain from doing violence to himself. 
 Eighteen months passed before he could, by reasoning, reading 
 his Bible, and study, be thoroughly reconciled to his condition. 
 At length he grew happy, employing himself in decorating his 
 huts, chasing the goats, which he equalled in speed, aud scarcely 
 ever failed of catching. Though he constantly performed his de- 
 votion at stated hours, and read aloud ; yet when he was taken off 
 the island, his language, from disuse of conversation, was become 
 scarcely intelligible. In this solitude he continued four years and 
 four months, when, on the 2nd of February 1709, he saw two ships 
 come into the bay, and knew them to be English. He immediately 
 lighted a fire as a signal, and on their coming on shore, found they 
 
COWPER. 315 
 
 were the Duke, Captain Rogers, and the Duchess, Captain Court- 
 nay, two privateers from Bristol. Dampier, who was pilot on 
 board the Duke, and knew Selkirk very well, told Captain Rogers, 
 that, when ou board the Cinque Ports, he was the best seaman on 
 board of that vessel: upon which Captain Rogers appointed him 
 master's mate of the Duke. After a fortnight's stay at Juan Fer- 
 nandez, the ships proceeded on their cruise against the Spaniards, 
 plundered a town on the coast of Pern, took a Manilla ship off 
 California, and returned by way of the East Indies to England, 
 where they arrived the first of October, 1711 ; Selkirk having been 
 absent eight years, more than half of which he had spent in the 
 island. rev. john platts. 
 
 1 am monarch of all I survey, 
 
 My right there is none to dispute ; 
 
 From the centre all round to the sea, 
 I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
 
 Solitude ! where are the charms 
 That sages have seen in thy face ? 
 
 Better dwell in the midst of alarms, 
 Than reign in this horrible place. 
 
 1 am out of humanity's reach, 
 
 I must finish my journey alone, 
 Never hear the sweet music of speech ; 
 
 I start at the sound of my own. 
 The beasts that roam over the plain 
 
 My form with indifference see ; 
 They are so unacquainted with man, 
 
 Their tameness is shocking to me. 
 
 Society, friendship, and love, 
 
 Divinely bestow'd upon mao, 
 O, had I the wings of a dove, 
 
 How soon would I taste you again ! 
 My sorrows I then might assuage 
 
 In the ways of religion and truth, 
 Might learn from the wisdom of age, 
 
 And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. 
 
 Religion ! what treasure untold 
 Resides in that heavenly word ! 
 
 More precious than silver and gold, 
 Or all that this earth can afford . 
 
 f2 
 
316 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 But the sound of the church-going bell 
 These valleys and rocks never heard, 
 
 Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, 
 Or smiled when a Sabbath appear' d. 
 
 Ye winds that have made me your sporty 
 
 Convey to this desolate shore 
 Some cordial endearing report 
 
 Of a land I shall visit no more. 
 My friends, do they now and then send 
 
 A wish or a thought after me ? 
 Q tell me I yet have a friend, 
 
 Though a friend I am never to see. 
 
 How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 
 
 Compared with the speed of its flight,. 
 The tempest itself lags behind, 
 
 And the swift-winged arrows of light. 
 When I think of my own native land, 
 
 In a moment I seem to be there ; 
 But alas ! recollection at hand 
 
 Soon hurries me back to despair. 
 
 But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, 
 
 The beast is laid down in his lair ; 
 Even here is a season of rest, 
 
 And I to my cabin repair. 
 There's mercy in every place, 
 
 And mercy, encouraging thought \ 
 Gives even affliction a grace, 
 
 Aud reconciles man to his lot. 
 
BYRON. 317 
 
 GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON, DIED 
 1824, AGED 36. 
 
 ON THE PRIVATE LIFE OF AUTHORS. 
 
 It certainly would be, we think, for the benefit of literature, were 
 the private life of authors less exposed to the public eye ; although 
 we rejoice to say, we could point out some, who have no reason to 
 shrink from the severest scrutiny, or to dread the narrowest in- 
 spection — whose hearts are unsullied, and whose thoughts are 
 pure, and whose lives are commentaries on the doctrines incul- 
 cated in their writings. But, alas ! the mischief and misfortunes 
 is, all are not so. Often has envy too substantial grounds on 
 which to calumniate ! Too often has malignant pride a favour- 
 able opportunity of exposing the foibles of genius to ridicule, and 
 its weaknesses to assault, audits crimes to abhorrence ; till the 
 sun of intellectual grandeur is obscured by the clouds of moral de- 
 pravity, and the darkness becomes more apparent, from succeed- 
 ing to meridian sunshine. Poetry is above every other department 
 of general literature — inviting, and fair, and fascinating to the 
 youthful mind ; which, accordingly, decks out the poet in all the 
 splendid trappings of intellectual grandeur, and all the chastened 
 graces of moral worth. He is tbe Hesper among the stars in the 
 hemisphere of Imagination ; but he proves himself, too often, to 
 be only the Pallas in the planetary system of Understanding. — 
 After being imbued with the sentiments that seemed to lift us 
 above ourselves, and link us with superior orders of" intelligence, 
 and made us proud in the elevation of our common nature, we 
 f3 
 
318 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 are brought down to the level of social life, and called upon to 
 sympathize with human infirmity. It is on this account, that 
 those writers, who have passed their days in seclusion, and with- 
 drawn themselves from the bustle of the world to the more imme- 
 diate contemplation of nature, and the endearing circle of selected 
 friendship, have retained some portion of the exalted estimation, 
 which the reader has formed of them, from the perusal of their 
 works. Nor is it to be doubted, that our opinions are frequently 
 much influenced on this head ; for, we are naturally anxious to 
 learn something of the fate of a being to whom we are indebted 
 for so much gratification, and to whose sentiments we bow with sub- 
 missive admiration. We crave, and inquire, and feel anxious, 
 and uneasy, till this sensation is gratified ; and yet we are, in 
 nine cases out of ten, disappointed when it is so. Some portion 
 of our reverence for the ancients is unquestionably owing to the 
 oblivion in which the events of their private lives are shrouded. 
 They are visible to us only " at their pride of place ;" as they 
 descend, the clouds intervene, and hide them from our view. 
 They are familiar to us as poets, and historians, and philosophers ; 
 not as subjects and citizens, parents and husbands. Could we 
 see Virgil, and Cicero, and Livy, in the ordinary affairs of their 
 lives, we should probably be necessitated to come to the humilia- 
 ting conclusion, that the ancients were somethiug like ourselves, 
 and that mankind have been pretty much alike in all ages. Alas ! 
 for the doctrine of human perfection. 
 
 Blackwood's Magazine, November, 1820, 
 
 ON THE PERSONAL CHARACTER OF LORD 
 BYRON. 
 
 Lord Byron was noted for a kind of poetical misanthropy, but it 
 existed more in the imagination of the public than in reality. — In 
 his writings he certainly dwelt with pleasure on a character which 
 had somehow or other laid hold of his fancy, and consequently 
 
BYRON. 319 
 
 under this character he has appeared to the public ; namely, that 
 of a proud and scornful being, who pretended to be disgusted with 
 his species, because he himself had been guilty of all sorts of 
 crimes against society, and who made a point of dividing his time 
 between cursing and blessing, murderiug and saving, robbiug and 
 giving, hating and loving, just as the wind of his humour blew. 
 This penchant for outlaws and pirates might naturally enough 
 flow from his own character, and the circumstances of his life, 
 without there being the slightest resemblance between the poet and 
 the corsair. He had a kind and generous heart, and gloried in 
 a splendid piece of benevolence; that is to say, the dearest exer- 
 cise of power to him was in unexpectedly changing the state of an- 
 other from misery to happiness. But he was in a great error with 
 respect to the reward which he thought awaited him. He reckoned 
 upon a large return of gratitude and devotion, and was not con- 
 tent with the instant recompense which charity receives. On this 
 mistake were founded most of his charges against human nature ; 
 but his feelings true to nature, and not obeying the false direction 
 of his prejudices and erroneous opinions, still made him love his 
 kind with an ardour which removed him as far as possible from 
 misauthropy. Anothercause of Lord Byron's misanthropical turn 
 of writing was his high respect for himself. When he observed 
 another man neglecting his wants for the sake of some petty grati- 
 fication of his own, it appeared to him very base in the individual, 
 and a general charge against all mankind — he was positively filled 
 with indignation. He mentions somewhere in his works with be- 
 coming scorn, that one of his relatives accompanied a female 
 friend to a milliner's, in preference to coming to take leave of 
 him when he was going abroad. The fact is, no one ever loved 
 his fellow man more than Lord Byron ; he stood in continual need 
 of his sympathy, his respect, his affection, his attentions, and he 
 was proportionally disgusted and depressed when they were found 
 wanting ; this was foolish enough, but he was not much of a rea- 
 soner on these points — he was a poet. 
 
 London Magazine, October, ] 824. 
 
:V>0 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 LORD BYRON'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 
 
 It would be worse than idle to endeavour to shadow out the linea- 
 ments of that mind, which, exhibiting itself in dark and perturb- 
 ed grandeur, has established a stronger and wider sway over the 
 passious of men, than any other poetical intellect of modern times. 
 We feel as if there were a kind of absurdity in criticising the power 
 that hunies us along with it like a whirlwind. When standing 
 within the magic circle, and in the immediate presence of the ma- 
 gician, we think not upon his art itself, but yield ourselves up to 
 its wonder-working influence. We have no wish to speculate on 
 the causes which awoke and stirred up all the profoundest feel- 
 ings and energies of our souls : the deep pathos, the stormy pas- 
 sion, has heen enjoyed or suffered ; and, in the exaltation or 
 prostration of our nature, we own the power of the poet to be di- 
 vine, — and, with a satisfied and unquestioning delight, deliver 
 ourselves up to his gentle fascination, or his irresistible dominion. 
 We do not say that Byron stands above criticism, but that criti- 
 cism seems to be altogether foreign to the nature and to the pur- 
 poses of his genius. It is impossible to speak of his poetry with- 
 out also speaking of himself, morally, as a man ; and this who 
 shall dare to do, who has had even a feeble glimpse into the 
 haunted darkness of the human soul ? In his poetry, more than 
 any other man's, there is felt a continual presence of himself — 
 there is everlasting self-representation or self-reference ; and per- 
 haps that, which to cold and unimpassioned judgment might 
 seem the essential fault of his poetry, constitutes its real excel- 
 lence, and gives it power, sovereign and despotical. Strictly 
 speaking, and according to the rules by which great poems have 
 been builded, it cannot be said that Byron has ever created a great 
 poem. He has celebrated no mighty exploit, or event, or revo- 
 lution in the destinies of mankind ; nor brought before us one 
 majestic portion of the history of our species, in which, as in a 
 course perfect and complete, the mind of man has been seen to 
 run a career of power and glory. He has brought forward from 
 the darkness of past times, no shining spectres — no immortal 
 
BYRON. 321 
 
 ghosts. One Figure alone is seen stalking through the city ana 
 through the solitude — over the earth and over the sea — and the.',; 
 Figure, stern, melancholy, and majestic, is still no other thaii 
 himself. "We have no hesitation in saying, that Byron's creations 
 are not so much poems, as they are glorious manifestations of a 
 poet's mind, all irresistibly tending towards poetry. Having in 
 himself deep sense of beauty — deeper passions than probably any 
 other great poet ever had — and aspiring conceptions of power, the 
 poetry in which he expresses himself must be full of vivid portrai- 
 ture of beauty, deep spirit of passion, and daring suggestions of 
 power. There are things in his poetry — strong and irregular bursts 
 of power, beyond the strength of the strongest. At times he 
 seems possessed and over-mastered by an inspiration. A spirit is 
 then in him that works at will, and it is a spirit that in its perfect 
 grandeur seems to have visited none other of the children of men, 
 Blackwood? s Magazine, May, 1818. 
 
 MIDNIGHT SCENE, AT THE SIEGE OF 
 CORINTH. 
 
 'Tis midnight : on the mountains brown 
 The cold, round moon shines deeply down ; 
 Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
 Spreads like an ocean hung on high, 
 Bespangled with those isles of light, 
 So wildly, spiritually bright; 
 "Who ever gazed upon them shining, 
 And turn'd to earth without repining, 
 Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, 
 And mix with their eternal ray ? 
 The waves on either shore lay there 
 Calm, clear, and azure as the air ; 
 And scarce their foam the pebbles shook. 
 But murmur'd meekly as the brook. 
 The winds were pillow'd on the waves ; 
 The banners droop'd along their stave.-, 
 And, as they fell around thein furling, 
 Ahove them shone the crescent curling ; 
 And that deep silence was unbroke, 
 Save where the watch his signal spoke 
 
322 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill, 
 And echo answer'd from the hill, 
 And the wide hum of that wild host 
 Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 
 As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 
 In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 
 It rose, that chanted mournful strain, 
 Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain : 
 'Twas musical, but sadly sweet, 
 Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 
 And take a long unmeasured tone, 
 To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 
 
 The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 
 The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er ; 
 The watch was set, the night-round made, 
 All mandates issued and obey'd : 
 'Tis but another anxious night, 
 His pains the morrow may requite 
 With all revenge and love can pay, 
 In guerdon for their long delay. 
 Few hours remain, am) he hath need 
 Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 
 Of slaughter ; but within his soul 
 The thoughts like troubled waters roll. 
 He could not rest, he could not stay 
 Within his tent to wait for day. 
 But walk'd him forth along the sand, 
 Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand. 
 What pillow'd them ? and why should he 
 More wakeful than the humblest be ? 
 Since more their peril, worse their toil, 
 And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 
 While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
 A night of sleep, perchance their last, 
 In sickly vigil wander'd on 
 And envied all he gazed upon. 
 
 And thro' this night, as on he wander'd. 
 And o'er the past and present ponder'd, 
 And thought upon the glorious dead 
 Who there in better cause had bled, 
 He felt how faint and feebly dim 
 The fame that could accrue to him, 
 Who cheer' d the band, and wav'd the sword, 
 A traitor in a turbau'd horde ; 
 And led them to the lawless siege, 
 Whose best success were sacrilege. 
 Not so had those his fancy number'd, 
 The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd 
 
BYRON. 323 
 
 Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain, 
 Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 
 They fell devoted, hut undying; 
 The very gale their names seem'd sighing : 
 The waters murmur' d of their name ; 
 The woods were peopled with their fame ; 
 The silent pillar, lone and gray, 
 Claim'd kiudred with their sacred clay ; 
 Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain, 
 Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 
 The meanest rill — the mightiest river 
 Roll'd mingling with their fame for ever. 
 Despite of every yoke she bears, 
 That laud is glory's still and theirs ! 
 'Tis still a watch-word to the earth : — 
 When man would do a deed of worth 
 He points to Greece, and turns to tread, 
 So sauction'd, on the tyrant's head : 
 He looks to her, and rushes on 
 Where life is lost, or freedom won. 
 
 Alp wander'd on, along the beach, 
 Till within the range of a carbine's reach 
 Of the leaguer' d wall ; but they saw him not, 
 Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot ? 
 Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold ? 
 Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd cold ? 
 I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
 There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball, 
 Tho' he stood beneath the bastion's frown, 
 That flank'd the sea-ward gate of the town ; 
 Tho' he heard the sound, and could almost tell 
 The sullen words of the sentinel, 
 As his measured step on the stone below 
 Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 
 And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
 Hold o'er the dead their carnival, 
 Gorging and growling o'er carcase and limb ; 
 They were too busy to bark at him ! 
 From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh, 
 As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 
 And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull, 
 As it slipp'd thro' their jaws, when their edge grew dull, 
 As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 
 When the) r scarce could rise from the spot where they fed ; 
 So well had they broken a lingering fast 
 With those who had fallen for that night's repast. 
 And Alp kne.v, by the turbans that roll'd on the sand, 
 The foremost of these were the best of his baud : 
 Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, 
 
324 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair,* 
 
 All the rest was shaven and bare. 
 
 The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 
 
 The hair was tangled round his jaw. 
 
 But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf, 
 
 There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, 
 
 Which had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 
 
 Scared by the dogs, from the human prey : 
 
 But he seiz'd on his share of a steed that lay, 
 
 Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 
 
 Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight : 
 Never had shaken his nerves in fight ; 
 But he better could brook to behold the dying, 
 Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 
 Scorch' d with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain, 
 Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. 
 There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 
 Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower ; 
 For fame is there to say who bleeds, 
 Abd honour's eye on daring deeds ! 
 But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 
 O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, 
 And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, 
 Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; 
 All regarding man as their prey, 
 All rejoicing in his decay. 
 
 THE FRENZY OF LOVE. 
 
 Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, 
 No, father, no, 'twas not a dream ; 
 Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, 
 I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep ; 
 But could not, for my burning brow 
 Throbb'd to the very brain as now : 
 I wish'd but for a single tear, 
 As something welcome, new, and dear : 
 I wish'd it then, I wish it still, 
 Despair is stronger than my will. 
 Waste not thine orison, despair 
 Is mightier than thy pious prayer : 
 I would not, if I might, be blest ; 
 I want no Paradise, but rest. 
 
 " This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition that Mahomet will draw 
 them into Paradise by it. 
 
B YRON. 325 
 
 'Twas then, I tell thee, father ! then 
 I saw her; yes, she liv'd again; 
 And shining in her white symar, 
 As thro' yon pale gray cloud the star 
 Which now 1 gaze on, as on her, 
 Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; 
 Dimly I view its trembling spark ; 
 Tomorrow's night shall be more dark : 
 And I, before its rays appear, 
 That lifeless thing the living fear. 
 I wander, father ! for my soul 
 Is fleeting towards the fiual goal. 
 I saw her, friar ! and I rose 
 Forgetful of our former woes ; 
 And rushing from my couch, I dart, 
 Aud clasp her to my desperate heart j 
 I clasp — what is it that I clasp ? 
 No breathing form within my grasp, 
 No heart that beats reply to mine, 
 Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 
 And art thou, dearest, chang'd so much, 
 As meet my eve, yet mock my touch ? 
 Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 
 I care not ; so my arms enfold 
 The all they ever wish'd to hold. 
 Alas ! around a shadow prest, 
 They shrink upon my lonely breast; 
 Yet still 'tis there ! In silence stands, 
 And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
 With braided hair, and bright black eye- 
 I knew 'twas false — she could not die ! 
 But he is dead ! within the dell 
 I saw him buried where he fell ; 
 He comes not, for he cannot break 
 From earth ; why then art thou awake ? 
 They told me wild waves roll'd above 
 The face I view, the form I love; 
 They told me — 'twas a hideous tale ! 
 I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : 
 If true, aud from thine ocean cave 
 Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave ; 
 Oh ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 
 This brow that then will burn no more ; 
 Or place them on my hopeless heart : 
 But, shape or shade ! whate'er thou art, 
 In mercy ne'er again depart ! 
 Or farther with thee bear my soul 
 Than winds can waft or waters roll ' 
 
326 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 ON THE MJSANTHROPHY OF LORD BYRON'.S 
 HEROES. 
 
 All, or almost all, his heroes, have somewhat the attributes of 
 Childe Harold: all, or almost all, have minds which seem at va- 
 riance with their fortunes, and exhibit high and poignant feelings 
 of pain and pleasure ; a keen sense of what is noble and honour- 
 able, and an equally keen susceptibility of injustice or injury, un- 
 der the garb of stoicism or contempt of mankind. The strength 
 of early passion, and the glow of youthful feeling, are uniformly 
 painted as chilled or subdued by a train of early imprudences or 
 of darker guilt, and the sense of enjoyment tarnished, by too in- 
 timate and experienced an acquaintance with the vanity of human 
 wishes. These general attributes mark the stern features of all 
 Lord Byron's heroes, from those which are shaded by the scalloped 
 hat of the illustrious Pilgrim, to those which lurk under the turban 
 of Alp, the Renegade. The public, ever anxious in curiosity or 
 malignity to attach to fictitious characters real prototypes, were 
 obstinate in declaring, that in these leading traits of character. 
 Lord Byron copied from the individual features reflected in his 
 own mirror. But we know enough, even of his private story to 
 give our warrant that, though his youth may have shared somewhat 
 too largely in the indiscretions of those left too early masters of 
 their own actions and fortunes, falsehood and malice alone can 
 impute to him any real cause for hopeless remorse or gloomy mis- 
 anthropy.* To what, then, are we to ascribe the singular pecu- 
 liarity which induced an author of such talent, and so well skilled 
 
 * Lord Byron may have his faults— you may have your own, my good 
 friend, but there is some difference between constitutional errors and evil 
 intentions and propensities: it is harsh to ascribe to wicked motives what 
 may be owing to temptations of circumstances, or the headlong impulse of 
 passion. Even the worst habits should be charitably considered, for they 
 are often the result of the slow, but irresistible force of nature, over the ar- 
 tificial manners and discipline of society — the flowing stream that wastes 
 away its embankments. We know not what sins the worst men have mas- 
 tered, when we condemn them for the crime that subjects them to punish- 
 ment. Man towards bis fellow man should be at least compassionate, for he 
 can be no judge of the insti nets and impulses of action, he can only see effects. 
 — Blackwood' s Magazine, August, 1821. — [Ed.] 
 
BYRON. 327 
 
 in tracing the darker impressions which guilt and remorse leave 
 on the human character, so frequently to affix features peculiar to 
 himself to the robbers and corsairs which he sketched with a pencil 
 as forcible as that of Salvator ? More than one answer may be 
 returned to this question ; nor do we pretend to say which is best 
 warranted by facts. The practice may arise from a temperament 
 which radical and constitutional melancholy has, as in the case of 
 Hamlet, predisposed to identify its owner with scenes of that deep 
 and arousing interest which arises from the stings of conscience 
 contending with the stubborn energy of pride, and delighting to 
 be placed in supposed situations of guilt and danger, as some men 
 love instinctively to tread the giddy edgeof a precipice, or, hold- 
 ing by some frail twig, to stoop forward over the abyss into which 
 the dark torrent discharges itself. Or it may be, that these dis- 
 guises were assumed capriciously, as a man might chu?e the cloak, 
 poignard, and dark lantern of a bravo, for his disguise at a mas- 
 querade. Or feeling his own powers in painting the sombre and 
 the horrible, Lord Byron assumed in his fervour the very semblance 
 of the character he describes, like an actor who presents on the 
 stage at once his own person and the tragic character with which 
 for the time he is invested. Nor is it altogether incompatible 
 with his character to believe that, in contempt of the criticisms 
 which on this account had attended Childe Harold, he was deter- 
 mined to shew to the public how little he was affected by them, 
 and how effectually it was in his power to compel attention and 
 respect, even when imparting a portion of his own likeness and 
 his own peculiarities to pirates and outlaws. 
 
 Quarterly Review, October , 1816. 
 
 CHARACTER OF CONRAD. 
 
 Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 
 Demons in act, but Gods at least in face, 
 In Conrad's form seems little to admire, 
 Tho> his dark eye-brow shades a glance of lire 
 
 g2 
 
THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 
 
 No giant frame sets forth his common height; 
 
 Yet, in the whole, who paus'd to look again, 
 
 Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ; 
 
 They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 
 
 That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 
 
 Suu-burut his cheek, his forehead high and pale 
 
 The sable curls in Avild profusiou veil ; 
 
 And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 
 
 The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. 
 
 Tho' smooth his voice, and calm his general mien, 
 
 Still seems there something he would not have seen : 
 
 His features' deepening lines and varying hue 
 
 At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 
 
 As if within that murkiness of mind 
 
 Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefin'd ; 
 
 Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 
 
 Too close enquiry his stern glance would quell. 
 
 There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 
 
 The full encounter of his searching eye : 
 
 He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek 
 
 To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 
 
 At once th' observer's purpose to espy, 
 
 And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 
 
 Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 
 
 Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to day. 
 
 There was a laughing Devil in his sneer 
 
 That rais'd emotions both of rage and fear j 
 
 And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 
 
 Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell ! 
 
 Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, 
 Within — within — 'twas there the spirit wrought ! 
 Love shows all chauges — Hate, Ambition, Guile, 
 Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 
 The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 
 Along the govern' d aspect, speak alone 
 Of deeper passions ; and to judge their mien, 
 He, who would see, must be himself unseen.. 
 Then — with the hurried tread, the upward eye. 
 The clenched hand, the pause of agony, 
 That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
 Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 
 Then — with each feature working from the heart, 
 With feelings loos'd to strengthen — not depart : 
 That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze, or glov. 
 Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
 Then — Stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest not, 
 Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 
 Mark— how that lone and blighted bosom sears 
 
BYRON. 329 
 
 The scathing thought of execrated years, 
 Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
 Man as himself — the secret spirit free? 
 
 Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 
 To lead the guilty — guilt's worst instrument — 
 His soul was chang'd, before his deeds had driven 
 Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 
 He knew himself a villain — but he deem'd 
 The rest no better than the thing he seem'd ; 
 And scorn' d the best as hypocrites who hid 
 Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
 He knew himself detested, but he knew 
 The hearts that loath'd him, crouch'd and dreaded too. 
 Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
 From all affection and from all contempt : 
 His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; 
 But they that fear'd him dar'd not to despise : 
 Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 
 The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 
 The first may turn — but not avenge the blow ; 
 The last expires — but leaves no living foe ; 
 Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings, 
 And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings ! 
 
 AMBITION. 
 
 There is a fire 
 
 And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
 In its own narrow being, but aspire 
 Beyond the fitting medium of desire; 
 And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
 Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
 Of aught, but rest ; a fever at the core, 
 Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 
 
 This makes the madman who have made men mad 
 By their contagion ,• Conquerors and Kings, 
 Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
 Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 
 Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, 
 And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 
 Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
 Are theirs! One breast laid op n were a school 
 Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule. 
 
 o3 
 
330 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Their breath is agitation, aud their life 
 A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
 And yet so nurs'dand bigotted to strife, 
 That should their days, surviving perils past, 
 Melt to cairn twilight, they feel overcast 
 With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; 
 Even as flame unfed, which runs to waste 
 With its own flickering, or a sword laid by 
 Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. 
 
 He who ascends to mountain tops, shall find 
 The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow ; 
 He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
 Must look down on the hate of those below. 
 Though high above, the sun of glory glow, 
 And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
 Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
 Contending tempests on his naked head, 
 And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. 
 
 ALBUERA. 
 
 Awake, ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance ! 
 Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess cries, 
 But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance,. 
 Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : 
 Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, 
 And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar 
 In every peal she calls — " Awake ! arise !" 
 Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, 
 When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore. 
 
 Hark! — heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note 
 Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? 
 Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; 
 Nor sav'd your brethren ere they sank beneath 
 Tyrants and tyrants' slaves? — the fires of death, 
 The bale fires flash on high — from rock to rock 
 Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe : 
 Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
 Red Battle stamps his foot, aud nations feel the shock. 
 
 Lo ! where the Giant on the mountain stands, 
 His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, 
 With death- shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
 And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon : 
 

 BYRON. 331 
 
 Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
 Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet 
 Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done, 
 For on this morn three potent nations meet, 
 To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. 
 
 By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
 (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
 Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, 
 Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
 What gallant war hounds rouse them from their lair. 
 And gnash their faugs, loud yelling for their prey, 
 All join the chase, but few the triumph share; 
 The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, 
 And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 
 
 Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; 
 Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high, 
 Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies 
 The shouts are Francs, Spain, Albion, Victory ; 
 The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
 That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, 
 Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
 To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
 And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.* 
 
 There shall they rot — Ambition's honour'd fools ! 
 Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay ! 
 Yain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools, 
 The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
 By myriads, when they dare to pave their way 
 With human hearts — to what? — a dream alone. 
 Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? 
 Or call with truth one span of earth their own, 
 Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone ? 
 
 " Byron's idea of man, in the abstract, is boundless aud magnificent; but 
 of men, as individuals, be thinks with derision and contempt. Hence be is 
 in one stanza a sublime moralist, elevated and transported by the dignity of 
 human nature; in the next a paltry satirist, sneering at its meanness. It is 
 this contrast between bis august conceptions of man, and bis contemptuous 
 opinion of men, that much of the almost incomprehensible charm, and 
 power, and enchantment of bis poetry exists. We feel ourselves alternately 
 sunk and elevated, as if the baud of au invisible being bad command over 
 us. At one time we are a little lower than the angels ; at another, but a 
 little higher than the worms. We feel that our elevation and our disgrace 
 are alike the lot of our nature ; and hence the Poetry of Byrou is read as 
 a dark, but still a divine revelation. — Blackwood's Mag. July 1818.— [£"</.] 
 
332 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Oh, Albuera ! glorious field of grief ! 
 As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his slued, 
 Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, 
 A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed ! 
 Peace to the perish'd ! may the warrior's meed 
 And tears of triumph their reward prolong ! 
 Till others fall where other chieftains lead, 
 Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, 
 And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song. 
 
 WATERLOO. 
 
 We are invited to moralize with the Post on the plains of Water- 
 loo. With some of his morality we can cordially sympathize : 
 the harvest of death that was reaped on that fatal field makes the 
 tear fall, and the heart ache, for those who were slain, and those 
 who were bereaved. Triumph is merged in these touching recol-, 
 lections : the growth of a new and smiling vegetation, silently ob- 
 literating the traces of horror aud human suffering which were so 
 lately inscribed upon the surface of that ensanguined plain, pro- 
 duce in the mind a sort of chequered melancholy in which the 
 fugitive shadows and shifting scenes of mortality weary the thoughts 
 and spirits till they settle into the contemplation of the great ca- 
 tastrophe, and final developement of man's being and God's provi- 
 dence. These great changes and solemn events as they mingle 
 with the past, and soften and melt into the retrospect, take on a 
 mellowness of character and colouring, and appear through a me- 
 dium of gloomy grandeur, which fits them for the sublime and 
 moral purposes of poetry. The occasion has not been overlooked 
 by Lord Byron ; a reflection or two of the kind to which we have 
 alluded are richly and pleasingly expressed. — The sudden alarm 
 of battle breaking in upon the revelry and dance and song of the 
 night's carousal, the dreadful note of preparation that succeeds to 
 the light intercourse of love and compliment, and the gay and jo- 
 cund scene shifted with a sort of magical surprise to the bloody 
 field of Waterloo, are subjects managed with considerable anima- 
 tion, brilliance, and pathos. 
 
 British Review, February, 1827. 
 
BYRON. 333 
 
 Stop ! — for thy tread is ou an Empire's dust ! 
 Au Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! 
 Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust: 
 Nor column trophied for triumphal show r 
 None; hut the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
 As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
 How that red raiu hath made the harvest grow ! 
 And is this all the world has gained by thee, 
 Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Yictory ! 
 
 And Harold stands upon this place of sculls, 
 The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo ! 
 How in an hour the power that gave annuls, 
 Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
 Iu "pride of place"* here last the eagle flew, 
 Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 
 Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through ; 
 Ambition's life and labours all were vain : 
 He wears the shattered links of the world's broken chain, 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by nighty 
 And Belgium's capital had gathered then. 
 Her beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
 The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
 A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
 Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
 Soft eyes look'd love to eyes that spake again, 
 And all went merry as a marriage-bell; 
 But hush ! hark ; a deep sound like a rising knell ! 
 
 Did ye not hear it : — No ; 'twas but the wind, 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 
 On with the dauce ! let joy be unconfined ? 
 No sleep 'till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
 To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 
 But, hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat ! 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier thau before ! 
 Arm! Arm; it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar ' 
 
 Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
 Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
 That sound the first amidst the festival, 
 And caught its tone, with Death's prophetic ear : 
 
 * A term of falconry, and meaus the highest pitch of flight. 
 * On the night previous to the action, it is said that a ball was given at 
 Brussels. 
 
334 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 And then they smiled, because he deemed it near ; 
 His heart more truly knew that peal too well, 
 Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier; 
 And roused the viiigeauce blood alone could quell; 
 He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell-* 
 
 Ah ! then aud there was hurrying to and fro ; 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
 And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
 Blush'd at the praise ot their own loveliness; 
 And there were sudden partings, such as press 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
 Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
 If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
 Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise ? 
 
 And there was mounting in hot haste ; the steed, 
 The mustering squadron, aud the clattering car, 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks of war, 
 And the deej) thunder peal on peal afar, 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drum, 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
 While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 
 Or whispering with white lips — " The foe ! They come, they 
 come !" 
 
 And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering" rose ! 
 The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
 Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : 
 How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
 Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills 
 Their mountain-pipe, so fills the mountaineers 
 With the fierce native daring which instils 
 The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
 And Evan's, Donald'sf fame rings in each clansman's ears : 
 
 And Ardennes]: waves above them her green leaves, 
 Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
 Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
 
 * This stanza regarding the Duke of Brunswick is very grand, even from 
 its total unadornment. It is with t tie two or three stanzas which follow, 
 only a versification of ihe common narratives; but here may well be applied 
 a position of Johnson, that " where truth is sufficient to fill the mind, fiction 
 is worse than useless." — Sir Egerton lirydijes. 
 
 t Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, " the geDtle Lochiel' 
 of the " forty-five." 
 
 % The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of the "Foiest oi 
 Ardennes," immortalize 1 by Shakespear in " As You Like It." 
 
BYRON. 335 
 
 Over the unreturned brave, —alas ! 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
 Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
 In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 Of living valour, rolling on the foe 
 And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
 Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 
 The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, 
 The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
 Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
 The earth is cover'd thick with other clay 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, 
 Rider and horse, — friend, foe,— in one red burial blent. 
 
 Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine ; 
 Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
 Partly because they blend me with his line, 
 And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
 And partly that bright names will hallow song : 
 And his was of the bravest and when shower'd 
 The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along, 
 Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd 
 They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young gallant 
 Howard ? 
 
 There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
 And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
 But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
 Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
 And saw arouud me the wild field revive 
 With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
 Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
 With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
 I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring, 
 
 I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
 And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
 In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
 Forgetful ness were mercy for their sake ; 
 The Archangel's trump, not glory's must awake 
 Those whom they thirst for ; though the sound of fame 
 May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
 The fever of vain longing, and the name 
 So honoured, but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. 
 
336 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, mourn 
 The tree will wither long before it fall ; 
 The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn ; 
 The roof tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
 In massy hoariness ; the ruined wall 
 Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; 
 The bars survive the captive they enthral ; 
 The day drags through though storms keep out the sun ; 
 And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on. 
 
 REFLECTIONS BY THE LAKE OF GENEVA. 
 
 Lord Byron describes, in a tone of great beauty and feeling, a 
 night-scene witnessed on the Lake of Geneva; and each natural 
 object, from the evening grasshopper to the stars, " the poetry of 
 heaven," suggests the contemplation of the connection between 
 the Creator and his works. The scene is varied by the " fierce 
 and fair delight" of a thunder-storm, described in verse almost as 
 vivid as its lightnings. — The " live thunder leaping among the 
 rattling crags," the voice of mountains, as if shouting to each 
 other, the plashing of the big rain, the gleaming of the wide lake, 
 lighted like a phosphoric sea, present a picture of sublime terror, 
 yet of enjoyment, often attempted, but never so well, certainly 
 fiever better, brought out in poetry. 
 
 Quarterly Review, October, 1816. 
 
 Lake Leman woos me, with its crystal face 
 The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
 The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
 Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue : 
 There is too much of man here, to look through, 
 With a fit mind the might which I behold ; 
 But soon in me shall Loneliness renew, 
 Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, 
 Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold. 
 
 To fly from, need not be to hate mankind ; 
 All are not fit with them to stir and toil, 
 Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
 
BYRON. 537 
 
 Deep ia its fountain, lest it overboil 
 In the foot throng, where we become the spoil 
 Of our infection, till too late and long 
 We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 
 In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong, 
 'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. 
 
 Is it not better, then, to be alone, 
 And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? 
 By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,* 
 Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
 Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
 A fair but froward infant her own care, 
 Kissing its cries away as these awake ; 
 Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 
 Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear? 
 
 I live not in myself, but I become 
 Portion of that around me ; and to me 
 High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
 Of human cities torture ; I can see 
 
 Nothing to loathe in nature, 
 
 when the soul can flee 
 
 And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
 Of ocean, or the stars ; mingle, and not in vain. 
 
 Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part 
 Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
 Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
 With a pure passion ? should 1 not contemn 
 All objects, if compared with these ; and stem 
 A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
 Such feelings for the hard and wordly phlegm 
 Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below 
 Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow. 
 
 Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
 With the wide world I dwelt in, is a thing 
 Which warns me, with its stillness to forsake 
 Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring; 
 This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
 To waft me from distraction : once I loved 
 Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
 Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved. 
 That I with stern delights should e'er have been so mov'd. 
 
 * The colour of the Rhone, at Geneva is blue, to a depth of tint which I 
 have never seen equalled in water, salt or fresh, except in the Mediterranean 
 and Archipelago. 
 
 h h 
 
},38 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Tt is the hush of night, and all between 
 
 Thy margin and the mountain dusk, yet clear. 
 
 Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
 
 Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear 
 
 Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, 
 
 There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,. 
 
 Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; ou the ear 
 
 Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
 Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more- 
 He is an evening reveller, who makes 
 
 His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
 
 At intervals, some bird from out the brakes, 
 
 Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
 
 There seems a floating whisper on the hill, 
 
 But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
 
 All silently their tears of love instil. 
 
 Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
 Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 
 
 All heaven and earth are still— though uot in sleep- 
 But breathless as we grow when feeling most; 
 And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — 
 All heaven and earth are still : From the high host 
 Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, 
 All is concentred in a life intense, 
 Where not a beam nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
 But hath a part of being, and a sense 
 Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 
 
 Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
 In solitude, when we are least alone ; 
 A truth, which through our being tben doth melt 
 And purifies from self; it is a tone, 
 The soul and source of music, which makes known 
 Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
 Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, 
 Binding all things with beauty ;— 'twould disarm 
 The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. 
 
 The sky is chang'd!— and such a change ! O night f* 
 
 And storm, and darkness, ye are wonderous strong, 
 
 Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
 
 Of a dark eye in woman \ Far along, 
 
 From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
 
 * The thunder-storm to Which these lines refer, occurred on the 16th of 
 June, 1816, at midnight. I have seen among the Acroceraunian moun. 
 tains of Chimari several more terrible, but none more beautiful. 
 
BYRON. 339 
 
 Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
 But every mountain now hath found a tougue, 
 And Jura auswers through her misty shroud 
 Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 
 
 And this is in the night : — Most glorious night '. 
 Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
 A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
 A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
 How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
 And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
 Aud now again 'tis black — and now, the glee 
 Of the loud hills shakes with its rnouutain-mirth, 
 As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 
 
 Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye! 
 With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
 To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
 Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll 
 Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
 Of what in me is sleepless, —if I rest 
 But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? 
 Are ye like those within the human breast? 
 Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest f 
 
 Could I embody and unbosom now 
 That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
 My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
 Soul, heart, mind, passion, feelings, strong or weak, 
 All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
 Bear, know, feel and yet breathe — into one word, 
 And that one word were Lightning, I would speak ; 
 But as it is, I live aud die unheard, 
 With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. 
 
 DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 
 
 Such was the privilege ol this illustrious young lady, such the 
 •charter annexed to her quality and virtue, that death appeared to 
 consecrate her value, and inscribe upon the hearts of the people 
 the lesson which her short life had afforded them. Upon no oc- 
 casion which the world has yet witnessed has so numerous a por- 
 tion of mankind united in one spontaneous expression of homage 
 h2 
 
MO THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 to virtue — plain and christian virtue — humble, charitable, and! du- 
 tiful. It is quite new in the moral world to see a great and mighty 
 nation erect itself in an attitude of religious sorrow, under an in- 
 fliction not touching their own doors, or alarming their personal 
 or selfish fears; interesting indeed the finest sympathies of our 
 nature, and perplexing the future with some apprehensions of pos- 
 sible danger, but accompanied by none of those circumstances of 
 terror which have often produced among the godless and heartless 
 the fever of temporary devotion : it is new, and interesting, and 
 edifying, and august, to behold a luxurious, prosperous, victorious 
 people, brought to self- recollection and prayer, and a humble re- 
 cognition of the divine wisdom of Providence, by a loss which, to 
 feel it in all its bearings, requires both sensibility, and loyalty, 
 and a spirit of sober reflection. — Our loss, indeed, has all the cha- 
 racter of a personal misfortune. Something emphatically British 
 distinguished the deportment of this amiable personage. Every 
 man and woman of the laud has lost a relation : the tie was a do- 
 mestic one.— Local affections, home delights, unstudied care, de- 
 corous familiarity, hospitable intercourse with neighbours, and 
 charity that came in contact with its object, however humble, or 
 old, or poor, were the pledges of her future greatness, the earnest 
 of a magnanimous reign and beneficent sway, secure in its natural 
 titles to the homage of gratitude, and of the free subjection of the 
 heart. Something so warm and womanly, something so natively 
 noble, so much soul, so much reality, so much natural relish, and 
 such heartiness of sentiment, have rarely been coupled with so 
 many artificial accomplishments, or survived a culture so studious 
 and elaborate. Her part, indeed, was difficult to sustain with all 
 eyes upon her conduct : from this fiery ordeal, nevertheless, she 
 came out blameless, not by management, or artifice, or study, but 
 a conduct above display, and even superior to her great station, — 
 by making the Bible her monitor, aud living in the cheerful dis- 
 charge of the duties of an elevated christian. 
 
 British Review, February, 1818. 
 
BYRON. 341 
 
 Hark. 1 forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
 A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
 Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
 With some deep and immedicable wound : 
 Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground. 
 The gulph is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
 Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd, 
 And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
 She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields uo relief. 
 
 Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou, 
 Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? 
 Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
 Some less majestic, less beloved head ? 
 In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
 The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 
 Death hush'd that pang for ever ; with thee fled 
 The present happiness and promised joy, 
 Which fill'd th' imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. 
 
 Peasants bring forth in safety, — can it be, 
 Oh ! thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 
 Those that weep not for kings shall weep for thee, 
 And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 
 Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd 
 Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
 Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord, 
 And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
 The husband of a year i the father of the dead 1 
 
 Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
 The bridal's fruit is ashes ; in the dust 
 The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
 The love of millions! How we did entrust 
 Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
 Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
 Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
 Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 
 Like stars to shepherds' eyes : 'twas but a meteor beam'd. 
 
 Woe unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : 
 The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
 Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, 
 Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
 Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
 Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate 
 Which troubles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung 
 Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
 Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late. 
 
 ii 3 
 
342 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 These might have been her destiny ; but no, 
 Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair, 
 Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
 But now a bride and mother — and now there > 
 How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
 From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast; 
 It link'd th' electric chain of that despair, 
 Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest 
 The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF AN ITALIAN EVENING. 
 
 This description may seem fantastical or exaggerated to those 
 who have never seen an Oriental or an Italian sky, yet it is but a 
 literal and hardly sufficient delineation of an evening in August 
 contemplated along the banks of the Brenta, near La Mira. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 The Moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
 Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea 
 Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
 Of blue FriulPs mountains ; Heaven is free 
 From clouds, but of all colours seems to be ; 
 Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 
 Where the Day joins the past Eternity; 
 While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
 Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest I 
 
 A single star is at her side, and reigns 
 With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still, 
 Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
 Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhsetian hill, 
 As Day and Night contending were, until 
 Nature reclaim'd her order; — gently flows 
 The deep died Brenta, where their hues instil, 
 The odorous purple of a new-born rose, 
 Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glows. 
 
 Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, 
 Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, 
 From the rich sunset to the rising star, 
 Their magical variety diffuse : 
 And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
 Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day 
 Dies like a dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
 With a new colour as it gasps away, 
 The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is gray. 
 
BYRON. 343 
 
 GREECE. 
 
 The magic name of Greece is always accompanied with emotions 
 of admiration arid regret. Long have we contemplated that coun- 
 try through the medium of her poets and historians, her philoso- 
 phers and orators, and have thence learned, from our infancy, to 
 glow at a name consecrated by every elegant and classic allusion. 
 We have walked and reasoned with the sages of her academic 
 groves ; we have followed her animated crowds to the scenes of 
 forensic or theatrical eloquence ; we have paced her marble tem- 
 ples, and felt all the powers of fancy, of thought, and of feeling, 
 entranced by the splendid forms of architecture and sculpture, 
 which have burst every moment upon the imagination. Every 
 great idea, elevated sensation, even every imperfect reminiscence, 
 has seemed to assume a local habitation, and a name. — Not a 
 state, or city, or mountain, or river, can occur to the memory, 
 without bringing with it the recollection of deeds and personages 
 of heroic fame. It is a world of enchantments ; we forget ourselves 
 and all around us, and seem inspired with new souls and new 
 bodies, the moment we touch in idea this Elysiau ground, this land 
 of ever-pleasing delights and fascinating associations. — At the name 
 of Greece are awakened the loveliest ideas of beauty, the proudest 
 conceptions of sublimity, the loftiest aspirations of liberty ; in a 
 word, all that fires, or exalts, or expands the soul ; all that adds 
 elasticity and ardour to mortal energies, and gives to the ordinary 
 passions aud pursuits of men an aspect of poetical dignity and 
 mental elevation. 
 
 British Review, August, 1817. 
 
 Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 
 Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great ! 
 "Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, 
 And long accustom'd bondage uncreate ? 
 Not such thy sons who whilom did await, 
 The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
 In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — 
 Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
 Leap from Eurota's banks, and call thee from the tomb r 
 
344 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow,* 
 Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
 Could'st thou forbode the dismal hour, which now 
 Dims the green beauties of thuie Attic plain ? 
 Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 
 But every carle can lord it o'er thy land; 
 Nor rise thy sons, but idhy rail in vain, 
 Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, 
 From birth till death enslav'd : in word, in deed uninaun'c 
 
 In all, save form alone, how chang'd ! and who 
 That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, 
 Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew, 
 With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty ! 
 And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
 That gives them back their father's heritage ; 
 For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, 
 Nor sorely dare encounter hostile rage, 
 Or tear the name defiled from slavery's mournful page. 
 
 Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 
 Who wnuld be free themselves must strike the blow ? 
 By their right arms the conquest must be wrought ; 
 Will Gaul, or Muscovite redress ye ? no ! 
 True, she may lay your proud despoilers low, 
 But, not for you will Freedom's altars flame. 
 Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
 Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ; 
 The glorious day is o'er but not thy years of shame. 
 
 And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, 
 Land of lost gods and godlike men ! art thou ! 
 Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow 
 Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now ! 
 Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
 Commiugliug slowly with heroic earth, 
 Broke by the share of every rustic plough ; 
 So perish monuments of mortal birth, 
 So perish all in turn, save well recorded Worth ; 
 
 Save where some solitary column mourns 
 Above its prostrate brethren of the cave; f 
 
 * Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, was seized by 
 Tbrasybuluw previous to the expulsion of the Thirty. 
 
 t Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was dug that constructed 
 the public edifices of Athens. The modern name is Mount Mendeli. An 
 immense cave formed by the quarries still remains, and will to the end of 
 time. 
 
BYRON. 345 
 
 Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
 Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave : 
 Save o'er some warrior's half forgotten grave, 
 Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
 Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, 
 While strangers only not regardless pass, 
 Lingering like me perchance, to gaze, and sigh " Alas !" 
 
 Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; 
 Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, 
 Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smil'd, 
 And still its honied wealth Hymettus yields ; 
 There the blythe bee his fragrant fortiess builds, 
 The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air ; 
 Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 
 Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare : 
 Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. 
 
 Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground : 
 No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, 
 But one vast realm of wonder, spreads around, 
 And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
 'Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
 The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
 Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold 
 Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone : 
 Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. 
 
 THE GREEK BARD'S SONG. 
 
 The isles of Greece, the isles of Gn ece ! 
 
 Where burning Sappho lov'd and sung, 
 Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 
 
 Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
 But all, except their sun, is &et. 
 
 The Scian and the Teian muse, 
 The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 
 
 Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
 Their place of birth alone is mute 
 
 To sounds which echo further west 
 
 Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." 
 
346 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 The mountains look on Marathon — 
 And Marathon looks on the sea; 
 
 And musing there an hour alone, 
 
 I dream'd that Greece might still be free; 
 
 For standing on the Persians' grave, 
 
 I could not deem myself a slave. 
 
 A king sat on the rocky brow 
 
 Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 
 
 And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
 And men in nations ; — all were his ! 
 
 He counted them at break of day — 
 
 And when the sun set where were they ? 
 
 And where are they ? and where art thou, 
 My country ? On thy voiceless shore 
 
 The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
 The heroic bosom beats no more ! 
 
 And must thy lyre, so long divine, 
 
 Degenerate into hands like mine? 
 
 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
 Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 
 
 To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
 Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 
 
 For what is left the poet here ? 
 
 For Greeks a blush — for Greeks a tear. 
 
 Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 
 
 Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled ! 
 Earth! render back from out thy breast 
 
 A remnaut of our Spartan dead ! 
 Of the three hundred grant but three, 
 To make a new Thermopylae ! 
 
 What silent still ? and silent all ? 
 
 Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
 Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 
 
 And answer, — " Let one living head, 
 But one arise, — we come, we come !" 
 'Tis but the living who are dumb. 
 
 In vain — in vain : strike other chords; 
 
 Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
 Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 
 
 And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
 Hark ! rising to the' ignoble call — 
 How answers each bold bacchanal f 
 
BYRON. U: 
 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
 Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 
 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 
 The nobler and the manlier one ? 
 
 You have the letters Cadmus gave — 
 
 Think ve he meant them for a slave ? 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 We will not think of themes like these ! 
 It made Anacreon's song divine : 
 
 He serv'd — but serv'd Polycrates — 
 A tyrant ; but our masters then 
 Were still, at least, our countrymen. 
 
 The tyrant of the Chersonese 
 
 Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
 That tyrant was Miltiades ! 
 
 Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
 Another despot of the kind ! 
 Such chains as his were sure to bind. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ' 
 On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
 
 Exists the remnant of a line 
 
 Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
 
 And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
 
 The Heracleidan blood might own. 
 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks — ■ 
 They have a king who buys and sells ; 
 
 In native swords, and native ranks, 
 The only hope of courage dwells ; 
 
 But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 
 
 Would break your shield, however broad. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine, 
 Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
 
 I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
 But gazing on each glowing maid, 
 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
 
 To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 
 
 Place me on Sunium's marbled steep — 
 Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
 
 May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
 There, swan-like, let me siug and die : 
 
 A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
 
 Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 
 
348 THE POETICAL REVIEW 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF THE ASSYRIANS. 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
 And hh cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
 And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
 When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 
 
 Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
 That host with their banners at sunset were seen . 
 Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
 That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 
 
 For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
 And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
 And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, 
 And their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever grew still. 
 
 And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
 But thro' it there roll'd not the breath of his pride : 
 And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 
 
 And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
 With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 
 And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
 The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 
 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Messolonghi, January lid, 1824. 
 ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR. 
 
 The last poem he wrote was produced upon his birth-day, not 
 many weeks before he died. We consider it as one of the finest 
 and most touching effusions of his noble genius. We think he 
 who reads it, and can ever after bring himself to regard even the 
 
 . 
 
BYRON. 349 
 
 worst transgressions that have been charged against Lord Byron, 
 with any feelings but those of humble sorrow and manly pity, is 
 not deserving of the name of man. The deep and passionate strug- 
 gles with the inferior elements of his nature (and ours) which it 
 records — the lofty thirsting after purity — the heroic devotion of a 
 soul "half weary of life, because unable to believe in its own powers 
 to live up to what it so intensely felt to be, and so reverentially 
 honoured as, the right — the whole picture of this mighty spirit, 
 often darkened, but never sunk, often erring, but never ceasing to 
 
 J see and to worship the beauty of virtue — the repentance of it, the 
 anguish, the aspiration, almost stifled in despair, the whole of this 
 is such a whole, that we are sure no man can read these solemn 
 verses too often, and we recommend them for repetition, as the 
 
 J best and most conclusive of all possible answers, whenever the 
 name of Byron is insulted by those who permit themselves to 
 forget nothing in his life and writings but the good. 
 
 Blackwood's Magazine, February, 1825. 
 
 'Tis time this heart should be unmov'd, 
 
 Since others it has ceas'd to move ; 
 Yet, though I cannot be belov'd, 
 
 Still let me love. 
 
 My days are in the yellow leaf, 
 
 The flowers and fruits of love are gone, 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief, 
 
 Are mine alone. 
 
 The fire that in my bosom preys, 
 
 Is like to some volcanic isle, 
 No torch is kindled at its blaze; — 
 
 A funeral pile: 
 
 The hopes, the fears, the jealous care, 
 
 The' exalted portion of the pain, 
 And power of love I cannot share, 
 
 But wear the chain. 
 
 But 'tis not here — it is not here — 
 
 Such thoughts should shake my soul ; nor now- 
 Where glory seals the hero's bier, 
 
 Or binds his brow. 
 
 i i 
 
350 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 
 
 The sword, the banner, and the field, 
 
 Glory and Greece around us see ; 
 The Spartan borne upon his shield 
 
 Was not more free. 
 
 Awake ! not Greece ! — she is awake ! — 
 Awake my spirit ! — think thro' whom 
 My life-blood tastes its parent lake — 
 
 And then strike home 
 
 I tread reviving passions down, 
 
 Unworthy manhood — unto thee, 
 Indifferent should the smile or frown 
 Of beauty be. 
 
 If thou regret thy youth — why live ? 
 
 The land of honourable death 
 Is here — up to the field, and give 
 
 Away thy breath ! 
 
 Seek out — less often sought than found — 
 
 A soldier's grave, for thee the best. 
 Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
 And take thy rest. 
 
 
GLOSSARY TO BURNS'S POEMS. 
 
 A', all. 
 Ae, one. 
 Agley, wrong. 
 Aiblins, perhaps. 
 Amaist, almost. 
 Ava', at all. 
 
 Ba', ball. 
 
 Bairns, children. 
 
 Baws'nt, having a white stripe 
 
 down the face. 
 Beets, adds fuel to. 
 Belyve, by and by. 
 Ben, an inner-room, parlour, 
 Ben Lomond, a noted mountain 
 
 in Dumbartonshire. 
 Beuks, books. The Devil's 
 
 pictur'd beuks, cards. 
 Bield, a shelter. 
 Bien, wealthy, plentiful. 
 Big, to build. 
 Biggin, building. 
 Billie, a young fellow. 
 Birk, birch. 
 Blate, bashful. 
 Brae, the slope of a hill. 
 Brattle, a short race, hurry. 
 Braw, fine. 
 Breckan, fern. 
 Brent, smooth. 
 
 Brock, a badger. 
 
 Bum-clock, a humming beetle 
 
 that flies in the summer 
 
 evening. 
 Burn, water, a rivulet. 
 But, without. 
 Byre, a cow-stable, a sheep-pen. 
 
 Ca', call. 
 
 Ca's, calls. 
 
 Ca'the pleugh, drive the plough. 
 
 Cannie, gentle. 
 
 Cantie, cheerful. 
 
 Cartes, cards. 
 
 Chiels, young fellows. 
 
 Chimla-lug, the fire-side. 
 
 Claes, clothes. 
 
 Coil, from Kyle, a district of 
 Argyleshire ; so called, ac- 
 cording to tradition, from 
 Coil, or Coilus, a Pietish 
 monarch. 
 
 Collie, a country cur 
 
 Coofs, blockheads. 
 
 Cozie, snug 
 
 Crackin, conversing. 
 
 Cranreuch, the hoar-frost. 
 
 Crouse, merry, cheerful. 
 
 Daflin, merriment, foolishness. 
 
 i2 
 
352 
 
 GLOSSARY TO BURNS'S POEMS. 
 
 Daft, giddy, foolish. 
 Daimen-icker, an ear of corn 
 
 now and then. 
 Darg, day's work. 
 Drumlie, muddy. 
 Duddie, ragged. 
 Dundee, Martyrs, Elgin, names 
 
 of sacred melodies. 
 
 Ee, the eye. 
 Een, the eves. 
 Eydent, diligent. 
 
 Fain, happy. 
 Fash, to trouble. 
 Fasht, troubled. 
 Fawsont, decent. 
 Feg, a fig. 
 Fell, keen. 
 Ferlie, wonder. 
 
 Fient haet, a petty oath of ne- 
 gation. 
 Fier, sound. 
 Flichterin, fluttering. 
 Flunkies, livery- servants. 
 Foggage, after-grass. 
 Forgathered, met. 
 Fu', full. 
 
 Gae, go. 
 
 Gaed, went. 
 
 Gang, go. 
 
 Gars, makes. 
 
 Gash, sagacious. 
 
 Gaucie, large. 
 
 Gaun, going. 
 
 Gear, riches, goods of any kind. 
 
 Geordie, a guinea. 
 
 Glen, a dale, deep valley. 
 
 Glinted, peeped. 
 
 Gloaming, the twilight. 
 
 Glowr, stare 
 
 Gowan, the flower of the daisy, 
 
 dandelion, &c. 
 Grushie, thriving. 
 
 Ha' bible, the great bible that 
 
 lies in the hall. 
 Ha' folk, hall folk, servants. 
 Hae, have. 
 
 Haffets, the temples, the sides 
 of the head. 
 
 Hafflins, partly. 
 
 Hald, home. 
 
 Hallan, a partition wall in a cot- 
 tage, or more properly, a 
 seat of turf on the outside. 
 
 Hawkie, a cow, properly one 
 with a .vhite face. 
 
 Histie, dry. 
 
 Hizzies, young women. 
 
 Howkit, digged. 
 
 Howkin, digging. 
 
 Hurdies, the loins. 
 
 Ilka, each, every. 
 
 Indentin, making a bargain, or 
 
 selling his vote for seven 
 
 years. 
 Ingle, fire, fire-place. 
 
 Jauk, dally. 
 Jo, a sweetheart. 
 
 Kain, fowls, &c. paid as rent by 
 
 a farmer. 
 Kebbuck, cheese. Weel-hain'd 
 
 kebbuck, well kept cheese. 
 Keeks, peeps. 
 Ken, to know. 
 Kirn, the harvest supper. 
 Knowe, a small round hillock. 
 Kye, cows. 
 
 Laithfu', sheepish. 
 
 Lane, lone. Thy lane, thyself 
 
 alone. 
 Lap, leaped. 
 
 Lave, the rest, the others. 
 Lear, learning. 
 Limmer, a kept mistress. 
 Lint, flax. Sin' lint was i' the 
 
 bell, Since flax was in 
 
 flower. 
 Lintwhite, a linnet. 
 Loan, the place of milking. 
 Loup, leap. 
 Lugs, ears. 
 Luntin, smoking. 
 Lyart, gray. 
 
GLOSSARY TO BURNS'S POEMS. 
 
 353 
 
 Mair, more. 
 Maim, must. 
 Messin, a small dog. 
 Moudiworts, moles. 
 
 Naigies, horses. 
 Nappy, ale. 
 
 Ouie, any. 
 Owre, over. 
 Owsen, oxen. 
 
 Pattle, a plough -staff. 
 
 Pechan, the stomach. 
 
 Pit, put. 
 
 Platie, a saucer. 
 
 Pleugh, a plough. 
 
 Poiud, to seize ou cattle, or take 
 
 the goods, for rent. 
 Poortith, poverty. 
 
 Ream, cream. 
 Rew, repent, or hav 
 Rin, run. 
 
 Pity- 
 
 run, iuij. 
 
 Rowtiu, lowing. 
 
 Sae, so. 
 
 Sair, sore, hard. 
 
 Sheugh, a ditch, trench, sluice. 
 
 Sic, such. 
 
 Smiddie, a smithy, cr smith's 
 
 workshop. 
 Smytrie, a numerous collection 
 
 of small individuals. 
 Snash, abuse. 
 Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box. 
 Snell, bitter. 
 Suowkit, scented. 
 Sonsie, engaging. 
 Sowth, to try over a tune with a 
 
 low whistle. 
 Sowther, cemeut. 
 Spier, to ask, to inquire. 
 Stacher, stagger. 
 Stechin, crammiug. 
 Steeks, stitches. 
 Steer, molest. 
 
 Stents, dues of any kind. 
 
 Stoure, dust, dust in motion. 
 
 Stown, stolen. 
 
 Stroan, to water. 
 
 Sugh, the continued rushing 
 
 noise of a strong wind. 
 Swirl, curve. 
 Syne, since, then. 
 
 Tawted, having the hair matted 
 
 together. 
 Tent, heed. 
 Tentie, cautious. 
 Thack, thatch. Thack and rape, 
 
 clothing necessaries. 
 Thae, these. 
 Thole, endure. 
 Thrave, a shock of corn. 
 TilPt, to it. 
 Timmer, timber. 
 Tint, lost. 
 Touzie, shaggy. 
 Tewmond, a twelvemonth. 
 Trash trie, trash. 
 Tryste, to make an appointment. 
 Twal, twelve. 
 Tyke, a dog. 
 
 Unco, very, strange. 
 Uncos, news. 
 
 Wa', wall. 
 
 Wa's, walls. 
 
 Wad, would. 
 
 Wales, selects. 
 
 Wastrie, prodigality. 
 
 Weans, children. 
 
 Weet, rain, wetness. 
 
 Westlin, West country. 
 
 Whalpit, whelped. 
 
 Whyles, sometimes. 
 
 Wifie, an endearing term for 
 
 wife. 
 Win's, winds. 
 
 Yont, beyond. 
 
 Flatt & Todd, Printers, Courant Office, Sheffield. 
 
ERRATA. 
 
 Page 24— last line but 3, for fuer, rend fur. 
 
 56— for aged 53, read aged 52. 
 
 57— last line but 13, for differing, read different. 
 138 — fortieth line, for from, read when. 
 211— last line but one, for breaths, read breathes. 
 246 — fourth line, for unsettling, read unsetting. 
 217 — seventh line, for misfortunes, lead misfortune. 
 
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