To see the heath-flower wither'd on the hill, To note the red leaf shivering on the spray, To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain, On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way, And moralize on mortal joy and pain?— Oh! if such scenes thou lovest, scorn not the minstrel strain !" Introduction to "The Lord of the Isles." ciously dwells on one afflicting train of thoughts, and believes himself always some one imaginary and unfortunate character. Yet he allows, that, especially in his lordship's last productions, (Canto Third of "Childe Harold," the "Dream," and the "Darkness,") the noble author has evinced a power of working on, and drawing from, his own peculiar emotions to such advan tage, that it would be the height of injustice to deny them a high degree of praise, as being perhaps the most singular compositions that have ever appeared. But one of the most favourite propensities of my friend is to discover merit in authors that are now seldom or never thought of. Like many persons, whose tempers are sour But he roundly asserts, that the reputation of Scott with the many has arisen from his unequalled power as a contriver of plots, not as a poet. In the same way, he seems to believe, that Lord Byron owed his reputation at first to his Childe Harold being read by many persons as a book of voyages and travels, these being always the kind of light reading held next in estimation to novels and romances. Of this noble authored by disappointed ambition, I suspect he he has rather a favourable opinion; and regrets with Lady C******* C******* that he should have renounced those influences which might have been derived from the scenery of his native land for those of distant countries. But still more he regrets, that Lord Byron has invariably drawn from his own peculiar, irritated, and personal feelings, instead of composing, or at least beginning to compose, with the tranquillity of a disengaged mind, and looking abroad on nature, or on a world of invented characters and situations. Shakespeare, whose productions have hitherto been unequalled, seems to have been himself of a calm and composed frame of mind. He could, therefore, look abroad on the world and adapt his variable and pliant faculties to varied situations, and illustrate❘ them all by his own admirable powers. Lord Byron's compositions, on the contrary, are too much like the dreams of an unhappy man of disordered intellects, who pertina rather murmurs at the reputation of celebrated contemporaries, and in this respect is inclined to become an "Idoloclastes." On the other hand, he is always interested in finding out examples of merit neglected and resting in obscurity. In this mood of mind he highly praises some remarks in Headley's preface to his Selection of Early English Poetry. It is there asserted that the earlier productions of any nation are always, for important reasons, the best, inasmuch as they are not drawn from previous models of composition, but from Nature herself. The poet having then few or no preceding authors to guide him, is unavoidably origi. nal, and draws from the genuine sources afforded by Nature; not from imitation of the works of precursors or contemporaries. This may be true; but surely it does not follow, that, by the course of time, the poetical character in a nation must of necessity be deteriorated. Because, from the very same materials the operations of different powerful minds may supply boundless variety. It is most true, however, that at the period when Headley wrote, the poetical character in England had, with a very few exceptions, been for more than one hundred years obviously declining. A bad and perverted taste appeared in the reign of King Charles II. Then, wit and whimsical contrivances were mistaken for good poetry, and Milton made his way to fame slow. ly and with difficulty; nor was the circulation of his works ever such as to benefit their author in worldly affairs. Pope improved the style of versification; but he begun his literary career with a voluntary renunciation of nature and originality; or, according to his own assertion in his Essay on Criticism, having discovered that "Nature, and the Greek and Roman poets were one and the same," he began in his pastorals with a direct and confessed imitation of these authors. The melody of his verse, however, was then so novel, and its effects so pleasing, that the want of originality was overlooked; and these productions (how. ever trifling,) immediately obtained a degree of reputation which now could scarcely be obtained by a production of the same length, even though emanating from the purest and most enviable sources. In his essay on criticism, and in the preface to his poetical works, he has uniformly supported the idea that the guiding principles of a modern poet should be the constant study and imitation of the ancients. Accordingly, almost the only original attempt among his own composition is the letter from Eloisa to Abelard, which assuredly is a beautiful example of versification, and abounds with ingenuity and fancy. My friend, however, is so absolute in his dislike of Pope, that he says, this far-famed epistle is a mere tissue of despicable and unnatural concetti, which sound magnificently, and completely satisfy the minds of those readers only to whom sound and semblance are sufficient, and who do not analyse the sense of what they read. By such persons the conclusion of the eighth book of Pope's Homer (which, I confess, I was taught to admire in my. youth,) is accredited as a genuine picture from Nature! Entertaining some kindness towards the character of Pope, however, I must observe that it seems to me extremely possible that a person of sensibility and excellent talents may yet be so depraved in taste, and misled by the influence of base models, as to write verses and criticism all his life through, and yet never evince as an author the superior attributes which Nature, if unperverted in her course, would have enabled him to manifest. The admirable patience of application, and many other favourable traits of disposition recorded of Pope, render it probable that he affords an example of this kind. There is an author of the present age to whom my friend allows considerable praise; because, though he cannot admit him to be a perfect poet, yet this author has many of the primary qualities which are essential to the best poetry. In the volume of "Tales," which forms the latest production of Crabbe, he applauds the singular fertility of invention which is displayed in the almost numberless plots and charactershis faithful delineations of truth, not indeed as operated on by poetic imagination, but as it exists in itself-his flow of language and facility of versification-his orthodox and sensible morality. For my own part, I think this is an instance in which my friend has either been a careless reader, or is splenetically niggard of his approba. tion; for in the tales, for example, of the "Patron" and the "Lover's Journey," Crabbe has, in my humble opinion, evinced power which truly deserves the name of poetical, in a high, though not perhaps the very highest sense of the word. " But to return to his partiality for discovering merit in obscurity. Two of his favourite authors in this respect, are Samuel Daniel, and Francis Quarles. With respect to the former, (except in the poem of Musophilus,") I never could quite agree with my friend; but as to the second, I must allow that there are indications of considerable invention, and still more 'of patient developement. For example, if I can be allowed to quote from an author so generally despised, I might introduce the following passage: Demagoras, a lover deservedly rejected, from the vileness and atrocity of his character, converts his attachment into hatred; and finding that his mistress is loved by another whose affection she returns, takes an opportunity of destroying her beauty (which, however, is soon afterwards completely restored by a skilfull physician) by casting over her face a poisonous liquid of the most deleterious qualities, whose effects he believed would be incurable. The following is part of the dialogue which ensues at their next meeting between Argalus the favoured lover, and Parthenia the heroine: "No, no; 'twas neither brow, nor lip, nor eye, Transparent was, whose hidden worth did make No, no, my well-advised eye pierced in What others hold a blemish in thy face, Argalus and Parthenia, p. 65: I am afraid, Mr Editor, that this long speech, in which, however, I have taken the liberty to leave out some of the lines, (which may be found on referring to the original) will be thought rather tiresome, and, from the ruggedness of the verse, may perhaps be no very favourable specimen of the author. The truth is, that the style of Argalus and Parthenia" is extremely diffuse; and it is only by one who has patience to read the whole work that a proper estimate can be formed of its merits. There are no passages highly finished, and consequently few that are suitable for inser 66 tion in an article of this kind. In the variety of versification produced by double endings, his productions are very similar to the "Rimini" of Mr Leigh Hunt. But (Which mischief could not wrong) surprised my heart. enough of this black-letter author; for I Thy beauty was but like a crystal case confess I am not so partial to bibliography as my friend sometimes appears. I could wish that I had recollected at present more of his remarks on Lord Byron; a subject, in my own opinion, so interesting as not to have been exhausted by that excellent article which lately appeared in the Quarterly Review. It is proIt is probable, indeed, that a poet who is himself (at least before he begins to compose) in a state of freedom and tranquillity of mind, and who has thus all his faculties at command, is likely to form a more perfect and lasting example of the poetical character than one who draws only from his own irritated, peculiar, and perhaps morbid feelings. It is impossible, however, to withhold a very high degree of praise from the energy of language, and exuberance of imagery in the third canto of "Childe Harold ;" and in the poems entitled, "Darkness," and a " Dream," there is, if I remember right, such a display of imagination, in the highest sense of the word, that one would almost gladly submit to the imputation of madness for the sake of being able to produce such extraordinary effusions. I have no doubt, however, that my friend will be disposed to question the propriety of that degree of praise which I would myself allow to these compositions; and should this letter be judged worthy of a place in your miscellany, I shall make a point of gleaning as much in future from his remarks as possible, and transmit them to you. I think it extremely probable also, that I may be able by stratagem to secure several of his own fragments, when, as it sometimes happens, they are left partially unconsumed under the grate, or are not altogether torn into shreds so as to be quite unintelligible. I have often thought that a selection of " Desultoria," from the numberless scraps of verse and prose to which he has given birth, would have formed a work in a certain degree curious at least, and worthy of notice as a "psychological curiosity," although, in other respects, they may be of little value; for as no one train of thought is followed out, no satisfactory conclusions are ever arrived at. Yet I know not if any one is better qualified than my friend to speak from experience of the misfortunes of an acutely sensitive mind (a character by no means involving the attribute of what is commonly called good sense), placed from infancy in an uncongenial sphere. To something of this kind, if we may judge from the noble author's own confessions in various passages of Childe Harold, &c. &c. are owing the peculiar afflictions often darkly complained of by Lord Byron. If rumour says truly that this admired poet is now the inmate of a foreign monastery, perhaps the lessons of religion (of which no traces hitherto appear in his poetry,) may give a new turn to his principles. It is, perhaps, less from a difference in bodily conformation or constitution, than from an utter discrepancy of pursuits and objects of ambition that the poet often feels himself alone in the world. Every one remembers that beautiful passage, of which I shall quote only the second stanza: "But 'midst the hum, the crowd, the shock of men, With none to bless us, none whom we can bless; Of all who flatter'd, follow'd, sought, or sued, Childe Harold, Canto II. St. XXVI. The truth is, that almost every aim and object mest interesting to the mind of the |