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the earliest poetry of every nation must have been lost in the darkness and ignorance of those ages in which it arose. But that the earliest language of uncivilized man is poetical, and that the poetry thus formed is abounding in expressions of uncommon eloquence and beauty, all that has been preserved to us of the aboriginal poetry of those countries which are now civilized, and many fragments which travellers have collected amongst nations, at the present moment in a barbarous state, do most fully prove. Need we re fer here to the poetry of our native Ossian,-to the figurative and striking eloquence in the harangues of the North American savages, to the odes and war songs of the Danish and Scandinavian nations,-to the song of the Laplander as he turns his reindeer to the cottage of his mistress, or the lullaby of the Finland woman as she sings to her sleeping infant? The examples of Ossian must be familiar to every reader. Perhaps the following fine description of the Celtic Paradise is not so.

"The Isle spread large before me like a pleasing dream of the soul, where distance fades not on the sight: where nearness fatigues not the eye. It had its gently sloping hills of green, nor did they wholly want their clouds. But the clouds were bright and transparent and each involved in its bosom the source of a stream: a beauteous stream, which, wandering down the steep, was like the faint notes of the half touched harp to the distant ear. The valleys were open free to the ocean: trees loaded with leaves which scarcely waved to the light breeze, were scattered on the green declivities and rising grounds. The rude winds walked not on the mountain: no storm took its course through the sky-all was calm and bright: the pure sun of autumn shone from the sky on the fields: he hastened not to the west for repose, nor was he seen to rise in the east. He sits in his noon-day height, and looks obliquely on the noble isle."

"In each valley is its slow-moving stream. The pure waters swell over

"The three requisites of Genius." "An eye to see Nature,-a heart to feel it, and a resolution that dares follow it."

the banks, yet abstain from the fields. On the rising hills are the halls of the departed; the high-roofed dwellings of the heroes of old."

We have mentioned the poetical language of the American Indians. In illustration of this we may quote a very beautiful anecdote which is preserved by M. de St Lambert. Were we to attempt to abridge it, some of its finest pathetic features would be lost. It will be better to transcribe it as literally translated from the original.

During the war a company of Indians attacked a small body of British troops and defeated them. Few of the British escaped, and those who fell into their hands were treated with the greatest cruelty. Two of the Indians came up to a young man and attacked him with great fury. Another Indian came up who was advanced in years, and armed with a bow and arrows. The old man instantly drew his bow, but after having taken ain at the officer, he suddenly dropt the point of his arrow, and interposed between him and his pursuers. They retired with respect. The old man then took the officer by the hand, soothed him into confidence by caresses, and having conducted him to his hut, treated him with a kindness which did honour to his professions.

"He made him less a slave than a companion, taught him the language of the country, and instructed him in the rude arts that are practised by the inhabitants. They lived together in the most perfect harmony; and the officer, in the treatment he met with, found nothing to regret, but that sometimes the old man fixed his eyes upon him, and after having regarded him for some time with a steady and silent attention, burst into tears.

"In the mean time the spring returned, and the Indians again took the field. The old man, who was still vigorous, set out with them, and was accompanied by his prisoner. They marched above 200 leagues across the forest, and came at length to the plain where the British troops were encamped. The old man shewed his prisoner the tents at a distance.

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There,' said he, are thy countrymen, there are the enemy who wait to give us battle. Remember that I have saved thy life: that I have taught thee to conduct a canoe: to arm thyself with a bow and arrows: and to

surprise the beaver in the forest. What wast thou when I first took thee to my hut? Thy hands were those of an infant; they could procure thee neither subsistence nor safety. Thy soul was in utter darkness: thou wast ignorant of every thing. Thou owedst all things to me. Wilt thou go over to thy nation and take up the hatchet against us?' The of ficer replied, that he would rather lose his own life than turn himself against his deliverer. The Indian bending down his head, and covering his face with his hand, stood some time silent. Then looking earnestly at the prisoner, he said in a voice which was at once softened by tenderness and grief, 'Hast thou a father?' 6 My father, said the

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" young man, was alive when I left my country.' Alas,' said the Indian, how wretched must he be.' He paused a moment, and then added, Dost thou know that I have been a father-I am a father no more. I saw my son fall in battle, he fell at my side, he was covered with wounds when he fell at my feet.' He pronounced these words with the utmost vehemence. His body shook with a universal tremor. He was almost stifled with sighs, which he would not suffer to escape him. There was a keen restlessness in his eyes, but no tears flowed to their relief. At length he became calm by degrees, and turning towards the east where the sun had just risen, Dost thou see,' said he to the young officer, dost thou see the beauty of that sky which sparkles with prevailing day, and hast thou pleasure in the sight? Yes,' replied the officer, I have pleasure in the beauty of so fine a day.' I have none,' said the Indian, and his tears then found their way. A few minutes after he showed the officer a Magnolia in full bloom. Dost thou see," said he, that beautiful tree, and dost thou look with pleasure on it?' "Yes,' replied the officer, I look with pleasure on that beautiful tree.' I have no longer any pleasure in looking on it,' replied the Indian has tily; and immediately added, Go, return to thy father, that he may have pleasure when he sees the sun rise in the morning, and the trees blossom in the spring.'

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It would be impertinent to offer any remarks on this beautiful picture. There are few, very few, who will not

feel the full force of it, who will not be sensible that the whole conduct and language of the old Indian is full of poetry.

We have no doubt that another cause of this metaphorical tone and high wrought poetical expression, assumed by the first compositions of savage. nations, is to be discovered in the prevalence of the language of signs amongst them in their earlier periods. In the first attempts towards any thing like language, in their first efforts to make themselves understood by each other, all savages have recourse to signs, to what Degerando has termed the language of Analogy." If they are desirous of showing a friendly disposition, they have recourse to the symbols of those actions which would be used by none but those who were on terms of peace and amity with each other. They present either the branch of some green tree, or come forward with flowers in their hands, which they hold out to those they wish to conciliate, or they bring in their rude chair of state, and invite their enemy to sit down in it. If they wish to express hostility, they brandish their hatchets, and strike their breasts with their palms, and throw their bodies into attitudes of defiance or contempt. Such is the beginning of the language of signs, and there can be little doubt, that previous to the language of expression having attained any thing like perfection, this language of signs must have made great progress, and they who are accustomed to observe the common performers of pantomime, to the dumb show of any great dramatic actor, or even to the graceful and expressive gestures of children, will have some idea of the perfection to which it must have been carried by those who at first had nothing to supply its place. Now, there can be little doubt, that in this universal and nccessary prevalence of the language of signs, we are to find one cause of the prevalence of metaphor, and the figurative and hyperbolical style in the spoken language, and early poetry of all nations. Metaphors and figures are, in fact, nothing else than the last

Degerando, Des Signes et de l'Art de Penser, c. v.-Institution du Langage.— A most ingenious and eloquent chapter on the Formation of Language.

retiring footsteps of the language of signs. They are the traces which this first invention of the human race has left of its influence on the great fabric of spoken language. To extend the olive branch of peace, to take up the hatchet of war, to sit down in the chair of friendship, are all (along with many others which will be familiar to most readers) expressions common in the language of early nations. It is from this circumstance that even the common conversation, and still more the harangues of these nations, are so highly poetical, and it is to this cause, the lingering of the language of signs in the language of expression, that we ought to ascribe much of the vigour and of the beautiful imagery of early poetry. This language of signs would, it is evident, be adopted more extensively by those nations whose passions were most easily roused, and the most violent in their effects. The more agitated the mind of the speaker is, the more impatient is he of the control of language, and the more naturally has he recourse to gesticulation. The nations of the East (from whatever cause, whether the heat of the climate, or some peculiarities in their physical organization) have always been observed to be more violently moved by their passions, by love, hate, revenge, than those of the South. In proportion to this difference, they must have resorted more naturally at first to this language of gesture, and have continued it longer than the nations inhabiting colder climates; and we accordingly find, that one of the most prominent features in the Eastern languages, is that plenitude of metaphor which gives so characteristic an air of beauty and brilliancy to their poetry, a circumstance which may be explained by the fact, that this language of gesticulation was more easily adopted, more commonly used, and retained for a longer time by them, than by their southern neighbours. This early prevalence of metaphor will be found in the first poetry even of the most northern nations. What can be finer than these words which were sung, as we may believe, in a low plaintive voice, by a Finland mother when rocking her child to sleep?

"Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bird of the meadow, take thy rest, little redbreast, take thy rest. God shall a

wake thee in his own good time, and he has made thee a little bough to repose thee on, a bough canopied with the leaves of the birch tree. Sleep stands at the door, and says, Is there not a little child here asleep in the cradle-a little child wrapt up in swaddling clothes-a child reposing under a coverlet of wool?" Many examples might be given to illustrate the same subject. The speech of Logan, the American Indian, whose whole family had been murdered by the British. "There flows not one drop of Logan's blood in the veins of any human being." The song of the African woman in Mungo Park's Tra vels, the bold expressions and magnificent imagery which pervades the early Runic poetry, all point the same way, and prove the same thing. To accumulate examples would tend to fatigue rather than to convince. Here then we close this subject, but we shall proceed, in a second Essay, to consider the early connection which took place between Poetry and Music, the marriage of Music to immortal Verse, and the effects which resulted from this noble alliance.

W.

REMARKS ON MARCIAN COLONNA.

It

THE poetry of Barry Cornwall has already been duly appreciated. seldom aims at any high flights, and is constructed of no very sturdy materials; but it is extremely perfect within its own range: it expresses with excellent effect all the particulars of the softer passions, and yet it is chiefly in the repose of passion, when it the point of satisfaction or of despair, can look back upon itself, either from that the genius of this elegant poet is

most at home. He is admirable in his the love that is agitated by every vapictures of love; but it is not, so much, ried emotion of hope, or jealousy, or alarm, it is rather that state of their mutual confessions, and forgetting the passion when lovers are making all their past pains and doubts, in the blessed assurance of united hearts and

favouring fortune, or when death has put an end to every hope at once,

An Italian Tale, with Three Dramatic Scenes, and other Poems. By Barry

Cornwall. London, 1820.

and solitary melancholy is all that remains to the survivor. We think it is in sketches of this kind that Mr Cornwall's forte lies, and in these, indeed, he is, probably, unrivalled.

He dallies with the innocence of love
Like the old time;

and the fine antique air of his versification and expression, borrowed from the tenderer parts of our old dramatists, and reflecting, at times, the glow of classical or Italian imagery, is admirably adapted to the simple pathos of his conceptions. We will own, therefore, that it is on such passages of his present poem,-although an attempt of a higher kind, and aiming at a wider range of emotion, than any of his former productions, that we still delight to pause. We are not particularly attached to his mad hero, or to his more laboured descriptions, which are introduced with somewhat

We are

too evident an ambition. much better pleased with his Julia, and her natural tenderness-and it is rather to her than to her lover that

we shall call the attention of our

readers.

Marcian, the second son of a noble Italian family, was confined in a convent by his parents, who cared for nothing but their first-born, and who were very happy, from Marcian's evident tendency to insanity, to find a pretext for putting him out of the way.

Then looks of love were seen, and many a sigh

Was wasted on the air, and some aloud Talked of the pangs they felt and swore to die :She, like the solitary rose that springs In the first warmth of summer days, and flings

A perfume the more sweet because aloneJust bursting into beauty, with a zone Half girl's half woman's, smiled and then Those gentle things to which she answered forgot

not.

But when Colonna's heir bespoke her hand, And led her to the dance, she question'd why

His brother joined not in that revelry: Careless he turned aside and did command Loudly the many instruments to sound, And well did that young couple tread the ground:

Each step was lost in each accordant note, Which thro' the palace seemed that night to float.

As merrily, as tho' the Satyr-god
With his inspiring reed, (the mighty Pan,)
Had left his old Arcadian woods, and trod
Piping upon the shores Italian.

Again she asked in vain: yet, as he
turned

(The

brother) from her, a fierce colour

burned

Upon his cheek, and fading left it pale
As death, and half proclaimed the guilty

tale.

She dwelt upon that night till pity grew
Into a wilder passion: the sweet dew
That linger'd in her eye for pity's sake,'
Was (like an exhalation in the sun)
Dried and absorbed by love. Oh ! love
can take

They left him to his prison, and then What shape he pleases, and when once

returned;

And festal sounds were heard, and songs

were sung,

begun

His fiery inroad in the soul, how vain
The after-knowledge which his presence

gives!

And all around the walls were garlands We weep or rave, but still he lives and

hung

As usual, and gay censers brightly burned In the Colonna palace. He was missed By none, and when his mother fondly kis

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This is remarkably soft and beautiful, and although the poet immediately subjoins, now may we seek Colonna," we are really not disposed to seek him, nor have we any satisfaction in his maniac extravagantimes visits and soothes him; it arose cies. A heavenly vision, indeed, somefrom the dim recollection of Julia, but his own vivid imagination embodied these faint traces of remembrance, almost, into a living image. His brother, meanwhile, died, and he is sent for to cheer the solitude of his de

spairing parents, his mind having gradually resumed a calmer and firmer tone. His chief delight row, was in wandering about the ruins of Rome. -One morning, as he lay half listlessly Within the shadow of a column, where His forehead met such gusts of cooling air As the bright summer knows in Italy, A gorgeous cavalcade went thundering by, Dusty and worn with travel: As it passed Some said the great Count had returned, at last,

From his long absence upon foreign lands: 'Twas told that many countries he had

seen,

(He and his lady daughter,) and had been A long time journeying on the Syrian sands, And visited holy spots, and places where The Christian roused the Pagan from his lair,

And taught him charity and creeds divine, By spilling his bright blood in Palestine.

Vitelli and his child returned at last, After some years of wandering. Julia Had been betrothed and widow'd

Her husband Orsini, to whom she had been given much against her will, was a brute and a tyrant, but, to the great delight of all connected with him, was drowned, one fine day, when he was sailing along the sea in his pleasure barge. At least, as our poet says,-" This was the tale.'

And Julia saw the youth she loved

again:

But he was now the great Colonna's heir, And she whom he had left so young and

fair,

A few short years ago, was grown, with pain

Of thoughts unutter'd, (a heart-eating care,) Pale as a statue. When he met her first He gazed and gasped as tho' his heart

would burst.

Her figure came before him like a dream
Revealed at morning, and a sunny gleam
Broke in upon his soul and lit his eye
With something of a tender prophecy.
And was she then the shape he oft had seen,
By day and night,-she who had such
strange power

Over the terrors of his wildest hour?
And was it not a phantom that had been
Wandering about him ? Oh with what deep

fear

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And he rushed forth into the fresh'ning air, Which kissed and played about his temples bare,

And he grew calm. Not unobserved he fled,

For she who mourned him once as lost and dead,

Saw with a glance, as none but women see, His secret passion, and home silently She went rejoicing, till Vitelli asked 'Wherefore her spirit fell,'-and then she tasked

Her fancy for excuse wherewith to hide Her thoughts, and turn his curious gaze

aside.

There is nothing more tremendously difficult, than to get lovers in certain circumstances to speak out. They will fly from one another to the most distant points of the compass, rather than secure their happiness by a simple meeting, and one or two little words. There is certainly in the magnetic virtue, which draws them together, a great repelling power likewise,-feelings of the most extraordinary nature, which commonly occur, too, on the most mal-a-propos occasions, are for ever throwing them out, and particularly, if there is, on one side, a vein of insanity to manage, as was the impossible to bring them to the point. case with poor Marcian, it is almost Julia, no doubt, was nothing loath, and, being a widow, we may suppose, she had no maiden bashfulness to give her lover unnecessary trouble; but Colonna would rather muse upon her image in his old odd way, in his favourite walks, than venture into her company, which he might have done, any day, merely by crossing the street.

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His mind, a phantom like companion; Yet, with that idle dread with which the heart

Stifles its pleasures, he would ever depart And loiter long amongst the streets of

Rome,

When she, he feared, might visit at his home.

A strange and sad perverseness; he did fear To part with that pale hope which shone at

last

Glimmering upon his fortunes.

B

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