truth: we are aware that the sublimities of Homer may be travestied; but we have annexed to Mr. Southey's intro ductory verses, a puff in the style of Doctor Solomon, and not jocularly but seriously ask our readers to decide, which of the two blank verse advertisements is the most modest, or most poetical.

Mr. Southey.

shall hear

Come, listen to a tale of times of old!
Come, for ye know me! I am he who sung
The Maid of Arc, and I am he who framed
Of Thalaba the wild and wondrous song.
Come, listen to my lay, and
How Madoc from the shores of Britain spread
The adventurous sail, explored the ocean ways,
And quelled barbarian power, and overthrew
The bloody altars of idolatry,

And planted in its fanes triumphantly—

-Come listen to my lay.

Dr. Solomon.

Come, listen to a list of cures performed!
Come, for ye know me: I am he, who cured
Maids of their achs, and I am he who framed
Of Balm of Gilead the wondrous power.
Come, listen to my cures, and ye shall hear,
The learned Doctor Solomon came o'er
From Germany. At his approach the gout,
Catarrh, rheumatic pains, and all the host
Of nervous qualms and fits were cured, and fled.
One half-a-guinea bottle will suffice

To heal all ails. Come, listen to my cures.

'COME, FOR YE KNOW ME.' Alas! here the puff poetical has a fatal resemblance to the puff medicinal.. The patient, who has not been benefited by the first phial, is not very eager to purchase a second; and he, who has read the wild and wondrous' tale of Thalaba, is the least likely person to peruse a production of the same author. Nay we positively overheard the following soliloquy by a person who was pe rusing the above quoted passage: Come, for ye know me! I am he who framed Of Thalaba the wild and wondrous song. Are you? Then I will not waste my money by purchasing your Madoc.'

Mr. Southey wears THALABA written on his forehead as a phylactery, which is to work a kind of charm in repelling censure, and in exciting admiration. He thus provokes us to examine a claim which might have passed unnoticed, and to enter into a discussion, which would otherwise have been unnecessary.

In poetry, as in philosophy, there have been various epochs, which have been marked by characteristic differences. About the beginning of the seventeenth century ap peared a race of writers, who from their strange and farfetched conceits were denominated by Dr. Johnson, Metaphysical Poets.' In the latter end of the last century it was our lot to see a tribe of bards spring up, whom we venture to distinguish by the name of REVOLUTIONARY. At the precise period when rebellion was abroad among the people, and when they were in a state of mind which regarded all order and decency as subjugation and restraint, she also reared her head among the poets, many of whom threw off the fetters of measure and rhyme, and issued a manifesto, which declared the laws of verse, as they had hitherto existed, to be vile impositions, degrading oppres sions, barbarous manacles on the energies of mind. A sort of club was instituted, in which mutual honours were bestowed, and very strong resolutions were passed against those, who persisted in shutting their eyes against the new light. Praises were reciprocally interchanged among themselves, and the opinion of the world, the unenlightened world, was set at defiance.

The imagination is fond of giving form and body to its own creations: bence poetry has been depicted on the canvass, and sculptured in maible, as a beautiful female, her form elegant and adorned with every grace, her robe spread in ornamental folds, her tresses flowing, but not dishevelled; one hand holds a musical instrument, and while the other sweeps the chords, she seems listening to the voice of inspiration, which comes from heaven. The painter or the sculptor must not so represent the muse of the close of the eighteenth century: she is a subject for the humbler art of caricature her aim was to captivate the hearts of sans-culotte admirers, and she exhibited herself in rags, and sans chemise. Her votaries forined themselves into a society, which is now dispersed, and which would not have been recalled by us to the reader's recollection, if Mr. Southey, who is the child and the champion' of this scet, had not, in proud defiance of criticism, pointed to the wonderous' tale, which bears on its title-page, as on a shield, the motto of the hero, and of his brave companions in the bold adventures of wild verse : Ποιημάτων άκρατος ἡ ἐλευθερία, καὶ νόμος εἷς, τὸ δόξαν TOT. Poetry is free, and subject to no law but the will of the poet.

By quoting this single passage from Lucian, without conpection and without comment, an insult is offered to the

#

good sense of that author. It is well known that by such garbled quotations, the sacred writers may be made advocates for every breach of the moral law; and thus Lucian is made to sanction a dereliction of all order, and rebellion against the laws of metre; whereas that sagacious philosopher's meaning is widely different. It is very distinct from that, which by prefixing the sentence to the wild song of Thalaba,, Mr. Southey would wish to attach to it. Lucian is giving precepts concerning the proper mode of writing history, in which he warns the historian against neglecting the truth for the sake of ornament, against indulging in flights of fancy instead of narrating the true circumstances of facts. He tells him, that the heroes, whose exploits are described by the historian, must be faithfully represented with all their weaknesses, their imperfections, and their vices, but that the heroes of poetic song may be endowed by the poet with all the qualities and powers of gods. He appears, by the whole tenor of his argument, to have an high idea of the graces and ornaments of poetry, and therefore observes, that if the narrator of real facts should dress history with the decora tions of poetry, it would appear as absurd as the finery of a female on the naked image of a wrestler. The great pains which he takes to caution the historian against poetic embel lishments, are proofs of his sense of their value in their proper place, but the INVENTIONS of the poet he allows to be unrestrained, and without any other bounds than those of the poet's genius. His conception of the unlimited range of poetical imagination, may be represented in spirit by a simi lar passage from Shakspeare:.

The poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling,

"

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen

Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing

A local habitation and a name.

But with respect to the laws of metre, he was so convinced of their charming and sweet influence, that he is apprehensive lest the historian should desert the plain path of truth, and the unadorned style of narration, in search of heightened graces, which will render his history like "prose upon stilts." Mr. Southey refers to Lucian's authority as an IMPRIMATUR for his own prose run mad," and in a spirit of (what perhaps he would wish to be thought) simplicity, be informs us that what has been foolishly called heroic measure, is nothing more than a regular Jew's-harp twingtwang.' If the lines of Dryden and of Pope are to be compar,

ed to the twing-twang of the Jew's harp, Mr. Southey must not accuse us of want of good mauners, if we should compare some parts of his Thalaba to the grinding of the hurdygurdy, some to the dissonant clang of marrow-bones and cleav ers, and some to the rapid rapping harmony of the salt-box. If Mr. S. be resolved that the wild and wonderous song' shall retain a motto from Lucian, he need not travel out of the same page for one, which would be much more appropriate.

Οι μὲν πολλοὶ ἴσως ταντα του ἐπαινέσον ται· οἱ ολίγοι δὲ ἐκείνοι, ὧν σὺ καταφρονείς, μάλα ἡ οὐ και ἐς κόρον γελάσονται ὁρῶντες τὸ ἀσύβηλον, και ανάρμοσον, και δυσκόλλητον τα πράγματος.

We will translate the above passage by again calling in the aid of Shakspeare. This wild, unmetrical, and unconnected song, though it may make the uuskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve.'

We cannot with justice close this dissertation, which has arisen from the frontispiece of Madoc, without giving due praise to the engraver, whose vignette is beautiful.

From the frontispiece we pass to the preface, which concludes in the following manner: 'This poem assumes not the degraded title of epic, and the question therefore is not whether the story is formed upon the rules of Aristotle, but whether it be adapted to the purposes of poetry.' What does our author mean by the degraded title' of epic? Does he allude to his own endeavours to degrade the epic muse? if so, is not this cruel? is it not adding insult to injury? Or does he allude to the numerous epic poems, which are now as frequent as Christmas charades, and is it his intention to warn the world against mingling Madoc with the herd? Perhaps he means to say, "I know that epic poet is a title of dignity, but, like the young Roscius, I find so many competitors usurping the name, that it is really no distinction: if you regard me, gentlemen, as a mere epic poet, I do not thank you my service to you. I am no imitator of Homer, or Virgil; none but myself shall be my parallel. I am Mr. Southey, verse-maker in general." There is something very flippant in all this. The author prejudices the reader against him his greatest admirer must peruse the few first leaves with a sigh, and lament that the dignity of Mr. Southey's talents should be mixed with such littleness, and that with so much pure gold there should be so much dross.

Human nature was once exalted by the talents of a man, the effulgence of whose genius even Mr. Southey cannot behold with undazzled eyes. Let us hear the words of such a man, when he ventured on the perilous task of estimating

his own powers. By labour and intense study, which I take to be my portion in this life, I hope that I may leave something so written to aftertimes, that they shall not willingly let it die but this is not to be obtained but by devout prayer to that Eternal Spirit, that can enrich with all atterance and knowledge, and sends out his seraphim with the hallowed fire of his altar, to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases. To this must be added industrious and select reading, steady observation and insight into all seemly and generous arts and affairs, till which in some measure be compassed, I refuse not to sustain this expectation.' Oh! how superior is this calm and subdued, yet fervent and exalted confidence of pious genius to the pert assurance of the modern bard, who tells you that he is among poets what Polonius's actor was among the heroes of the sock and the buskin. Either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical, historical-comical, scene undividable, or poem unlimited; for the law of writ and the liberty, I am your only

man.'

"This poem assumes not the degraded title of epic. The question is not therefore whether the story is formed upon the rules of Aristotle, but whether it be adapted to the purposes of poetry.' While Mr. S. makes this declaration in a vaunting manner, he forgets that he voluntarily lets go the first praise of poetic genius,' and saves his critics a great deal of trouble. We are not to try this poem by the common rules of our court; we are not to examine whether it has a beginning, a middle, and an end; whether the episodes are naturally introduced, whether the machinery is appropriate, whether the characters are well preserved, whether the subject is great, and whether the moral is good: we are simply to observe whether it be adapted to the purposes of poetry. The purposes of poetry are of various degrees; they are sometimes answered by a sounet, or by a ballad, in the same manner as a hovel or a shed will answer the purposes of a house, or as a fig-leaf will answer the purposes of an embroidered petticoat: but if in all those arts which adoru life, we are to study only this tame sufficiency, then all the various improvements, which have rendered man's social abode a theatre of wouders, may be quietly given up, and all our pride and all our honors be lowered to the ground.

The same eccentric defiance of common opinion follows our author in the choice of his subject. A Welchman is supposed to be the discoverer of America. We give the facts, on which the poem is founded, in Mr. Southey's own words.