the forest; and who would care to note our fall among the heaps of withered foliage with which the world is strewed! And yet we trust some eye would moisten as it missed us from the spray. None is so lonely as to be utterly alone. And He, without whose permission a sparrow cannot fall, will never withdraw his care from the humblest of his creatures. Sad, sweet thoughts like these were beginning to steal over the soul, when the sudden bleat of a stray member of the flock, which had approached unobserved, startled us like the voice of a spirit. Being much excited by the previous sights and sounds of the night, we were struck with a kind of panic, and sped away across the mountains, till the majestic orb of day, slowly ascending above the wavy horizon, arrested our flying footsteps. It was a glorious sight, and amply repaid us for all our toil. Strangely delighted with everything we had seen, and heard, and felt, we quietly picked our way down the steeps, sprang into our boat, and soon arrived again at Keswick, just as the worthy people were opening their window-shutters to the morning sun. As we have nearly exhausted our space, we must tell the remainder of our story in a few words. After getting a little refreshment, we started, staff in hand, for Carlisle. We took an unusual but romantic route. ing Skiddaw on the west, and the eastern shore of Bassenthwaite water, we crossed the Caldbeck Fells, and recruited by a com Skirt fortable snooze on Jacob's pillow, in a desolate part of the road, just as eight o'clock sounded from the cathedral, weary, footsore, but happy, we entered the ancient city of Carlisle, where we determined to remain a few days to recover from the fatigues of our pedestrian excursions. Between Bowness and Carlisle, we could not have travelled less than seventy miles, certainly no mean distance, when the nature of the route is taken into consideration. A word in fine; we have often been asked whether we would adjudge the palm to the English or the Scottish lakes? The question, though often put, is a very absurd one. We have uniformly replied, both are best. The two tableaux are distinguished by peculiar characteristics, calculated to afford gratification to the same mind in different moods, or to different individuals of dissimilar intellectual type. As both of these regions possess large tracts remarkable alike for sublimity and beauty, though in the one the former and in the other the latter predominates, a chastened taste for quiet loveliness, slightly interspersed with rugged sternness, will conduct us to Windermere and Ullswater; and a high relish for wildered grandeur, sparsely relieved by soft attractions, will suggest a visit to Lochlomond or Loch-awe; while a mind capable of revelling with equal delight among both, will enjoy the Lakes of England and the Lochs of Scotland in the same degreee of perfection. From the Edinburgh Review. THE EVE OF THE CONQUEST. The Eve of the Conquest, and other Poems. By HENRY TAYLOR. THE admirers of every poet whose enter- | felt, when the piece lies within so small a prise, genius, and fortune have succeeded in compass, that the grace of proportion is reproducing that rare phenomenon, a long cognized by an immediate consciousness, and poem of sustained interest and sterling worth, not merely detected by patient and progresare generally as ardent in their affection for sive survey. In the case, too, of pieces conhis minor poems, as in their reverence for his sisting of a few lines only, though they may more elaborate and more distinguished work. not treat directly of a passage of human life, A volume of Milton will most probably open they, for the most part, will have been sugitself somewhere near the Allegro or the Ly-gested by something experienced or observed, cidas; and while Petrarca's Africa" (his "magnum opus") reposes in oblivion, his sonnets, mere relaxations, so trivial that the good Canonico saw no reason for not writing them in the vulgar tongue, live in the hearts of thousands, or at least in the more cordial part of their fancy. 66 It is not surprising that it should be so. A long poem, if conducted with a genius equal to the theme, has indeed its advantages, especially those of comprehending a larger sphere of interest, employing a greater number of the poetic faculties, and including more various elements in a richer harmony and ampler keeping. On the other hand, it is seldom conceived, as a whole, with the completeness which belongs to the design of a short poem; and that portion of it which did not enter into the original conception, is in danger of hanging about it with an awkwardness which betrays a prosaic origin. Again, no amount of executive skill can wholly atone for defects in the subject matter; and the subject of composition of any length is apt to reveal, at the last moment, some inherent defect, as provoking as the black spot which sometimes comes out in the marble, when the statue is all but finished. There are other advantages which belong exclusively to a short poem. It is rendered buoyant by a fuller infusion of that essential poetry which pervades, rather as the regulating mind than the vivifying soul, a body of larger dimensions. The particular beauty which results from symmetry is most deeply and thus touching nature at many points, will draw strength from frequent contact with its native soil; whereas a longer work, even though not abstract in its subject, joins thought on to thought and image to image, without remanding the poet to the common ground of reality; and being thus "carved out of the carver's brain," is apt, if not of first-rate excellence, to meet with a cold response from men whose associations are different from those of the poet. It may be added, that short poems bring us more near to the poet and to impart and elicit sympathy is among the chief functions of those who may be called the brother-confessors of mankind. For, however devoid of egotism he may be, he must unavoidably present more aspects of his own many-sided being, when expatiating on many themes, and in many moods, than when engrossed by a single task. Their brevity also makes them more minutely known, and more familiarly remembered. They are small enough to be embraced; and if we cannot repose beneath them as under a tree, we can bear them in our breast like flowers. Mr. Taylor's short poems are characterized by the same qualities which distinguished Philip Van Artevelde" and "Edwin the Fair." That robust strength which belongs to truth, and that noble grace which flows from strength when combined with poetic beauty, are exhibited in them not less distinctly than in the larger works by which his reputation has been established. Their sub What genial joys with sufferings can consist. jects, as well as their limits, for the most | And wit love-kindled, showed in colors true Then did all sternness melt as melts a mist And even the stranger, though he saw not these, touch than his dramas. There is in them a majestic tenderness ennobled by severity; and, at the same time, a sweetness, and mellowness which are often missed in the best youthful poetry; and which come not till age has seasoned the instrument, as well as perfected the musician's skill. While not less faithful to nature, they have more affinities with art than their predecessors. Retaining the same peculiar temperament, light, firm, and vigorous, (for true poetry has ever a cognizable temperament, as well as its special intellectual constitution,) their moral sympathies are both loftier and wider, and respire a softer clime. To this we should add, that their structure is uniformly based upon those ethical qualities, simplicity, distinct purpose, and faith in man's better nature, which are not less essential than any intellectual gifts to excellence in poety. The present volume, we regret to say, is but a small one. It includes, however, many different sorts of poetry; and the specimens of each are such finished compositions, that we think they must have been selected from a larger number. The But whilst he mixed not for his own behoof longest is one of the narrative sort. In public strife, his spirit glowed with zeal, is also a singularly beautiful specimen of the Not shorn of action, for the public weal; elegiac; two poems, the "Lago Varese" and For truth and justice as its warp and woof, the "Lago Lugano," which, from their union For freedom as its signature and seal. of picturesque description with human inter- His life thus sacred from the world, discharged est, we should refer to that philosophical From vain ambition and inordinate care, idyl, so characteristic an offspring of mod-In virtue exercised, by reverence rare Lifted, and by humility enlarged, Became a temple and a place of prayer. In latter years he walked not singly there; For one was with him, ready at all hours His griefs, his joys, his inmost thoughts to share, Who buoyantly his burthens helped to bear, And decked his altars daily with fresh flowers. But farther may we pass not; for the ground Is holier than the Muse herself may tread; Nor would I it should echo to a sound Less solemn than the service for the dead. Mine is inferior matter-my own lossOf reason's converse by affection fed, The loss of dear delights forever fled, Of wisdom, counsel, solace, that across Life's dreariest tracts a tender radiance shed. Friend of my youth! though younger yet my guide, There ern times; a dramatic scene or rather a philosophic disquisition, interwoven with a personal interest, and felicitously cast in the dramatic form; and an ode-for the " lines, written soon after the return of Sir Henry Pottinger from China, 1845," have far more pretension to the title than many poems to which it is conceded. We will begin with the second of those we have now mentioned-" Lines written in remembrance of the Hon. Edward Ernest Villiers." It is so short as to admit of being quoted as a whole: "A grace though melancholy, manly too, How much by thy unerring insight clear The longest poem in the collection is that which has given the volume its name. "The Eve of the Conquest" is an impassioned narrative of those events in King Harold's life which connected themselves with the Norman invasion. So adapted to the purposes of song, both from its poetical and its historical interest, is the fall of the last of England's Saxon kings, that few literary accidents are more singular than that it should not have been before now worthily recorded in verse. With the present poem we have one fault to find; the scale on which it is written is not large enough to allow of this noble theme being treated in that ampler manner to which the narrative powers here exhibited are evidently adequate. The event described, paramount as it was in political importance, was but proportionate to the characters of the two men who at that great crisis stood opposed to each other, not only as the heads of hostile armies, but as the representatives of contrasted principles and contending races. The character of Harold was one of heroic material and heroic dimensions; and, with one exception, it was without stain. Of that fatal error, his engagement to William-imposed upon him, it is true, iniquitously, but sacrilegiously violated-Harold, as here described, is deeply sensible although he is no penitent. A great character, with one great flaw in it, appears to present us with the truest tragic effects; for without such a flaw, no place is reserved for poetic justice. A saintly character would be strong enough for tragic purposes; but its strength is that spiritual strength which disowns itself, and is “hidden" in a might greater than its own. is doubtless one of the reasons why martyr- | doms have been so seldom chosen for the source of dramatic interest. Tragic strength must be based upon exclusive self-reliance. Now, exclusive self-reliance is the spirit that goes before a fall; and it is one of the functions of tragedy to illustrate, by the confutation of a fatal reverse, the insufficiency of such merely human strength, and the madness latent in such pride. The chief events of "The Eve of the Conquest" are of historical fame. Those of our readers who are least acquainted with history, will have learned them from the 66 Harold" of Sir E. Bulwer Lytton-which, as well as his "Last of the Barons," is truly an epic in prose; it is needless, therefore, to recount them here. We are introduced to Harold in his tent the night before the battle. Inly disturbed, he seeks repose in vain; and at mid--He sate again, and with an eye still stern, night sends for his daughter, who is found kneeling, in mourning garb, "with naked arms, that made an ivory cross upon her breast," before the altar of the chapel in the convent where she has taken refuge. He informs her that, in seeking for the meeting, his purpose is to make her the depository of his confession, and also of his vindication. Of the three personal descriptions-that of Ulnoth, his youngest brother, who had been surrendered as a hostage to William, and to liberate whom Harold had sought the Norman court; that of the Norman duke himself; and that of the duke's daughter, Adeliza-we will cite only the last. The martial fame of her father's guest had long before made an impression on her imagination not unfavorable to the attachment which, ere long, grew up between them "A woman-child she was: but womanhood By gradual afflux on her childhood gain'd, This It is thus that the king concludes his narrative- "Here we stand opposed; "Then uprose the King; His daughter's hands half startled from his knee Dropt loosely, but her eye caught fire from his. He snatched his truncheon, and the hollow earth Smote strongly, that it throbbed: he cried aloudSave that which sunders sheep from goats, and "Twixt me and William, say that never doom, Twixt Heaven and Hell, can righteously proparts nounce.' But temperate and untroubled, he pursued: Ask of my title, say I wear the Crown, The poem ends with a monumental group "In Waltham Abbey on St. Agnes' Eve Of him whom Death, and not the Norman Duke, If a comparison were to be made between Mr. Taylor's poetry and that of the other poets of this age, the poem from which we have just quoted might furnish a common measure; inasmuch as almost all our modern poets, however different their style, spirit, or views of art, have occasionally written in the narrative form. In the narrative poetry of Scott and of Southey the predominant elements are those of costume, manners, and incident. In Byron's narrative the chief ingredient is passion, or what passes for passion with those who have never considered the affinities between genuine human passion and elevated action. The narrative of Keats is characterized by its pervading sense of beauty; that of Mr. Tennyson by its rich and shaping imagination, and its captivating diction; that of Mr. Leigh Hunt by its picturesque vivacity and abundant grace; that of Mr. Landor by an antique refinement and stateliness, which are recognized by all who delight in Greek poetry or Greek sculpture; and which, for the same reason, are as repulsive to those who judge by a meaner sense, as the chill of the marble would be to a blind man's touch. Mr. Coleridge's "Christabel" is the investment of mystical reveries in robes as bright, but as thin as a lunar rainbow, and in music that comes and goes like the sound of a distant waterfall. His "Ancient Mariner" is the subjective Odyssey of a psychological age, adumbrating in vision the struggles (fall, expiation, and restoration,) of that interior life whose action is thought, and whose eras are convictions. Perhaps of all narrative poetry, the one which differs most widely from Mr. Taylor's, is that of Shelley. To the latter it was always easier to soar in rapture than to stoop to fact and a lyrical spirit so wings his narrative, that it can hardly keep its footing on the ground. Mr. Wordsworth's narratives are instinct with profound reflection, and a yet more He feels, however, profound humanity. more for man than for men. If the human mind be his haunt, and the main region of his song, he sings of it not as manifested in individuals merely, but as it exists archetypally. Within it, as in a western sky, he recognizes "a spirit far more deeply interfused," of which it is the mansion; and his especial gift is to follow the traces of a love larger than human, which yet ebbs and flows along the channels of the human affections. The nature which he celebrates is itself more than half supernatural; a nature which, if unredeemed, is also in a large measure unfallen; a nature as different from that which imparted to the masculine writings of Crabbe their hard, dry sadness, and half-cynical, yet ruthful truthfulness, as if it had belonged to another planet. This fact is not always observed by those who discuss the religious bearings of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; and who, in deprecating the glories which he seems to attribute to unassisted human nature, have perhaps never pondered the meaning of those lines of his, a needful comment on his philosophy The most marked characteristic of Mr. Taylor's narrative, as well as of his poetry in general, we should say to be that practical truth which constitutes reality. We here use the word reality not less as contrasted with the poetry of abstract thought, than with the miscreations of morbid passion, capricious fancy, or fashionable convention. This quality of reality, or truth, is one the searching nature of which has seldom been appreciated, although that small department of it which relates to the picturesque has been much insisted on: nor can we better illustrate our opinion of Mr. Taylor's poetry than by pointing out the degree and mode in which it embodies the various forms of this great poetic attribute. The form of truth most saliently exhibited in the poem from which we have last quoted, is truth of character. Within its narrow compass five characters are sketched, with different degrees of fullness; but each with that masterly handling and graphic vividness which brings them home to us as realities, more |