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Lo! at her tomb the Arab kneels, no early friend is near
To twine around a snowy wreath and drop affection's tear!
The Bedouin has planted there, the fairest flowers he found,

To show the spot in which she sleeps, and mark the sacred ground!

G. B. S.

Godpey Bruce Stawley the nom de plume, of William Roberteen _new minister of Mongrevard

ENORMOUS SCHOOL OF POETRY.

by cohen macrae _ now nusister of Hauser

REVEREND ROBERT MONTGOMERY, DUGALD MOORE, &c. &c.

FROM a multitude of causes, it is much more difficult to write real poetry now, than what it was at a much earlier period. There are times in the history of every civilized people who boast of a distinguished literature, in which this art has appeared in greater beauty and perfection, than at others. Unlike the other arts, which are more dependent on the completeness of mechanical instruments, and only attain their maturity with the progressive civilization of a nation; this often darts into its full excellence of being without any previous preparation. The poems of Homer were ushered into existence by a very meagre train of preced. ing minstrels, and the stately tragedies of Eschylus appeared in perfect majesty from the midst of a rude and fragmentary drama. The fact is, that poetry is found to flourish most at a time when darkness is still struggling with light for the supremacy-when the muse is left without the assistance of other arts and sciences, to deal out knowledge and the various forms of truth to mankind, and to feel the full play of her vigour in her undisturbed and gigantic exertions. With the greater perfection of literature and science, the field as well as the language of the imagination is circumscribed and modified,—until in an age of fact and pure science, when generalizations and the study of relations become paramount in our intellectual habits and sentiments, the full concrete forms of the imagination are supplanted by indefinite metaphysical abstractions.

There is, however, a peculiar genius and lofty poetry which are adapted to this great change in the literature of a people. Wordsworth and Coleridge are noble instances, how much the ethereality of genius will surmount every obstacle, and raise poetry, even with the present elements of thought and expression, to her primeval supremacy. What a wide difference there is between the earlier masters and these their sublime descendants! between the simple breathings of Chaucer, the luxurious and palpable imagery of Spencer, the unpretending and exquisite descriptions of Cowper, and the more transcendental philoso

phy, and the more profound efforts to unravel the mysteries of nature, characteristic of the genius of Wordsworth and Coleridge. All these writers, however, have that in common which eminently forms the poet, and though the cast of thought and expression be different, it is a difference, effected more by the circumstances of the age, than original differences of mental constitution. They are all poets; they all either give to airy nothing a local habitation and a name, or throw a fresh and picturesque imagery over the physical and moral portraiture which it is the business of poetry to exalt and render more attractive.

This difficulty of writing beautiful poetry, more peculiar to the present age, is best seen by examining the works of our more local poets. With the dearth of real poetry, there is an increasing facility given for the composition of the counterfeit. Our poetic literature is so rich, that one acquainted with it, and possessing a moderate share of fancy, can turn that acquaintance to good account by productions of his own. If these productions are dictated by a refined taste, no harm ensues -they will please by their form, if they do not delight by their genius, and will rather prove an incentive to the perusal of the greater masters than otherwise. But if they are the expressions of a wild and untutored imagination, which is generally the case, they will act as local defilers of the national muse, and it is the interest of every lover of his literature, to sink them into their native insignificance with all possible speed.

We have styled the two gentlemen who are placed in such honourable juxtaposition at the head of our paper, the leaders of the depraved school of our local enormous poetry. Why their poetry should be so styled will be best seen from a perusal of their works-and the reason of it is shortly this-that one, both and all, prefer sound to sense, and defy all the rules of poetical criticism, by the use of an extravagant, prodigious, and enormous phraseology. We mean to say, that their poetry is not true poetry—that it is not the proper language of imagination and passion moulded into that form which is calculated to delight. You will look in vain in their works for definite, powerful, picturesque description-for simplicity and eloquence of language, and general propriety of style,-for smooth and harmonious cadences, not to speak at all of that originality which evokes from unexplored regions forms and themes of surpassing beauty. You will find on the other hand, the most boyish inflation and extravagance of expression—a departure from the analogy of language in the use of tropes, and a sad uncouthness in the expression of their tattered and scraggy ideas.

Satan has been often celebrated, but no poet, with the exception of Milton, has done anything like justice to his character. Milton's Satan is certainly the sublimest and most original creation in the field

of poetry. Mr. Montgomery, whose æronautic propensities lead him to search after the prince of the air, gets a hold of him, makes him talk of himself, his destiny, and his deeds. This province appears to us the most difficult that could have been chosen by a poet; indeed, no great poet would have chosen such a theme, for if we mistake not, it is not a proper subject for a harmonious poem. It may do very well for a few ingenious declamations, scattered descriptions, and metaphysical soliloquies, but is not a subject for a great poem, and serves not for the embodyment of pure poetry.

Accordingly, Satan, while he is flying in space, comes upon this globe, and most unastronomically gives it an altitude among the stars, to which it is not entitled. However, he has too much to do with it to let it pass quietly by him, and the poet makes him cry out

Is the earth

Appall'd, or agonizing in the wreck

Of elements? like spirits that are lost,
Wailing and howling, sweep the orphan winds,
While nature trembles with prophetic fear,
As though a chaos were to crown the storm!!!

And much chaotic language to the same purport, when

The surges mount on high

Their huge magnificence, and lift their heads,

And like Titanic creatures, tempest-born,

In life and fury march upon the main.

But all is not hush'd

Save a throb (!) of thunder, faintly heard,
And ebbing knell like o'er yon western deep,—

The sounds of elemental wrath retire.

P. I.

P. 2.

P. 2.

Now for glorious description-for Satan sees the earth in all her contrariety of mood, and diversity of phases. Hear him!

Deserted isles, and oceanic wastes,
Heaving and wild, monotonously vast,

Terrific mountains, where the fire-floods dwell,
Or snows in cold eternity congeal ! ! &c. &c.

P. 3.

How well the poet is beginning to give us specimens of the enormous phraseology which Satan, no doubt, (but no one else) would be very competent to employ.

Mr. Montgomery is very celebrated for the number and peculiarity of his tropes. You can scarcely read a few lines without finding various forms of the metonomy. Almost invariably the abstract is given for the concrete, and besides the uncouthness of the expression, it is decidedly unpoetical. A sparing use of the abstract for the concrete sometimes adds to the vivacity of description-when generally employed it is destructive of the forms and life of poetry.

Alas, for human grandeur! in the pomp

Of temples, and the starry wonders, rear'd
In rebel majesty, &c.

P. 4.

Palmyra! pillar'd yet in temple pride,

Superbly arch'd, and sumptuous in decay,

But withered down from her Zenobian pomp,
When there the sun-idolatries were seen

And Grandeur call'd the streets her own.

P. 5.

66

Now nothing can be more gaudy and frivolous than this. A Parisian epicure would employ these epithets "superb" and "sumptuous" to designate a good service and banquet-and the "pillar'd" and 'superbly arch'd" but ill agree with the "wither'd down," which takes us away from architecture to weeds-and insinuates when he talks of "Zenobian pomp," that Palmyra was a maiden who had once seen better days. So much for the beauty of such rich and condensed descriptions!

There is nothing more characteristic of poetical genius in the forms of expression, than felicitous and original adjectives. How refreshingly abundant are these in the pure pages of Shakspeare, Milton, Cowper, and Wordsworth. But Mr. Montgomery has no idea how these poetic adjectives are constructed—at least you will look over all his books in vain to find one.

But, sadder yet, beyond the Libyan wild,

Lo, wond'rous Egypt lies.

P. 5.

He afterwards calls her the sublime and storied Egypt. These are not descriptive, and are only fit for school boys.

And ye, august

In blacken'd, blighted majesty uprear'd (! !)

Ye pyramids-P. 6.

This description is only applicable to huge chimney stalks covered with soot.

From the instability of the pyramids which, by the by, are yet to "melt away like dew upon the wind" (!) Satan is made to say that earth's

Empires brighten, blaze, and pass away,
And trophied fanes and adamantine domes
That threatened an eternity (!) depart
Amid the dying change or lapse of things:

All is to depart

Save mind-omnipotent surpassing mind!
The scintillation of a soul inspired.

How well the poet disports him in his enormous car that threatens an eternity. The threat, however, will only be whispered.

Satan moralizes on the success of his cozenage of mortals. He says on the fall of Greece and Rome,

Then rose the star of ruin! then the night
Of morals, black with desolation, frowned!

P. 9.

"Then

There is an incongruity in the rising of the star of ruin. burn'd the fire of ruin" would be better-the following words are inexplicable.

Satan then turns his telescope northwards and talks of "pine wastes fiercely wild," and of "Siberia, desolately grand,”—and being reminded by something of kings and tyrants, he turns about to look at Napoleon, and calls him in the language of the school,

A tyrant! in whose passion for a power,
Above all liberty and law enthron'd,
Thou shin'st apart, unparagon'd; thy pride
Of domination tow'ring far o'er heights
Of monarchy, &c.

In the same style he talks of Napoleon at Moscow,

Marking the remnant of a ruin'd host

Flying, and pale as phantoms of Despair.

P. 11.

This simile is not descriptive, and is fearfully extravagant. But in the same apostrophe to Nap., he says

That hour of agony,—the crushing sense
Of danger and defeat,—the broken spell

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