John Moore No weather more pleasant than that of a mild winter day. So gracious the season, that Hyems is like Ver- Januarius like Christopher North. Art thou the Sun of whom Milton said, "Looks through the horizontal misty air, Shorn of his beams," an image of disconsolate obscuration? Bright art thou as at meridian on a June Sabbath; but effusing a more temperate lustre not unfelt by the sleeping, not insensate earth. She stirs in her sleep and murmurs-the mighty mother; and quiet as herself, though broad awake, her old ally the shipbearing sea. What though the woods be leafless they look as alive as when laden with umbrage; and who can tell what is going on now within the hearts of that calm oak grove? The fields laugh not now-but here and there they smile! If we flowers we think of them-and less of the perished than of the unborn; for regret is vain, and hope is blest; in peace there is the promise of joy-and therefore in the silent pastures a perfect beauty how restorative to man's troubled heart! see no The Shortest Day in all the year, yet lovelier than the Longest. Can that be the voice of birds? With the lave rock's lyric our fancy filled the sky with the throstle's roundelay it awoke the wood. In the air life is audible circling unseen. Such serenity must be inhabited by happiness. Ha! there thou art, our Familiar-the self-same Robin red-breast that pecked at our nursery window, and used to warble from the gable of the school-house his sweet winter song! In company we are silent-in soli. tude we soliloquize. So dearly do we love our own voice that we cannot bear to hear it mixed with that of others perhaps, drowned; and then our bash. fulness tongue-ties us in the hush, expectant of our "golden opinions," when all eyes are turned to the speechless" old man eloquent," and you might hear a tangle dishevelling itself in Neæra's hair. But all alone, by ourselves, in the country, among trees, standing still among untrodden leaves -as now-how we do speak! All thoughts-all feelings-desire utterance; left to themselves they are not happy till they have evolved into words-winged words that sometimes settle on the ground, like moths on flowers-sometimes seek the sky, like eagles above the clouds. No such soliloquies in written poetry as these of ours-the act of composition is fatal as frost to their flow; yet composition there is at such solitary times going on among the moods of the mind, as among the clouds on a still but not airless sky, perpetual but imperceptible transformations of the beautiful, obedient to the bidding of the spirit of beauty; "But those are heavenly, these an empty dream." Who but Him who made it knoweth aught of the Laws of Spirit? All of us may know much of what is "wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best," in obedience to them; but leaving the open day we enter at once into thickest night. Why at this moment do we see a spot-once only visited by us, and unremembered for ever so many flights of black or bright winged years-see it in fancy as it then was in nature, with the same dew-drops on that wondrous myrtle beheld but on other eyes beheld ever on this earth, that morning-such a myrtle as no but ours, and the eyes of one now in heaven? Another year is about to die-and how wags the world? "What great events are on the gale ?" Go ask our statesmen. But their rule their guidance is but over the outer world, and almost powerless their folly or their wisdom over the inner region in which we mortals live, and move, and have our being, where the fall of a throne makes no more noise than that of a leaf! And what tiny volume is this we have in our hand? Collins, Gray, and Beattie! Were they among the num ber of those of whom Wordsworth thought, when he spoke "Of mighty poets in their misery dead! We poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness?" Mighty they may not be called by the side of the godlike-but mighty they are, compared with "us poor sons of a day," and on earth their might endureth for ever. Assuredly there is something not dreamt of in our philosophy in the character of crows. What can be the meaning of that congregating multitude, on, in, and around that one huge single oak, himself a grove? It is mid-day—and the creatures are not going to set up their roost. Now, all again is mute save an occasional caw-buried in profound meditation. Reason! Instinct! Man! Bird! Beast! Time! Eternity! Creation! God! Pray, who may be "THE PROPRIETORS OF THE ENGLISH CLASSICS?" This volume is one of the many publications of that mysterious firm, and we are afraid even to whisper a word of blame to the woods. But why will they persist in prefacing poetry all the world delights in, with libels on the genius that produced it? Here we have all Dr Johnson's stupid slanders on Gray, by way of introduction, that boys and virgins may step across the threshold into the house of his fame, with contempt and scorn of all his poems except the Elegy. His estimation of the genius of Collins the poet is not much nearer the truth, though he writes tenderly and admiringly of the character of Collins the man. "He had employed his mind chiefly on works of fiction and subjects of fancy, and by indulging some peculiar habits of thought, was eminently delighted with those flights of imagination which pass the bounds of nature, and to which the mind is reconciled only by passive acquiescence in popular tradition. He loved fairies and genii, giants and monsters; he delighted to rove through the meanders of enchantment, to gaze on the magnificence of golden palaces, to repose by the waterfalls of Elysian gardens. This was, however, the character rather of his inclination than his genius; the grandeur of wildness, and the novelty of extravagance, were always desired by him, but were not always attained. Yet, as diligence is never wholly lost, if his efforts sometimes caused harshness and obscurity, they likewise produced, in happier moments, sublimity and splendour. This idea which he had formed of excellence led him to oriental fictions and allegorical imagery; and, perhaps, while he was intent on description, he did not suf ficiently cultivate sentiment. His poems are the description of a mind not deficient in fire, nor unfurnished with knowledge either of books or life, but somewhat obstructed in its progress by deviations in quest of mistaken beauties. * * To what I have formerly said of his writings may be added, that his diction was often harsh, unskilfully laboured, and injudiciously selected. He affected the obsolete, when it was not worthy of revival, and he puts his words out of the common order, seeming to think, with some late candidates for fame, that not to write prose is certainly to write poetry. His lines commonly are of slow motion, clogged and impeded with clusters of consonants. As men are often esteemed who cannot be loved, so the poetry of Collins may sometimes extort praise, where it gives little pleasure.' the There is, we believe, some unconscious confusion here of Collins' reading and writing, his studies and his compositions; Johnson having huddled together all he had got to say about both, so that he was speaking all the while, without knowing it, in one breath, indiscriminately, of the scholar and of the poet-of his table-talk and of the productions of his genius. His noble verses-mis-named an Ode"On the Superstitions of the Highlands," do indeed treat of "popular traditions," but not of such as mind is reconciled to only by a passive acquiescence," for the imagination all the world over, in all time, creates and clings to such beliefs. "Of giants and monsters" there is not a syllable in the poetry of Collins"genii" do, indeed, sometimes glide along the glimmer or the gloom, and as lovely as ever fancy feigned-nor can the delicacy of his touch be exceeded when he sings of the Fairies. "The meanders of enchantment," are words without meaning-pretty as they are "to gaze on the magnificence of golden palaces," you must go to the works of some other architect nor is there in all Collins one" waterfall in an Elysian garden," by which the doctor could have sought repose. The "character of his inclination and his genius," was one and the same, and no poet ever delivered himself up more de lightedly to their united inspiration. His only "oriental fictions" are his Oriental Eclogues, which were written in early youth, and called by himself his "Irish Eclogues," because so little oriental; though beautifu!, they are the least imaginative of his writings, and hardly deserve the name of "fiction." His poetry is throughout embued with "sentiment," and conversant with the passions-impersonated for the most part, but with wonderful felicity, and to nature true. "Not defi cient in fire "-nor "unfurnished with knowledge!" Read the "Ode to Liberty "lustrous in its learning and you will almost be disposed to think the doctor a dolt-which Heaven forbid for he was "The Sage.' The diction and the versification of Collins are exquisite-a more musical ear and soul were never given to any one of the Muses' sons; and the dic. tion of this poet hath Samuel, with curious infelicity, characterized by harshness-unskilful elaboration-injudicious selection of words-and motion-impeding clusters of consonants! -COLLINS being one of "those candidates for fame," who fondly imagined that "not to write prose is certainly to write poetry"—and his poetry such as sometimes "to extort praise when it gives little pleasure "such praise as the doctor's. And in the line, "Where faint and sickly winds for ever he does not merely seem to describe Here, transcribed with a crow-quill, on "the fly-leaf," are a few exquisite sentences of Campbell's on Collinsand we know not which of the two be the more delightful poet. "Collins pub. lished his Oriental Eclogues while at Thomas Campbell loves the Eccollege, and his lyrical poetry at the logues. "Nothing," he says, "is age of twenty-six. Those works will commonplace in Collins. The pasabide comparison with whatever Mil- toral eclogue, which is insipid in all ton wrote under the age of thirty. If other English hands, assumes in his a they have rather less exuberant wealth touching interest, and a picturesque air of genius, they exhibit more exquisite of novelty. It seems that he himself touches of pathos. Like Milton, he ultimately undervalued these eclogues, leads us into the haunted ground of as deficient in characteristic manimagination; like him, he has the ners; but surely no just reader of them rich economy of expression haloed with cares any more about this circumstance thought, which by single or few words than about the authenticity of the often hints entire pictures to the ima-Tale of Troy." This is, perhaps, gination. In what short and simple terms, for instance, does he open a wide and majestic landscape to the mind, such as we might view from Benlomond or Snowdon, when he speaks of the hut, "That from some mountain's side Views wilds and swelling floods!" rather too bold-yet the "want of characteristic manners" may be compensated by truth of nature all over the world the same in its chief sentiments and passions and the poetry that gives us these, without any violation of "characteristic manners," will not fail to please, wherever the scene may be laid, provided only the imagery be coloured by the clime, and we are made to feel that its inhabitants do not speak like aliens. Therefore, "Hassan, or the Camel-Driver," is a true Oriental Eclogue-we feel that the time is mid-day-and the scene the desert. "In silent horror o'er the boundless waste - Soon shall this scrip its precious load resign; When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!" True, they are mere boyish productions--but the boyhood of genius is haunted by images of beauty, and there are many such in these ecologues. "Come thou, whose thoughts as limpid springs are clear, To lead the train, sweet Modesty appear: Here make thy court amidst the rural scene, And shepherd girls shall own thee for the Queen. With thee be Chastity, of all afraid, Distrusting all, a wise suspicious maid; But man the most: not more the mountain doe Holds the swift falcon for her deadly foe. Cold is her breast, like flowers that drink the dew; A silken veil conceals her from the view. No wild desires amidst thy train be known, Desponding Weakness, with her downcast eyes, And friendly pity, full of tender sighs: And Love, the last by these your hearts approve, These are the virtues that must lead to love." Collins, in riper age, would not have written these lines but is it not well that they are written? And are they not redolent of the virtue and happiness of a golden age? And where is a lovelier line than "Their eyes blue languish and their golden hair?" A more picturesque line than A more "No more the shepherd's whitening tents appear?" appalling image than "What if the lion in his rage I meet: A more poetical picture of fatigue and despair than No longer friendly to my life, to fly. Friend of my heart! oh! turn thee and survey, Samuel saith that the poet's "lines are commonly of slow motion, clogged and impeded with clusters of consonants."Sometimes they are of slow motion, and then may be applied to them Dugald Stewart's fine remark on one of the finest passages in Gray, "I cannot help remarking further, the effect of the solemn flow of the verse in this exquisite stanza, in retarding the pronunciation of the reader, so as to arrest his attention to every successive picture, till it has time to produce its proper impression. More of the charm of poetical rythm árises from this circumstance than is "But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still through all the song; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, Revenge impatient rose, He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sound so full of woe. And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. "Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd, Sad proof of thy distressful state, Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate. "With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd, Pale Melancholy sat retir'd, And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, |