daring intellect a man of decidedly greater manly power, vigour, and energy-Robert Pollok, author of the "Course of Time." And, in one respect, he is quite distinct from the whole of his predecessors after Milton. The poem is a large, bulky, and definite epic-not formed of various isolated passages, but approaching to the standard of a real, tangible, and presumptuous effort. In such a case, the work must fall within the province of a finished performance, constituting the author's magnum opus. If it threatens to aspire to the rank of an historical epic, it must be classed in the same category with the Iliad, Paradise Lost, and other similar productions, and therefore must abide its chance of either approval or condemnation. The shrines of epics lie, if we may so speak, within the sanctum sanctorum; and we can simply impugn the boldness and daring of him who attempts to place himself beside the marvellous monuments of bygone ages. If he be worthy, by all means let him shake hands with Homer and Milton; and if he be discovered to be totally unworthy of such a noble throne, he must stand convicted of perpetrating a gross and monstrous sacrilege. Such would, and ought to be, the test of criticism upon bold intellectual attempts on a grand scale. And herein lies the vast superiority of the ancient poets, as regards a pure element of general strength. Rising in a period when profoundest ignorance prevailed, and when the nations were not as yet enfeebled and corrupted with the luxuries and refinements of a civilized and polished age, nor disposed to rank men after the fashion of a modern sectarianism and exclusive partizanship, they were accustomed to consider men as men—the prominent trait of their character being boldly seized, and presented before the world in vivid impersonations. Thus has Homer pourtrayed the more striking qualities and eccentricities of his heroes, and exhibited them in powerful and luminous distinctness. Milton, too, taking Homer for his model, imitated the Grecian bard in his controversial dialogue, and has gained for his characters the reputation of a beau ideal of consummate ability. But Pollok asked not the inspiration of such influence. Such "windy rhyme," such a "gaudy tale of fabled hero," suited not the strain of an argument so high. Neither Cimmerian darkness, nor Pluto's realms, did he traverse for metaphors and figures; and not Olympus, with its crowned summit of deities, nor double-topped Parnassus, were included within the of his circumnavigation. And in this important view does he differ from many other poets. While they admire to excess the sublime of pure idealism, he never transgresses the bounds of sublime narration; and while their only anxiety is to colour and heighten their canvass, his chief concern is to be intelligible and sensible. compass The "Course of Time," then, aspires to be regarded as an epic poem; and it has been questioned whether the superabundance of the faults are not enough to have already doomed it, had not the kind hand of posthumous charity been extended in its favour. It is certainly extraordinary for such a youth; and this, of itself, might stop the mouths of many detractors. Its cardinal defect is its apparent want of unity and sustained effect, gradually rising into a solid superstructure, by a process of successive and minute elaboration. The materials for building were ample, massive, and appropriate; but they were unhappily and unskil fully connected. Hence, what might otherwise have become concise, elegant, and imposing, may be termed but a loose and disjointed framework. Blair's task was comparatively circumscribed; but Pollok's was more comprehensive; for his journey is no less than a voyage from the beginning of time-to trace the sources of evil in its varied shapes and disguises, from the entrance of the hideous serpent into the blissful paradise of Eden; and to tell, in wondrous story, the dire effects its pestilence wrought, down the stream of time, even until time has gone, "The righteous saved, The wicked damned, and Providence approved." Now, for the proper execution of any great enterprise, we must retain a "decision of character." We must have confidence in our own ability, judgment, and determination; and this inseparable from a degree of daring energy and self-importance. In this high intellectual quality we find the most illustrious names. Luther, with his intrepid magnanimity; Dante, with his daring intellect; Milton, with his sublime idealism; Wordsworth, with his pleasing and manly self-appreciation; and Pollok, though of an equally bold but unequal flight, with his attendant egotism and complacency. In the following lines, one is forcibly reminded of Simon Magus, who, for his impiety, was restrained by the intrepid Peter: "For thus the heavenly muse instructs me, wooed Of all the heart, poured out in holy prayer.” Pollok, in this, may justly be charged with a monstrous solecism. His inspiration is attributable to his own deserts, and not to the voluntary and spontaneous influence of the spirit; and he makes no secret of the fact that he has a commission from heaven, with this pleasing ingredient, that it is on account of his successful courtship. Had he invoked "Dame Memory, with her syren daughters," and the nine sisters, he was perfectly justified, by a beautiful poetical hyperbole, to talk of muse and wooing; but having refused the aid of this pagan or fabled muse ab initio, it was in miserable taste to revert to it for a fitting metaphor. He should have dismissed entirely the classical allusion, and kept himself within his peculiar province: taste and subject ought to have been consulted for the purpose of being in exact keeping: plan and construction should have been closely and finely blended; and the whole poem might thus have the appearance, at least, of a magnificent solo. Had he touched the proper note, would not a most harmonious and universal song, re-echoed along the gamut of Time, and would not also the hymning spheres, have prolonged the glorious anthem, proclaiming, in loud tones, their experience of innumerable ages and revolutions? Occasionally the poet commits himself, and indulges in rather absurd and false delineations. We have room only for the following. Speaking of the hypocrite's baulked sanctimoniousness, he says— "The righteous smiled, and Despair itself some signs of laughter gave." This is not scriptural, but exists only in the phantasy of the poet. The Bible never jests on serious matters; much less would it represent the despair of the hypocrite, awakened to a sense of his unrepentant state, as exciting laughter. No: he may feign, and play, and counterfeit now; but then, his countenance will be too unyielding to be provoked into a smile. We come now to speak shortly of its special excellences. And who would not have done honour to the man who, when religion had been abused by the wilful exaggeration of Byron, or been passed over in sullen silence by the indifferent "Lakers," had the manly intrepidity to enlist himself as its most worthy defender, and to stand forth alone, with no ally save Grahame and Montgomery, far feebler minstrels? And what signal services did he not confer on the religious public! He showed that religion was capable of being arrayed in apparel, less extravagant and deceitful of course, but more decorous and unvarnished; and hushed for a time the wild ravings of Byron's infidel lips. Moreover, it was no small or trifling effort; for it was a goodly duodecimo. And can we wonder or doubt that it became so instantly popular, that people sat up all night reading it, and that their delight was nothing to the fine frenzy of the poet when composing it? His pictures of domestic happiness and woe are beautiful and pathetic. How could it be otherwise, when he was nurtured from his infancy among the wildest and freest scenes of Nature? What more fostering to his genius than a moorland farm, with its innumerable and tender associations?-in the words of Wordsworth, "Known to every star and wind that blows." In such circumstances, he could view Nature with a true poet's eye, alike removed from the conformity and conventionalism of a city life. How transporting his dreams upon his neighbouring hills, the whole landscape vieing to cater food for his imagination, as he gazed with unutterable enthusiasm from his native mountains! He often wrote on the top of the very highest of them; and was as secluded as if he had been in a world in which there was neither sin, nor sickness, nor poverty. The whole poem savours strongly of the moorland solitudes-the wildernesses which our forefathers were wont to people the hollow air, and the wastes around resounding to the echo of their devoted and uncompromising tongues. You are reminded of the mountain-heather dyed with the empurpled gore of our ancestors, upon whose lips wild laughter never sat, but whose every look and action were steeped in the depths of an earnest determination. The conclusion of the fifth book is very fine; and though destitute of the melodious rhyme of Pope's "Messiah," it is, on this account, the more free and unconfined. The little infant fearlessly leaps from his mother's arms, and "strokes the crested snake, and rolls unhurt among its speckled waves;" and the sauntering schoolboys His address to the Ocean is most happily conceived; and though both Byron and Mrs. Hemans have sung of its "billowy chime," with all the characteristic ardour of their genius, yet Pollok is as happy in his "Strongest of creation's sons, Unconquerable, unreposed, untired; That rolled the wild, profound, eternal bass In Nature's anthem." We could have filled our pages with like beautiful images, but we forbear. The "Course of Time" is hallowed in the hearts and homes of our most pious and benevolent countrymen; and it would be no easy task to reckon up the amount of good which its circulation has effected. It has tended to confirm the doubting, to encourage the desponding, and to preserve alive the flame of heavenly devotion. Will we, then, like another critic, prophesy evil regarding it, and predict its rapid extinction? Verily, no; for if it has accomplished any small amount of good in past times, will that be sufficient for its final disappearance at a time when it requires to be read and considered? Therefore, with all deference, we submit that Pollok deserves no inferior place in the temple of Fame. Let him be classed in the same bright choir with Blair, Young, Cowper, and Mrs. Hemans. So, for the present, we bid him adieu; and conclude by pronouncing the ancient benediction "Ossa quieta, precor, tutâ requiescite in urnâ: Et sit humus cineri non onerosa tuo."* THE SPIRIT OF THE HOUR. BY THE LATE THOMAS DUNN, Esq. WHEN the green earth greets the morn, On sweetest perfumes then is borne When July's sultry torches wave, And down the dog-days shower, Then retires to coolest cave The Spirit of the Hour. And when Evening's purple sky * If an early opportunity is granted us, we may embrace it for a notice of the memoir of the poet of the "Course of Time" which has been published under his brother's superintendence. A short biographical sketch has also been prefixed to a late edition of the "Tales of the Covenanters," by a promising and talented young minister of Edinburgh-the Rev. Andrew Thomson. Both Pollok and his biographer belonged to the Secession Church; and thus arose the sympathy and admiration which the latter has so feelingly expressed towards the amiable bard. If cradled childhood, slumbering now, Then flutters round the sleeper's brow See lusty manhood, sunk with toil, Who can the coming ills beguile?— When silver Age his sorrow brings, The flow'ret, in the blush of morn, If summer's sun at noontide shines, And age is but life's evening- One only ray is lingering, To herald the last hour. THE FORTUNES OF MARTIN HAY. BY LEWIS TITIAN. CHAPTER VII.—APOLOGETIC, INSTRUCTIVE, AND (IT IS HOPED) PROFITABLE TO THE READER. WERE we writing an ordinary tale, in which we had a circulatinglibrary hero-all goodness, nobility of soul, intrepidity of action, and boiling over with generosity-an Adonis in form and character; you might have reason, my dear Miss Grigg, for your complaint that there is no sentiment-none of those tender, loving passages you delight to ponder and sigh over-no affecting meetings-no unhappy separations-no desperate trials of fidelity, or heartrending persecutions of the lovers. But we never made profession of such intentions; and you have no right to abuse us in private, and condemn us unheard. And you, Miss Walters, need not curl your little nose, and say, "I wonder why the Editor allows such trash a place in the Magazine. I do, indeed: it's not fit to be read. Six chapters past, and hardly any love, and no elopements!" Pray do bear with us a little longer; and if you do not get plenty |