ther the brilliant sententiousness of Pope, nor the frequent languor and negligence perhaps inseparable from the exquisite nature of Goldsmith, could be traced in a poem, from which taste and labour equally banished mannerism and inequality. It was patronized by no sect or faction. It was neither imposed on the public by any literary cabal, nor forced into notice by the noisy anger of conspicuous enemies. Yet, destitute as it was of every foreign help, it acquired a popularity originally very great; and which has not only continued amidst extraordinary fluctuation of general taste, but increased amidst a succession of formidable competitors No production, so popular, was probably ever so little censured by criticism. It was approved by the critics, as much as read and applauded by the people; and thus seemed to combine the applause of Contemporaries with the suffrage of the representatives of Posterity.

It is needless to make extracts from a poem which is familiar
to every reader. In selection, indeed, no two readers would pro-
bably agree.
But the description of the Gypsies-of the Boy
quitting his Father's house and of the Savoyard recollecting
the mountainous scenery of his country-and the descriptive
commencement of the Tale in Cumberland, have remained most
deeply impressed on our minds. We should be disposed to
quote the following verses, as not surpassed, in pure and chaste
elegance, by any English lines.

'When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening ray,
And Hope's delusive meteors cease to play;

When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close,
Still through the gloom thy star serenely glows:
Like yon fair orb she gilds the brow of Night
With the mild magic of reflected light. '

The conclusion of the fine passage on the Veterans at Green, wich and Chelsea, has a pensive dignity which beautifully corresponds with the scene.

'Long have ye known Reflection's genial ray

Gild the calm close of Valour's various day.'

And we cannot resist the pleasure of quoting the moral, tem der, and elegant lines which close the Poems.

'Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions fly,
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky;
If but a beam of sober Reason play,
Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away!
But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power,
Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour?
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight,
Pour round her path a stream of living light;
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest,
Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest!'

1

-The descriptive passages of this classical poem, require indeed a closer inspection, and a more exercised eye, than those of some celebrated contemporaries who sacrifice elegance to effect, and whose figures stand out in bold relief, from the general roughness of their more unfinished compositions. And in the moral parts, there is often discoverable a Virgilian art, which suggests, rather than displays, the various and contrasted scenes of human life, and adds to the power of language by a certain air of reflection and modesty, in the preference of measured terms over those of more apparent energy.

In the Epistle to a Friend, the Panegyric on Engraving-the View from the Poet's Country-house-the Bee-hives of the Loire -and the Rustic Bath, will immediately present themselves to the recollection of most poetical readers.

In the View from the House, the scene is neither delightful from very superior beauty, nor striking by singularity, nor powerful from reminding us of terrible passions or memorable deeds. It consists of the more ordinary of the beautiful features of Nature, neither exaggerated nor represented with curious minuteness, but exhibited with picturesque elegance, in connexion with those tranquil emotions which they call up in the calm order of a virtuous mind, in every condition of society and of life.

The Verses on the Torso, are in a more severe style. The Fragment of a Divine Artist, which awakened the genius of Michael Angelo, seems to disdain ornament.

And dost thou still, thou mass of breathing stone,

(Thy giant limbs to Night and Chaos hurl'd)
Still sit as on the fragment of a World;
Surviving all, majestic and alone?

What though the Spirits of the North, that swept
Rome from the earth, when in her pomp she slept,
Smote thee with fury, and thy headless trunk
Deep in the dust 'mid tower and temple sunk;
Soon to subdue mankind 'twas thine to rise,
Still, still unquell'd thy glorious energies!
'Aspiring minds, with thee conversing, caught
Bright revelations of the Good they sought;
By thee that long-lost spell in secret given,

To draw down Gods, and lift the soul to Heaven!' If poetical merit bore any proportion to magnitude, the Sick Chamber,' and the Butterfly,' would deserve no attention: But it would be difficult to name two small poems, by the same writer, in which he has attained such high degrees of kinds of excellence so dissimilar. The first has a truth of detail, which, considered merely as painting, is admirable; but assumes a higher character, when it is felt to be that minute re

membrance, with which affection recollects every circumstance that could influence a beloved sufferer. Though the morality which concludes the second, be in itself very beautiful, it may be doubted whether the verses would not have left a more unmixed delight, if the address had remained as a mere sport of fancy, without the seriousness of an object, or an application.

The Verses, written in Westminster Abbey, are surrounded by dangerous recollections. They aspire to commemorate Foxand to copy some of the grandest thoughts in the most sublime work of Bossuet. Nothing can satisfy the expectation awakened by such names. Yet we venture to quote the following lines, that there are some of them which would be best writers of this age

with the assurance, most envied by the

Friend of the Absent! Guardian of the Dead !
Who but would here their sacred sorrows shed?
(Such as He shed on NELSON's closing grave;
How soon to claim the sympathy He gave !)
In Him, resentful of another's wrong,

The dumb were eloquent, the feeble strong...
Truth from his lips a charm celestial drew-

Ah, who so mighty and so gentle too?'

The scenery of Loch Long is among the grandest in Scotland; and the following description of it shows the power of feeling and painting. Perhaps, however, it partly owes its insertion here, to individual recollections, as well as national sentiments. In this island, the taste for Nature has grown with the progress of refinement. It is most alive in those who are most brilliantly distinguished in social and active life. It elevates the mind above the meanness which it might contract in the rivalship for praise; and preserves those habits of reflection and sensibility, which receive so many rude shocks in the coarse contests of the world. Not many summer hours can be passed in the most mountainous solitudes of Scotland, without meeting some who are worthy to be remembered with the sublime objects of Nature which they had travelled so far to admire.

Upon another shore I stood,

And look'd upon another flood; *

Great Ocean's self! ('Tis He, who fills
That vast and awful depth of hills ;)
Where many an elf was playing round,
Who treads unshod his classic ground;
And speaks, his native rocks among,
AS FINGAL spoke, and OSSIAN sung.
Night fell; and dark and darker grew
That narrow sea, that narrow sky,

* Loch-Long.

As o'er the glimmering waves we flew,
The sea-bird rustling, wailing by.
And now the grampus, half descried,
Black and huge above the tide ;
The cliffs and promontories there,
Front to front, and broad and bare,
Each beyond each, with giant-feet
Advancing as in haste to meet;

The shatter'd fortress, whence the Dane
Blew his shrill blast, nor rush'd in vain,
Tyrant of the drear domain;

All into midnight-shadow sweep

When day springs upward from the deep! +
Kindling the waters in its flight,

The prow wakes splendour; and the oar,
That rose and fell unseen before,
Flashes in a sea of light!

Glad sign, and sure! for now we hail
Thy flowers, Glenfinart, in the gale;
And bright indeed the path should be,
That leads to Friendship and to Thee!
Oh blest retreat, and sacred too!
Sacred as when the bell of prayer
Toll'd duly on the desert air,
And crosses deck'd thy summits blue.
Oft, like some lov'd romantic tale,
Oft shall my weary mind recall,
Amid the hum and stir of men,
Thy beechen grove and waterfall,
Thy ferry with its gliding sail,

And Her-the Lady of the Glen!'

The most conspicuous of the novelties of this volume, is the poem or poems, entitled, Fragments of the Voyage of Columbus.' The subject of this poem is, politically, or philosophically, considered among the most important in the annals of mankind. The introduction of Christianity (humanly viewed)the irruption of the Northern barbarians-the contest between the Christian and Mussulman nations in Syria-the two inventions of Gunpowder and Printing-the emancipation of the human understanding by the Reformation-the discovery of America, and of a maritime passage to Asia in the last ten years of the 15th century-are the events which have produced the greatest and most durable effects, since the establishment of civilization, and the consequent commencement of authentic history. But the poetical capabilities of an event bear no propor

† A phenomenon described by many navigators.

tion to historical importance. None of the consequences that do not strike the senses or the fancy, can interest the poet. The greatest of the transactions above enumerated, are cbviously incapable of entering into poetry. The Crusades were not without permanent effects on the state of men: But their poetical interest does not arise from these effects;-and it immeasurably surpasses them.

Whether the voyage of Columbus be destined to be for ever incapable of becoming the subject of an Epic poem, is a question which we have scarcely the means of answering. The suc cess of great writers has often so little corresponded with the promise of their subject, that we might be almost tempted to think the choice of a subject indifferent. The story of Hamlet, or of Paradise Lost, would beforehand have been pronounced to be unmanageable. Perhaps the genius of Shakespeare and of Milton has rather compensated for the incorrigible defects of ungrateful subjects, than conquered them. The course of ages may produce the poetical genius-the historical materials and the national feelings, for an American Epic poem. There is yet but one State in America, and that State is hardly become a nation. At some future period, when every part of the continent has been the scene of memorable events, when the discovery and conquest have receded into that legendary dimness which allows fancy to mould them at her pleasure, the early history of America may afford scope for the genius of a thousand national poets; and while some may soften the cruelty which darkens the daring energy of Cortez and Pizarro-while others may, in perhaps new forms of poetry, ennoble the pacific conquests of Penn-and while the genius, the exploits, and the fate of Raleigh, may render his establishments probably the most alluring of American subjects-every inhabitant of the new world will turn his eyes with filial reverence towards Columbus,—and regard, with equal enthusiasm, the voyage which laid the foundation of so many states, and peopled a continent with civilized men.Most epic subjects, but especially such a subject as Columbus, require either the fire of an actor in the scene, or the religious reverence of a very distant posterity. Homer, as well as Ercilla, and Camoens, show what may be done by an epic poet who himself feels the passions of his heroes. It must not be denied, that Virgil has borrowed a colour of refinement from the Court of Augustus, in painting the age of Priam and of Dido. Evander is a solitary and exquisite model of primitive manners, divested of grossness, without losing their simplicity. But to an European poet, in this age of the world, the Voyage of Columbus is too naked and too exactly defined by history. It