this respect, very nearly upon a footing with morality. In substance it is the same everywhere." They would, therefore, limit the sources of poetry to those aspects of humanity which were presented before Christianity had dawned upon the world. This, in disbelievers in revelation, was natural enough; but Southey was not an unbeliever. That Christianity exhibits human nature under a new phase, will now, we think, be universally conceded. That it has wrought upon the human mind and heart, to the dethronement of passions and principles which before had ruled supreme, and kept all the gentler instincts and emotions in abey ance or in bondage, will, we fancy, be admitted even by those by whom its truth, as a revelation from God, is but little regarded. It is a great fact, of which the whole state of society, and the whole condition of man, in Christendom, bears unequivocal testimony; and it presents to the poet a new field for the exercise of his genius-a virgin soil for the cultivation of his poetic powers, as distinct from any which the heathen mythology affords, as is the light of the revelation under which we live, from the darkness visible of the idolatries by which it was preceded. It is needless to dwell upon the development of the female character, and the re-exaltation of woman to her proper place in society, as one of the many blessings for which we are indebted to the diffusion of the Gospel; and surely, not to talk of its effects upon our proper humanity, the poet will recognise in it a new element of poetry, and find fitting subjects for his mase in graces and virtues which in older times challenged but little admiration. Is it then, or is it not, a truth, which escaped the observation of the Edinburgh reviewer, that new sources of poetry have been discovered, when new trains of religious feeling have been awakened, and the moral sense has been quickened to, and invigorated by, the apprehension of spiritual things? On the contrary, we contend that such a metempsychosis of our moral being as may, under Christian influences, be experienced even upon earth, must naturally give rise to a species of composition abounding with new notions of grandeur and dignity, and celebrating virtues which were before considered of a most unpoetical character-such as charity, humility, patience, forgiveness of injuries, and all the corresponding sentiments which they inspire. It is not Jupiter hurling his thunder, or Achilles indulging his wrath, which can interest the Christian reader, so much as a good man suffering under adversity, and borne up by a sublime reliance upon Providence. It is not the brutal achievements of physical strength, or the clumsy interference of degraded deities, which can inspire with sentiments of delight and admiration one whose tastes have been formed upon that model of excellence which the Gospel presents to all true believers; but feelings and incidents calculated to edn. cate and exercise our moral faculties, and which are in unison with those notions of divine perfection, and of true goodness and greatness, which can only be learned from an authentic re velation. Now, the critic's wrath was provoked, because of these new sources of poetry of which Mr. Southey had largely availed himself. He does not, indeed, make the Christian character a professed object of delineation, or aim at a sort of poetical pilgrim's progress; but, by attributing to other systems the sublime incentives to virtue which Christianity furnishes, and taking advantage of their susceptibility of poetical adornment, he contrives to insinuate, instead of formally communicating, instruction. How recreative to the moral sense are his exquisite depictments of those future stages of our being, when we shall be freed from the trammels of mortality! So refined and delicate, and yet so palpable, are the pleasures which he describes; so truly exalted and spiritual, and yet so conceivable, are the feelings which he portrays, that it is impossible to read them without cherishing every good and amiable propensity, and feeling more sensibly the loveliness of virtue, and shrinking more instinctively from the hideousness of vice. Take, for instance, the following passage from "Kehama," in which the suffering Ladurlad and his persecuted daughter are permitted, for a brief season, to visit the wife and the mother in Paradise : : "Oh, happy sire and happy daughter! Ye, on the banks of that celestial water, Your resting-place and sanctuary have found. What! hath not then their mortal taint defiled The sacred solitary ground? Vain thought! the holy valley smil'd, Her mother's milk was stirring; Earthly, these passions of the earth, Its holy flame for ever burneth ; Hath she not then, for pains and fears, An over-payment of delight." Such is the characteristic of Southey's poetry. The grand maxim which he would inculcate is a belief in a graciously superintending Providence; that, whatever weal or woe betide, there is a power above by whom the righteous will never be forsaken, and by whom the wicked will full surely meet with due retribution; the sufferings of the one being but the necessary processes by which faith is tried, and the faithful are conducted to happiness; and the vices of the other being the snares by which they are drawn into, and involved in, irretrievable perdition. Thus it is that his poems abound, not in the fierce passions which consumed the soul of Byron, and for which he but sought a vent when he projected them from himself; nor in the voluptuous effeminacy which has, in so many instances, polluted the pages of Moore, whose descriptions of a sensual paradise but too much betray a sympathy with the delights and endearments of the sinners against their own souls ; but in the trials of virtue which has successfully surmounted the solicitations of impure desire, and the triumphs of principle by which all the devices of the tempter were confounded. How beautifully is the protecting influence of a pure attachment exemplified, when Thalaba is exposed to all the fascinations of the Garden of Delights in Mohared's palace, where females of surpassing beauty are threading the mazy dance "Their ankles bound with tinkling bells, Which made a modulating harmony;" while Transparent garments, to the greedy eye Gave all their harlot limbs, Which writhed, in each immodest gesture With eager eyes the banqueters But in the heart of the youth of "His own Oneiza swam before his sightHis own Arabian maid. He rose, and from the banquet-room he And tears streamed down his burning cheek; And murmured, that, from all domestic joys Again, when he is tried by suffering, and Mohared has him in a dungeon and in chains, his deliverance and promotion to great honour being conditional upon his compliance with the behests of the regal voluptuary, how noble is his response to the solicitations of the tempter : "Sultan Mohared-yes! you have me here, The patriot's and the martyr's wreath above Yea! your own crimes, and truth, and God in heaven." Such was the poetry of Robert Southey : a poetry which recreates the moral sense, and has for its object the development and purification of instincts and faculties which would have remained, like veins in the block of marble, had they not been evoked and brought into light by Christianity. And had his Scotch critics felt its power, far different would have been their estimate of productions which all have a reference to that new state of being to which it teaches us to aspire. That certain kinds of poetry naturally arise out of certain stages of society, is a truth very generally acknowleged by competent judges in such matters. And, if we remember rightly, the late Mr. Preston, in an essay which was published in an early volume of "The Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy," marked very clearly the distinction between the poetry of the Augustan age and that of the time of Homer. The latter, belonging to a stage of society when the physical powers of man were more necessary, and consequently in greater esteem, dwells much upon feats of strength and achievements of valour. Homer is less fond of describing the hero by what he thought or felt, than by what he did or suffered. Virgil, on the other hand, deals more in abstract passion, and traces the progress of the more re- And if Having thus stated our views of the light in which the poetry of this great man should have been viewed--but in which it was not viewed by the Pharisees and Saducees of literature-we have left ourselves but little space for noticing the details of his domestic and public life, as they may be gleaned from the last two volumes of his "Life and Correspondence." It is most truly observed by his son, that "A more thoroughly domestic man, or one more simple in his mode of living, it would be difficult to picture; and the habits into which he settled himself about this time continued through life, unbroken regularity and unwearied industry being their chief characteristics. Habitually an early riser, he never encroached upon the hours of the night; and finding his highest pleasure and his recreation in the very pursuits necessary for earning his daily bread, he was, probably, more continually employed than any other writer of his generation. My actions,' he writes about this time to a friend, are as regular as those of St. Dunstan's quarterboys. Three pages of history after breakfast (equivalent to five in small quarto printing); then to transcribe and copy for the press, or to make my selections and biographies, or what else suits my humour, till dinner time; from dinner till tea I read, write letters, see the newspaper, and very often indulge in a siesta-for sleep agrees with me, and I have a good substantial theory to prove that it must; for as a man who walks much requires to sit down and rest himself, so does the brain, if it be the part most worked, require its repose. Well, after tea, I go to poetry, and correct, and rewrite and copy till I am tired, and then turn to anything else till supper; and this is my life-which, if it be not a very merry one, is yet as happy as heart could wish. At least I should think so if I had not once been happier; and I do think so, except when that recollection comes upon me. And then, when I cease to be cheerful, it is only to become contemplative-to feel at times a wish that I was in that state of existence which passes not away; and this always ends in a new impulse to proceed, that I may leave some durable monument and some efficient good behind me.'' An old and rich uncle, John Southey, from whom he might have expected something, died childless, making no mention of him in his will. His feelings on the occasion were expressed in the following lines, in which he communicated the event to a friend, by whom they were accidentally preserved: "So thou art gone at last, old John, And hast left all from me: "Nor marvel I, for though one blood Through both our veins was flowing, "Thou hadst no anxious hopes for me, "It touched thee not if envy's voice "Old man, thou liest upon thy bier, And none for thee will shed a tear! They'll give thee a stately funeral, With coach and hearse, and plume and pall; But they who follow will grieve no more Than the mutes who pace with their staves before. With a light heart and a cheerful face Will they put mourning on, And bespeak thee a marble monument, "An enviable death is his, Who, leaving none to deplore him, Hath yet a joy in his passing hour, Because all he loved have died before him. The monk, too, hath a joyful end, And well may welcome death like a friend, And the brethren stand round him and sing him to rest, "But a hopeless sorrow it strikes to the heart, And neither in this world nor the next None to weep for thee on earth, "Alas, old man, that this should be! Thrown wide thy doors, and called them in, How happy thine old age had been! Thou wert a barren tree, around whose trunk, With buds of hope and genial fruit been hung; But he had the true riches-a healthy mind, an honest heart, a rising reputation, and an approving con science. When we consider his pressing occupations, and the value of his time to himself and those who were dependent upon him, it is amazing how much of it he was able to devote to the good of others. To that most amiable and promising young person, Kirke White, only known to him by his genius and his virtues, he was, while he lived, a friend and counsellor; and when mental powers, tasked too severely, hurried him prematurely to the grave, the poet mourned over him as a kindred spirit gone to his everlasting rest; and volunteered to collate and edit his "Remains," prefixing to them a biographical notice, by which he had the happiness of realising a considerable sum for the benefit of his family. Other instances are on record which prove the heartiness of his good-will to direct and benefit struggling genius. To Ebenezer Elliott his letters are many, and his advice excellent; and doubtless that hard-handed and softhearted individual appreciated them as they deserved. To a Mr. Duseautoy, a young gentleman, who without any previous knowledge of him, solicited his advice, submitting to him some of his productions, he was equally kind and encouraging, and wrote to him, amidst all his heavy labours, with a fulness of affectionate interest such as a father might feel for a promising and favourite son. The youth entered the university, and would, in all human likelihood, have been a distinguished ornament of his country, had not the keenness of his intellectual ardour been an over-match for his vital powers. He perished, as poor Kirke White did, in the blossom of his hopes, affording another instance to the many already on record, of victims to the eager pursuit of university honours, which all who are acquainted with college life in any of our three great universities must know, and the remembrance of which so often passes like a shadow over them when they review their college recollections. Meanwhile the indefatigable poet was busy with his more imperious labours. He was adding daily to the stores of knowledge which were to furnish the materials for a history of Portugal. He was consuming many a weary hour upon notices of current literature, by which he enriched, much |