ly all that is good in Hogg-not a twentieth part of the Shepherd's atrocities-and much merit peculiarly his own, which, according to our notion of poetry, is beyond the reach of the Ettrick bard. Yet Cunninghame has never written, and probably never will write, anything so fortunate as the Queen's Wake. THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. By Allan Cunninghame. Oh! my love's like the steadfast sun, Even while I muse, I see thee sit At times there come, as come there ought, One gleam of her inconstant light; Shines like the rainbow through the O then I see, while seated nigh, I think the wedded wife of mine, We cannot help thinking, that poetry like this-for poetry assuredly it is-awakens a much deeper feeling than that sort of poetry, which, dealing in troubled and sinful passions, might be supposed to have been groaned out to the Muse in auricular confession. There is something sickening in your assiduous poetical sinner, who sees nothing grand but guilt-thinks life dull unless it be devilish, and is oppressed with ennui, if forced for a season to have recourse to some honest employment. The truth is, that sane, sound, and simple nature, is the only nature in which the real poet long finds delight; and if sometimes he meddles with the morbid anatomy of the soul, it is that he may shew forth, in nobler proportions and diviner beauty, the unimpaired structure of our moral being. On this subject we shall not now dilate; but content ourselves with remarking, that nothing is easier than to write in this diseased and drunken style-and that nothing is more difficult than adequately-to speak of "the sound healthy children of the God of Heaven." North has just sent a devil to say, month, so that we may make our arthat he is to have no small print this ticle a page or two longer than per order. The easiest way of doing this is by extracts. So, fair reader, here is a poem by Mr T. K. Hervey. He is a young gentleman of very considerable promise, and the Convict-Ship will adorn even a page of Maga. We have a small volume of poems lately published by Mr Hervey, called "Australia," &c. which are much above mediocrity, and have attracted, as they deserved, considerable notice. No man in the world likes so well as we do to see clever youths coming for ward-and we at all times have shewn ing hand. Our friend Hervey has ourselves ready to lend them a help- feeling and fancy. THE CONVICT SHIP. By T. K. Hervey, Esq. Morn on the waters!-and, purple and bright, Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail, And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale; Night on the waves!-and the moon is on high, Seems not the ship like an island of rest? Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain, 'Tis thus with our life: while it passes along, Gaily we glide in the gaze of the world, With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurl'd; All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes, Yet charter'd by sorrow, and freighted with sighs : Fading and false is the aspect it wears, As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears; And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know, Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below; Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore As it has been objected to us, that we are too chary in general of poetical effusions, (in answer to this charge, see our pyramidical bard ▲,) we shall quote another little composition from the Souvenir; and at the same time beg leave to propose a toast- -"The health of the Reverend E. W. Barnard." Mr Barnard, we learned t'other day, from our friend Martin M'Dermot the Un merciful, is son-in-law to Arch-deacon Wrangham. We were happy to hear it, on both their accounts. Mr Wrangham is one of the best scholars in England; and that Mr Barnard has an exceedingly elegant mind, needs no better proof than THE ANGEL'S SONG. By the Rev. E. W. Barnard. INTRODUCTION. Come with a poet's eye, and parent's heart, And bless your bounteous Maker!There they sit, Beneath yon towering elms-a goodly boy And gentle girl-their little arms around Each other's necks entwining, as if loath To play at worldly games, and minding only Love, ceaseless love, the business of hea And paint the cheek of infancy; Chorus.-Strew about, strew about! 2d Angel. Lowly thought, and holy fear, Studious peace, and conscience clear, And grace divine, to make them be Meet for angels' company. Chorus.-Strew about, strew about! With these very beautiful verses, we intended to have closed our article. But on correcting the slip, we perceive that a few additional sentences are necessary for the "upmaking," since nothing looks so well at the top of a page, as the title of an article-and we perceive that the title of the next is a taking one. What then shall we say? why, that all our good Poets, yes, one and all of them, should contribute to the next volume of the Literary in writing a beautiful poem of fifty Souvenir. What difficulty is there lines, long or short metre, any summer morning before breakfast? Conmer through, from about the beginning sider how early the sunrises all the sumof May, well on to the end of September. Suppose you breakfast at nineor half past nine. Well then, up with you at five-and before the bell rings, there is your poem. Lay it aside for a week-correct it over your egg any sunshining morning-into the form of a letter with it-and off she goes to the tune of Alaric A. Watts, Esq. Leeds. Nothing can be more easy and simple than this process, and by and by down comes, or up goes to you your beautiful large paper copy of the Souvenir, with the worthy Editor's kind regards, and a pleasantly indited letter. Therefore, Wordsworth, god of the woods, "sole king of rocky Cumberland," a lyrical ballad, if you please, or a small portion, a very small portion, of the Excursion.-Southey, with wit and wisdom at will, dispatch a ters. Here have we been dallying away our time, pen in hand, for a couple of hours, like an absolute Dr Drake, and yet we much fear, after all, that we have said nothing very characteristic of the Souvenir. The truth is, that we have too much genius to write a good review. Howsomever, we beg leave to inform the public, pro bono publico, that the volume contains precisely 394 printed pages, written by popular authors-ten (ni fullor) exquisite engravings by the first artists-and three plates of autographs of the principal Living Poets. Besides the poetry, of which we have quoted some average specimens, there are some half-a-score of prose tales, picturesque or pathetic. The prose tales are in general goodexcellent; but we have a certain odd notion that we could write a better one than any of them; and we hereby promise to make this threat good before October. Shall we send it direct to Messrs Hurst, Robinson, and Co., or to yourself, Mr Watts, at Leeds? As we shall probably be in town before publication of the next Souvenir for 1826, we can hand it over the counter to Mr Mann, who, by the way, is an extremely pleasant man, indeed, and an excellent traveller. O vain race of mortals! how and by what means have any of you ever brought yourselves to think ill of Blackwood's Magazine? What Editor in England would admit into his periodical this same blessed article? Not one. And why? Is it deficient in wit, fancy, understanding, or knowledge? Most certainly not. On the contrary, it possesses all those qualities, to a truly extraordinary degree. Why then would no editor but Chris topher rejoice in this my article ? BECAUSE NO OTHER EDITOR HAS A HEART, CAMPBELL'S THEODRIC.* WHAT man of middle age does not remember, with something like a repetition of the pure, bright, original feeling, the enthusiastic transport of delight with which, in his youthful prime, he hung over the beautiful pages of "The Pleasures of Hope?" As he read that noblest production of early genius, what music sounded through his imagination and his senses, now like the murmur of a river, and now like the voice of the sea!Everything was splendid and sonorous in that dream of beautified sublimity; and "a purer ether, a diviner air," seemed shed over our lower world. The young poet poured forth his emotions in the evident rapture of inspiration, and rejoiced in the yet unbaffled prowess of his genius, as he careered over the course that his fancy shaped through the glittering domains of life, all fresh and fair to the spirit that poured over them the charms of its own creative energies. Truly might it be said of Mr Campbell, during his composition of that immortal poem, in the language of Collins, "that Hope enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair." He seemed to have no fixed plan-no regular order-but all was one glorious tumult of exulting passions, moving to their cwn music. The untamed soul of youth spoke in every line-in every image. A beautiful array of words came processionally onwards, "the long-resounding march and energy divine;" and we felt, from the beginning to the end, "this indeed is poetry." A visionary loveliness bedewed the whole world of the young poet's genius; and not one homely conception, not one prosaic form of speech, at any time broke the dream of imagination. If the feeling flagged, the fancy was instantly on the wing-if the sense failed, the sound conquered -pictures of mind alternated richly with pictures of nature-pathos expanded into majesty, and a strain that began perhaps in graceful simplicity, ended in the most gorgeous magnificence. The whole was the work of a fine and fortunate genius, inspired by the finest and most fortunate of themes; and while yet upon the verge of manhood, and by one startling and wonderful effort, which commanded glory, Campbell was admitted, by hail and acclamation, into the company of the immortals. We have been speaking of our youthful feelings some twenty-five years ago, (for opinions we shall not call them,) of "The Pleasures of Hope;" and perhaps they were not greatly dif ferent from the feelings with which we still occasionally peruse that poem. But now we are critics, which then we were not, and that must make considerable difference, whether we will or no, between the present and the past. Faults and vices of diction now stare us in the face in the composition we once esteemed pure, faultless, perfect. Nay, what is far worse, we cannot but discover many imperfect and confused conceptions, no-meanings innumerable, vague and indefinite aspirations, needless repetitions, pompous and inane common-places, boyish declamations, much false glitter, feebleness strutting on stilts, melodies wearisomely monotonous, and the substitution of phantasmagorial shadowings of fancy, for the permanent realities of life. Is all this, indeed, true? and if true, is it at all reconcilable with our previous panegyrical paragraph? Now, the solution of the difficulty, (if there be a difficulty here) is to be found in this-that Mr Campbell was a very young man when he wrote his poem, and we were a very young man when we read his poem. But, fortunately for his fame, there will always be a vast crowd of young people in the world, and most of them will admire and delight in Mr Campbell. Such of them as do not, will never be good for much, and most probably will prove to be Cockneys. Every promising youth will buy a copy of the Pleasures of Hope, in his fifteenth year, or sooner if precocious. Edition will pursue Edition: Campbell will always be a classic-and elegantly bound and richly lettered, he will, as far as we can see, lie on the drawing-room tables of the ingenuous and polite, until the extinction of civility in this empire. • Theodric, a Domestic Tale; and other Poems. By Thomas Campbell. London: Longman and Co. 1824. |
