the former. His conduct, during the latter periods of his administration, was, for the most part, opposed to the wishes of the popular party. M. Necker bitterly regretted the popularity which he had without hesitation sacrificed to his duty. Some persons have blamed him for the value he set upon this popularity. Wo to the statesmen who have no need of public opinion! They are either courtiers or usurpers: they flatter themselves to obtain by intrigue or by terror, that which generous minds would win in no other way than from the esteem of their fellows. In walking together, my Father and I, beneath the fine trees at Coppet*, which yet present themselves to my imagination, as the friendly witnesses of his noble thoughts, he once asked if I believed that the French people generally entertained the suspicions of his motives which had been expressed by the behaviour of the populace in his journey from Paris to Switzerland. "It seems to me,' "said he, "that in some provinces they have acknowledged to the last the purity of my intentions, and my attachment to France!" He had hardly pronounced these words, when, fearing to be too much moved by my reply, he added: "Let us speak no more on the subject; God reads my heart; that is enough." (To be continued.) Art. II. Human Life, a Poem. By Samuel Rogers. cr. 4to. pp. 96. Price 12s. 1819. MR. R. ROGERS has, during a longer period than we believe any contemporary poet except Crabbe, maintained his station in popular favour. Successive editions of the poem which first made him known to the public, nearly thirty years ago, have followed with the utmost regularity, and there are, we imagine, few libraries comprising a selection of poetry, in which the "Pleasures of Memory" has been forgotten. That poem might be indebted in the first instance to its attractive title, for some portion of its popularity, but unquestionably, what has enabled it to keep possession of the public, is, the finished beauty of the composition. Although it displays no high degree of originality, although it does not impress the reader either with romantic ideas of the Author's character, or with very exalted ideas of his powers of mind, it pleases, as it is a criterion of good poetry to please; by exciting emotions answering to the sentiments of the poet, by giving impulse to the mind's own activity, and by leaving an indefinite recollection of pleasure similar to that with which we return from, visiting scenes of quiet beauty or of picturesque enjoyment. It is not a chef d'œuvre of genius, but it comes from the master * Necker's estate near Geneva, where he spent the last years of his life. hand of literary taste; of that taste, the existence of which in its purest form, is an infallible indication of the presence of genius. In those gentlemanly productions which approach the nearest to the genuine reality of poetry, without possessing the last finishing requisite of Promethean skill-the vital fire, there may always be detected some radical deficiency even in point of taste, to which, as much as to the want of intellectual power, the failure is attributable. This rare and exquisite modification of judgement in reference to the objects and sources of imaginative pleasure, is not the artificial formation of habit, but is, in the very same sense as genius, instinctive: it works by finer rules than were ever laid down by the critic, and is connected with a genuine sensibility to those qualities which minister to delight. An effect vivid and dazzling, may be produced by compositions which violate all the rules of a refined taste. The vice which infects the style of most of the writers of the day, is a sacrifice of every thing to effect; but the success of such productions will probably not be lasting. While many of the works of real genius have sunk into neglect, owing to the rude or false taste which they exhibit, arising from a defect, not of power, but of skill, we turn with perpetual pleasure to those finished productions which bear the impression of consummate taste. The "Night-Thoughts" is the most remarkable exception which suggests itself. Young had absolutely no taste; he was the Sir John Vanbrugh of poets. His great poem is after all a Gothic pile, picturesque from its florid ornaments, and from the gloom which presides over the whole structure, but cold and uninhabitable: after a turn or two through its arcades, we are glad to make our escape into the free day-light. In his odes, though they certainly exhibit fair specimens of the Author's genius, Young's barbarous taste has proved fatal to his fame. With him we may fairly contrast Goldsmith, whose genius, were we to estimate it solely by his poetical works, we should hesitate to place on a level with that of Young. His principal merit must be sought for in his prose writings. But the little which he has left behind him in verse, is of that exquisite kind, so highly finished, and yet retaining so much characteristic artlessness, that it never tires on the perusal: his couplets always fall like music on the ear, and awaken an echo in our feelings. Mr. Rogers has been considered as an imitator of Goldsmith. He has written in the same measure, and the subject of their principal poems is similar. This is pretty nearly the amount of the resemblance. Mr. Rogers has not the originality of Goldsmith; he has, however, a richer store to draw from, and with less vigour possesses more refinement. There is some affectation, however, in talking of the school to which a writer may be said to belong: indeed, it constitutes one of the chief merits of the Author of the present poem, that he has none of that prominent mannerism which would lead us to refer him to any class of imitators. It is next to impossible to introduce any absolute novelty of style into the heroic couplet. Lord Byron, in his "Cor"sair," and Montgomery, in his "World before the Flood," have given us some noble specimens of versification exhibiting this measure, the one, in all the force and freedom, the other, in all the varying cadence, of which it is susceptible. But Pope left little to be achieved in this way by his successors. The self-same pauses and the answering rhyme, will still occur with monotonous regularity, and all that the poet can do, is to overpower the drone of the mechanism by the melody of his thoughts, and to make the cadence respond to the meaning, so that it shall seem governed by it, like the subordinate tones of a musical chord. Mr. Rogers's versification is always easy and mellifluous, and free from all those artifices of inversion, and break, and ellipsis, to which many writers have had recourse, with a view to produce effect, and in order to save themselves the pains of a more elaborate development of their meaning. A calm and quiet air of elegance reigns through his productions, which is much less adapted to elevate and to surprise,' as Mr. Bayes says, than the dashing style of some of his junior competitors, but which is in perfect harmony with the genuine mood of poetry. Our task in noticing the present poem, will be very short. It is of the simplest construction, and the title will lead the reader to anticipate the general argument. After some general reflections, preceded by a very beautiful descriptive passage, in which the christening, the coming of age, the nuptials, and the obsequies of the manor's lord, are lightly sketched in rapid succession, the Poet passes on to describe more in detail, the distinct ages, dwelling chiefly on the brighter side of life, and concludes with a cheerful picture of the enjoyments of old age. We were going to term it a Ciceronic picture, but Mr. Rogers remarks, that it is somewhat singular that among the comforts of that period, Cicero has not mentioned those arising from the society of women and children. These the Author has judiciously introduced, representing the old man 'mid his hereditary trees 'His children's children playing round his knees;' and in place of that transcendant burst of more than poetic, yet still bewildered feeling, O præclarum diem! the poem concludes with a beautiful allusion to that resurrection which is the pledge of ours, as shedding upon the grave of the good man the light of immortality. The following lines are the opening of the poem. The lark has sung his carol in the sky; Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, A few short years-and then these sounds shall hail Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sir-loin And once, alas! nor in a distant hour, He rests in holy earth with those that went before. • And such is human lifé; so gliding on, It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone! As full, methinks, of wild and wondrous change, As any that the wandering tribes require To minstrel harps at midnight's witching hour!' In some of the immediately succeeding passages, the reader will have to complain of an occasional obscurity, evidently arising from the aim at excessive terseness. The lines beginning Our pathway leads but to a precipice,' .. are a somewhat awkward attempt to versify a striking thought which refuses after all to accommodate itself to the Procrustean process of rhyme. It is inevitable, we think, on reading this passage, not to have the impression that the idea which here struggles to unfold itself, would be far more striking if dilated into the eloquence of prose. We say nothing as to the defective nature both of the image itself, and of the sentiment it conveys, as it regards the real condition and destiny of human beings: as the view of life which it presents, has no reference to any considerations truly religious, so it is not in accordance with the general spirit of the poem, and on these accounts its place might with great advantage be occupied by a new and more original paragraph, which it would cost Mr. Rogers little trouble to supply. The following beautiful picture of Childhood,' will form an elegant subject for Mr. Westall. The hour arrives, the moment wished and feared! He comes she clasps him. To her bosom pressed, He walks, he speaks, in many a broken word When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise. But soon a nobler task demands her care. |