MONTHLY CATALOGU E,

FOR MAY, 1820.

POETRY and the DRAM A.

Art. 14. The Hill of Caves; in Two Cantos.

With other Poems. By William Read, Esq. 8vo. pp. 100. sewed. Colburn.

Three miles north of Belfast, at the height of twelve hundred feet above the level of the sea, rises the Hill of Caves. At least to this effect the present author informs us, in a very modest little advertisement; and to this scene he has directed his poetical powers of description: - but he has also (to use his own words) endeavoured to introduce incident and variety' into the Hill of Caves.

We wish that we could say that the work is entertaining; or, as a whole, meritorious. Many clever little passages occur in it: but we are compelled to acknowlege that, in our judgment, it hangs heavily on the hand. The two subjoined stanzas betray the source of the author's inspiration, and gratefully repay their inspirer. 'Ye vanished masters of Hibernia's lyre!

Who erst in Tara's trophied halls did string
Those speaking chords which set the soul on fire,
Till from its prison-cage it strove to spring,
And beat the heart with wild impatient wing,
Forgive, that with this feeble hand I sought,.
Like distant streamlet faintly echoing

The cataract, · to wake the tones ye taught;
These Erin's harp forgets, as she hath been forgot!
'Long through her ivy-fettered chords the breeze
Of midnight whispered, none could set her free!
And long that tide of soul was doomed to freeze,
Which flowed unmatched in her wild melody.
But now, thy country's day-star shines on thee,
Loved harp, awake! it burns ascendant now,
And gilds thy kindling chords effulgently!
Awake! Wit, Valour, Beauty claim thy vow,-

And MOORE hath broke thy trance, -thy Genius wreathed his brow!'

Art. 15. Rosamond, Memory's Musings, and other Poems. By William Procter. Crown 8vo. pp. 145. 75. Boards. Hookham. 1819.

In an age of strong poetical competition like the present, we might naturally promise ourselves the favourable result which an emulative principle is calculated to produce; superior excellence in an art that boasts such numerous candidates for renown. This expectation, however, is so far from being realized with regard to the poetry of the day, that, in proportion to the abounding matter, the quality of it seems by no means to improve; and even our favourite modern masters of the lyre, on a comparison with

elder

elder and more correct authors, will appear too fairly chargeable with poetical sins of no slight magnitude. The bold licence of Byron, the mannerism of Scott, and the too apparent labour of Campbell, often produce in the reader an irritation of nerves, and a feeling of despair, before he actually arrives at the end of their lucubrations: while their imitators often succeed in ingeniously acquiring the faults rather than the beauties of their archetypes. Though Alexander had a wry neck, and Horace was somewhat blear-eyed, we shall never become heroes merely by twisting our necks, or poets by placing a shade over our eyes; and we would advise those, who feel themselves stimulated with the desire of poetic recreation, to walk lamely by themselves rather than supported on the best rhyming crutches which they can borrow or steal.

Without intending directly to apply these remarks to Mr. Procter, who evinces much of the soul and language of a poet, we think that he kept Mr. Southey too closely in view when he wrote the following lines, addressed to his book:

Go forth, frail offspring of my brain,

I trust thee on a dangerous way;
On which, by self-applause made vain,
Perchance I doom thee to decay.'

It is with pleasure, however, that we render to Mr. Procter that justice which we would never intentionally omit. He possesses much pathetic power; as an instance of which we quote the opening of Memory's Musings:' though there are other parts of equal beauty :

The veil of twilight mantles o'er the sky,

And closes up the lovely face of day

The landscapes, fields, and flowers in dimness lie,
And the last Robin's song has died away.

'I wander to some solitary seat,

Amid these gardens' cool sequester'd bowers;
With retrospection pensive, dear, and sweet,
To hold communion on life's parted hours.

Oh! come fair fugitives of time, again,
Ye visions of my boyhood's happy years;
Ye, who so oft have sooth'd my bosom's pain,
And brighten❜d into smiles my gloom and tears.
Oh! come once more, ye shades of memory, come,
While on the past my fancy fondly pores,

Come, airy tenants, to my heart, your home;
Encircle there, and spread your treasur'd stores.

Yes, deep reflected upon memory's glass,
In retrospection I behold them pass;

Scenes and fair objects cherish'd and belov'd,
When life's young days in sportive fleetness mov'd.
Thought's earliest dawn the pleasing picture brings,
A group of sweet and unconnected things.
REV. MAY, 1820.
H

Advanc'd

Advanc'd a little from the mingled scene

Of woods and hills, and flow'rs, and smiling green,
What well known prospects full before me rise,
And all my native spot before me lies!
Like a worn pilgrim who hath far'd in toil,
A long, long journey on a barren soil;
Meeting no face he lov'd, and hearing none
That spoke in friendship's voice to cheer him on,
Returning, gives the wind and sea his tears,
When through the mist his native shore appears,
Yet dim descried, but as the fresh'ning gale
Bears to the port the breeze-embracing sail,
At once familiar to the sight he grows,

Smiles, and then weeps, and then with transport glows,' &c.

Art. 16. Common Sense: a Poem. 8vo. pp. 53. sewed. Allman. 1819.

This is a sensible little book; and, although the author disclaims any pretension to the honours of poetry, yet, if sense be the foundation of all good writing, he certainly possesses that basis, and, as we think, much also of the superstructure. The opinions, indeed, which he so commendably advocates, are not unusual in conversation, and have more than once, perhaps, been promulgated in print: - once, recently, in a poem called "Sæculomastix," to which we have called the attention of our readers in a preceding portion of the present Review. (P. 73.)

The mutual object of both these writers is in the first place to point out the causes of the degradation of our literature; and they both trace them, principally, to a deficiency of moral tone in the popular authors; secondly, to a deficiency in knowlege; and, thirdly, to that compound of bad taste which is sure to result from these preliminary elements of ignorance and pollution. They each have two divisions; the one discussing literature, including morals and politics; the other more confined to religion, as it appears in the present age.

From each of these portions in the writer before us, we shall now offer a specimen to our readers:

• What shall I say of Wordsworth ?* that I praise The pure and spotless tenor of his lays:

But

*Few poets have been more reviewed, or less read, than Wordsworth. He has a few idolaters, to whom he is ó momtng : while the common run of readers and critics will scarcely allow him to be a poet at all. I hold with the million. Mr. Wordsworth has given us his notions of poetry in certain philosophical prefaces, which have very much the air of translations from the German. Among other canons, he observes, "the reader cannot be too often reminded that poetry is passion." As an illustration of this, the reader may take –

"The

But that his rhymes are bad, his sense obscure,
His diction childish, and his fancy poor:
That if he be a poet, well I wot

Milton and Shakespeare, Pope and Gray were not:
If verse be just the talk of common men,
Dealt out by line, and measured eight or ten:
If knights and heroes, kings and gods, be toys,
Compared with duffle cloaks, and idiot boys
Thou shalt be read, when Homer is forgotten,
And the great Goth in dust and worms is rotting;
Then shalt thou live the joy of babes and men
But, gentle Wordsworth, hope it not till then.'
Speaking of that party in the Church which is arrogantly deno-
minated "Evangelical," the author thus writes:

'There's little in a name, and party binds
Together struggling souls of divers kinds :
Scandal indeed is busy still with those
Who the lax morals of the world oppose;
And vice is always glad to find a flaw
In characters of which it stands in awe.
I scorn these idle tales, nor will I hate
The virtue that I scarce can imitate :
But on the other hand, I still must hold,
That all that glitters is not sterling gold.
Are there not some, who, while they can declaim
Against the world, have still their own bye-game;
Find time, amidst their labours, to cajole
A wealthy widow anxious for her soul;
Lead to the altar the converted fair,
And sport, like Huntington, a coach and pair ?*
Are there not some, who, in these latter years,
Smit with the love of meetings and hear! hears!

"The Vicar did not hear the words: and now
Pointing towards the cottage, he entreated
That Leonard would partake his humble fare;
The other thanked him with a fervent voice,
But added, that the evening being fine
He would pursue his journey."

Is not this passion? Are not these thoughts that breathe, and words that burn ?'

* Evangelical clergymen, in their capacity of confessors, (for auricular confession is much the fashion at present,) have considerable facilities for cultivating intimacies with women much above them in rank and fortune. Should these facilities lead, in many cases, to matrimony, suspicions may naturally arise that the byegame was kept in view from the beginning. On this head, see Mrs. H. More's Moral Sketches. I am sorry to find that my views on this subject are confirmed by that able and well-informed writer. Mrs. M., indeed, lays the blame chiefly on the ladies : most probably there are faults on both sides.'

H 2

Range

Range o'er the island on some fair pretence,
And leave their flocks in charge to Providence ? *
Are there not some, beneath whose doctrine lurks
A strange indifference both to faith and works?
They preach the eternal union -lay no stress
On justice, charity, and holiness;

Till the flock, following the deceitful bell,
Runs to the very pit where Baring fell.†

These are no guides for me

although the crowd Dwells on their names with praises deep and loud; And holds it almost blasphemy to say,

The road they lead is not the narrow way.'

Art. 17. Montrose; a National Melo-Drama. In Three Acts. 12mo. is. Printed at Glasgow; and sold in London by Longman and Co.

1820.

We have here another of those very coarse and unpoetical attempts to bring a popular novel on the stage, which, in our judgment, disgrace both the original work and the imitation : the former by involuntary contamination, the latter by willing abasement. There is a charm about a successful work of imagination, which ought to preserve it from cotemporary theatrical exhibition. While the ideal scenes of a Cervantes, or a Fielding, were warm and fresh in the mind of the reader, how could he endure a Don Quixote in England (although from the pen of the latter of these worthies) or a Tom Jones on the stage? We are convinced that no person of the least degree of original fancy, or of classical taste, ever tolerated such vulgar abominations, such gross disenchantments of the poetical creation in which they had been wandering. Fortunately for our argument, the execution of these ill-conceived monsters of the theatre has been, generally speaking, as contemptible as the design itself; and never have we seen a tamer and more servile dramatic transcript of the delightful works of the author of Waverley than the present. The Legend of Montrose furnished one of the happiest delineations of a soldier of fortune, of an adventurer whose fidelity is as transferable as his person from one kingdom to another, that we remember to have encountered. How is it possible to bear the gross caricature of this highly comic character, which so woefully besets us throughout this National Melo

* I am at a loss to conceive, how clergymen holding benefices in the south, can spare so much time for attending public meetings at the very extremities of the kingdom. Surely their own parishes must suffer by it. The offices of an itinerant missionary, and a beneficed clergyman, were once reckoned incompatible. I should think that the duties of the two offices must still be so.'

ܠ This paragraph hints at high matter, which I cannot condense into a note. Suffice it to say, that Antinomianism is putting on a bolder face than it has assumed for many years; and that the theology of some who have not seceded, wears a very equivocal aspect.'

Drama ?"