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sions of genuine poetry to do this. There is no want of excitability in the multitude, by pathos skilfully administered;
the elec trical effects of sympathy in the theatre prove it: but these emotions are not imputable necessarily to the poetical form in which the popular sentiments are conveyed. A justly admired author has lately shown, that this can be done in a very powerful manner in a prose narrative. It is impossible to work such effects by mere song, with all its imagery and all its eloquence.
But so little is that excitement which the bulk of readers covet necessarily connected with poetry, that these readers have tired even of romances in a metrical form, and are regarding all their late rythmical favourites alike, with that sort of ingratitude with which repletion would lead them to regard a banquet when the dishes are removing from the table. But this is no proof that these great poets have forfeited their title to be admired. They are fixed orbs, which stand just where they did, and shine just as they were wont, although they seem to decline to the world which revolves the opposite way. But if the world will turn from the poet, whatever be his merit, there is an end of his popularity, inasmuch as the most approved conductor of the latter is the multitude, as essentially as is the air of the sound of his voice. Profit will also fail, from the lack of purchasers; and poetry, high as it may intrinsically seem, must fall, commercially speaking, to its ancient proverbially unprofitable level. Yet poetry will still be poetry however it may cease to pay; and although the acclaim of multitudes is one thing, and the still small voice of genuine taste and feeling another, the nobler incense of the latter will ever be its reward.
Our readers will now cease to wonder, that an author like the present, who has had no higher aim than to regale the imagination with imagery, warm the heart with sentiment and feeling, and delight the ear with music, without the foreign aid of tale or fable, has hitherto written to a few, and passed almost unnoticed by the multitude.
With the exception of Lord Byron, who has made the theme peculiarly his own, no one has more feelingly contrasted ancient with modern Greece.
The poem on the restoration of the Louvre Collection has, of course, more allusions to ancient Rome; and nothing can be more spirited than the passages in which the author invokes for modern Rome the return of her ancient glories. In a cursory but graphic manner, some of the most celebrated of the ancient statues are described. Referring our readers with great confidence to the work themselves, our extracts may be limited. The Venus restored to Florence is thus apostrophized:
• There thou, fair offspring of immortal Mind!
Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now.
Oh! who can tell what beams of heavenly light,
Burst into life, thy pomp of loveliness! Ancient Rome is addressed with much sublimity, and the Laos coon most feelingly portrayed. The Apollo, however, is very unjustly dismissed with six of the most indifferent lines in the poem. Many of the Louvre statues being Roman worthies, the poem concludes with the following striking allusion to their restoration:
Souls of the lofty! whose undying names
Unchain her Eagle's wing, and guide its flight, To bathe its plumage in the fount of Light.' The poem more immediately before us is of much greater length, and, we are inclined to think, of higher merit than its predecessor. The measure is like the Spencerian, though different, The experiment was bold, but it has not failed in the author's hands; and the music is upon the whole good. We would willingly quote largely from this poem, but have already outwritten our limits. We have seldom been more delighted than we were with the first nine stanzas, and cannot resist giving the 8th and 9th.
And mantling woodbine veil the withered tree,
The rose's blush that nasks the canker worm:
Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fair,
Oh! let us gaze on thee, and fondly deem The past awhile restored, the present but a dream.' The reader must have recourse to the poem for much that follows in the same strain. The following description is not exceeded, in that force and brilliancy of poetic painting which sets the object before us, by any poetry of the age; the passage is introductory to some fine allusions to the Elgin Marbles, which adds much to the elegance of the poem.
And art o'er all thy light proportions throws
And seem indeed whate'er devotion deems,
The pure intelligence, the chaste repose-
every shade of bright existence trace,
The nymph's light symmetry, the chief's proud mien,
those hearts were cold,
poem then gives a prophetic vision of the future trophies of our own country in the fine arts, the sole wreath yet unwon by her, and concludes with the following lines:
So, should dark ages o’er thy glory sweep,
Thy mighty monuments with reverence trace,
ART. VII.--Sketch of a Tradition, related by a Monk, in Switzer
land.-From the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine. Mr. EDITOR, In
through the wildest and most secluded parts of Switzerland, I took up my residence, during one stormy night, in a convent of capuchin friars, not far from Altorf, the birth-place of the famous William Tell. In the course of the evening, one of the fathers related a story, which, both on account of the interest which it is naturally calculated to excite, and the impressive manner in which it was told, produced a very strong effect upon my mind. I noted it down briefly in the morning, in my journal, preserving as much as possible the old man's style, but it has no doubt lost much by translation.
Having just read lord Byron's drama, “ Manfred,” there appears to me such a striking coincidence in some characteristic features, between the story of that performance and the Swiss tradition, that without further comment, I extract the latter from my journal, and send it for your perusal. It relates to an ancient family, now extinct, whose names I neglected to write down, and have now forgotten; but that is a matter of little importance.
His soul was wild, impetuous, and uncontrollable. He had a keen perception of the faults and vices of others, without the power of correcting his own; alike sensible of the nobility, and of the darkness of his moral constitution, although unable to cultivate the one to the exclusion of the other.
• In extreme youth, he led a lonely and secluded life in the solitude of a Swiss valley, in company with an only brother, some years older than himself, and a young female relative, who had been educated along with them from her birth. They lived under the care of an aged uncle, the guardian of those extensive domains which the brothers were destined jointly to inherit.
* A peculiar melancholy, cherished and increased by the utter seclusion of that sublime region, had, during the period of their infancy, preyed upon the mind of their father, and finally produced the most dreadful result. The fear of a similar tendency in the minds of the brothers, induced their protector to remove them, at an early age, from the solitude of their native country. The elder was sent to a German university, and the younger completed his education in one of the Italian schools.
- After the lapse of many years, the old guardian died, and the elder of the brothers returned to his native valley; he there formed an attachment to the lady with whom he had passed his infancy; and she, after some fearful forebodings, which were unfortunately silenced by the voice of duty and of gratitude, accepted of his love, and became his wife.
• In the meantime, the younger brother had left Italy, and travelled over the greater part of Europe. He mingled with the world, and gave full scope to every impulse of his feelings. But that world, with the exception of certain hours of boisterous passion and excitement, afforded him little pleasure, and made no lasting impression upon his heart. His greatest joy was in the wildest impulses of the imagination.