Old ditties sigh above their father's grave! In the midst of all these enchantments he has, we do not very well know how, another ravishing interview with his unknown goddess; and when she again melts away from him, he finds himself in a vast grotto, where he overhears the courtship of Alpheus and Arethusa; and as they elope together, discovers that the grotto has disappeared, and that he is at the bottom of the sea, under the transparent arches of its naked waters! The following is abundantly extravagant; but comes of no ignoble lineage-nor shames its high descent: "Far had he roam'd, With nothing save the hollow vast, that foam'd But those of Saturn's vintage; mould'ring scrolls, There he finds ancient Glaucus enchanted by Circe-hears his wild story-and goes with him to the deliverance and restoration of thousands of drowned lovers, whose bodies were piled and stowed away in a large submarine palace. When this feat is happily performed, he finds himself again on dry ground, with woods and waters around him; and cannot help falling desperately in love with a beautiful damsel whom he finds there, pining for some such consolation; and who tells a long story of having come from India in the train of Bacchus, and having strayed away from him into that forest!-So they vow eternal fidelity; and are wafted up to heaven on flying horses; on which they sleep and dream among the stars;-and then the lady melts away, and he is again alone upon the earth; but soon rejoins his Indian love, and agrees to give up his goddess, and live only for her: But she refuses, and says she is resolved to devote herself to the service of Diana: But, when she goes to accomplish that dedication, she turns out to be the goddess herself in a new shape! and finally exalts her lover with her to a blessed immortality! We have left ourselves room to say but little of the second volume; which is of a more miscellaneous character. Lamia is a Greek antique story, in the measure and taste of Endymion. Isabella is a paraphrase of the same tale of Boccacio wnich Mr. Cornwall has also imitated, under the title of "A Sicilian Story." It would be worth while to compare the two imitations; but we have no longer time for "Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon That old nurse stood beside her, wondering, At sight of such a dismal labouring; And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar, And then-the prize was all for Isabel! With tears, as chilly as a dripping well, [kep' The following lines from an ode to a Night- "O for a beaker full of the warm South! Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, What Thou among the leaves hast never known Where but to think is to be full of sorrow The voice I hear, this passing night was heard She stood in tears amid the alien corn! We know nothing at once so truly fresh, genuine, and English,-and, at the same time, so full of poetical feeling, and Greek elegance and simplicity, as this address to Autumn: Season of mists and mellow fruitfulnessClose bosom-friend of the maturing Sun! Conspiring with him now, to load and bless [run! With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease; For Summer has o'er brimm'd their clammy cells. "Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes, whoever seeks abroad, may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half reap'd furrow sound asleep! Drows'd with the fumes of poppies; while thy hook Spares the next swarth, and all its twined flowers! And sometimes like a gleaner, thou dost keep Steady thy laden head, across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours! "Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them! Thou hast thy music too; Or sinking, as the light wind lives or dies! One of the sweetest of the smaller poems ie that entitled "The Eve of St. Agnes:" though we can now afford but a scanty extract. The superstition is, that if a maiden goes to bed on that night without supper, and never looks up after saying her prayers till she falls asleep, she will see her destined husband by her bed-side the moment she opens her eyes. The fair Madeline, who was in love with the gentle Porphyro, but thwarted by an imperious guardian, resolves to try this spell:-and Porphyro, who has a suspicion of her purpose, naturally determines to do what he can to help it to a happy issue; and accordingly prevails on her ancient nurse to admit him to her virgin bower; where he watches reverently, till she sinks in slumber;-and then, arranging a most elegant dessert by her couch, and gently rousing her with a tender and favourite air, finally reveals himself, and persuades her to steal from the castle under his protection. The opening stanza is a fair specimen of the sweetness and force of the composition. "St. Agnes Eve! Ah, bitter cold it was! But the glory and charm of the poem is in ne description of the fair maiden's antique chamber, and of all that passes in that swe and angel-guarded sanctuary: every part of I which is touched with colours at once richi and delicate-and the whole chastened and harmonised, in the midst of its gorgeous distinctness, by a pervading grace and purity, that indicate not less clearly the exaltation than the refinement of the author's fancy. We cannot resist adding a good part of this description. "Out went the taper as she hurried in! A casement high and treple-arch'd there was, All garlanded with carven imageries Of fruits and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, And diamonded with panes of quaint device Innumerable, of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger moth's deep-damask'd wings! "Full on this casement shown the wintery moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon! Rose bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross, soft amethyst; And on her hair, a glory like a saint! She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest Save wings, for heaven!-Porphyro grew faint, She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint! "Anon his heart revives! Her vespers done, Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; Unclasps her warmed jewels, one by one; Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees! Half hidden, like a Mermaid in sea weed, Pensive a while she dreams awake, and sees In fancy fair, St. Agnes on her bed! But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled! "Soon, trembling, in her soft and chilly nest, In sort of wakeful dream, perplex'd she lay; Until the poppied warmth of Sleep oppress'd Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away! Haven'd alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again! Stolen to this paradise, and so entranc'd, Porphyro gaz'd upon her empty dress, And listen'd to her breathing; if it chanc'd To sink into a slumb'rous tenderness? Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And breath'd himself;-then from the closet crept, Noiseless as Fear in a wide wilderness, And over the hush'd carpet silent stept. "Then, by the bed-side, where the sinking moon Made a dim silver twilight, soft he set A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet, &c. "And still she slept-an azure-lidded sleep. In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd; While he, from forth the closet, brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; With jellies smoother than the creamy curd. And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez; and spiced dainties every one, From silken Samarcand, to cedar'd Lebanor. It is difficult to break off in such a course of citation: But we must stop here; and shall close our extracts with the following !ively lines: O sweet Fancy! let her loose! To banish Even from her sky. Distant harvest carols clear; Sweet birds antheming the morn; Or the rooks, with busy caw, Sapphire queen of the mid-May; There is a fragment of a projected Epic, entitled "Hyperion," on the expulsion of Saturn and the Titanian deities by Jupiter and his younger adherents, of which we cannot advise the completion: For, though there are passages of some force and grandeur, it is sufficiently obvious, from the specimen before us, that the subject is too far removed from all the sources of human interest, to be successfully treated by any modern author. Mr. Keats has unquestionably a very beautiful imagination, a perfect ear for harmony, and a great familiarity with the finest diction of English poetry; but he must learn not to misuse or misapply these advantages; and neither to waste the good gifts of nature and study on intractable themes, nor to luxuriate too recklessly on such as are more suitable. (March, 1819.) Human Life: a Poem. By SAMUEL ROGERS. 4to. pp. 94. London: 1819. THESE are very sweet verses. They do not, indeed, stir the spirit like the strong lines of Byron, nor make our hearts dance within us, like the inspiring strains of Scott; but they come over us with a bewitching softness that, in certain moods, is still more delightful and soothe the troubled spirits with a refreshing sense of truth, purity, and elegance. They are pensive rather than passionate; and more full of wisdom and tenderness than of high flights of fancy, or overwhelming bursts of emotion-while they are moulded into grace, at least as much by the effect of the Moral beauties they disclose, as by the taste and judgment with which they are constructed. The theme is HUMAN LIFE!-not only "the subject of all verse"-but the great centre and source of all interest in the works of human beings-to which both verse and prose invariably bring us back, when they succeed in rivetting our attention, or rousing our emotions and which turns every thing into poetry to which its sensibilities can be ascribed, or by which its vicissitudes can be suggested! Yet it is not by any means to that which, in ordinary language, is termed the poetry or the romance of human life, that the present work is directed. The life which it endeavurs to set before us, is not life diversified with strange adventures, embodied in extraordinary characters, or agitated with turbu lent passions-not the life of warlike paladins, or desperate lovers, or sublime ruffians-or piping shepherds or sentimental savages, or bloody bigots or preaching pedlars-or conquerors, poets, or any other species of madmen-but the ordinary, practical, and amiable life of social, intelligent, and affectionate men in the upper ranks of society-such, in short, as multitudes may be seen living every day in this country-for the picture is entirely English-and though not perhaps in the choice of every one, yet open to the judg ment, and familiar to the sympathies, of all. It contains, of course, no story, and no individual characters. It is properly and peculiarly contemplative-and consists in a series of reflections on our mysterious nature and condition upon earth, and on the marvellous, though unnoticed changes which the or linary course of our existence is continually bringing about in our being. Its marking peculiarity in this respect is, that it is free from the least alloy of acrimony or harsh judgment, and deals not at all indeed in any species of satirical or sarcastic remark. The poet looks here on man, and teaches us to look on him, not merely with love, but with reverence; and, mingling a sort of considerate pity for the shortness of his busy little career, and the | or not, that as readers of all ages, if they are disappointments and weaknesses by which it is beset, with a genuine admiration of the great capacities he unfolds, and the high destiny to which he seems to be reserved, works out a very beautiful and engaging picture, both of the affections by which Life is endeared, the trials to which it is exposed, and the pure and peaceful enjoyments with which it may often be filled. This, after all, we believe, is the tone of true wisdom and true virtue-and that to which all good natures draw nearer, as they approach the close of life, and come to act less, and to know and to meditate more, on the varying and crowded scene of human existence. When the inordinate hopes of early youth, which provoke their own disappointment, have been sobered down by longer experience and more extended views-when the keen contentions, and eager rivalries, which employed our riper age, have expired or been abandoned-when we have seen, year after year, the objects of our fiercest hostility, and of our fondest affections, lie down together in the hallowed peace of the grave-when ordinary pleasures and amusements begin to be insipid, and the gay derision which seasoned them to appear flat and importunate--when we reflect how often we have mourned and been comforted-what opposite opinions we have successively maintained and abandoned-to what inconsistent habits we have gradually been formed-and how frequently the objects of our pride have proved the sources of our shame! we are naturally led to recur to the careless days of our childhood, and from that distant starting place, to retrace the whole of our career, and that of our contemporaries, with feelings of far greater humility and indulgence than those by which it had been actually accompanied :-to think all vain but affection and honour-the simplest and cheapest pleasures the truest and most precious and generosity of sentiment the only mental superiority which ought either to be wished for or admired. We are aware that we have said "something too much of this ;" and that our readers would probably have been more edified, as well as more delighted, by Mr. Rogers' text, than with our preachment upon it. But we were anxious to convey to them our sense of the spirit in which this poem is written;-and conceive, indeed, that what we have now said falls more strictly within the line of our critical duty, than our general remarks can always be said to do;-because the true character and poetical effect of the work seems, in this instance, to depend much more on its moral expression, than on any of its merely literary qualities. The author, perhaps, may not think it any compliment to be thus told, that his verses are likely to be greater favourites with the old than with the young;-and yet it is no small compliment, we think, to say, that they are likely to be more favourites with his readers every year they live:-And it is at all events true, whether it be a compliment any way worth pleasing, have little glimpses Told us the fashion of our own estate and, in spite of all that may be said by grave persons, of the frivolousness of poetry, and of its admirers, we are persuaded that the most memorable, and the most generally admired of all its productions, are those which are chiefly recommended by their deep practical wisdom; and their coincidence with those salutary imitations with which nature herself seems to furnish us from the passing scenes of our existence. The literary character of the work is akin to its moral character; and the diction is as soft, elegant, and simple, as the sentiments are generous and true. The whole piece, indeed, is throughout in admirable keeping; and its beauties, though of a delicate, rather than an obtrusive character, set off each other to an attentive observer, by the skill with which they are harmonised, and the sweetness with which they slide into each other. The outline, perhaps, is often rather timidly drawn, and there is an occasional want of force and brilliancy in the colouring; which we are rather inclined to ascribe to the refined and somewhat fastidious taste of the artist, than to any defect of skill or of power. We have none of the broad and blazing tints of Scott-nor the startling contrasts of Byronnor the anxious and endlessly repeated touch of Southey-but something which comes much nearer to the soft and tender manner of Campbell; with still more reserve and caution, perhaps, and more frequent sacrifices of strong and popular effect, to an abhorrence of glaring beauties, and a 'disdain of vulgar resources. The work opens with a sort of epitome of its subject and presents us with a brief abstract of man's (or at least Gentleman's) life, as marked by the four great eras of-his birth -his coming of age-his marriage-and his death. This comprehensive picture, with its four compartments, is comprised in less than thirty lines.-We give the two latter scenes only. Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees "And soon again shall music swell the breeze; Vestures of Nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scatter'd round; and old and young, In every cottage-porch with garlands green, "And once, alas! nor in a distant hour, He rests in holy earth, with them that went before! "The hour arrives, the moment wish'd and The child is born, by many a pang endear'd. Her by her smile how soon the stranger knows; When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise. This is pursued in the same strain of tenderness and beauty through all its most interesting bearings;-and then we pass to the bolder kindlings and loftier aspirations of Youth. "Then is the Age of Admiration-then We cut short this tablature, however, as well as the spirited sketches of impetuous courage and devoted love that belong to the same period, to come to the joys and duties of maturer life; which, we think, are described with still more touching and characteristic beauties. The Youth passes into this more tranquil and responsible state, of course, by Marriage; and we have great satisfaction in recurring, with our uxorious poet, to his representation of that engaging ceremony, upon which his thoughts seem to dwell with so much fondness and complacency. "Then are they blest indeed! and swift the hours Till her young Sisters wreathe her hair in flowers, Kindling her beauty-while, unseen, the least Twitches her robe, then rins behind the rest, Known by her laugh that will not be suppress d. Beautiful as this is, we think it much infe. rior to what follows; when Parental affection comes to complete the picture of Connubial bliss. "And laughing eyes and laughing voices fill He turns their thoughts to Him who made them all." "But Man is born to suffer. On the door The scene, however, is not always purely domestic-though all its lasting enjoyments are of that origin, and look back to that consummation. His country requires the arm of a free man! and home and all its joys must be left, for the patriot battle. The sanguinary and tumultuous part is slightly touched; But the return is exquisite; nor do we know, any heartfelt beauty, than some of those we are where, any verses more touching and full of about to extract. with shrieks of horror!-and a vault of flame! |