(June, 1815.) Roderick The Last of the Goths. By ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq., Poct-Laureate, and Member of the Royal Spanish Academy. 4to. pp. 477. London: 1814.* THIS is the best, we think, and the most powerful of all Mr. Southey's poems. It abounds with lofty sentiments, and magnificent imagery; and contains more rich and comprehensive descriptions-more beautiful pictures of pure affection-and more impressive representations of mental agony and exultation than we have often met with in the compass of a single volume. itself in a work of such length; but its worst effect is, that it gives an air of falsetto and pretension to the whole strain of the compo sition, and makes us suspect the author of imposture and affectation, even when he has good enough cause for his agonies and rap. tures. How is it possible, indeed, to commit our sympathies, without distrust, to the hands of a writer, who, after painting with infinite force the anguish of soul which pursued the fallen Roderick into the retreat to which his crimes had driven him, proceeds with redoubled emphasis to assure us, that neither his remorse nor his downfal were half so intolera A work, of which all this can be said with justice, cannot be without great merit; and ought not, it may be presumed, to be without great popularity. Justice, however, has something more to say of it: and we are not quite sure either that it will be very popular, or that it deserves to be so. It is too monotonous-ble to him, as the shocking tameness of the sea too wordy-and too uniformly stately, tragical, and emphatic. Above all, it is now and then a little absurd-and pretty frequently not a little affected. He The author is a poet undoubtedly; but not of the highest order. There is rather more of rhetoric than of inspiration about himand we have oftener to admire his taste and industry in borrowing and adorning, than the boldness or felicity of his inventions. has indisputably a great gift of amplifying and exalting; but uses it, we must say, rather unmercifully. He is never plain, concise, or naffectedly simple, and is so much bent upon making the most of every thiug, that he is perpetually overdoing. His sentiments and situations are, of course, sometimes ordinary enough; but the tone of emphasis and pretension is never for a moment relaxed; and the most trivial occurrences, and fantastical distresses, are commemorated with the same vehemence and exaggeration of manner, as the most startling incidents, or the deepest and most heart-rending disasters. This want of relief and variety is sufficiently painful of : birds who flew round about him in that utter solitude! and were sometimes so familiar as to brush his cheek with their wings? "For his lost crown And sceptre never had he felt a thought This, if we were in bad humour, we should be tempted to say, was little better than drivelling;-and certainly the folly of it is greatly aggravated by the tone of intense solemnity in which it is conveyed: But the worst fault by far, and the most injurious to the effect of the author's greatest beauties, is the extreme diffuseness and verbosity of his style, and his unrelenting anxiety to leave nothing to the fancy, the feeling, or even the plain underI have, in my time, said petulant and provo-standing of his readers-but to have every king things of Mr. Southey :-and such as I would thing set down, and impressed and hammered not say now. But I am not conscious that I was into them, which it may any how conduce to ever unfair to his Poetry and if I have noted his glory that they should comprehend. There what I thought its faults, in too arrogant and derisive a spirit, I think I have never failed to give never was any author, we are persuaded, who nearty and cordial praise to its beauties-and had so great a distrust of his readers' capagenerally dwelt much more largely on the latter city, or such an unwillingness to leave any Than the former. Few things, at all events, would opportunity of shining unimproved; and ac now grieve me more, than to think I might give cordingly, we rather think there is no author, pain to his many friends and admirers, by reprinting, so soon after his death, any thing which might who, with the same talents and attainments, appear derogatory either to his character or his has been so generally thought tedious-or genius; and therefore, though I cannot say that I acquired, on the whole, a popularity so inhave substantially changed any of the opinions I ferior to his real deservings. On the present have formerly expressed as to his writings, I only occasion, we have already said, his deserv insert in this publication my review of his lastings appear to us unusually great, and his considerable poem: which may be taken as con: faults less than commonly conspicuous. But veying my matured opinion of his merits-and will se felt, I trust, to have done no scanty or unwilling though there is less childishness and trifling justice to his great and peculiar powers. in this, than in any of his other productions here is still, we are afraid, enougn of tediousness and affected energy, very materially to obstruct the popularity which the force, and the tenderness and beauty of its better parts, might have otherwise commanded. There is one blemish, however, which we think peculiar to the work before us; and that is, the outrageously religious, or rather fanatical, tone which pervades its whole structure-the excessive horror and abuse with which the Mahometans are uniformly spoken of on account of their religion alone; and the offensive frequency and familiarity with which the name and the sufferings of our Saviour are referred to at every turn of the story. The spirit which is here evinced towards the Moors, not only by their valiant opponents, but by the author when speaking in his own person, is neither that of pious reprobation nor patriotic hatred, but of savage and bigotted persecution; and the heroic character and heroic deeds of his greatest favourites are debased and polluted by the paltry superstitions, and sanguinary fanaticism, which he is pleased to ascribe to them. This, which we are persuaded would be revolting in a nation of zealous Catholics, must be still more distasteful, we think, among sober Protestants; while, on the other hand, the constant introduction of the holiest persons, and most solemn rites of religion, for the purpose of helping on the flagging interest of a story devised for amusement, can scarcely fail to give scandal and offence to all persons of right feeling or just taste. This remark may be thought a little rigorous by those who have not looked into the work to which it is applied-For they can have no idea of the extreme frequency, and palpable extravagance, of the allusions and invocations to which we have referred.-One poor woman, for example, who merely appears to give alms to the fallen Roderick in the season of his humiliation, is very needlessly made to exclaim, as she offers her pittance, "Christ Jesus, for his Mother's sake, --and soon after, the King himself, when he hears one of his subjects uttering curses on his name, is pleased to say, "Oh, for the love of Jesus curse him not! suggested, more utterly alien to all English prejudices, traditions, and habits of poetical contemplation, than the domestic history of the last Gothic King of Spain,-a history extremely remote and obscure in itself, and treating of persons and places and events, with which no visions or glories are associated in English imaginations. The subject, however, was selected, we suppose, during that period when a zeal for Spanish liberty, and a belief in Spanish virtue, spirit and talent, were extremely fashionable in this country; and before "the universal Spanish people" had made themselves the objects of mixed contempt and compassion, by rushing prone into the basest and most insulted servitude that was ever asserted over human beings. From this degradation we do not think they will be redeemed by all the heroic acts recorded in this poem,-the interest of which, we suspect, will be considerably lowered, by the late revolution in public opinion, as to the merits of the nation to whose fortunes it relates.—After all, however, we think it must be allowed, that any author who interests us in his story, has either the merit of choosing a good subject, or a still higher merit;-and Mr. Southey, in our opinion, has made his story very interesting. Nor should it be forgotten, that by the choice which he has made, he has secured immense squadrons of Moors, with their Asiatic gorgeousness, and their cymbals, turbans, and Paynim chivalry, to give a picturesque effect to his battles,-and bevies of veiled virgins and ladies in armour,-and hermits and bishops, and mountain villagers, and torrents and forests, and cork trees and sierras, to remind us of Don Quixote,-and store of sonorous names:-and altogether, he might have chosen worse among more familiar objects. The scheme or mere outline of the fable is extremely short and simple. Roderick, the valiant and generous king of the Goths, being unhappily married, allows his affections to wander on the lovely daughter of Count Julian; and is so far overmastered by his passion, as, in a moment of frenzy, to offer violence to her person. Her father, in revenge of this cruel wrong, invites the Moors to seize on the kingdom of the guilty monarch;-and assuming their faith, guides them at last to a signal and sanguinary victory. Roderick, after performing prodigies of valour, in a seven-days fight, Whereupon, one of the more charitable audi- feels at length that Heaven has ordained all tors rejoins. "Christ bless thee, brother, for that Christian speech!" --and so the talk goes on, through the greater part of the poem. Now, we must say we think this both indecent and ungraceful; and look upon it as almost as exceptionable a way of increasing the solemnity of poetry, as common swearing is of adding to the energy of discourse. We are not quite sure whether we should reckon his choice of a subject, among Mr. Southey's errors on the present occasion;but certainly no theme could well have been this misery as the penalty of his offences, and, overwhelmed with remorse and inward agony, falls from his battle horse in the mids! of the carnage: Stripping off his rich armour, he then puts on the dress of a dead peasant; and, pursued by revengeful furies, rushes desperately on through his lost and desolated kingdom, till he is stopped by the sea; on the rocky and lonely shore of which he passes more than a year in constant agonies of penitence and humiliation,-till he is roused at length, by visions and impulses, to undertake something for the deliverance of his suffering people. Grief and abstinence have now 8G changed him, that he is recognised by no one, One hangs the wall with laurel- leaves, and all Scatters her loose notes on the sultry air, 'Like Hampden struggling in his country's cause, The first, the foremost to obey the laws, The last to brook oppression! On he moves, Careless of blame while his own heart approves, Careless of ruin-("For the general good 'Tis not the first time I shall shed my blood.") On through that gate misnamed, through which before. Went Sidney, Russel, Raleigh, Cranmer, More! Traitor's Gate, in the Tower. We know of nothing at once so pathetic and so ublime, as the few simple sentences here alluded to, in the account of Lord Russel's trial. Lord Russel. May I have somebody write to help my memory? Mr. Attorney General. Yes, a Servant. Lord Chief Justice. Any of your Servants shall assist you in writing any thing you please for you. Lord Russel. My Wife is here, my Lord, to do it? When we recollect who Russel and his wife were, and what a destiny was then impending, this one trait makes the heart swell, almost to bursting. Again with honour to his hearth restor❜d, (The humblest servant calling by his name), -On the day destin'd for his funeral! Lo, there the Friend, who, entering where he lay, pp. 48-50. What follows is sacred to still higher re membrances. "And now once more where most he lov'd to be, The scene of closing Age is not less beautiful and attractive÷nor less true and exemplary. "'Tis the sixth hour. The village-clock strikes from the distant tower. 66 And such, his labour done, the calm He knows, Whose footsteps we have follow'd. Round him. glows An atmosphere that brightens to the last; Or prunes or grafts, or in the yellow mead "At night, when all, assembling round the firs Closer and closer draw till they retire, A tale is told of India or Japan, Of merchants from Golcond or Astracan, They stand between the mountains and the sea "How many centuries did the sun go round Proclaims that Nature had resum'd her right, 66 From my youth upward have I longed to tread "The air is sweet with violets, running wild We have dwelt too long, perhaps, on a work more calculated to make a lasting, than a strong impression on the minds of its readers —and not, perhaps, very well calculated for being read at all in the pages of a Miscellaneous Journal. We have gratified ourselves, however, in again going over it; and hope we have not much wearied our readers. It is followed by a very striking copy of verses written at Pæstum in 1816-and more characteristic of that singular and most striking scene, than any thing we have ever read, in prose or verse, on the subject. The ruins of Pæstum, as they are somewhat improperly called, consist of three vast and massive Temples, of the most rich and magnificent architecture; which are not ruined at all, but as entire as on the day when they were built, while there is not a vestige left of the city to which they belonged! They stand in a "In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk desert and uninhabited plain, which stretches Seen at his setting, and a flood of light for many miles from the sea to the mountains Filling the courts of these old sanctuaries, -and, after the subversion of the Roman (Gigantic shadows, broken and confus'd,' greatness, had fallen into such complete obli- Across the innumerable columns flung) In such an hour he came, who saw and told, vion, that for nearly nine hundred years they Led by the mighty Genius of the Place' had never been visited or heard of by any in- Walls of some capital city first appear'd, telligent person, till they were accidentally Half raz'd, half sunk, or scatter'd as in scorn; discovered about the middle of the last cen-—And what within them? what but in the midst tury. The whole district in which they are situated, though once the most fertile and flourishing part of the Tyrrhene shore, has been almost completely depopulated by the Mal'aria; and is now, in every sense of the The volume ends with a little ballad, enti word, a vast and dreary desert. The follow-tled "The Boy of Egremond"—which is well ing lines seem to us to tell all that need be enough for a Lakish ditty, but not quite wor told, and to express all that can be felt of a thy of the lace in which we meet it. scene & strange and so mournful. These Three, in more than their original grandeur, 194 (June, 1815. ) London: 1814.* Aoderick The Last of the Goths. By ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq., Poet-Laureate, and Men bes of the Royal Spanish Academy. 4to. pp. 477. THIS is the best, we think, and the most It powerful of all Mr. Southey's poems. abounds with lofty sentiments, and magnificent imagery; and contains more rich and comprehensive descriptions-more beautiful pictures of pure affection-and more impressive representations of mental agony and exultation than we have often met with in the compass of a single volume. itself in a work of such length; but its worst effect is, that it gives an air of falsetto and pretension to the whole strain of the composition, and makes us suspect the author of imposture and affectation, even when he has good enough cause for his agonies and raptures. How is it possible, indeed, to commit our sympathies, without distrust, to the hands of a writer, who, after painting with infinite force the anguish of soul which pursued the fallen Roderick into the retreat to which his crimes had driven him, proceeds with redoubled emphasis to assure us, that neither his remorse nor his downfal were half so intolera A work, of which all this can be said with justice, cannot be without great merit; and ought not, it may be presumed, to be without great popularity. Justice, however, has something more to say of it: and we are not quite sure either that it will be very popular, or that it deserves to be so. It is too monotonous-ble to him, as the shocking tameness of the sea too wordy-and too uniformly stately, tragical, and emphatic. Above all, it is now and then a little absurd-and pretty frequently not a little affected. He The author is a poet undoubtedly; but not of the highest order. There is rather more of rhetoric than of inspiration about himand we have oftener to admire his taste and industry in borrowing and adorning, than the boldness or felicity of his inventions. has indisputably a great gift of amplifying and exalting; but uses it, we must say, rather unmercifully. He is never plain, concise, or naffectedly simple, and is so much bent upon making the most of every thiug, that he is perpetually overdoing. His sentiments and situations are, of course, sometimes ordinary enough; but the tone of emphasis and pretension is never for a moment relaxed; and the most trivial occurrences, and fantastical distresses, are commemorated with the same vehemence and exaggeration of manner, as the most startling incidents, or the deepest and most heart-rending disasters. This want of relief and variety is sufficiently painful of not say now. I have, in my time, said petulant and provoking things of Mr. Southey :-and such as I would But I am not conscious that I was ever unfair to his Poetry and if I have noted what I thought its faults, in too arrogant and derisive a spirit, I think I have never failed to give nearty and cordial praise to its beauties and generally dwelt much more largely on the latter than the former. Few things, at all events, would now grieve me more, than to think I might give pain to his many friends and admirers, by reprinting, so soon after his death, any thing which might appear derogatory either to his character or his genius; and therefore, though I cannot say that I have substantially changed any of the opinions I have formerly expressed as to his writings, I only insert in this publication my review of his last considerable poem: which may be taken as conveying my matured opinion of his merits-and will Se felt, I trust, to have done no scanty or unwilling justice to his great and peculiar powers. birds who flew round about him in that utter solitude! and were sometimes so familiar as to brush his cheek with their wings? "For his lost crown And sceptre never had he felt a thought This, if we were in bad humour, we should |