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"Age has now Stamp'd with its signet that ingenuous brow; And, 'mid his old hereditary trees, Trees he has climb'd so oft, he sits and sees His children's children playing round his knees: Envying no more the young their energies Than they an old man when his words are wise; His a delight how pure . . . without alloy; Strong in their strength, rejoicing in their joy!

"Now in their turn assisting, they repay The anxious cares of many and many a day; And now by those he loves reliev'd, restor'd, His very wants and weaknesses afford A feeling of enjoyment. In his walks, Leaning on them, how oft he stops and talks, While they look up! Their questions, their replies, Fresh as the welling waters, round him rise, Gladdening his spirit."-pp. 53-61.

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 desert and uninhabited plain, which stretches for many miles from the sea to the mountains -and, after the subversion of the Roman greatness, had fallen into such complete oblivion, that for nearly nine hundred years they had never been visited or heard of by any intelligent person, till they were accidentally discovered about the middle of the last century. 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 word, a vast and dreary desert. The following lines seem to us to tell all that need be told, and to express all that can be felt of a scene so strange and so mournful.

They stand between the mountains and the sea;
Awful memorials-but of whom we know not!
The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck.
The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak,
Points to the work of magic, and moves on.
Time was they stood along the crowded street,
Temples of Gods! and on their ample steps
What various habits, various tongues beset
The brazen gates, for prayer and sacrifice!

"How many centuries did the sun go round
From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea,
While, by some spell render'd invisible,
Or, if approach'd, approached by him alone
Who saw as though he saw not, they remain'd
As in the darkness of a sepulchre,

Proclaims that Nature had resum'd her right,
Waiting the appointed time! All, all within
And taken to herself what man renounc'd;
No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus,
But with thick ivy hung or branching fern,
Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure!
"From my youth upward have I longed to tread
This classic ground. And am I here at last?
Wandering at will through the long porticoes,
And catching, as through some majestic grove,
Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like,
Mountains and mountain-gulphs! and, half-way up,
Towns like the living rock from which they grew?
A cloudy region, black and desolate,
Where once a slave withstood a world in arms.

"The air is sweet with violets, running wild
Mid broken sculptures and fallen capitals!
Sweet as when Tully, writing down his thoughts,
Sail'd slowly by, two thousand years ago,
For Athens; when a ship, if north-east winds
Blew from the Pæstan gardens, slack'd her course.
The birds are hush'd awhile; and nothing stirs,
Save the shrill-voic'd cigala flitting round
On the rough pediment to sit and sing;
Or the green lizard rustling through the grass,
And
To vanish in the chinks that Time has made!
up the fluted shaft, with short quick motion,

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In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk Seen at his setting, and a flood of light Filling the courts of these old sanctuaries, (Gigantic shadows, broken and confus'd, Across the innumerable columns flung) In such an hour he came, who saw and told, Led by the mighty Genius of the Place! Walls of some capital city first appear'd, Half raz'd, half sunk, or scatter'd as in scorn; -And what within them? what but in the midst These Three, in more than their original grandeur, And. round about, no stone upon another! As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear, And, turning, left them to the elements."

The volume ends with a little ballad, entitled "The Boy of Egremond"-which is well enough for a Lakish ditty, but not quite worthy of the place in which we meet it.

POETRY.

(June, 1915.)

Roderick: The Last of the Goths. By ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq., Poet-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.

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 monotonoustoo 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.

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. He has indisputably a great gift of amplifying and exalting; but uses it, we must say, rather unmercifully. He is never plain, concise, or unaffectedly simple, and is so much bent upon making the most of every thing, 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

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 a writer, who, after painting with infinite force sympathies, without distrust, to the hands of 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 intolerable to him, as the shocking tameness of the sea 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
Of pain: Repentance had no pangs to spare
For trifles such as these. The loss of these
Was a cheap penalty: .. that he had fallen
Down to the lowest depth of wretchedness,
is hope and consolation. But to lose
To see brute Nature scorn him, and renounce
His human station in the scale of things,..
Its homage to the human form divine!.
Had then almighty vengeance thus reveal'd
His punishment, and was he fallen indeed
Below fallen man,.. below redemption's reach,..
Made lower than the beasts?"-p. 17.

be tempted to say, was little better than drivelThis, if we were in bad humour, we should ling;-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 I have, in my time, said petulant and provo- standing of his readers-but to have every fancy, the feeling, or even the plain underking 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 hearty 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 acnow 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 deservinsert in this publication my review of his last ings appear to us unusually great, and his considerable poem: which may be taken as conveving my matured opinion of his merits-and will faults less than commonly conspicuous. But be felt, I trust, to have done no scanty or unwilling though there is less childishness and trifling e to his great and peculiar powers. in this, than in any of his other productions,

there is still, we are afraid, enough 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,
Have mercy on thee,"

-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! O brother, do not curse that sinful soul, Which Jesus suffer'd on the cross to save!"

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.

64

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 midst 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 so changed him, that he is recognised by no one;

and being universally believed to have fallen in battle, he traverses great part of his former realm, witnessing innumerable scenes of wretchedness and valour, and rousing, by his holy adjurations, all the generous spirits in Spain, to unite against the invaders. After a variety of trials and adventures, he at last recovers his good war horse, on the eve of a great battle with the infidels; and, bestriding him in his penitential robes, rushes furiously into the heart of the fight, where, kindling with the scene and the cause, he instinctively raises his ancient war cry, as he deals his resistless blows on the heads of the misbelievers; and the thrilling words of "Roderick the Goth! Roderick and victory!" resounding over the astonished field, are taken up by his inspired followers, and animate them to the utter destruction of the enemy. At the close of the day, however, when the field is won, the battle horse is found without its rider! and the sword which he wielded lying at his feet. The poem closes with a brief intimation, that it was not known till many centuries thereafter, that the heroic penitent had again sought the concealment of a remote hermitage, and ended his days in solitary penances. The poem, however, both requires and deserves a more particular analysis.

The first book or canto opens with a slight sketch of the invasion, and proceeds to the fatal defeat and heart-struck flight of Roderick. The picture of the first descent of the Moorish invaders, is a good specimen of the author's broader and more impressive manner. addressing the rock of Gibraltar.

He is

"Thou saw'st the dark blue waters flash before

Their ominous way, and whiten round their keels;
Their swarthy myriads darkening o'er thy sands.
There, on the beach, the misbelievers spread
Their banners, flaunting to the sun and breeze:
Fair shone the sun upon their proud array,
White turbans, glittering armour, shields engrail'd
With gold, and scymitars of Syrian steel;
And gently did the breezes, as in sport,
Curl their long flags outrolling, and display
The blazon'd scrolls of blasphemy."―pp. 2, 3.

tyrdom for his sake, and to bear him company in the retreat to which he is hastening. They set out together, and fix themselves in a little rocky bay, opening out to the lonely roar of the Atlantic.

"Behind them was the desert, off'ring fruit
And water for their need; on either side
The white sand sparkling to the sun; in front,
Great Ocean with its everlasting voice,
As in perpetual jubilee, proclaim'd
The wonders of the Almighty, filling thus
Where better could the wanderers rest than here TM"
The pauses of their fervent orisons.

p. 14.

The Second Book begins with stating, that Roderick passed twelve months in penance and austerities, in this romantic retreat.—At the end of that time, his ghostly father dies; and his agonies become more intolerable. in the utter desolation to which he is now left. The author, however, is here a little unlucky in two circumstances, which he imagines and describes at great length, as aggravating his unspeakable misery-one is the tameness of the birds,-of which we have spoken already the other is the reflection which he very innocently puts into the mouth of the lonely King, that all the trouble he has taken in dig ging his own grave, will now be thrown away, as there will probably be nobody to stretch him out, and cover him decently up in it!However he is clearly made out to be very miserable; and prays for death, or for the imposition of some more active penance"any thing

But stillness, and this dreadful solitude!"

At length he is visited, in his sleep, by a her blessing in a gentle voice, and says, vision of his tender mother; who gives him "Jesus have mercy on thee." The air and countenance of this venerable shade, as she bent in sorrow over her unhappy son, are powerfully depicted in the following allusion to her domestic calamities. He traced there, it seems, not only the settled sadness of her widowhood

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But a more mortal wretchedness than when
Witiza's ruffians and the red hot brass

Had done their work, and in her arms she held
Her eyeless husband; wip'd away the sweat
Which still his tortures fore'd from every pore;
Cool'd his scorch'd lips with medicinal herbs,
And pray'd the while for patience for herself
And him, and pray'd for vengeance too! and found
Best comfort in her curses."-pp. 23, 24.

The agony of the distracted king, as he flies in vain from himself through his lost and ruined kingdom; and the spectacle which every where presented itself of devastation and terror, and miserable emigration, are represented with great force of colouring. At the end of the seventh day of that solitary and despairing flight, he arrives at the portal of an ancient convent, from which all its holy tenants had retired on the approach of the Moors, except one aged priest, who had staid to deck the altar, and earn his crown of martyrdom from the infidel host. By him Roderick is found grovelling at the foot of the cross, and drowned in bitter and penitential sorrows.-readers. He leads him in with compassionate soothings, and supplicates him before the altar to be of comfort, and to trust in mercy. The result is told with great feeling and admirable effect: and the worthy father weeps and watches with his penitent through the night and in the morning resolves to forego the glories of mar

While he gazes on this piteous countenance, the character of the vision is suddenly altered; and the verses describing the alteration afford a good specimen both of Mr. Southey's command of words, and of the profusion with which he sometimes pours them out on his

"And lo! her form was chang'd! Radiant in arms she stood! a bloody Cross Gleam'd on her breastplate; in her shield display'd Rose like the Berecynthian Goddess crown'd Erect a Lion ramp'd; her helmed head With towers, and in her dreadful hand the sword, Red as a fire-brand blaz'd! Anon the tramp

Of horsemen, and the din of multitudes
Moving to mortal conflict, rung around;
The battle-song, the clang of sword and shield,
War-cries and tumult, strife and hate and rage,
Blasphemous prayers, confusion, agony,
Rout and pursuit, and death! and over all
The shout of Victory . . . of Spain and Victory!"
pp. 24, 25.

In awaking from this prophetic dream, he resolves to seek occasion of active service, in such humble capacity as becomes his fallen fortune; and turns from this first abode of his penitence and despair.

The Third Book sets him on his heroic pilgrimage; and opens with a fine picture. "Twas now the earliest morning; soon the Sun, Rising above Albardos, pour'd his light Amid the forest, and with ray aslant Ent'ring its dep'h illum'd the branchless pines; Brighten'd their bark, ting'd with a redder hue Its rusty stains, and cast along the floor Long lines of shadow, where they rose erect, Like pillars of the temple. With slow foot Roderick pursued his way."-p. 27.

We do not know that we could extract from the whole book a more characteristic passage than that which describes his emotion on his first return to the sight of man, and the altered aspect of his fallen people. He approaches to the walls of Leyria.

"The sounds, the sight

Of turban, girdle, robe, and scymitar,
And tawny skins, awoke contending thoughts
Of anger, shanie, and anguish in the Goth!
The unaccustom'd face of human-kind
Confus'd him now, and through the streets he went
With hagged mien, and countenance like one
Craz'd or bewilder'd.

"One stopt him short,
Put alms into his hand, and then desir'd,
In broken Gothic speech, the moon-struck man
To bless him. With a look of vacancy
Roderick receiv'd the alms; his wand'ring eye
Fed on the money; and the fallen King,
Seeing his own royal impress on the piece,
Broke out into a quick convulsive voice,
That seem'd like laughter first, but ended soon
In hollow groans supprest!

A Christian woman spinning at her door
Beheld him, and with sudden pity touch'd,
She laid her spindle by, and running in
Took bread, and following after call'd him back,
And placing in his passive hands the loaf,
She said, Christ Jesus for his Mother's sake
Have mercy on thee! With a look that seem'd
Like idiotcy, he heard her, and stood still,
Staring awhile; then bursting into tears
Wept like a child!

"But when he reach'd The open fields, and found himself alone Beneath the starry canopy of Heaven,

The sense of solitude, so dreadful late,

Was then repose and comfort. There he stopt
Beside a little rill, and brake the loaf;

And shedding o'er that unaccustom'd food
Painful but quiet tears, with grateful soul

Each where they fell; and blood-flakes, parch'd and crack'd

Like the dry slime of some receding flood;
And half-burnt bodies, which allur'd from far
The wolf and raven, and to impious food
Tempted the houseless dog."-p. 36.

While he is gazing on this dreadful scene, with all the sympathies of admiration and from the ruins, and implores him to assist her sorrow, a young and lovely woman rushes in burying the bodies of her child, husband, and parents, who all lie mangled at her feet. heart and kindling eyes, to the vehement narHe sadly complies; and listens, with beating rative and lofty vow of revenge with which this heroine closes her story. The story itself is a little commonplace; turning mainly upon her midnight slaughter of the Moorish captain, who sought to make love to her after the sacrifice of all her family; but the expression of her patriotic devotedness and religious ardour of revenge, is given with great energy; as well as the effect which it produces on the waking spirit of the King. He repeats the solemn vow which she has just taken, and consults her as to the steps that may be taken for rousing the valiant of the land to their assistance. The high-minded Amazon then asks the name of her first proselyte.

"Ask any thing but that! The fallen King replied. My name was lost When from the Goths the sceptre past away!"

She rejoins, rather less felicitously, "Then be thy name Maccabee ;" and sends him on an embassage to a worthy abbot among the mountains; to whom he forthwith reports what he had seen and witnessed. Upon hearing the story of her magnanimous devotion, the worthy priest instantly divines the name of the heroine.

"Oh none but Adosinda!.. none but she, ..
None but that noble heart, which was the heart
Of Auria while it stood-its life and strength,
More than her father's presence, or the arm
Of her brave lord, all valiant as he was.
Hers was the spirit which inspir'd old age,
Ambitious boyhood, girls in timid youth,
And virgins in the beauty of their spring.
And youthful mothers, doting like herself
With ever-anxious love: She breath'd through all
That zeal and that devoted faithfulness,
Which to the invader's threats and promises
Turn'd a deaf ear alike," &c.—pp. 53-54.

The King then communes on the affairs of Spain with this venerable Ecclesiastic and his associates; who are struck with wonder at the lofty mien which still shines through his sunk and mortified frame.

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They scann'd his countenance:
But not a trace
Betray'd the royal Goth! sunk was that eye

He breath'd thanksgiving forth; then made his bed of sov'reignty; and on the emaciate cheek

On heath and myrtle."-pp. 28-30.

After this, he journeys on through deserted hamlets and desolated towns, till, on entering the silent streets of Auria, yet black with conflagration, and stained with blood, the vestiges of a more heroic resistance appear before him.

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Had penitence and anguish deeply drawn
Their furrows premature,.. forestalling time,
And shedding upon thirty's brow, more snows
Than threescore winters in their natural course
Might else have sprinkled there."-p. 57.

At length, the prelate lays his consecrating hands on him; and sends him to Pelayo, the heir-apparent of the sceptre, then a prisoner or hostage at the court of the Moorish prince, to say that the mountaineers are still unsub

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