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JEVER were any two poets more unlike each other than Bowles and Coleridge; and we believe that the associating principle of contrast has now recalled to our remembrance the author of so many beautiful strains of mere human affection and sensibility, after we have been indulging ourselves in the wild and wonderful fictions of that magician. Coleridge appears before us in his native might, only when walking thro' the mistiness of preternatural fear; and even over his pictures of ordinary life, and its ordinary emotions, there is ever and anon the "glimmer and the gloom" of an imagination that loves to steal away from the earth we inhabit, and to bring back upon it a lovelier, and richer, and more mysterious light, from the haunts of another world. Bowles, on the contrary, looks on human life with delighted tenderness and love, and unreservedly opens all the pure and warm affections of the most amiable of hearts, to all those impulses, and impressions, and joys, and sorrows, which make up the sum of our mortal happiness or misery. He is, beyond doubt, one of the most pathetic of our English poets. The past is to him the source of the tenderest inspirations; and while Coleridge summons from a world of shadows the imaginary beings of his own wild creation, to seize upon, to fascinate, and to enchain our souls in a pleasing dread,-Bowles recalls from death and oblivion the human friends whom his heart loved in the days of old-the human affections that once flowed purely, peacefully, and beautifully between them-and trusts, for his dominion over the spirits of his readers, to thoughts which all human beings may recognise, for they are thoughts which all human beings must, in a greater or less degree, have experienced. Coleridge is rich in fancy and imagination-Bowles in sensibility and tenderest passion. The genius of the one

The Missionary, &c. by Rev. W. Bowles. London, 1819.

would delight to fling the radiance or the mists of fiction over the most common tale of life-that of the other would clothe even a tale of fiction with the saddest and most mournful colours of reality. Fear and wonder are the attendant spirits of Coleridge-pity and sadness love to walk by the side of Bowles. We have heard-indeed they themselves have told us that these poets greatly admire the genius of each other; nor is it surprising that it should be so; for how delightful must it be for Bowles, to leave, at times, the "quiet homestead," where his heart indulges its melancholy dreams of human life, and to accompany the "winged bard" on his wild flights into a far-off land!-and how can it be less delightful to Coleridge to return from the dreary shadowiness of his own haunted regions, back into the bosom of peace, tenderness, and quiet joy !

We intend, on an early occasion, to take a survey of all Mr. Bowles' poetical works; for some of them are, we suspect, not very generally known, and even those which are established in the classical poetry of this age, are not so universally familiar as they ought to be to our countrymen in Scotland. Mr. Bowles was a popular poet before any one of the great poets of the day arose, except Crabbe and Rogers; and though the engrossing popularity of some late splendid productions has thrown his somewhat into the shade, yet, though little talked of, we are greatly mistaken if they are not very much read-if they have not a home and an abiding in the heart of England.

The extreme grace and elegance of his diction, the sweetness and occasional richness of his versification, and his fresh and teeming imagery, would of themselves be sufficient to give him a respectable and permanent station among our poets; but when to these qualities are added a pure, natural, and unaffected pathos, a subduing tenderness, and a strain of genuine passion, we need not scruple

When dawning youth and childhood are at strife;
When on the verge of thought gay boyhood stands
Tiptoe with glist'ning eye and outspread hands;
With airy look, and form and footstep light,
And glossy locks, and features berry-bright,
And eye like the young eaglet's, to the ray
Of noon unblenching, as he sails away;
A brede of sea-shells on his bosom strung,
A small stone hatchet o'er his shoulders slung.
With slender lance, and feathers, blue and red,
That, like the heron's crest, wav'd on his head-
Buoyant with hope, and airiness, and joy,
Lautaro was the loveliest Indian boy:
Taught by his sire, ev'n now he drew the bow,
Or track'd the jagguar on the morning snow;
Startled the Condor on the craggy height;
Then silent sat, and marked its upward flight,
Lessening in ether to a speck of white.

But when th' impassion'd Chieftain spoke of war,
Smote his broad breast, or pointed to a scar-
Spoke of the strangers of the distant main,
And the proud banners of insulting Spain-
Of the barb'd horse and iron horseman spoke,
And his red Gods, that wrapt in rolling smoke,-
Roar'd from the guns-the Boy, with still-drawn
breath,

Hung on the wond'rous tale, as mute as death;
Then rais'd his animated eyes, and cried,
O let me perish by my father's side!'

The Warrior blesses his young son, and the family retire to repose, when their slumbers are suddenly broken by the attack of a fierce band of Spaniards, who, notwithstanding the desperate re sistance of the distracted father, bear off, as their prize, his young son Lautaro.

Seven snows had fallen, and seven green summers passed,

Since here he heard that son's loved accents last.
Still his beloved daughter soothed his cares,
While time began to strew with white his hairs.
Oft as his painted feathers he unbound,
Or gazed upon his hatchet on the ground,
Musing with deep despair, nor strove to speak,
Light she approached, and climbed to reach his
cheek,

Held with both hands his forehead, then her head
Drew smiling back, and kissed the tear he shed,

But late, to grief and hopeless love a prey,
She left his side, and wandered far away.
Now in this still and sheltered glen that smiled
Beneath the crags of precipices wild,
Wrapt in a stern yet sorrowful repose,
The Warrior half forgot his country's woes,-
Forgot how many, impotent to save,

Shed their best blood upon a father's grave;
How many, torn from wife and children, pine
In the dark caverns of the hopeless mine,
Never to see again the blessed morn-
Slaves in the lovely land where they were born;
How many, at sad sun-set, with a tear,
The distant roar of sullen cannon hear,
Whilst evening seems, as dies the sound, to throw
A deadlier stillness on a nation's woe!

The Chief is interrupted in his melancholy musing by the call of his countrymen to arms, and their applying to him as their leader. His address to the sun is, we think, very poetical, and the concluding lines are characterized by Mr. Bowles' usual pathos.

The Mountain-chief essayed his club to wield,
And shook the dust indignant from the shield,
Then spoke :-

O Thou! that with thy ling'ring light
Dost warm the world, till all is hushed in night;
I look upon thy parting beams, O Sun!
And say, Even thus my course is almost run.'

⚫ When thou dost hide thy head, as in the grave, And sink to glorious rest beneath the wave, Dost thou, majestic in repose, retire

Below the deep, to unknown worlds of fire?
Yet, tho' thou sinkest, awful, in the main,
The shadowy moon comes forth, and all the train
Of stars, that shine with soft and silent light,
Making so beautiful the brow of night.
Thus, when I sleep within the narrow bed,
The light of after-famne around shall spread ;
The sons of distant Ocean, when they see
The grass-green heap beneath the mountain tree,
And hear the leafy boughs at evening wave,

Shall pause and say, There sleep in dust the brave!"
Stern Guecubu, angel of the dead,
Who laughest when the brave in pangs expire,
Whose dwelling is beneath the central fire

• All earthly hopes my lonely heart have fled!

Of yonder burning mountain; who has passed
O'er my poor dwelling, and with one feil blast

Scattered my summer-leaves that clustered round,

And swept my fairest blossoms to the ground;
Angel of dire despair, O come not nigh,
Nor wave thy red wings o'er me where I lie :
But thou, O mild and gentle spirit, stand,
Angel of hope and peace, at my right hand.
(When blood-drops stagnate on my brow) and guide
My pathless voyage o'er the unknown tide,
To scenes of endless joy-to that fair isle,
Where bowers of bliss, and soft savannahs smile;
Where my forefathers oft the fight renew,
And Spain's black visionary steeds pursue :
Where, ceased the struggles of all human pain,
I may behold thee-thee-my son, again.”

The next image presented is the repose of the Spanish general's army, and the reflections that employed him even in sleep, contrasted with the sad feelings of his page, Lautaro.

On the broad ocean, where the moonlight slept, Thoughtful he turned his waking eyes, and wept, And whilst the thronging forms of mem'ry start, Thus holds communion with his lonely heart:

Land of my Fathers, still I tread your shore, And mourn the shade of hours that are no more: Whilst night-airs, like remembered voices, sweep, And murmur from the undulating deep. Was it thy voice, my Father ?-thou art deadThe green rush waves on thy forsaken bed.

VOL. 6]

Was it thy voice, my Sister ?-gentle maid,
Thou too perhaps in the dark cave art laid:
Perhaps even now, thy spirit sees me stand
A homeless stranger in my native land:
Perhaps, e'en now, along the moonlight sea
It bends from the blue cloud, remembering me.
Land of my Fathers, yet-O yet forgive
That with thy deadly enemies I live.
The tenderest ties (it boots not to relate)
Have bound me to their service and their fate:
Yet whether on Peru's war-wasted plain,
Or visiting these sacred shores again...
Whate'er the struggles of this heart may be...
Land of my Fathers, it shall beat for thee!'

The supposed appearance of the Genius of the Andes, which opens the second canto, is extremely well-conceived, and the imagery which dismisses the Spirit possesses great beauty. The military preparations of Valdivia are described in the same style of grandeur-in particular the war-horse and dress of the general and his page Lautaro.

The sun ascended to meridian height,
And all the northern bastions shone in light:
With hoarse acclaim the gong and trumpet rung-
The Moorish slaves aloft the symbals swung-
When the proud victor, in triumphant state,
Rode forth, in arms, through the port-cullis gate.
With neck high-arching as he smote the ground-
And restless pawing to the trumpet's sound-
With mantling mane, o'er his broad shoulders
spread-

And nostrils blowing, and dilated red-
The coal-black steed, in rich caparison
Far-trailing to the ground, went proudly on:
Proudly he tramp'd, as conscious of his charge
And turned around his eye-balls, bright and large,
And shook the frothy boss, as in disdain :

And toss'd the flakes, indignant, of his mane :
And, with high-swelling veins, exulting pressed
Proudly against the barb his heaving breast.

The fate of empires glowing in his thought-
Thus armed, the tented field Valdivia sought.
On the left side his poised shield he bore,
With quaint devices richly blazoned o'er ;
Above the plumes, upon his helmet's cone,
Castile's imperial crest illustrious shone:
Blue in the wind th' escutcheoned mantle flowed
O'er the chained mail, which tinkled as he rode.
The barred vizor raised, you might discern
His clime-changed countenance, tho' pale, yet stern,
And resolute as death-whilst in his eye
Sat proud Assurance, Fame, and Victory.
Lautaro, now in manhood's rising pride,
Rode, with a lance, attendant at his side
In Spanish mantle gracefully arrayed:
Upon his brow a tuft of feathers played:

His glossy locks, with dark and mantling grace,
Shaded the noon-day sun-beams on his face.
Though passed in tears the day-spring of his youth,
Valdivia loved his gratitude and truth :
He in Valdivia owned a nobler friend;
Kind to protect and mighty to defend,

22 ATHENEUM. VOL. 6.

So, on he rode: upon his youthful mien
A mild but sad intelligence was seen :
Courage was on his open brow, yet Care
Seemed like a wand'ring shade to linger there:
And though his eye shone, as the eagle's, bright,
It beamed with humid, melancholy light.

385

In the exultation of the hour, Valdivia addresses the attendant youth, asking if he thought it possible that the Indians could withstand such an army as was now before them. The following is the answer of Lautaro :

'Forgive !'-the Youth replied, and checked a

tear

The land where my forefathers sleep, is dear ;My native land;-this spot of blessed earth,

The scene where I, and all I love, had birth !-What gratitude fidelity can give,

Is

yours, my Lord :-you shielded-bade me live,

When, in the circuit of the world so wide,
I had but one, one only friend beside.

I bowed-resigned to Fate; I kissed the hand,
Red with the best blood of my Father's land!
But mighty as thou art, Valdivia, know,
Though Cortez' desolating march laid low
The shrines of rich, voluptuous Mexico-
With carcases though proud Pizarro strew
The Sun's Imperial temple at Peru-
Yet the rude dwellers of this land are brave,
And the last spot they lose will be their grave!'

Then first, when Valdivia turns away in anger, and Lautaro retires from the scene, we are introduced to the Missionary. The scenery, in the midst of which stands his oratory, again gives occasion for the exercise of that power of description, which Mr. Bowles possesses in a degree equal to the best poets of his country. We give a part which impressed us with the most lively pleasure.

Just heard to trickle through a covert near,
And soothing, with perpetual lapse, the ear,
A fount, like rain-drops, filter'd thro' the stone-
And, bright as amber, on the shallows shone.
Intent his fairy pastime to pursue,
And, gem-like, hovering o'er the violets blue,
The humming-bird, here, its unceasing song
Heedlessly murmur'd all the summer long,
And when the winter came, retir'd to rest,
And from the myrtles hung its trembling-nest.
No sounds of a conflicting world were near;
The noise of ocean faintly met the ear,
That seem'd, as sunk to rest the noon-tide blast,
But dying sounds of passions that were past;
Or closing anthems, when, far off, expire
The lessening echoes of the distant choir.

The meek and holy character of Anselmo is amply expressed in the lines