admiration of the whole neighbourhood, as well they might, for this Hugo of Noroway is none other than her celestial guide Cela, and, to crown the whole, the poet modestly insinuates that he is descended from this extraordinary pair. Such is an abstract of this tale, in which it is difficult to determine whether we should most censure the extravagance of its original conception, or commend the genius displayed in some of its passages. It was written in the very wantonness of his fame, engendered by the success of the Queen's Wake; and really we would advise him, as friends, to be more careful of his reputation in future, for it did him no good; and many of those who had looked askance on the elevation of a shepherd, to the first ranks of the living poets, were forward enough to rejoice in what they were pleased to denominate a total failure. It was written in a few weeks; and, from the facility which he had then acquired of embodying his ideas. in verse, we know that much of it might have been written" currente calamo ;" and, from the inconsistencies in which it abounds, it does not appear to have undergone any revision. The celestial pilgrimage has no connection whatever with the Nursery Tale, which is its ground-work; and the fabric raised on this foundation is just as if an artist should sus pend a Gothic temple on a baby-house. The description of the destruction of a planet, and its reproduction as a comet, is no unfavourable specimen of its happier efforts. It is worthy of its author; and it is indeed impossible, that, in the course of a long work, genius like his should not often break forth from the mists in which inattention, or a slight remaining taint of bad taste, may have sometimes involved it. "But the time That God ordained for its existence run. The saints and angels knew of it, and came In radiant files, with awful reverence, Unto the verge of heaven where we now stand, To see the downfal of a sentenced world. Think of the impetus that urges on At the interval of about an year, Mr Hogg published Mador of the Moor, a narrative poem, in the Spenserian stanza. It is dedicated to Mr John Grieve, the chosen friend of the poet These ponderous spheres, and judge of the and never was there compliment warm event. er from the heart, nor better deserv This poem was undertaken at the suggestion of a lady, a most ingenious woman, one of the earliest and the most faithful friends of the author. It speaks volumes in his favour, that his earliest associates have, amid all the varieties of his fortunes, been his most attached friends; and that he never gained a friend by his genius whom he lost by one act inconsistent with the purest and the most exalted principles of friendship. On this subject, the writer speaks from his own experience, and he speaks with con fidence. At first, nothing more was meant than a short poem, descriptive of Highland scenery and manners, and in this view one book was written; but he began to think that it might be rendered more interesting if these descriptions were blended with a story. But, according to the plan adopted from the beginning of these essays, we shall proceed in our examination of the poem itself. There is more of life and manners in it than in any other of his poems; but we do not think him nearly so successful in the pourtraying of these as in the fairy creations of his own fancy. He has well described his own poetical propensities and powers in this address to his Muse. Thou lovest amid the burning stars to sail, Or sing with sea maids down the coral deep, The groves of visionary worlds to hail, And it is perhaps to be regretted that The story of the poem may be told in one sentence. The King of Scot land is in the Highlands on a hunting party, and, in a frolic, leaves his courtiers, and goes to the cottage of Kincraigy, a Highland farmer, in the disguise of a strolling musician. The old man and his family are described, particularly his daughter May, with whom the king falls in love. They are privately married, and in due time a lovely boy is the consequence of this union. Albert of Glen, who had been a suitor of this beautiful maiden, is so enraged at the preference shewn to the wandering minstrel, that he drives Kincraigy out of his farm. In this extremity, the unhappy May quits her father's house in quest of her husband. In her solitary wanderings she meets a palmer, who conducts her on her way. After many hardships, she arrives at Stirling, and makes many fruitless attempts to gain admission at Court, where she believOne evening ed her husband was. she is observed by the Abbot of Dunfermline, who enters into conversation with her, and draws from her her story. He asks her if she had received any pledge from her husband; nothing, she says, but an old silver ring, which he at once recognizes to have belonged to the king. He prepares him for her reception, and she is introduced, acknowledged, and they are remarried, and of course pass years of "glory and felicity." The poem opens with a description of the scenery of the romantic Tay, which is in the author's happiest manner, and here he may enter the lists with the most distinguished poets of the age, some of whom have obtained so much glory by their picture of individual scenes. His genius was fostered among the mountains, and in some degree created by them, and whenever he approaches them, it is kindled into more than usual enthu siasm. "O that some spirit at the midnight noon Aloft would bear me, middle space, to see "To Fancy's eye the ample scene is spread, The yellow moon-beam sleeps on hills of dew, On many an everlasting pyramid That bathes its gray head in celestial blue. These o'er thy cradle stand the guardians Th' eternal bulwarks of the land and thee, flee: All hail, ye battlements of ancient liberty! "There the dark raven builds his dreary home; The eagle o'er his eyrie raves aloud; The brindled fox around thee loves to roam, And ptarmigans, the inmates of the cloud; And when the summer flings her dappled shroud O'er reddening moors, and wilds of soften'd grey, The youthful swain, unfashioned, unendow'd, The brocket and the lamb may round thee play: These thy first guests alone, thou fair, majestic Tay!" This is equal to any thing of the kind with which we are acquainted. Of the characters, he tells us, "But ween not thou that Nature's simple Bard Can e'er unblemished character define; True to his faithful monitor's award, He paints her glories only as they shine. Of men all pure, and maidens all divine, Expect not thou his wild-wood lay to be; Such as in erring man we daily see- Mr Hogg has never sought to exalt human nature to a standard of ideal perfection, but has either painted what he himself saw, or his imaginations have been compositions of known elements, and he is, therefore, never out of nature, but he sometimes forgets that many characters appear in the various drama of life, and many incidents occur there which are unfit for poetry. In the quest of truth he has sometimes descended to the com mon-place or the vulgar, and in this poem there are instances of both faults. In exculpation, we might bring his early history, but we are at present speaking of his works, not of himself, and we shall judge of them by their merits alone, without a reference to any thing out of them. Old Kincraigy is a man of a rough exterior, unused to the blandishments of speech, and the refined delicacies of domestic intercourse, but of a warm and gene rous heart, and of an impetuous but forgiving temper. His wife, who is the plague of his existence, is a loquacious shrew, who can judge of things only by their success, and who encourages her child in a connection fraught with danger; yet, on its failure, does she, by unmerited taunts, add to the wretchedness of a being whose heart was already broken. May was simply a mountain maiden, beautiful and gay, and frolicksome, but of an enthusiastic spirit, and capable of exertions which her acquaintances thought a bove her, just such a one as we have no doubt the poet had himself seen in his native glens. The palmer, who is perhaps the best painting of the whole, was a man of high rank, who had been deeply drenched in guilt, and passed his life in penitence and prayers and alms. Our limits do not permit us to make any extracts from the hunting in the first book, which may fairly vie with any thing of the kind. When the hunters had retired to the royal tent, for their amusement, he again strings the Border harp to its sweetest and wildest notes, and we are always refreshed when he does so. A harper is introduced, who sings a fairy song, superior in strange and visionary fancies to any thing of the kind Mr Hogg had hitherto written. We have already observed, that in the regions of pure fancy, even in this age of great poets, he has no rival, and the themes in which he is most at home, is fairy superstition. In proof of this assertion, we shall extract part of the harper's song; we regret that there is not room for the whole. "Ane bonnye baby, se meike and mylde, Ay walkis wythe hym the dowie wylde : "Hir browe se fayre, and her ee se meike, And the damyske roz that blumis on her cheike; Hir lockis, and the bend of her bonnye bree, And hir smyle mochte waukin the deide to see! "Hir snoode, befryngit with mony a geme, Was stouin fra the raynbowe's brychtest beme; And hir raile, mair quhyte than snawye dryfte, Was neuir wovin anethe the lyfte; It keust sikn lychte on hill and gaire, And they sang ane hyme, and the hyme was new! List, lordyngs, list! for neuir agayne Shalt' heire sikn wylde wanyirdlye strayne. For they sang the nychte-gale in ane The revels at the cottage of Kincraigie, produced by the residence of Mador there, are vigorously sketched; but, though they are natural enough, and in some cases humorous, there is about them an air of coarseness which is not likely to be very popular in this age of refinement. "The dance and song prevailed till fell the night, The minstrel's forward ease advanced apace, He kiss'd their lovely May before their sight, Who struggled, smiling from the rude embrace, And call'd him fiddler Mador to his face." May's song over the cradle of her son is exquisitely tender. "Be still, my babe! be still!--the die is cast! Beyond thy weal no joy remains for me! Thy mother's spring was clouded and o'erpast Erewhile the blossom open'd on the tree! But I will nurse thee kindly on my knee, In spite of every taunt and jeering tongue; O thy sweet eye will melt my wrongs to see! And thy kind little heart with grief be wrung! Thy father's far away, thy mother all too young! "If haggard poverty should overtake, And threat our onward journey to fore lay, For thee I'll pull the berries of the brake, Wake half the night, and toil the live long day; And when proud manhood o'er thy brow shall play, For me thy bow in forest shall be strung. The memory of my errors shall decay, And of the song of shame I oft have sung, Of father far away, and mother all too young! "But O! when mellow'd lustre gilds The palmer's morning hymn is a most successful imitation of the He brew poets, and breathes the very spirit of devotion. "Lauded be Thy name for ever, "I have seen thy wond'rous might Through the shadows of this night! Thou, who slumber'st not nor sleepest! Blest are they Thou kindly keepest ! Spirits, from the ocean under, Liquid flame, and levell'd thunder, Need not waken nor alarm themAll combined they cannot harm them. God of evening's yellow ray; God of yonder dawning day, That rises from the distant sea Like breathings of eternity! Thine the flaming sphere of light! Thine the darkness of the night! Thine are all the gems of even, God of angels! God of heaven! God of life, that fade shall never! Glory to Thy name for ever!" The wanderings and sufferings of May, her discovery of Mador in the king, and her exaltation to the throne of Scotland, are narrated in an animated and interesting way. This poem has been composed with considerable care, and if not the best, is the most polished of his productions. The Spenserian stanza, the most difficult of our measures, is here easy and harmonious, and there is throughout the poem great richness and felicity of expression. There is nothing, perhaps, more surprising in Mr Hogg's literary history, than the complete mastery he has obtained over the English language, and the beautiful colouring which, by means of it, he has been enabled to give to the exuberant stores of his imagination. Upon the whole, if this poem does not rise to the dignity of the epic, nor even to the witchery of the Lady of the Lake, nor the rhastened beauty, and occasional sublimity, and heart-stirring pathos of Gertrude of Wyoming, it is entitled to rank high among the numerous tales of this narrative age; and, if it speak not to the passions in the soft but irresistible whispers of nature, and open, as if by a spell, the fountains of our tears, it lifts the mind to the loftiest conceptions of mountain scenery; and though, in a few instances, it offends a refined taste by vulgarity, the subject is always treated in a poetical way,-the story is not without its interest,-and the remarks on the joys, and the sorrows, and the dangers, of man, in unison with our best feelings. One word more, and we have done. We are happy to learn that there is a design of publishing a new edition of the Queen's Wake by subscription, for the behoof of the author. Fame is almost the only reward he has hitherto obtained for the succession of delightful poems with which, for some years past, he has favoured the public, and the only one which he prizes; for never was there a man more careless of fortune, nor freer from selfishness. His wants are few; yet we know he would rather submit to the privation of the little that is necessary for their supply, than degrade himself by flattering any man on earth, or sacrificing a single item of his independence even to the public; and the plan does not originate with himself, but a gentleman whose genius, high as it is, does not surpass his benevolence, who is well acquainted with the regularity of his life, and the virtues of his heart, and has ever been the most zealous of his friends. In an age which is so distinguished for conferring honours on the memory of departed genius, we trust there will not be wanting a promptitude in che rishing a man whose name will long shed a lustre on the Scottish cottage, and whose modesty and worth are at least equal to the high qualities of his mind. The world has long been in possession of unequivocal proofs of the one, but the other is only known to his friends, and those who know him best, best know that the purity of his manners, and the honest independence of his mind, entitle him to the protection of his country, no less than his genius to its admiration. The subscription price is only one guinea. A small sum would raise him to independence, and we trust the public will not |