CAMPBELL'S THEODRIC. 8 remembered friend. There is, accordingly, no living poet, we believe, whose advertisement excites greater expectation than Mr. Campbell's-and a new poem from him is waited for with even more eagerness (as it is certainly for a much longer time) than a new novel from the author of Waverley. Like all other human felicities, however, this high expectation and prepared homage has its drawbacks and its dangers. A popular author, as we have been led to remark on former occasions, has no rival so formidable as his former self-and no comparison to sustain half so dangerous as that which is always made between the average merit of his new work, and the remembered beauties-for little else is ever remembered-of his old ones. idle and occupied world, it is of all others There are no doubt peculiar and perhaps insuperable difficulties in the management of themes so delicate, and requiring so fine and so restrained a hand-nor are we prepared to say that Mr. Campbell has on this occasion entirely escaped them. There are passages that are somewhat fade:-there are expresHow this comparison will result in the sions that are trivial:-But the prevailing present instance, we do not presume to pre- character is sweetness and beauty; and it dict with confidence-but we doubt whether prevails over all that is opposed to it. The it will be, at least in the beginning, altogether story, though abundantly simple, as our readThe ers will immediately see, has two distinct in favour of the volume before us. poems of this author, indeed, are generally compartments-one relating to the Swiss more admired the more they are studied, and maiden, the other to the English wife. The rise in our estimation in proportion as they former, with all its accompaniments, we think become familiar. Their novelty, therefore, is nearly perfect. It is full of tenderness, purity, always rather an obstruction than a help to and pity; and finished with the most exquisite their popularity;-and it may well be ques-elegance, in few and simple touches. The tioned, whether there be any thing in the novelties now before us that can rival in our affections the long remembered beauties of the Pleasures of Hope-of Gertrude-of O'Connor's Child-the Song of Linden-The Mariners of England-and the many other enchanting melodies that are ever present to the minds of all lovers of poetry. other, which is the least considerable, has more decided blemishes. The diction is in many places o familiar, and the incidents too common-and the cause of distress has the double misfortune of being unpoetical in its nature, and improbable in its result. But the shortest way is to give our readers a slight account of the poem, with such specimens as may enable them to judge fairly of it for themselves. The leading piece in the present volume is an attempt at a very difficult kind of poetry; It opens, poetically, with the description and one in which the most complete success can hardly ever be so splendid and striking as of a fine scene in Switzerland, and of a rustic to make amends for the difficulty. It is en-church-yard; where the friend of the author titled "a Domestic Story"-and it is so;-points out to him the flowery grave of a turning upon few incidents-embracing few characters-dealing in no marvels and no terrors-displaying no stormy passions. Without complication of plot, in short, or hurry of action-with no atrocities to shudder at, or feats of noble daring to stir the spirits of the ambitious-it passes quietly on, through the shaded paths of private life, conversing with gentle natures and patient sufferings-and unfolding, with serene pity and sober triumph, the pangs which are fated at times to wring the breast of innocence and generosity, and the courage and comfort which generosity and The innocence can never fail to bestow. taste and the feeling which led to the selection of such topics, could not but impress their character on the style in which they are treated. It is distinguished accordingly by a fine and tender finish, both of thought and of diction-by a chastened elegance of words and images-a mild dignity and tempered pathos in the sentiments, and a general tone of simplicity and directness in the conduct of the story, which, joined to its great brevity, tends at first perhaps to disguise both the richness and the force of the genius required for its production. But though not calculated to strike at once on the dull palled ear of an maiden, who, though gentle and fair, had died As gay as ever, the laburnum's pride Lglide- bukes- returns to England, and is married. | O'er clust'ring trees and terrace-mantling vines. This, we confess, is slight enough, in the way of fable and incident: But it is not in those things that the merit of such poems consists; and what we have given is of course a mere naked outline, or argument rather, intended only to explain and connect our extracts. For these, we cannot possibly do better than begin with the beginning. "'Twas sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung, From heights brouzed by the bounding bouquetin; "Yes,' said my comrade, 'young she died, and fair! Grace form'd her, and the soul of gladness play'd Her father dwelt where yonder Castle shines pp. 3-7. We pass over the animated picture of the Though wrapt in clouds, and frowning as in scorn, "His coming down yon lake-his boat in view At last the generous warrior appears in person among those innocent beings, to whom he had so long furnished the grand theme of discourse and meditation. "The boy was half beside himself-the sire, "Thus, loth to wound their hospitable pride, Fair Julia seem'd her brother's soften'd sprite- Th' unlikely thought could scarcely reach his mind, | To share existence with her, and to gain Symptoms still more unequivocal, however, at last make explanations necessary; and he is obliged to disclose to her the secret of his love and engagement in England. The effects of this disclosure, and all the intermediate events, are described with the same grace and delicacy. But we pass at once to the close of poor Julia's pure-hearted romance. "That winter's eve how darkly Nature's brow "Sweet Julia, though her fate was finish'd half, Still knew him-smil'd on him with feeble laughAnd blest him, till she drew her latest sigh! "But lo! while Udolph's bursts of agony, And age's tremulous wailings, round him rose, What accents pierced him deeper yet than those! 'Twas tidings-by his English messenger Of Constance-brief and terrible they were," &c. pp. 35, 36. These must suffice as specimens of the Swiss part of the poem, which we have already said we consider as on the whole the most perfect. The English portion is undoubtedly liable to the imputation of being occupied with scenes too familiar, and events too trivial, to admit of the higher embellishments of poetry. The occasion of Theodric's first seeing Constance-in the streets of London on a night of public rejoicing-certainly trespasses on the borders of this wilful stooping of the Muses' flight-though the scene itself is described with great force and beauty. "'Twas a glorious sight! At eve stupendous London, clad in light, Pour'd out triumphant multitudes to gaze; Youth, age, wealth, penury, smiling in the blaze! Th' illumin'd atmosphere was warm and bland, And Beauty's groups the fairest of the land, Conspicuous, as in some wide festive room, In open chariots pass'd, with pearl and plume. Amidst them he remark'd a lovelier mien," &c. p. 15. The description of Constance herself, however, is not liable to this, or to any other objection. "And to know her well p. 16. "To paint that being to a grov'ling mind Were like pourtraying pictures to the blind. 'Twas needful ev'n infectiously to feel Her temper's fond, and firm, and gladsome zeal, p. 25. All this, we think, is dignified enough for poetry of any description; but we really cantracassaries of this noble creature's unworthy not extend the same indulgence to the small relations—their peevish quarrels, and her painful attempts to reconcile them-her husband's grudges at her absence on those errands their teazing visits to him and his vexation at their false reports that she was to spend "yet a fortnight" away from him. We object equally to the substance and the diction of the passages to which we now refer. There is something questionable even in the fatal indications by which, on approaching his home, he was first made aware of the calamity which had befallen him-though undoubtedly there is a terrible truth and impressive brevity in the passage. "Nor hope left utterly his breast, We shall only add the pathetic letter in which this noble spirit sought, from her deathbed, to soothe the beloved husband she was leaving with so much reluctance. "Theodric! this is destiny above The tone of this tender farewell must remind all our readers of the catastrophe of Gertrude; and certainly exposes the author to the charge of some poverty of invention in the structure of his pathetic narrativescharge from which we are not at this moment particularly solicitous to defend him. The ininor poems which occupy the rest .f the volume are of various character, and of course of unequal merit; though all of them are marked by that exquisite melody of versification, and general felicity of diction, which makes the mere recitation of their words a luxury to readers of taste, even when they pay but little attention to their sense. Most of them, we believe, have already appeared in occasional publications, though it is quite time that they should be collected and engrossed in a less perishable record. If they are less brilliant, on the whole, than the most exquisite productions of the author's earlier days, they are generally marked, we think, by greater solemnity and depth of thought, a vein of deeper reflection, and more intense sympathy with human feelings, and, if possible, by a more resolute and entire devotion to the cause of liberty. Mr. Campbell, we rejoice to say, is not among those poets whose hatred of oppression has been chilled by the lapse of years, or allayed by the suggestions of a base self-interest. He has held on his course through good and through bad report, unseduced, unterrified; and is now found in his duty, testifying as fearlessly against the invaders of Spain, in the volume before us, as he did against the spoilers of Poland in the very first of his publications. It is a proud thing indeed for England, for poetry, and for mankind, that all the illustrious poets of the present day-Byron, Moore, Rogers, Campbell-are distinguished by their zeal for freedom, and their scorn for courtly adulation; while those who have deserted that manly and holy cause have, from that hour, felt their inspiration withdrawn, their harpstrings broken, and the fire quenched in their censers! Even the Laureate, since his unhappy Vision of Judgment, has ceased to sing; and fallen into undutiful as well as ignoble silence, even on court festivals. As a specimen of the tone in which an unbought Muse can yet address herself to public themes, we subjoin a few stanzas of a noble ode to the Memory of the Spanish Patriots who died in resisting the late atrocious invasion. "Brave men who at the Trocadero fell Beside your cannons-conquer'd not, though slain! For Freedom-and ye have not died in vain ; "Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime Glory to them that die in this great cause! Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame, Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause:No-manglers of the martyr's earthly frame! "When o'er the green undelug'd earth "And when its yellow lustre smil'd The first-made anthem rang, "Nor ever shall the Muse's eye Unraptur'd greet thy beam: O'er mountain, tower, and town, A thousand fathoms down! As young thy beauties seem, Heaven still rebuilds thy span, The beautiful verses on Mr. Kemble's retirement from the stage afford a very remarkable illustration of the tendency of Mr. Campbell's genius to raise ordinary themes into occasions of pathetic poetry, and to invest trivial occurrences with the mantle of solemn thought. We add a few of the stanzas. "His was the spell o'er hearts Which only acting lends- Full many a tone of thought sublime, "High were the task-too high, But who forgets that white discrowned head. Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed, Of blended kindred fame, The tragic paragons had grown- From heart to heart in their applause, In lovelier woman's cause."--pp. 64-67. We have great difficulty in resisting the temptation to go on: But in conscience we must stop here. We are ashamed, indeed, to think how considerable a proportion of this little volume we have already transferred into our extracts. Nor have we much to say of the poems we have not extracted. "The Ritter Bann" and "Reullura" are the two longest pieces, after Theodric-but we think not the most successful. Some of the songs are exquisite-and most of the occasional poems too good for occasions. The volume is very small-and it contains all that the distinguished author has written for many years. We regret this certainly:but we do not presume to complain of it. The service of the Muses is a free service and all that we receive from their votaries is a free gift, for which we are bound to them in gratitude-not a tribute, for the tardy rendering of which they are to be threatened or distrained. They stand to the public in the relation of benefactors, not of debtors. They shower their largesses on unthankful heads; and disclaim the trammels of any sordid contract. They are not articled clerks, in short, whom we are entitled to scold for their idleness, but the liberal donors of immortal possessions; for which they require only the easy quit-rent of our praise. If Mr. Campbell is lazy, therefore, he has a right to enjoy his laziness, unmolested by our importunities. If, as we rather presume is the case, he prefer other employments to the feverish occupation of poetry, he has a right surely to choose his employments-and is more likely to choose well, than the herd of his officious advisers. For our own parts, we are ready at all times to hail his appearances with delight-but we wait for them with respect and patience; and conceive that we have no title to accelerate them by our reproaches. Before concluding, we would wish also to protect him against another kind of injustice. Comparing the small bulk of his publications with the length of time that elapses between them, people are apt to wonder that so little has been produced after so long an incubation, and that poems are not better which are the work of so many years-absurdly supposing, that the ingenious author is actually labouring all the while at what he at last produces, and has been diligently at work during the whole interval in perfecting that which is at last discovered to fall short of perfection! To those who know the habits of literary men, nothing however can be more ridiculous than this supposition. Your true drudges, with whom all that is intellectual moves most wretchedly slow, are the quickest and most regular with their publications; while men of genius, whose thoughts play with the ease and rapidity of lightning, often seem tardy to the public, because there are long intervals between the flashes! We are far from undervaluing that care and labour without which no finished performance can ever be produced by mortals; and still farther from thinking it a reproach to any author, that he takes pains to render his works worthy of his fame. But when the slowness and the size of his publications are invidiously put together in order to depreciate their merits, or to raise a doubt as to the force of the ge nius that produced them, we think it right to enter our caveat against a conclusion, which is as rash as it is ungenerous; and indicates a spirit rather of detraction than of reasonable judgment. (April, 1805.) The Lay of the Last Minstrel: a Poem. By WALTER SCOTT, Esq. 4to. pp. 318. Edinburgh, Constable and Co.: London, Longman and Co.: 1805.* WE consider this poem as an attempt to transfer the refinements of modern poetry to the matter and the manner of the ancient The Novels of Sir Walter Scott have, no doubt, cast his Poetry into the shade: And it is beyond question that they must always occupy the highest and most conspicuous place in that splendid trophy which his genius has reared to his memory. Yet, when I recollect the vehement admiration it once excited, I cannot part with the belief that there is much in his poetry also, which our age should not allow to be forgotten. And it is under this impression that I now venture to reprint my metrical romance. The author, enamoured of the lofty visions of chivalry, and partial to the strains in which they were formerly contemporary notices of the two poems which I think produced the greatest effect at the time: the one as the first and most strikingly original of the whole series: the other as being on the whole the best; and also as having led me to make some remarks, not only on the general character of the author's genius, but on the peculiar perils of very popular poetry-of which the time that has since elapsed has afforded some curious illustrations. |