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making what might have been natural and affecting, merely grotesque and amusing. I take no account here of that most artificial of all kinds of verse, while it pretends to be the most natural,-the pastorals of our earliest poets, or those of later ones down even to Pope (in imitation of very questionable models in classic literature), and numberless Arcadian masquerades in Continental languages, full of splendid faults, which need not be either exposed or reprobated here, -I take no notice of these; they have been long and worthily exploded, as having no more reference to the state of society in this island, or elsewhere under the moon, than to the manners and customs of the inhabitants of that planet itself, if such there be. Bloomfield has done for England what all her native bards have done for Scotland. "Richard and Kate," "Walter and Jane," and "The Miller's Maid,” therefore, are unique and original poems, which, by representations equally graphic and dramatic of what they really are, have rescued English peasants from unmerited reproach, and raised them to equality with their Scottish neighbours, whose character, in verse at least, is associated with all that is romantic in love or delightful in song.

A paragraph of description, minute and elaborate to a degree, yet expanded into such magnificence, that in its progress it fills the mind with glory as its subject does the heavens, while, being introduced as • a simile, it is associated with moral sentiment of that high cast which makes "the whole of unintelligent creation poor,”—must close this section:

"As the ample moon,
In the deep stillness of a summer-even,
Rising behind a thick and lofty grove,
Burns, like an unconsuming fire of light,
In the green trees; and, kindling on all sides
Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil
Into a substance glorious as her own,
Yea with her own incorporated, by power
Capacious and serene;-like power abides

In man's celestial spirit. Virtue thus
Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds
A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire
From the encumbrances of mortal life,
From error, disappointment,-nay, from guilt,
And sometimes (so relenting Justice wills)
From palpable oppressions of Despair."
WORDSWORTH's Excursion.

Lyric Poetry.

It would be impossible to define the limits, or lay down the laws, of what passes in our own country under the title of Lyric Poetry. In these brief papers, there is no room to expatiate upon terms; it will therefore be more convenient, and quite as profitable, to elucidate this nondescript division of the subject by examples and comments, rather than by abstract disquisition. Italy, ch in every kind of poetry, except the purely descriptive, stands without rival among the nations of Europe in lyric composition. Yet, till Mr. Mathias, some twenty years ago, published six volumes of "Componimenti Lirici de' più illustri Poeti d'Italia," the names of Filicaja, Guidi, Testi, Celio Magno, and others, were scarcely known among us, while those of Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, and Tasso were associated only with the "Divina Commedia,” “ Sonetti,” “ Orlando Furioso," and "Gerusalemme Liberata." It is true that there are myriads of pieces called Lyrics in our language, and every year adds thousands to the number; yet it would be impossible to select, from all our poets of former days, half a dozen volumes of English Lyrics, in every respect equal to these. Dryden, Collins, and Gray,-nor must we forget the exuberant but almost unreadable Cowley,-stand, without question, before all other English writers of Odes, yet the whole round of their pieces of permanent and unchangeable value might be comprehended within the space of one of Mr. Mathias's little

volumes; and the most acute and industrious editor might be safely challenged to compile two more, of approximating worth, out of all the works of all the dead. This is not stated to dishearten our countrymen, or to depreciate their language. Their mother tongue and their mother wit are, at least, of equal proof with those of modern Italy and her most gifted sons. It is expressly to stimulate our living bards to study those models of lyric excellence, that I hold them so high, and would excite my contemporaries to rival and transcend them by original models of their own, of equal or surpassing grace, freedom, elegance, and energy, combining every beauty of thought with corresponding harmony of expression. All this is possible in the English language, but it has rarely indeed been accomplished. Let us briefly notice three of these great Italian masters.

Vincenzio Filicaja had drunk deeply both of the stream of Helicon and of

"Siloa's brook, that flow'd Fast by the oracle of God."

The fire of the Muses, and the fire of the altar, equally burned in his bosom, and sparkled through his song. No poet ever more successfully followed the steps of the inspired prophets, in their paths of highest elevation, or deepest humility. His Canzone on "The Majesty of God," and that addressed to "Sobieski, King of Poland," but more especially the two incomparable odes on the "Siege and Deliverance of Vienna" (formerly alluded to), display his powers in all their splendour and perfection. There is wonderful energy and pathos in his language; and the figure of repetition, as in the Sacred Scriptures, is often and most effectively employed.

Celio Magno is one of the most pathetic of all poets. His Canzone on the death of his father, and another in contemplation of his own decease, breathe such transporting tenderness, that the mind, pos

sessed by a melancholy more delicious than gladness, resigns itself wholly to the revery, and dwells and dotes on chosen passages without strength or desire to leave them. Can any mortal man read such lines as the following, once only ?—

"Lasso me! che quest' almà e dolce luce,
Questo bel ciel, quest' aere, onde respiro,
Lasciar convengo; e miro

Fornito il corso di mia vita omai,
E l'esalar d'un sol breve sospiro
A' languid' occhi eterna notte adduce;
Ne per lor mai più luce
Febo, o scopre per lor più Cintia i rai."

Or this apostrophe of lingering regret?

"Oh! di nostre fatiche empio riposo,

E d'ogni uman sudor meta infelice;
Da cui torcer non lice

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Pur orma nè sperar pietade alcuna !
Che val, perch' altri sia chiaro e felice
Di gloria d' avi, o d'oro in arca ascoso,
E d'ogni don giojoso,

Che Natura puo dar larga, e fortuna,
Se tutto è falso ben sotto la luna."

These most beautiful and affecting lines contain no thought which has not been a thousand and a thousand times expressed; yet their influence is enchanting, for they realize, in a moment, mingled with mysterious delight, that ineffable fear of death which is interwoven with life, and which is natural to all men; for "willing" as the spirit even of the good may be, "to depart and to be with Christ, which is far better," its frail companion shudders at a change which consigns her to worms, and darkness, and dissolution;-" the flesh is weak," and trembles into dust.


Alessandro Guidi has been crowned by Mr. Mathias with the thickest laurels; and fairly to hin may be conceded all the glory that is due to one of the vain


est and sublimest of poets. He speaks of himself frequently, and always in strains so boastful that he would appear utterly disgusting and contemptible, did he not sing his own praises in language so captivating, and with such genuine dignity of thought and splendour of imagery, that we either forget or forgive the egotism of the man, in the overwhelming majesty of the poet. He actually seems to speak the truth; and truth is never offensive when we believe it heartily, unless it condemns ourselves. Airy grandeur and irresistible impetuosity are the characteristics of his style; his genius is Grecian, but his spirit is Roman.

Gladly and unfearingly I turn to our English Lyrics, and begin with a very small example, which, however (like the taper in the second stanza), grows clearer and brighter the more it is contemplated.

"The wretch, condemn'd with life to part,
Still, still on hope relies,
And every pang that rends his heart
Bids expectation rise.

"Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
Adorns and cheers his way,

And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray."


Is this poetry? Every one feels that it is. Is it fine versification? In that respect, also, it is unexceptionable. Now, the same ideas might be given in prose, without being deemed extravagant,—while in point of diction they could hardly be more humbly attired. Yet he who should attempt to do this, with equal effect, in any other form than the original, would find that he had set himself to catch a rainbow, and bend it in a contrary direction. There is the subject, a captive under sentence of death, yet nursing in secret, almost from despair, the hope of life, with every pang. Here he is transformed into

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