of its sentiments. Camoëns approached much nearer to the fire of Homer, and his fire was of the same character: both arose from strong patriotic virtue. There are two descriptions of poetic fire, which, as they are of the highest order, place those who possess them above all other poets: we mean, the fire of patriotism and the fire of love; or that fire which arises from an attachment to our country, and that arising from an attachment to woman. The first is that which raises the poet to the highest possible perfection, or, at least, it is that which we admire most, and which equally excites the admiration of all ages, and of all countries. It is that fire which has made Homer the prince of poets, for no other poet has ever been so strongly actuated, and hurried impetuously forward by its sacred flame. No poet has ever so closely identified himself with his heroes; he seems to take part in all their actions to be always himself in the midst of the fight, and to burn with the same fire by which they are urged irresistibly forward, to death or victory. Homer, then, is the greatest poet, because he is the most ardent patriot. But, it will be said, that the fire of love is not less ardent or powerful than that of patriotism, and that it frequently leads its victim to death itself. This we admit, but it wants the inspiration of patriotic virtue. There is always in love a certain despondency, which the patriot never feels. The latter knows, that success depends entirely on his sword, and that of his companions, and he has such reliance on both, that neither superior force nor equal bravery can terrify him. Hence, his spirit is always high, and his fire always unabated; and hence it is, that Dryden's Ode to St. Cecilia's Day, is superior to Pope's. The one turns on love, the other on patriotism; but the pity excited in us by the fate of Orpheus, the commiseration which we feel for him when we behold him,

Now under hanging mountains,

Beside the falls of fountains;
Or, where Hæbrus wanders,
Rolling in meanders,

where,

All alone,

Unheard, unknown,
He makes his moan,
And calls her ghost,

For ever, ever, ever lost;

can never awaken in us that instant and electric fire which carries us impetuously and irresistibly forward, when roused by the inspiring strain of the patriot bard, as is evident, from comparing the emotions felt in perusing the above passage from Pope, with the following from Dryden.

Now strike the golden lyre again,

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain,
Break his bands of sleep asunder,

And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark! hark! the horrid sound,

Has raised up his head,

As awaked from the dead;
And amaz'd he stares round.
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries:
See the furies arise,

See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their hair,

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes.
Behold a ghastly band,

Each a torch in his hand;

These are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain,
And unburied remain,

Inglorious on the plain;

Give the vengeance due
To the valiant crew.

Behold how they toss their torches on high,
How they point to the Persian abodes,

And glittering temples of their hostile gods :

The princes applaud with a furious joy,

And the king seiz'd a flambeau with zeal to destroy. Thaïs led the way,

To light him to his prey;

And like another Helen fired another Troy.

The love-sick bard can never awaken such a flame, because, as we have already observed, there is always a certain feeling of despondency about him. From a consciousness of his own virtues, he may deem himself worthy the adored, and, as he thinks, the adorable object of his affections; but he knows, at the same time, that neither virtue nor bravery, nor any other quality that raises man in the scale of being, and approximates him to diviner natures, can of itself either gain or secure the attachment of his mistress. He knows that the same weakness which has led him to despise women of equal, or superior beauty, may lead her to despise him; and, therefore, he feels that all his hopes rest upon that accident, or that weakness, which inclines a female to one person more than another. How, then, can a man, who is the victim of despair, who knows that all his happiness depends upon an accident over which he has no controul, feel that energy and fire which rouses into life and being the patriot bard, who communicates the same fire to the patriot reader, for, it must be recollected, that, in all ages, all men are patriots, who are men at all; but all men are lovers only at certain periods of their life. The poet who is, therefore, inspired by patriotic feelings, will always stand highest in the lists of poetic fame, and always secure the sympathies and admiration of mankind.

Goldsmith possessed a considerable portion of patriotic virtue, but it was not sufficiently ardent to be called patriotic fire. He was more a philanthropist than a patriot. He esteemed every virtuous and honest man, and, therefore, his feelings were more of a benevolent, than of a patriotic character. Accordingly, he does not awaken that glowing energy which the love of country can alone excite. This country, however, can boast of no patriotic poets, simply because it has been always secure from the threats of foreign power, since the earliest era of our national poetry. A poet cannot well make patriotic themes the subject of his muse, when his country is safe from foreign alarms. Indeed, it is doubtful whether he can at all feel a patriot, in such a case, without becoming a hypocrite,

and a hypocrite can be no poet. Hypocrisy dries up all the sources of poetic inspiration. Hence it is, that the fortunate situation and circumstances of the country, have always deprived us of patriotic poets. It was different with Ireland and Scotland; and, accordingly, the productions of the Scottish and Irish bards, from the patriotic feelings which they breathe in every line, have an effect upon the Scottish and Irish peasantry, which neither the sublimity of Milton, nor the long majestic march and energy divine" of Dryden, nor the classic elegance of Pope, can ever inspire in an English reader.

But, it may be replied, that that which pleases the peasant, may not please the peer, or the man of letters. To this we reply, that nothing can please the peasant that does not accord with the original laws of our nature, and that, consequently, whoever is not pleased with that description of poetry which pleases the peasant, is the creature of artificial habits, manners and false prejudices, a creature who has extinguished all natural feeling within him, and substituted those of artificial society.

From the reasons we have just assigned, English poetry has little of the pathetic, but what turns on subjects of love, or tragic distress; nor do even our tragic writers ever think of making a patriotic or national event the subject of their muse. Mr. Shee's Alasco is the only one we recollect, and this has been strangled in its birth. Both our chamberlain and his deputy seem to be hostile to the existence of patriotic virtue. And yet, what is the state of that country where patriotic virtue has no existence?

In our opinion, every man is a patriot when his country requires it, who is not, at heart, a slave, and every man a slave who is not, at heart, a patriot; whence it follows, that a country where patriotic virtue has no existence, must be a nursery of slaves: and, we may add, that if the chamberlain and his deputy succeed in extinguishing the spirit of patriotism in this country, we need not expect it will ever produce a Homer under his auspices; and if posterity should

ever associate the present with the Augustan age of literature, we have no reason to believe, that his name will ever be associated with that of Mæcenas.

The second of the three species into which I have divided poetry, and of which we are now treating, namely, the pathetic, has never, as we have already observed, flourished in this country, and was totally unknown before the classical era of our poetry. He who never read but the works of Drayton, Carew, Suckling, Donne, Browne, Jonson, Crashaw, Cleveland, Cowley, and many of their successors, as Blackmore and Hammond, could not form even an idea of pathetic poetry. The poetry antecedent to that period, was all the production of art: every sentiment and expression was overwrought, strained, and obscured, or entirely concealed by unnatural ornaments. The colouring was laid on thick: dedications were servilely flattering, aud praise bestowed without the slightest apparent sense of decency, propriety, or shame. Dryden made a rapid advance towards reform in the poetry of his country, but it was reserved for Pope to clear away the rubbish completely, and to bring forth "the naked nature and the living grace." All his contemporaries saw and admired the beauty of the model which he placed before them, but all did not imitate his example, some through jealousy, and some through inability. That desire of producing effect by overcharged descriptions, and obscure images, which characterized the former school, was still cherished, and cultivated. by many; and these Pope has made the subject of his Dunciad. Addison and Swift, next to Pope, were foremost in the great work of reform, but neither of them distinguished himself in the pathetic. Some attempts, however were made in this way, but the first worth noticing, and the most successful that has since appeared, was the Eloisa to Abelard. Had Pope never written but this poem, it should suffice to render him immortal, for all the united efforts of art and study, of perseverance and toil,-could never have produced it, devoid of that exquisite sensibility, without which no poet ever excelled in the pathetic. The pa