[From the Palace of Art.'] Beauty, Good, and Knowledge are three sisters, That dote upon each other, friends to man, Living together under the same roof, And never can be sundered without tears. [From the Miller's Daughter.'] Look through mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine; My other dearer life in life, Look through my very soul with thine! Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. Became an outward breathing type, And left a want unknown before; The comfort I have found in thee: THOMAS B. MACAULAY. MR THOMAS B. MACAULAY, who held an important office in the administration of Lord Melbourne, and is one of the most brilliant writers in the Edinburgh Review, gratified and surprised the public by a volume of poetry in 1842. He had previously, in his young collegiate days, thrown off a few spirited ballads, (one of which, The War of the League, is here subjoined); and in all his prose works there are indications of strong poetical feeling and fancy. No man paints more clearly and vividly to the eye, or is more studious of the effects of contrast and the proper grouping of incidents. He is generally picturesque, eloquent, and impressive. His defects are a want of simplicity and tenderness, and an excessive love of what Izaak Walton called strong writing. The same characteristics pervade his recent work, the Lays of Ancient Rome. Adopting the theory of Niebuhr (now generally acquiesced in as correct), that the heroic and romantic incidents related by Livy of the early history of Rome, are founded merely on ancient ballads and legends, he selects four of these incidents as themes for his verse. Identifying himself with the ple beians and tribunes, he makes them chant the martial stories of Horatius Cocles, the battle of the Lake Regillus, the death of Virginia, and the prophecy of Capys. The style is homely, abrupt, and energetic, carrying us along like the exciting narra tives of Scott, and presenting brief but striking pictures of local scenery and manners. The truth of these descriptions is strongly impressed upon the mind of the reader, who seems to witness the heroic scenes so clearly and energetically described. The masterly ballads of Mr Macaulay must be read continuously, to be properly appreciated; for their merit does not lie in particular passages, but in the rapid and progressive interest of the story, and the Roman spirit and bravery which animate the whole. The following are parts of the first Lay: [The Desolation of the Cities whose Warriors have marched against Rome.] Tall are the oaks whose acorns Drop in dark Auser's rill; Fat are the stags that champ the boughs Beyond all streams, Clitumnus Is to the herdsman dear; The great Volsinian mere. But now no stroke of woodman Is heard by Auser's rill; No hunter tracks the stag's green path Unwatched along Clitumnus Grazes the milk-white steer; Unharmed the water-fowl may dip In the Volsinian mere. The harvests of Arretium, This year old men shall reap; This year the must shall foam [Horatius offers to defend the Bridge.] Then out spake brave Horatius, The captain of the gate: To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his gods, And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame? Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, Then out spake Spurius Lartius; 'Horatius,' quoth the Consul, 'As thou say'st, so let it be.' And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old. Then none was for a party; Then all were for the state; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great; Then lands were fairly portioned; Then spoils were fairly sold; The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old. Now Roman is to Roman More hateful than a foe, And the tribunes beard the high, And the fathers grind the low. As we wax hot in faction, In battle we wax cold; Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old. [The Fate of the first Three who advance against the Heroes of Rome.] Aunus from green Tifernum, Lord of the Hill of Vines; And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves And Picus, long to Clusium, Vassal in peace and war, Who led to fight his Umbrian powers From that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum lowers O'er the pale waves of Nar. Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus And clove him to the teeth; At Picus brave Horatius Darted one fiery thrust; And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms Clashed in the bloody dust. Then Ocnus of Falerii Rushed on the Roman Three; And Lausulus of Urgo, The rover of the sea; And Aruns of Volsinium, Who slew the great wild boar, And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, Herminius smote down Aruns: Lartius laid Ocnus low: Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow. 'Lie there,' he cried, fell pirate! From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark [Horatius, wounded by Astur, revenges himself.] He reeled, and on Herminius He leaned one breathing-space; The good sword stood a handbreath out And the great Lord of Luna The giant arms lie spread; On Astur's throat Horatius Right firmly pressed his heel, And thrice and four times tugged amain, Ere he wrenched out the steel. [The Bridge falls, and Horatius is alone.] Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. 'Down with him!' cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. 'Now yield thee,' cried Lars Porsena, 'Now yield thee to our grace.' Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus nought spake he; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river 'Oh, Tiber, Father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bank; But friends and foes in dumb surprise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer. [How Horatius was Rewarded.] Could plough from morn till night: And they made a molten image, And set it up on high, And there it stands unto this day It stands in the Comitium, And underneath is written, In letters all of gold, How valiantly he kept the bridge And still his name sounds stirring As the trumpet-blast that cries to them For boys with hearts as bold As his who kept the bridge so well And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, When the oldest cask is opened, And the largest lamp is lit, When the chestnuts glow in the embers, When young and old in circle When the goodman mends his armour, How well Horatius kept the bridge of war, To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The king is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest; And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, God save our lord the King.' 'And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. MR BAYLY was, next to Moore, the most successful song-writer of our age. His most attractive lyrics turned on the distresses of the victims of the affections in elegant life; but his muse had also her airy and cheerful strain, and he composed a surprising number of light dramas, some of which show a likelihood of maintaining their ground on the stage. He was born in 1797, the son of an eminent and wealthy solicitor, near Bath. Destined for the church, he studied for some time at Oxford, but could not settle to so sober a profession, and ultimately came to depend chiefly on literature for support. His latter years were marked by misfortunes, under the pressure of which he addressed some beautiful verses to his wife : Oh! hadst thou never shared my fate, Without thy soothing love. But thou hast suffered for my sake, My fond affection thou hast seen, To think more happy thou hadst been And has that thought been shared by thee? Than laboured words could speak. But there are true hearts which the sight How unlike some who have professed But ah! from them to thee I turn, They'd make me loathe mankind, Far better lessons I may learn From thy more holy mind. The love that gives a charm to home, I feel they cannot take: We'll pray for happier years to come, For one another's sake. This amiable poet died of jaundice in 1839. His songs contain the pathos of a section of our social system; but they are more calculated to attract attention by their refined and happy diction, than to melt us by their feeling. Several of them, as 'She wore a wreath of roses,' 'Oh no, we never mention her,' and 'We met 'twas in a crowd,' attained to an extraordinary popularity. Of his livelier ditties, I'd be a butterfly' was the most felicitous: it expresses the Horatian philosophy in terms exceeding even Horace in gaiety. What though you tell me each gay little rover Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day: Surely 'tis better, when summer is over, To die when all fair things are fading away. Some in life's winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay I'd be a butterfly, living a rover, Dying when fair things are fading away! The same light-heartedness is expressed in a less familiarly known lyric. HARTLEY COLERIDGE, son of the great poet, pub lished in 1833 a volume of Poems, not unworthy his high descent. There are few sonnets in the language more exquisite in thought or structure than the following: What was't awakened first the untried ear Sonnet on Shakspeare. The soul of man is larger than the sky, Can make of man. Yet thou wert still the same, Sonnets to a Friend. When we were idlers with the loitering rills, In the great city we are met again, And what hath Nature but the vast void sky, We parted on the mountains, as two streams Mail of Nature's own bestowing, Or of the shade of golden flowers, At the present time the greater poets of the age have passed either beyond the bourne of life, or into the honoured leisure befitting an advanced period of life. For twenty years, there have arisen no lights of such fresh and original lustre as Southey, Scott, Wordsworth, Campbell, and Byron; nor do we readily detect in those which exist any aspirant likely to take the high ground occupied by these names. This is a phenomenon in literary history by no means unexampled; for, after the age of Pope and his associates, there likewise followed one in which no stars of primary magnitude appeared. It must, however, be admitted, that the present time, if not marked by any greatly original poet in the bloom of his reputation, is remarkable for the wide diffusion of a taste for elegant verse-writing; insomuch that the most ordinary periodical works now daily present poetry which, fifty years ago, would have formed the basis of a high reputation. It is only unfortunate of these compositions, that they are so uniform in their style of sentiment, and even in their diction, that a long series of them may be read with scarcely any impression at the end beyond that of an abundance of pleasing images and thoughts, and fine phraseology. It has been thought proper here to advert, in brief terms, to some of the younger of our living poets, in combination with those whom worldly duties and the little encouragement given to the publication of poetry, may be supposed to have prevented from cultivating their powers to a high degree. Amongst the former may be cited JOHN STERLING, author of a volume of miscellaneous poems, published in 1839; W. MONCKTON MILNES, M.P., who has given two small volumes of poems to the world; and CHARLES MACKAY, author of The Hope of the World (1840), and The Salamandrine (1842). Mr Sterling has formed himself more peculiarly on the genius and style of Coleridge; Mr Milnes on that of Wordsworth; and Mr Mackay belongs to the school of Pope and Goldsmith. All are men of undoubted talents, from whom our poeti |