-" Of man's first disobedience—" P. Stop, I pray! Nor with our would-be poets of the day, To charm an hour we've Pope and Milton still; While it can boast companions such as these. F. Restrain thy gall, Does modern merit claim no praise at all? * • Do I undervalue the poetical genius of the present day, because I cannot subscribe to the opinion, that our modern bards have even approached, much less excelled, their immortal predecessors? Lord Byron is a great, and an original genius; he has a depth of thought and a force of expression that are truly admirable. In aiming at too much conciseness, he is often harsh and obscure, while his artificial pauses, his rapid, and sometimes unnatural transitions, give his poetry an air of pedantry and affectation, of" double, double, toil and trouble." Upon many occasions, he is exquisitely simple and pathetic; his simile of the Kashmeer Butterfly, and that fine passage, "He who hath bent him o'er the dead," cannot easily be paralleled. But it is in "Childe Harold," (the greatest of all his works) that the genius of Lord Byron shines most conspicuous:his lamentations over the ruins of Greece, and passionate exhortations to spare the last relics of her ancient grandeur, are the very soul of pathos and poetry. In proportion as Shall not applause attend on Southey's strain? P. Think not to such, applause I would deny, Or view their beauties with a jaundic'd eye; I mark each nobler effort of the Lyre, I admire exalted genius, I lament its prostitution—the obscenity and profaneness which Lord Byron has bequeathed to posterity is now become a question between him and his creator. He lived too long for his own fame-we cannot say "He should have died hereafter," unless it had been to leave on record (like Lord Rochester) his deep contrition for having poisoned the minds of future generations. Yet has he met with an advocate in the Reverend William Lisle Bowles! The author of Don Juan finds an appropriate apologist in the calumniator of Pope! The works of Sir Walter Scott are full of spirit and variety. As a descriptive poet, he has great merit; and though the roaring cataract, the barren heath, and the mountain glen, have been described even to satiety; Sir Walter, by the force of his genius, contrives to render his scenes, if not new, at least picturesque and agreeable. But the greatest triumph of his genius is his having exalted a measure, hitherto considered as unfit for the purposes of heroic poetry, into cadences full, sounding, and harmonious. The first part of this note was written before Sir Walter Scott had produced "The Waverley Novels;" which, for felicity of invention, and endless diversity of character, have placed him in comparison with Shakespeare himself. With the muse of Southey what critic can keep pace? --Another Epic! Yet Roderick, or the last of the I feel a poet's warmth, and must admire. But when you speak of that poor bauble, Fame;— How few deserve it! Yet what numbers claim. To Southey, well combin'd, at once belong Goths," is undoubtedly his masterpiece. Possessing none of the ludicrous wildness of "Thalaba," or the "Curse of Kehama"-deficient in those strokes of tenderness so admirable in "Madoc;" in the display of the more terrible passions, it is superior to all. A fine strain of morality runs through the whole; it presents a highly-wrought picture of guilt, suffering, and repentance; and the scenery, which is laid in a beautiful and romantic country, is drawn with a vivid and powerful pencil. Yet who can read with patience" Conqueror, deliverer, friend of human-kind”-"Frederick the well-belov'd"- -"Prince of the mighty Isle?" -It was a saying of Voltaire's, with reference to his own writings," that an author could never reach posterity with such a load at his back." Doctor Southey is by far the best prose writer of the present day: his papers in the Quarterly Review are models of acute and eloquent criticism-I more particularly refer to his review of the works of Huntingdon the Coal-heaver, and Evelyn's Memoirs. The History of the Peninsular War, of Brazil, and Letters written during a short residence in Spain and Portugal, are elaborate and authentic works. As a biographer, he stands in the first class: his life of Wesley is animated, interesting, impartial, and curious. That of Nelson rivets you to your seat, and (as it has been well remarked by an elegant writer) peradventure our em A poet's rashness, with a poet's fire. But still his faults (this candour must allow, bryo seeds of future valor may be traced to this production. The splendid peroration has been particularly admired. In private life, Dr. Southey (as Johnson said of Reynolds) is a most invulnerable man. With every disposition to abuse, the caitiff dunces and profligate infidels of the present day find it difficult to invent terms of reproachhis only answer, is a Life devoted to every honorable, every useful purpose; a sufficient provocative to raise the envy of those, who are themselves, living or dead, libels on mankind. Neither Mr. Coleridge nor Mr. Wordsworth are so popular as they deserve to be. It is the singular perverseness of these authors to provoke ridicule when they might command applause. The Tragedy of " Remorse," and "The Ancient Mariner," afford abundant proof that their author possesses abilities of no ordinary cast; and "The Excursion" will hand down Mr. Wordsworth's name with credit to posterity. Mr. Campbell has written sufficient to make us regret that he does not oftener appear before the public; and Mr. Rogers is a living example that it is possible to be correct, without losing any thing in spirit and variety. And yet the present is Not the Augustan Age of England. F. To Scott you'll grant some portion of renown; The man has pleas'd P. Ay, surfeited the town.Th' inconstant town! that, like a pert coquet, Can smile, adore, discard, abuse, forget! Some deep romantic scene, where mould'ring time Has mark'd each tow'r and battlement sublime ; Where barbarous mirth, revenge, and feudal rage Shew the rude manners of a former age; Romances, by tradition only known, He paints with life and vigour all his own. The town is pleas'd when Byron will rehearse, And finds a thousand beauties in his verse; So fix'd his fame-that, write whate'er he will, The patient public must admire it still: Yes, though bereft of half his force and fire, They still must read, and, dozing, must admire ; |