may say with truth and beauty that his hope lights its torch at nature's funeral pile,' inasmuch as the prior conflagration of the earth is a necessary condition of his felicity. But the poet is not speaking here of the grounds of a present hope-he is celebrating the duration of the sentiment itself and in doing this he has converted the hope of immortality into an immortal hope. The expectation of an eternal life cannot surely be said to survive when that eternal life has itself commenced. The hope of immortality passes away with that terrestrial scene which it cheered and illuminated; it does fade, for it is lost in fruition; and, instead of lighting her torch at nature's funeral pile,' Hope might with more accuracy have been represented as throwing her now useless torch upon that pile, to be consumed with the rest of the world to which it belonged." verse; and "Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below." Hope, undismayed amid the "wrack of matter and the crash of worlds," smiles serenely as Faith. But she is not yet lost in fruition "For wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow;" and Hope is Hope, though on the verge of heaven. Expunged, therefore, be these words-" Hope might with more accuracy have been represented as throwing her now useless torch upon that pile, to be consumed with the rest of the world to which it belonged." The refutation of all that the critic has been saying, lies in these his own words" to be consumed." While there is life there is Hope. Hope is Hope as long as she has a hand to hold a torch—or a torch to be held ;— to fling it into the fire would have been the act of-Despair. A word with John A. Heraud, Esq., author of "The Oration on Coleridge," &c. &c. In a "Lecture on Poetic Genius as a Moral Power," delivered at the "MILTON Institution," occurs this portentous paragraph: There is something, but very little, in the remark on, "when soul to soul, and dust to dust return"-so let it pass not without due commendation of the critic's acuteness; but we cannot allow to pass the elaborate attempt to demolish the glorious close of the poem. It is a complete failure, as a "We have now to do with the few words will show. The poet has poets who exercise activity. Being, not "converted the hope of immor- we have said, must act-in the neuter tality into an immortal hope." The and passive, we have detected its critic has blindly fallen into several eternal operation. But it operates in mistakes-and, in the first place, he Time also, and is diligent in reference has attached to the word "eternal" to sensible ultimates. It is here that a meaning which, in this passage, it the third class of poets are active. does not bear. Hope is rightly said POPE and CAMPBELL and ROGERS are by Campbell to be "eternal," because anxious only for the sensuous formit began with the music of the spheres, the channel of expression in which and continued amid their ruins. All their thoughts shall flow. They prepoetry is full of such passionate exag- fer Act in its lowest spheres to Being gerations-and we could cite a thou- in any. Unconscious of the neuter, sand instances where this very word and despising the passive, they inter"eternal" is applied to transitory pose a set form of speech, and, to do objects at the very moment of their them justice, never dream of publishextinction. Let one suffice: Young, ing themselves for men inspired. If when describing the Last Day, says, they approach the purlieus of the Eternal and the Ideal, they are sure "There, undermined, down rush th' eternal to blunder. Hence Campbell, at the hills!" conclusion of his poem, lights the torch of Hope at nature's funeral pyre-an error of which any theologian might have admonished him. False and injurious predicator of a state when Faith shall be lost in sight, and in which Hope can have no part; since Hope requires Time for its condition, and has no place in Eternity! Such poets as these, are the votaries Further and emphatically-"The expectation of an eternal life cannot surely be said to survive when that eternal life has itself commenced." But it has not commenced-"Nature's funeral pile" is a blaze, but it is not yet consumed; if it were, Hope could not light her torch in the dead ashes. Time stils-and the material uni of the sensuous Present only-what It may be very sinful "to despise the passive;" but we cannot think it a serious misfortune to any man "to be unconscious of the neuter." Be that as it may, "John A. Heraud, Esq.," who has often " published himself for a man inspired," is here guilty of a gross offence to Campbell. His whole Lecture is a series of plagiarisms-as we, at our leisure, shall show-and he must steal even his insults. But the Quarterly Reviewer always writes like a gentleman-here Mr Heraud does not; and, servilely adopting another man's error, he pompously emits it as his own truth. He talks of the "purlieus of the Eternal," and the Last Day, as confidently as of the purlieus of Epping Forest, and the Day of the Hunt. We see the curl of contempt on Campbell's poetic lips-and in his poetic eye the smile of disdain. "Gertrude of Wyoming," continues the Quarterly Reviewer, "is a more equal and better sustained effort, but contains fewer of those separable passages of mingled terseness and beauty, which form the charm of the Pleasures of Hope. The verse is extremely melodious, and a hue of tenderness is suffused over the whole. The scene it presents is one of almost pastoral simplicity; the feelings dealt with are few, and of no complicated nature; and the characters introduced are such as require no peculiar powers of discrimination. The theme is well adapted to a poet more accomplished in the mechanism of his art, than versed in the passions of mankind. That quite imaginary personage, The Stoic of the woods, the man without a tear,' is, for the same reason that we gave when speaking of the love-lorn maniac, a fortunate subject for his powers. It is a blemish in the piece that the story, which is sufficiently simple, should have been told in so obscure and abrupt a manner, that the reader is perplexed, and his attention distracted, in putting together the few incidents of which it is composed." This is poor stuff—and 'tis not "an honest attempt to determine the question." Having tried "to take the shine out of" the Pleasures of Hope, the appraiser turns the "separable passages of mingled terseness and beauty" in that Poem against Gertrude of Wyoming-which being a tale" of almost pastoral simplicity" -with" a hue of tenderness suffused over the whole," did not, in the nature of things, admit of the presence of that of which the absence is noticed as a defect. The character of the poem, however, would have been, on the whole, not ill expressed in the above passage, but for the captious and carping qualifyings that make praise almost look like censure. the sweet and bitter waters-as they issue from different sources-keep their own channel: with such mixture there is no refreshment in the cup. Let It may be "that the characters introduced are such as require no peculiar powers of discrimination"-Gertrude is no witch-Albert no wizard. But her we love and him we reverence. These are the best-the holiest of emotions-whether felt in peace and joy, or in grief and pity. "But Thee! my Flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Nor will thy Father's spirit grieve, "It will not be expected that we should examine each of the smaller poems which complete the volume of Mr Campbell's works. The best of his lyrical effusions are so well known, and their merits so vividly appreciated, that nothing would remain to us but the not very grateful task of moderating the applause bestowed on them. We certainly do not acquiesce in the opinion that on these will rest the future fame of Campbell, or that the genius of this poet is peculiarly lyrical. A daring freedom and a boldness of manner sit but ill upon our careful and polished writer; there wants in all these productions-halfsong, half-ode-that appearance of spontaneous effusion which hurries on the sympathy of the reader; the judgment is satisfied, or at least silenced, when the feeling remains cold; and we oftener think that we ought to kindle, than experience the glow itself." No mention is made by name-no farther allusion to "Ye Mariners of England," "The Battle of Hohenlinden," "The Battle of the Baltic," or "Lochiel's Warning," &c. ; but on "Theodoric"-certainly Mr Campbell's least successful poem-though "we would willingly have said nothing"-we do, nevertheless, pronounce judgment in a full page of contemptuous vituperation. It was hardly worth the critic's while; we remember something of the sort in Maga many years ago-Posterity will not care for Theodoric any more than the contemporaneous public. Campbell pitched his pipe on too feeble a NO. CCLXXXVI, VOL. XLVI. key-the tune he played, though it had its pleasant turns, was monotonous his instrument is the lyre-or the "Spartan fife." In what ode-from Pindar to Collins inclusive-is there "the appearance of spontaneous effusion?" Why should there be? Campbell did not start up from his chair and suddenly sing out, "Ye Mariners of England!" -nor did he desire to "hurry on the sympathy of the reader." His soul was in a state of exalted calm, contemplating the naval power of England-and the presiding spirit of his Ode is that of sedate grandeur. The Battle of the Baltic is a magnificent naval ballad but there is no hurry" there (the more hurry the less speed) -any more than there was "hurry in the Fleet approaching the batteries— "As they drifted on their path Jeffrey well said, many years ago, that there had been no such prophetic strain as " Lochiel's Warning" since the "days of Cassandra"-meaning, we presume, the days of Eschylus when he wrote the Agamemnon. Seer and chieftain speak in character-each a poetry of his own, inspired by the mountains. "And like reapers descend to the harvest of death,' is one of the greatest lines ever written; and yet of such a colloquy it is averred "that the judgment is satisfied, or at least silenced, when the feeling remains cold; and we oftener think we ought to kindle, than experience the glow itself!" The scrimp quotations given are from the "Last Man," and "On leaving a Scene in Bavaria." Both compositions are praised-and justly; but, though both are fine in their way, they are far from being among Campbell's best; and as the "Last Man,"-an inconceivable idea-lies open to attack on all sides, he gets a cut or two from the critic, though not on a vital part. So little conversant with Campbell's poetry is his critic, that of the "Lines on leaving a Scene in Bavaria," he says, "we never met with it before, except in a newspaper some eight or ten years ago!!" Is the critic aware of the existence L of a poem called "O'Connor's Child?" What will posterity, thinks he, think of it? At the risk of being reckoned purblind and stone-deaf by posterity, we predict that posterity will love and admire and worship the genius enshrined there-till posterity ceases to have posterity-and "Earth's cities have no sound or tread, And ships are drifting with the dead To shores where all are dumb!" We must now part with Mr Campbell and his critic. Maga, at least, will survive for ever-and should it so happen that all editions of the works of the Bard of Hope-one after the other-at intervals of a century or so-drop into oblivion-remotest posterity may see here as beautiful stanzas of his as any that even then may have been written and be grateful to CHRISTOPHER THE EMBALMER. STANZAS TO PAINTING. "O thou by whose expressive art Her perfect image Nature sees In union with the Graces start, And sweeter by reflection please! "In whose creative hand the hues Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine; I bless thee, Promethéan Muse! And call thee brightest of the Nine! "Possessing more than vocal power, Persuasive more than poet's tongue; Whose lineage, in a raptured hour, From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung; "Does Hope her high possession meet? Is joy triumphant-sorrow flown? Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet, When all we love is all our own. But, oh! thou pulse of pleasure dear, Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part; Lone absence plants a pang severe, Or death inflicts a keener dart. "Then for a beam of joy to light In Memory's sad and wakeful eye! Or banish from the noon of night Her dreams of deeper agony. "Shall Song its witching cadence roll? Yea, even the tenderest air repeat, That breathed when soul was knit to soul, And heart to heart responsive beat! "What visions rise! to charm, to melt! The lost, the loved, the dead are near! Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt! And cease that solace too severe ! "But thou, serenely silent art! By Heaven and Love wast taught to lend A milder solace to the heart, The sacred image of a friend. "All is not lost! if, yet possest, To me that sweet memorial shine! If close and closer to my breast I hold that idol all divine. "Or. gazing through luxurious tears, Melt o'er the loved departed form, Till death's cold bosom half appears With life, and speech, and spirit warm. "She looks! she lives! this tranced hour, "Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid A treasure to my soul has given, Where beauty's canonized shade Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven. "No spectre forms of pleasure fled, Thy softening, sweetening tints restore; For thou canst give us back the dead, Even in the loveliest looks they wore. "Then blest be Nature's guardian Muse, Whose hand her perish'd grace re deems! Whose tablet of a thousand hues The mirror of creation seems. "From Love began thy high descent; And lovers, charm'd by gifts of thine, Shall bless thee mutely eloquent, And call thee brightest of the Nine ! " Have you Joanna Bailie's Dramatic Works in your library? No! Then get them-and begin with "THE BEACON." "The piece," says the gracious lady," is very short, and can neither be called tragedy nor comedy. It may indeed appear, for a passion so allied to all our cheerful and exhilerating thoughts, to approach too nearly to the former; but HOPE, when its object is of great importance, must so often contend with despondency, that it rides like a vessel on the stormy ocean, rising on the billow's ridge but for a moment. Cheerfulness, the character of common Hope, is, in strong Hope, like glimpses of sunshine in a stormy sky." If such poetry be in the preface, what treasures untold may you not trust to find in the drama itself! She "ventures to call it a musical drama," and it is so indeed the only musical drama deserving the name that we know of in our language. Joanna takes care to make no people sing in situations in which it is not natural for them to do so; the songs are all sung by those who have little or nothing to act, and introduced when nothing very interesting is going on; and they are supposed not to be spontaneous expressions of sentiment in the singer, but (as songs in ordinary life usually are) compositions of other people, which have been often sung before, and are only generally applicable to the present occasion. In these few words which are almost all her own-this great poetess has laid down the principles on which alone can any musical drama be constructed agreeably to nature. But why a Musical Drama? Because the passion of HOPE, if long dwelt on in a drama, was in danger, she felt, of turning tiresome and languid-not being so powerfully interesting as those that are more turbulent and at the same time of being sunk into shade, or entirely overpowered, if relieved from it by variety of strongly marked characters in the inferior persons-therefore she introduced songs in several scenes on the principle she has explained—and now you know why The Beacon is a Musical Drama. But why THE BEACON ? Because Aurora, a lady resident on a small island of the Mediterranean, about the middle of the fourteenth century, had promised, on the departure of her lover, Ermingard, to the Holy War, to kindle a Beacon on the cliff to guide his ship on his return from Palestine. Years pass-and no tidings of her hero-whom all but she have given up to the grave or the sea. There she nightly sitsdeaf to all remonstrances-to all threats and feeds the Beacon-fire, and the fire in her own faithful heart. Behold and hear her speak-but not now-for it is broad-day-light-beside the Beacon-but in a rustic arbour in a Flower-Garden, with her attendant ladies, Edda and Viola, and Terentia her governante-kind as a mother. She mistakes the hourand Terentia says "Ter. You are deceivedThree hours have past, but past by you unheeded; |