97 Desultory Thoughts on the Poverty and Prosperity of Poets. tmortifying neglect which he experienced from this vain, despotic, and capricious princess, exhibits her character in the blackest colours of insensibility and ingratitude, when contrasted with the discriminating taste, munificence, and accomplishment, that reflect such lustre on the name of her beautiful but unfortunate rival, Mary, Queen of Scots. This amiable and persecuted queen signalized her superior generosity by giving a magnificent present of plate to the French poet Ronsard. That gifted, but neglected bard of love, was once the laureate of monarchs and the darling of France, and perhaps equalled the renowned Lopez de Vega in the triumphs and honours that were awarded to his genius. His sovercign, the sanguinary Charles IX. lauded his poetic talents in a complimentary ode, and the city of Toulouse presented him with a Minerva, cast from refined silver, and embellished with the most exquisite decorations of art. The profligate monarch Charles II. to gratify the vitiated and tawdry taste of one of his courtezans, paid a foreign painter (Rubens) three thousand pounds for painting the ceiling of a state room in Whitehall; while Milton, the illustrious author of Paradise Lost, the most brilliant poem that ever illuminated, with epic glory, the horizon of English literature, was suffered to pine in the shade of poverty and obscurity. Enough has been written on the misery and adversities of poets, and who but has bewailed the cruel fate of Camoens, Tasso, Dante, Otway, Chatterton, Dermody, and others, with tears of heartfelt anguish and sympathetic regret ? We think, notwithstanding the unkindness of fortune to the sons of song, that a very amusing and interesting book might be written on the opulence, honour, and triumph, which poets have acquired in different ages and nations of the world. Nero was sometimes divested of his petulant ferocity by the engaging and elegant conversation of Lucan, who lived in the most intimate familiarity with the imperial despot, through whose interest he was elevated to the office of Quæstor, and enrolled among the Augurs. Horace was the chosen favourite of Augustus, and the companion of his private hours. The independence of mind which distinguished this celebrated poet was only equalled by the magnanimity and pride of genius that formed such a brilliant trait in the character of the illustrious Byron. Virgil had the honour of reading the sixth book of the Eneid for the Emperor Augustus and his empress; the beauty and majesty of which so pleased the latter, that she presented the poet with ten sesterces of gold for every line, which amounted, in all, to 3000 pounds. The Roman Pontiff, in testimony of his high admiration of Petrarch's celebrated epic poem, entitled Africa, presented the poet with magnificent gifts, and placed a laurel crown upon his head. This poem, which is conceived with great luxuriance of imagination, and expressed with corresponding magnificence of language, has been honoured with the applause of Tasso. The Emperor Henry VII. of Germany, was greatly attached to the unfortunate Dante, who, during the short reign of that monarch, enjoyed his favour and protection. The great Michael Angelo was an enthusiastic admirer of the Florentine poet; and so great was his regard for the memory of the illustrious exile, that he very liberally offered to execute a gorgeous monument over his remains, at Ravenna. Ariosto, the far-famed author of "Orlando Furioso," was crowned with the laurel by the hands of Charles V. who confided so much in the address and talents of the bard, as to employ him in several important embassies. Trissino, an eminent dramatic poet, derived such immense wealth by his writings, as to enable him to build a stately palace of marble, at Vicenza. He wrote an epic poem, consisting of twenty-seven books, the subject of which was, the expulsion of the Goths from Italy, by Belisarius. The performance does not rate high in the opinion of the critics. Lopez de Vega, to whose productions the patriotic Lord Holland has given such attractions, in an English dress, was termed the Shakspeare of Spain, and may be classed among the most fertile poets in the ranks of Parnassus. Except Lord Byron, no bard could be named who has been so universally i dolized while living, by all ranks of people, and so magnificently rewarded by the liberality of the great, as this poet. He produced an astonishing variety of VOL. I.-13 poetical compositions, among which his "Corona Tragica," on the death of Mary, Queen of Scots, is eminent for its pathos and beauty. The splendour of his genius, and the purity of his virtues, procured for him the esteem and regard of contemporary monarchs, who loaded him with honours. His biographers assert, what must stagger credibility, that the stupendous aggregate of his verses amounted, by calculation, to 21,316,000. Like Byron, he seemed to have turned the stream of Pactolus through his rich manor, in the fields of Parnassus : for he obtained 100,000 pounds by his writings, if we can give credence to the declaration of his biographer, Montalvan.* He left a great portion of his fortune to religious institutions, and to charitable asylums. He died on the 25th of August, 1635, in the seventy-third year of his age. The superb grandeur of his funeral was fully equal to the reverence and respect in which he was held while living ; it was attended by the chief nobility of the kingdom. The gorgeous ceremonial was invested with all the imposing pomp of solemn magnificence; and three sermons, in honour of the deceased, were delivered by three of the most eloquent preachers in Spain. *To the investigation of the genius of Lopez de Vega, the erudite Lord Holland has carried the most impartial and enlightened judgment. The discrimination, truth, and refinement of his strictures are admirable. He says, "The merit of his poems, independent of those intended for representation, consists chiefly in smoothness of versification and purity of language, and in felicity rather than strength of imagination. His numbers are casy and flowing, but he seldom interests the feelings, and never warms the imagination of the reader." Though Lopez realised such immense wealth by his productions, his elegant and pathetic contemporary-the sweet lyrist of love-the inspired songster of Lusitanian melodies, (Camoens) was actually starving, being often compelled by the cravings of hunger to beg from door to door, in the streets of Lisbon, for a morsel of bread to sustain his wretched existence. The family of Camoens was illustrious, and originally Spanish; they were long settled at Cadmon, a Castle in Galicia, from which they probably derived their patronymic appellation. Some writers, however, maintain, that their name alluded to a certain wonderful Bird, the Camao, whose vigilant and mischievous sagacity betrayed the smallest deviation from conjugal fidelity in a female. Former ly, we are told by grave writers, every noble family in Spain retained one of these terrible attendants, as Arguses to watch the married women. This extraordinary Bird, it is said, would never die, while the mistress of the house preserved her conjugal honour, but the moment she indulged herself in a clandenstine amour, the faithful sentinel of virtue and chastity, would repair to his master, flutter his wings, and die at his feet. The unfortunate lady was then branded with infamy and expelled from her home as an out-cast. It soon was difficult to find a Camao that lived in the same family during three generations; and at length this Rara avis became entirely extinct! The poet derived his name from this ordeal Bird. A lady of the house of Cadmon, whose conduct had been rather indiscreet, demanded to be tried by this extraordinary judge. Her innocence was proved; and in gratitude to the being that had restored him to matrimonial felicity, the proud and exulting husband adopted his name. In the early period of his life, Camoens was totally insensible to the passion of love; and we are told by Mickle, that while the manly graces of his person inspired that glowing sentiment in the other sex, he treated his fair captives with disdain, or at least as the mere objects of temporary transport. Upon his procuring a situation, however, at the Court of Lisbon, he became enamoured of Dona Caterina de Ataide, one of the Queen's maids of honour, who surrendered her charms to his caresses. The scene of their assignation, was the Queen's bed chamber, where they were at length surprised, and the Bard, like another Ovid, was banished from court for having violated the sanctity of the royal chamber, by his illicit amours. The following sonnet, (translated by Lord Strangford) which he addressed to the Mondego, after his exile, is fraught with feeling and sensibility. "MONDEGO! thou, whose waters cold and clear, Gird those green banks, where fancy fain would stay, Fondly to muse on that departed day, When Hope was kind, and friendship seem'd sincere ; To other shores, where other fountains stray, Mr. Mickle, in his paraphrastical translation of the "LUSIAD," has given but shadowy honours to the epic powers of Camoens, as Lord Byron says that neither he nor Lord Strangford has preserved, in our language, the sublimity, graces, and pathetic sweetness of the elegant original. Scenes from the new historical Irish Drama of KATHLEEN O'NEIL. (Continued from page 26.) 1st ATTEN. I would not offend that hermit for all the territories of our Prince. ALL THE ATTENDANTS. Nor I, nor I, nor I, &c. O'CON. He is certainly an extraordinary man, who has consecrated his life to religion and works of charity; so that we should all speak well of him:--but, ha! who have we here? Enter Prince of Thomond, disguised as a harper; he appears exhausted, as if from fatigue. CORM. Why, son of song, you seem to have travelled far; but know that the bards are welcome always to the hall of O'Neil; here hospitality is enlivened by the voice of song. But from what part of this fair Isle hast thou come, minstrel? THO. My journey has been long and tedious, though cheered by the kind hospitality that distinguishes our country. From where the majectic Shannon mingles with the western ocean have I wandered. During my progress, I have sometimes fared sumptuously, in the castle of the chieftain, and pleasurably in the cot of the peasant; for the rites of hospitality are assiduously observed in the one, as well as in the other. A few miles hence I had the misfortune of losing my way, and have been straying amidst your glens and defiles, unable to get forward, until the sound of your hunting horns directed me hither to the castle of the chivalric O'Neil. CORM. Oh Lord! Father, if this is not the same harper that diverted us all last Michaelmas, with his tales of Fingal and Ossian, and his beautiful songs of the triumphs of Nial the Great: yes, and it was he that saved the Lady Kathleen from being drowned in the boating match. O'CON. I was then absent with our heroic Prince. CORM. And the greater was your loss, for his mirth would chase away the tears from the cheek of a Niobe; he has a charm for turning the weeping into the laughing Philosopher; his jokes stretched my mouth two inches wider, I laughed so much. THO. Report speaks loudly of the Prince's virtues. CORM. It does him but justice, though I must own his brow is now and then a little contracted O'CON. 'Tis his brave and lofty spirit that "ever and anon" breaks forth; but where will you find his equal? In war a lion-in peace a lamb; his ample board ever spread for the succour of the hungry wanderer; his sword never drawn, but in the defence of the oppressed; his philanthropic bosom the shrine of truth, and his word sacred as the inviolable oath that angels have registered in the records of heaven. CORM. Yes, father, we have all pretty good reason to be convinced of that; for if he should once, even by accident, happen to say, "Cormack, you must remove this castle," as it would be rather cumbersome for one backload, he would make me carry it stone by stone, till I had lodged it in the bottom of the lake. O'CON. For shame, Cormack! the magnanimous Phelim is firm, but his firmness is not the offspring of capricious obstinacy; the loss of his gallant son, who fell in the glorious battle of Dundalk, where the Saxons of the pale were routed, has thrown a veil of melancholy over his aspect: but where is perfection to be found, if not in Phelim ? CORM. In my mind, a great deal more likely to be found with the Lady Kathleen, that peerless paragon of beauty and benignity. She is the softened image of her sire, she is in alabaster what he is in marble, possessing his firmness without his inflexibility—his noble nature without his pride. He is the oak of the forest, fitted to resist the wintry tempest; she is the blossom of the peach, whose perfume breathes upon the vernal breeze. Her sister, the Lady Minona, is also a sweet charming creature; but then she is so melancholy since young M'Der mot's death, in the great battle in Scotland, she chokes my breath like the fog from the lake on a misty morning-Oh, Kathleen for me. THO. You speak eloquently and warmly on this subject, young man. Down, my jealous heart. (aside.) O'CON. Minstrel, my son's language is dictated by truth; she is like a beautiful temple, which the image of the Deity inhabits. THO. She has then, doubtless, many suitors? O'CON. She has, indeed, and among them potent princes. THо. And one is favoured of course? O'CON. It is said she prefers prince Edward Bruce, who was on a visit at the castle lately. But it becomes not me to speak of my chieftain's daughter. CORM. I should be very sorry if it did not become me, for I am as eloquent on the subject as Friar O'Tool when he preached last lent against the abomination of golden bodkins and red petticoats; but the truth is, though Lady Kathleen's eyes have set fire to many a warrior's heart, and that the sweet blandishment of her smile has fascinated more captives than her father took in battle from the English of the pale, her own heart, like the shield of Achilles, is invulnerable, and no hero has yet been fortunate enough to return the compliment. O'CON. Hark! the Prince is coming this way. Peace, Cormack-you chatter like a magpie. CORM. But you never, father, heard so eloquent a magpie before. (From the Castle.) Enter Phelim, Kathleen, and Morna-all bow. Kathleen smiles benignly. Phelim returns the salute with gracious dignity. Music. Guards. PHELIM. So, good warder, how farest thou after the chase? O'CON. Why well, please your Highness; the chase always cheers my spirits ; the sound of the horn animates my old heart, and brings back the remembrance of the happy days of my youth-Ah! it is pleasant to think of the past. But here is a harper who is just arrived, and who seeks from your Highness the rights of hospitality. KATH. (Aside) Ha! as I live it is the minstrel that saved my life. Be still, my throbbing heart. PHE. They are granted-the hall of O'Neil was ever the refuge of genius. Conduct him to the castle; let him receive all the offices of social kindness; they are his by right, for he is a stranger. KATH. Oh, sacred and revered title! PHE. Yes, my dear child, it is the title which heaven has consecrated in the breasts of Irishmen—the wanderer's best assurance of safety and protection. But this minstrel has another claim-the hallowed torch of genius has shed its light around him; and never, oh, never! may the son of song be denied shelter under the banner that is emblazoned with the harp of Erin. (Harper bows.) Enter Caryl. CARYL. I seek your Highness :-this moment a messenger from the chief Lord of the English pale announces his speedy arrival; his courier says that he demands audience of you, and of the Lady Kathleen. PHE. This visit of the English Lord Deputy is most strange; but let him come. MORNA. For my part I am very glad he is coming, as it will spring up a breeze of cheerfulness, and make some stir in the castle. I always preferred high winds to a dead calm of moping melancholy. Surely variety is the life of pleasure. (aside.) KATH. Oh, my father, I like not even the name of this minion of the tyrannic Edward; report speaks loudly of his despotism and confiscations in Louth and other parts of Leinster, where the oppressed tremble at the tyrant's nod. I must abhor, even as a guest, the man whose hands have been embrued in human blood-in the blood of my countrymen. THO. (Aside.) These are the sentiments of a noble and exalted heart; how lovely does woman look when she becomes the advocate of virtue! MORNA. I'm sure that this great English Lord, who has so much power and riches, is a proper match for my Lady. Do, dear foster child, marry him. (aside, to Kathleen.) PHE. My dear Kathleen, hospitality demands that we should receive this English chief. But come, Bermingham will soon be here; let us prepare to give him audience. Warder, to your care I commit the young Bard; let him be your guest, and when leisure permits, he shall gladden our souls with the melodious voice of the harp. [Exeunt into the castle. CORM. (Aside) Now would I give my left hand off my body for permission to drub, in an Irish style, that oppressive Saxon with the right. He comes here on no good intent, I'll warrant [Exit into the castle. (To be continued.) GRAND CELEBRATION OF ST. PATRICK'S DAY, By the Friends of Civil and Religious Liberty in this City. Never was the anniversary of the Irish apostle celebrated with greater magnificence-never was this day, which is the hallowed passover of all the exiles of Erin, commemorated in foreign climes, by such "a feast of reason and a flow of soul," as that which distinguished the memorable jubilee of the friends of Civil and Religious Liberty, at Tammany Hall, on the 17th of March, 1829. It was the array of American sympathy for Irish sufferings-a Confederation organized and marshalled by the spirit of FREEDOM and the genius of TOLERATION at the altar of festivity, where liberality and good feeling convinced us, that though far from the green Isle of our birth, we are still in the asylum of the oppressed, the refuge of the Exile, where we are never obliged to "sit down by the waters of Babylon to weep." It is not the Euphrates of captivity we found in America, but the Hudson of liberty, whose sanative and oblivious waters serve to alleviate the pain of our exile, and lull to repose the regret which is associated with the remembrance of our native country. The assembly was numerous and highly respectable, and near 300 gentlemen sat down to a most sumptuous banquet. DR. MACNEVEN, the patriotic and zealous President of the Association of the Friends of Ireland, took the chair, and was ably assisted by the Vice Presidents. Among the company we recognised his honour the Mayor, the Recorder, Chief Justice Jones, the very Rev. Dr. Power, the Rev. Docters M'Leod and M'Clay, with other reverend gentlemen of all religious persuasions; Major General Morton, honourable G. C. Verplanck, Judge Swanton, Wm. Sampson, T. A. Emmet, and Denis M'Carthy, Esqrs. as well as Aldermen Lozier, Bryson, Strong, &c. The very Rev. JOHN POWER, Roman Catholic Dean of New-York, pronounced grace, and the Rev. Dr. M'Leod, of the Presbyterian church, the prayer of thanksgiving. After the singing of Non Nobis Domine, the President rose and addressed the guests in nearly the following language : GENTLEMEN—We have assembled to honour the principles of Civil and Religious Liberty, and not without the hope of giving them greater currency by this example of our attachment and celebration. The cause which convenes us is essentially the same as that which, a few years ago, assembled good men of all nations and creeds, even at public dinners, for the purpose of giving their voice against the enslavement of the Africans. And after the same manner that the general opinion of civilized nations was successfully pronounced in favour of the persecuted Greeks, so we invoke this universal power in behalf of our kindred across the Atlantic, who suffer persecution for conscience' sake. |