Obrazy na stronie
PDF
ePub

degenerate hireling, When the petty rivalries of the hour are forgotten, and truth is alone remembered, the retrospections of such a character are by no means enviable. To him belongs not the smile of the good, nor the friendship of the great; as he has lived to be degraded, so will he die to be forgotten.'-pp. 266, 267.

We trembled lest we should chance to come under the lash of this mighty scorpion poet. We hoped that he would be so good as to spare us, when lo! upon returning to the text we found ourselves already in his fangs. Behold, readers, how we are mangled! We have indeed the consolation of being tortured in good company, for the Edinburgh is almost devoured at the same time.

'Each reptile started from his snug review
To spit out poison, as most reptiles do;
Oh how they feasted on each faulty line,
And generously made their dullness thine!
From page to page they grinn'd a ghastly smile,
Yet seem'd to look so heavenlike all the while;
Then talk'd of merit to the world unknown,-
Ah! who could doubt them, for they meant their own.
'Religion too!—what right had he to scan
The scheme of glory which she wove for man;
Or paint around him whereso'er he trod,
The glowing fullness of eternal God?
Indeed 'twas hinted,-hop'd it was untrue,
His heart had worn an atheistic hue;
And still religion, though its hallow'd name
Had lent a freshness to his early fame,
Had not alike both heart and head inspir'd;
In short, the world was sick, and they were tir'd;
And then, to prove his verse had made it vile,
They mouth'd it in their own sweet monthly style!
Next, Paternoster* hir'd a serpent too,
To sound his rattle in the Scotch Review;
And yet,--alas! that such a menial end
Should wait on all who noble taste defend,

Though much was thought, and more, divinely said,
The poet triumph'd, and the public read;

And when Abuse herself had ceas'd to pay,

That public hooted, and she slunk away!'-pp. 92-95. We breathe once more. Never in all our critical experience have we experienced any thing like this castigation. Our limbs quiver, the pen will no longer remain in our hands, for steel though it be, (and by the bye these steel pens are a most capital invention; they save us at least an hour a day in mere mending, and applied to the glazed paper which has been recently manufactured, we have no difficulty in saying that we thus acquire another hour by greater velocity in writing, so that we thus gain an additional

* Subaud. Row.

[ocr errors]

month every year, and an additional year every twelve years, beyond the ordinary lot of mortals), it flies away in terror lest it should be sacrificed by the triumphant poet.' Even our ink turns pale with fear!

[ocr errors]

As however, after the dark and ominous cloud which the shepherd anxiously watches upon the hill has broken, and the thunders with which it was charged have rolled away to the verge of the horizon, and the heavy shower hath fallen, the sky cheers up again, and the air becomes balmy, and the heart exults in the belief that the danger is over for the remainder of the day, so we, now that the poet has wreaked all his vengeance, and poured forth all his thunders, and hoping that, for a while at least, he will have no more to spare, venture with a stealthy pace to return to our critical chair, and resume the thread of our discourse.

[ocr errors]

The horn of Heber's fame is much exalted by Montgomery's verse. A happy and natural transition leads him then to the description of the commencement of his own collegiate life, in which the 'walk of wonder' (!) through the town, the flutter of the virgin gown,' the 'giggles' at the freshman, the majesty of High Street, the anticipating smiles of the tradesmen, and sundry other marvellous things are splendidly recorded. Among the men with whom he became in due course of time acquainted, we observe were two, named Mr. Pertness and Mr. Perfection, neither of whom it seems liked his poems.

Then, happy Pertness, how sincerely vain!
And, sour Perfection, what sublime disdain!
For ever in detractive art employ'd,

No virtue welcom'd, and no book enjoy'd.'

There was the rub. Another acquaintance of our poet was a master of arts of the name of Nothing.

'But save me heaven! from what no words can tell,

A human Nothing, made of strut and swell,

Who thinks no University contains

Sufficient wisdom to reward his pains;
Yet, paltry creature! what a vacant skull !
In all but falsehood, villainously dull;
Big words and oaths in one wild volley roll,
And nature blushes for so mean a soul,'

So much for Nothing!

Having now sufficiently amused ourselves with the egotism, the conceit, the folly, and the strut and swell' of Mr. Montgomery, let us not omit to do justice to those parts of his work which excite no other feeling than that of admiration. There are indeed not more than two or three passages, in the whole extent of the two thousand lines which make up this composition, worthy of the name of poetry. Perhaps the reader will agree with us, that one of these passages may be found in the author's reminiscence of a visit which he paid to his friend Bowles.

Hast thou forgot that balmy summer noon
That glow'd so fair, and fled, alas! so soon,
My chosen friend! in whose fond smile I see
A spirit noble, and a nature free.

When Blenheim woo'd us to her grand domain,
Where Hist'ry smiles, and Marlborough lives again!
And on the way how sweet retirement threw
A shade of promise o'er life's distant view:-
How wildly beautiful the vasty sky,

Like heaven reveal'd, burst radiant on the eye!
A spirit bosom❜d in the winds, appear'd

To chant noon-hymns, where'er a sound career'd,
While ev'ry leaf a living gladness wore,
And bird-like flutter'd as the breeze pass'd o'er;
The lark made music in the golden air,
The green earth, yellow'd by a sunny glare,
In twinkling dyes beheld her flow'ry race
Dance to the wind, and sparkle o'er her face;
Faint, sweet, and far, we heard the sheep-bell sound,
And insect happiness prevail around.--

The green monotony of hill and glade,

Where viewless streams,-by verdure oft betray'd,
Like Charity, who walks the world unseen,
Yet leaves a light where'er her hand hath been,—
By bank and mead roll'd windingly away,
'Twas ours to witness in superb array ;
And through that gate, in arched grandeur rear'd,
When first the pomp of Blenheim park appear'd,
My fancy caught from thine assenting gaze
The magic gleam that sympathy betrays!
'Noon glided on, till day's declining glow
Beheld us sweeping o'er the verdant flow
Of meadowy vales, to where the village hill
In garden bloom we welcom'd, bright and still.
That sunny eve in smiling converse fled
Around a banquet generously spread,
Beneath a roof where elegance combin'd
The pure in taste with fancy the refin'd,—
The church antique, whose ivied turret won
The dying changes of departing sun,
And gleamed upon us at our parting hour,
I still remember in its beauteous pow'r.
Then home we sped beside romantic trees
Whose leaf-pomp glitter'd to the starting breeze,
And fondly view'd in symmetry of shade
The mimic branches on the meadows laid.
In wave-like glory burn'd the sunset sky!
Where rosy billows seem'd to swell and lie,
Superbly vast;-as if that haughty Day,
Ere yet th' horizon saw him sink away,
His clouds and colors vassal-like would see

Once more awake, and own their Deity!'-pp. 70-74.

To this we shall add one other passage, in which, we would fain believe, the author wishes to make the amende honourable for the passionate and indeed low-bred phraseology, in which he has elsewhere indulged his temper.

'Who breathes, in good and ill must bear his part,
And each can tell a history of heart,

How Time hatlı ting'd the moral of his years
Through gloom or glory, triumph, pangs, or tears.
And yet, howe'er the spirit prove her right,
To give it voice is deem'd a vain delight;
And far too deeply is my mem'ry fraught
With the cold lesson blighted hours have taught,
To think a life so valueless as mine,

With the stern feelings of a world may twine.
But words will swell from out excited mind,
As heave the waters to the booming wind,

In some fond mood when dreaming thoughts control
Departed years that slumber in the soul!

'Life still is young, but not the world, with me;
For where the freshness I was wont to see?

A bloom hath vanish'd from the face of things;
No more the syren of enchantment sings
In sunny mead, or shady walk, or bow'er,
Like that which warbled o'er my youthful hour.
Let reason laugh, or elder wisdom smile
On the warm phantasies which youth beguile;
There is a pureness in that glorious prime
That mingles not with our maturer time.
All earth is brightened from a sun within,
As yet unshaded by a world of sin,
While mind and nature blendingly array
In light and love, whate'er our dreams survey;
Though perils darken from the distant years,
They vanish, cloud-like, when a smile appears!
And the light woes that flutter o'er the mind
Are laugh'd away, as foam upon the wind.
Thou witching spirit of a younger hour!
Did I not feel thee in thy fullest power?
Attest, ye glories! flash'd from clouds and skies
On the deep wonder of adoring eyes,

As oft school-free, I worshipp'd, lone and still,
The rosy sunset from some haunted hill;
Or op'd my lattice, when the moonshine lay
In sleep-like beauty on the brow of day,
To watch the mystery of moving stars,
Through ether gliding on melodious cars;
Or musing wander'd, ere the hectic morn,
To see how beautiful the sun was born!
A reign of glory from my soul hath past,
And each Elysium prov'd mere Earth at last;

[graphic]

Yet mourn I not in mock or puling strain,
For joys are left which never beam in vain!
The voice of friends, the changeless eye of love,
And oh that bliss all other bliss above,
To know, if shadow frown, or sunshine fall,
There is One Spirit who pervadeth all!

'In youth, ambition was the nursing fire
That quicken'd all bright-omen'd dreams inspire
Of glory, when Titanic spirits claim

A godlike heirship of undying fame!

By lake, or wood, or scenes of cloistral calm,
When air descendeth in melodious balm ;
Or, wildly roving with the sun and shade
Wherever Earth her phantasies display'd,-
Where heav'd a billow, or outspake a wind
In tones of passion to accordant mind,
How oft I ponder'd in delighted mood
On the bright themes of England's gratitude!
And tell, ye! whom high nature hath endow'd
With wing-like thoughts that soar beyond the crowd,
How Energy would dare to swell and rise,
What gleams of glory would entrance her eyes,
When words of Fame like heav'nly music roll'd
O'er the wild spirit which her pow'er controll'd!'

pp. 156-161.

We have never denied that Mr. Montgomery could write poetry, and that too, occasionally, of a very pleasing description. It is his misfortune that he thinks infinitely better of himself than any of his judicious readers ever possibly can do; that instead of being obliged to his critical advisers, he considers those his enemies who do not yield him unqualified praise; and that he seems to consider a few really good passages quite sufficient to ensure the popularity of a long series of rhymes. He will find himself much mistaken; he may be told, and may believe, that he has triumphed, to use his own expression, over the censures of some critics, but he may be assured of this, that the public voice is in harmony with theirs, and that if it were not so, not all their powers combined could mar his ambition. As to the malignity by which he supposes them to be actuated, it does not exist; it is very well for him to apply a flattering unction to his soul, by imagining that those who expose his faults have some mean personal feelings to gratify. But he may be convinced that those amongst them at least for whom we may be allowed to speak, are governed by much higher principles of action, and are determined, under all circumstances, to perform the duties which they owe to the literature of their country.

It is but justice to add, that the views of Oxford which illustrate this volume are all executed in the most admirable style.

« PoprzedniaDalej »