THE ISLAND.* THE eccentric spirit to whom we are indebted for a new poem under the above title, has returned, in this instance, to that style, or rather that class of work which he seemed to have finally abandoned for something, certainly less generally interesting and attractive, however elevated in rank and ambitious in pretension. It is to his narrative poems-his Giaours, his Corsairs, his Laras, &c. that Lord Byron owes his popularity at least, if not his reputation. If it were not for these, and the intense interest that they had excited towards any thing he might offer to the world, his Manfreds, his Cains, and even the noblest of all his productions, his "Heaven and Earth," might have remained mysteries, in more senses than one. The latter were a kind of "Caviare," that nothing could have rendered palatable "to the multitude," unless their appetite had been previously excited in a degree that prevented them from judging exactly what it was of which they were partaking. If even the "Heaven and Earth" had appeared anonymously, and had not included any internal evidence of the source from whence it came, it would have fallen still-born from the press. As it was, people read it without relishing it, praised it without appreciating it, and laid it by without ever intending or desiring to take it up again. Whereas, of all the numerous fragments which this extraordinary writer has put forth, if there is one which indicates the true nature of the poetical structure he is capable of raising, and (we are determined to hope and expect) he some day or other will raise, to the glory of his art and the immortal honour of his name-it is this. The Island, as we have hinted above, is a narrative poem, like those by which the author first became celebrated; with this difference, however, against it—that it is "founded on facts." We say "against it," for this reason, that facts are not only such "stubborn," but such stirring things in their individual selves, that any suspected, much more any avowed alteration or embellishment of them, never fails to weaken the effect of a narration in which they are to form a distinguishing feature. Abstract truth will very well bear to be "in fairy fiction dress'd;" that which merely may have been, may be described to have been in any manner that the fancy or the feelings of the narrator may suggest, consistently with the object in view. But that which has been cannot be safely treated in this way, if the person who treats of it places any dependence on the fact of its having actually happened. To tell us, in the plain and intelligible prose of an eye-witness, that certain events took place thus and thus; and then to tell us, over again, the same story in substance, but after a different fashion, and one that is intended to be more poetical;-this is something worse than a work of supererogation. If Lord Byron had a mind to tell a story of the mutiny of a ship's company and its consequences-well and good; the subject would immediately strike us as being well adapted to his powers, and susceptible of the most poetical treatment. But why hamper himself with an actual narration of a mutiny, only to alter or abandon it, just as he might think fit at the moment ;-re *The Island; or, Christian and his Companions. A Poem, by the Right Honourable Lord Byron. A taining the actual names, places, &c. but mixing them up with other "There sat the gentle savage of the wild, Like coral reddening through the darken'd wave, Such was the daughter of the Southern Seas." The The description of the English, or rather Scotch lover, if not so diss tinct and picturesque, is equally spirited. "And who is he?—the blue-eyed northern child Of isles more known to man, but scarce less wild; The tempest-born in body and in mind, His young eyes opening on the ocean-foam, Had from that moment deem'd the deep his home; The giant comrade of his pensive moods; The sharer of his craggy solitudes; The only Mentor of his youth,—where'er His bark was borne, the sport of wave and air;— A careless thing, who placed his choice in chance; And braved their thirst with as enduring lip Had form'd his glorious namesake's counterpart:* The remainder of this canto is chiefly occupied with sketches of the island scenery, and reflections arising out of the situations of the "halfsavage and the whole." The following grand piece of invective is finely characteristic of the noble writer's style, both of thought, feeling, and. expression. "Had Cæsar known but Cleopatra's kiss, Rome had been free-the world had not been his. The rust which tyrants cherish in our chains. Roused millions do what single Brutus did,— Sweep these mere mock-birds of the despot's song From the tall bough where they have perch'd so long, Still are we hawk'd at by such mousing owls, And take for falcons those ignoble fowls, When but a word of freedom would dispel These bugbears-as their terrors show too well." We must counteract the effect of the above not very soothing passage, by the delightful one which follows it, and which is no less characteristic of the author's other style. "Rapt in the fond forgetfulness of life, At the new transient flame; no babbling crowd Or with adulterous whisper to alloy Her duty, and her glory, and her joy; With faith and feelings naked as her form, She stood as stands the rainbow in the storm, Changing its hues with bright variety, But still expanding lovelier o'er the sky, Howe'er its arch may swell, its colours move, The cloud-compelling harbinger of Love." Towards the end of the second canto we are introduced to another personage, whose appearance and character contrast somewhat strangely, *The Consul Nero. but yet very naturally, and with great spirit, with the two above described. This is a thorough-bred Wapping jack tar, with a pipe and an oath constantly in his mouth, who comes to announce that a strange sail is in sight, and that Christian (whom we now hear of on the island for the first time) has "piped all hands"-anticipating the nature of its errand. The remainder of the poem is occupied in alluding to the general battle which takes place between the mutineers and those who have come in pursuit of them, and in describing the events which follow on the result of that battle; which events are fatal to all the mutineers, with the exception of Torquil-who is saved by his mistress plunging with him into the ocean, and taking him, by a submarine entrance, into a rocky cave, which she has previously prepared for his reception, Here they remain till the strange ship-believing them to be drownedleaves the island; and we are left to suppose that they live happy for the time to come. This is the whole substance of the story-if story that can be called, which is, in fact, little more than a collection of sketches-pieces of pure execution-scarcely at all bound together by any plot, and scarcely needing it. The description of the remnant who escape from the first general skirmish, and take temporary shelter among the rocks and crags, is excellent. We have space but for one or two short portions of it. The fol lowing shews us the leader of the desperate band: "Stern, and aloof a little from the rest, Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest. Beneath his heel, his form seem'd turn'd to flint." It will be observed, in perusing this part of the poem, that the manner in which Ben Bunting, the jolly jack tar, is occasionally introduced, (always with his pipe in his mouth) not only gives a fine contrast to the grouping of the pictures (for this part is a series of pictures) but it communicates an extraordinary reality and naturalness to the effect. The death of the last three desperadoes-particularly that of Christian-is finely given. So is the following preparatory passage to it, which seems to place them before us in a kind of monumental gloom and stillness, as if they were already changed into their own funeral effigies. "They landed on a wild but narrow scene, But ah! how different! 'tis the cause makes all, O'er them no fame, eternal and intense, Blazed through the clouds of death, and beckon'd hence; No grateful country, smiling through her tears, Begun the praises of a thousand years; No nations' eyes would on their tomb be bent, And such a fall!-But still he faced the shock, Whereon be stood, and fix'd his levell'd gun, Christian's death is drawn with a vigorous and spirited hand, but somewhat rude and careless withal: "Christian died last-twice wounded; and once more * * * * * * * A limb was broken, and he droop'd along Down the tube dash'd it-levell'd-fired—and smiled, His wounded, weary form, to where the steep Look'd desperate as himself along the deep; Cast one glance back, and clench'd his hand, and shook Then plunged-" The poem closes by the return of the lovers from their temporary sanctuary, and the triumphant reception of them by the kind and happy islanders; and the tale of blood and crime ends without leaving that painful impression on the reader which most of this author's serious narrative poems have hitherto done. The following is the concluding passage, which produces an effect similar to that of looking at some of the pictures in Captain Cook's voyages. "Again their own shore rises on the view, No sullen ship lay bristling o'er the foam, A floating dungeon:-all was hope and home! A thousand proas darted o'er the bay, With sounding shells, and heralded their way; And welcomed Torquil as a son restored; |