His mace, and with a storm of blows The mortal and the demon close. XIII. What sees Count Harold in that bower, So late his resting-place? The semblance of the Evil Power Adored by all his race! Odin in living form stood there, So flow'd his hoary beard; But when his voice he rear'd, Deep, without harshness, slow and strong, XIV. << Harold,> he said, «< what rage is thine To quit the worship of thy line, To leave thy warrior god?With me is glory or disgrace, Mine is the onset and the chase, Embattled hosts before my face Are wither'd by a nod. Wilt thou then forfeit that high seat, Can give the joys for which they die,- The brimming draught from foeman's scull. Mine art thou, witness this thy glove, XV. << Tempter!» said Harold, firm of heart, The kindling frenzy of my breast, Thrill'd this strange speech through Harold's brain, XVI. Smoke roll'd above, fire flash'd around, But not the artillery of hell, Nor paused the Champion of the North, Then in the mirror'd pool he peer'd, Blamed his rough locks and shaggy beard, The stains of recent conflict clear'd And thus the champion proved, That he fears now who never fear'd, And loves who never loved. And Eivir-life is on her cheek, And yet she will not move or speak, Nor will her eye-lid fully ope; Perchance it loves, that half-shut eye, Through its long fringe, reserved and shy, Affection's opening dawn to spy; And the deep blush, which bids its dye O'er cheek, and brow, and bosom fly, Speaks shame-facedness and hope. XIX. But vainly seems the Dane to seek 380 PREFACE. IN the EDINBURGH ANNUAL REGISTER for the year 1809, three fragments were inserted, written in imitation of living poets. It must have been apparent, that by these prolusions, nothing burlesque or disrespectful to the authors was intended, but that they were offered to the public as serious, though certainly very imperfect, imitations of that style of composition, by which each of the writers is supposed to be distinguished. As these exercises attracted a greater degree of attention than the author anticipated, he has been induced to complete one of them, and present it as a separate publication. It is not in this place that an examination of the works of the master whom he has here adopted as his model can, with propriety, be introduced; since his general acquiescence in the favourable suffrage of the public must necessarily be inferred from the attempt he has now made. He is induced, by the nature of his subject, to offer a few remarks on what has been called ROMANTIC POETRY;-the popularity of which has been revived in the present day, under the auspices, and by the unparalleled success, of one individual. The original purpose of poetry is either religious or historical, or, as must frequently happen, a mixture of both. To modern readers, the poems of Homer have many of the features of pure romance; but in the estimation of his contemporaries, they probably derived their chief value from their supposed historical authenticity. The same may be generally said of the poetry of all early ages. The marvels and miracles which the poet blends with his song do not exceed in number or extravagance the figments of the historians of the same period of society; and, indeed, the difference betwixt poetry and prose, as the vehicles of historical truth, is always of late introduction. Poets, under various denominations of Bards, Scalds, Chroniclers, and so forth, are the first historians of all nations. Their intention is to relate the events they have witnessed, or the traditions that have reached them; and they clothe the relation in rhyme, merely as the means of rendering it more solemn in the narrative, or more easily committed to memory. But as the poetical historian improves in the art of conveying information, the authenticity of his narrative unavoidably declines. He is tempted to dilate and dwell upon the events that are interesting to his imagination, and, conscious how indifferent his audience is to the naked truth of his poem, his history gradually becomes a romance. It is in this situation that those epics are found which have been generally regarded the standards of poetry; and it has happened somewhat strangely, that the moderns have pointed out, as the characteristics and peculiar excellencies of narrative poetry, the very circumstances which the authors themselves adopted, only because their art involved the duties of the historian as well as the poet. It cannot be believed, for example, that Homer selected the siege of Troy as the most appropriate subject for poetry; his purpose was to write the early history of his country: the event he has chosen, though not very fruitful in varied incident, nor perfectly well adapted for poetry, was nevertheless combined with traditionary and genealogical anecdotes extremely interesting to those who were to listen to him; and this he has adorned by the exertions of a genius, which, if it has been equalled, has certainly been never surpassed. It was not till comparatively a late period that the general accuracy of his narrative, or his purpose in composing it, was brought into question. Δοκει πρωτος ὁ Αναξαγόρας | (καθά φησι Φαβορινος εν παντοδαπῃ ἱστορια) την Όμηρου ποιησιν αποφήνασθαι ειναι αρετης και δικαιοσύνης. But whatever theories might be framed by speculative men, his work was of an historical, not of an allegorical nature. Εναυτίλλετο μετα του Μεν τεως, και όπου έκαστοτε αφίκοιτο, παντα τα επιχωρια διερωτατο, και ίστορεύων επυνθάνετο, εικος ဝါး μένην και μνημοσυνα παντων γραφεσθαι. Instead of recommending the choice of a subject similar to that of Homer, it was to be expected that critics should have exhorted the poets of these later days to adopt or invent a narrative in itself more susceptible of poetical ornament, and to avail themselves of that advantage in order to compensate, in some degree, the inferiority of genius. The contrary course has been inculcated by almost all the writers upon the Epopoeia; with what success, the fate of Homer's numerous imitators may best show. The ultimum supplicium of criticism was inflicted on the author if he did not chuse a subject which at once deprived him of all claim to originality, and placed him, if not in actual contest, at least in fatal comparison, with those giants in the land, whom it was most his interest to avoid. The celebrated recipe for writing an epic poem, which appeared in the Guardian, was the first instance in which common sense was applied to this department of poetry; and indeed, if the question be considered on its own merits, we must be satisfied that narrative poetry, if strictly confined to the great occurrences of history, would be deprived of the individual interest which it is so well calculated to excite. Modern poets may therefore be pardoned in seeking simpler subjects of verse, more interesting in proportion to their simplicity. Two or three figures, well grouped, suit the artist better than a crowd, for whatever purpose assembled. For the same reason a scene immediately presented to the imagination, and directly brought home to the feelings, though involving the fate of but one or two persons, is more favourable for poetry than the political struggles and convulsions which influence the fate of kingdoms. The former are within the reach and comprehension of all, and, if depicted with vigour, seldom fail to fix attention: the other, if more sublime, are more vague and distant, less capable of being distinctly understood, and infinitely less capable of exciting those sentiments which it is the very purpose of poetry to inspire. To generalize is always to destroy effect. We would, for example, be more interested in the fate of an individual soldier in combat, than in the grand event of a general action; with the happiness of two lovers raised from misery and anxiety to peace and union, than with the successful exertions of a whole nation. what causes this may originate, is a separate, and obviously an immaterial consideration. Before ascribing this peculiarity to causes decidedly and odiously selfish, it is proper to recollect, that while men see only a limited space, and while their affections and conduct are regulated, not by aspiring at an universal good, but 'Diogenes Laertius, J. XI, p. 8. 2 Homeri Vita. From by exerting their power of making themselves and others happy within the limited scale allotted to each individual, so long will individual history and individual virtue be the readier and more accessible road to ge neral interest and attention; and perhaps we may add, that it is the more useful, as well as the more accessible, inasmuch as it affords an example capable of being easily imitated. According to the author's idea of Romantic Poetry, as distinguished from Epic, the former comprehends a fictitious narative, framed and combined at the pleasure of the writer; beginning and ending as he may judge best; which neither exacts nor refuses the use of supernatural machinery; which is free from the technical rules of the Epée; and is subject only to those which good sense, good taste, and good morals apply to every species of poetry without exception. The date may be in a remote age, or in the present; the story may detail the adventures of a prince or of a peasant. In a word, the author is absolute master of his country and its inhabitants, and every thing is permitted to him excepting to be heavy or prosaic, for which, free and un. Those, it is probable, will be found the peculiarities of this embarrassed as he is, he has no manner of apology. species of composition; and, before joining the outcry against the vitiated taste that fosters and encourages it, the justice and grounds of it ought to be made perfectly apparent. If the want of sieges and battles and great military evolutions in our poetry is complained of, let us reflect, that the campaigns and heroes of our day admits of the aid of fiction; and if the complaint refers are perpetuated in a record that neither requires nor to the inferiority of our bards, let us pay a just tribute to their modesty, limiting them, as it does, to subjects, which, however indifferently treated, have still the interest and charm of novelty, and which thus prevents them from adding insipidity to their other more insuperable defects. THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. INTRODUCTION. I. COME LUCY! while 't is morning hour, Round petty isles the runnels glide, II. Nay, why this hesitating pause? And, Lucy, as thy step withdraws, Why sidelong eye the streamlet's brim? Titania's foot without a slip, Like thine, though timid, light, and slim, From stone to stone might safely trip, Nor risk the glow-worm clasp to dip That binds her slipper's silken rim. Or trust thy lover's strength: nor fear That this same stalwart arm of mine, Which could trunk uprear, oak's prone yon Shall shrink beneath the burthen dear Of form so slender, light and fine.So, now, the danger dared at last, Look back and smile at perils past! And now we reach the favourite glade, Paled in by copse-wood, cliff, and stone, Where never harsher sounds invade, To break affection's whispering tone, Than the deep breeze that waves the shade, Than the small brooklet's feeble moan. Come! rest thee on thy wonted seat; Moss'd is the stone, the turf is green, A place where lovers best may meet, Who would not that their love be seen. The boughs, that dim the summer sky, Shall hide us from each lurking spy, That fain would spread the invidious tale, How Lucy of the lofty eye, Noble in birth, in fortunes high, IV. How deep that blush!-how deep that sigh! Than the dull glance of common men, And shared with Love the crimson glow, For Love, too, has his hours of schooling. Nor leave me on this mossy bank, To meet a rival on a throne: A nobler name, a wide domain, VI. My sword-its master must be dumb; Nor dread to hear of Arthur's shame. Is there to love and honour true, That boasts a pulse so warm as mine? They praised thy diamond's lustre rareMatch'd with thine eyes, I thought it faded; They praised the pearls that bound thy hairI only saw the locks they braided; They talk'd of wealthy dower and land, And titles of high birth the token I thought of Lucy's heart and hand, I might have learn'd their choice unwise, VII. My lyre-it is an idle toy, That borrows accents not its own, Like warbler of Columbian sky, That sings but in a mimic tone.' Ne'er did it sound o'er sainted well, Nor boasts it aught of Border spell; Its strings no feudal slogan pour, Its heroes draw no broad claymore; No shouting clans applauses raise, Because it sung their fathers' praise; On Scottish moor, or English down, It ne'er was graced with fair renown; Nor won,-best meed to minstrel true,One favouring smile from fair BUCCLEUCH! By one poor streamlet sounds its tone, And heard by one dear maid alone. VIII. But, if thou bidst, these tones shall tell, For Lucy loves,-like COLLINS, ill-starr'd name! (1) CANTO J. I. WHERE is the maiden of mortal strain, That may match with the Baron of Triermain? (2) When it breaks the clouds of an April day; Gentle as breeze that but whispers and dies, Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in its sighs; II. Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep, All in the castle must hold them still, III. It was the dawn of an autumn day; The sun was struggling with frost-fog gray, When that Baron bold awoke. IV. << Hearken, my minstrels! Which of Touch'd his harp with that dying fall, So sweet, so soft, so faint, It seem'd an angel's whisper'd call To an expiring saint? V. Answer'd him Richard de Brettville; he << Silent, noble chieftain, we Have sate since midnight close, When such lulling sounds as the brooklet sings And hush'd you to repose. He kept guard in the outer hall,— Else had I heard the steps, though low, VI. << Then come thou hither, Henry, my page, And redden'd all the Nine-stane Hill, Made the warrior's heart-blood chill! He shall tell if middle earth To that enchanting shape gave birth, Or if 't was but an airy thing, Such as fantastic slumbers bring, Framed from the rainbow's varying dyes, Or fading tints of western skies. For, by the blessed rood I swear, If that fair form breathe vital air, And hearken, my merrymen! What time or where No other maiden by my side VII. The faithful page he mounts his steed, |