definition of a metrical work, than that it is divided into regular portions called verses; and though it be very true, that there are legitimate verses of various lengths and constructions, all of which are at the service of the poet, still it seems almost necessary that those of the same order should either be repeated in sequence, or interposed according to some regular system, in order to give us that perception of uniformity which seems to be the basis of the pleasure we receive from metrical harmony. If absolute uniformity, however, be thought too cloying: though Homer and Milton do not seem to have found it so, there seems no good reason why a poet may not use one measure in one canto (or in one page, if he pleases) and another in another: But, to mix up all sorts of measures in every canto, and in every page, seems really to be defeating the very purpose of writing in verse at all; and cannot fail to perplex the reader with a perpetual feeling of uncertainty and disappointment. The only apology that could be offered for great irregularity of measure, would be, exquisite propriety of diction. In order to keep all his lines up to one standard, a poet may sometimes be obliged to leave out an impressive word, or to insert a weak or redundant one; and if he had the power of shortening or varying his measure, so as to suit it exactly to the very best selection of expressions that the language could afford, it may be thought that we should have, on the whole, a more perfect composition, or at least a composition that more than compensated for the irregularity of its metre, by the beauty and force of its diction. Plausible, however, as such a notion may appear, we suspect that it would not be found to answer even in more scrupulous hands than those of Mr. Southey. The license which was conceded as an encouragement to extraordinary diligence, would soon come to be employed as an instrument of mere indolence; and, instead of being used only to supply the unavoidable defects of the language, would be familiarly resorted to, when the only defect was in the author. But, however this may be in theory, we are pretty sure that even Mr. Southey's greatest admirers will not pretend to say that, in point of fact, he is entitled to make use of this apology. Notwithstanding the unprecedented irregularity of his verse, his diction is the least compact, select, or elaborate, of any with which we are acquainted. It is, indeed, in a very remarkable degree, loose and verbose, and neglected; and the irregularities of his measure seem to be far more frequently adopted, because they enabled him to employ the first unweighed expression that occurred to him, than because they afforded the only perfect vehicle for phrases too precious to be altered. We have another fault to Mr. Southey's versification in this poem, besides its irregularity. He has introduced a great number of very unharmonious metres; and combined them very unharmoniously. Instead of the firm march of the Iambick and Trochaick measures, for which alone our language seems to be adapted, we have (besides the poor pedantry of Sapphicks and Dactylicks) a great variety of tottering and slovenly measures, that were either never introduced into English poetry, or have been long discarded from it, from experience of their unfitness for the service. In the very beginning of the poem, for example, we have a series of such verses as these. "He moves-he nods his head, But the motion comes from the bearers' tread, As the body born aloft in state, Sways with the impulse of its own dead weight." Is heard the echoed and reechoed name, Arvalan! Arvalan! Ten times ten thousand voices in one shout Call Arvalan! The overpowering sound, From house to house repeated rings about, From tower to tower rolls round." "And now at once they shout Arvalan! Arvalan! With quick rebound of sound, Arvalan! Arvalan!" p. 3, 4. The following, we think, is equally detestable, in rythm, style, and conception: "Dost thou tremble, O Indra, O god of the sky, Why slumber those thunders of thine? Dost thou tremble on highWilt thou tamely the Swerga resignArt thou smitten, O Indra, with dread? Or seest thou not, seest thou not, monarch divine, How many a day to Seeva's shrine Kehama his victim hath led? Nine and ninety days are fled," &c. "O day of wo! aboye below, That blood confirms the almighty tyrant's reign! Thou tremblest, O Indra, O god of the sky, Thy thunder is vain! Thou tremblest on high for thy power! But where is Veeshnoo at this hour, But where is Seeva's eye?" p. 74, 75. Neither have we more toleration for such harsh and noisy bombast as the following: "And all around, behind, before, The bridal car, is the raging rout, With frantick shout, and deafening roar, Tossing the torches' flames about. And the double double peals of the drum are there, And the startling burst of the trumpet's blare; And the gong, that seems, with its thunders dread, To stun the living, and waken the dead. The ear-strings throb, as if they were broke, And where he sails athwart the set ting beam, His scarlet plumage glows with deeper light. The watchman, at the wished approach of night, Gladly forsakes the field, where he all day, To scare the winged plunderers from their pray, With shout and sling, on yonder claybuilt height, Hath born the sultry ray. Hark! at the golden palaces, The Bramin strikes the hour. For leagues and leagues around, the bra zen sound Rolls through the stillness of departing day, Like thunder far away." p. 35, 36, The awaking of Kailyal, too, when first born, in her swoon, to the spring of the Ganges, is very beautifully represented. The last six lines appear to us peculiarly sweet and melodious. "The waters of the holy Spring As if with that rejoicing stir brown cheek; And lo! her eyes unclose, 66 They sin who tell us love can die. All others are but vanity. But love is indestructible. The babe she lost in infancy, For all her sorrow, all her tears, An over-payment of delight?" p. 100, 101. There is no finer description, perhaps, in the whole poem, than that of the ancient city of Baly, showing its silent turrets above the surround ing sea, "Their golden summits, in the noonday light, Dark as the depth of Ganges' spring pro- Shone o'er the dark green deep that rolled found, When night hangs over it, Bright as the moon's refulgent beam, That quiver's on its clear up-sparkling stream."-p. 54, 55. Her first interview with the spirit of her mother, whom she had lost in infancy, is described with the same tenderness and truth of feeling. The language (and this is no light praise) is like the finest parts of Mr. Wordsworth's. "The Maid that lovely form surveyed; Wistful she gazed, and knew her not; But nature to her heart conveyed between; Resisted in its strength the 'surf and surge That on their deep foundations beat in vain. In solitude the ancient temples stood, Once resonant with instrument and song, And solemn dance of festive multitude; Now as the weary ages pass along, Hearing no voice save of the ocean flood, Which roars for ever on the restless shores; Or, visiting their solitary caves, The lonely sound of winds, that moan around Accordant to the melancholy waves." p. 162. The picture is still finer, when Ladurlad descends to the buried city; and evinces great power, both of fancy and of expression, though infected with many faults of taste and of manner. "Those streets which never, since the days of yore, By human footstep had been visited; The thousand palaces were seen Of that proud city, whose superb abodes Seemed rear'd by giants for the immortal gods. How silent and how beautiful they stand, Like things of nature! the eternal rocks Themselves not firmer. Neither hath the sand Drifted within their gates, and choaked their doors, Nor slime defiled their pavements and their floors." "And now his feet attain that royal fane Where Baly held of old his awful reign, What once had been the garden spread around, Fair garden, once which wore perpetual green, Where all sweet flowers through all the year were found, And all fair fruits were through all seasons seen." Even yet it was a place of paradise; For where the mighty ocean could not spare, There had he, with his own creation, Sought to repair his work of devastation. And here were coral bowers, And grots of madrepores, And banks of spung, as soft and fair to eye As e'er was mossy bed Whereon the wood nymphs lie Their languid limbs in summer's sultry hours." "And arborets of jointed stones were there, And plants of fibres fine, as silkworm's thread; Yea, beautiful as mermaid's golden hair Upon the waves dispread: Others that, like the broad banana growing, Raised their long wrinkled leaves of purple hue, Like streamers wide outflowing." "The golden fountains had not ceased to flow, And, where they mingled with the briny sea, There was a sight of wonder and de- To see the fish, like birds in air, The following description is in a very different style, though not less perfect in its kind. "Twas a fair scene wherein they stood, A green and sunny glade amid the wood; And in the midst an aged banian grew. That venerable tree; Far over the lawn, irregularly spread, Fifty straight columns propt its lofty head; And many a long depending shoot, "It was a garden still beyond all Straight like a plummet, grew towards price, the ground. |