HEAVEN AND EARTH; A MYSTERY*. WE had begun to suspect that Lord Byron, from his hurry in sending forth his latter productions, regarded more their quantity than their quality, and felt an inclination to astonish us in future by the fertility rather than the power of his pen. However such a plan might succeed with a novelist in keeping attention alive, it is the grave of the poet's glory. He has to regard something beyond temporary fame; he is to write for all ages, and in proportion as success is more difficult, his reward is of greater magnitude. Lord Byron, it is true, has already mounted "the steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar;" but it is no less necessary to be careful in preserving eminence than it is to be laborious in attaining it. We thought his "Werner" by no means worthy his renown, and there is something so attaching, so delightful in genius, that we observed what we thought a falling off with a feeling of deep regret, but we did not form such an opinion without ample reasons to bear us out. We speak here only in a literary sense, having no reference to any other point of view in which some of the latter productions of the noble poet have been considered by friends or enemies. This new poem, however, or rather first part of a poem, for so it is stated to be, carries with it the peculiar impress of the writer's genius. It displays great vigour and even a severity of style throughout, which is another proof, if proof were needed, that elevation in writing is to be obtained only by a rigid regard to simplicity. There are pretenders to criticism numerous enough in the present day, who try to catch the public ear, mere empirics in the art, that cannot see this. They know of only one style in poetry, and would judge Byron, Moore, Campbell, Scott, Rogers, and others of our poets by the same laws, rob each of his peculiar characteristics, and blend them all in the same jumbled uniformity, allowing them merely a verbal difference from each other. The truth is, that such distinctions in manner delight, while they astonish us at the variety of human genius. Poets ought to be criticised singly. It is a manifest error to judge them one by another. This particularly applies to Lord Byron, who often writes with what seems a scorn of the critic's shackle, and, it must be confessed, now and then with instances of carelessness difficult to justify. His versification in the present poem is, for example, not agreeable to received custom, but it was agreeable to his feeling at the time he wrote, and there was no well-founded objection to its adoption. Long and short lines intermingled have been used by Milton, after the custom of the Italians; and when the words that rhime are made to recur sufficiently near each other, they are by no means unpleasing. It suffices, however, for my argument, that the poet only is the best judge of the measure in which he can write freely, and that whether the versification resemble that of Milton or Pope, if it be duly preserved, the critic has no right to cavil. I would not here be thought to justify the metrical lunacy of Dr. Southey, and say there was no overstepping the bounds of propriety in such a matter. The unfelicitous extravagance of the laureat in this respect, no doubt, resulted from his self-sufficiency, imagining that what no other human being could achieve would be for him less than a literary relaxation. * Lord Byron, Hunt, Old Bond-street, 1823. Lord Byron has too much good sense to reason like his complacent antagonist in this respect. "Heaven and Earth" will raise none of those objections which were made to "Cain." It may be perused without shocking the feelings of the sensitive, or furnishing an object for the discriminating morality of the Lord Chancellor, so fatal to Mr. Murray's interest, and auspicious for the pedlars in the "trade," to whom his lordship's sage decision seemed almost a declaration of patronage. Mr. Moore's "Loves of the Angels," though built on a similar foundation, bears no resemblance to Lord Byron's poem. Indeed the style and mode of treating the subject differ as much as the genius of the two writers. The muse of Moore and her agents are all inhabitants of a Paradise. They dwell in the gorgeous gardens of Cashmere; they repose on beds of roses; sleep amid perfumes and aromatic incense; Cupids flutter around them; and the whole machinery of love, sighs and thrilling kisses, is in their hearts and on their lips, under blue sunny skies. The females of Moore are of the family of Sappho, loving for the sake of love alone. Lord Byron's muse dwells among wild scenery: all is dark, massy, and untrodden, like in the pictures of Salvator Rosa. His females have not the sensuality that seems to characterize those of Moore. They are more confiding, gentle, and timid; more like the feminine creations of Scott. They love the object of their affection rather than the passion itself; they are more of the romantic than the Grecian school. If disappointed in love, they would be more likely to pine away into dissolution, wasted and heart-broken, than to fling themselves, in a rush of despairing frenzy, from a Leucadian promontory. The male characters of Byron are the reverse,—all turbulence and fire; but his females are, on the whole, more natural and more agreeable to our feelings, than the pretty voluptuaries of Moore. Byron is ever roaming in a region of gloomy grandeur, among Alpine precipices and cloud-capped mountains; Moore is contented with the beautiful, and never aims at astonishing. Byron is mysterious, his ideas seek to penetrate into the darkness of unknown regions, and to depict the innermost workings of the mind-the thoughts that would presumptuously scrutinize the Holy of holies. Moore paints the workings of passion in heavenly colours, but he rarely travels out of the path of humanity. He colours with rainbow hues, and embellishes with every touch of art, but he is ever among men. It is obvious, therefore, that where the genius of the two poets is so different, there can be little resemblance in their mode of treating almost similar subjects; and such is really the case in what appeared to be rival works. Neither Aholibamah nor Anah, in the present poem, could ever be mistaken for Mr. Moore's creations of woman, beautiful as they always are; and the total absence of any thing meretricious in "Heaven and Earth," its severe simplicity, removes it yet farther from a resemblance to the "Loves of the Angels." It seems but fair and proper, when perusing with a critical eye any work of art, to consider most carefully, in the first place, the author's object, and to enter into his own views, and examine whether he has succeeded in realizing them, before considering it in our own. He may else intend something very different from what the critic conceives, and that may be mistaken for accident which was the result of design. Lord Byron has evidently endeavoured to sustain the interest of this poem by depicting natural but deep-drawn thoughts, in all their freshness and intensity, with as little fictitious aid as possible. Nothing is circumlocutory. There is no going about and about to enter at length upon his object, but he impetuously rushes into it at once. The characters that figure in it are Noah, Shem, Japhet, and Irad. Aholibamah and Anah are two lovely females of the progeny of Cain. The two angels Samiasa and Azaziel are their lovers. Besides these, the archangel Michael, and a chorus of good and evil spirits, are introduced. The time when the first scene opens is the mid hour of night, and the place is near Mount Ararat, a wild and hilly region of forest. Prophetic and warning sounds have foretold to the race of man the approaching calamity of the deluge, as a punishment for its vices. The sons of God have awakened love in the hearts of the women during their residence on earth. Two of these, wandering, in love-sick expectation of the descent of their celestial visitants, at the lone hour when the world is asleep, converse together of their passion, and invoke their immortal lovers. Anah is drawn in the most pleasing character of woman, timid, sensitive, and gentle. Aholibamah is lofty and daring. Anah dreads impiety, and expresses her fears on that account. Aholibamah in consequence tells her to wed some son of clay, and toil and spin! There's Japhet loves thee well, hath loved thee long; Anah replies: I should have loved Of the poor child of clay which so adored him His grief will be of ages, or at least Mine would be such for him, were I a seraph, Aholibamah replies, that he will take some other daughter of the earth, and love her as he had loved Anah. To which she rejoins, "Better thus than that he should weep for me." But Aholibamah impetuously exclaims If I thought thus of Samiasa's love, All seraph as he is, I'd spurn him from me. The difference of these two female characters is clearly expressed in the extracts. They next proceed to their invocations, which are very beautiful and passionate poetry. Anah. Seraph! From thy sphere ! Albeit thou watchest with "the seven," Yet hear! Oh! think of her who holds thee dear! Eternity is in thine years; Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'st As he has made me of the least Of those cast out from Eden's gate : For thou hast loved me, and I would not die That thou forget'st in thine eternity Her whose heart death could not keep from overflowing From thee, immortal essence as thou art! Great is their love who love in sin and fear; And such, I feel, are waging in my heart A war unworthy: to an Adamite Forgive, my Scraph! that such thoughts appear, Aholibamah next repeats her invocation, when they observe the angel lovers winging their way towards the earth, and Anah exclaims, Sister! sister! I view them winging Aho. Their bright way through the parted night. Aho. Anah. They come!-he comes !—Azazie] ! Haste To meet them! Oh! for wings to bear To Samiasa's breast! Anah. Lo! they have kindled all the west, On Ararat's late secret crest scene. Now shines! and now, behold! it hath When sporting on the face of the calm deep, Down, down, to where the ocean's fountains sleep. My Azaziel! Anah. The earthly lovers of Anah and Aholibamah appear in the next These lovers are Irad and Japhet. This scene is little interesting; it is heavy. The lovers lament their fate. Japhet, who loves Anah, the gentle Anah still, and is aware of the approaching deluge, closes his lamentation thus finely: Oh God! at least remit to her Thy wrath for she is pure amid the failing As a star in the clouds, which cannot quench Although they obscure it for an hour. My Anah! How would I have adored thee, but thou wouldst not; When Ocean is Earth's grave, and, unopposed By rock or shallow, the Leviathan, Lord of the shoreless sea and rocky world, Shall wonder at his boundlessness of realm. In A dialogue between Noah, Shem, and Japhet, ends this scene. the third, Japhet, standing amid the wilds of Caucasus, thus apostrophises them: Ye wilds, that look eternal; and thou cave, Here in your rugged majesty of rocks And toppling trees that twine their roots with stone Of man would tremble, could he reach them-yes, Perhaps even hours, ye will be changed, rent, hurled Which seems to lead into a lower world, Shall have its depths search'd by the sweeping wave, And man—Oh, men! my fellow-beings! who Save I? who shall be left to weep? My kinsmen, That I must live beyond ye? Where shall be |