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"He scorn'd his own, who felt another's woe:
And ere the wolf-skin on his back he flung,
Or laced his mocasins, in act to go,

"A valley from the river shore withdrawn
Was Albert's home two quiet woods between,
Whose lofty verdure overlook'd his lawn;
And waters to their resting-place serene,
Came, fresh'ning and reflecting all the scene:
(A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves ;)
So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween)
Have guess'd some congregation of the elves
To sport by summer moons, had shap'd it for
themselves."-p. 27.

The effect of this seclusion on Gertrude is beautifully represented.

"Sleep, wearied one! and in the dreaming land
Should'st thou the spirit of thy mother greet,
Oh! say, to-morrow, that the white man's hand
Hath pluck'd the thorns of sorrow from thy feet;
While I in lonely wilderness shall meet
Thy little foot-prints-or by traces know
The fountain, where at noon I thought it sweet
To feed thee with the quarry of my bow,
And pour'd the lotus-horn, or slew the mountain roe.
"Adieu? sweet scion of the rising sun!'" &c.
pp. 21, 22.
The Second part opens with a fine descrip-
tion of Albert's sequestered dwelling. It re-
minds us of that enchanted landscape in which
Thomson has embosomed his Castle of Indo-
lence. We can make room only for the first


"It seem'd as if those scenes sweet influence had
on Gertrude's soul, and kindness like their own
Inspir'd those eyes affectionate and glad,
That seem'd to love whate'er they look'd upon!
Whether with Hebe's mirth her features shone,
Or if a shade more pleasing them o'ercast,
(As if for heav'nly musing meant alone ;)
Yet so becomingly the expression past,
That each succeeding look was lovelier than the last.

"Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home,
With all its picturesque and balmy grace,
And fields that were a luxury to roam,
Lost on the soul that look'd from such a face!
Enthusiast of the woods! when years apace
Had bound thy lovely waist with woman's zone,
The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee trace
To hills with high magnolia overgrown;
And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and
alone."-pp. 29, 30.

The morning scenery, too, is touched with a delicate and masterly hand.

"While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew,
While boatman caroll'd to the fresh-blown air,
And woods a horizontal shadow threw,
And early fox appear'd in momentary view."
p. 32.


Rocks sublime

This warrior, however, is not without high To human art a sportive semblance wore; feelings and tender affections.

And yellow lichens colour'd all the clime,

Like moonlight battlements, and towers decayed by time.

The reader is left rather too much in the dark as to Henry's departure for Europe;nor, indeed, are we apprised of his absence, till we come to the scene of his unexpected return. Gertrude was used to spend the hot part of the day in reading in a lonely and rocky recess in those safe woods; which is described with Mr. Campbell's usual felicity.

A song of parting to the boy he sung,

Who slept on Albert's couch, nor heard his friend-Breath'd but an air of heav'n, and all the grove ly tongue.

"But high, in amphitheatre above,
His arms the everlasting aloes threw :

As if instinct with living spirit grew,
Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue;
And now suspended was the pleasing din,
Now from a murmur faint it swell'd anew,
Like the first note of organ heard within
Cathedral aisles-ere yet its symphony begin."

p. 33.

In this retreat, which is represented as so solitary, that except her own,

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scarce an ear had heard
The stock-dove plaining through its gloom profound,
Or winglet of the fairy humming bird,
Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round."-

p. 34.

a stranger of lofty port and gentle manners surprises her, one morning, and is conducted to her father. They enter into conversation on the subject of his travels.

"And much they lov'd his fervid strain-
While he each fair variety retrac'd
Of climes, and manners, o'er the eastern main.
Now happy Switzer's hills-romantic Spain-
Gay lilied fields of France-or, more refin'd,
The soft Ausonia's monumental reign;
Nor less each rural image he design'd,
Than all the city's pomp and home of human kind. When Transatlantic Liberty arose;

"Anon some wilder portraiture he draws!
Of nature's savage glories he would speak-
The loneliness of earth that overawes!-
Where, resting by some tomb of old cacique
The lama-driver on Peruvia's peak,

Nor voice nor living motion marks around;
But storks that to the boundless forest shriek;
Or wild-cane arch high flung o'er gulf profound,
That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado
sound."-pp. 36, 37.

Albert, at last, bethinks him of inquiring after his stray ward young Henry; and entertains his guest with a short summary of his history.

"His face the wand'rer hid ;-but could not hide
A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell!-
And speak, mysterious stranger!' (Gertrude cried)
It is it is!-I knew-I knew him well!

'Tis Waldegrave's self, of Waldegrave come to
A burst of joy the father's lips declare; [tell!'
But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell:
At once his open arms embrac'd the pair;
Was never group more blest, in this wide world of
care!"-p. 39

The first overflowing of their joy and artless love is represented with all the fine colours of truth and poetry; but we cannot now make room for it. The Second Part ends with this stanza :

"Then would that home admit them-happier far
Than grandeur's most magnificent saloon-
While, here and there, a solitary star
Flush'd in the dark'ning firmament of June;
And silence brought the soul-felt hour full soon,
Ineffable-which I may not pourtray!
For never did the Hymenean moon
A paradise of hearts more sacred sway,
In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray."-
p. 43.

The Last Part sets out with a soft but spirited sketch of their short-lived felicity.

"Three little moons, how short! amidst the grove, And pastoral savannas they consume! While she, beside her buskin'd youth to rove, Delights, in fancifully wild costume, Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume; And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare; But not to chase the deer in forest gloom! 'Tis but the breath of heav'n-the blessed airAnd interchange of hearts, unknown, unseen to share.

"What though the sportive dog oft round them note,
Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing;
Yet who, in love's own presence, would devote
To death those gentle throats that wake the spring?
Or writhing from the brook its victim bring?
No!-nor let fear one little warbler rouse;
But, fed by Gertrude's hand, still let them sing,
Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs.
That shade ev'n now her love, and witness'd first
her vows."-pp. 48, 49.

The transition to the melancholy part of the story is introduced with great tenderness and dignity.

"But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth? The torrent's smoothness ere it dash below!

And must I change my song? and must I show,
Sweet Wyoming! the day, when thou wert doom'd,
Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bow'rs laid low!
When, where of yesterday a garden bloom'd,
Death overspread his pall, and black'ning ashes

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Sad was the year, by proud Oppression driv❜n,

Not in the sunshine, and the smile of heav'n,
But wrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes:
Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes,

Her birth star was the light of burning plains;
Her baptism is the weight of blood that flows
From kindred hearts-the blood of British veins!-
And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains!"'
pp. 50, 51.
Gertrude's alarm and dejection at the pros-
pect of hostilities are well described:


O, meet not thou," she cries, "thy kindred foe! But peaceful let us seek fair England's strand," &c. -as well as the arguments and generous sentiments by which her husband labours to reconcile her to a necessary evil. The noc| turnal irruption of the old Indian is given with great spirit:-Age and misery had so changed his appearance, that he was not at first recognised by any of the party.


And ey'd the group with half indignant air),
"And hast thou then forgot'-he cried forlorn,
Oh! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn
When I with thee the cup of peace did share?
Then stately was this head, and dark this hair,
But, if the weight of fifteen years' despair,
That now is white as Appalachia's snow!
And age hath bow'd me, and the tort'ring foe,
Bring me my Boy-and he will his deliverer

"It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame,
Ere Henry to his lov'd Oneyda flew : [came,
'Bless thee, my guide!'-but, backward, as he
The chief his old bewilder'd head withdrew,
And grasp'd his arm, and look'd and look'd him

'Twas strange-nor could the group a smile control,
The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view :-
At last delight o'er all his features stole,



It is my own!' he cried, and clasp'd him to his
"Yes! thou recall'st my pride of years; for then
The bowstring of my spirit was not slack, [men,
When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambush'd
I bore thee like the quiver on my back,
Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack;
Nor foeman then, nor cougar's crouch I fear'd,
For I was strong as mountain cataract;
And dost thou not remember how we cheer'd
Upon the last hill-top, when white men's huts ap-
pear'd?'"-pp. 54-56.

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"Calm, opposite the Christian Father rose,
Pale on his venerable brow its rays

Of martyr light the conflagration throws;
One hand upon his lovely child he lays,
And one th' uncover'd crowd to silence sways;
While, though the battle flash is faster driv'n-
Unaw'd, with eye unstartled by the blaze,
He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven-
Prays that the men of blood themselves may be
forgiven."-p. 62.

They then speed their night march to the distant fort, whose wedged ravelins and re


"Wove like a diadem, its tracery round

The lofty summit of that mountain green "and look back from its lofty height on the desolated scenes around them. We will not

separate, nor apologize for the length of the fine passage that follows; which alone, we think, might justify all we have said in praise of the poem.

"A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun,
And blended arms, and white pavilions glow;
And for the business of destruction done,
Its requiem the war-horn seem'd to blow.
There, sad spectatress of her country's woe!
The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm,
Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of snow
On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm
Enclos'd, that felt her heart and hush'd its wild


"But short that contemplation! sad and short
The pause to bid each much-lov'd scene adieu!
Beneath the very shadow of the fort,
Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners
Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew
Was near?-Yet there, with lust of murd'rous

Gleam'd like a basilisk, from woods in view,
The ambush'd foeman's eye-his volley speeds!
And Albert- Albert-falls! the dear old father

"And tranc'd in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd! Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wound, Those drops ?-O God! the life-blood is her own! And falt'ring, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown'Weep not, O Love!'-she cries, to see me bleed


Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee aloneHeaven's peace commiserate! for scarce I heed These wounds!-Yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed.

"Clasp me a little longer, on the brink
Of fate while I can feel thy dear caress;
And, when this heart hath ceas'd to beat-oh! think,
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,
That thou hast been to me all tenderness,
And friend to more than human friendship just.
Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,
And by the hopes of an immortal trust, [dust!
God shall assuage thy pangs--when I am laid in
"Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart!
The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,
Where my dear father took thee to his heart,
And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove
With thee, as with an angel, through the grove
Of peace-imagining her lot was cast
In heav'n! for ours was not like earthly love!
And must this parting be our very last? [past.-
No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is
"Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth-
And thee, more lov'd than aught beneath the sun!
Could I have liv'd to smile but on the birth
Of one dear pledge !-But shall there then be none,

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But thee, my flow'r! whose breath was giv'n By milder genii o'er the deep,

The spirits of the white man's heav'n
Forbid not thee to weep !—
Nor will the Christian host,
Nor will thy father's spirit grieve
To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting take a mournful leave
Of her who lov'd thee most:
She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun-thy heav'n--of lost delight!-
"To-morrow let us do or die!

But when the bolt of death is hurl'd,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissa roam the world?
Seek we thy once-lov'd home ?-
The hand is gone that cropt its flowers!
Unheard their clock repeats its hours!-
Cold is the hearth within their bow'rs!-
And should we thither roam,
Its echoes, and its empty tread,
Would sound like voices from the dead!
"But hark, the trump!-to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:
Ev'n from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears,
Amidst the clouds that round us roll!


He bids my soul for battle thirst-
He bids me dry the last-the first-
The only tears that ever burst-
From Outalissi's soul!-
Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief!'"-pp. 70-73.

It is needless, after these extracts, to enlarge upon the beauties of this poem. They consist chiefly in the feeling and tenderness of the whole delineation, and the taste and delicacy with which all the subordinate parts are made to contribute to the general effect. Before dismissing it, however, we must say a little of its faults, which are sufficiently obvious and undeniable. In the first place, the narrative is extremely obscure and imperfect; and has greater blanks in it than could be tolerated even in lyric poetry. We hear absolutely nothing of Henry, from the day the Indian first brings him from the back country, till he returns from Europe fifteen years thereafter. It is likewise a great oversight in Mr. Campbell to separate his lovers, when only twelve years of age-a period at which it is utterly inconceivable that any permanent attachment could have been formed. The greatest fault, however, of the work, is the occasional constraint and obscurity of the diction, proceeding apparently from too laborious an effort at emphasis or condensation. The metal seems in several places to have been so much overworked, as to have lost not only its ductility, but its lustre; and, while there are passages which can scarcely be at all understood after the most careful consideration, there are others which have an air so elaborate and artificial, as to destroy all appearance of nature in the sentiment. Our readers may have remarked something of this sort, in the first extracts with which we have presented them; but there are specimens still more exceptionable. In order to inform us that Albert had lost his wife, Mr. Campbell is pleased to say, that

"Fate had reft his mutual heart;" and in order to tell us something else-though what, we are utterly unable to conjecture he concludes a stanza on the delights of mutual love, with these three lines :

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spirit and pattern of what is before him, we hope he will yet be induced to make considerable additions to a work, which will please those most who are most worthy to be pleased; and always seem most beautiful to those who give it the greatest share of their attention.

ume, we have scarce left ourselves room to Of the smaller pieces which fill up the volsay any thing. The greater part of them have been printed before; and there are probably few readers of English poetry who are not already familiar with the Lochiel and the Hohinlinden-the one by far the most spirited and poetical denunciation of coming woe, since the days of Cassandra; the other the only representation of a modern battle, which possesses either interest or sublimity. The song to "the Mariners of England," is also very generally known. It is a splendid instance of the most magnificent diction adapted to a familiar and even trivial metre. Nothing can be finer than the first and the last stanzas.


Ye mariners of England!

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle, and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep," &c.—p. 101.

"The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceas'd to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceas'd to blow."-pp. 103, 104.


has been printed before, is much less known. "The Battle of the Baltic," though we think Though written in a strange, and we think an unfortunate metre, it has great force and grandeur, both of conception and expressionthat sort of force and grandeur which results from the simple and concise expression of great events and natural emotions, altogether unassisted by any splendour or amplification of expression. The characteristic merit, indeed, both of this piece and of Hohinlinden, is, that, by the forcible delineation of one or two great circumstances, they give a clear and most energetic representation of events as complicated as they are impressive-and thus impress the mind of the reader with all the terror and sublimity of the subject, while they rescue him from the fatigue and perplexity of its details. Nothing in our judgment can be more impressive than the following very short and simple description of the British fleet bearing up to close action :

"As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death!
And the boldest held his breath
For a time."—p. 109.

The description of the battle itself (though it begins with a tremendous line) is in the same spirit of homely sublimity; and worth a thousand stanzas of thunder, shrieks, shouts, tridents, and heroes.

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When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, 'Twas the youth who had lov'd the fair Ellen of Lorn:

Ir Mr. Campbell's poetry was of a kind that could be forgotten, his long fits of silence would put him fairly in the way of that misfortune. But, in truth, he is safe enough; and has even acquired, by virtue of his exemplary laziness, an assurance and pledge of immortality which he could scarcely have obtained without it. A writer who is still fresh in the mind and favour of the public, after twenty years' intermission, may reasonably expect to be remembered when death shall have finally sealed up the fountains of his inspiration; imposed silence on the cavils of envious rivals, and enhanced the value of

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief; On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem; Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!'

"In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne, Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!" pp. 105-107.

We close this volume, on the whole, with feelings of regret for its shortness, and of admiration for the genius of its author. There are but two noble sorts of poetry—the pathetic and the sublime; and we think he has given very extraordinary proofs of his talents for both. There is something, too, we will venture to add, in the style of many of his conthe conviction, that he can do much greater ceptions, which irresistibly impresses us with things than he has hitherto accomplished; and leads us to regard him, even yet, as a poet of still greater promise than performance. It seems to us, as if the natural force and boldness of his ideas were habitually checked by a certain fastidious timidity, and an anxiety about the minor graces of correct and chastened composition. Certain it is, at least, that his greatest and most lofty flights have been made in those smaller pieces, about which, it is natural to think, he must have felt least solicitude; and that he has succeeded most splendidly where he must have been most free from the fear of failure. We wish any praises or exhortations of ours had the power to give him confidence in his own great talents; and hope earnestly, that he will now meet with such encouragement, as may set him above all restraints that proceed from apprehension; and induce him to give free scope to that genius, of which we are persuaded that the world has hitherto seen rather the grace than the richness.

(January, 1825.)

Theodric, a Domestic Tale: with other Poems. By THOMAS CAMPBELL. 12mo. pp. 150.

London: 1824.

those relics to which it excludes the possi bility of any future addition. At all events, he has better proof of the permanent interest the public take in his productions, than those ever can have who are more diligent in their multiplication, and keep themselves in the recollection of their great patron by more frequent intimations of their existence. The experiment, too, though not without its hazards, is advantageous in another respect;-for the re-appearance of such an author, after those long periods of occultation, is naturally hailed as a novelty-and he receives the double welcome, of a celebrated stranger, and

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