«Thou art a wild enthusiast,» said But couch thee, boy; the darksome shade That thou mayst think, should fear invade, Thy master slumbers nigh.»> Thus couch'd they in that dread abode, IX. An alter'd man Lord Harold rose, There's trouble in his eyes, My page,» he said, « arise ; Leave we this place, my page.»>-Nor more They cross'd-but there he paused and said, brain My eyes grew dizzy, and my X. « With haggard eyes and streaming hair, A whirlwind wild, and swept the snows; Sable their harness, and there came Nor think, a vassal thou of hell, With hell canst strive.' The fiend spoke true! My inmost soul the summons knew, As captives know the knell, That says the heads man's sword is bare, Commands them quit their cell. I felt resistance was in vain, guess And smooth for him a resting-place!- XII. Trembling at first, and deadly pale, "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, Such height was his, as when in stone So flow'd his hoary beard; 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, Thou wilt not. Only I can give Can give the joys for which they die,— The brimming draught from foeman's scull. XV. << Tempter!» said Harold, firm of heart, The kindling frenzy of my breast, For not his new-born faith subdued Some tokens of his ancient mood. spray His mace, and with a storm of blows The mortal and the demon close. XVI. Smoke roll'd above, fire flash'd around, Nor paused the Champion of the North, XVII. He placed her on a bank of moss, His stubborn sinews fly, The while with timid hand the dew What blindness mine that could not guess, Or how could page's rugged dress That bosom's pride belie? O, dull of heart, through wild and wave XVIII. Then in the mirror'd pool he peer'd, And the deep blush, which bids its dye XIX. But vainly seems the Dane to seek 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, 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 general 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. 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. Δοκεῖ πρώτος ο Αναξαγόρας (καθά φησι Φαβορινος εν παντοδαπη Ιστορία) την Ομήρου ποίησιν αποφήνασθαι είναι αρετης και δικαιοσύνης. But whatever theories might be framed by speculative men, his work was of an historical, not of an allegorical nature. Εναυτιλλετο μετα του Μεν τεως, και όπου εκαστοτε αφίκοιτο, παντα τα επιχώρια διερωτατο, και ἱστορεύων επυνθάνετο, εικος δε μεν ην και μνημόσυνα παντων γράφεσθαι. 2 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 Epopeia; 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 in-us reflect, that the campaigns and heroes of our day deed, 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. propor Modern poets may therefore be pardoned in seeking simpler subjects of verse, more interesting in tion to their simplicity. Two or three figures, well grouped, suited 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 but of 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. From 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 1 Diogenes Laertius, 1. XI. p. 8. 2 Homeri Vita. According to the author's idea of Romantic Poetry, as distinguished from Epic, the former comprehends a fictitious narrative, 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 unembarrassed as he is, he has no manner of apology. Those, it is probable, will be found the peculiarities of this 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 are perpetuated in a record that neither requires nor admits of the aid of fiction; and if the complaint refers 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? Why sidelong eye the streamlet's brim ? That this same stalwart arm of mine, Which could yon oak's prone trunk uprear, 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! III. 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, She for whom lords and barons sigh, Meets her poor Arthur in the dale. IV. How deep that blush!-how deep that sigh! For Love, too, has his hours of schooling. V. Too oft my anxious eye has spied With such a blush and such a sigh! Thou wouldst not yield, for wealth or rank, The heart thy worth and beauty won, 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; Is there to love and honour true, That boasts a pulse so warm as mine? They praised thy diamond's lustre rare Match'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) The Mocking Bird. |