The historian or critic of poetry will find another motive for dwelling with curiosity upon Southey's productions, besides those supplied by their volume and eminence. An especial attention is due to the Poet Laureate of all Britainthe possessor of the only public distinction which national or royal munificence can afford to the followers of the Muses. In itself, the distinction is, indeed, of little moment, if estimated by the amount of the emolument bestowed, or of dignity inherited from predecessors such as Skelton, Cibber, and Pye. Yet where greatness measures out its favours to desert with so sparing a hand, the dole, however pitiful, becomes a noticeable object. We grow curious to learn the merits of one who has reaped all that public gratitude could produce, although that all was but a little.

A word, in passing, as to the meaning of this appointment. In no quarter, surely, can it now be regarded as any national acquittance of the debt owing to a great national poet, or as the purchase-money of genius. For such a purpose, not only is the reward too insignificant, (supposing the worth of poetry estimable in money,) but its character is also inconsistent with the implied intention. The parsley garland which adorned the Olympic victors; the laurel with which, in a latter age, the poet was crowned in the Roman capitol, were recompenses beyond price, as symbols to which the consent of a present and applauding nation gave a significant and inestimable value. For a prize sanctioned thus, and thus ennobled, the petty title, the yearly stipend, the annual sack, afford no substitute. Nor can the appointment be regarded as an eleemosynary dole bestowed on the gifted, whom contemporary neglect has rendered indigent of support; for, as an emanation of Royal bounty thus directed, it is too miserably scanty. And in no instance can we allow that any such gift, how liberal soever, can pretend to constitute the payment of genius, or can rightly become an object of its ambition. It can but have two objects worthy of its care:-the self-consciousness of high desert, and the unbought admiration of an entire people. To our apprehension, therefore, no courtly distinction can either afford an adequate testimony, or appoint a fit reward to the highest attributes of the poet. Yet we can perceive in the gift a certain fitness, if it be applied, not as a seal to the title of genius, or as a repayment for its productions, but as an evidence of the respect due to assiduous poetical labours, as a tribute to the merit of the pursuit itself, exclusive of any application to higher claims, the value whereof must be tried by a more august tribunal, and rewarded with a more eminent recompense. Thus considered, there appears to be some propriety and grace in the distinction attaching to the title of Poet Laureate, as well as a principle, which it will be neither difficult nor invidious to apply, in selecting the individual most deserving of the honour. Now, thus interpreting the distinction, we must assert, that on few poets of our time could

it have more properly descended than on Southey. He has been no careless or desultory follower of poetry; but has courted it with an application, a religious care, and, we may add, an elevation of design, abundantly attested by the character and extent of his labours. It is evident that he deems worthily of his noble art, and has striven to improve to the uttermost the gift allotted to him, and to erect no perishable monument to his name. For these things, in the first place, let us award him all honourable acknowledgment. We shall next proceed to review his claim to that more precious recompense, to attain which the poet must not only purpose worthily, but inherit, from on high, power to second the purpose-a recompense, of which the herald is present renown, and the consummation immortal honour.

To describe within the compass of a few pages, an author, whose numerous works present an almost perplexing abundance of materials for observation, is no easy task. In a sketch like the present, we can only dwell upon his most striking features. A variety of traits which it would be interesting as well as profitable to notice, must of necessity be passed over without comment. In reviewing the impressions produced by his several poems, numerous and varied as they are, those which bear the most decided character, and the stamp of peculiar attributes, distinguish themselves amidst the recollections that crowd upon the mind. These alone do we profess to describe.

We can imagine, that, had he been born in other times, the Poet might have become a crusader, an alchemist, or a Doctor Seraphicus, according as he was subjected to the influences of different eras. In the character of his mind, the qualities of the enthusiast and the philosopher are blended in singular combination. It is at once prone to calm speculation and undoubting zeal. With a tendency to question, is bound up the necessity for reverence. His imagination is ambitious, yet destitute of tenacity or ardour. Its favourite sphere is the past; the present, beheld as in a dream, faintly, has little power to occupy its attention. It is capacious, solemn, and far-reaching. Even in distant times, it would seem to shun the approach of positive reality, and rather loves to fashion for itself from the fragments of ancient palaces, and the ruins of long-deserted altars, an edifice strange and yet august, where it establishes an idol-worship of its own. Its flight is lofty, and its movements slow and majestic; but it is prone to lose itself amongst visions, which, however gorgeous, are lifeless and cold, as the vapours on which they are pillowed. Even in the regions of antique tradition, his fancy appears impatient of confinement within its shifting boundaries and seeks its remotest verge, to wander there more freely amidst the shapes which he evokes from the tombs of a forsaken mythology. It seems as though he would fain seek some yet undiscovered space, and betake himself utterly to the labyrinths of the unreal; his step is never more cons

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fident than when it crosses the threshold of the Immense, and beholds the shapeless and gigantic forms that there meet his advance. From such distant excursions, the return to periods, obscured, by reason of age, to common eyes, is to him as the ascent to broad daylight is to eyes familiar with the dimness of the vault. leaving the domain of visions, his latest To-day opens on the camps and cloisters of the middle ages; and herein may be said to commence his practical existence. With the tone of this period his mind seems to be imbued, like glass with the stain that colours it. Thus the productions of his soberer mood may not unaptly be compared to those imposing cathedrals which seem an enduring symbol of the times wherein they arose, in which the spectator may conceive himself placed at the moment of some great festival. This comparison is suggested almost irresistibly by the display of picturesque, yet formal pomp,-of quaint decoration, learned and traditional allusions,-of a tone half monkish, half poetic, covering true belief with the trappings of grotesque fable,—of imagery profuse, yet sculptural in its character,—and of beauty, calm and colourless as the image on a tomb, or the statue of a shrined saint. We seem to be brought at once into the presence of devout ceremonial, following in the train of a commanding hierarchy; amidst which the eye discovers from afar tombs wreathed with garlands everlasting, warlike forms making the pavement echo to the clang of their mailed tread, shavelings telling their beads apart, pilgrims depositing votive gifts, and virgins, meek and passionless, kneeling before the shrine of the Virgin. And greatly is the impression confirmed by the slow majesty of the poet's numbers: in their sonorous and long-drawn cadences we seem to hear the organ's note, filling the arched aisles around with a volume of stately music. The effect is exceedingly solemn and imposing; yet a certain chill and dimness brood over the pageant; the eye is strained and the ear wearied with the effort of gazing and listening afar off; and the spectator wishes himself back to the more warm and familiar scenes of life. He has been shown a magnificent spectacle, which it were impossible to contemplate unmoved; but an involuntary languor of spirit reminds him that its splendour is but a show, and that its forms are lifeless as those which move across the glass of the magician.

When thus fatigued, it is delightful, although somewhat rare, to be led by our former guide to home scenes, and shown the personages of humble life, with which he can at times converse in a manner exceedingly serene and unaffected. Yet even here, his contemplative air does not forsake him; although, in his choice of narrow subjects, and in his simple utterance, you can discover no traces of his wonted ambition. He paints such subjects in fresco; the colouring is pure, yet not vivid; the aspect of his pictures sooths without exciting, and begets a vein of gentle or pensive reflection, upon which the

mind can repose without disturbance. Or, if our poet be in a more cheerful mood, he will guide the reader, as if to the fireside of some antique hall, and there will narrate his legend or tale of wonder, in the genuine accents of the old ballad. At such moments, his strong vernacular English, the alternate wonder and mirth which he well knows how to excite, the cordial manner of his strain, always manly in its utterance, and, at times touching, impart to his metrical ballads, a charm which may be best extolled, by describing it as akin to the living spirit of old popular song.

Such varied powers, sedulously as they have been exercised, might seem to entitle Southey to the most commanding place amongst the later English poets. It will be seen that we do, indeed, assign to him a very eminent situation ; but some of the properties which we have attempted to indicate above, are seriously detrimental to the excellence of his productions. In the pursuit of free scope for his imagination, he abandons all known regions, and neglects even that coherence and probability, which we feel to be indispensable to the most arbitrary creations of mere fancy. We are lost amidst genii, and demi-gods, and magicians, alternately omnipotent and powerless, with whom his personages, as unreal as they, are involved in communion or hostile conflict. Of gorgeous description, and ever-changing scenes and accidents, we find an abundance; but these are not enough to constitute a great poem. There must be an harmonious whole, a presiding spirit, which shall arrange the confused materials in appropriate connexion. This is not the case in Southey's most ambitious efforts. We follow him, breathless and amazed, from one scene of miracle or grandeur to another, discovering much to strike and to delight, but destitute of all clew to the immense labyrinth, and wholly unable to sympathize or identify ourselves, with the utterly incomprehensible destinies of his personages. The poet, who, in search of the sublime, or of a wider sphere of creation, allows his imagination to wander beyond all traces of life, must pay for the enlarged scope thus acquired, by the impossibility of carrying his readers with him. It is not the strongest imagination which most requires this extreme license: the demand is, at times, evidence of a certain indolence or lack of power, which, shrinking from the command of less flexible materials, seeks exercise amidst images so vague as to offer no resistance to the will. The buoyancy of a vivid imagination will often carry the Poet into the clouds, which he peoples with the creations of an inexhaustible fancy; and thither it is delightful to follow him: but even there, if his power be consummate, he discovers command over the shadowy elements, he impresses them with his purpose, and clothes them with a positive existence; so that, amidst the compass of the unreal, we are conscious of the presence of Beauty and Life, and return to earth enraptured and refreshed. But with conceptions utterly arbitrary and incoherent, sympathy is

matter of accident alone; and it is as rare that two individuals of equally quick imagination should pursue the same shadow, as that two sleepers should dream alike. The mind is averse to wander in a perpetual maze at the mere will of another, even when the progress brings it into contact with unexpected beauties; and the toil of pursuing an object as uncertain as an ignis fatuus soon becomes wearisome. Thus, although "Kehama" and "Thalaba" are full of individual passages second to few in splendour and elegance, and frequently present conceptions of a sublimity, the effect of which is only impaired by their remoteness, the general effect of these poems is fatiguing, and less grateful than that of many compositions, their inferiors in every circumstance of power.

Yet it is in these poems, after all, that we must seek for the development of Southey's highest qualities. When his flight descends to a more even course, and he is compelled to limit his freedom of creation by the laws of strict reality, his invention becomes less copious, and his pen moves more heavily. In place of gigantic fictions, and a wild phantasmagoria of shifting splendours, we are presented with a regular and lofty argument, wrought out with dignified state, earnestly conducted, and supported by noble thoughts, acts and personages of heroic dimensions, and descriptions impressive and appropriate. But the fable lingers: amidst the incidents there are few which command an extreme attention, and a certain diffuseness pervades the composition; wherein, if practised skill in writing, mellow numbers, and sustained eloquence always preserve the identity of the author, we sometimes fancy that we lose sight of the poet. "Roderick" and "Joan of Arc" are fine poems. Although their general character seems to want relief, they are instinct with a dignified yet gentle enthusiasm, and a tone of pure generous feeling, which place them very high in our estimation. But in searching for the characters of Southey's chief eminence as a poet, we turn to "Kehama," or "Thalaba the Destroyer."

It would be idle to attempt an analysis of these works, or to hope that such specimens as we can afford will do more than exhibit certain characteristics of Southey's manner. Throughout his poems, the vastness of the fable in some, in others the prolixity in narrative and description, renders it impossible to present a view of more than their accessary features, by extracts. To afford any means of weighing their merits, as substantive wholes, would require a careful examination of each, extended over ten times the space we can dedicate to the subject. The passages we produce must be considered as mere fragments: those of a descriptive character we have chiefly selected, inasmuch as these suffer less than others by separation from the context. If they invite to a closer examination of the works from whence they are taken, their proper object will have been fulfilled. It would be unjust to adduce them as materials sufficing to the formation of any positive judgment of the author.

Our remarks have hitherto been addressed to the general tendency and character of Southey's imagination. This, indeed, in an author who has attempted the highest modes of poetry, becomes the paramount object of inquiry. The very daring of his enterprise entitles him to be regarded in a point of view, from whence the properties which are sufficient to exalt more humble aspirants become of merely secondary importance. But they must not be altogether passed over:— a few observations may precede the selections we are about to subjoin. In delineation of his personages, Southey chiefly works in outline. They are vehicles for the utterance of excellent thoughts, the performers of great sacrifices or eminent deeds, and preserve throughout a propriety which cannot be questioned. But they bear no mark of resolute individuality. Removed from the scene and disconnected from the actions described, we know them no longer. Southey's genius is not dramatic. His representation of human feelings is in general rather the ideal suggested in a rich and reflective mind by conjecture employed upon a given contingency, than the vivid result of the intuition of absolute knowledge, or the searching trial of experience. His favourite conceptions are evidently those of heroism, firm faith, and high resolve in man,—of pure affection, gentleness, and filial devotion in woman; and pale as are the forms wherein these fair and worthy imaginations are clothed, their presence renders it impossible to lay down any of his poems without a feeling of reverence and love. Of natural beauty he is a close observer and ardent admirer, and a painter second to few. In his sketches of imaginary scenes, however luxuriant, we discover a living reality, of which the features of their inhabitants are destitute. He is alike powerful and graphic in describing the arid glare of the desert, the voluptuous groves of India, or the green English fields and ledges fragrant with May-bloom. In the magic gardens of his ideal world, he assembles the elements of beauty with a profuseness almost overpowering-we are well nigh stifled with fragrance; and we know of no author who has more fondly or beautifully dwelt upon the manifold splendours of night, the beloved of contemplative minds. His conceptions of magic grandeur, of supernatural temples, palaces, and fires, are strong, vast, and at times appalling. To portray some of his tremendous scenes in the Indian Padalon, or the caverns of Domdaniel, would require a mind, like Martin's, of kindred sublimity and daring. Nor are his purely fanciful creations less remarkable. They are full of grace, and sweetness, and instinct with a kind of chaste delicacy which we have never met with in an equal degree in any other author, amidst the play of so luxuriant an imagination.

It is fortunate that it is no longer necessary, in order to decide upon the merits of a poem, to ascertain, in the first place, to which, amongst certain classified modes of composition, it belongs. For it would be very puzzling to know what name should be given to" Thalaba," the form

of which is almost lyric, and the matter mythoheroic; or to Kehama, where the epic moods are mingled with alternate ode-passages, and the subject defies all attempt at classification. The discovery has at last been made, that, in order to deserve eminence, it is not absolutely needful that a work should be referrible to one of the established divisions; that these were made from the models, and not the models for them; and, finally, that that is a good poem,—although neither strictly epic, didactic, nor lyric,-wherein a truth or a high emotion is clothed in beauty, and brought home to the heart of the reader.

From the innumerable scenes of ideal loveliness scattered through Southey's poems, the following picture, in which we can almost hear the low murmur, and inhale the delicious coolness of the water's lapping against the floating lilies, may be chosen as an exquisite specimen of his power in conceiving and portraying:

Fed by perpetual springs, a small lagoon,
Pellucid, deep, and still, in silence joined
And swelled the passing stream. Like burnished steel
Glowing, it lay beneath the eye of noon :

And when the breezes in their play,
Ruffled the darkening surface, then, with gleam
Of sudden light, around the lotus-stem
It rippled; and the sacred flowers that crown
The lakelet with their roseate beauty, ride,
In gentlest waving rocked, from side to side;
And as the wind upheaves

Their broad, and buoyant weight, the glossy leaves
Flap on the twinkling waters, up and down.

We have said with what strength of imagery the Poet can bring before us, after we have wandered through his bowers of Paradise, the breathless solemnity of the Desert. Yet even in the burning waste, his eye can discover green spots, where a certain simple happiness attends the few pleasures of wanderers ignorant of more. There is beauty in the wilderness, and Love.

At length to the cords of a tent,

That were stretched by an island of palms,
In the desolate sea of the sands,

The weary traveller came.
Under a shapely palm,

Herself as shapely, a damsel stood:

She held her ready robe,

And looked towards a boy,

Who, from the tree above,

With one hand clinging to its trunk,

Cast with the other down the clustered dates.

But not always such is the fate of the wanderer, whom the demon Thirst pursues, as with a fiery scourge, across the waste. How terrible is that power, which thus hath tamed the wildest and most beautiful of all cruel things, and made its presence, else shunned and feared, a vision of hope to the sinking wayfarer!

A loud, quick panting! Thalaba looks up;
He starts and his instinctive hand
Grasps the knife hilt ;-for close beside

A tiger passes him.

An indolent and languid eye

The passing tiger turned.

His head was hanging down;

His dry tongue lolling low;

And the short panting of his fevered breath,
Came through his hot parched nostrils painfully.
The young Arabian knew
The purport of his hurried pace,

And following him in hope, Saw, joyful, from afar,

The tiger stoop and drink.

Southey abounds in night scenes; all different, all beautiful. He should have been an astrologer, so profound is his communion with all the houses of Heaven, As he walks forth into the twilight, a sweetness and a solemnity steal over him; and as the sky deepens, and all around grows hushed, while the moon climbs towards her zenith, it is in such strains as these that he lifts up his voice: Is it description? No-it is rather a hymn :—

How calmly, gliding through the dark blue sky,
The midnight moon ascends ! Her placid beams,
Through thinly-scattered leaves, and boughs grotesque,
Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope;
Here, o'er the chestnut's fretted foliage, grey
And massy, motionless they spread; here shine
Upon the crags, deepening with blacker night
Their chasms; and there the glittering argentry
Ripples and glances on the confluent streams.
A lovelier, purer light than that of day
Rests on the hills; and, oh, how awfully,
Into that deep and tranquil firmament,
The summits of Auseva rise serene!
The watchman on the battlements partakes
The stillness of the solemn hour; he feels
The silence of the earth; the endless sound
Of flowing water sooths him; and the stars,
Which in that brightest moonlight wellnigh quenched,
Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth
Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen,
Draw on with elevating influence,
Towards eternity, the attempered mind.
Musing on worlds beyond the grave, he stands,
And to the Virgin Mother, silently
Breathes forth her hymn of praise.

But the poet who can thus feel, and depict the sweet influences of night, and solitude, and repose, appears another being, when once his imagination betakes itself to the wonders of an unseen empyrean, the abode of old heathen gods, immense, shadowy, and terrible; or to the burning abodes of giant demons, where pain and wrath sit tugging at their chains, threatening to break loose and consume the upper world. This vision of the entrance to Padalon, the Indian Hades, al.. though not so terrible in its stern awfulness as that which appalled the great Florentine, with its six desolate words, is nevertheless very impressive. We seem to breathe a stifling atmosphere, and the sulphurous light wavers fearfully before our eyes:

Far other light than that of day there shone
Upon the travellers, entering Fadalon.
They, too, in darkuess entering on their way,
But far before the car

A glow, as of a fiery furnace light,
Filled all before them. 'Twas a light that made
Darkness itself appear

A thing of comfort; and the sight, dismayed,
Shrank inward from the molten atmosphere.
Their way was through the adamantine rock
Which girt the world of wo: on either side
Its massive walls arose, and overhead
Arched the long passage; onward as they ride,
With stronger glare the light around them spread —
And, lo! the regions dread-

The world of wo before them opening wide. Here we have passed the boundary,—and, lo! the glories of the nether world,-how terrific in their