By records that refresh my eye
In the rich page of memory,
By blessings at thine altar giv'n,
By scenes which lift the soul to Heav'n,
By monuments which proudly rise,
The trophies of the good and wise,
By graves for ever sad and dear,
Still reeking with my constant tear,
Where those in honour'd slumber lie,
Whose deaths have taught me how to die;
And shall I not, with all my powers,
Watch round thy venerable towers?
And can I bid the pilgrim flee
To holier mother than to thee?
And can I bid him turn his feet,
From fields with flowers of mercy sweet,
To gloomy wastes, and chilly cells,
Where frowning Superstition dwells?
Still-such is Truth's resistless art
To heal a lost and broken heart;
And such, though wrapp'd in deep disguise,
Its sleepless, countless energies;

That though De Rancé's erring eye

Wooed the dark shade of piety,

Heard but the thunders of the law,

Quench'd more than half his love in awe,

Sweet Mercy mark'd that suppliant's knee,
Who bow'd too low her smile to see,

And heard his penitential prayer,

And made him happy-even there." P. 114.

These, as well as some of the lines which we have quoted before, certainly possess considerable merit; and when we find it stated in the Preface, that the author trusts "something will be excused to a very inexperienced poet, and to a person engaged in duties of too solemn a nature to allow of all the laborious exactness which this species of composition demands," p. xxxii, it is impossible not to feel strongly inclined towards an indulgent judgment. Yet we cannot tell Mr. Cunningham that he possesses high poetical powers, nor do we think that De Rancé will tend to the establishment of its author's reputation as a poet. There is in it none of that brilliancy which overpowers the reader with sudden rapture; none of that rich and finished beauty on which the mind can continually repose with a certain luxurious languor of delight. It contains indeed much animation, and a deep and pure tone of sentiment; but the animation is often damped by careless or feeble writing; and the sentiments lose much of their effect by being so much expanded, and so incessantly repeated.

We

We have that opinion of Mr. Cunningham's good sense, that we believe he will feel no indignation at this free avowal of our judg ment: should we be mistaken, we will tell him, that in these days, when the manor of Parnassus is trespassed on by so many unlicensed and unqualified persons, it becomes highly needful for its keepers to pursue offenders with the utmost rigour of the law and that any trespasser of character and respectability superior to the rest, must by no means, should such an one be found, be suffered to escape, lest his impunity should appear to sanction and encourage the whole tribe of inferior depredators.

The abundant crop of versifiers which spring up in these times with every revolving season, has been injurious, we think, in more ways than one, to the interests of true poetry. That name, once so sacred, is in danger of falling into disrepute, from the number of unworthy pretenders who lay claim to it; and its nature is becoming every day more liable to be mistaken and forgotten, from the variety of compositions, all professing some share in it, yet possessing scarcely one single quality in common. Besides, the ambition of originality, which, under the impulse of genius, leads to pre-eminent excellence, is as sure, when guided by the opposite of genius, to produce some pre-eminent absurdity and an experiment which was always hazardous without the assistance of able conductors, is now, even under any circumstances, full of peril; when every road and path is already occupied; and a new track is only to be found by defying every impediment of "bog, cliff, dense, or rare." And though some progress may even thus be made, for the temple of present fame stands on no gigantic elevation, and innumerable are the approaches which lead to it, yet the paths by which he must climb, who aspires after the imperishable honours of true poetry, are few in number, and their course has been in a good measure already defined: like the pilgrim, the true poet must follow the road prescribed to him by the eternal principles of his art; and must not hope to arrive at the " celestial city," before he has listened to the voice of the "interpreter," and been an inmate at the "beautiful" house of piety and virtue. The votaries of the lady fashion," if we may still pursue the allusion, found, when too late, that they had forfeited an immortal, for the sake of a temporal and a fading crown.

*

We shall take this opportunity of adverting to one of the many .erroneous opinions, which are entertained respecting the nature of poetry, and which has lately received support from the very ingenious author of the "Paradise of Coquettes." In his Preface to that work, the writer has made it a matter of complaint against his contemporaries, that their poems were all solemn and serious, and that they had forsaken all such elegant and fan

ciful themes as the "Rape of a Lock," a " splendid Shilling," or even the important question, "whether Hamilton's Bawn should be turned into a Barrack or a Malthouse?" Reversing the doctrine of the learned Trebatius, he inveighs against the present undue preference for

"Horrentia pilis

Agmina, seu fracta pereuntes cuspide Gallos,"

And wishes to call back again those delightful compositions, of which

"Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day."

That such doctrines should be maintained, even by men of talent, we cannot much wonder; since a long list of "diverting pieces" figures in every edition of the "Elegant Extracts," and since the phrase "light poetry" seems to be sanctioned by immemorial custom. But there is an old and most honourable epithet of the poetical character, which, if they be founded in truth, must be considered henceforth as possessing no greater force or characteristic propriety, than the "fortemque Gyan, fortemque Cloanthum," of Virgil: for what can be more remote from every thing" sacred," than the composition of satires and epigrams, of "epilogues, sonnets, and lady-like rhyme?" Either then poetry has no claim to that title of " sanctity," or such things as have in them nothing solemn or serious have nothing to do with poetry; or the world has hitherto been so careless as to leave the productions of the most opposite faculties of the mind arranged under one common denomination: and has been contented to see the noblest efforts of human intellect, left, if we may use the words of the most accurate of philosophers, ανωνυμα κατὰ τὴν διαφοραν.

The pleasure which we derive from the perusal of the "battle of the angels," in "Paradise Lost," is so totally different from that excited in us by the famous description of the game of ombre in the "Rape of the Lock," that if one and the same definition can with propriety be applied to both these works, it can only be one so vague and general, as shall give no idea of the nature of either. If poetry be the " art of pleasing," or the "art of verse making," then indeed it is a term applicable to them both: but in that case we must extend it a little further, and can under no just pretence exclude from the honours of Parnassus, either the author of Jonathan Wild, or the compiler of "As in præsenti." Few however would be inclined, however much they may respect their old friend William Lily, to exalt his name to so great a dignity: nor has even Johnson ventured to rank Fielding among the poets of England, in spite of the indiscriminating prodigality with which he has bestowed that title. Something

therefore

therefore is intended to be expressed by the word "poetry;" not a formal and external difference, like that subsisting between metrical and prosaic language; not a vague and undistinguishing property, like that of affording pleasure. It cannot then equally apply to things sacred and profane; to works which excite laughter, and to those which penetrate to the very depths of our nature, and awaken its mightiest and sublimest feelings. It cannot apply to both; and can we hesitate for an instant in deciding which of the two we shall exclude? in determming whether the name of poet be most due to Milton or to Swift? We say therefore, that "light composition," so far as regards its levity, is totally distinct from poetry.

We add, "so far as regards its levity," because in a work whose chief characteristics are humour and gaiety, there may be, and frequently are, found, some passages of a deeper tone, which may breathe the finest poetical spirit; and others which, without any solemnity of phrase, convey naturally and irresistibly to the mind a serious and poetical image. The comedies of Shakespeare, and several of Wordsworth's trifling pieces, are full of instances of this truth; and the comparison of loyalty to a sundial in Hudibras, is a notable exemplification of it. But in all these cases, the poetry exists, not in the lightness of the subject, but in a sudden deviation from it.

On the other hand, and this is a point, which, we think, is often misunderstood; as in works which in the main are totally remote from poetry, many poetical passages do nevertheless exist: so in the most famous poems, there must necessarily be large portions of metrical prose. The connecting links of the story, and much of the detail, must be of a very common-place nature, and cannot be expected to excite any powerful emotions in the mind; nor indeed would our imagination or feelings bear to be kept in constant exertion for any long continuance of time; if they did not find occasional pauses where they might repose, they would grow weary and halt of themselves. Hence it is difficult to read and enjoy poetry for any long time together; and the pleasure which it communicates is oftentimes most acutely felt, by the recurrence of some favourite strain in a moment of mental leisure, when the imagination arises, "like one out of sleep," and pursues the most ethereal flights of the bard with something of a kindred activity and power. The memory it often a good practical touchstone to distinguish real poetry, especially in those persons who enjoy habitually a sound critical taste, and the finest parts of a poem will fix themselves instinctively on our remembrance, and will be treasured up as a fund of perpetual delight, while the mere dross of the narration is hurried over for the sake of the light which it throws upon the

rest

rest of the work, and having performed its part, is soon forgotten.

We have now run into a long digression, and engaged ourselves in a subject which is almost inexhaustible; we turn, however, into a path which will soon bring us back again to Mr. Cunningham, whom we have indeed too long neglected. If poetry must, as we maintain, be deep and serious, it must also be rich and pregnant with life and activity. It must hint and suggest truth, rather than expound it; and must lead us to it by a winding and flowery path, not by a beaten and obvious road. It must imitate that playful and enchanting perverseness, which "fugit ad salices, et se cupit ante videri." It speaks not to the sluggish and the dull, it does not soothe to slumber, but stimulate to active enjoyment-an enjoyment of the highest and purest nature, the draught at the fountain head of beauty. For to the contemplation of something fair and excellent all poetry must ultimately lead: it is a disease to dwell upon deformity, alone, and for its own sake. And therefore poetry cannot exist without something of Religion either in the writer or the reader; some consciousness, that in the universe, that which is over all, is good. With this feeling in the mind, scenes of horror and of grief lead indirectly to their opposites; in the darkest abodes of misery and guilt, in the very regions where the evil principle bears rule, a gleam of light bursts upon us, and we remember by what hand that evil power is inseparably associated with woe. But take away this belief, give the empire of the world to chance, or let Ahriman or Lok, Eblis or Satan, be the supreme sovereign, and scenes of beauty or of horror would be alike detestable, the one mocking us with ideal happiness, the other impressing on us more strongly that consciousness of wretchedness, which was already too heavy to bear. Rightly therefore has Mr. Cunningham endeavoured to enforce the ultimate prevalence of good, to shew how comfort may be drawn out of misery, and that which is sublime from that which is most horrible and gloomy. This is the good old way of poetry, whose earliest strains were hymns of praise and thanksgiving, whose first descriptions were of the "mighty works of the Lord," to show that they were all good. This is the path in which the noblest of created minds have trod, delighting to imbibe, and impart to their fellows, the rays of celestial glory. This it is which invests poetry with a sacred character, and which gives to it the highest rank amongst the efforts of the human mind: for, whilst it belongs to science and to history to describe and investigate the properties of a fallen and corruptible world; it is for poetry to communicate, as it were, between earth and heaven; to tell us what better and nobler beings are, and what we hereafter may be.

ᎪᎡᎢ .