The Etonian
Blunt, Walter, 1802-1868 | Praed, Winthrop Mackworth, 1802-1839
-^ 5^-1 ?«» 1 R,.^l^' m '■ir*v. -'-fc" k-X 7 ^ > (O ^k. h" K CO W^ ^mhIS J 5l - '^ r % li. '-■^- "^V ..^ H: i ,<^ -» -/iwmj'^ ?^i^- ^V:^ .^^i^^^A .1 ^>^^^1^ ,^^i^^<^- z^^:^^ ^ ■^-. ^^^^,^i>^>^/^^^ - Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/etonianb02blunuoft THE ETONIAN. SECOND EDITION. VOL. II. LONDON : HENRY COLBURN AND CO. CONDUIT-STREET ; AND KNIGHT AND DREDGE, WINDSOR; SOLD ALSO BY DEIGHTON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE ; AND MONDAY AND SLATTER, OXFORD* 1822. \ ru-i V '■] PRINTED AT THE WINDSOR PRESS, BY C. KNIGHT. THE ETONIAN. No. VI. THE KING OF CLUBS. SCENE — THE CLUB-ROOM. (The President prologuizea from the Chair.) I LOVE variety j no book From me obtains a second look. In which I vainly seek to find This salt, this pepper of the mind : And ought that savours of precision. Of sameness, or of repetition. With more than Editorial hate I scorn, detest, abominate. Ergo, whereas the Reader knows That Volume I. began in prose ; I think I'll change my note this time— And — Volume II. begins in rhyme. My friends, I vote him prosy quite. Who speaks one word of prose to-night. (Members testify astonishment. 0^ Connor opens his mouth leide — Mus- grave shuts his close — Lozell nods with assent — Burton with drowsiness- Oakley takes out his tablets, and appears to be working hard.) Montgomery. " I love to hear a clever rhymer rhyming In learned measure, eloquent and strong ! '* GoLiGHTLY. " I love to hear a faulty timer timing His horrid cadence, dissonant and wrong ! " VOL. n. B The King of Clubs. montgomert. goliohtly. Sterling. ConRTENAY. O'Connor. Chorus. O'Connor. Swinburne. Oaklet. Nesbit. Chorus. courtenay. " Good poetry's the noblest thing on earth ! " Bad is a strong provocative to mirth j And, when a fool is sentimentalizing/* — " Order ! the worthy President is rising." " My friends ! I need not dwell upon The vast success of Volume I. ; Suffice it, that its tout ensemble Has made our worst revilers tremble ; That Censure owns at last she's wrong. And Scandal almost holds her tongue. Howbeit, 'midst our wreath of bays. There sprout some BRAMBLES OF DISPRAISE y Which, when the precious leaves we snatch. Inflict a most del^htful scratch; Too soft to make us cry about it — And — we might go to sleep without it. Here is a * Senex,' cold and grave. Quite puzzled by the ' Knight and Knave;* And thinking that it's all * a flam ' About our Publisher and Pam. Then here's a little note from * Jessy,' Who • can't abide that Sober Essay ! ' * A Fourth-form ' thinks 'tis best by far To stick to the vernacular ; Our Muse goes limping on a patten. Whene'er she's running after Latin. ' Amicus ' is in monstrous pique Because he isn't ' up to Greek.' " " As Gerard said, the other day, Och ! sure it's very clear, oh ! Non intelligibilia Sed intellectum fero." " Order ! order ! a bull 1 a bull ! " " Pd knock you down, but my mouth b full." Mijvtv ati^c" — " I diflfer." ** Some beer." " Silence ! hark to the Chairman ! "—(Hear !) * ** My head feels a sort of a dizziness, Pve written and spoke till it aches ; So before we proceed to our business, — We'll finish this dish of BEEF-STEAKS. ♦ Silence! Hark to the sifnal !— fire."— Btron. The King of Clubs. ROWLEY. " I love a steak ! — proudly it sweeps along j Whether the kitchen broileth it or frieth. And punsters tell that oftentimes it crieth, • Chaucer, oh ! Chaucer ! ' — He was Lord of song In Britain ! Wrapt in doublet and in rhyme. He walk'd the dear Metropolis, and tasted Of meats multigenous, bak'd, broil'd, and basted ; The pride of Taverns in that ancient time. I Avish that I could rhyme like him of old, I wish that I could eat the food he eat ; — But stop, Thalia, for you want a whet j The reader's tir'd — the steaks are getting cold ! Stop ! for my own, and for the reader's, sake j But oh ! I'm very partial to a steak ! " Bellamy. *' Perhaps you think you've made a Sonnet • I'm sorry for you ! — out upon it ! You havn't got a rhyming phiz. And don't know what a Sonnet is. You ought to talk of May or June, Mary, and Music, and the Moon, Just mention Zephyrs in the dell, And give a hint of Philomel, Enlarge upon a blighted tree, A rock, a ruin, or the sea. Conclude with something energetic. Or a neat touch of the pathetic. This is the way, mistaken elf! To write — like Gerard — or myself! GoLiGHTLT. *' Oh ! Charles ! — who said you were a dunce ? ^' I heard you read a sonnet once. And really I was so enchanted. With all you said, and all you chaunted. That home I hurried in delight. And sat me down, in haste to write A little thing the Club shall see — SONNET TO MR. BELLAMY. " Oh ! I am weary of thy minstrelsy ; Thou claw'st the chords with such a clumsy gripe, And (straining still thy throat's discordant pipe) Fumblest, and fumblest on so dismally ; Evermore drawling a dull sleepy air. Like that the old Cow died of. Cruel Bard ! W^hat have I done, that thou would'st have me share That poor Cow's fate ? 'Twere not a task too hard B 2 The King of Clubs. (So I might 'scape the torture of thy lay) To read the Post or Courier day by day. To my deaf grandaro. Oh ! I could endure, Methinks, of harsh and grating sounds to die. So but thy song were spared, and I were sure, Bellamy, thou would'st not chaunt my elegy." Chorus. " Bravo ! the Sonnet of Sonnets ! — oh never Talk now of your Orpheus and Linus ! " Burton. " I vow and declare that it's almost as clever As mine on the Pons Asininus ! " Chorus. " Bravo — Golightly's the poet to please :" Nksbit. " May I never drink beer if he's not ! " Chorus. " Loaded and prim'd with such verses as these. Number VI. will go off like a shot !" Bbluuit. " Libel and felony ! " GoLiGHTLT. "Zounds! Mr. Bellamy!" Bellamy. " How can I sit with this base charlatan ?" GoLiGHTLY. " Lord ! I'm afraid that his sisters he'll tell o' me! " Bellamy. " Mr. GoHghtly shall find I'm a man ! " O'Connor. " Murder and turf! " Bellamy. " IIow I'll cut and assassinate ! Mr. GoHghtly shall smart for it soon!" CCoNNOR. " Nate Mr. Bellamy, don't be so passionate ! " Bellamy. " Ignorant blockhead ! I'll write a Lampoon ! " {Eant in a passion ! — All the Members much appalled.) CouBTENAT. " My friends ! your spirits seem indeed * In most unusual excitation ; To cool them, I'll proceed to read ARTICLES IN PREPARATION. Two bits of prose from F. GoHghtly ; One ' On the Art of Dancing Lightly;' One * On the Sense of Homer's Particles ' — " Goligthly. " Two very neat and clever articles ! " CouRTENAY. " * Reflections upon Human Troubles ;' ' A Dissertation upon Bubbles ;* ' Remarks upon the Fight of RamilHes ;' * The Art of Cookery for FamiUes ;' * Biography of Mr. Wastle j' And * Stanzas on Caernarvon Castle ;' * A Country Sabbath,' neatly penn'd By Bellamy, our departed friend ; Chorus. Nesbit. The King of Clubs. * The Power of Steam ;' ' A Tale of Bradgelah !' 'Pleasure;' 'Good Night;' 'Old Boots;' 'The Bachelor.' Lastly some Greek and Roman stories. — I've burnt ' Sir Francis on the Tories/ As also ' Martial's Ode to Paint :' It has much humour, dry and quaint. And there are pretty verses in't ; But I must give the youth a hint. That, when he wishes to be Lyrical, He oughtn't to affect Satirical." *' Bravo ! bravo ! look how it grows ! Beautiful bundle of verse and prose ! Jester and Moralist, on they come. Poet and Sage, at the beat of our drum ; Puddings of precept, and pickings of pun. Solid and syllabub, wisdom and fun. Hurry and scurry they tumble in — Poor Mr. Coiu"tenay is up to the chin ! How can the merry Etonian fail. Blest with these writers" — " And blest with this ale ? " Oakley. " While the Club's in such good humour, I'm very sorry to shock it ; But I've receiv'd an insult, which I really can't possibly pocket : Mr. Smnburne himself will allow that I've good reason To prefer against him a charge, amounting to HIGH TREASON. Mr. Gerard, you've got a smile on your face, as much as to tell That I'm but an indiflferent rhymer, but that I know very well. And I should be glad to tell my story in prose, if I might. Only, as there's nothing of the kind to be spoken here to-night, I must say what I have to say in verse, as well as I am able ; — Well then, here's Mr. Swinburne a-spilling all the tea upon my table. And making a mess and a slop with his impertinent hand. Because he wants to paint the situation where Troy us'd to stand j And though I care a great deal more about my butter and toast. Than about ava^ av^pwv and all his abominable host. Yet here he persists in spurting hot water upon my cheek. And, which is my detestation, quoting a bushel of Greek. And, ' here's the river Simois, and here's Xanthus,' says he. As if either of them ever ran yAi\x Mr. Weight's best tea ; And here's * Achilles and his Myrmidons.' I think it's very harsh To clap Achilles and all his soldiers into a great boiling marsh ; The King of Clubs. And though I tell him to be quiet, as loud as I can bawl. It seems tliat he thinks me a blockhead, (Hear, hear,) for he don't mind me at all. Therefore, as I don't like to be in this manner defied, I pray that the President will immediately decide. Whether the rights of Members are to be protected, or whether Mr. Swinburne is to go on upsetting propriety, tea-cups, and Trojans, all together." Swinburne. " Larga quidem, Drance, semper tibi copia fandi — " " If you talk any more lingo, you'll be fin'd and that won't be so handy." " I scorn to talk English where Latin won't be heard. And if I mayn't answer him classically, I won't answer a single word. " Guilty, guilty, the case is clear." 'i The Swinburne coach is upset, I fear." " To give the Judges no defence Argues or guilt or insolence ; Be it the first, or be it the last. Dread is the doom that must now be past." " Guilty, guilty, the case is clear." " Mr. Coiutenay, and Gentlemen, I think you're decidedly wrong here, I differ from you in most matters, and I differ from you in this ; You say Mr. Swinburne is guilty ; — now what if I don't think he is ? " Chorus — (teitifying astonishment.) " Oh ! Lord ! did you ever ? Oh Lord ! no I never ! The culprit was caught, the indictment drawn ! Like a terrified child, Mr. Oakley grows mild. Peregrine's mock'd, and the charge withdrawn ! '* " Chairman and King, I meant no such thing ; Whence is this shouting and tumult drawn ? " ** You've gone in your track Too far to go back. Peregrine's mock'd, and the Oaklet. Swinburne. courtenay. Musgrave. CoURTENAY. Chorus Oakley, Oakley. Chorus. CHARGE withdrawn." Oakley. " I don't wish or intend to transgress any proper rules, But I can't help observing that you're altogether a parcel of fools." (Eait in the suUens. — Members testify congratulation.) The King of Clubs. CouRtenay. " It's very late! *' 0*CoNNOR. " Let's have another cup ! " Montgomery. " And sing a song," Burton. " By way of summing up ?" Chorus. " Late is the evening ! hush'd is the song, Friendly Etonians — health, and good night ! Be your feme and your * Articles ' equally long ! Be your Ale and your Genius equally bright." The Members shouted carmen hoc. As sweet as linnet or canary ; The Club adjourn'd at Six o'i^lock. (Signed,) RICHARD HODGSON, Secretary. 10 The Death of Alexander. THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER. Farewell to the Hero, whose chivalrous name Bade the land of his fathers rise highest in fame ; Farewell, Macedonia, to all that was dear ; Farewell to thy glory's unbroken career. The Triumphs of Empire have fled with a breath. And the Day-star of Conquest is faded in death. With the soul that once gave thee command over all. With the arm that upheld thee, proud land, thou must fall ; For the Spirit that warmed thee for ever hath flown, And left thee to weep o'er his sepulchre's stone. Time was that the lightning, which erst used to play From yon eyeball that glares with a powerless ray. Would have flash'd through the din, and the tumult of fight. As the meteor gleams 'mid the darkness of night. Time was, that yon arm would have dealt out the blow With the thunderbolt's force on the helm of the foe ; And Fancy might think, as the blood-reeking crest Of the King and the Warrior shone high o'er the rest. That the God of the battle was goading his car Through the ranks of the vanquish'd, the tide of the war. Time was, — but those glories have long passed away. Like the breeze of the North o'er the sea-ruffled spray ; Like the rose-bud of Summer they died in their bloom. And Memory pauses to weep o'er their doom. Oh ! Fiend of Ambition, look down on the shame That has darkened the ray of thy Votary's fame ; And blush to confess that in yon low estate Lies the remnant of all that was mighty and great. And shook not the world, and its kingdoms with dread ? And quail'd not the sky as the parting life fled ? On Montgomery's Writings. 1 1 And fell not the Hero where nations pursued. In the heat of the battle, the toil of the feud? Did no prodigy herald the last dying pain. As his breath ebb'd away o'er the millions of slain? Now, joy to ye, Theftans, whose heart's blood bedew'd The desolate soil, where thine altars had stood ! Thou Genius of Persia ! look down from thy throne. The battle is won, and the proud are overthrown ; And the Spirit of Valour, the bosom of Fire, That grasp'd at the world in its headlong desire. Unworthy the fame of the Deified Brave, Has sunk like the dastard luxurious slave. Weep, Macedon, weep, o'er thine Hero's decay. Weep, Macedon ! slave of a foreigner's sway ; Give a tear and a frown to the page of thy story. That tells of the darkness that shrouded his glory ; And lament that his deeds were unable to save The son of thy love from so lowly a grave. ' C.B. ON THE WRITINGS OF JAMES MONTGOMERY. The true spirit of criticism, as well as of poetry, has revived in our days ; and when that spirit had once developed itself, it was not to be supposed that so fair and extensive, as well as peculiarly interesting a field for its exercise as that of modern poetry, should remain long unoccupied. Accordingly, it has been the fortune of our great contemporaries to have their characteristic excellencies illustrated, and the interior sources of those excellencies developed, by minds more or less qualified for the task, — minds of various capacity, and which have exerted them- selves in very different ways, but all endued with a deep sense of the beautiful in poetry, and the power of embodying that sense in words. Of good criticism, indeed, as of other good things, we may have too much ; and we are almost tempted to wish, that, like the Dutch in their Spice Islands, we could consume one half of the precious commodity, in order to make the rest more Ifll Oti Montgomery s Writhes. valuable. I only mention this circumstance, however, as exo- nerating me from pursuing the track in which so many maturer and more highly-endowed intellects are engaged ; and as justifying me in confining my efforts to those little neglected comers of our contemporary literature, which, while the circumstance of their being yet untouched renders the task of their explorer more easy, may also, from the comparatively contracted grasp of mind which is required for their survey, appear more suited to the humble capacities of " The Etonian." I mean not, however, to intimate, that the writings of James Montgomery have escaped the notice of the censors. It will be remembered that his earliest publication was the object of a severe criticism in the ** Edinburgh Review." This was answered by a just and spirited article in the " Quarterly," which, from its style, appears to be the production of an individual, eminent for his efficient and unpretending patronage of youthful merit ; an individual whose warm benevolence, no less than his unsullied integrity, his abilities, and his extraordinary learning, will be held in honourable remembrance, when the clamour, which the spirit of party and his own indiscretion have raised against him, shall have died away. Since that period, however, though the popu- larity of Montgomery, before considerable, has continued, or even increased, T am not aware of the appearance of any adequate critique on his writings, nor have I seen his name mentioned by any of the modern critics, except occasionally in a census of our whole poetical population, or as one of a particular class of writers. Feeling, therefore, as I sincerely do, my incompetency to the task of a regular review, and declining any such attempt, I yet presume to hope that a summary of such detached remarks as have occurred to me on the writings of the author now before me may not be unacceptable to " The Etonian ;" and, in the retrospective view of his various works which this will include, I may be permitted to make my most copious quotations from the last volume, as being less generally known than the rest. It is more easy to comprehend than to define the peculiar genius of a writer ; and that of Montgomery, though inferior in magnitude to those of most of his contemporaries, is sufficiently original. The character of his mind seems to be rather that of delicacy than of strength ;* combining with a keen preception of the beauty inherent in the milder feelings of our nature, a power of embodying that beauty in language. There is a feminine beauty in his compositions, as well as a feminine weakness ; and their effect, if I may be permitted to use a fanciful illustration, • It is of bis poetry I speak. I have heard that his occasional articles in The Sheffield Iris (of vrhich he is joint editor) are characterized by a vigour which is not visible in his poems. The few specimens I have 8«en confirm this opinion. On Montgomery's Writings. 13 resembles the "sweet influences" of the evening star. All objects appear to him, through tlie medium of his own imagination, invested with a certain tender brilliancy peculiarly his own, and to which I have seen nothing exactly similar elsewhere. The Quarterly Reviewer happily compares him to Klopstock ; but in his temper and sentiments, as displayed in his writings, he bears more resemblance to Cowper than to any other writer that I know. Differing from him in kind and degree of talent, almost as much as it is possible for one genuine poet to differ from another, he has all his delicacy, timidity, and acuteness of feeling, his high moral tone, his patriotic warmth, his enthusiastic love of nature, and his heartfelt and affectionate respect for the female sex. Like Cowper, too, a tinge of melancholy oei-vades his writings ; but it is nothing more than a tinge : its effect is like a gentle shade diffused over all his works, chastening, and solemnizing, and re- sembling that so beautifully described in the picture of his antediluvian heroine : — " Time had but touch'd her form to finer grace, Years had but shed their favours on her face, While secret love, and unrewarded truth, Like cold clear dew upon the rose of youth, Gave to the springing flower a chasten'd bloom, * And shut from rifling winds its coy perfume." Another feature of resemblance between Cowper and his suc- cessor is that which distinguishes the latter from all his contem- porary poets — his peculiar religious system, which I allude to on account of the influence which it] exerts upon his writings. It must be allowed that this system is, in some parts at least, highly favourable to poetry. The sublime purity, and, if I may so speak, absoluteness of its moral precepts, the devotional feeling which it inculcates, and the mysterious beauty which it throws around the most ordinary things, when viewed in its own light, are among its poetical features. We may observe everywhere, in the writings of our author, how a familiarity with religious subjects tinges the stream of the imagination, and converts the feelings of the mind and the beauties of nature into reflections and remembrances of the ," things unseen." To him the graces and glories of creation appear invested with an awful sanctity ; she is, as it were, a chaste and transcendently beautiful bride, separate and consecrated to one. Amidst scenes which, to another mind, would suggest classical or romantic recollections, he is reminded of the marvel- lous histories and the sublime theology of Scripture. -" O'er eastern mountains seen afar, With golden splendbr, rose the morning star, As if an Angel-centinel of night, From earth to heaven, had winged his homeward flight,-p Glorious at first, but lessening by the way, And lost insensibly in higher day." 14 Oh Montgomery^ Writings. " The smiling star, that lights the world to rest, Walk'tl in the rosy gardens of the west, Like Eve erewhile, through Eden's blooming bowers, A lovelier star amidst a heaven of flowers." " From the east the moon with doubtful gleams Now tipt the hills, now glanced athwart the streams ; Till, darting through the clouds her beauteous eye. She open'd all the temple of the sky." — " Oft o'er these cliffs the transient storm And partial darkness lower. While yonder summits far away Shine sweetly through the gloom, Like glimpses of eternal day Beyond the tomb." In like manner, the charms and enjoyments of domestic life acquire a new and nameless endearment, when consecrated by religion ; and the cause of liberty assumes additional dignity from the express interposition of the God of Justice in its behalf. And even where the effect of an habitual communion with reli- gious thoughts and feelings is not thus palpable, it may be dis- cerned in its collateral manifestations, pervading the whole of the writer's moral system, and diffusing a visible purity and benevo- lence wherever it extends. Even his melancholy seems transmuted by its influence ; deep and perennial as its springs appear to be, it never darkens into despondence or repining ; the spirit of hope, and thankfulness, and humble rejoicing, is perpetually breaking forth through the incumbent gloom, ■ " Turning the dusky veil Into a substance glorious as her own." We are reminded of Cowper's description of David in the Wilderness : — '* Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful voice, Hear him, o'erwhelm'd with sorrow, yet rejoice ; No womanish or wailing grief has part, No, not a moment in his royal heart ; 'Tis manly music, such as martyrs make. Suffering with gladness for a Saviour's sake." Whether these advantages may not be counterpoised by features of a different nature; whether the influence of tliis particular system may not be such as to produce an habitual timidity of mind, unfavourable to the full developement of the faculties ; or whether, from a certain austerity and over-scrupulousness, it may not circumscribe the poet unnecessarily in his choice of subjects, and hang a dead weight upon his imagination ; are points which I do not feel myself qualiiied to discuss, and which, indeed, I have not time to enter upon ; although they form part, as I think, of a curious and interesting subject. I had prepared to survey the poems before me in various On Montgomery's Writings. 15 other points of view ; ray time, however, allows me only to advert in general to what I have more than once noticed already, the noble tenor of his sentiments, in which he has proved himself no unworthy successor of the eminent reformer in poetry and poetical morals, with whom I have in some respects compared him. He has truly said of himself, " No '.—to the generous Bard belong Diviner themes and purer song : — ^To hail Religion from above, Descending in the form of Love, And pointing through a world of strife The narrow way that leads to life : — To pour the balm of heavenly rest Through Sorrow's agonizing breast; With Pity's tender arms embrace The orphans of a kindred race ; And in one zone of concord bind The lawless spoilers of mankind : — To sing in numbers boldly free The wars and woes of liberty ; The glory of her triumphs tell, Her nobler suffering when she fell, Girt with the phalanx of the brave, Or widow'd on the patriot's grave, Which tyrants tremble to pass by, Ev'n on the car of Victory. These are the Bard's sublimest views, The angel-visions of the Mu?e, That o'er his morning slumbers shine ; These are his themes, — and these were mine." Mr. Montgomery's first publication, *' The Wanderer of Swit- zerland," was written to commemorate the gallant resistance of the Swiss patriots to the aggressions of revolutionary France; and is an instance of that true consistency, common to our author with many greater men, who, like him, were in early youth seduced into an acquiescence in the great delusion of the world. With this poem I am not ashamed to own myself almost totally unac- quainted ; having perused it at an age when I was incapable of understanding its beauties, and having never since re-perused it. From my indistinct recollections, however, and the opinions of others, I gather that it was brilliant, animated, and enthusiastic, overflowing with high-wrought sentiment and youthful tenderness, and all the luxuriances of heart and intellect, which characterise the productions of a poet whose genius is not yet fully developed. The " Edinburgh Review " entitled it " a mixture of the epic, lyric, and dramatic :" this is a description which would more aptly apply to Milman's " Samor ;" it is certain, however, that Montgomery's strong lyrical propensities, as in the case of Campbell's " Gertrude of Wyoming," gave a tinge to his narra- tive style. As a lyrical writer, indeed, he is superior to almost all his contemporaries. Of this the poems annexed to the 16 On Montgomery/' s Writings. " Wanderer of Switzerland " give signal proofs ; to these, how- ever, as to the work itself, I can only at present refer my readers. His next poem, " The West Indies," was written on occasion of the abolition of the slave trade. This work will be best cha- racterized by observing, that those who read it with the express purpose of being pleased will be greatly disappointed, but that if read as a task, it will afford them much gratiiication ; seeing that the pleasures which we meet with in the performing of a laborious duty, are to us so much clear gain, and have accordingly the more effect. Its great deficiency is a want of plan, and a conse- quent want of interest : it has less the air of a system than of a succession of parts. Its descriptions are brilliant, its language glowing even to extravagance, and its sentiments generous, though perhaps tinged slightly with ultra-philanthropy. The poems annexed to it are among his most beautiful compositions. The '* Harp of Sorrow," somewhat resembling in the thought the first of the Anacreontic Odes, and which is equally appro- priate as a preface to the rest, is a fine expression of individual feeling. We extract two stanzas on the ^olian harp : — " Thus o'er the light iEolian lyre The winds of dark November stray, Touch the quick nerve of every wire, And on its magic pulses play ; — Till all the air around, Mysterious murmurs fill, A strange bewildering dream of sound. Most heavenly sweet, — yet mournful still." I must also recommend to my readers an exquisite little piece entitled, " A Walk in Spring ;" "The Dial ;" " Bolehill Trees;" a fine ballad on the Loss of the Britannia ; and a poem on the death of a young lady, who, in her last illness, had been soothed by the perusal of his poems. One of these pieces, " The Molehill," bears a strong resemblance, in the idea, to a piece of Barry Cornwall's, called " The Dream :" in each the poet calls up, in imagination, the forms and scenes in past history, on which his mind has been accustomed to dwell ; and the contrast is curious. One surveys the "mighty past" through a medium like that of a cheerful and lightsome summer morning ; to the other, the view seems overshaded by a calm and gentle twilight. One calls up the shades of olden love, and beauty, and mirth, the wood nymphs, and youthful gods, and festive monarchs, and heroes who lost all the world for love : the other evokes the legislators, and patriots, and inventors, and poets of old time ; and if he deviates from his own course it is in his own way : — " With moonlight softness Helen's charms Break through the spectred gloom." The one, when once his vision of life, and joy, and beauty is On Montgomery's Writings. 17 broken by a sound of terror, wakes and sleeps no more ; his view is bounded by the sprightly and happy world before him: the other, as the " vision of the tomb" dissolves, looks beyond — his thoughts revert to his own immortal hopes and fears, and he con- cludes in a strain of pensive hope and humble triumph. The " World before the Flood " is, we think, the first of Mont- gomery's performances. The subject is happy ; it is connected with high and beautiful associations ; the age of the patriarchs, as has been well observed, is one golden age ; the beau ideal of simplicity and happiness ; and the spirit of gentleness and affec- tion which the poet has breathed through all his delineations of the domestic life of the patriarchs, imparts to them a beauty which, in its kind, I know not that I have seen equalled. Southey sometimes approaches to it. The Second Canto, in particular, is one piece of chaste and delicious magic from beginning to end ; a consecrated fairy ground — a picture of in- nocent love, touched with an aerial tint, which makes it the more enchanting. I shall quote the address to Twilight from the Sixth Canto : — " I love thee, Twilight! as thy shadows roll, The calm of evening steals upon my soul, Sublimely tender, solemnly serene, Still as the hour, enchanting as the scene. I love thee, Twilight ! for thy gleams impart , Their dear, their dying influence to my heart, "When o'er the harp of thought thy passing wind Awakens all the music of the mind, And Joy and Sorrow, as the spirit biirns, And Hope and Memory sweep the chords by turns, While Contemplation, on seraphic wings, Mounts with the flame of sacrifice and sings. Twilight ! I love thee ; let thy glooms increase Till every feeling, every pulse is peace ; Slow from the sky the light of day declines. Clearer within the dawn of glory shines. Revealing, in the hour of Nature's rest, A world of wonders in the Poet's breast : Deeper, O Twilight ! then thy shadows roll, An awful vision opens on my soul." Among the poems subjoined, I am struck particularly with " The Peak Mountains," " A Daughter to her Mother," and " Departed Days." Of " Greenland" I have scarce time to say any thing. In want of system, and an air of historical detail, it resembles " The West Indies ;" but it contains many gorgeous descriptions of icy scenery, and sweet touches of domestic tenderness. The last Canto, which relates the destruction of the Colony of East Greenland by a succession of calamities, in one rapid succes- sion of magnificent and mournful phantasms — the glories of 18 On Montgomery's Writings. Nature being introduced, as it were, to throw a splendid pall round the departing hopes of man. The poem opens thus : — '< The moon is watching in the sky ; the stars Are swiftly wheeling on their golden cars ; Ocean, outstretcht with infinite expanse, Serenely slumbers in a glorious trance ; The tide, o'er which no troubling spirits breathe, Reflects a cloudless firmament beneath ; Where poised as in the centre of a sphere, A ship above and ship below appear ; A double image, pictured on the deep. The vessel o'er its shadow seems to sleep ; Yet, like the host of heaven, that never rest. With evanescent motion to the west, The pageant glides through loneliness and night, And leaves behind a rippling wake of light." The concluding lines in the following description of a Moravian settlement strike us as of extreme beauty : — " Soon, homes of humble form, and structure rude, Rais'd sweet society in solitude : And the lorn traveller there, at fall of night, Could trace from distant hills the spangled light, Which now from many a cottage window stream'd, Or in full glory round the chapel beam'd ; While hymning voices, in the silent shade, Music of all his soul's affections made." The following is from the last Canto : — " Comes there's no ship again to Greenland's shore i There comes another ; — there shall come no more ; Nor this shall reach a haven : — What are these Stupendous monuments upon the seas ? Works of Omnipotence, in wondrous forms, Immoveable as mountains in the storms ! Far as Imagination's eye can roll. One range of Alpine glaciers to the pole Flanks the whole eastern coast; and, branching wide, Arches o'er many a league th' indignant tide, That works and frets, with unavailing flow, To mine a pcissage to the beach below ; Thence from its neck that winter-yoke to rend, And down the gulph the crashing fragments send. There lies a vessel in this realm of frost. Not wreck'd, nor stranded, yet for ever lost ; Its keel embedded in the solid mass ; Its glistening sails appear expanded glass ; The transverse ropes with pearls enormous strung, The yards with icicles grotesquely hung. Wrapt in the topmast shrouds there rests a boy, His old seafaring father's only joy ; Sprung from a race of rovers, ocean-bom. Nursed at the helm, he trod dry land with scorn : Through fourscore years from port to port he veer'd, Quicksand, nor rock, nor foe, nor tempest fear'd ; % On Montgomery's Writings, 19 Now cast ashore, though like a hulk he lie, His son at sea is ever in his eye, And his prophetic thought, from age to age, Esteems the waves Us offspring's heritage : He ne'er shall know, in his Norwegian cot. How brief that son's career, how strange his lot ; Writhed round the mast, and sepulchred in air, Him shall no worm devour, no vulture tear ; Congeal'd to adamant his frame shall last. Though empires change, till time and tide be past. On deck, in groupes embracing as they died, Singly, erect, or slumbering side by side. Behold the crew ! — They sail'd, with hope elate, For eastern Greenland ; till, ensnared by fate. In toils that mock'd their utmost strength and skill, They felt, as by a charm, their ship stand still; The madness of the wildest gale that blows Were mercy to that shudder of repose, When withering horror struck from heart to heart The blunt rebound of Death's benumbing dart, And each, a petrifaction at his post, Look'd on yon father, and gave up the ghost;* He meekly kneeling, with his hands upraised, His beard of driven snow, eyes fix'd and glaz'd. Alone among the dead shall yet survive, — ^Th' imperishable dead that seem alive ; — ^Th' immortal dead, whose spirits, breaking free, Bore his last words into eternity. While with a seraph's zeal, a Christian's love, Till his tongue fail'd, he spoke of joys above. Now motionless, amidst the icy air, He breathes from marble lips unutter'd prayer. The clouds condensed, with dark, unbroken hue Of stormy purple, overhang his view. Save in the west, to which he strains his sight, One golden streaik, that grows intensely bright. Till thence th' emerging sun, with lightning blaze, Pours the whole quiver of his arrowy rays ; The smitten rocks to instant diamond turn. And round th' expiring saint such visions burn, As if the gates of Paradise were thrown Wide open to receive his soul ; 'tis flown. The glory vanishes, and over all Cimmerian darkness spreads her funeral pall. Morn shall return, and noon, and eve, and night Meet here, with interchanging shade and light : ^ But from this bark no timber shall decay. Of these cold forms no feature pass away ; Perennial ice around th' encrusted bow, The peopled deck, and full-rigg'd masts, shall groVir, Till from the sun himself the whole be hid. Or spied beneath a crystal pyramid ; • •♦ The Danish Chronicle says, that the Greenland colonists were tributary to the kine^s of Norway from the year 1023 ; soon after which they embraced Christianity. In its more flourishing period this province is stated to have been divided into a hundred parishes, under the superintendence of a bishop. From 1120 to 1408 the succession of seventeen bishops is recorded. In the last-mentioned year, Andrew, ordained Bishop of Greenland, by Askill, Archbishop of Drontheim, sailed for bis diocese; but whether he arrived there, or was cast away, was never known. To his imagined fate this episode alludes." VOL. II. C 80 On Montgwnery's Writings As in pnre amber, with divergent lines, A rugged shell emboss'd with sea-weed shines. From age to age increased with annual snow, This new Mont Blanc among the clouds may glow, Whose conic peak, that earliest greets the dawn, And latest from the sun's shut eye withdrawn. Shall from the zenith, through incumbent gloom, Burn like a lamp upon this naval tomb. But when th' Archangel's trumpet sounds on high, The pile shall burst to atoms through the sky. And leave its dead, upstarting, at the call, Naked and pale, before the Judge of all." Among the concluding poems there are some of exceeding beauty. The lines entitled " Incognita " are characteristic (in the conclusion almost too characteristic) of the author. There is a sweetness in the stanza beginning " Somewhere," which reminds me of more than one passage of Bums : — " Image of One, who lived of yore ! Hail to that lovely mien. Once quick and conscious ; now no more On land or ocean seen ! Were all earth's breathing forms to pass Before me in Agrippa's glass, * Many as fair as thou might be. But oh ! not one, — not one like thee. Thou art no Child of Fancy ; — thou The very look dost wear. That gave enchantment to a brow. Wreathed with luxuriant hair ; Lips of the morn embathed in dew, And eyes of evening's starry blue ; Of all who e'er enjoyed the sun. Thou art the image of but One. And who was she, in virgin prime. And May of womanhood, Whose roses here, unpluck'd by Time, In shadowy tints have stood ; While many a winter's withering blast Hath o'er the dark cold chamber pass'd, In which her once-resplendent form Slumber'd to dust beneath the storm ! Of gentle blood ; — upon her birth Consenting planets smiled. And she had seen those days of mirth That frolic round the child ; To bridal bloom her strength had sprung, Behold her, beautiful and young ! Lives there a record, which hath told That she was wedded, widow'd, old ? • " Henry Cornelius Agrippa of Nettesheim, counsellor to Charles V. Emperor of Germany, — the author of ' Occult Philosophy,' and other profound works, — is ■aid to have shown to the Earl of Surrey the image of his mistress Creraldine, in s uBfical mirror." On Montgomeri/'s Writings. fli How long her date, 'twere rain to guess; The pencil's Cutming art Can but a single glance express. One motion of the heart ; A smile, a blosh, — a transient grace Of air, and attitude, and face ; One passion's changing colour mix ; One moment's flight for ages fix. Her joys and griefs, alike in vain Would fancy here recall : Her throbs of ecstacy or pain Lull'd in oblivion all ; With her, methinks, life's little hour Pass'd like the fragrance of a flower, That leaves upon the vernal wind Sweetness we ne'er again may find. Where dwelt she ? — Ask yon aged tree, Whose boughs embower the lawn, Whether the birds' wild minstrelsy Awoke her here at dawn ; Whether beneath its youthful shade, At noon in infancy she played : — If from the oak no answer corae, Of her all oracles are dumb. The dead are like the stars by day ; — Withdrawn from mortal eye, But not extinct, they hold their way In^lory through the sky: Spirits, from bondage thus set free, Vanish amidst immensity. Where human thought, like human sight, Fails to pursue their trackless flight. Somewhere within created space. Could I explore that round. In bliss or woe there is a place. Where she might still be found ; And oh ! unless those eyes deceive, I may, I must, I will believe. That she, whose charms so meekly glow, I» what she only seem'd below ; — An angel in that glorious realm, Where God himself is King ; — But Awe and Fear, that overwhelm Presumption, check my wing; Nor dare Imagination look Upon the symbols of that book, Wherein eternity enrolls The judgments on departed souls. Of her of whom these pictured lines A faint resemblance form ; — Fair as the second rainbow shines Aloof amid the storm ; — Of Her, this " shadow of a shade," Like its original must fade, C2 n et On Montgomery's Writings. And she, forgotten when unseen, Shall be as if she ne'er had been. Ah ! then perchance this dreaming strain, Of all that e'er I sung, A lorn memorial may remain, When silent lies my tongue ; When shot the meteor of my fame, Lost the vain echo of my name, This leaf, this fallen leaf, may be The only trace of her and me. AN AFTER-THOCOHT. With one who lived of old, my song In lowly cadence rose ; To one who is unborn, belong The accents of its close : Ages to come, with courteous ear. Some youth my warning voice may hear ; And voices from the dead should be The warnings of eternity. When these weak lines thy presence greet, ' Reader I if I am blest, Again, as spirits, may we meet Inglory and in rest: If not,— and 1 have lost my way, Here part we ;— go not Thou astray ; No tomb, no verse my story tell ! Once, and for ever, fare thee well." I have just time to point out the " Little Cloud " as one of the most finished pieces with which I am acquainted ; and extract part of a patriotic eflfusion addressed to Britain : — " I love thee, O my native Isle : Dear as my mother's earliest smile, Sweet as my father's voice to me Is all I hear, and all I see, When, glancing o'er thy beauteous land, In view thy Public Virtues stand, The guardian angels of thy coast. Who watch the dear domestic Host, The Heart's Affections, pleased to roam Around the quiet heaven of home. I love thee, — when I mark thy soil Flourish beneath the peasant's toil. And from its lap of verdure throw Treasures which neither Indies know. I love thee, — when I hear around Thy looms, and wheels, and anvils sound, Thine engines heaving all their force. Thy waters labouring on their course. And arts, and industry, and wealth Exulting in the joys of health. I love thee, — when I trace thy tale To the dim point where records fail ; On Montgomery's Writings. 9,3 Thy deeds of old renown inspire My bosom with our fathers' fire ; A proud inheritance I claim In all their sufferings, all their fame ; Nor less delighted when I stray Down history's lengthening, widening way, And hail thee in thy present hour, From the meridian arch of power, Shedding the lustre of thy reign. Like sunshine, over land and main. I love thee,— when I read the layi Of British bards in elder days, Till, rapt on visionary wings,| High o'er thy cliffs my spirit sings ; For I, among thy living choir, I, too, can touch the sacred lyre. I love thee, — when I contemplate The fuU-orb'd grandeur of thy state ; Thy laws and liberties, that rise, Man's noblest works beneath the skies. To which the Pyramids were tame, And Grecian temples bow their fame ; These, thine immortal sages wrought Out of the deepest mines of thought! These, on the scaffold, in the field, .. Thy warriors won, thy patriots seal'd ; These, at the parricidal pyre, Thy martyrs sanctified in fire, And, with the generous blood they spilt, Wash'd from thy soil their murderers' guilt, , Cancell'd the curse which vengeance sped. And left a blessing in its stead. — Can words, can numbers count the price Paid for this little paradise ? Never, oh ! never be it lost ; The land is worth the price it cost. I love thee, — when thy Sabbath dawns O'er woods and mountains, dales and lawni. And streams that sparkle while they run. As if their fountain were the sun : When, hand in hand, thy tribes repair. 