"To be, or not to be, that is the ques tion; Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer powerful example of the sort of writing to which I allude. Gray's Odes might furnish many The slings and arrows of outrageous For examples: and I will here observe, tune," &c. &c.-Hamlet. O wretched state! O bosom black as death! (though I do not say that I acquiesce in the opinion,) that the poet Cowper esteemed Gray the only sublime O limed soul, that, struggling to be free, poet since the time of Shakespeare. Art more engaged!"-Hamlet. Had Cowper lived in our dayshad he basked in the sunshine of our Byron's sublime and varied poetry he would, assuredly, have thought otherwise but, even as it was, he passed rather irreverently over the memory of Milton. However, Gray, though by no means a natural poet, had certainly studied effect, in thought and in language, enough to give him some tact in the sublime. We must, therefore, adduce a quotation or two from his Odes, (his sublime things,) in further confirmation of our doctrine. "Melancholy, silent maid, With leaden eye, that loves the ground." Speaking of Shakespeare, "Nature's darling," the lyrical bard proceeds "To him the mighty mother did unveil Richly paint the vernal year: This can unlock the gates of joy; So much for Gray, whose Odes are perhaps the most celebrated and artificial pieces of composition that ever obtained the distinction of fine poetry. I cannot close my exemplifications of this subject, without citing something from the pages of Byron. It was well said by a writer in the Edin In a remarkably fine and powerful paper on the lamented decease of Lord Byron, Sir Walter Scott observes, "His foot was always in the arena, his shield hung always in the lists; and although his own gigantic renown increased the difficulty of the struggle, since he could produce nothing, however great, which exceeded the public estimate of his genius, yet he advanced to the honourable contest again and again, and came always off with distinction, almost always with complete triumph. As various in composition as Shakespeare himself, (this will be admitted by all who are acquainted with his Don Juan,) he has embraced every topic of human life, and sounded every string on the divine harp, from its slightest to its most powerful and heart-astounding tones. There is scarcely a passion or a situation which has escaped his pen, &c. &c. His genius seemed as prolific as various. The most prodigal use did not exhaust his powers, nay, seemed rather to increase their vigour," &c. &c. burgh Review, that "thoughts that breathe, and words that burn," are not merely the ornaments, but the common staple of his poetry. In making my quotations, therefore, from this illustrious poet, I shall not refer to his works, for there is no possibility of selecting where sublime verses are crowded in every page of many · volumes. The two following passages occur, on the moment, to my mind, and they alone will sufficiently answer my object. In the memorable description of the Cataract of Velino, in the 4th Canto of Childe Harold, Lord B. says— "How profound The gulf! and how the giant element From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent To the broad column which rolls on!" &c. Mentioning Man, in the apostrophe to the Ocean, with which Childe Harold closes, the poet observes"His steps are not upon thy paths; thy fields Are not a spoil for him; then don't arise, And shake him from thee! And then, two stanzas after, in the same apostrophe, he says sublimely— "Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow." Having now, I hope, sufficiently illustrated my argument, by examples from four of England's greatest poets, I shall not encumber myself with any further extracts, which would necessarily be superfluous. I must, however, observe, that, as this style of sublime writing naturally and fitly suggests itself to the mind of true genius, it is not unfrequently aped and affected by little imitators, who possess no genius at all. In the hands of such men, the meditated sublime drops into the ludicrous:-and it is strange enough, that not a few of even Shakespeare's sublime touches of this description partake of a ludicrous, at least of a vulgar character. Indeed, it requires some judgment and discrimination, as well as great genius, always to unite sublimely what is intended to VOL. XV. be sublime: and that style of which I have been speaking is a great feature in the sublime. Refinement of imagination is, perhaps, the surest preservation against the fatal fault of lowering the sublime into the vulgar or ludicrous:-yet, excessive and cautious refinement is sometimes dearly purchased at the expense of strength and vigorous boldness, and it too often defeats sublimity altogether. Hence, Shakespeare, with all his faults, is a poet more replete with noble sublimities of thought and expression, than any one of our more refined genuises-excepting By ron. Collins and Gray. have, perhaps, left us the most fiOf our own poets, Gray and Collins nished specimens of what is, by way of eminence, styled "lyrical poetry.' The grasp of Milton's powers was too wide for this minute species of composition; yet he, too, be-. queathed some fine lyrical effusions. În times, however, distantly subsequent to our great epic era, the minutiæ of our language were more diligently cultivated; and expletives, so frequently and continually used by the old writers, were gradually reprobated and disallowed. Pope, on this particular point, held up a mirror to his contemporaries and to posterity, in the well-known line"While expletives their feeble aid do join." But to say a word respecting the twin bards whom I named first in this paper. Gray's mind was copious and judicious-but not original. Collins is, I think, superior to Gray in moral power. Gray's Odes are the productions of a refined and wellcultivated intellect; those of Collins are, on the other hand, the creations of an independent, vigorous fancy. I would always observe this distinction:-Gray's poems are not creations. In regard to sweetness, perhaps Collins is, in the main, (but I say it with some hesitation,) inferior to Gray, who was excellently and preeminently skilful in the various properties of rhythm. But it is rather si gular that Gray, with all his poli h, presents very numerous defective rhymes. It is quite fair to re U u mark a failing point of this, sort in reference to such writers as I am now speaking of. They are poets of little compass and great labour; every flaw in them is, therefore, glaring. Opening Gray's small volume at random, I find " adores" as a rhyme to" towers"-" below" to "brow"-" youth" to "soothe". "ware" to "cleare"-" constraint" to "bent"-" joy" to descry""men" to "train"- "pain" to "men"-and these all in one ode, that very beautiful one on the distant prospect of Eton College. This defect (for I must really presume to pronounce it a defect) is the only one that impairs or mars Gray's poetical polish. To revert to Collins. He thinks morally, when Gray thinks romantically. They are both, indeed, highly romantic; and I am very much disposed to think that Collins had more native romance of feeling about him than Gray: but Gray clings almost exclusively to the romance of the middle ages; whereas Collins not unfrequently sends his soul back to classical times. But he never thinks pedantically; and his moral tone is always perfectly independent and unfettered. The minds of both these writers were happily tinctured with that spirit of poetical fancifulness, which finely and effectively converts popular superstition into nourishment for the imagination. But the Runic mythology scarcely did so much for Gray as the popular superstitions of the Highlands of Scotland did for Collins. Gray is, always will, and indeed must be, more popular than Collins. The poetry of the latter is generally more abstracted and removed from common apprehension. His noble enthusiasm is high and peculiar; and he sometimes goes far in the choice of expressions calcnlated to embody and concentrate his meaning. Both these poets were curious economists in expression, and they were, in some points of view, equally felicitous; but the expressions of Collins are generally more pregnant with highlywrought imaginative feeling. I hope I shall not be thought to undervalue Gray. He has, however, less reason to complain (if parted spirits complain) of being under valued, than any poet that ever breathed; for certainly the world has made as much out of his few productions as could possibly be made of them by the most ingenious and partial investigation. Nothing of his is lost. But it is his Elegy which has made him universally popular. Yet the assertion, that the 66 Elegy," beautiful and perfect as it is, is "the corner-stone of his glory," is, after all, rather a satire on the poetical greatness of Thomas Gray. On the whole, I would assert, that, if it be a question which of these justly-distinguished writers has left behind him the finest examples of poetical composition, it will be found, that the most competent and attentive readers of both esteem the spirit of Collins more natively poeti cal than that of his celebrated rival. Happy Moments. Doctor Johnson, in his life of Gray, accuses the lyrical bard of " fantastic foppery," for supposing that he could only write at certain times, or at certain happy moments. But the old critic, whatever may be said of his strictures on poetry, was any thing but a man of poetical sensibi lity. Though himself the author of some very correct and meritorious poems, he must, in this part of his high literary character, be accounted rather a rhetorical writer than a poet. He was eminently deficient in that glow of enthusiastic feeling which uniformly characterizes the poetical mind. Every true poet feels, I presume, with Gray, that it is only at certain happy moments he can produce verses to his mind-con amore, and from the heart. This is no affectation. It is undoubtedly easy at all times to a practised writer to compose rhythmical verses; but all rhyth mical verses are not poetry. Certainly, from the head alone," thoughts that breathe, and words that burn," can never be derived. I have always very much admired Bloomfield's simple invocation in the opening of "The Farmer's Boy ;”— "O come, blest spirit! whatsoe'er thou It is this particular kindling swayed awhile by virulent argument warmth" about the heart that impels in support of an old and acknowa naturally-inspired poet to write- ledged name, but it can never ulthat impelled the once-obscure Robert timately be drilled into a preference Bloomfield to write. Artificial ver- of the artificial to the natural, at least sifiers may write without it; but to in poetry. the production of genuine poetry, it is indispensable. But it is not my purpose to enter into this strange dispute. I merely take up the pen at present to notice, "Feel!-Bards must feel, or perish. with surprise, an opinion expressed Till they glow, Our passive breasts no sympathy can know. 'Tis from their warmth we kindle. The soul's beat Spreads to all near from its creative seat. We read just as you pen." Turner's Prolusions, p. 125. I cannot conclude these remarks without citing the following capital lines from Cowper: "When a poet takes the pen, Far more alive than other men, He feels a gentle tingling come Down to his finger and his thumb, Derived from Nature's noblest part, The centre of a glowing heart: And this is what the world, which knows No flights above the pitch of prose, His more sublime vagaries slighting, Denominates an itch for writing." Pope, Bowles, Byron, and Cowper. In 1821, Lord Byron published a very clever, but not very judicious, letter on the Rev. W. L. Bowles' Strictures on the life and writings of Pope. Very many of the opinions contained in that letter are more than questionable; for Lord B. seems to have been infected with the new spirit of ultraism in favour of Pope. Mr Bowles has, in point of fact, done great service to the memory (at least the poetical memory) of Pope. He has revived his poetry, and set all our wits (some of them very high names) to work at raking up all the exaggerated praises, aided by fresh party exaggerations, that ever were bestowed on that most eloquent reasoner and accomplished verseman. I by no means acquiesce fully in Mr B.'s opinions respecting Pope's poetry or his character; yet I certainly think that he is more correct in his estimate than his late illustrious and right honourable antagonist. The public mind may be agitated and cursorily by Lord Byron, in the 77th page of his letter. That opinion is perhaps the falsest piece of literary judgment that ever escaped a critic. Speaking of Pope and Cowper, Lord B. observes, "These two writers, for Cowper is no poet! &c." Cowper no poet, forsooth! Lord Byron could not mean what he wrote; or, at least, if he did, he had changed his opinion of Cowper since writing his " English Bards." It is to be wished that he had not presumed lightly and wantonly to attack so unassailable a reputation. I shall not be guilty of the folly of attempting to institute so unrequired a task as the defence of WILLIAM CowPER'S poetical character. The delightful and impressive genuineness of that character is perceived, felt, and acknowledged, by all poetical readers, at least by those who are not too eccentric to speak their minds fairly and candidly. The author of the "Task" is one of the very few writers whom I should at once confidently pronounce a naturally-gifted poet, a poet as superior in all essential repects to Pope, as Shakespeare to Shirley, or Byron to Darwin. The Alarmed Coterie. On one occasion, being in a company of ladies, (but not blues,) I happened incidentally to speak of romance, or romantic feeling, (I forget which,) and they all immediately were up in arms against me. "Mr. - !" cried the eldest lady, a middle-aged married woman, "you seem very romantic!" Nay, Madam," I replied coolly, "" is there any harm in being romantic?" "Indeed," said she, "I think we are all too prone to be so, and ought to check rather than encourage that sort of thing." "Hem," said I, turning to one of the young ladies," you terie. I clearly perceived that the ladies had mistaken the sense in which I used the word romantic, or romance; and that they imagined (dear loves!) I meant the notion which would be attached to it by a boarding-school girl eloping to Gretna. Accordingly, when the agitation and flutter had in some degree subsided, I ventured to explain. I told my fair, blushing opponents, that I used the word "romantic" in its proper and extended signification, that signification in which it was used by the poetical critic who called Shakespeare the "creator of our romantic drama.' This modest explanation quieted the two married ladies who were present; but I am not sure that the young ladies did not, in their "polite little" hearts, still believe that I must have intended the Gretna-Green notion of romance. Epistolary Description of two Antique There are two large oil paintings in my sitting-room, which, seated leisurely in my own chair, I like much to contemplate. One represents the rocky and sea-girt coast of Robinson Crusoe's solitary island; the other is a formal landscape, (painted many years ago,) through the midst of which a long canal, co vered with small vessels, lazily winds its course. In the foreground of this picture is a very interesting group of rather antique figures: viz. a lady and gentleman, seated (somewhat rudely) with their backs towards us; apparently (by the direction of the gentleman's left hand, and the position of his right) engaged in the contemplation of some distant object ;-two young and extremely beautiful ladies (whose costume I particularly admire) walking, on a broad gravel garden-road, near the bench whereon the above-noticed personages are seated, attended by an elegant greyhound, which (happy dog!) is licking the small white hand of the nearer one;-a dapper-looking footman, standing on the other side of the bench, with two green umbrellas;-a maid-servant, tending a most lovely child, which absolutely seems to speak, while its eager hands and eyes are directed towards the footman, who smiles dissent at the clamorous request, whatever it be, (probably to give it the umbrellas,) just as well-bred servants do in the presence of their superiors ;-finally, a lap-dog, which is barking from the edge of the bench, on the young ladies' side, at the greyhound above commemorated, who (as I stated) is infinitely better engaged than in noticing his impertinence. You must not conclude, from the length of detail, that this landscape is the better painting of the two. The tumultuous and dashing sea, represented in the other, does every thing but roar in your ears, as you contemplate it: the rocks, too, some swelling among the clouds, others shelving into the ocean, all washed and slippery, are very finely conceived and executed. L'Entriguante. Loud in the praise of her lamented lord, Who, half-seas-over, she alleg'd, or more, |