when it has once been directed into its true channel by the hand of time: and they who are worthy to enjoy the riches it bears to them, are always content to wait its coming. Hunt has one other characteristic that we must not neglect to mention. It is the judgment with which he adapts all his images, illustrations, and ornaments to the place in which they occur; so that they never interfere with the predominant impression. A sparkling thought is never suffered to disturb a pathetic feeling-a_bright image is never presented to the eye when it should be swimming in tears. From this it results, that the great charm of Rimini consists not so much in its detached beauties, as in its effect as a whole. This praise and it is no slight one-is of a kind that belongs to very few other poems of the day. Not one occurs to us at the moment, except Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming." dently; and because it has been done at the expence of fixing upon him a manner so peculiarly his own, that he probably could not escape from it if he would. Mr. Hunt's poetry is of a very peculiar character. It has no intense and dazzling lights, and no grand or deep masses of shadow-but is, like Wynants' landscapes, all over spots of sunshine; and like them, what is not sunshine, is yet not shade. Or, if his poetry sometimes puts forth streaming lights, they are not splendid and continuous, but broken and soft and sparkling; like those made by the moon on running water, when the breeze is playing with it. It keeps a perpetual smile about the lips of the reader, which is not dissipated even when it brings starts of tears into Besides these characteristics, Mr. his eyes-for they are always pleasant Hunt's poetry possesses, throughout, tears. It is like the motions of that a quality which is very rare and universal favourite, the robin-red- which belongs to his, at least as breast; which starts up before you in much as to any poetry of the daystrange places, and looks in your face originality. Indeed he has avoided pertly, and yet pathetically. There the tone, and manner, and language, is, running through the whole of it, of any other writer, in a very rea vein of frank, cordial humanity-of markable degree. In fact, he has genial," clear-spirited" thought-done this too much, because too eviwhich is perfectly delightful. It never savours of the lamp or the cloisterbut is such poetry as we might expect to flow from one living in a white cottage overgrown by woodbineswith moss-roses peeping in at the windows-and a "smooth-shaven grassplot just before the door; and within sight of the village green, and hearing of the village bells. It is very musical too-but its music is on a small scale;-not flowing and harmonious, but sweet and springy, and dancing and liquid-like that which is made by the little clock-work or gans they put into snuff-boxes. Mr. Hunt's poetry also evinces, if not a deep and enthusiastic, certainly a lively and sincere love for the beauties of external nature; and a clear and glowing perception of the influence they exercise on the mind and senses and if his eye has not taken a very wide range among those beauties, it has at least looked at them for itself; and has not been wanting in diligence or discrimination where it has visited. His mental eye, too, has glanced a good deal, and to good effect, about the superficies of the human heart, if it has not pierced into its depths and dungeons.-Mr. " Before directing the reader's attention to the immediate subject of our article, we shall endeavour to illustrate something of what we have said by a few extracts from Riminiwithout, however, attempting any thing like a regular criticism on that poem.. The subject of Rimini, though liable to objections, is admirably adapted to the purpose for which it was chosen, namely, that of giving scope for lively and brilliant descriptions of nature and manners, and tender and touching developements of character and passion. It is simply this:-Francesca, the young and lovely daughter of the Duke of Ravenna, is, without her knowledge, contracted to Giovanni, Lord of Rimini, whom she has never seen;-but she is induced to consent to the match by being led to believe that Paulo, the younger and more attractive brother of Giovanni, is to be her husband: and she is not undeceived till it is too late to retract. Paulo and Francesca In the last line of this extract occurs one of Mr. Hunt's peculiarities -faults, as they are indiscriminately considered by many that of using uncommon words in an uncommon manner. Whether this practice be a fault or a beauty, must depend entirely on the taste and judgment with which it is exercised. In this instance it appears to us to be an unquestion able beauty. The verb "swirl," as applied to a ship coming into bay under a light breeze, is singularly expressive. The first canto is occupied by a sort of panoramic picture of the scene through which the procession, which comes to fetch the bride, passes,followed by a most stirring and brilliant view of that procession-closed by the arrival of Paulo, who comes 'as the proxy of his brother Giovanni. Speaking of the effect produced on Francesca by the congratulating shouts of the people, and the sight of the preparations, when she reflects on the occasion of them,-and that she is about to leave her home, and go to that of a husband she has never seen the poet continues tears A keen and quivering glance of appears; Scarce moves her patient mouth, and disA smile is underneath, and breaks away, And round she looks and breathes, as best befits the day. This is exquisitely touching, and true to nature. The prince himself is thus introduced: after a long pause of prepa ration, some one in the crowd, unable to check himself, exclaims, "the prince!-now-now!" And on a milk-white courser, like the air, A glorious figure springs into the square; Up, with a burst of thunder, goes the shout, And rolls the trembling walls and peopled roofs about. The following is a description of Paulo's horse-the first four lines are peculiarly good-so are the two last, as indicating the entire mastery in which a good horseman holds his steed: With a long gleam; and nearer as they go, They see the still Marecchia, cold and bright, Sleeping along with face against the light. A hollow trample now,—a fall of chains, The bride has entered,-not a voice remains ; Night, and a maiden silence, wrap the plains. The remainder of the poem is occupied with the growth and developement of the guilty passion of Paulo and Francesca, and its fatal effects on the lovers themselves, and on all and every thing connected with them. -The third canto opens with one of those extraneous, and mere personal expressions of feeling, which true poets are so apt to introduce into their works, and which thoroughpaced critics are so apt to decry. We cannot help wondering what the hearts and heads of those critics can be made of, who would object to these little egotisms. On her arrival at Rimini, the trusting and deceived Francesca is not slow to discover That she had given, beyond all power to part, Her hope, belief, love, passion, to one brother, Possession (oh, the misery!) to another! A very striking description is here given of the two brothers,-which, without contrasting them too abruptly together, shows all the resemblances and differences between them, so as to make you, as it were, personally acquainted with both. The following is of Paulo No courtier's face, and yet its smile was ready, No scholar's, yet its look was deep and steady, No soldier's, for its power was all of mind. Wisdom looked sweet and inward from his cye; And round his mouth was sensibility. The husband of Francesca is, equalTy with his brother, skilled in all these accomplishments which give "knightly fame," but The worst of Prince Giovanni, as his bride Too quickly found, was an ill-tempered pride; Bold, handsome, able, if he chose, to please, yet infected with that fatal fault, which is perpetually breeding discord in wedded life-from the palace to the cottage:-he was not careful, or not skillful in Scattering smiles on this uneasy earth. The progress of the fatal passion of the lovers is now described with admirable truth and delicacy. In Francesca it had existed, though unconsciously, from their first meeting; and it is increased, if not created, in Paulo, by his now learning,-what he was ignorant of before,-the means by which she had been beguiled into the marriage with his brother.-The following is beautifully natural, as indicating the state of mind of Francesca at moments when she has been suffering from the proud and harsh temper of Giovanni: At times like these the princess tried to shun Would realk into the air There is now a charming description of the gardens attached to the palace, and of a beautiful antique summer-house, which was Francesca's favourite retreat. Here she had brought a lute and a few books; Here would she lie for hours, with grateful looks, Thanking at heart the sunshine and the And all that promising, calm smile we see In nature's face, when we look patiently. But we can make no more room for extracts from this part of the poem, except for the following,-which seems to us to be, in its class, the very perfection of poetry and nature. Francesca had come one summer afternoon to this pavilion to read, The book she had chosen was Launcelot of the lake, a bright romance, That like a trumpet, made young pulses dance, Yet had a softer note that shook still more. The leaf, to which her thoughts ran on Ready she sat with one hand to turn o'er before, The other propping her white brow, and throwing And Paulo, by degrees, gently embraced With one permitted arm her lovely waist; And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree, Leaned with a touch together, thrillingly; Old comforts now were not at her command: The falcon reached in vain from off his stand; And o'er the book they hung, and nothing The flowers were not refreshed; the very said, And every lingering page grew longer as they read. We close our remarks on this canto by noticing, that Mr. Hunt, in his acknowledgments in the preface, has forgotten to mention the following lines from Dante, which he has at p. 78, translated almost literally: La bocca mi basciò tutto tremante: Galeotto fù il libro, e chi lo scrisse : Quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante. Inferno, C. 5. And he has referred to the "second" canto of the Inferno, for the story of Paulo and Francesca, instead of the fifth. The greater part of the fourth canto is beautifully written. Guilt is followed by repentance and remorse in both the lovers; but its effects are chiefly to be seen in Francesca. We will not shrink from saying, that English poetry contains nothing more exquisitely simple, and natural, and touching, than the following: But she, the gentler frame,-the shaken flower, Plucked up to wither in a foreign bower, The struggling, virtue-loving, fallen she, The wife that was, the mother that might be, light, The sunshine, seemed as if it shone at night; The least noise smote her like a sudden wound; And did she hear but the remotest sound 'But worse to her than all (and oh! thought she, That ever, ever such a worse could be!) The sight of infant was, or child at play; Then would she turn, and move her lips, and pray, That heaven would take her, if it pleased, away. Here is not a single superfluous or misplaced thought or expression; and yet every thing there should be. We can make room for no more extracts, except the passage describing the death of Francesca. In her sleep she discovers their guilt to Giovanni -he accuses Paulo, who confesses it the brothers fight-Paulo rushes on the sword of the injured husbandand dies. By the dying directions of Paulo, his squire informs Francesca of what has happened, and then leaves her to herself. She had previously endeavoured to rise from her bed, but found herself unable. on fine nights in May Young hearts betrothed used to go there to pray. This is, to say the least of it, superfluous; and we advise Mr. Hunt to. omit or alter it, in future editions. After what we have said, he will not doubt of our advice being given in a friendly spirit. We come now to the less necessary, and certainly the less pleasant part of our task-that of pointing out Mr. Hunt's peculiar faults. We call this the less necessary part of our task, because they are precisely such faults as will strike every body and chiefly those who have not taste or sensibility to discover his beauties. They are for the most part faults of system-or rather faults arising from carrying a system too far. Systems are almost always bad things; but when applied to poetry,-a business of impressions, and impulses, and passions they are sure to be so. Mr. Hunt was among the readiest, and certainly among the most candid and discriminating, in pointing out the errors into which Wordsworth had fal len by following a system too far ; and then he is the very first, after Wordsworth, to fall into the same kind of errors, on the same account. In endeavouring "to recur to a freer spirit of versification," he writes such lines as the following, which are no versification at all:-speaking of the different ways in which the knights wore the "memorials of their lady's love"he says some had them tied about their arm, some at the breast, Some, with a drag, dangling from the cap's crest. P. 14. In employing " as much as possible an existing language,-omitting of course mere vulgarisms and fugitive phrases," he uses the "mere vulgarism" of "with that" p. 10, in the sense of then, and says that Francesca "had stout notions on the mar stout rying score," p. 27; and that on a certain occasion she looked up "half sigh, half sture," p. 33; and speaks of "the glass that told the shedding hours," p. 52-which is no " existing language" at all." On the other hand Mr. H.'s practice sometimes directly opposes his system: he says that "the proper language of poetry is in fact nothing different from that of real life," and then he uses such inversions as these: By four and four they ride, on horses grey. P. 12. Busy he was just then P. 27. But virtue reverenced he. P. 50. Nay, scarcely her sweet singing minded he. P. 54 55 forth come again Of knights and squires the former sprightly train. P. 106. But after all it is but a sorry business, the pointing out such faults as these. It is the dirty work of criticism, and we are glad to escape from it. But if we were not to find fault where there is cause-and perhaps sometimes where there is not-nobody would, now-a-days, care a farthing for our praises. We find that Rimini, as it does whenever we take it up, has detained us longer than we intended it should; so that we must curtail what we wished to have said on the poems which are the more immediate subject of our article-Hero and Leander, and Bacchus and Ariadne. But it is the less necessary to speak of these at much length, because they |