With relation, indeed, to the ass, which was the|ditional anticipations of universal man. What original tenant of this sign, he is described by the mythologists as having prevented the violation of Vesta, or the earth, by his bray-another proof of the mystical importance attached to the image of Silenus. The winged ass Zif, which carried Mahomet to heaven, is, beyond a doubt, an oriental version of the fable of Pegasus; and while it shows the inveteracy with which old fables maintain their ground, corroborates still further my induction as to an ass having been the original occupant of the sign Cancer.

REVIEW.

66

inevitable consequences of such a discovery, we make,
at these points, the mightiest efforts of which our
minstrel skill is capable, that the frisking of the
dolphins that may be allured to listen to our strains,
may break the resemblance into a thousand fragments
by flinging the spray to intercept the sunlight ere it
reaches the bosom of the river. Still, though the
"spirits of the vasty deep
may thus be invoked to
our assistance, and though, indeed, they may come
when we do call them," they cannot entirely conceal
the deception which we would fain practise even on
ourselves. We, in common with others, though we
cannot assert that the trees, and the rocks, and the
clouds, are verily imaged in the wave, are never-
theless conscious that if these had been wanting, the
monotonous reflection of the vault of heaven would
only have been relieved by the whiteness of the spray,
instead of being decorated with the varying tints with
which it is adorned. A similar consciousness forces
itself upon us when we are examining the works of
others. We feel assured that we can trace the parentage
of the offspring by a certain indefinite, but striking,
family likeness. We are able to recognise, and to
point out some of the points of correspondence; but
there are others from which, though uncommunicable,
we ourselves might have traced the relationship. This
recognition is satisfactory to our own minds, and the
mere mention of it to others, gives them a clue to a
similar train of recollections. They are then equally
convinced with ourselves, though they are also equally
unable to exhibit the data on which their conclusion is
grounded.

We were conscious of a recognition of this kind on our first perusal of "Sir Launfal," and this induced us in our former notice to state our opinion that it was in some part a borrowing from Byron. We then merely mentioned the style as the ground for our notion, we will now transcribe a few examples, which we think will bear us out.

"There is nothing in the world (that is in Trinity)
To make us poets happy;" &c.

"The world imagines, (but the world's an ass.")
"They-but I won't philosophise-in short," &c.
"Wisdom doth live with children round her knees,
Says Wordsworth, and he says what's very true.'
"The appearance instantaneously displayed,

(I borrow that last line from the excursion,") &c.

Since, however, "we won't philosophise, but will be read," we will not bore our readers with any more of these fragmental extracts, though it would be easy to find many more apparently fitted to sustain our position. We take the first that present themselves, and we think that those who are familiar with the mannerisms of the "misanthropic peer," will detect, even in these, the shadow of his mode of borrowing from others, as well as a great likeness to his method of using parentheses. Were we to hear a speaker adopting the intonation and gesture of another, and moreover giving a similar turn to his sentences, we should consider ourselves justified in calling such an one an imitator, though he might be giving utterance to sentiments and ideas most entirely opposite to those of his model. It is in this manner that we accuse Mr. Moultrie of imitation, and the charge is assuredly not a very grave one, if it be the fact, as Sir Joshua Reynolds asserted, that no man produces more than two essentially original ideas in his life time.

There are many points of close resemblance in the description of the dwelling of the Fairy, and the introduction of Sir Launfal thither, and that of the residence of Gulbeyaz, and the presentation of Don Juan. We know that either poet might take his ideas from the descriptions of oriental travellers, and that

hence they may not be less original in the one than in
the other; but after those ideas have been transferred
from their original soil to the province of poetry by
one author, a like use of them by another has very
much the appearance of a trespass on a property to
which the other has, in some measure, acquired a
claim by right of priority of possession-he has planted
the flag of his country on the newly discovered land,
and he who comes after, though he may never have
heard of the visit of the former one, cannot demand
to be considered as the discoverer. Thus, similarity,
or even an almost identity of ideas, does not of itself
constitute anything more than a vague species of cir-
cumstantial evidence in proof of plagiarism, since it
may result from each writer drawing his inspiration
from the selfsame source. In the description of
similar scenes by different poets, we must of course
expect a similarity of sentiment, and that resemblance
will be the more striking the more completely each
one is the pupil of Nature. In verse, the style and
manner are considerably influenced by the form of
stanza that is adopted-and if these two poets, whom
we have supposed describing kindred scenes, should
chance to use the same form of stanza, the probability
of close correspondence will be proportionally greater.
It is a dangerously daring attempt to sing in the
stanza of a greater bard, if we are treading on any
portion of the territory that he has previously occu-
pied-yea, though we only here and there make
transient incursion over the boundary line. We say
it is dangerous, for it virtually challenges a comparison
-and not only this, but the embodying of the thoughts
which are floating around us, and which we feel
ourselves at liberty to seize, even when our endeavours
have rendered them incarnate, seem like the property
of our predecessors, because their material frame
seems to have been cast in the same mould. They are
like the miserable plagiarism of Prometheus, claimed
and appropriated to the honours of the maker of the
model. Having selected the same metrical arrange-
ment, and often necessarily touching on scenes pre-
viously dwelt upon by Byron, we believe that Mr.
Moultrie could not have avoided a certain approxima-
tion to the character of the earlier work. We are the
more willing to believe this, inasmuch as we ourselves,
since the writing of our former article, have tried, by
way of experiment, some dozen of similar stanzas;
and when we wrote these, we were not aware of
having copied Mr. Moultrie, but on examining them
critically, and comparing them with Sir Launfal,
which we had previously been pondering, we found
that we were sad plagiarists-and, therefore, after ex.
punging some lines, we were constrained, even by way
of salvo, to write above the verses "after the manner
of Sir Launfal." Our verdict, then, as it regards this
piece, is, that the author has been guilty of an error
of judgment in his selection of the stanza and style,
yet not by any means deficient in skill as it regards
the subsequent management.
We have dwelt thus
long on this piece and on the subject of plagiarism,
because we wished to be just in our critique, and
because, moreover, we were desirous of introducing a
mode of criticism that cannot be too generally resorted
We have heard of a village orator who paused in
the midst of his harangue, and called out lustily to
some who were smiling, "If you think you can do
better, come up and try." This illustrates our mean-
ing. We know that we could not, and, therefore, we
will not condemn, though we will lightly censure an
author for not bestowing a little more care, by which
the resemblances might have been rendered unblame-
able-we think he could have done better. We will
only add on this point, that we cannot help surmising
that the stanzas on immaterialism at page 266 would
never have been written if it had not been for those

to.

beginning "When Bishop Berkely said there was no matter," &c.

We now turn to the more agreeable task of pointing out some of the praiseworthy parts, and these, indeed, are not few, though we must content ourselves with a scanty selection. Our author tells us, in more than one place, that description is not his forte; yet we esteem the following extract as a proof of no mean descriptive power. His hero has been reduced from rank and wealth to poverty, and is now wandering in quest of solace from his care:

"Twas summer-the enchanted forest lay,

Rich with the teeming leafiness of June,
In the still silence of meridian day,

Save when, at times, a low and fitful tune
Some wandering Zephyr on the leaves did play,
Or the unseen Cicada hailed the noon
With his shrill chirp, or, with a deep-fetched note,
Some meditative blackbird cleared his throat.

There were some children, playing in the shade,
In one place, on their earnest sports intent;
When a new sound did suddenly invade

Their gambols, and anon their eyes were bent
On an unusual object-through the glade

A handsome knight, upon a steed, sore spent With travel and starvation, took his way;

The knight was young, but pale, the steed-a bay.

His eyes were sunk and dim-his head was bare;
His arms hung idly at his saddle bow;
There was a pensive sadness in his air,

Which told that he had made fast friends with woe;
And yet a gentle patience lingered there,

Softening his haggard eyes-his pace was slow;
Listlessly on his way he seemed to wend,
He knew not whither-without aim or end.

The little children looked upon his face

With awe, and turned not to their sports again
When he had passed; his melancholy grace

Sank on their spirits with such tender pain:
The knight soon reached the forest's loneliest place,
Dismounted, and took off his charger's rein;
Then, throwing his worn frame beneath a tree,
Began to gather daisies tristfully.

'Twas poor Sir Launfal, who had lately bidden
Farewell to Blanch, and all the world beside;
And thus far on his lonely journey, ridden,
Seeking some savage place, wherein to hide-
What every body wishes to have hidden-
His poverty

He stood amidst a region fair and proud,
Round whose horizon, lost in viewless space,
Mountain on mountain rose, like cloud on cloud
In the bright sun-set sky, and at their base
Fair valleys spread, and mighty forests bowed,
And gentle rivers ran a pleasant race;
And giant lakes lay scattered here and there,

And sweetest scents and sounds were floating every where."

The introduction of ludicrous and quaint expressions, and sometimes even of vulgarisms, is conventionally tolerated in the style of poetry, of which Sir Launfal is an example; but though they are not to be regarded as incompatible with the general design of such nuga of song, they are evidently blots in poems of a graver character. They belong to the slang of a free-andeasy conversation style, not to serious efforts, and in the latter they are as much misplaced as a figure of Hogarth's comic sketches would be in a classic composition of Titian's. There are several slurs of this kind occuring in the sonnets of the present volume. "Nine years, nine mortal years, have swifty passed," is an expression we do not admire.

"Said I thou wast not beautiful? in sooth

If that I did, shame blister my false tongue," is equally ungraceful; and could, we imagine, scarcely win the thanks of the lady panegyrised. "Love's May-day" is sufficiently laughable. It is really enough to make an imaginative mouth water to hear the reference

"To the first tumultuous' kiss,
Harbinger of years of bliss;
To the mingled tear and smile,
Throb and thrill at Upton stile;"

but the salivary pores are unhappily constringed by
the remembrance of the record of the preceding page.
"Now the days are altered quite,

Thou must work and I must write;
Thou hast children three to teach,
I have sermons three to preach;
Thou hast clothes to make and mend,
I've a straying flock to tend;" &c.

This might do very well for Mrs. M., or for a book
of nursery rhymes, to teach the infant mind the theory
of an art, which we for the most part learn practically
full soon; but we do not think this exhibiting of the au-
t..or's skill, in courtship, &c., is altogether fit to publish
among "Poems." There is also something extremely
puerile in the " 'Farewell to Herne Bay." The loveliest
characteristics of the domestic sanctuary, and the
sweetest and best feelings of the domestic bosom, lose
their native charm when they seem to court publicity.
We feel that we have been rather severe in our stric
tures; but, be it remembered, indiscriminate praise is
more scathing than the bitterest of invective; we have
only pointed out some fruitless branches which might
advantageously be sacrificed, but we are very far from
wishing that the tree itself should be consigned to the
axe. There is a sweet and an elegant breathing of
regret, that the best energies of our author were
allowed to pass away unconsecrated to sacred song,
with which we fully sympathise, and which we feel
sure our readers will thank us for introducing to their
notice.

"I must not think to have my name enrolled
Among the names of those who gave to God
Their strength and fervour of poetic thought.
The days are gone wherein I might have framed
Lays which, outlasting my own span of life,

Should, when my bones were dust, have warmed the hearts
Of Christ's true servants; ne'er in after years
Shall my sweet babes associate with the thought
Of their lost parent, the fair name of one
Bruited in good men's mouths, for rich bequests
Left to the pious and reflective heart,
In tuneful records of his own calm thoughts,
And meditative intercourse with heaven.
Nor sage, nor scholar, nor world-weary man,
Who seeks a respite from heart stifling cares
In poesy's domain, nor saint devout,
Yearning for pious sympathy, and fain
To vent the feelings of his own full heart
In the rich breathings of religious song,
Shall have recourse to me, or count my lays
Among the pure refreshments of his soul.
My song will not be sung on winter nights
By cottage hearths, nor elevate the soul
Of sun-burnt peasant or pale artisan,
Forgetting their six days of care and toil,
In the calm gladness of the Sabbath eve,
And leading up their children's thoughts to heaven
By grave and pious converse, interspersed
With psalms and hymns and spiritual songs,
Making the heart's rich melody to God.
My spirit must not mingle after death
With the free spirit of my native land,
Nor any tones, from these poor chords sent forth,
Linger upon her breezes, and be heard
Faintly, and yet with no discordant sound,
In her full chorus of religious song;
So I shall rest unhonoured in my grave,
And unremembered."

We are not sure whether Mr. Moultrie has not condemned himself rather too sweepingly; we share in his regret, for he would have been a valuable addition to the list of our sacred poets; judging from the talent displayed in the volume before us, and even now we do not despair of seeing a volume from the same pen that will deserve our warmest congratulations. We do not think "Time is past" with our author; and we therefore again would express a wish that he will not allow his power to slumber. We would remind him that the servant to whom ten talents where intrusted did not bury even one.