world are tosing, hallelujah! this is the author of the "Sibyl Leaves," the great poet-who has published another book. From the first part of the preface it appeared that "detached poems were offered the more confidently on the ground of their being detached, but it is not so. It appears to me indeed almost impossible that in the overwhelming mass of poetry still increasing, detached poems, of whatever merit or demerit they may be, can endure for any length of time. It may then be asked, thinking so, why do I now publish such? I answer, my wish is simply to be appreciated by them for a capability of rising to a higher subject, and thus establishing for myself some faint recollection hereafter, when the task to which I am now devolved is completed; and this I think will be considered satisfactory and moderate. Very moderate, and very satisfactory indeed; but neither so moderate nor so satisfactory as what comes afterwards. We shall now see why it is the great poets do not now spring up to succeed the great who are going by; and this will account for Mr. Reade's bespoken celebrity. It strikes me that the poets of the present day (of course those who have long since taken their niche in Fame's temple excluded) want an aim in what they write. Dramatic poems and pieces are almost daily offered us, written with more or less force and elegance, and are admired, and then laid down; they pleased for the hour, and attempting no loftier effort-are forgotten. I think the only chance a writer has of being named a century hence is, instead of wasting away his powers on sketches and madrigals, to concenter his scattered energies to one point, [what point?] to form a regular design, and build up a whole, in which he might [may] develop the habitual philosophical bias of his mind, and infuse all his peculiar modes of thought and feeling. [Here is an aim !] It might, or might not be, a "monumentum ære perennius," at all events the attempt would show a noble ambition, and consequently an aspiring mind, which would be honourable even in its failure. [Not a bit more honourable than any other miscalculation.] The various works of the eternal Byron all more or less point to one end: [to what end ?] those of Wordsworth, though by a very different path, do the same; and a glow of enthusiasm, and a generous love of liberty pervade, [are these ends? a pretty tale] and are caught alike from the strains of Moore and Campbell. As to Coleridge, I, as one among the countless admirers of his transcendantly fine genius, can only hope his career is not yet done. In a subsequent paragraph Mr. Reade explains the reason (for nothing must go unexplained) why he has given the name of Sibyl Leaves his work the reason is, "that he could find no other name." Surely it was not so utterly impossible?-there are other appellations which might have been thought equally appropriate. We can see nothing so prophetic in them as to remind us of the Sibyls or their leaves. But our readers shall have an opportunity of judging. Great poetical talent would not exonerate the author from the chastisement merited by arrogant folly; much less is he to be screened by the slight defence which these poems can afford him. Mr. Reade's poetry is of that flatulent description which most frequently blows up young men of indifferent digestive powers, with a notion of their own sublimity. It is vague-it is wordy-it is high sounding, and altogether thin and unsubstantial-the reader knows not where to have it. The sense flickers about his brain like a shadow, and is never caught. Through this sublime no-meaning, the poet wings his lofty way, and as he toils on among fog and mizzle and rain, no doubt hugs himself with the idea that all the world is staring at the altitude of his flight. He may not be entirely wrong; there are many people who think the better of writing because it is incomprehensible-some because it is the part of the ignorant to wonder at what they cannot understand some because they amuse themselves with the task of depositing their own meaning in the words which the author has arranged for the reception of his own. But this is only done in the case of great names-a Kant, or a Goethe, or a Boehmen, never want a meaning-nay, fifty-in the minds of the faithful. We will take as an example Mr. Reade's poem, entitled, The West Wind-we consider it about the best in the book: had this poem been attributed to an Apostle in poetry, it had not wanted many fine interpretations. The words are poetical, the metre is rhythmical; and there is a kind of wildness about it such as young poets have who go about plantations, gravel walks, and canals, with an open shirt collar, and a little volume (" Boscan or Garcilasso") in their handsand who call the said plantations, gravel walks, and cauals-groves, wood paths, and fountains. Hear me, even now, thou Spirit of the Air! Thou viewless thing, that as a presence dost give Life and elastic gladness-Oh, that I were Like thee, a bodiless essence; and could live All freshness and all purity; and leave The passions that do waste this clay behind, No more for aught of earth, but like thee, Wind, And pass away at last like melody when done. III. Child of the elements! who so blest as thou? IV. I hear thee now the scattered leaves are sighing And hope with them lies buried-unlike thee, Ꭰ V. Requiem of Melody! chaunted as from heaven, What dost thou teach me? nothing can be known; That I, like thee at last, shall find my place of rest. Were we to end here, Mr. Reade might cry out upon us, and declare that we had been ill-natured, unjust, and God knows what! To avoid such a scandal, we must, greatly against our inclination, give further specimens of his quality. That we may not entirely throw away our space, we shall select the poems we are inclined to esteem the best. It is possible they may please some of our readers whose tastes differ from ours-we will at least hope so in charity. We think the poem called Sunset is what young ladies call "beautifully wild." It is no doubt true, that if slipped in at the end of some of Byron's "metaphysical" (!) poems, it would pass muster as well as several of his "dreams and darknesses." SUNSET. I adore The Sun, that looks upon his worshipper, O thou departing god! Or idol of that God-before whose brow The clouds, and heaven, and earth do robe themselves I see thee still-and feel thy warmth of rays, They feel, who stand before the Almighty's throne, Absorbed and lost in light ineffable! Of clay, which, quickened by thy beams, grew up And springing thoughts, and passion, life, and love, Glowing with light and beauty, and man's heart Thou sink'st and nature fades: her energies, And all her mighty action is at rest; Sinks and lives on through ruin, and the nations A spark of kindred immortality; And truth and wisdom; and knelt to thee in temples Not reared by human hands, but on the mountains The free and natural steps to thy great shrine, Where thou wert worshipped o'er the hosts of Heaven! From this all beautiful earth, o'ercome with love, Dost change in heaven-for worlds as atoms change Stand, and while stars as dew-drops melt before thee O thou most living light! I have drawn from thee And a deep knowledge of the world; from boyhood A wanderer on the hills. I watch thee now And feel ambition: not to rise o'er men Or to be loved or feared; I would not die A record not of pride, but gratitude, To tell of one who was who blessed thee once, And left his words to be forgot, or dwelt on With an affectionate memory. For oh, thou sun! Like the Chaldean I have bowed to thee, And from the mountains, and the ocean waves Stretched forth my hands to thee, while thou didst take Thy glorious departure from the world! Thou didst inspire me like a prophet then, With thoughts sublime, and visions not my own; The good, the beauty of things visible! And through this film of sense that darkens all Farewell-if I inherited too much Of thy Promethean fire, making me here To tremble and to suffer, then shall part And sleep in calm quiescence; or through space Float on thy beams, and dew earth's sleeping flowers: And whither may this animating soul Wander, thou glorious centre, but to thee! To an Autumn Rose is another address in a different style, with which we shall conclude: it is indeed an imitation of Moore's "Last Rose of Summer." TO AN AUTUMN ROSE. And is thy beauty gone, Yon sun that shines brightly And leaves thee forsaken! Thy day thou has revelled, And those seared leaves beneath Shall, torn and dishevelled, Be tossed o'er the heath. Yet why should I mourn thee, No sorrow hath worn thee Thy life was bereft not Of joy unconfined; Thou art gone-and hast left not One tear-drop behind. St Adresse. DE VERE.* In our review of Tremaine, we estimated its author rather as a shrewd observer than a profound philosopher. The present work confirms this impression. De Vere is superior in every way to its predecessor, and if it has not altered our opinion of the nature of the writer's capacity, it has very much exalted our opinion of its powers. He is not, we repeat, a deep or an accurate thinker, but he has looked at the world as a painter views a landscape, with a fine perception of every variety of hue and form, though uninstructed and perhaps incurious respecting their causes. The artist may not sketch the less faithfully, or feel a less lively sense of the beauties of nature, because he is unacquainted with botany, geology, and astronomy; and our author may not paint humanity in many of its nicest phases with less exactness because he is not profoundly grounded in moral science. He has seen much of men, and seen them well, with a piercing sight and a liberal allowance for peculiarities, a just distaste for littleness in all its disguises, and a fervent love of simplicity and singleness of mind. He notes, but he does not rage, against foibles, while he pourtrays the virtues with a tone of calm enjoyment which indicates the depth and sincerity of his pleasure in the task, and gives a rich De Vere; or the Man of Independence. By the Author of Tremaine. In four Volumes. London: Colburn, 1827. |