Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

those who, possessed of poetical powers themselves, were capable of more intimately appreciating those of a real poet. Even his faults were not, perhaps, without effect; the somewhat tasteless manner in which he occasionally introduces theological discussion, might gratify a few worthy religionists, who, pleased to see the truths which they perhaps justly hold dear, occupying an honourable place in a collection of fashionable poetry, overlooked the unseasonableness of their introduction: his partial asperity, and coarseness of satire, possessed a recommendation for some minds, which the writer never intended; and the slight human tinge of party-politics, which mingled itself with his noble common-places of patriotism, and his sketches of existing manners, was exactly accommodated to the prevailing opinions of the day. His more obvious and his more recondite merits, conspired alike to make him popular; and thus recommended, it is not wonderful that his writings became the text-book of the patriot, as well as the Christian, and the precursors of a new æra of poetry.

It was natural that success like his should attract imitators; and there was something in the freshness and apparent ease of his manner, which tempted imitation. Among the most successful of his followers, is to be enumerated the subject of the present article; a poet resembling him partially in genius, and more in disposition; and who, though not a mere imitator of his illustrious friend (no man of genius was ever a mere imitator), had yet imbibed so much of his manner and spirit, as to entitle him, without much inaccuracy, to the title of a disciple of Cowper.

The poem by which he is best known, and which is among the most characteristic of his talents and his manner, his beauties and defects, is The Village Curate. This piece embraces a description of the pursuits and amusements of the retired pastor throughout the year. It is in fact a portrait of his own life, in his happy seclusion as a curate, surrounded by the beauties of nature, and blessed in the society of an amiable family of sisters. The matter is composed of lively description, and animated sentiment; the style, with much wilful and fore-purposed prose, contains a sufficiency of vigour, and a frequent curiosa felicitas," which has a pleasing effect. His resemblances to Cowper are more visible here than in some of his other works. Far inferior to his master in genius, he yet has some of his power, and much of his accuracy of painting, together with a playfulness resembling his, and an elevation, and a kindliness of sentiment, which reminds us irresistibly of The Task. The constitutional melancholy, which, though it seldom or never taints Cowper's feelings, as expressed in his poetry, frequently shews itself through them, finds no place in Hurdis; there is a

[ocr errors]

gentle and cheerful, as well as a courteous spirit, diffused through his poem, which is unfailingly agreeable. On the other hand, his religion is less defined, and his piety (if we may say so without unkindness toward so benevolent a spirit) apparently less Christian; and we can fancy that we see a certain want of seriousness and grandeur in his sentiments, when compared to those of the remarkable writer with whom we have associated him.

Of The Village Curate, as it is better known than any of his other productions, we will only give one or two specimens. The following is the exordium of the second part.

"Ye gentle Pow'rs, (if any such there be,
And, if there be not, 'tis a sweet mistake
To think there be) that day by day, unseen,
Where souls, unanimous and link'd in love,
In sober converse spend the vacant hour,
Hover above, and in the cup of life

A cordial pour which all its bitter drowns,
And gives the hasty minutes as they pass
Unwonted fragrance; come and aid my song.
In that clear fountain of eternal love

Which flows for aye at the right hand of him,
The great Incomprehensible ye serve,
Dip my advent'rous pen, that nothing vile,
Of the chaste eye or ear unworthy, may

In this my early song be seen or heard."

The subjoined address to the nightingale is from the same section.

"Now I steal along the woody lane,

To hear thy song so various, gentle bird,
Sweet queen of night, transporting Philomel.
I name thee not to give my feeble line
A grace else wanted, for I love thy song,
And often have I stood to hear it sung,
When the clear moon, with Cytherean smile
Emerging from an eastern cloud, has shot
A look of pure benevolence and joy
Into the heart of night. Yes, I have stood
And mark'd thy varied note, and frequent pause,
Thy brisk and melancholy mood, with soul
Sincerely pleas'd. And O, methought, no note
Can equal thine, sweet bird, of all that sing
How easily the chief! Yet have I heard
What pleases me still more--the human voice

In serious sweetness flowing from the heart

Of unaffected woman. I could hark

Till the round world dissolv'd, to the pure strain

Love teaches, gentle modesty inspires."

Our last extract immediately follows a description of the employments of the "garden-loving maid," intended for his favourite sister Catharine.

"In such a silent, cool, and wholesome hour,
The author of the world from heaven came
To walk in Paradise, well pleas'd to mark
The harmless deeds of new-created man.
And sure the silent, cool, and wholesome hour
May still delight him, our atonement made.
Who knows but as we walk he walks unseen,
And sees, and well approves, the cheerful talk
The fair one loves. He breathes upon the pink,

And gives it odour;

touches the sweet rose,
And makes it glow; beckons the evening dew,
And sheds it on the lupin and the pea:
Then smiles on her, and beautifies her cheek
With gay good humour, happiness, and health.
So all are passing sweet, and the young Eve
Feels all her pains rewarded, all her joys
Perfect and unimpair'd. But who can love,
Of heav'nly temper, to frequent your walks,
Ye fashion-loving belles? The human soul
Your pestilent amusements hates; how then
Shall he approve, who cannot look on guilt?

The second poem in the same volume is of a narrative description, and entitled Adriano, or the first of June. It is perhaps (not even excepting his tragedy, which will be noticed afterwards), the most eccentric of all his poems. The peculiarity alluded to consists in the fearless admixture of prose ideas, circumstances, and expressions, with poetical ones. The fault (so far as it is a fault) is, not that his images and descriptions are familiar, but that they are too familiar for poetry. Still it is a truly pleasing composition-we ourselves, at least, have not spent many half hours more agreeably than that which we past in its perusal. The story need not be detailed-suffice to say, that the prominent events are a birth-day, a wreck, two rescues, the annunciation of a legacy, and a couple of weddings, (with the anticipation of a third,) all occurring within the space of one day, and for the most part delightfully told in the semi

colloquial manner of the writer, with the occasional interposition of long moral discussions in the form of dialogue. We give one specimen, descriptive of the feelings of the dramatis personæ on a supposed domestic calamity.

"O grief, thou blessing and thou curse, how fair,
How charming, art thou, sitting thus in state
Upon the eyelid of ingenuous youth,
Wat'ring the roses of a healthful cheek
With dews of silver! O for Lely's art,

To touch the canvas with a tender hand,
And give a faithful portrait of thy charms,
Seen through the veil of grief, sweet maid, Sophia.
O for the pen of Milton, to describe
Thy winning sadness, thy subduing sigh,
Gentle Maria; to describe thy pains,
Assiduous Fred'rick, to alleviate grief,
And hang a smile upon thy Anna's brow;
To paint the sweet composure of thy looks,
Experienc'd Adriano, thy attempt

To waken cheerfulness, and frequent eye
Stealing aside in pity to Maria.

"Be comforted," he said, and in the sound
Was music ev'ry ear was pleas'd to hear.
But thy availing voice was not like his,
Who bade the deep be still, and it obey'd.

A transient gleam of peace one moment shone,
But sorrow came the next."

His tragedy of Sir Thomas More is written, for the most part, in the same style as the poems just mentioned. Though it does not, as may be easily supposed, rank with our higher dramas, yet it contains much of tenderness and beauty, and many graceful passages; and the admirable character of Sir Thomas More,

[ocr errors]

Journeying on life's common way
In cheerful godliness,"-

is obviously delineated con amore.

The poem which opens the third volume, entitled, Tears of Affection, was written on the death of his favourite sister. It is full of innocent tenderness-yet we cannot help observing, though unwillingly, that it displays an unmanly despondency, an extravagance of grief, to which the author's principles ought surely to have applied a corrective. the same fault as Young, whose continued and somewhat unworthy complaints injure the effect of his animated morality

He has fallen into

and religious aspirations. We quote the following as a specimen of the author's imitations of Cowper.

"Therefore shall you,

Ye gentle doves, familiar to the hand,

Whom goodness long experienc'd has made tame..
And nothing fearful of the touch of man,
Under my roof still live, and still enjoy
Provision plenteous. Isabel your lives.
Redeem'd for pity, and the debt forgave:
Dying herself, your liberty she ask'd
Of thirsty violence; and ye shall fall,
When nature pleases, without shedding blood.
And thou too, tabby fav'rite, tho' thy eye,
Stranger to tears, no sorrow has express'd,
Still sporting on the hearth, tho' Isabel,
Thy fond protectress, is thy friend no more,
Thou, gentle kitten, shalt no morning-meal
With slender tone petitionary ask,
But I will yield it. Sit upon my knee,
And whisper pleasure, gratitude, and love,
For favour well bestow'd: thy silky neck
Still offer to the pressure of my hand,
And fear no evil: frisk upon the floor,
And cuff the cushion or suspended cork
Till riot make thee weary: slumber then
In the warm sunbeam on the window's ledge,
Till from thy fur the spark electric spring;
Or dose upon the elbow of my chair,
Or on my shoulder, or my knee, while I,
Lost in some dream of happiness deceas'd,
Steal from reflection, pleasure, and beguile
A morning's march across the vale of life
By musing upon comforts now no more.
Or if sweet sleep not please thee, with the cord
And dangling tassel of the curtain play,

Or seize the grumbling hornet, or pert wasp,
Intruding ever, while I smile remote

At danger brav'd by vent'rous ignorance,

And anger ill-escap'd."

:

The inscription written by the author for his sister's monument, is quoted from the biographical sketch prefixed to the volumes.

"Farewell, sweet maid! whom, as bleak Winter sears
The fragrant bud of Spring too early blown,

« ZurückWeiter »