Lord Byron's poetry is as morbid as Mr. Moore's is careless and dissipated. He has more depth of passion, more force and impetuosity, but the passion is always of the same unaccountable character, at once violent and sullen, fierce and gloomy. In vigor of style and force of conception, he, in one sense, surpasses every writer of the present day. He has beauty sometimes lurking beneath his strength, tenderness sometimes joined with the phrensy of despair. The flowers that adorn his poetry bloom over charnel-houses and the grave! THE DYING GLADIATOR. I see before me the Gladiator lie: He leans upon his hand-his manly brow And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now The arena swims around him-he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes All this rush'd with his blood-shall he expire, There was a sound of revelry by night, The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily, and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell Did ye not hear it? No: 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Aru' arm! it is-it is-the cannon's opening roar Ah! then and there were hurrying to and fro, Since upon nights so sweet, such awful morn could rise! Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, On whispering, with white lips-"The foe! They come, they come!" A fine specimen of Byron's writing may be seen in section xii., allotted to Henry Kirke White. SECTION XX. ROBERT POLLO K. His chief work is "The Course of Time," an admirable poem, displaying more than ordinary poetic ability, and great profundity of thought. Unlike too much of the poetry of the age, it conveys definite and valuable ideas. It is free from that wordy indefiniteness which is the fault of much of modern writing. It presents just views of human character, history, and condition, while the Divine government over our world is correctly and strikingly portrayed. It abounds in beautiful and impressive pictures. It is written in blank verse, and can be read without weariness. One of his biographers informs us that his habits were those of a close student: his reading was extensive; he could converse on almost every subject: he had a great facility in composition: in confirmation of which, he is said to have written nearly a thousand lines weekly of the last four books of the "Course of Time." For so young a man, this poem was a vast achievement. The book he loved best was the Bible, and his style is often scriptural. Young, Y Milton, and Byron, were the poets which he chiefly studied. He had much to learn in composition; and, had he lived, he would have looked almost with humiliation on much that is at present eulogized by his devoted admirers. But the soul of poetry is there, though often dimly enveloped, and many passages there are, and long ones, too, that heave, and hurry, and glow along in a divine enthusiasm. 1 The following description, by him, of a poet, is thought to apply to S. T. Coleridge, whom we have already noticed: "Most fit was such a place for musing men, Happiest sometimes when musing without aim. It was, indeed, a wondrous sort of bliss The lonely bard enjoy'd, when forth he walk'd And sought-sought neither heaven nor earth-sought naught, Of visionary things, fairer than aught That was; and saw the distant tops of thoughts Greater than aught that largest worlds could hold, He enter'd into Nature's holy place, The following extract exhibits a prophetic view of the literature of the Course of Time, particularly descriptive of our own day of multitudinous publications; too many of which are faithfully portrayed in the lan guage of the author, as being "Like swarms Of locusts, which God sent to vex a land THE BOOKS OF TIME, "One glance of wonder, as we pass, deserve Thy wonder stay: like men, this was their doom And oft their fathers, childless and bereaved, Wept o'er their graves, when they themselves were green; And on them fell, as fell on every age, As on their authors fell, oblivious Night, Which o'er the past lay darkling, heavy, still, Impenetrable, motionless, and sad, Having his dismal leaden plumage, stirr'd NOVELS. The story-telling tribe alone outran Lagging, the swiftest number: dreadful, even And room had lack'd, had not their life been short. Thou thus, express'd in gentle phrase, which leaves With nature, with itself and truth at war: SECTION XXI. MRS FELICIA D. HEMANS, born in 1793, of Irish and German origin, passed her youth among the mountains and valleys of North Wales, the sublime and beautiful scenes of which "The produced their natural effects upon her mind. earnest and continual study of Shakspeare imparted to her the power of giving language to thought; and before she had entered her thirteenth year, a printed collection of her Juvenile Poems was given to the world. From this period till her death, in 1835, she has sent forth volume after volume, each surpassing the other in sweetness and power. A tone of gentle, unforced, and persuasive goodness pervades her poetry; it displays no fiery passion and resorts to no vehement appeal: it is often sad, but never exhibits a complaining spirit; her diction is harmonious and free; her themes, though infinitely varied, are all happily chosen, and treated with grace, originality, and judgment. Her poetry is full of images, but they are always natural and true; it is studded with ornaments, but they are never unbecoming." The bright blood left the youthful mother's cheek Like a frail harp-string, shaken by the storm. And she, that ever through her home had moved And timid in her happiness the while, Stood brightly forth and steadfastly, that hour Thy soul is darken'd with its fears for me. Of my desponding tears; now lift once more, The chamois paths, and through the forests go, |