By help of dreams, can breed such fear As fall upon us, often as we look That strain is full of music-it is music; and it is in thought sublime. Yet there is something in it-we do not fear to say-not right; something wrong; and that something is an elaborate pomp of words that proves the poet's soul was not so divinely possessed and inspired as, in the elation of his enthusiasm, he believes, and does not hesitate to declare. The very allusion to Milton is not in place. Wordsworth ought to have been absorbed in the contemplation of his own visions; nor had power to remember Milton, his prayer, or the granting of his prayer, more gaining than he asked." But further, since of Milton he did think, and of the Paradise Lost of Milton, how dared he to implore the guidance, and express his need, of a greater muse than Urania,-her who visited Milton's slumbers nightly, and inspired him to sing "Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme ?" And, finally, what is there more fearful and awful than Jehovah-and his thunder-and choir of shouting Angels and Chaos-and Erebus? The mind of man! No. All these are at once realities, and the mind's conceptions. They are the most fearful and awful realities, and they are also the mind's most fearful and awful conceptions. Wordsworth will find none more so in "The haunt and main region of his song." We are entitled to say so; for the Excursion is part of the Recluse, and with all its beauty and grandeur, and it has much of both, where is the single passage that exemplifies this Supra-Miltonic poetry-this fear and awe beyond that of either our waking or sleeping dreams of Hell and Heaven? He goes on to say, “Descend, prophetic spirit! that inspirest The human soul of universal earth, possess A metropolitan temple in the hearts Shedding benignant influence, and secure This, too, wants the simple, majestic, devout, and holy fervour of Milton. It does not roll on, on wheels instinct with spirit. It labours and is pushed forward-by a strong hand indeed-from behind, and has a lumbering motion. No man of woman born, perhaps, has a right, in the highest elevation of his most virtuous and religious conscience, to declare himself a "Mighty Poet;" that the Prophetic Spirit of the human soul of universal earth," (what is that, or can it be, with reverence be it spoken, but the Holy Spirit ?) possesses in his heart a metropolitan temple; and that he trusts his song will shine with star-like virtue for ever and ever, secure from all malevolence and mutation of this nether sphere! James Montgomery, of all the poets of this age, is, in his poetry, and, we believe, also out of it, the most religious man. All his thoughts, sentiments, and feelings, are moulded and coloured by religion. In it he lives, ly as in the sunshine of the open day moves, and has his being; not merewe breathe delight, heedless of the in all his compositions, religious senvoice from which it flows, but he is, sibly, and meditates on all themes with pious attribution of his power vocation, prayer and praise, pervades to Him who gave it. A spirit of inall his poetry; and it is as sincere as it is beautiful. The elements of air, earth, fire, and water, are to him all sanctified, not by poetry alone, but by piety; and his still and deep Moravianism is purely and professedly Christian. In his character of poet he is at once a minister of natural and revealed religion; and he is privileged to preach and to pray-let the insensate shallow smile at these words-in poetry. To poetry he rehis heart overflows with gratitude to sorts in his most pious moods, when God, and with love to man; his inspiration is alike holy in the sanctuary built with hands, the chapel of his brethren, and in the temple not built with hands, eternal in the heavens, whose mighty roof overhangs all the children of men. But suppose all the conditions entirely wanting on which such Invocation is justified, and what then? Why in that case, it grates upon the mind as something shockingly presumptuous; nor, even should we believe that the invoker may possibly think himself pious, can we therefore say that he is sincere; for sincerity before God is one of the highest states of the soul, and we must not give that name to the delusion of self-ignorance, or self-conceit, in which the creature unauthorizedly (assurances are sometimes given which do authorize) claims communion with the Creator. This brings us at once to the case in point,-Invocations to the Almighty, or to the Holy Spirit, or to some angelic intelligence in Heaven, by poor, dull, or bad poets. We recoil from them with a better feeling than disgust; with hatred of profane hypocrisy; or pity for fanaticism, that makes, as we said in our last Number, 66 Fools rush in where angels fear to tread." Thus, in the " Age, a Poem," printed not long ago, but which never can be published, and written, as we formerly said, from internal evidence, by a Tailor, Snip implores the Almighty to inspire his miserable doggrel, till it shall be " ravishing and sweet as ever flowed from harps of angels!" And, no doubt, he thinks his prayer was heard, because Messrs Hurst, Chance, and Co. have, partly to get rid of him, and partly, we presume, from charitable motives, inconsiderately attempted, at his entreaties, to palm off upon the public that dilution of trashiness. Mr Atherstone, again, is a man; we believe from his book, a worthy man; but his invocation now quoted, is, for the reasons assigned, highly improper and indefensible, and must remain; for it never can be expunged from a second edition. It is no answer to these remarks to say, that all human beings, in all they do, be it great or small, are dependent on the will of the Deity. Do they formally invoke Him on every occasion of life? If they do, then the conduct we have condemned is at least free from the charge of inconsistency, to whatever other objection it may be liable; if they do not, then, in the cases supposed, all our objections in their fullest force remain. "Give us this day our daily bread," is a prayer which nature, feeling at all times her necessities, and the pre cariousness of the means by which the humblest of them are satisfied, and their entire dependence on the Divine will and pleasure, hallows in custom; and every meal of mortal inan who liveth here by toil, may be well ate with a pronounced blessing warm from the lips of gratitude. From that humble spirit of grateful faith, that man departs who beseeches, in long prayers, the Divine benison to aid him in the composition of a copy of verses, on which, did he know himself, he is far more anxiously looking for a favourable critique in Blackwood's Magazine, or the Quarterly or Edinburgh Review. Let such writers, we repeat, supposing them to possess some merit more or less, confine themselves to invocations to one or other of the old Heathen Muses-the nine sisters-maiden ladies all; or to their lyre or harp, a piece of harmless wood, with innocent strings of catgut; or to a personification of their own soul; or any other nonentity which they choose to set up as an inspiring idol. Mr Atherstone, having finished his Invocation, and received, we shall for a moment suppose, illumination on his darkness for he had said, "Mine is the deeper midnight of the soul," (A sad and hopeless condition indeed for a poet,) and continues, “The vision comes upon me!" and forthwith discloses the Vision. But alas! what is it--but a long, dull, rambling enumeration of what he conceives to be the component parts of the splendour and magnificence of a great oriental city-and then of the progress of its overthrow! There is nothing visionary in his conception-and it reads like one of the more descriptive bits of the Statistical Account of Scotland Mr Atherput into blank verse. stone is no visionary. A true poet would in three lines have flashed upon us a Vision of Nineveh brighter and more comprehensive than what he has done in thirty. Yet, as it is one of the best passages in the poem here it is: "The vision comes upon me!-To my soul The days of old return;-I breathe the air Her walls are gone-her palaces are dustThe desert is around her, and within— Like shadows have the mighty pass'd away!" Any man with any tolerable command of words could write so; but it will have its admirers. All is ordinary and commonplace-no felicitous flash of imagination in a moment doing a week's work of the senses-no selection of circumstances with a creative power of their own unconsciously urged by genius on its entranced gaze-round which would instantly gather and expand the whole vision of a city— nothing of that mortal gloom belonging to the poet as it was God-given to destruction. But in the midst of it all, we see Mr Atherstone now mending the nib of his pen-now dipping it into the ink-(Oh! how unlike to Shelley's great painter"who dips His pencil in the gloom of earthquake and eclipse," a line of itself enough to make a man immortal,) now pulling out from the slit a provoking hair and finally, on finishing the paragraph, rising up from his chair, and with much complacency spouting it aloud to his own delight, no less than to the astonishment of the cook down stairs, who wonders if her master be mad. But another vision of Nineveh comes upon his soul;" and though we cannot help thinking that a little. more variety would be refreshing, yet, as we wish to give all the best parts of the poem, here is Vision Second "But joyous is the stirring city now: The moon is clear, the stars are coming forth, The evening breeze fans pleasantly. Retired Within his gorgeous hall, Assyria's king The sensual king is clad, and with him sit A crowd of beauteous concubines. They sing, And roll the wanton eye, and laugh, and sigh, And feed his ear with honey'd flatteries,` And laud him as a God. All rarest flowers, Bright-hued and fragrant, in the brilliant light Bloom as in sunshine: like a mountain stream, Amid the silence of the dewy eve Heard by the lonely traveller through the vale, With dream-like murmuring melodious, In diamondshowers a crystal fountain falls. All fruits delicious, and of every clime, Beauteous to sight, and odoriferous, Invite the taste; and winds of sunny light, Rose-hued, or golden, for the feasting Gods Fit nectar sylph-like girls, and blooming boys, Flower-crown'd, and in apparel bright as spring, Attend upon their bidding: at the sign, From bands unseen, voluptuous music breathes, Harp, dulcimer, and, sweetest far of all, This is rather fluent, and we request our readers to admire it as much as they possibly can-nay, to get it off by heart-as an exercise of the memory-and a hard exercise they will find it-for, as in looking at it, every word goes in at one eye and comes out at the other, so is it with your ears, in recitation. What a hubbub of ineffective words! Gilded -golden-sun-splendours-bright hued-brilliant light-sunshinediamond showers-sunny light, &c. Why, ten times the effect of all that laboriously accumulated, but most monotonous imagery could have been produced-has been produced-by Milton, in one short sentence! Yet Mr Atherstone had all the while a description by Milton in one eye, while he was squinting at his own Vision with the other. As to his ears, their drums must be indeed made of leather. Gorgeous-beauteous-melodious-delicious-odoriferous-voluptuous-mellifluous-all in one single page! Then observe how he hastes back and forward in his chase of images, without knowing it! First, "Sardanapalus sits at the banquet, and in love and wine revels delighted." Next we see him and all his concubines say in number three hundred and sixty-five-one-if taken separately instead of collectively-for every day in the year. But Mr Atherstone will not give us credit for so much perspicacity, and insists on our observing, that with the king" sit a crowd of beauteous concubines,"-who, of course, act like concubines in general; "they sing, and roll the wanton eye, and laugh and sigh;" but after proceeding to describe the wines, and the dessert, and the waiters, more particularly-and we have no fault to find with that-why he forgets himself what he insists on our remembering-and finishes off his description with what he thinks a new touch of consummation, but which is as old as the beginning of the paragraph, "woman's mellifluous voice!" Reader, do not, unless you be a dunce, a chance blockhead reading Blackwood, cry-"Pshaw! mere verbal criticism " For to such a test as this must all poetry and painting be rigorously subjected; else the Fine. Arts are the coarsest of all human inventions; and the "whole world of eye and ear" a mere mockery, which may be made to shift at the pleasure of pen or pencil, without fear or love of nature, and in violation of all her essential and eternal laws. But each true poet and painter is, naturæ interpres ac minister; and he will shew that in every word he utters, be he speaking of a molehill or a mountain, a bee-cell or a man-city, the caterwauling of cats or of concubines, the destruction of a gnat or a Nineveh. Sardanapalus, while thus feasting and philandering in his palace, has called round Nineveh the whole armies of all the tributary princes of the Assyrian empire. These, with his own Assyrian troops, amount to two nounced his royal will that they shall millions of fighting men. He has anall march in one vast body for four days round and round the city walls. But many of the chiefs, especially of the Medes and Babylonians, are ripe for revolt and rebellion; and two of baces, are brought before us, with the most powerful, Belesis and Arsome little spirit, in the First Book. Belesis is a Babylonian prince, highpriest and warrior, and skilled in all seers!" Arbaces, tracing his birth from "the dark learning of Chaldea's the long line of Median kings, had sat on a throne had not Media been in thrall to the Assyrian tyranny. During midnight, Arbaces had sought might see what sort of a looking perthe palace of Sardanapalus-that he harem, tyrannized over the world. sonage he was-who, invisible in his Nigh to the palace, Belesis stands waiting his coming forth "The palace gate at length wide open flies, And, like a youthful giant, in bright arms Comes forth the heroic Mede. A cubit's height In stature he the tall Mede overtopped: His tread was like a war-steed's in his pride." That is to say, he came prancing out of the palace. We are told that Arbaces had bribed a slave to bring him by stealth to that place of grandeur and of guilt, and that he had been there, "Unseen of that loose revelry." All right. He was a spy. But how, we ask Mr Atherstone, could a heroic Mede, like a youthful giant in bright arms, have escaped the notice of Sardanapalus, and of his concubines, and his guards? Impossible-We beg leave, therefore, to correct this oversight, and to assure the public that if Arbaces was indeed in the palace, he was up in one of the galleries, in disguise, among the fiddlers. Arbaces instantly breaks out into violent abuse of Sardanapalus—as well he might-calling him "This drunkard-this effeminate this thing, Man-limbed and woman-hearted." But the parson is more prudent, lays his fingers on his lips-bids the young giant jump into his chariot-and away they drive into the country. The whole operation is thus circumstantially described, and looks as if from the of a hackney coachman. pen "That said, in haste, Communing as they went, their way they take. They mount their chariot: thunder o'er the bridge, That spans broad Tigris: on the ample road, Palm bordered, swiftly urge their smoking steeds, Till, far behind, the mighty city's roar Is but a hum; and the gigantic walls Seem unsubstantial as a dream. 6 Enough!' The Babylonian said, and check'd the steeds, 'Here will we stay.'-Forth from the chariot then Lightly they leap the golden studded reins To a strong fig-tree's branch securely tie A leopard's skin on either horse's flank Throw heedfully; then, grasping each his spear, The broad road quit, and o'er the dewy grass, With quick steps take their way." Having walked together to the foot of a hill, on the summit of which stood a sacred grove, for ages consecrate to the Chaldean gods, Belesis bids Arbaces abide below, while he ascends to the top and converses with those that rule the earth. His proceedings are with equal circumstantiality described "The Priest withdrew. Upon the summit of the hill arrived, Amid the holy trees,-his falchion first, And glittering spear upon the ground he laid: His brazen helmet next, and shining mail: Then, in his priestly vestments clad alone, Fell prostrate on the earth. Uprising soon, His arms he lifted, and his kindled eye Turned towards the dazzling multitude of heaven, And the bright moon." He then addresses the moon and stars-and "Saturn and mighty Sol Though absent now, beyond the ends of earth, Yet hearing human prayer-great Jupi Satisfied with what he has seen, he falls down in a breathless trance, and for no reason whatever that we can discover, as he had been previously in excellent health and spirits," lay senseless and motionless." Meanwhile Arbaces walked to and fro, impatient of the coming of the priest-and at last he too has a vision-Vision Fourth-of course in its general features the same as the three preceding-but as longin description at least-as all three put together-and minute to a degree of tiresomeness, that throws into the shade all other possible prosing, past, present, and to come. If |