His nest, where the foul bird of avarice* hath made Mourn, land of the victor! our curse shall remain, MIDNIGHT, THE LAPLAND SACRIFICE, AND THE ISLE OF FOUNTS. Ir may appear doubtful to some, whether the poetry of feeling, or the poetry of imagination, is of the highest order. Mr. Butler, in his reminiscences, says that Gray's Poems rank higher than those of Goldsmith; but Goldsmith is the bard of feeling, Gray of imagination. It would seem, then, that the preference is given to the poetry of imagination; but of this there is much reason to doubt, though Mr. Butler says that "If all the printed copies of the poems of Gray were annihilated, there is not a county in England, or parish in London, in which all his English and all his Latin Odes, and his incomparable Elegy, might not be supplied by the recollections of some of their inhabitants;" and adds "how very little of Goldsmith is known by heart." We must confess, with all due respect to Mr. Butler's age, long experience, and judgment, we are quite of a contrary opinion. We never knew many who had any pretensions to learning, or even to that "little learning" which Pope thinks "a dangerous thing," who could not repeat a considerable part of Goldsmith; and we never knew any who * The hawk. seemed to have any knowledge of Gray except professed scholars, who, in general, are more desirous of knowing what is admirable than what is affecting. When we read Gray we are led into the ideal world: every thing is new to us, and novelty is always a source of admiration. What can be more admirable, when philosophically considered, than the structure of the universe, the revolution of the celestial bodies, the splendor and glory of the starry heavens, and yet from their being always presented to our view, we never admire them, except when we abstract from our feelings, and make them a source of philosophic contemplation. It is so with Goldsmith: he only describes the feelings, sympathies, and emotions of our own hearts, and we love him for doing so, though we cannot admire him. We feel he is one of ourselves,subject to the same influences; capable of the same affections; and therefore we cling to him, we love to associate with him, as all kindred natures love to associate with each other. Pares cum paribus facile congregantur. It is different with Gray: he writes nothing dictated by his feelings, or by his heart. He appeals to the understanding and the imagination alone. Even in his celebrated elegy he expresses only those sentiments which naturally occur to a philosophic mind in contemplating the final destiny of beings whose existence is limited to a contracted span. Whatever incidental remarks arise from this contemplation in his Elegy, have no reference to the heart, or its affections. He looked only to the intellectual part of our nature, for he wrote not what his feelings, but what his understanding dictated: witness his celebrated Stanza on the destiny of genius. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Gray, then, by describing only the higher characters of mind, by leading us perpetually into the ideal world, is always presenting something to us placed above the low condition of mortality, and which, not only on this account, but on account of its novelty, we are disposed to admire. But Goldsmith describes nothing but what strikes us at once; for even when he describes feelings which, perhaps, we never felt before, we are so constituted by nature, that the moment they are described, they appear feelings with which we are long and intimately conversant. The heart recognizes at once, as something belonging to itself, whatever is congenial to it, whatever it would feel if placed in the same situation with him by whom it is felt. Hence it is, that Goldsmith is a favourite with all men, while Gray is only admired by the learned few, because it is the business of a scholar to know and be able to talk of whatever is considered admirable, and of a superior order. For the same reason, Milton is read only by scholars, while Homer pleases the bulk of mankind. We doubt not, therefore, if Mr. Butler drew his information from a more general ac→ quaintance with society, and rested not his opinion on the learned by profession, he would find that Goldsmith is more generally known, and more generally quoted, than Gray, though we doubt not that those who become, like Gray himself, more fastidious than natural in subjects of literature, study only what they consider placed above the ordinary grasp of mankind. These observations have been suggested by the three following Poems. As the offspring of imagination, we think they possess considerable merit, but, like all other productions of mere imagination, they are more calculated to create our admiration than to secure our esteem, or gain upon our sympathies. We make the observations, however, not to find fault with them, but to draw a distinction between works of feeling and those of imagination. We must add, at the same time, that the latter should always be short, for the imagination will not endure to be exercised long, unless occasionally relieved by those tender and affecting scenes which appeal only to the heart, and on which, consequently, we could dwell for ever. However highly we admire, or profess to admire Milton, we soon tire of reading him, but we can give our days and nights to works of feeling and sensibility. The structure and cadence of the versification in the MIDNIGHT is an evident imitation of the Allegro and Penseroso; but there is an obscurity in the diction, which can never impart the pleasure arising from the perspicuity and distinct individuality of the images with which Milton has peopled the creations of his joyous and melancholy feelings. We do not mean to say there is any real obscurity in the Midnight; we only mean to say that the sense does not strike us as fast as we read, the images being mingled rather confusedly with each other.-ED. MIDNIGHT, Written on the sea-shore, in Norfolk, near a Lighthouse. By the Rev. GEORGE CROLY, A. M. It is the witching hour! The Night And the starry troops are seen, Now the hamlet sounds are o'er, Silent leaves the sea-beach wide; Feeds on echoes dim and deep, As if a spirit bore them by: Singing, his slow team to cheer; |