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members of the same, and therefore good members of society. Let them see that such is our only design; and though some may sneer at first, all will in the end be grateful, as soon as they have felt, and learned to appreciate, the extent of the benefit that has been conferred upon their order.

While this paper is passing through the press, it gives us unspeakable satisfaction to hear that the beginnings of an improved system are made. The order, if we be rightly informed, has gone forth that no new barrack shall be erected without having both a chapel and a school-house attached. The wants of Corfu and Cephalonia are both under consideration; and at home the principal chaplain has entered upon a course of visitations, from which he will never, it is to be hoped, be required to withdraw. Here and there-at Weedon, at Chatham, at Portsmouth, for example-increased spiritual aid is afforded, and a new zeal awakened. May the righteous work proceed; and may honour be to those at the War-Office, at the Board of Ordnance, and not least at the Treasury, who have thus bent themselves to the performance of it. We must not look to reap the benefit of their exertions in a day: such undertakings as these are slow to mature themselves. But if the seed be sown, and carefully nurtured, it must bring forth fruit.

ART. IV. Leaves from a Journal, and other Fragments in Verse. By Lord Robertson. 8vo. London, 1845.

THIS

HIS is a very pleasing as well as a beautiful little volume; pleasing because it is a proof that the successful pursuit of a profession little akin to such relaxations has not hardened the heart or perverted, and, as it were, dried up the taste of the learned author; and beautiful because it really abounds in excellent poetry-more than many of the volumes put forth by professed bards. We must add that there is no small novelty in the event of song being heard from the bench; for we have no recollection of this in any former case, unless it be some happy translations and smaller pieces of Sir William Jones, and some celebrated, and justly celebrated, verses of Mr. Justice Blackstone.

Lord Robertson gives in his preface a very simple and modest explanation of the occasion to which we owe the public appearance of these Leaves and Fragments. He had, on his elevation from the Bar, now first an opportunity of gratifying his wish to visit Italy, and he showed some friends the pages of his Journal when he returned. Their commendations rather unexpectedly rewarded

rewarded his labours and his confidence; and this led naturally enough to his extending the circle of his readers. We may truly say that having very often heard the subject mentioned, and mentioned with some surprise, both among those who only had known the professional and the social qualities of the excellent author, and among those who only knew of his judicial rank, we have never heard but one opinion expressed, and that all allowed this ci-devant brilliant advocate and humourist to have been successful in his courtship of the Muses,

When we proceed to our critical task, let it not betoken any faultfinding spirit, but rather, perhaps, a peculiarity of our own nature, which we share, however, with great critics, our predecessors, that we begin by confessing our dislike of blank verse, and our regret that his Lordship should so cautiously have avoided the charms of rhyme. The very great rarity of success in this rugged line seems to sanction our opinion. Milton, of course, at once presents himself to the mind when the question is raised. But then so is there present the multitude of passages which in even Milton are hardly readable; and so, too, is there present the inimitable beauty of his diction, its wondrous picturesque effect, its mingled learning and sweetness, its music and its force, above all, on grand occasions, its unapproachable sublimity. Assuredly Milton's success is rather fitted to create despair than to induce attempts at imitation. Thomson comes next, and much that has been said of Milton may be repeated here; yet as a landscape painter only, a painter of still life, is Thomson known in blank verse, and beyond all comparison his finest poem is that in which he shows himself a master of rhyme. Of Cowper it is difficult to speak too highly; and after Milton he is the only exception to our rule. Akenside alone remains of all our sons of song, excepting the poets of our own day; and of him it may truly be said that, though successful, he is far behind his predecessor, while of them we may surely be allowed to say that time has not yet been given for ascertaining how the decrees of the great judge the public-will ultimately and permanently be pronounced. That Mr. Wordsworth himself has shown great powers of versification in rhyme, as did Milton in his sonnets, is a circumstance to be flung into our scale-admitting, as we at once do, that many high authorities are against us, and citing, as we are ready to do, in Lord Robertson's behalf the dictum of his celebrated yoke-fellow of the bench,' so long a brother magistrate in our own literary commonwealth, that he could read any number of lines in blank verse, how easily soever he might be tired with middling rhymes.' However, we have said thus much in fairness towards the subject, and also towards the author;

for

for if we have found ourselves pleased and never wearied with his blank verse, it has been because of various merits therein displayed, and in spite of the natural inclination of our taste.

We cannot say as much of his rhythm. Here Lord Robertson
is really often deficient, and it should seem not always from
carelessness, but rather from want of ear. Our first extract, 'The
Simplon,' presents an example of this in the second line, though
for this there may be some defence made-a worse one in the
eighth-and the first would have been better had he transposed
Milan, beginning with it, in compliance with the invariable pronun-
ciation which makes it a trochee. We give the fragment, however,
as a very beautiful one-nay, perhaps the finest in the volume :-
'Basilicas of Florence, Rome, Milan!
With all your architectural tracery

And pomp, what are ye, to this scene compar'd?
These are the temples of the living God,
Rear'd by a mightier hand than that of man,
Their deep foundations to the centre piercing,
Their summits soaring upward to the sky;
Their hoary antiquity creation's dawn!
What are your gleaming marbles, gems, and gold,
To snow-flake resting softly on those peaks;
Or glacier glistening, as the golden sun
This sanctuary vast lights with his rays,
For morning or for ev'ning prayer? Nor lack
They other ornament:-these countless rocks,
With herbage interlaced, and here and there
With mountain rills besprinkled ;-in the clefts,
The trees in bright October's livery clad ;-
Such the mosaic wrought by Nature's hand,
The dazzling garniture of Nature's shrine!
Or with your organ deep, and choral song,
Echoed responsive through your vaulted aisles,
Compare the voice of roaring cataract—
The crash of avalanche: or, 'midst the pines,
The piping wind,-the river's psalmody.
Then say if piety want priest or dome

To point the way unto that God who rides

Amidst the storm-nor slumbers in the calm.'-pp. 56-7. There are not many descriptions to our mind more pleasing than those of Pompeii and Pozzuoli. The former has been more cited and commended, but the latter abounds in merit. The opening description is full of spirit, and some of the lines are admirably picturesque, as those that paint

The lonely pillars of Serapian Jove,

Glassed in the wave which laves their oozy feet.'-p. 30.

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Then follow those beautiful verses, in which we have no objection to urge against what has been a matter of exception, the comparison of Vesuvius to jealousy; for the idea is quite correct and natural, though not obvious, the lava being the very cause of the vegetation which it is afterwards to destroy by new eruptions:

flames,

'What scenes, O Nature, hast thou spread around!
Isles of surpassing loveliness-that seem
The very gems of Neptune's diadem--
Mountains which from the dark blue waters spring,
And to the sea give back an equal beauty-
Sulphureous spots, whose ever-smouldering
Sullenly oozing thorough the burnt marle,
Whisper of fires primeval-while over all,
That mighty monarch, bright Vesuvius,
Making, like jealousy, " the food he feeds on,"
Burns with a splendour inextinguishable;
Scattering his flame and smoke on high to heav'n,
His scorching embers to the tranquil sea.
Lo! at his feet-the clustering vine, the fig,
The cactus, and the olive, and the palm-
The rarer orange with her golden glare,
Glistening amidst the fruits of common growth,
And countless wild flowers, every spot bedecking.
But who the tenants of the land, whose breeze
Breathes living loveliness-and glory gone?
Alas! oppression-crime, her eldest born-
Disease and poverty, falsehood and fraud,
With folly in their train-permeate through all;
Trade seeking truth in vain, to other shores
Unfurls her trusty sails-while learning grave,
The best beloved of freedom-shuns the realm,

And finds in western climes a fitter home.'-pp. 30-2.

Rome is, of course, the great object in all descriptions of Italy; and Lord Robertson has done well here, though we much prefer his lesser pieces. The following passage is excellent-he follows Byron and yet maintains his dignity well: the closing picture being both true and touching-and his own

'Nor suits the scene the pensive heart alone.
Each character of mind finds refuge here.
Bid him who peers with antiquarian eye
Go trace on Trajan's column bas-reliefs,
Or story writ on arch of Constantine,
Of Titus, or Severus; or pore o'er
The faded fretwork of Rienzi's halls.

Or if he pant to realize the past,

Let him contemplate that majestic mound
Within whose halls-amidst their savage games,

VOL. LXXVI. NO. CLII.

2 G

And

And drunk with blood, sat consuls, emperors, kings;-
While overhead, tier upon tier up-piled,
The countless rabble shout the victor's name;
And Roman maidens, tired in festive garb,
Dropt not a tear, as Nubian captive's blood
Welled forth, and set the struggling prisoner free.
All silent now that scene of strife and gore,
Save for the lowly voice of wandering priest,
Muttering his evening prayers before the cross,

Seem dim amidst the stern arena's waste.'-pp. 40-1.

One other quotation we give, because its truth is correct and the numbers are pleasing, and the idea is ingenious. It is in France:'

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'He who loves

Thy rule, O Nature! knows, where'er Thou art,
There beauty dwells to consecrate the scene.
Even so, fair France, with thee :-Plenteous the vine,
Though lowly; rich the pasture of thy fields;
While cottage sweet, village and pleasant town,
Besprinkle thee;-and cheerful peasants smile,
Through all the plains of bounteous Burgundy.
Go tell the man who sees no beauty beam
In sunflower's bloom, or in the trellissed vine
Climbing the wall, or autumn's orchard leaf,
Shading the ripened fruit ready to drop,-
Feels not the bounty of the God of all
In garnered grain, or in the gathered grape,
Or golden maize, new stored beneath the eaves,
For varied want of man ample supply:
Sees not the prospect of the coming year
In the green promise of the springing wheat:
Who hears no music in the living brook,
Or hum of bee, struggling on languid wing
To catch the latest sweets the fading year
Among the blossom'd clover hails betimes:
Bid him but commune with his heart, and say,

--

Where is the stony place-if not within ?'-pp. 58-9.

When we stated our preference of the smaller fragments on Italy to the larger description of Rome, we might have extended our remarks to the largest and the most ambitious piece of the whole Milton and Galileo'-which is very far from being the most successful of our author's efforts, and is also remarkable for containing more sins against the rules of correct versification than all the rest of the book besides. Not that the lesser pieces are free from such lines, neither to be scanned nor forgiven, as

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Inwrought mosaic-from walls and ceilings.'-Pompeii, p. 35.
Emperor, or king, or pontiff proud.'-Rome, p. 44.

But

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