O! take me from a world I hate,
Men cruel, selfish, sensual, cold;
And, in some pure and blessed state,
Let me my sister minds behold:
From gross and sordid views refin'd,
Our heaven of spotless love to share,
For only generous souls design'd,

And not a Man to meet us there."
Vol. 1. pp. 212–215.
"The Preceptor Husband" is exceedingly
well managed-but is rather too facetious for
our present mood. The old bachelor, who
had been five times on the brink of matri-
mony, is mixed up of sorrow and mirth;
but we cannot make room for any extracts,
except the following inimitable description
of the first coming on of old age,-though
we feel assured, somehow, that this mali-
cious observer has mistaken the date of these
ugly symptoms; and brought them into view
nine or ten, or, at all events, six or seven years
too early.

"Six years had pass'd, and forty ere the six,
When Time began to play his usual tricks!
The locks once comely in a virgin's sight, [white;
Locks of pure brown, display'd th' encroaching
The blood once fervid now to cool began,
And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man:
I rode or walk'd as f was wont before,
But now the bounding spirit was no more;
A moderate pace would now my body heat,
A walk of moderate length distress my feet.
I show'd my stranger-guest those hills sublime,
But said, the view is poor, we need not climb!"
At a friend's mansion I began to dread
The cold neat parlour, and the gay glazed bed;
At home I felt a more decided taste,

And must have all things in my order placed;
I ceas'd to hunt; my horses pleased me less,
My dinner more! I learn'd to play at chess;

I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute
Was disappointed that I did not shoot;
My morning walks I now could bear to lose,
And bless'd the shower that gave me not to choose:
In fact, I felt a langour stealing on;
The active arm, the agile hand were gone;
Small daily actions into habits grew,
And new dislike to forms and fashions new;
I lov'd my trees in order to dispose,
I number'd peaches, look'd how stocks arose,
Told the same story oft-in short, began to prose."
Vol. i. pp. 260, 261.

part of his vow. Sir Owen, still mad for ven.
geance, rages at the proposal; and, to confirm
his relentless purpose, makes a visit to one,
who had better cause, and had formerly ex-
pressed equal thirst for revenge. This was
one of the higher class of his tenantry-an in-
telligent, manly, good-humoured farmer, who
had married the vicar's pretty niece, and lived
in great comfort and comparative elegance,
till an idle youth seduced her from his arms,
and left him in rage and misery. It is here
that the interesting part of the story begins;
and few things can be more powerful or strik
ing than the scenes that ensue. Sir Owen
inquires whether he had found the objects of
his just indignation. He at first evades the
question; but at length opens his heart, and
tells him all. We can afford to give but a
small part of the dialogue.

"Twice the year came round-
Years hateful now-ere I my victims found:
But I did find them, in the dungeon's gloom
Of a small garret-a precarious home;
The roof, unceil'd in patches, gave the snow
Entrance within, and there were heaps below;
I pass'd a narrow region dark and cold,
The strait of stairs to that infectious hold;
And, when I enter'd, misery met my view
In every shape she wears, in every hue,
And the bleak icy blast across the dungeon flew.
There frown'd the ruin'd walls that once were white
There gleam'd the panes that once admitted light,
There lay unsavory scraps of wretched food;
And there a measure, void of fuel, stood.
But who shall, part by part, describe the state
Of these, thus follow'd by relentless fate?
All, too, in winter, when the icy air
Breathed its black venom on the guilty pair.

***And could you know the miseries they endur'd,
The poor, uncertain pittance they procur'd;
When, laid aside the needle and the pen,
Their sickness won the neighbours of their den,
Poor as they are, and they are passing poor,
To lend some aid to those who needed more!
Then, too, an ague with the winter came,
And in this state-that wife I cannot name!
Brought forth a famish'd child of suffering and of

shame!

"This had you known, and traced them to this Where all was desolate, defiled, unclean, [scene, A fireless room, and, where a fire had place, The blast loud howling down the empty space, "The Maid's Story" is rather long-though You must have felt a part of the distress, it has many passages that must be favourites Forgot your wrongs, and made their suffering less! with Mr. Crabbe's admirers. "Sir Owen Dale" is too long also; but it is one of the best The sight was loathsome, and the smell was faint "In that vile garret-which I cannot paintin the collection, and must not be discussed And there that wife,-whom I had lov'd so well, so shortly. Sir Owen, a proud, handsome And thought so happy! was condemn'd to dwell; man, is left a widower at forty-three, and is The gay, the grateful wife, whom I was glad Soon after jilted by a young lady of twenty; To see in dress beyond our station clad, who, after amusing herself by encouraging his And to behold among our neighbours, fine, assiduities, at last meets his long-expected And now among her neighbours to explore, More than perhaps became a wife of mine: declaration with a very innocent surprise at And see her poorest of the very poor! finding her familiarity with "such an old There she reclin'd unmov'd, her bosom bare friend of her father's" so strangely miscon- To her companion's unimpassion'd stare, strued. The knight, of course, is furious;And my wild wonder :-Seat of virtue! chaste and, to revenge himself, looks out for a hand- As lovely once! O! how wert thou disgrac'd! Upon that breast, by sordid rags defil'd, some young nephew, whom he engages to lay Lay the wan features of a famish'd child;siege to her, and, after having won her affec- That sin-born babe in utter misery laid, tions, to leave her,- -as he had been left. The Too feebly wretched even to cry for aid; lad rashly engages in the adventure; but soon The ragged sheeting, o'er her person drawn finds his pretended passion turning into a real Serv'd for the dress that hunger placed in pawn. one-and entreats his uncle, on whom he is At the bed's feet the man reclin'd his frame dependent, to release him from the unworthy Their chairs had perish'd to support the flame

646

That warm'd his agued limbs; and, sad to see,
That shook him fiercely as he gaz'd on me, &c.

She had not food, nor aught a mother needs,
Who for another life, and dearer, feeds:
I saw her speechless; on her wither'd breast
The wither'd child extended, but not prest,
Who sought, with moving lip and feeble cry,
Vain instinct! for the fount without supply.

"That evening all in fond discourse was spent ;
Till the sad lover to his chamber went, [pent!
To think on what had past, to grieve and to re-
Early he rose, and look'd with many a sigh
On the red light that fill'd the eastern sky;
Oft had he stood before, alert and gay,
To hail the glories of the new-born day :
But now dejected, languid, listless, low,
He saw the wind upon the water blow,
And the cold stream curl'd onward, as the gale
From the pine-hill blew harshly down the dale;
On the right side the youth a wood survey'd,
Where the rough wind alone was heard to move,

"Sure it was all a grievous, odious scene,
Where all was dismal, melancholy, mean,
Foul with compell'd neglect, unwholesome, and With all its dark intensity of shade;

unclean;

That arm-that eye-the cold, the sunken cheek-In this, the pause of nature and of love;
Spoke all!-Sir Owen-fiercely miseries speak!'

"And you reliev'd ?'

"If hell's seducing crew

Had seen that sight, they must have pitied too.'
"Revenge was thine-thou hadst the power-the
right;

To give it up was Heav'n's own act to slight.'

When now the young are rear'd, and when the old,
Lost to the tie, grow negligent and cold.
Far to the left he saw the huts of men,
Half hid in mist, that hung upon the fen;
Before him swallows, gathering for the sea,
Took their short flights, and twitter'd on the lea;
And near, the bean-sheaf stood, the harvest done,
And slowly blacken'd in the sickly sun!
All these were sad in nature; or they took
Sadness from him, the likeness of his look,

"Tell me not, Sir, of rights, and wrongs, or And of his mind-he ponder'd for a while,

powers!

I felt it written-Vengeance is not ours!'

"Then did you freely from your soul forgive ?'—

"Sure as I hope before my Judge to live,
Sure as I trust his mercy to receive,
Sure as his word I honour and believe,
Sure as the Saviour died upon the tree
For all who sin-for that dear wretch, and me-
Whom, never more on earth, will I forsake or see!'
"Sir Owen softly to his bed adjourn'd!
Sir Owen quickly to his home return'd;
And all the way he meditating dwelt
On what this man in his affliction felt;
How he, resenting first, forbore, forgave;
His passion's lord, and not his anger's slave."
Vol. ii. pp. 36-46.

Then met his Fanny with a borrow'd smile."
Vol. ii. pp. 84, 85.

The moral autumn is quite as gloomy, and far more hopeless.

"The Natural Death of Love" is perhaps the best written of all the pieces before us. It consists of a very spirited dialogue between a married pair, upon the causes of the difference between the days of marriage and those of courtship;-in which the errors and faults of both parties, and the petulance, impatience, and provoking acuteness of the lady, with the more reasonable and reflecting, but somewhat insulting manner of the gentleman, are all exhibited to the life; and with more uniform delicacy and finesse than is usual with the author.

We always quote too much of Mr. Crabbe: -perhaps because the pattern of his arabesque is so large, that there is no getting a fair speci"Lady Barbara, or the Ghost," is a long men of it without taking in a good space. story, and not very pleasing. A fair widow But we must take warning this time, and for- had been warned, or supposed she had been bear or at least pick out but a few little warned, by the ghost of a beloved brother, morsels as we pass hastily along. One of the that she would be miserable if she contracted best managed of all the tales is that entitled a second marriage-and then, some fifteen "Delay has Danger;"--which contains a very years after, she is courted by the son of a full, true, and particular account of the way tired-and upon whom, during all the years reverend priest, to whose house she had rein which a weakish, but well meaning young man, engaged on his own suit to a very amia- of his childhood, she had lavished the cares ble girl, may be seduced, during her unlucky of a mother. She long resists his unnatural absence, to entangle himself with a far in- passion; but is at length subdued by his urferior person, whose chief seduction is hergency and youthful beauty, and gives him her hand. There is something rather disgusting, apparent humility and devotion to him. We cannot give any part of the long and we think, in this fiction and certainly the finely converging details by which the catas-worthy lady could not have taken no way so trophe is brought about: But we are tempted likely to save the ghost's credit, as by enterto venture on the catastrophe itself, for the ing into such a marriage-and she confessed sake chiefly of the right English, melancholy, as much, it seems, on her deathbed. autumnal landscape, with which it concludes:

"In that weak moment, when disdain and pride,
And fear and fondness, drew the man aside,
In that weak moment- Wilt thou,' he began,
'Be mine?' and joy o'er all her features ran;
'I will!' she softly whisper'd; but the roar
Of cannon would not strike his spirit more!
Ev'n as his lips the lawless contract seal'd
He felt that conscience lost her seven-fold shield,
And honour fled; but still he spoke of love;
And al! was joy in the consenting dove !

"The Widow," with her three husbands, is not quite so lively as the wife of Bath with her five;-but it is a very amusing, as well as a very instructive legend; and exhibits a rich variety of those striking intellectual portraits which mark the hand of our poetical Rem brandt. The serene close of her eventful life is highly exemplary. After carefully col lecting all her dowers and jointures

"The widow'd lady to her cot retir'd:
And there she lives, delighted and admir'd!

Civil to all, compliant and polite,
Dispos'd to think, whatever is, is right.'
At home awhile-she in the autumn finds
The sea an object for reflecting minds,
And change for tender spirits: There she reads,
And weeps in comfort, in her graceful weeds!"'
Vol. ii. p. 213.

The concluding tale is but the end of the visit to the Hall, and the settlement of the younger brother near his senior, in the way we have already mentioned. It contains no great matter; but there is so much good nature and goodness of heart about it, that we cannot resist the temptation of gracing our exit with a bit of it. After a little raillery, the elder brother says—

"We part no more, dear Richard! Thou wilt
need

Thy brother's help to teach thy boys to read;
And I should love to hear Matilda's psalm,
To keep my spirit in a morning calm,
And feel the soft devotion that prepares
The soul to rise above its earthly cares;
Then thou and I, an independent two,
May have our parties, and defend them too;
Thy liberal notions, and my loyal fears,
Will give us subjects for our future years;
We will for truth alone contend and read,
And our good Jaques shall o'ersee our creed.'"
Vol. ii. pp. 348, 349.
And then, after leading him up to his new
purchase, he adds eagerly-

"Alight, my friend, and come, I do beseech thee, to that proper home!

We shall be abused by our political and fastidious readers for the length of this article. But we cannot repent of it. It will give as much pleasure, we believe, and do as much good, as many of the articles that are meant for their gratification; and, if it appear absurd to quote so largely from a popular and accessible work, it should be remembered, that no work of this magnitude passes into circulation with half the rapidity of our Journal-and that Mr. Crabbe is so unequal a writer, and at times so unattractive, as to require, more than any other of his degree, some explanation of his system, and some specimens of his powers, from those experienced and intrepid readers whose business it is to pioneer for the lazier sort, and to give some account of what they are to meet with on their journey. To be sure, all this is less necessary now than it was on Mr. Crabbe's first re-appearance nine or ten years ago; and though it may not be altogether without its use even at present, rather consulted our own gratification than it may be as well to confess, that we have our readers' improvement, in what we have now said of him; and hope they will forgive

us.

(August, 1820.)

1. Endymion: a Poetic Romance. By JOHN KEATS. 8vo. pp. 207. London: 1818.

2. Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and other Poems. By JOHN KEATS, author of "Endymion." 12mo. pp. 200. London: 1820.*

We had never happened to see either of these volumes till very lately-and have been exceedingly struck with the genius they display, and the spirit of poetry which breathes through all their extravagance. That imitation of our old writers, and especially of our older dramatists, to which we cannot help flattering ourselves that we have somewhat contributed, has brought on, as it were, a second spring in our poetry;-and few of its blossoms are either more profuse of sweetness, or richer in promise, than this which is now before us. Mr. Keats, we understand, is still a very young man; and his whole works,

indeed, bear evidence enough of the fact. They are full of extravagance and irregu larity, rash attempts at originality, intermin able wanderings, and excessive obscurity. They manifestly require, therefore, all the in dulgence that can be claimed for a first attempt: But we think it no less plain that they deserve it: For they are flushed all over with the rich lights of fancy; and so coloured and bestrewn with the flowers of poetry, that even while perplexed and bewildered in their labyrinths, it is impossible to resist the intoxication of their sweetness, or to shut our hearts to the enchantments they so lavishly present. The models upon which he has formed himI still think that a poet of great power and self, in the Endymion, the earliest and by promise was lost to us by the premature death of much the most considerable of his poems, are Keats, in the twenty-fifth year of his age; and regret that I did not go more largely into the exposi- obviously The Faithful Shepherdess of Fletchtion of his merits, in the slight notice of them, er, and the Sad Shepherd of Ben Jonson;which I now venture to reprint. But though I can. the exquisite metres and inspired diction of not, with propriety, or without departing from the which he has copied with great boldness and principle which must govern this republication, now supply this omission, I hope to be forgiven for fidelity-and, like his great originals, has also having added a page or two to the citations,-by contrived to impart to the whole piece that which my opinion of those merits was then illus. true rural and poetical air-which breathes trated, and is again left to the judgment of the reader. I only in them, and in Theocritus-which is at

once homely and majestic, luxurious and rude, our view of the matter, of the true genius of and sets before us the genuine sights and English poetry, and incapable of estimating sounds and smells of the country, with all its appropriate and most exquisite beauties. the magic and grace of Elysium. His sub- With that spirit we have no hesitation in sayject has the disadvantage of being Mytholog- ing that Mr. Keats is deeply imbued and of ical; and in this respect, as well as on ac- those beauties he has presented us with many count of the raised and rapturous tone it con- striking examples. We are very much insequently assumes, his poem, it may be clined indeed to add, that we do not know thought, would be better compared to the any book which we would sooner employ as Comus and the Arcades of Milton, of which, a test to ascertain whether any one had in also, there are many traces of imitation. The him a native relish for poetry, and a genuine great distinction, however, between him and sensibility to its intrinsic charm. The greater these divine authors, is, that imagination in and more distinguished poets of our country them is subordinate to reason and judgment, have so much else in them, to gratify other while, with him, it is paramount and supreme tastes and propensities, that they are pretty -that their ornaments and images are em- sure to captivate and amuse those to whom ployed to embellish and recommend just their poetry may be but an hinderance and sentiments, engaging incidents, and natural obstruction, as well as those to whom it concharacters, while his are poured out without stitutes their chief attraction. The interest measure or restraint, and with no apparent of the stories they tell-the vivacity of the design but to unburden the breast of the characters they delineate-the weight and author, and give vent to the overflowing vein force of the maxims and sentiments in which of his fancy. The thin and scanty tissue of they abound-the very pathos, and wit and his story is merely the light framework on humour they display, which may all and each which his florid wreaths are suspended; and of them exist apart from their poetry, and inwhile his imaginations go rambling and en-dependent of it, are quite sufficient to account tangling themselves every where, like wild honeysuckles, all idea of sober reason, and plan, and consistency, is utterly forgotten, and "strangled in their waste fertility." A great part of the work, indeed, is written in the strangest and most fantastical manner that can be imagined. It seems as if the author had ventured every thing that occurred to him in the shape of a glittering image or striking expression-taken the first word that presented itself to make up a rhyme, and then made that word the germ of a new cluster of images-a hint for a new excursion of the fancy-and so wandered on, equally forgetful whence he came, and heedless whither he was going, till he had covered his pages with an interminable arabesque of connected and incongruous figures, that multiplied as they extended, and were only harmonised by the brightness of their tints, and the graces of their forms. In this rash and headlong career he has of course many lapses and failures. There is no work, accordingly, from which a malicious critic could cull more matter for ridicule, or select more obscure, unnatural, or absurd passages. But we do not take that to be our office; and must beg leave, on the contrary, to say, that any one who, on this account, would represent the whole poem as despicable, must either have no notion of poetry, or no regard to truth.

It is, in truth, at least as full of genius as of absurdity; and he who does not find a great deal in it to admire and to give delight, cannot in his heart see much beauty in the two exquisite dramas to which we have already alluded; or find any great pleasure in some of the finest creations of Milton and Shakespeare. There are very many such persons, we verily believe, even among the reading and judicious part of the communitycorrect scholars, we have no doubt, many of them, and, it may be, very classical composers in prose and in verse-but utterly ignorant, on

for their popularity, without referring much to that still higher gift, by which they subdue to their enchantments those whose souls are truly attuned to the finer impulses of poetry. It is only, therefore, where those other recommendations are wanting, or exist in a weaker degree, that the true force of the attraction, exercised by the pure poetry with which they are so often combined, can be fairly appreciated:-where, without much incident or many characters, and with little wit, wisdom, or arrangement, a number of bright pictures are presented to the imagination, and a fine feeling expressed of those mysterious relations by which visible external things are assimilated with inward thoughts and emotions, and become the images and exponents of all passions and affections. To an unpoetical reader such passages will generally appear mere raving and absurdity-and to this censure a very great part of the volumes before us will certainly be exposed, with this class of readers. Even in the judgment of a fitter audience, however, it must, we fear, be admitted, that, besides the riot and extravagance of his fancy the scope and substance of Mr. Keats' poetry is rather too dreamy and abstracted to excite the strongest interest, or to sustain the atten tion through a work of any great compass of extent. He deals too much with shadowy and incomprehensible beings, and is too constantly rapt into an extramundane Elysium, to command a lasting interest with ordinary mortals and must employ the agency of more varied and coarser emotions, if he wishes to take rank with the enduring poets of this or of former generations. There is something very curious, too, we think, in the way in which he, and Mr. Barry Cornwall also, have dealt with the Pagan mythology, of which they have made so much use in their poetry. Instead of presenting its imaginary persons under the trite and vulgar traits that belong to them in the ordinary systems, little more