guard blowing his horn, but (no wonder) drawing, seemingly, only half its usual tones from it, as if the torrent had damped his ardour. I almost envied the group on the top. "Twere a living death to live alone." I could now do justice to the poet, when he says, If solitude succeed to grief, Relief from pain is small relief; Could thank the pang that made it less. Not much to be wondered at, I say, that I was a little "out of sorts;" but I reasoned with myself, thought of my friend Rideout, had recourse to my pen,—and, though at first listless,—though itching to toss it down, by dint of resolution I have commanded my attention, and guillotined ennui and discomfort. I can now resolve, con amore, to make myself as comfortable as possible. I will scribble till dinner-time, a newspaper, I have ascertained, I will be enabled to get as a companion to my cigar and tumbler of toddy after dinner, and the hope of a fine day to-morrow will enable me to vegetate through the afternoon not unpleasantly, and to reach bed without any bilious accumulation. R. C. NEW-YORK LITERARY GAZETTE. The North American Review and Lord Byron. We proceed to fulfil our promise. The North American has held very contradictory language with respect to Lord Byron, and we undertake to prove this assertion to the satisfaction of all who will listen to us with the disposition to judge candidly. Nine months ago, an article on Byron appeared in this review, which we shall contrast with that in the late number. We begin with the consideration of Lord Byron's satirical abilities. North American Review, No. XLIX. "His satire is violent, indiscriminating, and undignified. It is full of the coarse common places of abuse, with little range of thought or allusion. His blows are random and ineffectual. There is not much which has even the appearance of being characteristic of the individuals whom he assails." North American Review, No XLVI. "In satire and in lyric poetry, both sublime and pathetic, he reached the highest degree of excellence."-" Lord Byron seems to have possessed a strong talent for satire, and if we could be sure that he would have directed it to proper objects, we should regret that he had not laboured more in this department." Now then, taking No. 46 for our text, we may learn from No. 49 what is the highest degree of excellence in satire—i. e. to be violent, indiscriminating, and undignified-to use coarse common-places of abuse, to strike at random, and ineffectually, &c. (vide supra.) Oh! Samuel Johnson! how sadly didst thou blunder in thy definition of satire ! No. XLIX. "He produced his English Bards and Scotch Reviewers."-" It requires no great exercise of generosity to forgive such an attack. Byron had not the qualifications of a satirist. He wanted wit, facility of allusion, and quick perception of character. He wanted truth, or its substitute probability, and just principles of taste and moral judgment."-"Byron's suppression of his English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,' was no loss to his reputation, and little favour to those whom he had made the objects of his satire; for his attacks were not of a kind to be felt or remembered, even by them, except as mere intended insults or expressions of ill-will." No. XLVI. "We come to the English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, the work which commenced the author's reputation. We have already said that this was one of the best poems which had appeared at the time of its publication since the days of Cowper, and most good judges will probably concur in this opinion. It is written with uncommon vigor and spirit," &c. From the foregoing confronted extracts, offspring of the same review, with the difference of nine months between their ages, we gather the novel and marvellous information that the suppression of a work written with uncommon vigor and spirit, one of the best poems since the days of Cowper, was no loss to the reputation of its author! This is a new principle in the theory of loss and gain, and must assuredly furnish a most comfortable and consolatory reflection to all losers. On the same principle, we presume, the indorser of a protested note suffers no loss in his pecuniary affairs, even if the circumstance renders him some forty or fifty thousand dollars minus. No. XLIX. "Byron's resemblance to Pope is that of a satyr butting with his horns, to Hyperion with his glittering shafts of war.'" No. XLVI. "The best passages (in English Bards and Scotch Reviewers) will stand a comparisen with the finest pages in Pope." Did the lord of the silver bow ever before approximate so nearly the priest of the drunken Iacchus, as he does in the consideration of the preceding comparisons? In the one Byron is equal to Pope; and consequently in the other, Hyperion is no better than a satyr. Eheu Apollo, quantum cecidisti. Thus much for the consistency of the North American on the subject of Lord Byron's talents for satire. Let us next contrast No. 46 and 49 in their remarks on Childe Harold. No. XLIX. In Childe Harold there is a "want of coherence, of mutual relation of parts, and of general purpose in the poem. His transitions are singularly abrupt and harsh. The associations which introduce one part after another, seem often to be purely accidental. Subjects which have no natural connexion, are thus brought together in strange confusion. The effect is almost as bewildering and unpleasant, as if a volume of sonnets were printed as a single work. It is a poem which resembles the walls of some modern erection, composed in part of ancient marbles, friezes, inscriptions, and relievos-placed without order."" Of the general level of the poetry, [first two cautos] the following stanzas are a fair specimen : "So deemed the Childe as o'er the mountains he Did take his way," &c-continuing the quotation through seven verses; and "Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth," &c. with the five subsequent verses. "At no very distant time, verses such as these were regarded by many as among the most admirable productions of the age. But if we are not altogether mistaken, the principal difference between them and prose too dull to find a reader, consists in the circumstance of their being written in stanzas. Some passages in these cantos rise above, and others fall below what we have quoted, for what we have quoted is merely tame and prosaic." No. XLVI. Childe Harold is "the work which first established the author's reputation, and upon which more than any other single one, it will ultimately rest. Considered as a series of descriptions and of moral and philosophical reflections, it deserves all the praise that has been bestowed upon it; and to pretend to criticise it in detail, would only bring us back again to the pulchre, bene, optime."-" There is a power and freshness in the thoughts, and a vigor and elegance in the style, that belong only to first rate poetry."-" The two first cantos are perhaps rather more spirited and vigorous, the two last more elaborate and finished. The substantial merit of all is about the same. One of the most successful passages is the apostro~ phe to Greece. The poet little thought when he was writing it, that his own bones would rest, and that so shortly, in the bosom of the land to which he was addressing these enchanting stanzas Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth," &c. through eleven stanzas. Here new light dawns upon us-here are power and freshness and vigour which are tame-here is elegance which is prosaic-here is spirited, vigorous, elaborate, and finished poetry which is little better than prose too dull to find a reader. Here is the apostrophe to Greece condemned as tame and prosaic in one breath, and lauded as one of the most successful passages of first-rate poetry, in the other. No. XLIX. "In these first two cantos there is sometimes an energy of conception and expression which their author afterwards displayed more fully." No. XLVI. The first two cantos "exhibit the highest point of excellence, to which he ever attained. None of his subsequent writings evince greater power either of thought, imagination, or style.", Lord Byron ought to have been a little more grammatical in his progress. He first arrived at the highest point of excellence to which he ever attained, and afterwards displayed more fully his energy of conception and expression. However, we suppose that he had a right to advance in his own way, and that he chose this course because he was eccentric in every thing. We wish to be made acquainted with the name of this additional degree of comparison. And now for Don Juan : Don Juan was the last product of Byron's "Childe Harold and Don Juan, to whatever mind. The great merit aimed at in the work technical class we may assign them, are masis drollery."" It is rambling and incoherent, ter-pieces respectively in the serious and comic with frequent disregard of grammar and proso- order. They rank in our opinion with the dy.""In reading it we may be reminded of great epics of modern and ancient times."-Don what Medwin reports him to have said, Why Juan, Beppo and the Vision of Judgment, don't you drink, Medwin? Gin and water is executed with great power and success, and the source of all my inspiration.' One might there is little to object to them in a literary have conjectured, perhaps, that a considerable point of view, except an occasional want of part of it was written under such inspiration." finish in the versification." 66 are We are not making unfair and garbled extracts; therefore it is necessary to add the following from No. 49-" We read the first two cantos of Don Juan shortly after their appearance. The mass of buffoonery and profligacy which followed we had not seen till about to prepare the present article." The first two cantos of Don Juan at all events, are master-pieces, and rank with the greatest epics (No. 46) while Don Juan collectively might have heen written under the inspiration of gin with a quant. suff. of water, (No. 49.) "Alas, poor Epic!" Thus do Nos. 46 and 49 of the North American stand in the aspect of opposition to each other. In our next number we shall conclude the subject by an examination of the merits of No. 49 separately. N. B. We have put several words in the extracts in italics Poems by Edward C. Pinkney, Baltimore: Joseph Robinson, 1825. Mr. Pinkney's volume is fraught with beautiful poetry: he is a man of genius and of education, and will bear comparison with the best poets in our country. The tone of bis effusions is melancholy, and at times moody and severe, but almost every line shows the hand of a master "of the tuneful art." His classical allusions are finely introduced and happily expressed, and none of them are trite or common. We proceed to cull from Mr. Pinkney's book, specimens which will justify our commendations. The following pieces are distinguished by a depth of feeling, a delicacy of reproach, and a spirit of generosity that bespeak a noble mind. LINES From the Port-Folio of H- We met upon the world's wide face, A feeling such as must have stirred To lively music's sound. A sense it was, that I could see And that all hope must be most vain, Its former, vanished flowers. But thou, the idol of my few And fleeting better days The light that cheered when life was new Is thy life but the wayward child In part a crowd of fancies wild, Thy pains well-pleased to see? I trust, not so:-though thou hast been Let all of good the world has seen May thy suns those of summer be, Like thine own nature pure : That could not long endure. The firstlings of my simple song Were offered to thy name; Again the altar, idle long, In worship rears its flame. Yet may thy wandering thoughts restore And now, farewell!—and although here I hold thee and thy follies dear, Nor of thy faults complain. I will accuse thee not:- I reck of mine the less, because A doubtful question of its cause, LINES From the Port-Folio of H By woods and groves the oracles When murdered Cesar's mighty shade And fantasy rehearsed The ides of March, and, not in vain, In loneliness I heard my hopes But rolled away, and left me free It brought, thou spirit of my breast, Which have been welling coldly there, It brought, in kindness or in hate, But prompted no base fears- The drowsy harbinger of death, Till thou dost join my sleep. Life's conscious calm,-the flapping sail- Star of that sea!-the cynosure Of magnet-passions, long! A ceaseless apparition, and A very ocular song! My skies have changed their hemisphere, Thy shadow still is strong; Star of that sea!-its currents bear The far horizon, where thy rays Unwise, or most unfortunate, My way was; let the sign, The proof of it, be simply this Thou art not, wert not mine! For 'tis the wont of chance to bless Pursuit, if patient, with success; And envy may repine, How I have lived imports not now Else I might chide thee that my life Pass wasted powers; alike the grave, To me, and to renown: List the last cadence of a lay, Oh, lost and worshipped one! As soft as sleep or pity is, and pure as mountain-air: But here are common, earthly hues, to such an aspect wrought, That none, save thine, can seem so like the beautiful of thought, The song I sing, thy likeness like, is painful mimicry Of something better, which is now a memory to me, Who have upon life's frozen sea arrived the icy spot, Where men's magnetic feelings show their guiding task forgot. The sportive hopes, that used to chase their shifting shadows on, Like children playing in the sun, are gone-for ever gone; And on a careless, sullen peace, my double-fronted mind, Like Janus when his gates where shut, looks forward and behind. Apollo placed his harp, of old, awhile upon a stone, Which has resounded since, when struck, a breathing Oh say not, they must soon be old, that our readers may judge whether we are Their limbs prove faint, their breasts feel cold! right or not in awarding to the author the Yet envy I that sylvan pair, More than my words express, The singular beauty of their lot, And seeming happiness. They have not been reduced to share The painful pleasures of despair: Their sun declines not in the sky, Nor are their wishes cast, Like shadows of the afternoon, Repining towards the past; With nought to dread, or to repent, The present yields them full content. In solitude there is no crime; Their actions are all free, The only dignity; And how should they have any cares? We dislike all fragments, even though they have the high authority of Byron. The longest piece in this volume, is entitled "Rodolph, a Fragment," and although it contains much fine writing and poetical imagery, we are not as well pleased with it as we are with the minor poems. Its moral is unpleasing; but there is great power displayed in the ravings of the maniac Rodolph -the strong feeling of passionate love glows in these lines. "Ay, wrapt around a whiter breast, The warm and tender violet This stronger flower may flourish still. My thoughtful clay all thought forget: With the impressive energy, How the air thickens-all things move- We have been thus profuse in our quotations from Mr. Pinkney's volume, in order greenest laurels. We have not the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with him, and of course our praise, strong as it is, is unbiassed by personal predilections: it is a tribute of respect which we cheerfully pay to high and cultivated genius. There are faults in Mr. Pinkney's volume; but we do not feel in the humour to dwell upon them after contemplating its numerous beauties, therefore, we beg leave to omit this part of the critic's duty. The New-York Literary Gazette. 'Twas in an evil hour we met, An evil hour to me and mine, And deeply doth my soul regret Its fond companionship with thine; Yet o'er thy grave it lingers still, Thou source of past and future ill. To meet thee and to hear once more The words of love upon thy tongueTo feel as erst I felt, before Evils like serpents round me clung; To raise from Time's unsated tomb Joys which he gathered in their bloomTo reunite hope's broken zone, lyore Which round any heart was wreathed of Radiant and lovely, like the one Which heavenly Cytherea wore, And lighting with its diamond beam And I must learn to bear my doom, Else, wherefore this prophetic feeling Above my head, and pour in wrath Let the bolt fall-it is but just That I should bear the punishment Yet still thou art a cherished thing; |