rhyming of the final syllable, even when accompanied by the presence of
a certain number of feet,--nay, although (which does not always happen)
those feet should scan regularly, and have been all counted accurately
upon the fingers,--is not the whole art of poetry. We would entreat him
to believe, that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, is
necessary to constitute a poem; and that a poem in the present day, to
be read, must contain at least one thought, either in a little degree
different from the ideas of former writers, or differently expressed. We
put it to his candour, whether there is any thing so deserving the name
of poetry in verses like the following, written in 1806, and whether, if
a youth of eighteen could say any thing so uninteresting to his
ancestors, a youth of nineteen should publish it.
'Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you, adieu!
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think upon glory, and you.
Though a tear dim his eye, at this sad separation,
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret:
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation;
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget.
That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish,
He vows, that he ne'er will disgrace your renown;
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish;
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own.' p. 3.
Now we positively do assert, that there is nothing better than these
stanzas in the whole compass of the noble minor's volume.
Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting what the greatest poets
have done before him, for comparisons (as he must have had occasion to
see at his writing-master's) are odious.--Gray's Ode on Eton College,
should really have kept out the ten hobbling stanzas 'on a distant view
of the village and school of Harrow.'
'Where fancy, yet, joys to retrace the resemblance,
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied;
How welcome to me, your ne'er fading remembrance,
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is deny'd.' p. 4.
In like manner the exquisite lines of Mr Rogers, '_On a Tear_,' might
have warned the noble author off those premises, and spared us a whole
dozen such stanzas as the following.
'Mild Charity's glow,
To us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt,
Where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffus'd in a Tear.
The man doom'd to sail,
With the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer,
As he bends o'er the wave,
Which may soon be his grave,
The green sparkles bright with a Tear.' p. 11.
And so of instances in which former poets had failed. Thus, we do not
think Lord Byron was made for translating, during his non-age, Adrian's
Address to his Soul, when Pope succeeded so indifferently in the
attempt. If our readers, however, are of another opinion, they may look
at it.
'Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!
To what unknown region borne,
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight?
No more, with wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.' p. 72.
However, be this as it may, we fear his translations and imitations are
great favourites with Lord Byron. We have them of all kinds, from
Anacreon to Ossian; and, viewing them as school exercises, they may
pass. Only, why print them after they have had their day and served
their turn? And why call the thing in p. 79 a translation, where _two_
words ([Greek: thelo legein]) of the original are expanded into four
lines, and the other thing in p. 81, where [Greek: mesonychtiois poth'
ho rais], is rendered by means of six hobbling verses?--As to his
Ossianic poesy, we are not very good judges, being, in truth, so
moderately skilled in that species of composition, that we should, in
all probability be criticizing some bit of the genuine Macpherson
itself, were we to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. _If_,
then, the following beginning of a 'Song of bards,' is by his Lordship,
we venture to object to it, as far as we can comprehend it. 'What form
rises on the roar of clouds, whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream
of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder; 'tis Orla, the brown chief
of Otihoma. He was,' &c. After detaining this 'brown chief' some time,
the bards conclude by giving him their advice to 'raise his fair locks;'
then to 'spread them on the arch of the rainbow;' and 'to smile through
the tears of the storm.' Of this kind of thing there are no less than
_nine_ pages; and we can so far venture an opinion in their favour, that
they look very like Macpherson; and we are positive they are pretty
nearly as stupid and tiresome.
It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists; but they should 'use
it as not abusing it;' and particularly one who piques himself (though
indeed at the ripe age of nineteen), of being 'an infant bard,'--('The
artless Helicon I boast is youth;')--should either not know, or should
seem not to know, so much about his own ancestry. Besides a poem above
cited on the family seat of the Byrons, we have another of eleven pages,
on the self-same subject, introduced with an apology, 'he certainly had
no intention of inserting it;' but really, 'the particular request of
some friends,' &c., &c. It concludes with five stanzas on himself, 'the
last and youngest of a noble line.' There is a good deal also about his
maternal ancestors, in a poem on Lachin-y-gair, a mountain where he
spent part of his youth, and might have learned that _pibroch_ is not a
bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle.
As the author has dedicated so large a part of his volume to immortalize
his employments at school and college, we cannot possibly dismiss it
without presenting the reader with a specimen of these ingenious
effusions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called Granta, we have the
following magnificent stanzas.
'There, in apartments small and damp,
The candidate for college prizes,
Sits poring by the midnight lamp,
Goes late to bed, yet early rises.
Who reads false quantities in Sele,
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle;
Depriv'd of many a wholesome meal,
In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle.
Renouncing every pleasing page,
From authors of historic use;
Preferring to the lettered sage,
The square of the hypothenuse.
Still harmless are these occupations,
That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compar'd with other recreations
Which bring together the imprudent.' p. 123, 124, 125.
We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the college psalmody as is
contained in the following Attic stanzas.
'Our choir would scarcely be excus'd.
Even as a band of new beginners;
All mercy, now, must be refus'd
To such a set of croaking sinners.
If David, when his toils were ended,
Had heard these blockheads sing before him
To us, his psalms had ne'er descended,
In furious mood, he would have tore 'em.' p. 126, 127.
But whatever judgment may be passed on the poems of this noble minor, it
seems we must take them as we find them, and be content; for they are
the last we shall ever have from him. He is at best, he says, but an
intruder into the groves of Parnassus; he never lived in a garret, like
thorough-bred poets; and 'though he once roved a careless mountaineer in
the Highlands of Scotland,' he has not of late enjoyed this advantage.
Moreover, he expects no profit from his publication; and whether it
succeeds or not 'it is highly improbable, from his situation and
pursuits hereafter,' that he should again condescend to become an
author. Therefore, let us take what we get and be thankful. What right
have we poor devils to be nice? We are well off to have got so much from
a man of this Lord's station, who does not live in a garret, but 'has
the sway' of Newstead Abbey. Again we say, let us be thankful; and, with
honest Sancho, bid God bless the giver, nor look the gift horse in the
mouth.--_The Edinburgh Review_.
_Childe Harolde's Pilgrimage. A Romaunt_. _By_ LORD BYRON. The Second
Edition. London: Murray, Fleet Street. 1812. 8vo. pp. 300. Price 12s.
If the object of poetry is to instruct by pleasing, then every poetical
effort has a double claim upon the attention of the Christian observer.
For we are anxious that the world should be instructed at all rates, and
that they should be pleased where they innocently may. We are,
therefore, by no means among those spectators who view the occasional
ascent of a poetic luminary upon the horizon of literature, as a
meteoric flash which has no relation to ourselves; but we feel instantly
an eager desire to find its altitude, to take its bearings, to trace its
course, and to calculate its influence upon surrounding bodies. When
especially it is no more an "oaten reed" that is blown; or a "simple
shepherd" who blows it; but when the song involves many high and solemn
feelings, and a man of rank and notoriety strikes his golden harp, we
feel, at once, that the increased influence of the song demands the more
rigid scrutiny of the critic.
Lord Byron is the author, beside the book before us, of a small volume
of poems, which gave little promise, we think, of the present work; and
of a satyrical poem, which, as far as temper is concerned, did give some
promise of it. It had pleased more than one critic to treat his
Lordship's first work in no very courtier-like manner; and especially
the Lion of the north had let him feel the lashing of his angry tail.
Not of a temperament to bear calmly even a "look that threatened him
with insult," his Lordship seized the tomahawk of satire, mounted the
fiery wings of his muse, and, like Bonaparte, spared neither rank, nor
sex, nor age, but converted the republic of letters into one universal
field of carnage. The volume called English Bards and Scotch Reviewers
is, in short, to be considered, among other works, as one of those
playful vessels which are said to have accompanied the Spanish armada,
manned by executioners, and loaded with nothing but instruments of
torture.
This second work was of too sanguinary a complexion to beget a very
pleasant impression upon the public mind; and all men, who wished well
to peace, politeness and literature, joined in the paean sung by the
immediate victims of his Lordship's wrath, when he embarked to soften
his manners, and, as it were, oil his tempers, amidst the gentler
spirits of more southern climes. Travelling, indeed, through any climes,
may be expected to exert this mitigating influence upon the mind. Nature
is so truly gentle, or, to speak more justly, the God of nature displays
so expansive a benevolence in all his works; so prodigally sheds his
blessings "upon the evil and the good;" builds up so many exquisite
fabrics to delight the eyes of his creatures; tinges the flowers with
such colours, and fills the grove with such music; that anyone who
becomes familiar with nature, can scarcely remain angry with man. With
what mitigating touches the scenery of Europe has visited our author,
remains to be seen. That he did not disarm it of its force by regarding
it with a cold or contemptuous eye, he himself teaches us--
"Dear Nature is the kindest mother still,
Though always changing in her aspect mild;
From her bare bosom let me take my fill,
Her never-weaned, though not her favoured child.
O she is fairest in her features wild,
Where nothing polished dares pollute her path;
To me by day or night she ever smiled,
Though I have marked her when none other hath,
And sought her more and more, and loved her most in wrath." p. 79.
Our author having re-landed upon his native shores, his first deed is to
present to his country the work before us, as the fruits of his travels.
It is a kind of poetical journal of journeys and voyages through Spain
and Portugal, along the shores of the Mediterranean and Archipelago, and
through the states of ancient Greece. When we speak of journal, we mean
rather to designate the topics of the work than the manner of its
execution; for it is highly poetical. Most contrary to the spirit of
those less fanciful records, his Lordship sublimely discards all facts
and histories; all incidents; A.M. and P.M.; and bad inns and worse
winds; and battles and feasts. Seizing merely upon the picturesque
features in every object and event before him, he paints and records
them with such reflections, moral or immoral, as arise in his ardent
mind.
The "Childe Harolde" is the traveller; and as he is a mighty surly
fellow, neither loves nor is loved by any one; "through sin's long
labyrinth had run, nor made atonement when he did amiss;" as, moreover,
he is licentious and sceptical; Lord Byron very naturally, and
creditably to himself, sets out in his Preface with disclaiming any
connection with this imaginary personage. It is somewhat singular,
however, that most of the offensive reflections in the poem are made,
not by the "Childe," but the poet.
[Here follows a summary of the two cantos, with extensive quotations.]
Having by these extracts endeavoured to put our readers in possession of
some of the finest parts of this poem, and also of those passages which
determine its moral complexion, we shall proceed to offer a few remarks
upon its character and pretensions in both points of view.
The poem is in the stanza of Spenser--a stanza of which we think it
difficult to say whether the excellencies or defects are the greatest.
The paramount advantage is the variety of tone and pause of which it
admits. The great disadvantages are, the constraint of such complicated
rhymes, and the long suspension of the sense, especially in the latter
half of the stanza. The noblest conception and most brilliant diction
must be sacrificed, if four words in one place, and three in another
cannot be found rhyming to each other. And as to the suspension of the
sense, we are persuaded that no man reads a single stanza without
feeling a sort of strain upon the intellect and lungs--a kind of
suffocation of mind and body, before he can either discover the
lingering meaning, or pronounce the nine lines. To us, we confess that
the rhyming couplets of Mr. Scott, sometimes deviating into alternate
rhymes, are, on both accounts, infinitely preferable. One of the ends of
poetry is to relax, and the artificial and elaborate stanza of Spenser
costs us too much trouble, even in the reading, to accomplish this end.
To effect this, the sense should come to us, instead of our going far
and wide in quest of the sense. In our conception also, the heroic line
of ten syllables, though favourable to the most dignified order of
poetry, appears to limp when forced into the service of sonneteers: and
poems in the metre before us, are, after all, little better than a
string of sonnets; of which it is the constituent principle to be rather
pretty than grand--rather tender than martial--rather conceited than
wise--to keep the sense suspended for eight lines, and to discharge it
with a point in the ninth. These observations are by no means designed
to apply especially to the author--the extreme gravity of whose general
manner and matter, in a measure covet the dignity of the heroic line.
But it is this discordancy of measure and subject, together with the
obviously laboured rhymes and the halting of the sense, which in
general, we think, have shut out the Spenserian school from popular
reading, and have caused a distinguished critic[J] to say, that the
"Faiery Queen will not often be read through;" and that, although it
maintains its place upon the shelf, it is seldom found on the table of
the modern library.
Whilst, however, Lord Byron participates in this defect of his great
original, he is to be congratulated, as a poet, but alas! in his
poetical character alone, on much happy deviation from him. In the first
place, he has altogether washed his hands of allegory; a species of
fiction open to a thousand objections. In the next place, he is
infinitely more brief than his prototype. And in the third place, he
philosophizes and moralizes (though not indeed in a very sound strain),
as well as paints--provides food for the mind as well as the
eye--kindles the feeling as well as gratifies the sense. Thus far, then,
we are among the admirers of his Lordship. But it is to be lamented,
that what was well conceived is, from the temperament of his mind, ill
executed; that his philosophy is, strictly speaking, "only philosophy so
called;" that the moral emotions he feels, and is likely to communicate,
are of a character rather to offend and pollute the mind, than to sooth
or to improve it. This defect, however, we fear, is to be charged, not
upon the poet, but upon the man, at least upon his principles. But,
whatever be the cause, the consequences are dreadful. Indeed, we do not
hesitate to say, that the temperament of his mind is the ruin of his
poem. We shall take the liberty, as we have intimated, of touching upon
these defects as moral delinquincies, under another head; but for the
present we wish to notice them merely as poetical errors.
The legitimate object, then, of poetry, as we have said, is to
_instruct_ by _pleasing_; and, caeteris paribus, that poem is the best
which conveys the noblest lessons in the most attractive form. If, in
reply to this, it is urged that the heathen poets, and especially Homer,
taught no lesson to his readers; we answer, that he taught all the
lessons which, in his own days, were deemed of highest importance to his
country. The first object of philosophers and other teachers, in those
days, was to make good soldiers, and therefore to condemn the vices
which interfered with successful warfare. Now be it remembered, that the
grand topic of the Iliad is the fatal influence of the wrath of kings on
the success of armies. Its first words are [Greek: MENIN aeide]. Besides
this, the Iliad upholds the national mythology, or the only accredited
religion; and by a bold fiction, bordering upon truth, displays in an
Elysium and Tartarus, the eternal mansions of the good and bad, the
strongest incentive to virtue and penalty to vice. Indeed, that both
this and the Odyssey had a moral object, and that this object was
recognized by the ancients, may be inferred from Horace, who says of
Homer, in reference to the first poem:
"Qui, quid sit pulchrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non,
Plenius ac melius Chrysippo aut Crantore dicit."
And as to the second:
"Rursum--quid virtus, et quid sapientia possit,
Utile proposuit nobis exemplar Ulyssem." Epist. I. 2.
Many of the Odes of Horace had a patriotic subject--his Epistles and
Satires, with those of Juvenal and Persius, were the sermons of the
day. Virgil chiefly proposed to himself to exalt in his hero the
character of a patriot, and, in his fictitious history, the dignity of
his country. If the lessons they taught were of small importance or
doubtful value, or if they often forget to "teach" in their ambition to
"please," this is to be charged rather on the age than on the poet. They
taught the best lessons they knew; and were satisfied to please only
when they had nothing better to do. In modern times, it will not be
questioned that the greatest poets have ever endeavoured to enshrine
some moral or intellectual object in their verse. Milton calls Spenser
"our sage serious Spenser, whom I dare be known to think a better
teacher than Scotus or Aquinas." In like manner, the Absalom and
Achitophel, the Hind and Panther of Dryden, the philosophic strain of
Pope, the immortal page of Milton, and the half-inspired numbers of the
Task, are all, in their various ways, attempts of poets to improve or
reform the world. Every species of poetry, indeed, has received fresh
lustre, and even taken a new place in Parnassian dignity, by a larger
infusion of moral sentiment into its numbers. The ancient ballad has
arisen to new dignity through the moral touches, we wish they had been
less rare, of a Scott; and the stanza of Spenser has acquired new
interest in the hands of Lord Byron, from the philosophical air which it
wears. Numbers without morals are the man without "the glory." We
sincerely wish that the moral tone of his Lordship's poem had been less
liable to exception.
His Lordship, we believe, is acquainted with ancient authors. Let him
turn to Quinctilian, and he will find a whole chapter to prove that a
great writer must be a good man. Let him go to Longinus, and he will
read that a man who would write sublimely, "must spare no labour to
educate his soul to grandeur, and impregnate it with great and generous
ideas"--that "the faculties of the soul will then grow stupid, their
spirit will be lost, and good sense and genius lie in ruins, when the
care and study of man is engaged about the mortal, the worthless part of
himself, and he has ceased to cultivate virtue, and polish his nobler
part, his soul." Or, if poetical authority alone will satisfy a poet,
let him learn from one of the finest of our modern poems:
"But of our souls the high-born loftier part,
Th' ethereal energies that touch the heart,
Conceptions ardent, laboring thought intense,
Creative fancy's wild magnificence,
And all the dread sublimities of song:
These, Virtue, these to thee alone belong:
Chill'd, by the breath of vice, their radiance dies,
And brightest burns when lighted at the skies:
Like vestal flames to purest bosoms given,
And kindled only by a ray from heaven."[K]
That the object of poetry, however, is not simply to instruct, but to
"instruct by _pleasing_," is too obvious to need a proof. However the
original object of measure and rhythm may have been to graft truth on
the memory, and associate it with music; they are perpetuated by the
universal conviction that they delight the ear. Like the armour which
adorns the modern hall, they were contrived for use, but are continued
for ornament.
Assuming this, then, to be a just definition of poetry, we repeat our
assertion, that, in the work before us, the temperament of mind in the
poet creates the grand defect of the poetry. If poetry should instruct,
then he is a defective poet whose lessons rather revolt than improve the
mind. If poetry should please, then he is a bad poet who offends the
eye by calling up the most hideous images--who shews the world through a
discoloured medium--who warms the heart by no generous feelings--who
uniformly turns to us the worst side of men and things--who goes on his
way grumbling, and labours hard to make his readers as peevish and
wretched as himself. The tendency of the strain of Homer is to transform
us for the moment into heroes; of Cowper, into saints; of Milton, into
angels: but Lord Byron would almost degrade us into a Thersites or a
Caliban; or lodge us, as fellow-grumblers, in the style of Diogenes, or
any of his two or four-footed snarling or moody posterity. Now his
Lordship, we trust, is accessible upon much higher grounds; but he will
perceive that mere regard for his poetical reputation ought to induce
him to change his manner. If, as Longinus instructs us, a man must feel
sublimely to write sublimely, a poet must find pleasure in the objects
of nature before him, if he hope to give pleasure to others. Let him
remember, that not merely his conceptions, but his mind and character
are to be imparted to us in his verse. He will, in a measure, "stamp an
image of himself!" The fire with which we are to glow must issue from
him. Till this change take place in him, then, he can be no great poet.
It is Heraclitus who mourns in his pages, or Zeno who scolds, or Zoilus
who lashes; but we look in vain for the poet, for the living fountain of
our innocent pleasures, for the artificer of our literary delight, for
the hand which, as by enchantment, snatches us from the little cares of
life, whirls us into the boundless regions of imagination, "exhausting"
one "world," and imagining others, to supply pictures which may refresh
and charm the mind.[L] Lord Byron shews us man and nature, like the
phantasmagoria, _in shade_; whereas, in poetry at least, we desire to
see them illuminated by all the friendly rays which a benevolent
imagination can impart.