It is not in this place that an examination of the works of the master whom he has here adopted as his model, can, with prος griety, be introduced; since his general acquiescence in the favourable suffrage of the public must necessarily be inferred from the attempt he has now made. He is induced, by the nature of his subject, to offer a few remarks on what has been called EOMANTIC POETRY;-the popularity of which has been revi ved in the present day, under the auspices, and by the unparal. leled success, of one individual.

The original purpose of poetry is either religious or historical, or, as must frequently happen, a mixture of both. To modern readers, the poems of Homer have many of the features of pure romance; but in the estimation of his contemporaries, they probably derived their chief value from their supposed historical authenticity. The same may be generally said of the poetry of all early ages. The marvels and miracles which the poet blends with his song, do not exceed in number or extravagance the fig ments of the historians of the same period of society: and, in deed, the difference betwixt poetry and prose, as the vehicles of historical truth, is always of late introduction. Poets, under various denominations of Bards, Sealds, Chroniclers, and so forth, are the first historians of all nations. Their intention is to relate the events they have witnessed, or the traditions that have reached them; and they clothe the relation in rhyme, merely as the means of rendering it more solemn in the narrative, or more easily committed to memory. But as the poetical historian improves in the art of conveying information, the authenticity of his narrative unavoidably declines. He is tempted to dilate and dwell upon the events that are interesting to his imagination, and, conscious how indifferent his audience is to the naked truth of his poem, his history gradually becomes a It is in this situation that those epics are found, which have been generally regarded the standards of poetry; and it has happened somewhat strangely, that the moderns have pointed out as the characteristics and peculiar excellences of narr itive poetry, the very circumstances which the authors themselves adopted, only because their art involved the duties of the historian as well as the poet. It cannot be believed, for example, that Homer (Sir Walter Scott, in his Introduction to the Lord of the Isles, says,— Being much urged by any intimate friend, now unhappily no more, William Erskine, I agreed to write the little romantic tale called the 'Bridal of Trierman: but it was on the condition, that he should make no serious effort to disown the composition, if report should lay it at his door. As he was more than wipected of a taste for poetry, and as I took care, in several places, to mix something which might resemble (as far as was in my power) my friend's feeling and manner, the train easily caught, and two large editions were sold. A third being called for, Lord Kinedder became unwilling to aid any longer a deception which was going farther than he expected or desired, and the real author's name was given."

romance.

↑ Diogenes Laertius, Lib. ii. Anaxag. Segm. 11.

I Homeri Vita, in Herod, Henr. Steph. 1570, p. 356.

[A RECEIPT TO MAKE AN EPIC POEM.

FOR THE FABLE.

Take out of any old poem, history book, romance, or legend, (for inMance, Genffry of Monmouth, or Don Belianis of Greece,) those parts of story which afford most scope for long descriptions. Put these pieces together, and throw all the adventures you fancy into one tale. Then take a hero whom You may choose for the sound of his name, and put him into the midst of there adventures: There let him work for twelve books, at the end of which, you may take him out ready prepared to conquer or marry, it being necessary that the conclusion of an epic poem be fortunate."

To make an Episode. Take any remaining adventure of your former election, in which you could no way involve your hero, or any unfortunate accident that was too good to be thrown away, and it will be of use, applied to any other person, who may be lost and evaporate in the course of the work, without the least damage to the composition. Por the Moral and Allegory.-"These you may extract out of the fable afterwards at your leisure. "Be sure you strain them sufficiently."

FOR THE MANNERS.

try; the event he has chosen, though not very fruitful in varied incident, nor perfectly well adapted for poetry, was nevertheless combined with traditionary and genealogical anecdotes extremely interesting to those who were to listen to him; and this he has adorned by the exertions of a genius, which, if it has been equalled, has certainly been never surpassed. It was not till comparatively a late period that the general accuracy of his nar rative, or his purpose in composing it, was brought into question. Δοκεί πρώτος [ο Αναξαγοράς] (καθά φησι Φαβορινός εν παντοδαπη Ιστορία) την Όμηρου ποίησιν αποφήνασθαι είναι περί apεrns kat dikatoσvvns. But whatever theories might be framed by speculative men, his work was of an historical, not of an allegorical nature. Εναυτίλλετο μετα του Μεντέω, και όπου εκαστοτε αφίκοιτο, πάντα τα επιχωρια διερωτατο, και ιστο ρεων επυνθάνετο, εικός δε μεν ην και μνημόσυνα παντων γρα peca. Instead of recommending the choice of a subject similar to that of Homer, it was to be expected that critics should have exhorted the poets of these latter days to adopt or invent a narrative in itself more susceptible of poetical ornament, and to avail themselves of that advantage in order to compensate, in some degree, the inferiority of genius. The contrary course has been inculcated by almost all the writers upon imitators may best show. The ultimum supplicium of critithe Epopaia; with what success, the fate of Homer's numerous cism was inflicted on the author if he did not choose a subject which at once deprived him of all claim to originality, and placed him, if not in actual contest, at least in fatal comparison, with those giants in the land, whom it was most his interest which appeared in The Guardian, was the first instance in to avoid. The celebrated receipt for writing an epic poem, which common sense was applied to this department of poetry; and, indeed, if the question be considered on its own merits, we must be satisfied that narrative poetry, if strictly confined to the great occurrences of history, would be deprived of the individual interest which it is so well calculated to excite. subjects of verse, more interesting in proportion to their simpliciModern poets may therefore be pardoned in seeking simpler ty. Two or three figures, well grouped, suit the artist better than a crowd, for whatever purpose assembled. For the same directly brought home to the feelings, though involving the fate reason, a scene immediately presented to the imagination, and but of one or two persons, is more favourable for poetry than the political struggles and convulsions which influence the fate of kingdoms, The former are within the reach and comprehension of all, and, if depicted with vigour, seldom fail to fix attention: compose his name, and set them at the head of a dedication before your poem. However, do not absolutely observe the exact quantity of these virtues, it not being determined whether or no it be necessary for the hero of a poem to be an honest man. For the under characters, gather them from Homer and Virgil, and change the names as occasion serves."

FOR THE MACHINES.

"Take of deities, male and female, as many as you can use. Separate them into equal parts, and keep Jupiter in the middle. Let Juno put him in a ferment, and Venus mollify him. Remember on all occasions to make use of volatile Mercury. If you have need of devils, draw them out of Milton's Paradise, and extract your spirits from Tasso. The use of these machines is evident, for, since no epic poem can possibly subsist without them, the wisest way is to reserve them for your greatest necessities. When you cannot extricate your hero by any human means, or yourself by your own wits, seek relief from Heaven, and the gods will do your business very really. This is according to the direct prescription of Horace in his Art of Poetry :

Nec Deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus
Inciderit.'
Verse 191.

'Never presume to make a god appear But for a business worthy of a god-Roscommon. That is to say, a poet should never call upon the gods for their assistance, but when he is in great perplexity."

FOR THE DESCRIPTIONS.

For a Tempest.-"Take Eurus, Zephyr, Auster, and Boreas, and cast them together into one verse. Add to these, of rain, lightning, and of thunder, (the loudest you can,) quantum mufficit. Mix your clouds and billows well together until they foam, and thicken your description here and there with a quicksand. Brew your tempest well in your head before you set it a-blowing."

For a Battle.-"Pick a large quantity of images and descriptions from Homer's Iliad, with a spice or two of Virgil; and if there remain any over plus, you may lay them by for a skirmish. Suason it well with similes, and it will make an excellent battle."

For a Burning Town." If such a description be necessary, because it is certain there is one in Virgil, Old Troy is ready barnt to your hands. But

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The other, if more sublime, are more vague and distant, less capable of being distinctly understood, and infinitely less capable of exciting those sentiments which it is the very purpose of poetry to inspire. To generalize is always to destroy effect. We would, for example, be more interested in the fate of an individual sol dier in combat, than in the grand event of a general action; with the happiness of two lovers raised from misery and anxiety to peace and union, than with the successful exertions of a whole nation. From what causes this may originate, is a separate and obviously an immaterial consideration. Before ascribing this peculiarity to causes decidedly and odiously selfish, it is proper to recollect, that while men see only a limited space, and while their affections and conduct are regulated, not by aspiring to a universal good, but by exerting their power of making themselves and others happy within the limited scale allotted to each individual, so long will individual history and individual virtue be the readier and more accessible road to general interest and attention; and, perhaps, we may add, that it is the more useful, as well as the more accessible, inasmuch as it affords an example capable of being easily imitated.

According to the author's idea of Romantic Poetry, as distinguished from Epic, the former comprehends a fictitious narrative, framed and combined at the pleasure of the writer; beginning if you fear that would be thought borrowed, a chapter or two of the Theory of Conflagration, well circumstanced, and done into verse, will be a good succedaneum,"

As for similes and metaphors, "they may be found all over the creation. The most ignorant may gather them, but the danger is in applying them. For this, advise with your bookseller."

FOR THE LANGUAGE.

and ending as he may judge best; which neither exacts nor refuses the use of supermatural machinery; which is free from the technical rules of the Epee; and is subject only to those which good sense, good taste, and good morals, apply to every species of poetry without exception. The date may be in a remote age, or in the present; the story may detail the adventures of a prince or of a peasant. In a word, the author is absolute master of his country and its inhabitants, and every thing is permitted to him, excepting to be heavy or prosaic, for which, free and unembarrassed as he is, he has no manner of apology. Those, it is probable, will be found the peculiarities of this species of composition; and, before joining the outcry against the vitiated taste that fosters and encourages it, the justice and grounds of it ought to be made perfectly apparent. If the want of sieges, and battles, and great military evolutions, in our poetry, is comi plained of, let us reflect, that the campaigns and heroes of our days are perpetuated in a record that neither requires nor admits of the aid of fiction; and if the complaint refers to the inferiority of our bards, let us pay a just tribute to their modesty, limiting them, as it does, to subjects which, however indifferently treated, have still the interest and charm of novelty, and which thas prevents them from adding insipidity to their other more insuperable defects.*

nished upon any occasion, by the Dictionary commonly printed at the end of Chaucer" "I rust not conclude without cantioning all writers without genius in cre material point, which is, never to be afraid of having too minch fire in the works. I should advise rather to take their warmest thoughts, and spread them abroad upon paper; for they are observed to cool before they are read."-Pope. The Guardian, No. 78,]

From Lib. iii. De Conflagratione Mundi, of Telluris Theoria Sacra, pub lished in 410, 1659. By Dr. Thomas Burnet, master of the Charter-House.

INTRODUCTION.
I.

COME, LUCY! while 'tis morning hour,
The woodland brook we needs must pass;
So, ere the sun assume his power,
We shelter in our poplar bower,
Where dew lies long upon the flower,

Though vanish'd from the velvet grass.
Curbing the stream, this stony ridge
May serve us for a sylvan bridge;
For here, compell'd to disunite,

Round petty isles the runnels glide,
And chafing off their puny spite,

The shallow murmurers waste their might,
Yielding to footstep free and light

A dry-shod pass from side to side.
II.

Nay, why this hesitating pause?
And, Lucy, as thy step withdraws,
Why sidelong eye the streamlet's brim?
Titania's foot without a slip,

Like thine, though timid, light, and slim,
From stone to stone might safely trip,
Nor risk the glow-worm clasp to dip
That binds her slipper's silken rim.
Or trust thy lover's strength: nor fear

That this same stalwart arm of mine, Which could yon oak's prone trunk uprear, Shall shrink beneath the burden dear

Of form so slender, light, and fine.-
So, now, the danger dared at last,
Look back, and smile at perils past!
III.

And now we reach the favourite glade,
Paled in by copsewood, cliff, and stone,
Where never harsher sounds invade,

To break affection's whispering tone,
Than the deep breeze that waves the shade,
Than the small brooklet's feeble moan.
Come! rest thee on thy wonted seat;
Moss'd is the stone, the turf is green,
A place where lovers best may meet,
Who would not that their love be seen.
The boughs, that dim the summer sky,
Shall hide us from each lurking spy,
That fain would spread the invidious tale,
How Lucy of the lofty eye,*
Noble in birth, in fortunes high,
She for whom lords and barons sigh,
Meets her poor Arthur in the dale."

IV.

How deep that blush!-how deep that sigh!
And why does Lucy shun mine eye?
Is it because that crimson draws

Its colour from some secret cause,
Some hidden movement of the breast,
She would not that her Arthur guess'd?
O! quicker far is lovers' ken

Than the dull glance of common men,†
And, by strange sympathy, can spell
The thoughts the loved one will not tell!
And mine, in Lucy's blush, saw met
The hues of pleasure and regret ;
Pride mingled in the sigh her voice,

And shared with Love the crimson glow: Well pleased that thou art Arthur's choice,

[MS.- Haughty eye."]

-"with wings as swift

As meditation or the thoughts of love."

Hamlet.]

Yet shamed thine own is placed so low: Thou turn'st thy self-confessing cheek, As if to meet the breeze's cooling;

Then, Lucy, hear thy tutor speak,

For Love, too, has his hours of schooling.
V.

Too oft my anxious eye has spied
That secret grief thou fain wouldst hide,
The passing pang of humbled pride;
Too oft, when through the splendid hall,
The load-star of each heart and eye,
My fair one leads the glittering ball,
Will her stol'n glance on Arthur fall,

With such a blush and such a sigh!
Thou wouldst not yield, for wealth or rank,
The heart thy worth and beauty won,
Nor leave me on this mossy bank,

To meet a rival on a throne:
Why, then, should vain repinings rise,
That to thy lover fate denies
A nobler name, a wide domain,
A Baron's birth, a menial train,
Since Heaven assign'd him, for his part,
A lyre, a falchion, and a heart?

VI.

My sword-its master must be dumb;
But when a soldier names my name,
Approach, my Lucy! fearless come,
Nor dread to hear of Arthur's shame.
My heart,-mid all yon courtly crew,
Of lordly rank and lofty line,

Is there to love and honour true,

That boasts a pulse so warm as mine?
They praised thy diamond's lustre rare-
Match'd with thine eyes, I thought it faded;
They praised the pearls that bound thy hair-
I only saw the locks they braided;
They talk'd of wealthy dower and land,
And titles of high birth the token-
I thought of Lucy's heart and hand,
Nor knew the sense of what was spoken.
And yet, if rank'd in Fortune's roll,

I might have learn'd their choice unwise,
Who rate the dower above the soul,
And Lucy's diamonds o'er her eyes.§

VII.

My lyre-it is an idle toy,

That borrows accents not its own, Like warbler of Columbian sky,

That sings but in a mimic tone.ll Ne'er did it sound o'er sainted well, Nor boasts it aught of Border spell; Its strings no feudal slogan pour, Its heroes draw no broad claymore; No shouting clans applauses raise, Because it sung their fathers' praise ;T On Scottish moor, or English down, It ne'er was graced with fair renown; Nor won,-best meed to minstrel true,One favouring smile from fair BUCCLEUCH! By one poor streamlet sounds its tone, And heard by one dear maid alone.

VIII.

But, if thou bid'st, these tones shall tell, Of errant knight, and damozelle;

1 [MS.-"That boasts so warm a heart as mine."] (MS.And Lucy's gems before her eyes."] The Mocking Bird. TMS.-"Perchance, because it sung their praise."]

V.

Answer'd him Richard de Bretville; he Was chief of the Baron's minstrelsy,"Silent, noble chieftain, we

Have sat since midnight close,

When such lulling sounds as the brooklet sings,
Murmur'd from our melting strings,

And hush'd you to repose.
Had a harp-note sounded here,
It had caught my watchful ear,
Although it fell as faint and shy
As bashful maiden's half-form'd sigh,
When she thinks her lover near."
Answer'd Philip of Fasthwaite tall,
He kept guard in the outer-hall,-
"Since at eve our watch took post,
Not a foot has thy portal cross'd;

Else had I heard the steps, though low
And light they fell, as when earth receives,
In morn of frost, the wither'd leaves,

That drop when no winds blow."

VI.

"Then come thou hither, Henry, my page,
Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage,
When that dark castle, tower, and spire,
Rose to the skies a pile of fire,

And redden'd all the Nine-stane Hill,
And the shrieks of death, that wildly broke
Through devouring flame and smothering smoke,
Made the warrior's heart-blood chill."
The trustiest thou of all my train,
My fleetest courser thou must rein,
And ride to Lyulph's tower,
And from the Baron of Triermain

Greet well that Sage of power.
He is sprung from Druid sires,

And British bards that tuned their lyres
To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise,
And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.*
Gifted like his gifted race,

He the characters can trace,
Graven deep in elder time

Upon Hellvellyn's cliffs sublime;
Sign and sigil well doth he know,
And can bode of weal and wo,

Of kingdoms' fall, and fate of wars,

From mystic dreams and course of stars.
He shall tell if middle earth

To that enchanting shape gave birth,
Or if 'twas but an airy thing,
Such as fantastic slumbers bring,

* Dunmailraise is one of the grand passes from Cumberland Into Westmoreland. It takes its name from a cairn, or pile of stones, erected, it is said, to the memory of Dunmail, the last King of Cumberland.

Just like Aurora when she ties,

A rainbow round the morning skies."-MOORE.] [This powerful Baron required in the fair one whom he should honour with his hand an assemblage of qualities, that appears to us rather unreasonable even in those high days, profuse as they are known to have been of perfections now unattainable. His resolution, however, was not more inflexible than that of any mere modern youth; for he decrees that his nightly visitant, of whom at this time he could know nothing, but that she looked and sung like an angel, if of mortal mould, shall be his bride."----Quarterly Review.]

A circular intrenchment, about half a mile from Penrith, is thus popularly termed. The circle within the ditch is about one hundred and sixty paces in circumference, with openings, or ap VOL. I.-4 C

Fram'd from the rainbow's varying dyes,
Or fading tints of western skies.t
For, by the blessed rood I swear,
If that fair form breathe vital air,
No other maiden by my side
Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride !"
VII.

The faithful Page he mounts his steed,
And soon he cross'd green Irthing's mead,
Dash'd o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain,
And Eden barr'd his course in vain.
He pass'd red Penrith's Table Round,§
For feats of chivalry renown'd,

Left Mayburgh's mound and stones of power,
By Druids raised in magic hour,

And traced the Eamont's winding way,
Till Ulfo's lake¶ beneath him lay.

VIII.

Onward he rode, the pathway still
Winding betwixt the lake and hill;
Till, on the fragment of a rock,
Struck from its base by lightning shock,
He saw the hoary Sage:

The silver moss and lichen twined,
With fern and deer-hair check'd and lined,
A cushion fit for age;

And o'er him shook the aspin-tree,

A restless rustling canopy.

Then sprung young Henry from his selle, And greeted Lyulph grave,

And then his master's tale did tell,

And then for counsel crave.

The Man of Years mused long and deep,
Of time's lost treasures taking keep,
And then, as rousing from a sleep,

His solemn answer gave.

IX.

"That maid is born of middle earth,
And may of man be won,
Though there have glided since her birth
Five hundred years and one.

But where's the Knight in all the north,
That dare the adventure follow forth,
So perilous to knightly worth,

In the valley of St. John?
Listen, youth, to what I tell,
And bind it on thy memory well;,
Nor muse that I commence the rhyme
Far distant mid the wrecks of time.
The mystic tale, by bard and sage,
Is handed down from Merlin's age.

X.

LYULPH'S TALE.

"KING ARTHUR has ridden from merry Carlisie, When Pentecost was o'er:

He journey'd like errant-knight the while,
And sweetly the summer sun did smile

On mountain, moss, and moor.

Above his solitary track
Rose Glaramara's ridgy back,
Amid whose yawning gulfs the sun
Cast umber'd radiance red and dun,
Though never sunbeam could discern
The surface of that sable tarn, **

In whose black mirror you may spy
The stars, while noontide lights the sky.
The gallant King he skirted still
The margin of that mighty hill;

proaches, directly opposite to each other. As the ditch is on the inner side, it could not be intended for the purpose of defence, and it has reasonably been conjectured, that the enclosure was designed for the solemn exercise of fents of chivalry; and the embankment around for the convenience of the spectators.

Higher up the river Eamont than Arthur's Round Table, is a prodigious enclosure of great antiquity, formed by a collection of stones upon the top of a gently sloping hill, called Mayburgh. In the plain which it encloses there stands erect an unhewn stone of twelve feet in height. Two similar masses are said to have been destroyed during the memory of man. The whole appears to be a monument of Druidical times.

[Ulswater.]

**The small lake called Scales-tarn lies so deeply embosomed in the recesses of the huge mountain called Saddleback, more poetically Glaramara, is of such great depth, and so completely hidden from the sun, that it is said its beams never reach it, and that the reflection of the stars may be seen at mid-day.