Page images
PDF
EPUB

What strange and revolting phraseology, to use the mildest term, is this! How utterly at variance with the language of truly Christian devotion. How unmeet an offering

⚫ On the high day of thanks before the 'Throne of Grace !* The second ode, bearing the same date, is less elaborate, and more pleasing. It consists of an allegorical description of the various methods of festive and honorary commemoration of the deeds of the victors of Waterloo. Among the Miscellaneous Pieces,' there is a very fine ode, beginning―

[ocr errors]

• Who rises on the banks of Seine.'

[ocr errors]

We are tempted however to select, as the most pleasing specimen of what Mr. Wordsworth can achieve, an exquisite composition ' in recollection of the expedition of the French into Russia.'

[ocr errors]

Humanity, delighting to behold

A fond reflexion of her own decay,

Hath painted Winter like a shrunken, old,

And close-wrapt traveller-through the weary day-
Propped on a staff, and limping o'er the plain,

As though his weakness were disturbed by pain;
Or, if a juster fancy should allow

An undisputed symbol of command,
The chosen sceptre is a withered bough,
Infirmly grasped within a palsied hand.
These emblems suit the helpless and forlorn ;
But mighty Winter the device shall scorn.

For he it was-dread Winter!-who beset,
Flinging round van and rear his ghastly net,
That host,-when from the regions of the Pole
They shrunk, insane ambition's barren goal,
That host,-as huge and strong as e'er defied
Their God, and placed their trust in human pride ꞌ
As fathers persecute rebellious sons,

He smote the blossoms of their warrior youth;
He called on Frost's inexorable tooth

Life to consume in manhood's firmest hold;

Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly runs,-
For why, unless for liberty enrolled

And sacred home, ah! why should hoary age be bold?

Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed,

But fleeter far the pinions of the wind,
Which from Siberian caves the monarch freed,
And sent him forth, with squadrons of his kind,
And bade the snow their ample backs bestride,
And to the battle ride;-

[ocr errors]

No pitying voice commands a halt-
No courage can repel the dire asɛault,-

Distracted, spiritless, benumbed and blind,
Whole legions sink-and, in one instant, find
Burial and death: look for them-and descry,
When morn returns, beneath the clear blue sky,'
A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy! pp. 41-43.
The following sonnet is on the same occasion.
Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King!
And ye mild seasons-in a sunny clime,
Midway on some high hill, while Father Time
Looks on delighted--meet in festal ring,
And loud and long of Winter's triumph sing!

Sing ye, with blossoms crowned, and fruits and flowers,
Of Winter's breath surcharged with sleety showers,

And the dire flapping of his hoary wing!

Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass;
With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report your gain;
Whisper it to the billows of the main,

And to the aerial zephyrs as they pass,

That old decrepit Winter-He hath slain

That Host, which rendered all your bounties vain!'-p. 44.

The argument of "The Poet's Pilgrimage to Waterloo," will convey a sufficient idea of the plan and intention of the Author.

The first part of this poem describes a journey to the scene of war. The second, is in an allegorical form; it exposes the gross material philosophy which has been the guiding principle of the French politicians, from Mirabeau to Buonaparte; and it states the opinions of those persons who lament the late events, because the hopes which they entertained from the French Revolution, have not been realized; and of those who see only evil, or blind chance, in the course of human events.'

The proem to the poem, describes the Author's return to his home, after visiting the field of battle; and the picture of domestic enjoyment it presents, is so interesting, that we shall be excused for the length of our first extract.

Once more I see thee, Skiddaw! once again
Behold thee in thy majesty serene,

Where like the bulwark of this favoured plain,
Alone thou standest, monarch of the scene-
Thou glorious Mountain, on whose ample breast
The sunbeams love to play, the vapours love to rest!
Once more, O Derwent! to thy aweful shores

I come, insatiate of the accustomed sight;
And listening as the eternal torrent roars,

Drink in with eye and ear a fresh delight:
For I have wandered far by land and sea,
In all my wanderings still remembering thee.

O joyful hour, when to our longing home

The long-expected wheels at length drew nigh!
When the first sound went forth, "They come ! they come!"
And hope's impatience quickened every eye!
"Never had man whom Heaven would heap with bliss
More glad return, more happy hour than this.”
Aloft on yonder bench, with arms dispread,

My boy stood, shouting there his father's name,
Waving his hat around his happy head:

And there, a younger group, his sisters came :
Smiling they stood with looks of pleased surprize,
While tears of joy were seen in elder eyes.
Soon each and all came crouding round to share
The cordial greeting, the beloved sight;
What welcomings of hand and lip were there!
And when those overflowings of delight
Subsided to a sense of quiet bliss,
Life hath no purer deeper happiness.
The young companion of our weary way
Found here the end desired of all her ills;
She who in sickness pining many a day
Hungered and thirsted for her native hills.
Forgetful now of sufferings past and pain,
Rejoiced to see her own dear home again.
Recovered now, the homesick mountaineer
Sate by the playmate of her infancy,
Her twin-like comrade,-rendered doubly dear
For that long absence: full of life was she,
With voluble discourse and eager mien
Telling of all the wonders she had seen.
Here silently between her parents stood
My dark-eyed Bertha, timid as a dove;
And gently oft from time to time she wooed
Pressure of hand, or word, or look of love,
With impulse shy of bashful tenderness,
Soliciting again the wished caress.

The

younger twain in wonder lost were they,
My gentle Kate, and my sweet Isabel :
Long of our promised coming, day by day,

It had been their delight to hear and tell ;
And now when that long promised hour was come,
Surprize and wakening memory held them dumb.
* But there stood one whose heart could entertain
And comprehend the fullness of the joy,

*These lines will convey to the reader no other picture than that f a father's happiness amid his domestic joys, and the fair promise of he future. But they acquire a deeply pathetic interest from the circumstance, that since they were written, that only boy, the pupil and

The father, teacher, playmate, was again
Come to his only and his studious boy;
And he beheld again that mother's eye,

Which with such ceaseless care had watched his infancy."

pp. 1-8.

The whole of the poem is written in the same easy and flowing stanza, which well suits the familiar epistolary style of the narrative. Section the first is entitled Flanders. The second describes Brussels as it appeared illuminated for the reception of the Emperor Alexander.

Her mile-long avenue with lamps was hung
Innumerous, which diffused a light like day;
Where, thro' the line of splendour, old and young
Paraded all in festival array;

While fiery barges, plying to and fro,

Illumin'd, as they mov'd, the liquid glass below.'

The Poet contrasts with the gaiety of that festive spectacle, the scene which, only three months before, the city presented, and the sights which still offered themselves in the recesses of the hospital.

And now within her walls, insatiate Death,
Devourer whom no harvest e'er can fill,
The gleanings of that field was gathering still.'
• Some in the courts of that great hospital,
That they might taste the sun and open air,
Crawled out; or sate beneath the southern wall ;
Or leaning in the gate, stood gazing there
In listless guise upon the passers by,
Whiling away the hours of slow recovery.
Here might the hideous face of war be seen,
Stript of all pomp, adornment, and disguise;
It was a dismal spectacle, I ween,

Such as might well to the beholder's eyes
Bring sudden tears, and make the pious mind
Grieve for the crimes and follies of mankind.
What had it been then in the recent days

Of that great triumph, when the open wound
Was festering, and along the crowded ways,

Hour after hour was heard the incessant sound
Of wheels, which o'er the rough and stony road
Conveyed their living agonizing load!

playmate, the pride and joy of his father, has been suddenly removed, darkening for ever the charms of that mountain scenery, and opening from the fairest scenes of nature a vista into eternity. In these lines Mr. Southey was unconsciously preparing a Son's best epitaph, the expression of a father's complacent affection; and in these the memory of that Son shall outlive the record of the monumental stone.

Hearts little to the melting mood inclined

Grew sick to see their sufferings; and the thought
Still comes with horror to the shuddering mind,

Of those sad days when Belgian ears were taught
The British soldier S cry, half groan, half prayer,
Breathed when his pain is more than he can bear

pp. 43-46. The third section contains a description of the field of battle, topographically minute, such as it appeared three months after the dreadful conflict. The spirit in which the survey was taken, is shewn in the following stanzas.

Was it a soothing or a mournful thought

Amid this scene of slaughter as we stood,
Where armies had with recent fury fought,
To mark how gentle Nature still pursued
Her quiet course, as if she took no care
For what her noblest work had suffered there.
The pears had ripened on the garden wall;

Those leaves which on the autumnal earth were spread,
The trees, though pierced and scarred with many a ball,
Had only in their natural season shed:

Flowers were in seed whose buds to swell began
When such wild havoc here was made of man!

Throughout the garden, fruits and herbs and flowers
You saw in growth, or ripeness, or decay;

The green
and well-trimmed dial marked the hours
With gliding shadow as they past away;
Who would have thought, to see this garden fair,
Such horrors had so late been acted there!'

pp. 74-75.

"The Scene of War," is the title of the concluding section of the narrative. It is principally occupied in narrating the sentiments which the Author universally met with among the Belgic peasantry, and in describing the traces of the battle which every where attended his journey. A tribute of grateful admiration, he informs us, was uniformly paid to the conduct of our soldiery; but from every lip he was accosted with the indignant exclamation,

'Wherefore we spared the author of this strife?'

Mr. Southey adds in a note, that he

Met with many persons who disliked the union with Holland, and who hated the Prussians, but none who spoke in favour or even in palliation of Buonaparte. The manner in which this ferocious beast, as they call him, has been treated, has given a great shock to the moral feelings of mankind. The almost general mode of accounting for it on the Continent, is by a supposition that England purposely let him loose from Elba in order to have a pretext for again attacking

« PreviousContinue »