Art. IX. The Poetic Mirror, or the Living Bards of Great Britain. 12mo. pp. 275.

(Concluded from Page 512.)

MR. WORDSWORTH is the third on the list of con

tributors, and we have no fewer than three poems, entitled, "The Stranger," "The Flying Tailor," and "James "Rigg," purporting to be further portions of "The Recluse. The Author has evidently taken his estimate of Mr. Wordsworth's genius, from the Edinburgh Review, and he appears to deem his poetry the finest subject for broad burlesque. So far as his aim is to afford diversion, he completely succeeds; and he could not have succeeded by any other mode of imitation. Wordsworth, in his more elevated moods, in his matchless descriptions of natural scenery, in his exquisitely pathetic touches of feeling and character, may defy alike imitation and ridicule; but when misled by system he ventures to be prosaic and colloquial, or falls into a strain of mysticism peculiar to himself, or attempts to dress out sage Philosophy in a slouched hat, threadbare coat and gaiters, then Mr. Wordsworth comes fully within reach of mimicry. And if mimicry could but laugh him out of some of his eccentricities, this Poetic Mirror would be of essential service in shewing him his gait and gesture. That poetry must have some vice of style attached to it, which is susceptible of any imitation like the following, that should have the power of forcibly recalling the original.

It boots not here to tell all that was said.
The Laureate, sighing, utter'd some few words
Of most sublime and solemn tendency.
The Shepherd spoke most incoherent stuff
About the bones of sheep, that on the hills
Perish unseen, holding their stations so.
And he, the tented Angler of the lakes,
Alias the Man of Palms, said nothing meet.
He was o'ercome with feeling,-it is known
To many, and not quite to me unknown,
That the youth's heart is better than his head.
"Glad of this opportunity, I said,
Still pointing to the bones, "Access for you
Is yet preserved to principles of truth,
Which the imaginative will upholds
In seats of wisdom, not to be approach'd
By the inferior faculty that moulds
With her minute and speculative pains
Opinions ever changing-I have seen
Regenerative Nature prostrate lie

And drink the souls of things-of living things
VOL. VI. N.S.
3 A

And things inanimate, and thus hold up
The beings that we are-that change shall clothe
The naked spirit ceasing to deplore

The burden of existence, her dull eye

To other scenes still changing still unchanged.
The thinking thoughtless school-boy, the bold youth
Of soul impetuous, and the bashful maid,

All cogitative yield obedience up.

And whence this tribute? wherefore these regards?
Not from the naked heart alone of man,

Though framed to high distinction upon earth,
As the soul spring and fountain-head of tears,
His own peculiar utterance for distress

Or gladness-it is not the vital part

Of feeling to produce them, without aid
From the pure soul, the soul sublimed and pure
With her two faculties of eye and ear,
Not without such assistance could the eye
Of these benign observances prevail;

Thus are they borr, thus foster'd, and maintain'd,
And by the care prospective of our wise
Forefathers, who, to guard against the shocks,
The fluctuation, and decay of things.
There lies the channel and original bed,"
Continued I, still pointing to the lake,
"From the beginning hollow'd out and scoop'd
For man's affections, else betray'd and lost,
And swallow'd up 'mid desarts infinite.
This is the genuine course, the aim and end
Of prescient reason, all conclusions else

Are abject, vain, presumptuous, and perverse." pp. 48-51.

The following is in a different style.

'It is somewhat strange

That his mother was a cripple, and his father

Long way declined into the vale of years

When their son Hugh was born. At first the babe

Was sickly, and a smile was seen to pass

Across the midwife's cheek, when, holding up

The sickly wretch, she to the father said,

"A fine man-child!". What else could they expect?
The mother being, as I said before,

A cripple, and the father of the child

Long way declined into the vale of years.

But mark the wondrous change-ere he was put

By his mother into breeches, Nature strung

The muscular part of his economy

To an unusual strength, and he could leap,
All unimpeded by his petticoats,

Over the stool on which his mother sat
When carding wool, or cleansing vegetables,

Or meek performing other household tasks.
Cunning he watch'd his opportunity,

And oft, as house-affairs did call her thence,

Overleapt Hugh a perfect whirligig,

More than six inches o'er th' astonish'd stool.' pp. 156-157.

It would have been more creditable to the Author's taste and understanding, had he indicated, by some short attempt at serious imitation, that he was not incapable of appreciating the genuine characteristics of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry.

"The Gude Greye Katt," in ridicule of the uncouth dialect of the Ettrick Shepherd's fairy tales, would be utterly unintelligible to Southern readers. We shall therefore pass it over to make room for the following extract from an exquisite burlesque of Mr. Coleridge's "Christabel."

It is a strange and lovely night,

A greyish pale, but not white!
Is it rain, or is it dew,

That falls so thick I see its hue?
In rays it follows, one, two, three,
Down the air so merrily,

Said Isabelle, so let it be!

Why does the Lady Isabelle
Sit in the damp and dewy dell

Counting the racks of drizzly rain,
And how often the Rail cries over again?
For she's harping, harping in the brake,
Craik, craikCraik, craik.

Ten times nine, and thrice eleven ;

That last call was an hundred and seven.

Craik, craik-the hour is near

Let it come, I have no fear!
Yet it is a dreadful work, I wis,
Such doings in a night like this!

'Sounds the river harsh and loud?
The stream sounds harsh, but not loud.
There is a cloud that seems to hover,
By western hill the church-yard over,'
What is it like?'Tis like a whale;
'Tis like a shark with half the tail,
Not half, but third and more;
Now 'tis a wolf, and now a boar;
It's face is raised-it cometh here;

Let it come-there is no fear.

There's two for heaven, and ten for hell,
Let it come-'tis well-'tis well!

Said the Lady Isabelle.

• What ails that little cut-tail'd whelp,
That it continues to yelp, yelp?
Yelp, yelp, and it turns its eye

Up to the tree and half to the sky,
Half to the sky and full to the cloud,
And still it whines and barks aloud.
Why I should dread I cannot tell :

There is a spirit; I know it well!' pp. 215-217.
This is followed by "The Cherub," after the manner of Mr.
Coleridge's" Pains of Sleep.

"Peter of Barnet" and "Carmen Judiciale" are the pretended contributions of the Poet Laureate: the former is, we presume, an humble imitation of Mr. Southey's earlier productions, but it conveys no idea of the general character of his poetry: the latter is intended as a satire on his literary and political feuds with the Edinburgh Review, and archly insinuates the unsparing vehemence and contempt with which Mr. Southey is sometimes too apt to demean himself towards his critical assailants, or political opponents.

The Poet is represented as surveying in a dream the various productions of his creative power, and as proceeding to select a favourite from the groupe.

Joan I chose, a maid of happy mien;

Her form and mind I polished with care;
A docile girl she proved, of moping vein,
Slow in her motions, haughty in her air;

Some mention'd trivial blame, or slightly frown'd;

Forth to the world she went, her heavenly birth it own'd.

The next, a son, I bred a Mussulman;

With creeds and dogmas I was hard bested,
For which was right or wrong I could not tell,
So I resolved my offspring should be bred
As various as their lives-the lad I loved,
A boy of wild unearthly mien he proved.
• Then first I noted in my mazy dream
A being scarcely of the human frame,
A tiny thing that from the north did seem,"
With swaggering fuming impotence he came;
I fled not, but I shudder'd at his look;

Into his tutelage my boy he took.

Each principle of truth and purity,

And all that merited the world's acclaim,

This fiend misled-nor could I ever free

From his destroying grasp my darling's fame;

But yet I could not ween that heart of gall

Could be a foe to one, whose heart beat kind to all.

My third, a Christian and a warrior true,

A bold adventurer on foreign soil,
And next, his brother, a supreme Hindu,
I rear'd with hope, with joy, and painful toil
Alas! my hopes were vain! I saw them both
Reft by an emmet!-crush'd before a moth!

Still could I not believe his vengeful spite,
For in his guise a speciousness appear'd;
My bitterness of heart I feigned light;

But wholly as he urged my next I rear'd;
He said of all the gang he was the best,

And wrung his neck before mine eyes in jest.' pp. 246-249. 'The Curse' denounced on the False Prophet, canker, damned heretick,' as a punishment for his falsehoods and other delinquencies, is of course a parody on the curse' of Kehama.

To the remaining three poems is attached the name of John Wilson,

< That man of palms and plagues ;'

Or as he is elsewhere designated,

The light heel'd author of the Isle of Palms,
Illustrious more for leaping than for song.'

So closely do they resemble many of Mr. Wilson's originals, that they can scarcely be considered as burlesquing them. They are upon the whole some of the best things in the volume, but we have no room for further extracts. The unmeaning use which Mr. Wilson has made of the terms faith, holiness, glorify, &c. is well exposed.

There are some lines beginning

"O blessed thing of calm delight
Art thou a phantom of the night
That slumber'st by the lonely strand,
Dreaming of breezes from Fairy land?

which might be easily mistaken for a literal extract from the Isle of Palms.

As we have allowed no room for further quotations, our readers would not readily excuse us for detaining them with any further remarks on the volume itself. Whether, then, the Author's ingenuity has been worthily bestowed on its composition, or mischievously directed; whether the test to which he has brought the productions of the day be at all fair; whether Momus is any fitter than Midas, to sit as arbiter in the court of Taste; whether the volume discovers a discriminating taste and a ready perception of the distinguishing properties of style, or merely that degree of mimic art which is rarely associated with keen sensibility and original talent; whether, in fact, the Author is capable of appreciating the merits of the writers whose defects he has indeed readily seized, but the character of whose productions, especially in the instances of Wordsworth and Southey, he has wholly neglected, or failed from incompetency, to transfer to the imitation: are questions which, with the evidence now before them, we may safely leave to the verdict of the Public..