The Works of Lord Byron: Letters and Journals Volume I Part 60

APPENDIX I.

REVIEW OF WORDSWORTH'S POEMS,

2 VOLS. 1807.

(From 'Monthly Literary Recreations' for July, 1807.)

The volumes before us are by the author of Lyric Ballads, a collection which has not undeservedly met with a considerable share of public applause. The characteristics of Mr. Wordsworth's muse are simple and flowing, though occasionally inharmonious verse; strong, and sometimes irresistible appeals to the feelings, with unexceptionable sentiments.

Though the present work may not equal his former efforts, many of the poems possess a native elegance, natural and unaffected, totally devoid of the tinsel embellishments and abstract hyperboles of several contemporary sonneteers. The last sonnet in the first volume, p. 152, is perhaps the best, without any novelty in the sentiments, which we hope are common to every Briton at the present crisis; the force and expression is that of a genuine poet, feeling as he writes--

Another year! another deadly blow!

Another mighty empire overthrown!

And we are left, or shall be left, alone-- The last that dares to struggle with the foe.

'Tis well!--from this day forward we shall know That in ourselves our safety must be sought, That by our own right-hands it must be wrought; That we must stand unprop'd, or be laid low.

O dastard! whom such foretaste doth not cheer!

We shall exult, if they who rule the land Be men who hold its many blessings dear, Wise, upright, valiant, not a venal band, Who are to judge of danger which they fear, And honour which they do not understand.

The song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, the Seven Sisters, the Affliction of Margaret----of----, possess all the beauties, and few of the defects, of the writer: the following lines from the last are in his first style:--

"Ah! little doth the young one dream, When full of play and childish cares, What power hath e'en his wildest scream, Heard by his mother unawares: He knows it not, he cannot guess: Years to a mother bring distress, But do not make her love the less."

The pieces least worthy of the author are those ent.i.tled "Moods of my own Mind." We certainly wish these "Moods" had been less frequent, or not permitted to occupy a place near works which only make their deformity more obvious; when Mr. W. ceases to please, it is by "abandoning" his mind to the most commonplace ideas, at the same time clothing them in language not simple, but puerile. What will any reader or auditor, out of the nursery, say to such namby-pamby as "Lines written at the Foot of Brother's Bridge"?

"The c.o.c.k is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest, Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising, There are forty feeding like one.

Like an army defeated, The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill, On the top of the bare hill."

"The ploughboy is whooping anon, anon," etc., etc., is in the same exquisite measure. This appears to us neither more nor less than an imitation of such minstrelsy as soothed our cries in the cradle, with the shrill ditty of

"Hey de diddle, The cat and the fiddle: The cow jump'd over the moon, The little dog laugh'd to see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon."

On the whole, however, with the exception of the above, and other INNOCENT odes of the same cast, we think these volumes display a genius worthy of higher pursuits, and regret that Mr. W. confines his muse to such trifling subjects. We trust his motto will be in future "Paulo majora canamus." Many, with inferior abilities, have acquired a loftier seat on Parna.s.sus, merely by attempting strains in which Wordsworth is more qualified to excel.

APPENDIX II.

ARTICLE FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW,

FOR JANUARY, 1808.

'Hours of Idleness; a Series of Poems, original and translated.'

By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a Minor. 8vo, pp. 200. Newark, 1807.

The poesy of this young lord belongs to the cla.s.s which neither G.o.ds nor men are said to permit. Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quant.i.ty of verse with so few deviations in either direction from that exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than if they were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation of this offence, the n.o.ble author is peculiarly forward in pleading minority. We have it in the t.i.tle-page, and on the very back of the volume; it follows his name like a favourite part of his 'style'. Much stress is laid upon it in the preface; and the poems are connected with this general statement of his case, by particular dates, substantiating the age at which each was written. Now, the law upon the point of minority we hold to be perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the defendant; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him to put into court a certain quant.i.ty of poetry, and if judgment were given against him, it is highly probable that an exception would be taken, were he to deliver 'for poetry' the contents of this volume. To this he might plead 'minority'; but, as he now makes voluntary tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the price in good current praise, should the goods be unmarketable.

This is our view of the law on the point; and, we dare to say, so will it be ruled. Perhaps, however, in reality, all that he tells us about his youth is rather with a view to increase our wonder than to soften our censures. He possibly means to say, "See how a minor can write! This poem was actually composed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one of only sixteen!" But, alas! We all remember the poetry of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve; and so far from hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor verses were written by a youth from his leaving school to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this to be the most common of all occurrences; that it happens in the life of nine men in ten who are educated in England; and that the tenth man writes better verse than Lord Byron.

His other plea of privilege our author rather brings forward in order to waive it. He certainly, however, does allude frequently to his family and ancestry--sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes; and, while giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care to remember us of Dr.

Johnson's saying, that when a n.o.bleman appears as an author, his merit should be handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consideration only that induces us to give Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, beside our desire to counsel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn his talents, which are considerable, and his opportunities, which are great, to better account.

With this view, we must beg leave seriously to a.s.sure him, that the mere 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 const.i.tute 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."

Now, we positively do a.s.sert, that there is nothing better than these stanzas in the whole compa.s.s of the n.o.ble 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 friends.h.i.+p and mischief allied, How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance, Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied."

In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr. Rogers, "On a Tear," might have warned the n.o.ble 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; Compa.s.sion will melt where this virtue is felt, And its dew is diffused 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."

And so of instances in which former poets have failed. Thus we do not think Lord Byron was made for translating, during his nonage, "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, wavering sprite, Friend and a.s.sociate 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."

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 pa.s.s. Only, why print them after they have had their day and served their turn? And why call the thing in p. 79 (see p. 380) a translation, where 'two' words [Gr.]('thel_o legein') of the original are expanded into four lines, and the other thing in p. 81 (see 'ibid'.) where [Gr.]

'mesonuktiais poth h_orais' is rendered by means of six hobbling verses?