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. And drink the souls of things-of living things And things inanimate, and thus hold up The burden of existence, her dull eye To other scenes still changing still unchanged. All cogitative yield obedience up. And whence this tribute? wherefore these regards? Though framed to high distinction upon earth, Or gladness-it is not the vital part Of feeling to produce them, without aid Thus are they borr, thus foster'd, and maintain'd, 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? 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, Over the stool on which his mother sat Or meek performing other household tasks. 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! That falls so thick I see its hue? Said Isabelle, so let it be! Why does the Lady Isabelle Counting the racks of drizzly rain, 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! 'Sounds the river harsh and loud? Let it come-there is no fear. There's two for heaven, and ten for hell, Said the Lady Isabelle. • What ails that little cut-tail'd whelp, Up to the tree and half to the sky, There is a spirit; I know it well!' pp. 215-217. "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; 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, 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, Still could I not believe his vengeful spite, But wholly as he urged my next I rear'd; 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, 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 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.. |