root and germinate in the mind, like the seeds | less encouragement than it deserves. If the of its native feelings; nor propagate through-volume before us were the work of an unout the imagination that long series of delight-known writer, indeed, we should feel no litful movements, which is only excited when tle apprehension about its success; but Mr. the song of the poet is the echo of our familiar Campbell's name has power, we are perfeelings. suaded, to insure a very partial and a very general attention to whatever it accompanies, and, we would fain hope, influence enough to reclaim the public taste to a juster standard of excellence. The success of his former work, indeed, goes far to remove our anxiety for the fortune of this. It contained, perhaps, more brilliant and bold passages than are to be found in the poem before us: But it was inferior, we think, in softness and beauty; and, being necessarily of a more desultory and didactic character, had far less pathos and interest than this very simple tale. Those who admired the Pleasures of Hope for the passages about Brama and Kosciusko, may perhaps be somewhat disappointed with the gentler tone of Gertrude; but those who loved that charming work for its pictures of infancy and of maternal and connubial love, may read on here with the assurance of a still higher gratification. It appears to us, therefore, that by far the most powerful and enchanting poetry is that which depends for its effect upon the just representation of common feelings and common situations; and not on the strangeness of its incidents, or the novelty or exotic splendour of its scenes and characters. The difficulty is, no doubt, to give the requisite force, elegance and dignity to these ordinary subjects, and to win a way for them to the heart, by that true and concise expression of natural emotion, which is among the rarest gifts of inspiration. To accomplish this, the poet must do much; and the reader something. The one must practise enchantment, and the other submit to it. The one must purify his conceptions from all that is low or artificial; and the other must lend himself gently to the impression, and refrain from disturbing it by any movement of worldly vanity, derision or hard heartedness. In an advanced state of The story is of very little consequence in a society, the expression of simple emotion is poem of this description; and it is here, as so obstructed by ceremony, or so distorted by we have just hinted, extremely short and affectation, that though the sentiment itself simple. Albert, an English gentleman of be still familiar to the greater part of man-high character and accomplishment, had emikind, the verbal representation of it is a task of the utmost difficulty. One set of writers, accordingly, finding the whole language of men and women too sophisticated for this purpose, have been obliged to go to the nursery for a more suitable phraseology; another has adopted the style of courtly Arcadians; and a third, that of mere Bedlamites. So much more difficult is it to express natural feelings, than to narrate battles, or describe prodigies! But even when the poet has done his part, there are many causes which may obstruct his immediate popularity. In the first place, it requires a certain degree of sensibility to perceive his merit. There are thousands of people who can admire a florid description, or be amused with a wonderful story, to whom a pathetic poem is quite unintelligible. In the second place, it requires a certain degree of leisure and tranquillity in the reader. A picturesque stanza may be well enough relished while the reader is getting his hair combed; but a scene of tenderness or emotion will not do, even for the corner of a crowded drawing-room. Finally, it requires a certain degree of courage to proclaim the merits of such a writer. Those who feel the most deeply, are most given to disguise their feelings; and derision is never so agonising as when it pounces on the wanderings of misguided sensibility. Considering the habits of the age in which we live, therefore, and the fashion, which, though not immutable, has for some time run steadily in an opposite direction, we should not be much surprised if a poem, whose chief merit consisted in its pathos, and in the softness and exquisite tenderness of its representations of domestic life and romantic seclusion, should meet with grated to Pennsylvania about the year 1740, and occupied himself, after his wife's death, in doing good to his neighbours, and in educating his infant and only child, Gertrude. He had fixed himself in the pleasant township of Wyoming, on the banks of the Susquehanna; a situation which at that time might have passed for an earthly paradise, with very little aid from poetical embellishment. The beauty and fertility of the country,-the simple and unlaborious plenty which reigned among the scattered inhabitants,-but, above all, the singular purity and innocence of their manners, and the tranquil and unenvious equality in which they passed their days, form altogether a scene, on which the eye of philanthropy is never wearied with gazing, and to which, perhaps, no parallel can be found in the annals of the fallen world. The heart turns with delight from the feverish scenes of European history, to the sweet repose of this true Atlantis; but sinks to reflect, that though its reality may still be attested by surviving witnesses, no such spot is now left, on the whole face of the earth, as a refuge from corruption and misery! The poem opens with a fine description of this enchanting retirement. One calm summer morn, a friendly Indian arrives in his canoe, bringing with him a fair boy, who, with his mother, were the sole survivors of an English garrison which had been stormed by a hostile tribe. The dying mother had com mended her boy to the care of her wild deliverers; and their chief, in obedience to her solemn bequest, now delivers him into the hands of the most respected of the adjoining settlers. Albert recognises the unhappy orphan as the son of a beloved friend; and rears young Henry Waldegrave as the happy | though in some places a little obscure and playmate of Gertrude, and sharer with her in overlaboured, are, to our taste, very soft and the joys of their romantic solitude, and the lessons of their venerable instructor. When beautiful. Although the wild-flower on thy ruin'd wall shore! "It was beneath thy skies that, but to prune he is scarcely entered upon manhood, Henry is sent for by his friends in England, and roams over Europe in search of improvement for eight or nine years,-while the quiet hours are sliding over the father and daughter in the unbroken tranquillity of their Pennsylvanian retreat. At last, Henry, whose heart had found no resting place in all the world besides, returns in all the mature graces of manhood, and marries his beloved Gertrude. Then there is bliss beyond all that is blissful on earth,—and more feelingly described than mere genius can ever hope to describe any thing. But the war of emancipation begins; and the dream of love and enjoyment is broken by alarms and dismal forebodings. While they are sitting one evening enjoying those tranquil delights, now more endeared" Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takes by the fears which gather around them, an His leave, how might you the flamingo see aged Indian rushes into their habitation, and, Disporting like a meteor on the lakesafter disclosing himself for Henry's ancient And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree: guide and preserver, informs them, that a From merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men; And ev'ry sound of life was full of glee, hostile tribe which had exterminated his While heark'ning, fearing nought their revelry, whole family, is on its march towards their The wild deer arch'd his neck from glades-and, devoted dwellings. With considerable difficulty they effect their escape to a fort at some Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again. distance in the woods; and at sunrise, Ger- "And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime trude, and her father and husband, look from Heard but in transatlantic story rung," &c. its battlements over the scene of desolation which the murderous Indians had already spread over the pleasant groves and gardens of Wyoming. While they are standing wrapt in this sad contemplation, an Indian marks man fires a mortal shot from his ambush at Albert; and as Gertrude clasps him in agony to her heart, another discharge lays her bleeding by his side! She then takes farewell of her husband, in a speech more sweetly pathetic than any thing ever written in rhyme. Henry prostrates himself on her grave in convulsed and speechless agony; and his Indian deliverer, throwing his mantle over him, watches by him a while in gloomy silence; and at last addresses him in a sort of wild and energetic descant, exciting him, by his example, to be revenged, and to die! The poem closes with this vehement and impas sioned exhortation. then pp. 5-7. tish, and English settlers, and of the patri The account of the German, Spanish, Scotarchal harmony in which they were all united, is likewise given with great spirit and brevity, their own elected judge and adviser. A sud as well as the portrait of the venerable Albert, den transition is then made to Gertrude. these sweet verses. Before proceeding to lay any part of the poem itself before our readers, we should try "A lov'd bequest! and I may half impart, to give them some idea of that delighful har- To them that feel the strong paternal tie, mony of colouring and of expression, which How like a new existence to his heart serves to unite every part of it for the pro- Dear as she was, from cherub infancy, Uprose that living flower beneath his eye! duction of one effect; and to make the de- From hours when she would round his garden play. scription, narrative, and reflections, conspire To time when, as the rip'ning years went by, to breathe over the whole a certain air of Her lovely mind could culture well repay, pure and tender enchantment, which is not And more engaging grew from pleasing day to day once dispelled, through the whole length of I may not paint those thousand infant charms; the poem, by the intrusion of any discordant (Unconscious fascination, undesign'd!) impression. All that we can now do, how-The orison repeated in his arms, ever, is to tell them that this was its effect For God to bless her sire and all mankind! upon our feelings; and to give them their The book, the bosom on his knee reclin'd, chance of partaking in it, by a pretty copious Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con, selection of extracts. The descriptive stanzas in the beginning, which set out with an invocation to Wyoming, (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind); mer shone. 350 "And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour, When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent, An Indian from his bark approach their bow'r," &c. pp. 12, 13. This is the guide and preserver of young Henry Waldegrave; who is somewhat fantastically described as appearing "Led by his dusky guide, like Morning brought by Night.' The Indian tells his story with great anima- "And from the tree we with her child unbound pray. "Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowls Albert recognises the child of his murdered friend, with great emotion; which the Indian witnesses with characteristic and picturesque composure. "Far differently the Mute Oneyda took A stoic of the woods-a man without a tear.-" p. 20. "A valley from the river shore withdrawn The effect of this seclusion on Gertrude is beautifully represented. "It seem'd as if those scenes sweet influence had The morning scenery, too, is touched with p. 32. The reader is left rather too much in the dark as to Henry's departure for Europe;— nor, indeed, are we apprised of his absence, till we come to the scene of his unexpected return. Gertrude was used to spend the hot part of the day in reading in a lonely and rocky recess in those safe woods; which is described with Mr. Campbell's usual felicity. "Rocks sublime This warrior, however, is not without high To human art a sportive semblance wore; feelings and tender affections. "He scorn'd his own, who felt another's woe: And ere the wolf-skin on his back he flung, Or laced his mocasins, in act to go, A song of parting to the boy he sung, And yellow lichens colour'd all the clime, "But high, in amphitheatre above, Who slept on Albert's couch, nor heard his friend- Breath'd but an air of heav'n, and all the grove ly tongue. "Sleep, wearied one! and in the dreaming land The Second part opens with a fine description of Albert's sequestered dwelling. It reminds us of that enchanted landscape in which Thomson has embosomed his Castle of Indolence. We can make room only for the first stanza. As if instinct with living spirit grew, In this retreat, which is represented as so solitary, that except her own, scarce an ear had heard p. 34. —a stranger of lofty port and gentle manners surprises her, one morning, and is conducted to her father. They enter into conversation on the subject of his travels. "And much they lov'd his fervid strainWhile he each fair variety retrac'd Of climes, and manners, o'er the eastern main. Than all the city's pomp and home of human kind. Albert, at last, bethinks him of inquiring after his stray ward young Henry; and entertains his guest with a short summary of his history. "His face the wand'rer hid ;-but could not hide A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell!And speak, mysterious stranger!' (Gertrude cried) 'It is!-it is!-I knew-I knew him well! [tell!' 'Tis Waldegrave's self, of Waldegrave come to A burst of joy the father's lips declare; But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell: At once his open arms embrac'd the pair; Was never group more blest, in this wide world of care!"-p. 39 The first overflowing of their joy and artless love is represented with all the fine colours of truth and poetry; but we cannot now make room for it. The Second Part ends with this stanza : Then would that home admit them-happier far Than grandeur's most magnificent saloon-While, here and there, a solitary star Flush'd in the dark'ning firmament of June; And silence brought the soul-felt hour full soon, Ineffable-which I may not pourtray! For never did the Hymenean moon A paradise of hearts more sacred sway, And must I change my song? and must I show, Sweet Wyoming! the day, when thou wert doom'd, Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bow'rs laid low! When, where of yesterday a garden bloom'd. Death overspread his pall, and black'ning ashes gloom'd? When Transatlantic Liberty arose; Not in the sunshine, and the smile of heav'n, Her birth star was the light of burning plains; Gertrude's alarm and dejection at the prospect of hostilities are well described: O, meet not thou," she cries, "thy kindred foe! But peaceful let us seek fair England's strand," &c. -as well as the arguments and generous sentiments by which her husband labours to reconcile her to a necessary evil. The nocturnal irruption of the old Indian is given with his appearance, that he was not at first recoggreat spirit:-Age and misery had so changed nised by any of the party. And ey'd the group with half indignant air), "And hast thou then forgot'-he cried forlorn, Oh! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn When I with thee the cup of peace did share? Then stately was this head, and dark this hair, But, if the weight of fifteen years' despair, That now is white as Appalachia's snow! And age hath bow'd me, and the tort'ring foe, Bring me my Boy-and he will his deliverer know!' "It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame, Ere Henry to his lov'd Oneyda flew : [came, Bless thee, my guide!'-but, backward, as he The chief his old bewilder'd head withdrew, And grasp'd his arm, and look'd and look'd him through. 'Twas strange-nor could the group a smile control, In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray."-The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view : p. 43. The Last Part sets out with a soft but spirited sketch of their short-lived felicity. "Three little moons, how short! amidst the grove, And pastoral savannas they consume! While she, beside her buskin'd youth to rove, Delights, in fancifully wild costume, Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume; "What though the sportive dog oft round them note, The transition to the melancholy part of the story is introduced with great tenderness and dignity. But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth? The torrent's smoothness ere it dash below! At last delight o'er all his features stole, [soul.'It is my own!' he cried, and clasp'd him to his "Yes! thou recall'st my pride of years; for then When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambush'd The bowstring of my spirit was not slack, [men. I bore thee like the quiver on my back, Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack; Nor foeman then, nor cougar's crouch I fear'd, For I was strong as mountain cataract; And dost thou not remember how we cheer'd Upon the last hill-top, when white men's huts appear'd?'"-pp. 54-56. After warning them of the approach of their terrible foe, the conflagration is seen, and the whoops and scattering shot of the enemy heard at a distance. neigbourhood flock to the defence of Albert: The motley militia of the the effect of their shouts and music on the old Indian is fine and striking. "Calm, opposite the Christian Father rose, They then speed their night march to the distant fort, whose wedged ravelins and redoubts "Wove like a diadem, its tracery round The lofty summit of that mountain green"and look back from its lofty height on the desolated scenes around them. We will not separate, nor apologize for the length of the fine passage that follows; which alone, we think, might justify all we have said in praise of the poem. "A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun, "But short that contemplation! sad and short deeds, Gleam'd like a basilisk, from woods in view, bleeds! And tranc'd in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd! Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wound, Those drops ?-O God! the life-blood is her own! And falt'ring, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrownWeep not, O Love!'-she cries, to see me bleed Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee aloneHeaven's peace commiserate! for scarce I heed These wounds!-Yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed. "Clasp me a little longer, on the brink ⚫ Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress; And, when this heart hath ceas'd to beat-oh! think, And let it mitigate thy woe's excess, That thou hast been to me all tenderness, And friend to more than human friendship just. Oh! by that retrospect of happiness, And by the hopes of an immortal trust, [dust! God shall assuage thy pangs--when I am laid in While woman's softer soul in woe dissolv'd aloud. After some time spent in this mute and awful pause, this stern and heart-struck comforter breaks out into the following touching and energetic address, with which the poem closes, with great spirit and abruptness: "And I could weep;'-th' Oneyda chief His descant wildly thus began: But that I may not stain with grief For by my wrongs, and by my wrath! -- (That fires yon heaven with storms of death) And we shall share, my Christian boy! "But thee, my flow'r! whose breath was giv'n By milder genii o'er the decp, The spirits of the white man's heav'n But when the bolt of death is hurl'd, |