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 society, the expression of simple emotion is so obstructed by ceremony, or so distorted by affectation, that though the sentiment itself be still familiar to the greater part of mankind, 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 The story is of very little consequence in a poem of this description; and it is here, as we have just hinted, extremely short and simple. Albert, an English gentleman of high character and accomplishment, had emigrated 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 commended 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 or phan 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 beautiful. lessons of their venerable instructor. When 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 by the fears which gather around them, an aged Indian rushes into their habitation, and, after disclosing himself for Henry's ancient guide and preserver, informs them, that a hostile tribe which had exterminated his whole family, is on its march towards their devoted dwellings. With considerable difficulty they effect their escape to a fort at some distance in the woods; and at sunrise, Gertrude, and her father and husband, look from 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 marksman 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 impassioned exhortation. 'Before proceeding to lay any part of the poem itself before our readers, we should try to give them some idea of that delighful harmony of colouring and of expression, which serves to unite every part of it for the production of one effect; and to make the description, narrative, and reflections, conspire to breathe over the whole a certain air of pure and tender enchantment, which is not once dispelled, through the whole length of the poem, by the intrusion of any discordant impression. All that we can now do, however, is to tell them that this was its effect upon our feelings; and to give them their chance of partaking in it, by a pretty copious selection of extracts. The descriptive stanzas in the beginning, which set out with an invocation to Wyoming, Although the wild-flower on thy ruin'd wall shore ! "It was beneath thy skies that, but to prune Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takes His leave, how might you the flamingo see Disporting like a meteor on the lakesAnd playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree: From merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men; And ev'ry sound of life was full of glee, While heark'ning, fearing nought their revelry, The wild deer arch'd his neck from glades-and, Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again. "And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime Heard but in transatlantic story rung," &c. then pp. 5-7. "A lov'd bequest! and I may half impart, (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind); mer shone. '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 "Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowls wore. 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.-" 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 on Gertrude's soul, and kindness like their own The morning scenery, too, is touched with 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: 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 Should'st thou the spirit of thy mother greet, Oh! say, to-morrow, that the white man's hand Hath pluck'd the thorns of sorrow from thy feet; While I in lonely wilderness shall meet Thy little foot-prints-or by traces know The fountain, where at noon I thought it sweet To feed thee with the quarry of my bow, And pour'd the lotus-horn, or slew the mountain roe. "Adieu? sweet scion of the rising sun!' &c. pp. 21, 22. 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! 'Tis Waldegrave's self, of Waldegrave come to A burst of joy the father's lips declare; [tell!' 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 saloonWhile, 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, In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray."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! 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?- "Sad was the year, by proud Oppression driv'n, 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: 466 And ey'd the group with half indignant air), "It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame, through. 664 Yes! thou recall'st my pride of years; for then The bowstring of my spirit was not slack, [men, When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambush'd 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. The motley militia of the neigbourhood flock to the defence of Albert. the effect of their shouts and music on the old Indian is fine and striking. Old Outalissi woke his battle song, "Rous'd by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and [cheer, And beating with his war-club cadence strong, Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts, &c. p. 61. Nor is the contrast of this savage enthusiasm with the venerable composure of Albert less beautifully represented. "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 [flew, Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew Was near?-Yet there, with lust of murd'rous deeds, [dust! 666 Clasp me a little longer, on the brink "Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earthAnd thee, more lov'd than aught beneath the sun! Could I have liv'd to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge !-But shall there then be none, In future times no gentle little one, To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me! Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!' Hush'd were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland With love that could not die! and still his hand She presses to the heart no more that felt. pp. 64--68. The funeral is hurried over with pathetic brevity; and the desolate and all-enduring Indian brought in again with peculiar beauty. "Touch'd by the music, and the melting scene, Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen To veil their eyes, as pass'd each much-lov'd shroud 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! The spirits of the white man's heav'n Nor will the Christian host, But when the bolt of death is hurl'd, |