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more than all Shakespeare. He leaves untouched the mockery : and misanthropy, as well as much of the force and energy of the noble Lord's poetry-and betakes himself only to its deep sense of beauty, and the grace and tenderness that are so often and so strangely interwoven with those less winning characteristics. - It is the poetry of Manfred, of Parisina, of Haidée and Thyrsa, that he aims at copying, and not the higher and more energetic tone of the Corsair, or Childe Harold, or Don Juan. He has indeed borrowed the manner of this last piece in two of the poems in this little volume—but has shown no great aptitude for wit or sarcasm, and has succeeded only in the parts that are pathetic and tender. There is a great deal of tlie diction of Wordsworth and Coleridge, and some imitation of their beanties : But we think the natural bent of his genius is more like that of Leigh Hunt than any other author.--He has the same play of fancy, and the same capacity of deep and delicate feeling, together with the same relish for the old Italian poetry, and the plain and simple pathos of Dante and Boccacio.-- We doubt, however, whether he has equal force of original talent, or whether he could have written any thing so good, on the whole, as the beautiful story of Rimini: But he has better taste and better judgment-or, what perhaps is but saying the same thing, he has less affectation, and far less conceit. He has scarcely any other affectation, indeed, than is almost necessarily implied in a sedulous imitator of difficult models and no visible conceit at all. On the contrary, we cannot help supposing him to be a very natural and amiable person, who has taken to write poetry, more for the love he bears it, than the fame to which it may raise him—who cares nothing for the sects and factions into which the poetical world may be divided—but, regarding himself as a debtor to every writer who has given him pleasure, desires nothing better than to range freely over the whole Parnassian garden, stealing and giving odour' with a free spirit and a grateful and joyous heart.
It is this apparent devotion to the purer part of his art and the total exclusion of all contentious and dogmatical matter, that constitutes the great charm of his writing. The fever of party spirit, and the bitterness of speculative contention, have of late years infected all our literature; and Poetry itself, instead of bem ing the balm and anodyne of minds hurt and ruffled with the rugged tasks and angry struggles of the world, has too often been made the vehicle of moral and political animosity, religious antipathy and personal offence. We cannot always, with all our philosophy, escape the soil and tarnish of those contagious pursuits; but it is delightful to turn from them awhile, to the unalloyed
sweets of such poetry as Mr Cornwall's; and to refresh our fancies, and strengthen and compose our good affection, among the images of love and beauty; and gentle sympathy and sorrow, with which it everywhere presents us. It is time, however, to impart a portion of these soothing strains to our readers also; as we are sure we have already said more than enough to explain to the intelligent the opinion we entertain of them, and the principle on which we conceive them to be constructed.
The first; and, in our opinion, the finest poem in the book, is the Sicilian Story;' the outline; and a good deal of the details of which, are taken from a well known tale in the Dem cameron. It is in the sweet and irregular measure of Lycidas -though in a much more familiar and dramatic strain of diction than any of the Miltonic varieties. The following verses appear to us extremely beautiful.
. One night a masque was held within the walls
A low and silver-voiced music made :
And as in female trust seemed there to grow, vur Like woman's love ʼmidst sorrow flourishing:
And every odorous plant aud brighter thing
Gay cavaliers and dames high-born and fair,
That can so well beguile amaga w The human heart from its recess, were seen, i
And lovers full of love or studious care
Wasting their rhymes upon the soft night air, slich And spirits that never till the morning sleep.
And, far away, the mountain Etna flung
Ran restless thro' the throng, and then she bowed
Another passed, and bowed, and passed again.' pp. 8–10. Her brother, who had always thwarted her love, passes near her; and in accents of hate and bitter scorn, pronounces the name of Guido. She shudders at the ill-omened sounds; and the poet proceeds to describe how the lovers had passed the morning.
That mořn they sat upon the sea-beach green ;
And then, in crimsoning beauty, playfully
Breathes her dim oracles on the soul of youth.' pp. 13-15. She retires heart-broken from the banquet; and dreams that her beloved stands before her, and says
• Awake and search yon dell, for I
• Are shut, and now have lost their light for ever.' p. 15. -and then he proceeds to bid her take his heart from his bosom, and bury it beneath the basil tree which they had planted together, which should flourish for ever in memory of their loves, In the morning, half in agony, and half disbelieving, she journeys to the fatal ravine-and there finds the pangled body of the youth whom her brother had murdered.
“There stiff and cold the dark-eyed Guido lay,
Spoke of gone mortality.' p. 19. Shę obeys the directions of the spirit; and the basil tree--noyrished by that precious deposite-towers and blossoms in rare and unnatural beauty. Her brother, however, finds the heart, and casts it in the sea. Immediately the tree withers—and Isabel, missing her worshipped relic, flies from her cruel brother's house, and lives crazy and lonely in the woods and
At last she wandered home. She came by night.
And of her love the young Italian.' pp. 27, 28,
The Worship of Dian,' and the Death of Acis,’ are very elegant and graceful imitations of the higher style of Theocritus; and remind us of Akinside's Hymn to the Naiads--though there is more grace and tenderness, and less majesty.
Gyges' is the story of old Candaules, attempted in the