Age has now "Now in their turn assisting, they repay " They stand between the mountains and the sea; "How many centuries did the sun go round Proclaims that Nature had resun'd her right, "From my youth upward have I longed to tread Where once a slave withstood a world in arms. "The air is sweet with violets, running wild We have dwelt too long, perhaps, on a work more calculated to make a lasting, than a strong impression on the minds of its readers -and not, perhaps, very well calculated for being read at all in the pages of a Miscellaneous Journal. We have gratified ourselves, however, in again going over it; and hope we have not much wearied our readers. It is followed by a very striking copy of verses written at Pæstum in 1816-and more characteristic of that singular and most striking scene, than any thing we have ever read, in prose or verse, on the subject. The ruins of Pæstum, as they are somewhat improperly called, consist of three vast and massive Temples, of the most rich and magnificent architecture; which are not ruined at all, but as entire as on the day when they were built, while there is not a vestige left of the city to which they belonged! They stand in a "In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk desert and uninhabited plain, which stretches Seen at his setting, and a flood of light for many miles from the sea to the mountains Filling the courts of these old sanctuaries, -and, after the subversion of the Roman (Gigantic shadows, broken and confus'd, greatness, had fallen into such complete obli- In such an hour he came, who saw and told, Across the innumerable columns flung) vion, that for nearly nine hundred years they Led by the mighty Genius of the Place' had never been visited or heard of by any in- Walls of some capital city first appear'd, telligent person, till they were accidentally Half raz'd, half sunk, or scatter'd as in scorn; discovered about the middle of the last cen--And what within them? what but in the midst tury. The whole district in which they are situated, though once the most fertile and flourishing part of the Tyrrhene shore, has been almost completely depopulated by the Mal'aria; and is now, in every sense of the word, a vast and dreary desert. The follow-tled "The Boy of Egremond"-which is well ing lines seem to us to tell all that need be enough for a Lakish ditty, but not quite wor told, and to express all that can be felt of a thy of the place in which we meet it. scene s strange and so mournful. These Three, in more than their original grandeur, The volume ends with a little ballad, enti (June, 1815.) Roderick The Last of the Goths. By ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq., Poet-Laureate, and Member of the Royal Spanish Academy. 4to. pp. 477. London: 1814.** THIS is the best, we think, and the most powerful of all Mr. Southey's poems. It abounds with lofty sentiments, and magnificent imagery; and contains more rich and comprehensive descriptions-more beautiful pictures of pure affection-and more impressive representations of mental agony and exultation than we have often met with in the compass of a single volume. A work, of which all this can be said with justice, cannot be without great merit; and ought not, it may be presumed, to be without great popularity. Justice, however, has something more to say of it: and we are not quite sure either that it will be very popular, or that it deserves to be so. It is too monotonous too wordy—and too uniformly stately, tragical, and emphatic. Above all, it is now and then a little absurd-and pretty frequently not a little affected. The author is a poet undoubtedly; but not of the highest order. There is rather more of rhetoric than of inspiration about himand we have oftener to admire his taste and industry in borrowing and adorning, than the boldness or felicity of his inventions. He has indisputably a great gift of amplifying and exalting; but uses it, we must say, rather unmercifully. He is never plain, concise, or unaffectedly simple, and is so much bent upon making the most of every thiug, that he is perpetually overdoing. His sentiments and situations are, of course, sometimes ordinary enough; but the tone of emphasis and pretension is never for a moment relaxed; and the most trivial occurrences, and fantastical distresses, are commemorated with the same vehemence and exaggeration of manner, as the most startling incidents, or the deepest and most heart-rending disasters. This want of relief and variety is sufficiently painful of : I have, in my time, said petulant and provoking things of Mr. Southey :-and such as I would not say now. But I am not conscious that I was ever unfair to his Poetry and if I have noted what I thought its faults, in too arrogant and derisive a spirit, I think I have never failed to give hearty and cordial praise to its beauties and generally dwelt much more largely on the latter than the former. Few things, at all events, would now grieve me more, than to think I might give pain to his many friends and admirers, by reprint. ing, so soon after his death, any thing which might appear derogatory either to his character or his genius; and therefore, though I cannot say that I Save substantially changed any of the opinions I have formerly expressed as to his writings, I only insert in this publication my review of his last considerable poem: which may be taken as conveying my matured opinion of his merits and will be felt, I trust, to have done no scanty or unwilling justice to his great and peculiar powers. itself in a work of such length; but its worst effect is, that it gives an air of falsetto and pretension to the whole strain of the compo sition, and makes us suspect the author of imposture and affectation, even when he has good enough cause for his agonies and raptures. How is it possible, indeed, to commit our sympathies, without distrust, to the hands of a writer, who, after painting with infinite force the anguish of soul which pursued the fallen Roderick into the retreat to which his crimes had driven him, proceeds with redoubled emphasis to assure us, that neither his remorse nor his downfal were half so intolerable to him, as the shocking tameness of the sea birds who flew round about him in that utter solitude! and were sometimes so familiar as to brush his cheek with their wings? "For his lost crown And sceptre never had he felt a thought This, if we were in bad humour, we should be tempted to say, was little better than drivelling;-and certainly the folly of it is greatly aggravated by the tone of intense solemnity in which it is conveyed: But the worst fault by far, and the most injurious to the effect of the author's greatest beauties, is the extreme diffuseness and verbosity of his style, and his unrelenting anxiety to leave nothing to the fancy, the feeling, or even the plain understanding of his readers-but to have every thing set down, and impressed and hammered into them, which it may any how conduce to his glory that they should comprehend. There never was any author, we are persuaded, who had so great a distrust of his readers' capacity, or such an unwillingness to leave any opportunity of shining unimproved; and accordingly, we rather think there is no author, who, with the same talents and attainments, has been so generally thought tedious-or acquired, on the whole, a popularity so inferior to his real deservings. On the present occasion, we have already said, his deservings appear to us unusually great, and his faults less than commonly conspicuous. But though there is less childishness and trifling in this, than in any of his other productions, there is still, we are afraid, enough of tediousness and affected energy, very materially to obstruct the popularity which the force, and the tenderness and beauty of its better parts, might have otherwise commanded. suggested, more utterly alien to all English prejudices, traditions, and habits of poetical contemplation, than the domestic history of the last Gothic King of Spain,-a history extremely remote and obscure in itself, and There is one blemish, however, which we treating of persons and places and events, think peculiar to the work before us; and with which no visions or glories are associated that is, the outrageously religious, or rather in English imaginations. The subject, how fanatical, tone which pervades its whole ever, was selected, we suppose, during that structure; the excessive horror and abuse period when a zeal for Spanish liberty, and a with which the Mahometans are uniformly belief in Spanish virtue, spirit and talent, were spoken of on account of their religion alone; extremely fashionable in this country; and and the offensive frequency and familiarity before "the universal Spanish people" had with which the name and the sufferings of made themselves the objects of mixed conour Saviour are referred to at every turn of tempt and compassion, by rushing prone into the story. The spirit which is here evinced the basest and most insulted servitude that towards the Moors, not only by their valiant was ever asserted over human beings. From opponents, but by the author when speaking this degradation we do not think they will be in his own person, is neither that of pious redeemed by all the heroic acts recorded in reprobation nor patriotic hatred, but of savage this poem,-the interest of which, we sus and bigotted persecution; and the heroic pect, will be considerably lowered, by the late character and heroic deeds of his greatest revolution in public opinion, as to the merits favourites are debased and polluted by the of the nation to whose fortunes it relates.paltry superstitions, and sanguinary fanati- After all, however, we think it must be allowcism, which he is pleased to ascribe to them. ed, that any author who interests us in his This, which we are persuaded would be re-story, has either the merit of choosing a good volting in a nation of zealous Catholics, must be still more distasteful, we think, among sober Protestants; while, on the other hand, the constant introduction of the holiest persons, and most solemn rites of religion, for the purpose of helping on the flagging interest of a story devised for amusement, can scarcely fail to give scandal and offence to all persons of right feeling or just taste. This remark may be thought a little rigorous by those who have not looked into the work to which it is applied-For they can have no idea of the extreme frequency, and palpable extravagance, of the allusions and invocations to which we have referred.-One poor woman, for example, who merely appears to give alms to the fallen Roderick in the season of his humiliation, is very needlessly made to exclaim, as she offers her pittance, "Christ Jesus, for his Mother's sake, Have mercy on thee," -and soon after, the King himself, when he "Oh, for the love of Jesus curse him not! subject, or a still higher merit;-and Mr. Southey, in our opinion, has made his story very interesting. Nor should it be forgotten, that by the choice which he has made, he has secured immense squadrons of Moors, with their Asiatic gorgeousness, and their cymbals, turbans, and Paynim chivalry, to give a picturesque effect to his battles, and bevies of veiled virgins and ladies in armour,-and hermits and bishops, and mountain villagers, and torrents and forests, and cork trees and sierras, to remind us of Don Quixote,-and store of sonorous names:—and altogether, he might have chosen worse among more famíliar objects. The scheme or mere outline of the fable is extremely short and simple. Roderick, the valiant and generous king of the Goths, being unhappily married, allows his affections to wander on the lovely daughter of Count Julian; and is so far overmastered by his passion, as, in a moment of frenzy, to offer violence to her person. Her father, in revenge of this cruel wrong, invites the Moors to seize on the kingdom of the guilty monarch;-and assuming their faith, guides them at last to a signal and sanguinary victory. Roderick, after performing prodigies of valour, in a seven-days fight, Whereupon, one of the more charitable audi- feels at length that Heaven has ordained all tors rejoins. "Christ bless thee, brother, for that Christian speech!"' and so the talk goes on, through the greater part of the poem. Now, we must say we think this both indecent and ungraceful; and look upon it as almost as exceptionable a way of increasing the solemnity of poetry, as common swearing is of adding to the energy of discourse. We are not quite sure whether we should reckon his choice of a subject, among Mr. Southey's errors on the present occasion; but certainly no theme could well have been 54 this misery as the penalty of his offences; and, overwhelmed with remorse and inward agony, falls from his battle horse in the midst of the carnage: Stripping off his rich armour, he then puts on the dress of a dead peasant; and, pursued by revengeful furies, rushes desperately on through his lost and desolated kingdom, till he is stopped by the sea; on the rocky and lonely shore of which he passes more than a year in constant agonies of penitence and humiliation,-till he is roused at length, by visions and impulses, to undertake something for the deliverance of his suffering people. Grief and abstinence have now so changed him, that he is recognised by no one ¡ 21 2 And water for their need; on either side p. 14. and being universally believed to have fallen | tyrdom for his sake, and to bear him company in battle, he traverses great part of his for- in the retreat to which he is hastening. They mer realm, witnessing innumerable scenes of set out together, and fix themselves in a little wretchedness and valour, and rousing, by his rocky bay, opening out to the lonely roar of holy adjurations, all the generous spirits in the Atlantic. Spain, to unite against the invaders. After a variety of trials and adventures, he at last recovers his good war horse, on the eve of a great battle with the infidels; and, bestriding him in his penitential robes, rushes furiously into the heart of the fight, where, kindling with the scene and the cause, he instinctively raises his ancient war cry, as he deals his resistless blows on the heads of the misbelievers; and the thrilling words of "Rode- The Second Book begins with stating, that rick the Goth! Roderick and victory!" re- Roderick passed twelve months in penance sounding over the astonished field, are taken and austerities, in this romantic retreat.-At up by his inspired followers, and animate the end of that time, his ghostly father dies; them to the utter destruction of the enemy. and his agonies become more intolerable, in At the close of the day, however, when the the utter desolation to which he is now left. field is won, the battle horse is found without The author, however, is here a little unlucky its rider! and the sword which he wielded in two circumstances, which he imagines and lying at his feet. The poem closes with a describes at great length, as aggravating his brief intimation, that it was not known till unspeakable misery;-one is the tameness of many centuries thereafter, that the heroic the birds, of which we have spoken already penitent had again sought the concealment of the other is the reflection which he very a remote hermitage, and ended his days in innocently puts into the mouth of the lonely solitary penances. The poem, however, both King, that all the trouble he has taken in dig requires and deserves a more particular ana-ging his own grave, will now be thrown away, lysis. The first book or canto opens with a slight sketch of the invasion, and proceeds to the fatal defeat and heart-struck flight of Roderick. The picture of the first descent of the Moorish invaders, is a good specimen of the author's broader and more impressive manner. He is addressing the rock of Gibraltar. "Thou saw'st the dark blue waters flash before as there will probably be nobody to stretch him out, and cover him decently up in it!However he is clearly made out to be very miserable; and prays for death, or for the imposition of some more active penance any thing But stillness, and this dreadful solitude!" At length he is visited, in his sleep, by a vision of his tender mother; who gives him her blessing in a gentle voice, and says, "Jesus have mercy on thee." The air and countenance of this venerable shade, as she bent in sorrow over her unhappy son, are powerfully depicted in the following allusion to her domestic calamities. He traced there, it seems, not only the settled sadness of her widowhood "But a more mortal wretchedness than when Had done their work, and in her arms she held The agony of the distracted king, as he flies in vain from himself through his lost and ruined kingdom; and the spectacle which every where presented itself of devastation and terror, and miserable emigration, are represented with great force of colouring. At the end of the seventh day of that solitary and despairing flight, he arrives at the portal of an ancient convent, from which all its holy tenants had retired on the approach of the the character of the vision is suddenly alWhile he gazes on this piteous countenance, Moors, except one aged priest, who had staid tered; and the verses describing the alteration to deck the altar, and earn his crown of martyr-afford a good specimen both of Mr. Southey's dom from the infidel host. By him Roderick command of words, and of the profusion with is found grovelling at the foot of the cross, and which he sometimes pours them out on his drowned in bitter and penitential sorrows.-readers. He leads him in with compassionate soothings, and supplicates him before the altar to be of comfort, and to trust in mercy. The result is told with great feeling and admirable effect: and the worthy father weeps and watches with his penitent through the night: and in the morning resolves te forego the glories of mar -"And lo! her form was chang'd! Of horsemen, and the din of multitudes Each where they fell; and blood-flakes, parch'd Like the dry slime of some receding flood; While he is gazing on this dreadful scene with all the sympathies of admiration and from the ruins, and implores him to assist her sorrow, a young and lovely woman rushes in burying the bodies of her child, husband, and parents, who all lie mangled at her feet. pil-heart and kindling eyes, to the vehement narHe sadly complies; and listens, with beating In awaking from this prophetic dream, he resolves to seek occasion of active service, in such humble capacity as becomes his fallen fortune; and turns from this first abode of his penitence and despair. The Third Book sets him on his heroic We do not know that we could extract from the whole book a more characteristic passage than that which describes his emotion on his first return to the sight of man, and the altered aspect of his fallen people. He approaches to the walls of Leyria. "The sounds, the sight Confus'd him now, and through the streets he went "One stopt him short, A Christian woman spinning at her door "But when he reach'd The open fields, and found himself alone Was then repose and comfort. There he stopt And shedding o'er that unaccustom'd food rative and lofty vow of revenge with which this heroine closes her story. The story itself is a little commonplace; turning mainly upon her midnight slaughter of the Moorish captain, who sought to make love to her after the sacrifice of all her family; but the expression of her patriotic devotedness and religious ardour of revenge, is given with great energy; as well as the effect which it produces on the waking spirit of the King. He repeats the solemn vow which she has just taken, and consults her as to the steps that may be taken for rousing the valiant of the land to their assistance. The high-minded Amazon then asks the name of her first proselyte. "Ask any thing but that! The fallen King replied. My name was lost When from the Goths the sceptre past away!" She rejoins, rather less felicitously, "Then be thy name Maccabee ;" and sends him on an embassage to a worthy abbot among the mountains; to whom he forthwith reports what he had seen and witnessed. Upon hear ing the story of her magnanimous devotion, the worthy priest instantly divines the name of the heroine. "Oh none but Adosinda!.. none but she,.. The King then communes on the affairs of Spain with this venerable Ecclesiastic and his associates; who are struck with wonder at the lofty mien which still shines through his sunk and mortified frame. "They scann'd his countenance: But not a trace Betray'd the royal Goth! sunk was that eye He breath'd thanksgiving forth; then made his bed Of sov'reignty; and on the emaciate cheek On heath and myrtle."-pp. 28-30. After this, he journeys on through deserted hamlets and desolated towns, till, on entering the silent streets of Auria, yet black with conflagration, and stained with blood, the vestiges of a more heroic resistance appear before him. Had penitence and anguish deeply drawn At length, the prelate lays his consecrating hands on him; and sends him to Pelayo, the heir-apparent of the sceptre, then a prisoner or hostage at the court of the Moorish prince, to say that the mountaineers are still unsub |