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568

THE FIRST MAN—A SONNET.

Be mine, all mine, let good or ill betide.
In war or peace, in sickness or in health,
In trouble, and in danger and distress,

Through time and through eternity I'll love thee,
In youth and age, in life and death I'll love thee,
Here and hereafter, with all my soul and strength.
So God accept me as I never cease

From loving and adoring thee next Him:
And oh, may He pardon me if so betray'd
By mortal frailty as to love thee more.

Artev. I fear, my Adriana, 'tis a rash
And passionate resolve that thou hast made:
But how should I admonish thee, myself
So great a winner by thy desperate play.
Heaven is o'er all, and unto Heaven I leave it.

That which hath made me weak shall make me strong,
Weak to resist, strong to requite thy love;
And if some tax thou payest for that love,

Thou shalt receive it back from Love's exchequer.
Farewell; 'tis late; I'm waited for ere this.

Adri. Upon this finger be the first tax raised

[Draws off a ring, which she gives him. Now what shall I receive?

Artev.

The like from mine.

I had forgotten-I have it not to day;
But in its stead wear this around thy neck.
And now, my Adriana, my betrothed,

Give Love a good night's rest within thy heart,
And bid him wake to-morrow, calm and strong.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

(1796-1849).

THE FIRST MAN-A SONNET.

WHAT was 't awaken'd first the untried ear
Of that sole man who was all human kind?
Was it the gladsome welcome of the wind,
Stirring the leaves that never yet were sere?
The four mellifluous streams which flow'd so near,
Their lulling murmurs all in one combined?
The note of bird unnamed? The startled hind
Bursting the brake,-in wonder, not in fear
Of her new lord? Or did the holy ground
Send forth mysterious melody to greet
The gracious pressure of immaculate feet?
Did viewless seraphs rustle all around,
Making sweet music out of air as sweet?
Or his own voice awake him with its sound?

POETS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 569

Of the crowd of poetical writers, male and female, in the three kingdoms, whose numbers have enriched the literature of the present century, we can afford room for the names of very few; we must omit many probably equal, or perhaps superior, in merit to some of those selected.

William Gifford'; Dr. J. Wolcot (Peter Pindar); Rev. William Lisle Bowles; Edwin Atherstone ("Nineveh "); Bernard Barton; Rev. George Croly; Thomas Pringle; Ebenezer Elliot (Corn Law Rhymes); J. Sterling ("The Sexton ")-he is the Archeus of the Noctes in Blackwood's Magazine; W. M. Milnes; Alaric Watts and Mrs. Watts; William and Mary Howitt; Thomas Aird; Miss Blamire; Mrs. Barbauld; Miss Seward; Mrs. Tighe ("Psyche"); Miss Caroline Bowles, afterwards Mrs. Southey; Eliza Cook; Isa Craig; Bessy Parkes; W. Allingham; Coventry Patmore; W. C. Bennett; Gerald Massey; George Macdonald; James Hedderwick; Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton (son of the novelist), etc. The writers who have cultivated the language of Scotland are also numerous :-Alexander Wilson (the ornithologist, originally a Paisley weaver); Robert Tannahill, also a native of Paisley; Hector Macneil ("Will and Jean "); John Mayne ("Logan Braes," etc.); Sir Alexander Boswell, the son of Johnson's Boswell ("Jenny dang the Weaver," etc.); the late William Tennant, Professor of Hebrew in the University of St. Andrews ("Anster Fair "); William Motherwell; Robert Nicol; James Ballantine (poems and songs, interspersed in the "Gaberlunzie's Wallet" and the Miller of Deanhaugh"); Robert Gilfillan; William Thom, the hand-loom weaver, of Inverury, whose death in poverty and neglect has been made the subject of reproach against Scotland; David Vedder; Alexander Maclagan, etc.

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The Dramatists of the conclusion of the eighteenth, and of the present century, are-Joanna Baillie (Plays of the Passions); Matthew Gregory Lewis (Castle Spectre); W. Godwin; W. Sotheby; Richard Lalor Shiel; Miss Mitford; Mrs. Inchbald; Thomas Morton; George Colman (the Younger); John Tobin; Leigh Hunt; Messrs. Reynolds, Holcroft, Horne, Douglas Jerrold, etc. The drama has assumed within this period the form of the Dramatic Poem: this style of construction is often preferred in poems strictly of the epic character.

Many of these writers, and others, have produced compositions which posterity will not probably let die; some have found their way into foreign languages. The "minor" Scottish poets especially have lately been translated into German. The kindred genius of the British and German tongues (see Scott's " Essay on Imitations of the Ancient Ballad ") facilitates the reciprocal transfusion of their poetry, especially in the case of the language of Scotland; moreover, the lyrical grace and hearty natural feeling of these Scottish compositions are calculated to carry their influence beyond their national limits, especially among a people so closely allied in feeling and character as are the Germans to the Scotch. Of late years the poetical industry of the country has exhibited no peculiar development: the "great masters" have departed. Mr. Tennyson, at present, occupies the position of the "most distinguished poet of the day," and he has been steadily increasing in popularity.

Of what may be termed "the psychological school, spiritual not metaphysical," "Bells and Pomegranates, ," "The King and the book," etc. by Robert Browning, and "Ballads and Romances," by R. H. Horne, author of the drama "Orion," are works which attracted much of the

570 POETS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

public attention, though written in what may be called the transcendental style, and wanting in simplicity. In conclusion we may say that although in this country the tendency of the age is more towards prose fiction— the novel having become in some sort a necessary of life-poetry is still sedulously cultivated, and the elder bards are studied and appreciated with critical taste and enthusiasm.

AMERICAN POETS.

SYDNEY SMITH in 1818 wrote "Literature the Americans have none-no native literature. It is all imported. They had a Franklin, indeed, and may afford to live for half a century on his fame. There is, or was, a Mr. Dwight, who wrote some poems; and his baptismal name was Timothy. small account of Virginia by Jefferson, and an epic by Joel There is also a Barrow; and some pieces of pleasantry by Mr. Irving. But why should the Americans write books, when a six weeks' passage brings them, in their own tongue, our sense, science, and genius in bales and hogsheads? Prairies, steam-boats, grist-mills, are their natural objects for centuries to come." There was even then exaggeration in this judgment of the witty Canon of St. Paul's, for the name of Jonathan Edwards was great in metaphysics; and his grandson Timothy Dwight, though a poor poet, was an able and popular theologian and miscellaneous writer; while in fiction Brockden Brown (the first American littérateur by profession) was no mean pioneer. Since then fifty years have wrought strange alteration. England has been contracted into one of ten or twelve days, The six weeks' passage from and so far from the facility of communication tending to repress native literature, American authors have come forward vigorously in almost every department, and been read over all Europe. Washington Irving, Channing, Bancroft, Prescott, and Ticknor, stand in the first rank of prose writers; and though in poetry the triumph is less marked, the names of Bryant, Longfellow, Poe, Halleck, Willis, and a few others, occupy no inconsiderable position. We can afford space for but scanty gleanings, yet a few extracts will shew that there are features of originality in these strains of the young American Muse.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

(1794

.)

THE son of a physician in Massachusetts, Mr. Bryant was carefully educated, and distinguished himself at Williams College, after which he studied for the bar. Having practised as a barrister for some years, he removed in 1825 to New York, and attached himself to periodical literature, first as editor of the Monthly Review, and subsequently as

editor of the Evening Post, which he still (1872) conducts. From his tenth year Mr. Bryant has been known as a poet. His precocity exceeded that of Cowley or Pope, but he has not been voluminous. His pieces are all contained in one volume, and are remarkable for their refined meditative character and simple chaste beauty of expression. They transport us, as Washington Irving remarks, “into the depths of the solemn primeval forest, the shores of the lonely lake, and the banks of the wild nameless stream." Mr. Bryant is also author of "Letters of a Traveller in Europe and America." His first piece is a meditation on death, to which he prefixes the Greek compound title of "Thanatopsis.”

THANATOPSIS.

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware.
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

When thoughts

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;
Go forth, under the open sky, and list

To Nature's teachings, while from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-
Comes a still voice: Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix for ever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre.-The hills

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