Chapter 7

A little farther on we have another original piece, entitled, 'The Redbreast and the Butterfly,' of which our readers will probably be contented with the first stanza.

'Art thou the bird whom man loves best, The pious bird with the scarlet breast, Our little English Robin; The bird that comes about our doors When autumn winds are sobbing? Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors? Their Thomas in Finland, And Russia far inland? The bird, whom _by some name or other_ All men who know thee call their brother, The darling of children and men? Could Father Adam open his eyes, And see this sight beneath the skies, He'd wish to close them again.' I. 16.

This, it must be confessed, is 'Silly Sooth' in good earnest. The three last [_sic_] lines seem to be downright raving.

By and by, we have a piece of namby-pamby 'to the Small Celandine,' which we should almost have taken for a professed imitation of one of Mr Philip's prettyisms. Here is a page of it.

'Comfort have thou of thy merit, Kindly, unassuming spirit! Careless of thy neighbourhood, Thou dost show thy pleasant face On the moor, and in the wood, In the lane;--there's not a place, Howsoever mean it be, But 'tis good enough for thee. Ill befal the yellow flowers, Children of the flaring hours! Buttercups, that will be seen, Whether we will see or no; Others, too, of lofty mien; They have done as worldlings do, Taken praise that should be thine, Little, humble, Celandine!' I. 25.

After talking of its 'bright coronet,' the ditty is wound up with this piece of babyish absurdity.

'Thou art not beyond the moon, But a thing "beneath our shoon;" Let, as old Magellan did, Others roam about the sea; Build who will a pyramid; Praise it is enough for me, If there be but three or four Who will love my little flower.' I. 30.

After this come some more manly lines on 'The Character of the Happy Warrior,' and a chivalrous legend on 'The Horn of Egremont Castle,' which, without being very good, is very tolerable, and free from most of the author's habitual defects. Then follow some pretty, but professedly childish verses, on a kitten playing with the falling leaves. There is rather too much of Mr Ambrose Philips here and there in this piece also; but it is amiable and lively.

Further on, we find an 'Ode to Duty,' in which the lofty vein is very unsuccessfully attempted. This is the concluding stanza.

'Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face; Flowers laugh before thee on their beds; And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; And the most ancient heavens through thee are fresh and strong.' I. 73.

The two last [_sic_] lines seem to be utterly without meaning; at least we have no sort of conception in what sense _Duty_ can be said to keep the old skies _fresh_, and the stars from wrong.

The next piece, entitled 'The Beggars,' may be taken, we fancy, as a touchstone of Mr Wordsworth's merit. There is something about it that convinces us it is a favourite of the author's; though to us, we will confess, it appears to be a very paragon of silliness and affectation. Our readers shall have the greater part of it. It begins thus.

'She had a tall man's height, or more; No bonnet screen'd her from the heat; A long drab-coloured cloak she wore, A mantle reaching to her feet: What other dress she had I could not know; Only she wore a cap that was as white as snow.

'Before me begging did she stand, Pouring out sorrows like a sea; Grief after grief:--on English land Such woes I knew could never be; And yet a boon I gave her; for the creature Was beautiful to see; a weed of glorious feature!' I. 77, 78.

The poet, leaving this interesting person, falls in with two ragged boys at play, and 'like that woman's face as gold is like to gold.' Here is the conclusion of this memorable adventure.

'They bolted on me thus, and lo! Each ready with a plaintive whine; Said I, "Not half an hour ago Your mother has had alms of mine." "That cannot be," one answered, "She is dead." "Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread."

"She has been dead, Sir, many a day." "Sweet boys, you're telling me a lie"; "It was your mother, as I say--" And in the twinkling of an eye, "Come, come!" cried one; and, without more ado, Off to some other play they both together flew.' I. 79.

'Alice Fell' is a performance of the same order. The poet, driving into Durham in a postchaise, hears a sort of scream; and, calling to the post-boy to stop, finds a little girl crying on the back of the vehicle.

"My cloak!" the word was last and first, And loud and bitterly she wept, As if her very heart would burst; And down from off the chaise she leapt.

"What ails you, child?" she sobb'd, "Look here!" I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather beaten rag as e'er From any garden scarecrow dangled.' I. 85, 86.

They then extricate the torn garment, and the good-natured bard takes the child into the carriage along with him. The narrative proceeds--

"My child, in Durham do you dwell?" She check'd herself in her distress, And said, "My name is Alice Fell; I'm fatherless and motherless.

And I to Durham, Sir, belong." And then, as if the thought would choke Her very heart, her grief grew strong; And all was for her tatter'd cloak.

The chaise drove on; our journey's end Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, As if she'd lost her only friend She wept, nor would be pacified.

Up to the tavern-door we post; Of Alice and her grief I told; And I gave money to the host, To buy a new cloak for the old.

"And let it be of duffil grey, As warm a cloak as man can sell!" Proud creature was she the next day, The little orphan, Alice Fell!' I. p. 87, 88.

If the printing of such trash as this be not felt as an insult on the public taste, we are afraid it cannot be insulted.

After this follows the longest and most elaborate poem in the volume, under the title of 'Resolution and Independence.' The poet, roving about on a common one fine morning, falls into pensive musings on the fate of the sons of song, which he sums up in this fine distich.

'We poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness.' I. p. 92.

In the midst of his meditations--

'I saw a man before me unawares; The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

Motionless as a cloud the old man stood; That heareth not the loud winds when they call; And moveth altogether, if it move at all. At length, himself unsettling, he the pond Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look Upon the muddy water, which he conn'd, As if he had been reading in a book: And now such fre[e]dom as I could I took; And, drawing to his side, to him did say, "This morning gives us promise of a glorious day."

"What kind of work is that which you pursue? This is a lonesome place for one like you." He answer'd me _with pleasure and surprise_; And there was, while he spake, a fire about his eyes. He told me _that he to this pond had come To gather leeches_, being old and poor: Employment hazardous and wearisome! And he had many hardships to endure: From pond to pond he roam'd, from moor to moor, Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance: And in this way he gain'd an honest maintenance.' I. p. 92-95.

Notwithstanding the distinctness of this answer, the poet, it seems, was so wrapped up in his own moody fancies, that he could not attend to it.

'And now, not knowing what the old man had said, My question eagerly did I renew, "How is it that you live, and what is it you do?" He with a smile did then his words repeat; And said, that, _gathering leeches_, far and wide He travelled; stirring thus _about his feet_ The waters of the ponds where they abide. "_Once I could meet with them on every side_; But they have dwindled long by slow decay; Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." I. p. 96, 97.

This very interesting account, which he is lucky enough at last to comprehend, fills the poet with comfort and admiration; and, quite glad to find the old man so cheerful, he resolves to take a lesson of contentedness from him; and the poem ends with this pious ejaculation--

"God," said I, "be my help and stay secure; I'll think of the leech-gatherer on the lonely moor." I. p. 97.

We defy the bitterest enemy of Mr Wordsworth to produce anything at all parallel to this from any collection of English poetry, or even from the specimens of his friend Mr Southey. The volume ends with some sonnets, in a very different measure, of which we shall say something by and by.

The first poems in the second volume were written during a tour in Scotland. The first is a very dull one about Rob Roy; but the title that attracted us most was 'an Address to the Sons of _Burns_, after visiting their Father's Grave.' Never was anything, however, more miserable. This is one of the four stanzas.

'Strong bodied if ye be to bear Intemperance with less harm, beware! But if your father's wit ye share, Then, then indeed, Ye sons of Burns! for watchful care There will be need.' II. p. 29.

The next is a very tedious, affected performance, called 'the Yarrow Unvisited.' The drift of it is, that the poet refused to visit this celebrated stream, because he had 'a vision of his own' about it, which the reality might perhaps undo; and, for this no less fantastical reason--

"Should life be dull, and spirits low, 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, That earth has something yet to show, The bonny holms of Yarrow!" II. p. 35.

After this we come to some ineffable compositions which the poet has simply entitled, 'Moods of my own Mind.' One begins--

'O Nightingale! thou surely art A creature of a fiery heart-- Thou sing'st as if the god of wine Had help'd thee to a valentine.' II. p. 42.

This is the whole of another--

'My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The child is father of the man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.' II. p. 44.

A third, 'on a Sparrow's Nest,' runs thus--

'Look, five blue eggs are gleaming there! _Few visions have I seen more fair,_ _Nor many prospects of delight_ More pleasing than that simple sight.' II. p. 53.

The charm of this fine prospect, however, was, that it reminded him of another nest which his sister Emmeline and he had visited in their childhood.

'She look'd at it as if she fear'd it; Still wishing, dreading to be near it: Such heart was in her, being then A little prattler among men,' &c., &c. II. p. 54.

We have then a rapturous mystical ode to the Cuckoo; in which the author, striving after force and originality, produces nothing but absurdity.

'O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?' II. p. 57.

And then he says, that the said voice seemed to pass from hill to hill, 'about and all about!'--Afterwards he assures us, it tells him 'in the vale of visionary hours,' and calls it a darling; but still insists, that it is

'No bird; but an invisible thing, A voice,--a mystery.' II. p. 58.

It is afterwards 'a hope;' and 'a love;' and, finally,

'O blessed _bird_! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, faery place, That is fit home for thee!' II. p. 59.

After this there is an address to a butterfly, whom he invites to visit him, in these simple strains--

'This plot of orchard-ground is ours; My trees they are, my sister's flowers; Stop here whenever you are weary.' II. p. 61.

We come next to a long story of a 'Blind Highland Boy,' who lived near an arm of the sea, and had taken a most unnatural desire to venture on that perilous element. His mother did all she could to prevent him; but one morning, when the good woman was out of the way, he got into a vessel of his own, and pushed out from the shore.

'In such a vessel ne'er before Did human creature leave the shore.' II. p. 72.

And then we are told, that if the sea should get rough, 'a bee-hive would be ship as safe.' 'But say, what is it?' a poetical interlocutor is made to exclaim most naturally; and here followeth the answer, upon which all the pathos and interest of the story depend.

'A HOUSEHOLD TUB, like one of those Which women use to wash their clothes!!' II. p. 72.

This, it will be admitted, is carrying the matter as far as it will well go; nor is there anything,--down to the wiping of shoes, or the evisceration of chickens,--which may not be introduced in poetry, if this is tolerated. A boat is sent out and brings the boy ashore, who being tolerably frightened we suppose, promises to go to sea no more; and so the story ends.

Then we have a poem, called 'the Green Linnet,' which opens with the poet's telling us;

'A whispering leaf is now my joy, And then a bird will be the _toy_ That doth my fancy _tether_.' II. p. 79.

and closes thus--

'While thus before my eyes he gleams, A brother of the leaves he seems; When in a moment forth _he teems_ His little song in gushes: As if it pleas'd him to disdain And mock the form which he did feign, While he was dancing with the train Of leaves among the bushes.' II. p. 81.

The next is called 'Star Gazers.' A set of people peeping through a telescope, all seem to come away disappointed with the sight; whereupon thus sweetly moralizeth our poet.

'Yet, showman, where can lie the cause? Shall thy implement have blame, A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame? Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault? Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is this resplendent vault?

Or, is it rather, that conceit rapacious is and strong, And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong? Or is it, that when human souls a journey long have had, And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad?' II. p. 88.

There are then some really sweet and amiable verses on a French lady, separated from her own children, fondling the baby of a neighbouring cottager;--after which we have this quintessence of unmeaningness, entitled, 'Foresight.'

'That is work which I am rueing-- Do as Charles and I are doing! Strawberry-blossoms, one and all, We must spare them--here are many: Look at it--the flower is small, Small and low, though fair as any: Do not touch it! Summers two I am older, Anne, than you. Pull the primrose, sister Anne! Pull as many as you can.

Primroses, the spring may love them-- Summer knows but little of them: Violets, do what they will, Wither'd on the ground must lie: Daisies will be daisies still; Daisies they must live and die: Fill your lap, and fill your bosom, Only spare the strawberry-blossom!' II. p. 115, 116.

Afterwards come some stanzas about an echo repeating a cuckoo's voice; here is one for a sample--

'Whence the voice? from air or earth? _This the cuckoo cannot tell_; But a startling sound had birth, _As the bird must know full well_.' II. p. 123.

Then we have Elegiac stanzas 'to the Spade of a friend,' beginning--

'Spade! with which Wilkinson hath till'd his lands,'

--but too dull to be quoted any further.

After this there is a Minstrel's Song, on the Restoration of Lord Clifford the Shepherd, which is in a very different strain of poetry; and then the volume is wound up with an 'Ode,' with no other title but the motto, _Paulo majora canamus_. This is, beyond all doubt, the most illegible and unintelligible part of the publication. We can pretend to give no analysis or explanation of it;--our readers must make what they can of the following extracts.

'----But there's a tree, of many one, A single field which I have look'd upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone: The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?' II. 150.

O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benedictions: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest: Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether fluttering or at rest, With new-born hope forever in his breast:-- Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realiz'd, High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surpriz'd: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our feeling Uphold us, cherish us, and make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake, To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor man nor boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.' II. 154-6.

We have thus gone through this publication, with a view to enable our readers to determine, whether the author of the verses which have now been exhibited, is entitled to claim the honours of an improver or restorer of our poetry, and to found a new school to supersede or new-model all our maxims on this subject. If we were to stop here, we do not think that Mr Wordsworth, or his admirers, would have any reason to complain; for what we have now quoted is undeniably the most peculiar and characteristic part of his publication, and must be defended and applauded if the merit or originality of his system is to be seriously maintained. In our own opinion, however, the demerit of that system cannot be fairly appreciated, until it be shown, that the author of the bad verses which we have already extracted, can write good verses when he pleases; and that, in point of fact, he does always write good verses, when, by any accident, he is led to abandon his system, and to transgress the laws of that school which he would fain establish on the ruin of all existing authority.

The length to which our extracts and observations have already extended, necessarily restrains us within more narrow limits in this part of our citations; but it will not require much labour to find a pretty decided contrast to some of the passages we have already detailed. The song on the restoration of Lord Clifford is put into the mouth of an ancient minstrel of the family; and in composing it, the author was led, therefore, almost irresistibly to adopt the manner and phraseology that is understood to be connected with that sort of composition, and to throw aside his own babyish incidents and fantastical sensibilities. How he has succeeded, the reader will be able to judge from the few following extracts.

[Quotes fifty-six lines of _Lord Clifford_.]

All English writers of sonnets have imitated Milton; and, in this way, Mr Wordsworth, when he writes sonnets, escapes again from the trammels of his own unfortunate system; and the consequence is, that his sonnets are as much superior to the greater part of his other poems, as Milton's sonnets are superior to his.

[Quotes the sonnets _On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic_, _London_, and _I griev'd for Buonaparte_.]

When we look at these, and many still finer passages, in the writings of this author, it is impossible not to feel a mixtures of indignation and compassion, at that strange infatuation which has bound him up from the fair exercise of his talents, and withheld from the public the many excellent productions that would otherwise have taken the place of the trash now before us. Even in the worst of these productions, there are, no doubt, occasional little traits of delicate feeling and original fancy; but these are quite lost and obscured in the mass of childishness and insipidity with which they are incorporated; nor can any thing give us a more melancholy view of the debasing effects of this miserable theory, than that it has given ordinary men a right to wonder at the folly and presumption of a man gifted like Mr Wordsworth, and made him appear, in his second avowed publication, like a bad imitator of the worst of his former productions.

We venture to hope, that there is now an end of this folly; and that, like other follies, it will be found to have cured itself by the extravagances resulting from its unbridled indulgence. In this point of view, the publication of the volumes before us may ultimately be of service to the good cause of literature. Many a generous rebel, it is said, has been reclaimed to his allegiance by the spectacle of lawless outrage and excess presented in the conduct of the insurgents; and we think there is every reason to hope, that the lamentable consequences which have resulted from Mr Wordsworth's open violation of the established laws of poetry, will operate as a wholesome warning to those who might otherwise have been seduced by his example, and be the means of restoring to that antient and venerable code its due honour and authority.--_The Edinburgh Review_.

[Footnote H: See Vol. I. p. 63, &c.--Vol. VII. p. 1, &c.]

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

_Christabel: Kubla Khan, a Vision. The Pains of Sleep_. By S.T. COLERIDGE, ESQ. London, Murray, 1816.

The advertisement by which this work was announced to the publick, carried in its front a recommendation from Lord Byron,--who, it seems, has somewhere praised Christabel, as 'a wild and singularly original and beautiful poem.' Great as the noble bard's merits undoubtedly are in poetry, some of his latest _publications_ dispose us to distrust his authority, where the question is what ought to meet the public eye; and the works before us afford an additional proof, that his judgment on such matters is not absolutely to be relied on. Moreover, we are a little inclined to doubt the value of the praise which one poet lends another. It seems now-a-days to be the practice of that once irritable race to laud each other without bounds; and one can hardly avoid suspecting, that what is thus lavishly advanced may be laid out with a view to being repaid with interest. Mr Coleridge, however, must be judged by his own merits.