before that time conquered the greater not a little depended, in regard of his part of Greece. His siedge was laid skil and manly power, and because against this cittie with such power, in al the precedent battailes, he had and maintained with so violent fury, beene stil the principal occasion of the that after many bloody battles, and by cittie's safety. Neverthelesse, after a course of as manie months while the long resistance, being sore wounded, siedge continued,-after the death, and his blood abundantly streaming also, of infinite worthy men, as well from his hurts, he forsook the place he on the one side as the other; the had defended, to have some mediTurk appointed the last day of bat-cines applied to him in the cittie. taile to be the nine and twentieth, Which when the people perceived, in the yeare 1453, the Emperor Fre- their courage became immediately derick raigning then at Rome, third | quailed; and worde thereof being of that name; and he gave them bat- brought to the emperor, he ran after taile by breake of day. In which him, instantly beseeching him to reextream fury the inhabitants being no turn, and make good his place, shewlonger able to resist the huge multi-ing what necessity stood upon his tude of their enemies, and the impe- presence. But no conditions or protuous storm, the cittie was surprized mises whatever could cause him to go in the assault; and some authors re-backe: be it that either it so pleased corde it was in this manner: God, that his courage should fail him, or else that hee could no longer beare the grief of his wounds, but having them dressed, intended to return. So the gate was opened to him, and chirurgeons called to give him what help they could. "The emperor, being given to understand that the Turke had abandoned the cittie's pillage for three days together, after many worthy orations made, he went out of the wals with a great number of his people, to defend the barbicans or subburbs; which were of as high mounture and strength as the wals of the cittie. And he went himselfe in person, to give orders and to counsel what was to be done, causing the cittie's gates to be fast shut after him, to take from his people all hope of flight. "And even now, did there happen the very fiercest and most cruel battaile that ever was seene since the invention of warre, with all kindes of arms and instruments for fight, as well for defending as assayling. It seemed as if the very heavens would have split in sunder with the noise and outcries of the soldiers; and the earthe looked like unto a great shambles, covered with the bloode and limbs of the slaine and wounded. The emperor on one side, and the Turk on the other, added fire and spirite with their chearful wordes, to the great encouragement of their armed troopers, being themselves ever foremost, or rallying the hindmost, as occasion and need required. For great and awful was that day, the prize held at stake. 66 Among the valiantest warriors that boldly stood for defence of the Barbicanes, there was a Genowese, named Justinian, upon whose virtue and valour the people within the wals "In the meane space, his followers that defended his quarter, not having him with them, began to shrink back and give over the place. 66 The Turkes no sooner bebeld this advantage, but they fell afresh to a much more dreadfull assault, and contrariwise the Christians were so weake and out of hart, that being able to resist no longer, they turned their backs, seeking to shelter themselves in the cittie. The gate remaining open in expectation of Justinian's return, the Turkes mingled themselves among the Christians, and entering the cittie with them, went up upon the wals, and did pitiful massacres upon the Christians. "The Emperor, having changed his habit, to the end that he might not be knowne, was slaine by the enemies. Others say, (among whom is Pope Pius the II.) that as he desired to retire into the cittie, grieving to see his people in such disorder, he was. throwne down by the flying multitude, and being greatly trampled on by their passage over him, he died under the feet of his own followers, even in the very sight of his soldiers on the wals, as he was entering the cittie gate. But be it howsoever, his body was knowne by the Turkes, who cut off his head, and fixing it on a lance's point, carried it as their victorie's trophy thorow the whole camp, and after, into the cittie. "As for Justinian, (the flight of whom was the principal occasion of so lamentable a misfortune,) he seeing the cittie taken, fled away by the sea, and died in a little island, either of the wounds he had received, or of some other disease; albeit, he had it once in his own choice to have died honourably in the place he had lived with so much fame and credit. "The Turkes beeing thus entred the cittie, lefte no kinde of bloody cruelty unperformed, that malice or villany could devise. All the household and kindered of the Emperour, both men and women, were (without mercy) put to the sworde, and in like sort they dealt with all the people, except such as escaped, or whom they tooke to their slavish servitude. "And here I may not forget one notorious detestable action; for they could not content themselves with executing their barbarous malice upon Christian men and women, but having gotten a goodly image of the crucifixe of Christ, they, in a shameful mockery, would needs performe another crucifying thereof upon a foule and bloody cross, representing a new passion of our Savioure; and over his head they wrote this inscription: This is the God of the Christians,' with many other abominable blasphemies. In this manner that noble cittie of Constantinople, fell into the hands of the disciples of Mahomet, the sworne enemies to Jesus Christ; as yet they do continue. I would it pleased God, that even as ther hath beene in her wals manie mutations to her great misfortunes, that once againe it might bee regained, to serve to his glory, and the generall good of Christendome." The Treasurie of Ancient and We cannot help remarking, in conclusion, that we were particularly struck with the bold and vivid description, displayed in the latter part of this account. The siege, the battle, and the storming of the ruling city of the East, with the minute and touching incidents relating to the brave Justinian, with the death of the Emperor, and the ensuing desolation, are all brought before our eyes with the terrible truth, and living energy, of a great historic painting. Nor can we refrain from expressing our wish, that such commanding talents as could produce the Feast of Belshazzar, and the picture of Joshua, might select some features from so grand an event as the fall of Constantinople, to give the world a wilder and a deeper feeling of its terrors, than even the language of the poet can convey. It would be another testimony of the triumph of his genius, which we may safely trust, would gather with ease, the exact time and action, and the situation of the great characters in the piece. The subject is no less worthy of the attention, and of the exertion, of the very highest powers of the poet; and we are not sorry to find that it is intended to be offered to the rival geniuses of the age, in the shape of a prize poem, by the new Royal Literary Society, for the present year. If this be so, we have pleasure in recommending to their notice, the preceding sketch of that great historic event on which they are about to exercise their powers. We propose to take every advantage we can reap from it, on the same ground, for ourselves; and would therefore wish to be met fairly and honourably, and equally, with "no chance to boot," we could reserve in our own favour, in preference to the hope of its escaping the knowledge and research of other candidates. For we do think there are points in it, which, in the hands of genius and power, may give that individuality of character and circumstance, and that dramatic truth, which we trust will be thought essential to the success of the poem. We can only say with Dante : "O Muse, O alto ingeguo! or in acutate!” As a contrast to the preceding account, and in order to render the description more complete, we intend adding, in the ensuing number, Mary Wortley Montague's lively and amusing letter on the Wonders of the Turkish Capital. ESSAYS MORAL AND LITERARY. No. 2.-On Modern Poetry. THIS may truly be called a poetical age, at least if we are to judge by the quantity published; but whether one thousandth part will be heard of twenty years hence, is a question which ad-edly is, he may carry his forte too mits of considerable doubt. One or far;-the same characters must be retwo generations of poets, even in my peated, and the same mode of exprestime, have passed away, for who now sion necessarily be employed. He reads Hayley, or Darwin, or the should have been content with Ivanaffected Miss Seward. The present hoe. But to return.— day can boast of a great variety of subject and metre, ready cut and dried, and a man must be dull indeed if he does not find something either to amuse or instruct him. We have ballads, sonnets, and elegies, in abundance, and many very ponderous epics, so called. We have stanzas addressed to almost every object in the universe, animate and inanimate, from a daisy to a mountain oak, and from an ass's foal to a man. We have familiar epistles in verse upon common affairs, and lyric odes from plum cake to paste blacking, and from the ocean to a washing tub. Then again we have lines in praise and in dispraise of numberless invisible ladies, and soft lamentations in many a plaintive ditty. "The course of true love never yet ran smooth," and every weak trifler must needs record his troubles in verse. This is an eternal topic, from the splendid pamphlet, to X Y Z in every magazine. In short, poetry is the prevailing mania, and immortality the general hope. Notwithstanding this, it is somewhat vexing to be told when you are reading a work which pleases you, that it is not poetry, and must not be encouraged; and yet if we examine into the matter narrowly, we shall find that in nine cases out of ten the reproof is founded in truth. With the exception of about three or four living poets, there is little in the works of any other that can be perused with advantage. The herds of imitators which the poetry of Lord Byron has created, are of no service to literature, but rather tend to vitiate a correct taste. It is the same also as to the celebrated novels of Waverley. How many blustering soldiers, and degenerate mysterious witches, have not Meg Merilies and Major Dalgetty given birth to. A word or two upon these novels, en passant. The public already begin to talk about them lightly, and certainly the three last have given them some occasion. Great as the author of them undoubt * See Coleridge's "Sybilline Leaves." Poetry is a plant of very delicate growth, and requires much care and nurture to bring it any way near perfection. Out of the multitudes who "indite" what may be called "good matter," how few are there who have any thing of true poetical inspiration, any thing of the mens divinor in their organization. Time, and study, and industry have made them what they are, and given them the semblance of what they are not. There will always be plenty of these; and it is sufficient for poetical literature, if it obtains one truly great man in every century. But there are some authors who make it their boast to have written a great deal-I hate to hear of it.--It is much more creditable to write one volume well, than five hundred tolerably. Supposing a man does begin and finish a pamphlet in two hours, what does it prove?--only, that he was a simpleton for not taking the four and twenty to do it better. For this reason, there is nothing more insipid than to be told of that renowned bookmaker, Lope de Vega. As to myself, I should feel inclined to give more praise to Gray for his elegy, than to the other for all he had scribbled. A man generally cannot write much without becoming tiresome, and he has only the same feelings and passions to deal with, and although he may at first depict them in an interesting manner, yet by frequent repetitions, they are little better than dull and tedious common-place. If we examine the principal poets of the present day, we shall, I think, find that the greater part have written themselves out, and are only injuring, instead of increasing, their lasting fame. Some of them, although the sun of their genius is decidedly on the wane, appear incapable of letting him set quietly, leaving us the remembrance of his mid-day warmth, but must needs expose the coldness and feebleness of his latest glimmerings. The interminable book-making Southey is of the class; he should have forgotten pen, ink, and paper, twenty years ago. If writing "Lives of Wesley" and "Visions of Judgment," 66 be for his interest, they are not for his reputation. Hexameters do not suit an English taste, and it would have been well if his muse had been entranced long enough to have prevented the publication of her Vision;" she would not then have added another weight to "Thalaba." As to Coleridge, he can scarcely be quarrelled with on this account, and perhaps not admitted to the title of a great poet; a metaphysician, however, he is, and as moon-stricken a one as ever ruled nonentity. Amid his dark and drear wanderings, "he stands," as a witty writer says, "most lamentably in need of an intellectual safety lamp." His "Ode on the departing Year," is a fine burst of poetical feeling. The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott are now but little inquired after; and it may here be remarked, that immediate popularity generally portends approaching forgetfulness. Those works which steal upon public attention gradually, are commonly written by men of the greatest talent, and it is much more creditable to obtain a place in the literature of a country after twenty years' application, than to be that period the idol of all, and then sink into everlasting oblivion. Walter Scott is a bold painter; but what poetry he possessed was all put to flight in the battle of Waterloo. It was, however, exerted honourably, being in his country's cause, and this is not what every dead poet could have said. Crabbe, that sensible, and Rogers, that pretty ladylike poet, have done sufficient to insure a good name, and ought not to tempt the muses again. "Human Life" was a sad drop from the "Pleasures of Memory." Moore, that gay light-hearted flutterer round Parnassus, who has written Lallah Rookh, and a thousand sweet stanzas, has as yet done nothing; I mean, nothing great. He has not even laid the foundation-stone for any thing like permanent fame to rest upon. Whether he can do so, is a question perhaps to be doubted. He is not a thinker; his muse skims along the surface, and dances among the sunbeams; but does not, or cannot, dive for the pearls which lie at the bottom. He seems to think it praise sufficient to be thought the least sorry writer in Great Britain. With regard to Lord Byron, he has written too much, unless it was done better. Childe Harold is his noblest work-the third canto is written in the spirit of Wordsworth's Excursion. His four last tragedies are decidedly inferior, being carelessly written, and having a great deal of common-place in them-they would have done credit to any young writer; but they confer no honour on Lord Byron. As to some of our elder dramatists, he cannot even touch the hem of their garments. There is one defect in all his works; they have too much glitter, and are more likely to please a heated and perverted imagination, than a correct taste. He has not that calm majestic faculty, which of itself ennobles a subject; he can keep up the dignity of a splendid work, but cannot raise that of an apparently mean one: he is great only with his subject. He seems to be aware of this, for all he does has a reference to it. If he leaves his country, it is to tread the classic shores of Athens: if he describes an object, it is a mountain, thunder storm, or the terrors of the illimitable ocean; it is always something sublime, either in nature or art. He speaks of the battle of Waterloo; of the shades of great men; he visits Greece, and depicts the thousand associations which it cannot fail to create; he turns to Rome, that "Niobe of nations," and stands within its Coliseum. This then proves the want, in no inconsiderable degree, of that commanding power which has generally been allowed him. He delineates, with a master hand, that which is lofty in creation, but holds no sympathy with lesser objects, although these, perhaps, are more the poet's province. The "witchery of the soft blue sky,” a “ shallow rivulet," the "meanest flower," are things of which he in effect knows nothing. In fine, he is not a man of great mind, although one of splendid poetical ability. There is one poet now living who is a striking contrast to the above mentioned ones; he has written little, and that little admirably; I mean, Campbell. Let the "mob of gentlemen," who stain paper with their merciless effusions, write, or let them pride themselves in the number of their common-place volumes, it is not such who are deserving of public esteem ; 66 talent, for a fire may frequently be created from very green materials. This will also apply to public speaking; and it has often been said, that scarcely any thing is much easier than to make the generality of an audience weep. It always requires less power to move the passions, than to convince the judgment. For a young writer of genius, however, this method is dangerous. Although men generally like that sort of composition which immediately pleases them, and feel disposed to exalt a writer whom they understand at first sight, yet it is not well to minister to such a taste. It is better to build on a more solid basis, and to rise into estimation by the sole merit of a man's own works. Such a process may be slow, but it is sure. it is he who has increased the intrinsic | ing suits the taste of the multitude, it worth of literature, without adding a is often produced with little or no greater quantity of inferior matter. The 'Exile of Erin," and "O'Connor's Child," are worth a hundred modern rhapsodies, and have done more for Ireland in the way of poetical credit, than all the "Melodies" Moore has published. He is a true poet, and deserves all the reputation he has acquired. As to Wordsworth, enough has been said of him elsewhere; and were I to attempt to offer any analysis of his poetry, it would only be treading the same ground that has been so often gone over; besides, it is not the object or within the limits of the present article. The assailants who have said any thing against him, have been in fact those who probably never read his writings, or who at best have only read the most unfavourable passages. What he has already done is before the public, the more enlightened portion of which have justly appreciated his merits. What he will yet do, is not for me to say. He has given us one volume of the Excursion, and has promised another. There have been cold sneers and unmeaning epithets attached to his name, and criticisms on his poetry, “lighter than vanity;" but his increasing fame is not to be hindered-he is sure of his reward. Milton is the only poet with whom he can be compared, either for loftiness of thought or strength of imagination, and those who quarrel with him as a poet, for the few objectionable pieces he has written, might, with as much reason, find fault with the sun for the spots upon its surface. The greater and more popular portion of modern poetry, seems to aim at affecting the passions, instead of taking the higher ground of imagination. This certainly is the way to attract instant notice, if it misses of enduring fame. Whatever is new or uncommon, is always sure to please the majority of readers; and if a story can be so framed, as to admit of any new feature of horror, or can depict any single passion, (no matter which,) in a light in which it has not before appeared, so much the better. Hence, as to poetry, we hear of nothing but the poet's fire; and if an author does not almost scorch his readers, he might in most cases as well hold his peace. Although this species of writ It is always a fault, as well as an indication of want of real ability, whenever a writer seems to depend more for success upon expression than matter. A work may contain a good deal of very excellent common-place applicability in it, arrayed in pompous diction, and in what some would call fine language, without being worth a straw. Indeed, every-day thoughts, clothed in high-sounding words, appear worse by far, than they would otherwise do in their own appropriate costume. It is like the daw in peacock's feathers. This is an error into which many have fallen, and which some have committed who ought to have known better. For my own part, I dislike showy diction, even when the thoughts are good; but when they are not, it is insufferable. To read a passage splendidly written, and to have our expectations baulked by the trifling meanness of the idea, is vexing and somewhat laughable. It is a flourish of trumpets, and enter Tom Thumb. The language of poetry should be pure and simple, as far from bombast on the one hand, as from littleness on the other. We have some sweet unaffected passages in our elder poets and dramatists, which should be more studied, and, as to diction, imitated. But the times are now peculiarly unfitted for the development of a poetical genius of this mouldstrange excitement and high-wrought narrative are the ruling features of the age, and an author who writes for |