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retiring footsteps of the language of
wake thee in his own good time, and he has made thee a little bough to repose thee on, a bough canopied with the leaves of the birch tree. Sleep stands at the door, and says, Is there not a little child here asleep in the cradle-a little child wrapt up in swaddling clothes-a child reposing under a coverlet of wool?" Many examples might be given to illustrate the same subject. The speech of Logan, the American Indian, whose whole family had been murdered by the British. "There flows not one drop of Logan's blood in the veins of any human being." The song of the African woman in Mungo Park's Travels, the bold expressions and magnificent imagery which pervades the early Runic poetry, all point the same way, and prove the same thing. To accumulate examples would tend to fatigue rather than to convince. Here then we close this subject, but we shall proceed, in a second Essay, to consider the early connection which took place between Poetry and Music, the marriage of Music to immortal Verse, and the effects which resulted from this noble alliance. W.
"Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bird of the meadow, take thy rest, little redbreast, take thy rest. God shall a
REMARKS ON MARCIAN COLONNA.
THE poetry of Barry Cornwall has It already been duly appreciated. seldom aims at any high flights, and is constructed of no very sturdy materials; but it is extremely perfect within its own range: it expresses with excellent effect all the particulars of the softer passions, and yet it is chiefly in the repose of passion, when it the point of satisfaction or of despair, can look back upon itself, either from that the genius of this elegant poet is
most at home. He is admirable in his the love that is agitated by every vapictures of love; but it is not, so much, ried emotion of hope, or jealousy, or alarm,-it is rather that state of their mutual confessions, and forgetting the passion when lovers are making all their past pains and doubts, in the blessed assurance of united hearts and
favouring fortune, or when death has put an end to every hope at once,
* An Italian Tale, with Three Dramatic Scenes, and other Poems. By Barry Cornwall. London, 1820.
and solitary melancholy is all that remains to the survivor. We think it is in sketches of this kind that Mr Cornwall's forte lies, and in these, indeed, he is, probably, unrivalled.
He dallies with the innocence of love Like the old time;
and the fine antique air of his versification and expression, borrowed from the tenderer parts of our old dramatists, and reflecting, at times, the glow of classical or Italian imagery, is admirably adapted to the simple pathos of his conceptions. We will own, therefore, that it is on such passages of his present poem, although an attempt of a higher kind, and aiming at a wider range of emotion, than any of his former productions, that we still delight to pause. We are not particularly attached to his mad hero, or to his more laboured descriptions, which are introduced with somewhat too evident an ambition. much better pleased with his Julia, and her natural tenderness-and it is rather to her than to her lover that we shall call the attention of our
Marcian, the second son of a noble Italian family, was confined in a convent by his parents, who cared for nothing but their first-born, and who were very happy, from Marcian's evident tendency to insanity, to find a pretext for putting him out of the way.
Then looks of love were seen, and many a sigh
Was wasted on the air, and some aloud Talked of the pangs they felt and swore to die :
She came amidst the lovely and the proud, Peerless; and when she moved, the gallant
crowd Divided, as the obsequious vapours light Divide to let the queen-moon pass by night:
She, like the solitary rose that springs In the first warmth of summer days, and flings
A perfume the more sweet because aloneJust bursting into beauty, with a zone Half girl's half woman's, smiled and then Those gentle things to which she answered forgot
But when Colonna's heir bespoke her hand, And led her to the dance, she question'd why
His brother joined not in that revelry: Careless he turned aside and did command Loudly the many instruments to sound, And well did that young couple tread the ground:
Each step was lost in each accordant note, Which thro' the palace seemed that night to float
As merrily, as tho' the Satyr-god
Again she asked in vain: yet, as he turned
(The brother) from her, a fierce colour
Upon his cheek, and fading left it pale
-She dwelt upon that night till pity grew Into a wilder passion: the sweet dew That linger'd in her eye for pity's sake,' Was (like an exhalation in the sun) Dried and absorbed by love. Oh! love can take
What shape he pleases, and when once begun
His fiery inroad in the soul, how vain
Master and lord, 'midst pride and tears and pain.
This is remarkably soft and beautiful, and although the poet immediately subjoins, now may we seek Colonna,' -we are really not disposed to seek him, nor have we any satisfaction in his maniac extravagantimes visits and soothes him; it arose cies. A heavenly vision, indeed, somefrom the dim recollection of Julia, but his own vivid imagination embodied these faint traces of remembrance, almost, into a living image. His brother, meanwhile, died, and he is sent for to cheer the solitude of his de
spairing parents, his mind having gradually resumed a calmer and firmHis chief delight now, was in wandering about the ruins of Rome. -One morning, as he lay half listlessly Within the shadow of a column, where His forehead met such gusts of cooling air As the bright summer knows in Italy, A gorgeous cavalcade went thundering by, Dusty and worn with travel: As it passed Some said the great Count had returned, at last,
From his long absence upon foreign lands: 'Twas told that many countries he had
Her figure came before him like a dream
Over the terrors of his wildest hour?
He listened now, to mark if he could hear The voice that lulled him,-but she never spoke ;
For in her heart her own young love awoke From its long slumber, and chained down her tongue,
And she sate mute before him: he, the while,
Stood feasting on her melancholy smile
And he rushed forth into the fresh'ning air, Which kissed and played about his temples bare,
And he grew calm. Not unobserved he fled,
For she who mourned him once as lost and dead,
Saw with a glance, as none but women see,
Her fancy for excuse wherewith to hide Her thoughts, and turn his curious gaze
There is nothing more tremendously difficult, than to get lovers in certain circumstances to speak out. They will fly from one another to the most distant points of the compass, rather than secure their happiness by a simple meeting, and one or two little words. There is certainly in the magnetic virtue, which draws them together, a great repelling power likewise,-feelings of the most extraordinary nature, which commonly occur, too, on the most mal-a-propos occasions, are for ever throwing them out, and particu larly, if there is, on one side, a vein of insanity to manage, as was the case with poor Marcian, it is almost impossible to bring them to the point. Julia, no doubt, was nothing loath, and, being a widow, we may suppose, she had no maiden bashfulness to give her lover unnecessary trouble; but Colonna would rather muse upon her image in his old odd way, in his favourite walks, than venture into her company, which he might have done, any day, merely by crossing the street.
Of love burned brightly in Colonna's breast, But while it filled it robbed his soul of rest: At home, abroad, at morning, and at noon, In the hot sultry hours, and when the moon Shone in the cool fresh sky, and shaped those dim
And shadowy figures once so dear to him,Where'er he wandered, she would come upon
His mind, a phantom like companion; Yet, with that idle dread with which the heart
Stifles its pleasures, he would ever depart And loiter long amongst the streets of Rome,
When she, he feared, might visit at his home.
A strange and sad perverseness; he did fear To part with that pale hope which shone at last
Glimmering upon his fortunes.
There was no moral obstacle to prevent them being together as much as they pleased. Marcian had no wife, and Julia supposed her husband at the bottom of the sea. Had there been any objection of this serious nature, we cannot but say that it would have been Marcian's duty to have carried his self-denial still farther, and to have driven her from his thoughts as well as from his eyes. It was a mere accident at last which broke the ice, and we advise all young ladies who have such beings as a Marcian to deal with, (though, if they do not wish to run ultimately the risk of being poisoned, they had much better chuse among a different class of lovers,) just to throw loose the reins, and let fortune order for them as she will. We must give our readers the scene of this eclaircissement, though somewhat long, as it is written in our poet's best manner. It is at the beginning of the second canto, and opens with a fine invocation to love.
The red rose was in blossom, and the fair
Cast out his perfumes, and the wilding thyme
Mingled his mountain sweets, transplanted Midst all the flowers that in those regions
-He wandered on: At last, his spirit subdued
By the deep influence of that hour, partook E'en of its nature, and he felt imbued With a more gentle love, and he did look At times amongst the stars, as on a book Where he might read his destiny. How
bright Heaven's many constellations shone that And from the distant river a gentle tune, night! Such as is uttered in the months of June, By brooks, whose scanty streams have languished long
For rain, was heard;—a tender, lapsing
Sent up in homage to the quiet moon.
He mused, 'till from a garden, near whose wall
He leant, a melancholy voice was heard That casts unto the woods her desert call. Singing alone, like some poor widow bird It was the voice-the very voice that rung Long in his brain that now so sweetly sung. He passed the garden bounds, and lightly trod,
Checking his breath, along the grassy sod, (By buds and blooms half-hidden, which the breeze
Had ravished from the clustering orange
Until he reached a low pavilion, where
Then, shaking back her locks, with upAnd lips that dumbly moved, she seemed to try
To catch an old disused melody-
Remember in my boyhood to have heard, And still (though here and there, perhaps, a word
Be now forgot)-I recollect the song, Which might to any lovelorn tale belong.
Whither, ah! whither is my lost love straying
Upon what pleasant land beyond the sea?