Page images
PDF
EPUB

groundwork of The World before the Flood we have already spoken; and the extracts which have occurred in the course of our analysis are of such merit as to render any praise of the execution superfluous. There is less action in the poem than might have been expected in a drama, the title of which announces that the world is the theatre, and that the welfare of the whole human race is at stake. Had Mr. Montgomery chosen to enrich his web with mythological embroidery, the Rabbinical fables would have afforded him splendid materials: had he thought it expedient to shadow out the great events of the present times in his tale of the past, as Virgil and Spenser have done, a parallel to the tyranny of the giants and the frantic ambition of their blasphemous chief was before his eyes. Mr. Montgomery has preferred to give his work a pastoral and patriarchal character, thinking, perhaps, that if it lost in action, it would gain in beauty.

The least successful portions of the work before us are, the second interview between Javan and Zillah, and the scene between them before the giant-king. This is the effect of rhyme, which, in our language, is ill adapted for the expression of dramatic eloquence or passion. The necromancer also, though he acts a conspicuous part in the story, is less impressive than he might have. been. In his appearance he will remind the reader of the wizard in the Lady of the Lake, and the accidental resemblance is not fortunate.

Having noticed what appears to us the feeblest part of the poem, it is equally our duty to instance what we think the best. It is the fourth Canto, in which Enoch relates to Javan the death of Adam. The effect of his fall upon his own character is thus finely conceived:

But deep remorse for that mysterious crime,
Whose dire contagion through elapsing time
Diffused the curse of death beyond controul,
Had wrought such self abasement in his soul,
That he, whose honours were approach'd by none,
Was yet the meekest man beneath the sun.
From sin, as from the serpent that betray'd
Eve's early innocence, he shrunk afraid;
Vice he rebuked with so austere a frown,
He seem'd to bring an instant judgment down,

Yet while he chid, compunctuous tears would start,
And yearning tenderness dissolve his heart;

The guilt of all his race became his own,
He suffer'd as if he had sinn'd alone.
Within our glen to filial love endear'd,
Abroad for wisdom, truth and justice fear'd,
He walked so humbly in the sight of all,
The vilest ne'er reproached him with his fall.

F 3

Children

Children were his delight;-they ran to meet
His soothing hand, and clasp'd his honour'd feet;
While 'midst their fearless sports supremely blest,
He grew in heart a child among the rest:
Yet as a parent, nought beneath the sky
Touch'd him so quickly as an infant's eye;
Joy from its smile of happiness he caught,
Its flash of rage sent horror through his thought,
His smitten conscience felt as fierce a pain,
As if he fell from innocence again.'-p. 63.

On the anniversary of his fall he instructs Enoch to offer an an nual sacrifice. On that same day he is struck for death. Eve, and Seth, and Enoch bear him to his home, and endeavour vainly to administer relief.

Yet while his pangs grew sharper, more resign'd,
More self-collected grew the sufferer's mind;
Patient at heart, tho' rack'd at every pore,
The righteous penalty of sin he bore,
Not his the fortitude that mocks at pains,

?

But that which feels them most, and yet sustains.
""Tis just, 'tis merciful," we heard him say,
"Yet wherefore hath He turn'd his face away
I see Him not, I hear Him not; I call;
My God! my God! support me, or I fall!"'

At this time the sun sets amid crimson clouds. The winds rise, and a storm comes on accompanied with such convulsions of the earth as if the world were about to perish with the first man. Amidst this general sympathy of nature the sufferer continues to wrestle in prayer. What follows is the finest part of the whole poem.

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

THOU, of my faith the Author and the End!
Mine early, late, and everlasting Friend!
The joy, that once thy presence gave, restore
Ere I am summon'd hence, and seen no more:
Down to the dust returns this earthly frame,
Receive my Spirit, Lord! from whom it came;
Rebuke the Tempter, shew thy power to save,
O let thy glory light me to the grave,
That these, who witness my departing breath,
May learn to triumph in the grasp of Death."

"He closed his eye-lids with a tranquil smile,
And seem'd to rest in silent prayer awhile:
Around his couch with filial awe we kneel'd,
When suddenly a light from heaven reveal'd
A Spirit, that stood within th' unopen'd door;-
The sword of God in his right hand he bore;

.

His countenance was lightning, and his vest
Like snow at sun-rise on the mountain's crest;
Yet so benignly beautiful his form,

His presence still'd the fury of the storm;
At once the winds retire, the waters cease;
His look was love, his salutation" Peace!""

"Our Mother first beheld him, sore amazed,
But terror grew to transport, while she gazed:

"Tis He, the Prince of Seraphim, who drove
Our banish'd feet from Eden's happy grove;
Adam, my Life, my Spouse, awake!" she cried;
"Return to Paradise; behold thy Guide!
O let me follow in this dear embrace :"
She sunk, and on his bosom hid her face.
Adam look'd up; his visage changed its hue,
'Transform'd into an Angel's at the view:

"I come!" he cried, with faith's full triumph fired,
And in a sigh of ecstacy expired.

The light was vanish'd, and the vision fled;
We stood alone, the living with the dead;

The ruddy embers, glimmering round the room,
Display'd the corpse amidst the solemn gloom;
But o'er the scene a holy calm reposed,

The gate of heaven had open'd there, and closed.

""Eve's faithful arm still clasp'd her lifeless Spouse;
Gently I shook it, from her trance to rouse ;
She gave no answer; motionless and cold,
It fell like clay from my relaxing hold;
Alarm'd I lifted up the locks of grey,

That hid her cheek; her soul had pass'd away;
A beauteous corse she graced her partner's side,

Love bound their lives, and Death could not divide."'

The poem is dedicated to the spirit of a departed friend in stanzas which have the peculiar characteristics of Mr. Montgomery's happiest pieces. In these, as in the preface, he expresses that feeling of dissatisfaction which it is the fate of most poets to feel when they compare the execution of their work with their previous idea; and he tells us that he appears before the public with many apprehensions, and with small hopes. There is no reason for this distrust; he may appeal with confidence to his peers, from whom, sooner or later, the true poet receives his award, when the decrees of those who have intruded themselves into their places are forgotten.

[blocks in formation]

ART. VII. The Nature of Things, a Didascalic Poem, translated from the Latin of Titus Lucretius Carus, accompanied with Commentaries, comparative, illustrative, and scientific, and the Life of Epicurus. By Thomas Busby, Mus. Doc. Cantab. 2 vols. 4to.

1813.

IT T is a maxim among the doctors, that when men pursue energizing objects, they will do prodigies.' In literature these objects, whether originality or plagiarism be employed upon them, are generally developed in a quarto.

Our ancestors, for the most part, were content with prefixing a few copies of commendatory verses to their translations; but Doctor Busby's preliminaries are far more substantial. We are presented with nineteen pages of subscribers, from Princes of the Blood Royal,' down to plain Young, Charles George, Esq.' Each rank has its appropriate head in black letter ;-Princes, Dukes, Marquisses, Earls, Viscounts, Barons, Privy Counsellors, &c. As such an assemblage will no doubt dazzle the reader at his entrance on the work, we are inclined to leave him for a short time in this goodly company, and to descant to the few who may attend to us, on the present state of our poetical translations.

Virgil, with the exception of his Eclogues, Terence, Tibullus, Juvenal, Manilius, and parts of Ovid, have been well and fairly translated. The other writers of Roman poetry have either not been attempted, or not adequately rendered. As we are not aware of any author who has generally treated this subject, we shall hazard a few remarks upon it, since it naturally leads to our examination of Dr. Busby's Didascalic Poem.

The great difficulty which, without sufficient reason, has been attributed to Plautus, was the probable cause why no translation of him appeared when his wit would have been most congenial to the play-wrights of the day; for if we except an ancient translation of the Menæchmi, by W. W. 1595, and an abortive attempt by Echard and Cooke, the Plautini sales were not naturalized till the middle of the last century by Bonnell Thornton and Co. The recommendation of George Colman, Senior, to whom the comedies were dedicated, and whose success in Terence was generally allowed, influenced for a time the public voice in favour of this imitation of his plan. But the work is now almost forgotten; nor indeed can a good translation of Plautus be expected until he is freed, in some measure, from the numberless specks which still disfigure his

text.

Although there are passages in Catullus which delicacy must deem untranslatable, yet it is surprising that his beauties have never

(but

(but in one solitary and imperfect instance) been rendered accessible to English readers. The Acme and the Atys may vie in pathos with any poems of the same cast ancient or modern. The Epithalamium, the favourite of Sir William Jones, the Peleus and Thetis, the burst of feeling on the death of his brother, and the minor poems, with a few exceptions, loudly call for poetical competition.

It may be deemed almost a disgrace to our national taste that Horace should be still buffeted between Holyday and Creech, Francis and Clubbe, Boscawen and Duncombe. Francis has partially succeeded in some of the odes; and many of them are occasionally to be met with in our fugitive poetry, extremely well rendered. These are naturally the most popular; while the rest, with the epodes, satires and epistles, have little claim to attention in their new dresses.

1

Among the amatory poets of the day, Propertius, the most polished and refined of elegiac writers, has not yet found one to redeem his beauties from the transpositions of Broukhusius, and the more than German assaults of Kuinoel. He has been said, indeed, to make love like a schoolmaster; and this, no doubt, has prevented the fastidious from turning over his pages; but if he did so, Orbilius was an accomplished gentleman. No classic, of the Augustan age, is less read and less understood than Propertius; his indelicacies have been enlarged on, his hellenisms have been criticised, his heartlessness has been ridiculed; but the fact is, he has hitherto met with bad editors, prejudiced readers, and no adequate translators. To infuse the strength, warmth, and bold conciseness of Persius into our language, was a labour of no common exertion, and, in the prosecution of it, we find Dryden fail from vulgarity, Brewster from plagiarism, and Sir William Drummond from an endeavour to grind the fruges Cleantheas into vers de société.

.

A selection from Martial, by different hands, would make not an unamusing volume. Few of his epigrams are correctly rendered, or boast any of the naïveté of the original. The pseudo-tragedies of Seneca, and the Latin anthologies, are undeserving the time which their translation would exact.

Next to Virgil, as an epic poet, Lucan confessedly takes his rank. He is the only bard who has made a catalogue poetical.. The whole of the first book is inimitable. The Sacred Grove, the Marriage of Cato, the Apotheosis of Pompey, and other splendid passages, bespeak a mind, not as Quintilian chuses to assert, oratorical merely, but capable of the highest flights of poetry. Yet to May and Rowe alone is Lucan indebted for any knowledge which the English reader can obtain of him. May thus renders one of the finest passages in the poem.

At

« PreviousContinue »