As we have already hinted, we are inclined to question much whether the mysteries of a future judgment is a subject within the grasp even of a mind of the very highest order,-a Milton's or a Dante's. Neither do we think that different trains of thought, necessarily arising from a choice of different subjects, constitute different degrees of excellence in poetry. There is nothing which proves, a priori, one person to be more of a poet than another, merely because he chooses to write about the sun, moon, and stars, or any of the great convulsions and revolutions of nature, instead of the more familiar and better-understood objects and designs of creation. It is true, that more lofty language must necessarily be used in the one case than in the other; but lofty language is not the proper test of genius, although it is perhaps too often confounded with originality of thought. A thousand powerful emotions must immediately arise, even in the most uninspired bosom, as soon as the idea of a perishing world suggests itself; but as soon as these emotions are put into words, they are found to be almost universal, and consequently are entitled to be considered common-place. In like manner, the sight of a dying flower suggests a train of reflections which nobody would get any credit by claiming as his own, for they are the property of all; and the only distinction between this case and the former is, that dying flowers being more frequently met with than dying worlds, the associations necessarily connected with the one have been more frequently put on paper than those as necessarily connected with the other. But he alone is the true poet to whom associations occur, whether about a flower or a world, which do not occur to ordinary minds. The Omnipresence of the Deity is a su. blime subject; but magniloquent truisms regarding it no more constitute poetry than the couplets concerning hearts and darts tacked to a boarding-school girl's loveletter. In short, it is not the subject that makes the poet;-it is the poet who must throw over the subject the mantle of his own genius, by which we mean that he must say something concerning it, which none of the rest of the world would ever have said, but which, as soon as it is said for them, all admit to be true, because it awakens in their own bosoms a chord hitherto untouched. If we apply this criterion to the "Opening of the Sixth Seal," (and the test though just, is certainly somewhat severe,) we are afraid that in many respects it will be found wanting. The author's abilities are unquestionably respectable, but not of that high and original sort necessary to give a new and unhackneyed character to his theme. We have had, before now, a thousand descriptions of the fallen state of man's nature, of the approach of a final reckoning, of the disentombment of the dead, of the millions congregated around the throne of an almighty judge, of the sentence passed upon them, and of the agony of the wicked and the joy of the good. Among our recent poets Pollok has dwelt upon these topics with most force and success. They are again recurred to in the "Opening of the Sixth Seal," and in it Pollok, so far as we can see, is no where surpassed. It is but justice, however, to this later author to state our opinion, that he in several instances comes very near his prototype. In proof of this statement, we quote the following passages : So man, engulphed in sin, from age to age, To find a change-for he sought out new lands, The iron sceptre over half the world, age The next extract is still better; it describes the un- In future years, and glorying in his skill, Then youth and virgin innocence went forth His word would never fail.-And still they watch'd, There is considerable power also in the lines which follow on the subject of dreams : Oh! have ye never, in the mid-watch hour, Rack the hag-haunted breast, till from her sleep ye look on them as the things that were. ness and polish to his thoughts and versification by the occasional introduction of a more tender and delicate train of ideas. The poem of the "African," which is not so much narrative as descriptive, illustrates the truth of this remark. A bridal party of Africans are surprised one summer evening in the midst of their festival by the unexpected appearance of a troop of Spaniards who have just landed. An affray immediately takes place, (why is not explained,) and Zemma, the bride of the African chief, is mortally wounded. She is carried during the night farther into the country, where she dies in the arms of her betrothed. At sunrise, the Africans, headed by their bereaved prince, return to renew the fight with the Spaniards, and inspired by the courage which a desire for vengeance prompts, their foes are massacred to a man. Zarrum then goes back to the grave of Zemma, and puts an end to his existence at the spot where she is buried. These are all the incidents of the three cantos; but meagre as they are, one would think they afforded scope for considerable pathos. It is in the stormier part of the story, however, that our author excels,-in the heat of battle, and in the stern breathings of despair and hate. It may be that we are prejudiced enough not to be able to sympathise so much as we ought to do in the woes of a pair of sable lovers; but we also suspect that Mr Moore does not know exactly how to touch the right chord. The feelings are somewhat different from the passions; and it is with the latter that our author seems principally conversant. Here and there, however, he succeeds even in his appeal to the former. The following stanzas, descriptive of the state of Zarrum's sentiments, after the Spaniards have been defeated, appear to us natural, without being common-place: Lone, as a shadowy being of the grave," The chieftain lingered on the uplands gray; That mingled with the broad sky, far away; Weeds which the vulture in his flight had sown These specimens will suffice to show that the "Open-Yet e'er he parted from this world of woe, He bent one look upon his fathers' land- We come now to speak of The African and other Poems." The "African" is a tale in the Spenserian stanza, and is the production of Mr Dugald Moore of Glasgow. We are beginning to entertain a considerable respect for the genius of Glasgow, for this is neither the first nor the second poet we have already met with since the commencement of our labours, who has started up in that city. The present volume contains, we believe, the primitia of Mr Moore's pen; and we have formed from them so favourable an opinion of its powers, that we hope its first fruits will not be its last. The leading characteristic of Mr Moore's style is its strength, or a certain hard and forcible manner of expressing the ideas he wishes to convey to his reader. His leading fault is, that he seeins scarcely capable of giving soft Their souls into each other. As he gazed, Those sights were not for him-he turned away While o'er the midnight desert of his mind Soon will the desert know them not; their home The broad blue heaven is their unsullied dome, And where is church that with such vault may vie? The snowy mountains, glittering cold and high, Will look like marble pillars of the aislesThe stars, those wanderers of eternity, The gorgeous lamps to light the arch-the while Ocean uplifts his voice, like organ, through the pile. There is a general resemblance, we may observe, between the style of the "African" and Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming," and the day may perhaps come when the author of the former may produce a poem worthy to rank beside the latter. More than two-thirds of the volume are occupied with miscellaneous poems, none of which are bad, but some not good enough to deserve a place among the rest. Here, also, we find intellectual vigour much more predominant than pathos or sentiment. Take, for example, the following verses TO THE SUN. Thou look'st upon the stars as little children No! thou alone art monarch of the heaven, Unmoved, though storms are round thy temples driven, Thy charms depart not with the night! thy face Of comets journeying to restore thy beams; Thy path is where our thoughts can never goThrough heaven's far wonders; and each planet seems Proud of thy beauty, while they round thee bow, Or crowd about thy breast to share thy deathless glow. And thou dost wander through the universe, The tempest sweeping far beneath thy feet; That he may see each vast and distant star, And fling his living light o'er all his realms afar. We are still more pleased with the following poem, which, both in conception and execution, we consider spirited and original : IRAD, A SON OF CAIN, On the summit of Ararat-the flood rising, the Flash on, ye lightnings! till ye've wrench'd Rise, rise, ye waters! till ye've quench'd Here, on this parting speck of land, Life's latest thing of clay, Whose dust may into darkness fall, Sun, fare-thee-well! death's rolling haze Thou look'st amid each closing cloud, Hark! from their everlasting thrones, While roused creation madly groans As ruin clasps the world! The mighty eagles that have flown, For many a day, now weary grown, With their strong pinions furl'd, Fall screaming in that ocean's roar, Whose billows roll without a shore. Hell laughs at Heaven, whose lightning sears Who never dream'd, in happier years, With dim and blood-shot eye, Thou ocean! thunder yet, and flash But there is none to hear thee dash- Yet can they lift the voice of praise, Drift on, proud bark of God!-drift on, I could not live when there are none Earth's young and beautiful are dead, Their grave is in the sea: Then be my home, where death has hurl'd (He springs off the rock, and the Ark passes on) Mr Moore is one of those who deserves to be better known, and his present volume opens up for him a fair prospect, if he will pay due attention to candid and im. partial criticism, and determine to profit by it to the best of his ability. "Poems by Thomas Brydson" have also come to us from Glasgow. Mr Brydson is, in most respects, entirely the reverse of Mr Moore. He wants the vigour which Moore possesses, and possesses the susceptibility in which Moore is deficient. His great fault is, that he is too often feeble and tame, but this is atoned for, to a certain extent, by frequent touches of poetical feeling, which prove him to be gifted with a soul alive to the finer impulses of our nature. We fear Mr Brydson will never become a great poet, nor will ever be able to turn his poetical effusions to much account; but he will, nevertheless, have his reward, for he is able to look with a more refined vision upon the loveliness of creation, and there is that within him which will whisper consolation in many of the trials and difficulties of life. We do not speak hastily, or without our reckoning, as the unpretending sweetness of the following sonnets will prove FALLING LEAVES. Down fall the leaves; and, o'er them as we tread, And streams below with many a dimpled ring! 'Tis strange to think, that when the bee did sing Her sunny song, on summer's flowery mead, They were the locks that waved on summer's brow! But stranger far, to think, that the white bones We tread upon, among the church-yard stones, Once moved about, as we are moving now In youth, in manhood, and in hoary ageOh! then, let time and change our thoughts engage! THE GIPSIES. It is the night-and ne'er from yonder skies, And when the song of that far distant land, RETROSPECTION. We look upon ourselves of other days, As if we looked on beings that are gone; For fancy's magic ray hath o'er them thrown A glory, that grows brighter as we gaze! Then, then, indeed, was pleasure's mirthful maze Our own, and happiness no shade as now: We met her on the mead, and on the brow Of the unpeopled mountain, and her ways Were where our footsteps wander'd. Still we see Her phantom form, that flits as we pursue O'er the same scenes, where jocund once and free, And all unsought, she with our young thoughts grew! So, to the parting sailor, evermore She seems to linger on his native shore. A REMEMBERED spot. There is a spot in flowery beauty lying, Sweet Shakspeare! first, thy visions, to my mind- We now bid adieu to our three poets, with all kindly and uncritic-like feelings. Whatever their success may be, they have dared nobly, and deserve a better fate than Phaeton. Letters from the Ægean. By James Emerson, Esq 2 vols. London. Henry Colburn. 1829. Ir is right and fitting that works which speak of Greece, of its ancient glory, its present condition, and its future prospects, should frequently be laid before the British public. Let the political relations of European states be what they may,-let all the plottings and counter-plottings of diplomacy, succeed or fail,-let the Russian triumph over the Turk, or the Turk beat back the Russian even to the gates of St Petersburg,-Greece, if not as a living nation, at least as a dead country, haloed in the memory of its buried greatness, must ever remain an object of deep interest to the enlightened and well-regulated mind. It is a healthy and a generous feeling which prompts a sympathy for its fortunes, and which induces an anxiety to participate in its struggles, and to advance its happiness. It is true, that Greece, like Rome, "non è piu come era prima," and that amidst the rude concussions of mightier dynasties, which a new order of things successively reared and overthrew, her beauty has been trampled in the dust, her noble insti tutions, her high heroic character, her hereditary genius, have been swept away as rose-leaves before the blast. The earthquake that has torn the mountains from their foundations has choked up the lake that lay sparkling in the valley. But we do not the less love that land from which, as from an intellectual sun, the light of literature and the arts first emanated, because a cloud has come upon its brightness, because the purple bloom of its early summer has faded into the more melancholy tints of autumn, and all the charms that are left suffice but to tell of the beauty that is gone. It may be difficult to love the dead as we have loved the living; but do we not regard them with emotions not less intense, and in all probability far more holy? Ofttimes, too, there is a loveliness even in decay, that seems as if it syllabled itself into words, and said audibly-" Lo! she is not dead, but sleepeth." But even although we were to lay classical associations aside altogether, although we were to forget (which we trust to Heaven we never shall) that the brightest visions of our boyhood and youth were full of Marathon and Thermopylæ, that the first pulses of exalted ambition vibrated to our heart at the names of Leonidas, Miltiades, and Epaminondas, that poetry awoke within us, and lighted its never-dying lamp with a flame communicated from the Delphian shrine, that Pericles and Aristides first taught us the splendour and the moral excellence of life, and Socrates the triumphant sublimity of a good man's death,-even although we were to for. get all these things, there is a still abiding and existing attraction in the "land of the sun," which would win our attention to it even as we find it at present, and though memory were a blank. There is a softness of climate, a blueness of sky, a blushing profusion of all the fairest fruits, odours, and colours of nature, scattered over the "clime of the East," which, of themselves, invest as with a spell the very names of the Cyclades, the Ægean, and all the Archipelago. It may be a delusion, but it is one which may be safely cherished, for it will refine the heart, and can never weaken the intellect. It is delightful to dream of a land for ever smiling in sunshine, and odoriferous with blossoms! It is delightful to let the imagination escape from the drizzling mists and chilling blasts of a less genial latitude, and stray uncontrolled through those gardens of the world where the voice of the nightingale never is mute!" Where is the ardent spirit who has not, in the heyday and buoyancy of early life, longed, with a deep and impassioned feeling, as he lay upon his sleepless couch, or wandered through the solitary wood, or climbed the breezy hill,-where is he, of finer susceptibilities and higher aspirations than the vulgar crowd, who has not prayed for the wings of the dove, that he might flee away to the golden orient? It is true, that coming life in too many instances, throws her leaden mantle over the joyous enthusiast, and, as years roll on, the pictures that used to glow before his fancy in the brightness of the morning, assume a greyer and more sombre tone ;-it is true, that the circle in which he moves,-the limited sphere to which he ultimately finds himself condemned,-the petty paltry cares necessary to the ensuring of his everyday comforts, sadden and distract his thoughts, and like the early mist, or the summer dew, the far-off pageantries he once could conjure into such bright reality, vanish into thin air, or return at long intervals, dimly as the shadow of a dream. But, if philosophy teaches that life's realities are stale and unprofitable, why should not even grey-bearded wisdom cherish, with clinging earnestness, the innocent, though perhaps delusive pictures of imagination? There is surely enough that is mean, and dull, and sorrowful, passing continually before our eyes; and the slender consolation may at least be left to us of believing, that elsewhere humanity is placed under happier influences, and that where the dumb things of creation flourish in beauty, the heart and the affections of him that was made in the image of the Omnipotent, remain in keeping with all that is around. We hate the traveller who visits any land of lofty associations, and sees in it nought but what is dark and grovelling; and, above all, we hate him whose jaundiced eye, as it wanders over the "Edens of the eastern wave," lights only on weeds and rubbish. Never shall we believe that the barrenness is in them, bursting into beauty as they at this moment are under the breath of approaching spring, but in his own deadened perception and unintellectual soul. Little superior can he be to the base-born Cockney, who dared to profane the crumbling columns of the ruined Temple on Sunium that look forth from their lofty solitude on the blue hills of Attica, and the purple billows of the "island-gemmed Egean," by inscribing in conspicuous characters, on one of the pillars, the highly classical sentence-"Buy Warren's Blacking." This man ought to have brushed shoes for the rest of his life. How different are the feelings excited by an anecdote recorded by a French author, of the inhabitants of Santorin, one of the Cyclades, "une demeure que est regardée par les Santorinois comme le paradis de la terre, et ils n'ont point de plus forte imprecation à faire contre un homme du pais, que de lui dire, Va, malheureux, puisse tu mourir hors de Santorin!"""⇓ A SCENE DURING THE MASSACRE AT SCIO. "It was on the evening of the third day from the arrival of the Turkish Admiral, that the family of the wretched being who lived to tell the tale, descried the flames that rose from the burning mansions of their friends, and heard, in the calm silence of twilight, the distant death-scream of their butchered townsmen, whilst a few flying wretches, closely pursued by their infuriate murderers, told them but too truly of their impending fate. As one of the most important in the valley, their family was amongst the first marked out for murder, and ere they had a moment to think of precaution, a party of Turkish soldiers beset the house, which afforded but few resources for refuge or concealment. "From a place of imperfect security, the distracted Phrosine was an involuntary witness to the murder of her miserable sisters, aggravated by every insult and indignity suggested by brutality and crime, whilst her frantic mother was stabbed upon the lifeless corpses of her violated offspring. Satiated with plunder, the monsters left the house in search of farther victims, whilst she crept from her hiding-place to take a last farewell of her butchered parent, and fly for refuge to the mountains. She had scarcely dropt a tear over the immolated remains of all that was dear to her, and made a step towards the door, when she perceived a fresh party of demons already at the threshold. Too late to regain her place of refuge, death, with all its aggravated horrors, seemed now inevitable, till on the moment she adopted an expedient. She flew towards the heap of slaughter, smeared herself with the still oozing blood of her mother, and falling on her face beside her, she lay mo tionless as death. We are glad to perceive that Mr Emerson seems to be inspired with the proper feelings which his subject should excite. He is already favourably known to the public as a Philhellenian, by the interesting work which appeared a year or two ago, entitled "A Picture of Greece in 1825, as exhibited in the narratives of James Emerson, Esq., Count Pecchio, and W. H. Humph"The Turks entered the apartment, but, finding their reys, Esq." The object of that work was not so much errand anticipated, were again departing, when one of picturesque as political, whereas the present aims prin- them, perceiving a brilliant sparkling on the finger of cipally at presenting a series of characteristic sketches Phrosine, returned to secure it. He lifted the appa of manners and society; and instead of being confined, rently lifeless hand, and attempted to draw it off; it as the former was, almost exclusively to the Morea and had, however, been too dearly worn; it was the gift of Roumelia, it embraces a considerable portion of Asia her affianced husband, and had tarried till it was now Minor, and almost all the Cyclades. Mr Emerson's only to be withdrawn by an effort. The Turk, how. style is at once lively and graphic; and without atever, made but quick work; after in vain twisting her tempting to be very profound, he is always pleasing, delicate hand in every direction to accomplish his purand often instructive. He writes, too, in a pleasant manly manner, as if his heart were in his subject, and pose, he drew a knife from his girdle and commenced he despises, consequently, all the fopperies of affecta-slicing off the flesh from the finger. This was the last scene she could remember. It was midnight when she tion. We are disposed to think he now and then awoke from the swoon into which her agony and her heightens an anecdote a little by one or two slight effort to conceal it had thrown her; when she lay cold touches of his own; but this is a fault we can easily and benumbed, surrounded by the clotted streams of her forgive, in matters where minute accuracy is not ab- last loved friends. solutely necessary, and committed, as it is, not with a desire to alter the general effect, but to make it more vivid. We have, in short, perused the whole of the two volumes with very considerable gratification, and hope, by a few extracts, to enable our readers to share in that gratification. left for consideration, and day would soon be breaking. "Necessity now armed her with energy; no time was She rose, and, still faint with terror and the loss of blood, flew to a spot where the valuables of the house had been secured; disposing of the most portable about her perMr Emerson sailed, in a delightful season of the out to us the cliff where she had long lain concealed, son, she took her way to the mountains. She pointed year, from Cape Colonna in Attica, and touching at the and the distant track by which she had gained it, through islands of Zea, Cythnos, Syra, and Scio, arrived, after a pleasant voyage, at Smyrna. One of his fellow-pas-mains of her fellow-countrymen.”—Vol. I. p. 22—5. a path at every step impeded by the dead or dying resengers was a young Greek lady of the name of Phrosine, a native of Scio, whose melancholy story added another to the long list of atrocities perpetrated in that island by the Turks in 1823. As the vessel passed Scio, she sat all day upon the deck, watching with wistful eyes the shores of her native island, and straining to recognise some scene that had once been familiar, or perhaps some now-deserted home, that had once been the shelter of her friends. Mr Emerson afterwards learned the particulars of her story, and they were of a very peculiar and touching kind: *M. Robert," Histoire des Ducs de l'Archipelago." Two chapters are devoted to Smyrna, and anecdotes illustrative of the manners and customs of its inhabitants. The Greek part of the population is kept in entire subjection by the Turks; but though a favourer of the former, our author does not allow himself to be betrayed into unjustifiable prejudices against the latter, of whom he thus speaks: THE PERSONAL APPEARANCE OF THE TURKS. "Taken, en masse, the Turks are the finest looking race of men in the world. Their oval heads, arching brows, jetty eyes, and aquiline noses, their lofty figures, and stately mien, are all set off to full advantage by their ample robes and graceful turbans; all is ease and |