104 Monthly Review of Literature. 



Describing the appearance of nature, " when Earth was young," the poet says 

 ' Though sin had wither'd with a charnel breath 

 Creation's morning bloom, there still remained 

 Eiysian hues of that Adamic scene.' 

 We are dismissed, as muses, in this fine line. 



' Go, wander by the antiquated sea,' 



and a moral is deduced from Peter's want of faith, when " on the deep he walked," 

 and " his soul hath doubted and the Apostle sinks." The lesson taught to " human 

 frailness " is this 



' let presumption learn 



How nature falters when she feels sublime!' 



the meaning of which, if it has any, will be best studied and laid to heart by Mr. 

 Montgomery himself. 



One more extract, and we have done. There is but one step from the sublime 

 to the ridiculous, and our poet has taken a long stride. 



' In rushing glory down the sky advanc'd 

 A giant angel ! from the tomb he roll'd 

 The barrier stone, and on it sat, and BLAZ'D ! 

 His face was lightning !' 



The truth must no longer be withheld from Mr. Montgomery. He is a conceited, 

 impudent, affected young man, of very ordinary capacity, with no conception of 

 the sublime, and with no feeling of the ridiculous. Without the possession of the 

 former, he can never handle such subjects as " The Messiah;" with a sense of the 

 latter, he might contrive to render them decent and respectable. At present, we 

 consider his attempts as outrages upon the sacred feelings of the really pious ; and 

 we would hint to him .that "The Messiah" ought to be looked upo'n with other 

 eyes than those of a dealer and chapman. The Saviour is not allowable stock in 

 trade. 



THE MAID OF ELVAR; A POEM, BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. EDWARD MOXON, 

 BOND STREET. 1832. 



WHAT is poetry? We have heard and read a hundred definitions of that magical 

 word, none of which have been satisfactory to a dozen people for a twelvemonth 

 together. We know what poetry is when we see it; and we have a shrewd 

 suspicion, sometimes, that all is not poetry that contrives to disguise itself in 

 blank verse. Accordingly, we have been able to discover that Allan Cunningham's 

 " Maid of Elvar" is poetry, and that Robert Montgomery's " Messiah" is fustian. 

 Indeed, we never felt a more grateful relief than in turning from the latter to the 

 former. 



It has been frequently said, and true enough it is, that many poems have been 

 published within the last twenty years which would have made the fortune of their 

 authors sixty years ago. We say, unhesitatingly, that " The Maid of Elvar" 

 would have brought fame, and, what some poets have considered better, fortune, to 

 its author, had it been published at the time, for instance, that Beattie's Ministrel 

 appeared. Jn power and extent of genius in original imagery and in vigour of 

 description, it is greatly superior to Beattie's poem. But it possesses one great fault, 

 it is too long. It appears to us hastily and carelessly written; and stern necessity 

 sometimes causes rhymes to make their appearance that tell too plainly the con- 

 strained nature of their visit to the stranger. For example, 



' What not thy daughter or relation ? So 

 Well, well, 1 seek not, let the ring but fit 

 So try it, maid: no ! that's a proud word, O !' 



We fear indeed it is, too true, that what the present age has gained in 

 freedom it has lost in conciseness ; and highly polished mediocrity stands a far 

 better chance of applause and admiration, than the careless outbreaks and ebulli- 

 tions of genius disdaining the trammels of art. We hold that the higher the 

 genius the more inexcusable is a departure from the rules of poetry, and it would 

 be easy to prove that our greatest poets have paid the most attention to them. 



