334 
liar, as we have long been, in the opi- 
nion, that the genius of this popular 
poet was exclusively lyrical; that in 
protracted composition—in the con- 
nective faculty necessary to coherent 
narrative, and that imaginative concate- 
nation, which should give unity and 
entireness to the creations of poetic 
fancy,—the logic, if we may so express 
ourselves, of poetic fiction, he has 
always shewn himself deficient ;—-nay, 
that his very ear was not attuned to 
the genuine harmony of narrative, or 
heroic metre: we did expect, never- 
theless, something much better than 
we found in his Theodric: — some 
touches of that tenderness of sentiment, 
and that grace and beauty of descrip- 
tion, which (with all its deficiencies) 
beam occasionally in his Gertrude of 
Wyoming ; with some occasional admix- 
ture of those wild, rich lyrics, which 
he put into the mouth of his Indian 
Warrior, and which constituted, in our 
estimation, the highest beauties of that 
poem. These we expected ; and, the 
lapse of time considered, we expected 
even something more: for we are not 
of the number of those, who regard 
poetry as the talent, or the accomplish- 
ment of youth. Weknow of no talent, 
on the contrary, (how vivid soever may 
occasionally have been the corrusca- 
tions’ of youthful imagination*), that 
seems to require more the maturing aid 
of years, of habitude and experience, 
to bring it to maturity, than the poetic 
faculty. Whatever may have been said, 
and may still continue to be repeated, 
about the Pastorals and Windsor Forest, 
the memory of Pope would have been, 
long ere this, extinct, if he had produced 
nothing better than his juvenilities. 
Whatever we expected, however, 
from maturing time, we found nothing 
in “ Theodric,’ but the very reverse of 
improvement : not even the imposing 
pomp, sometimes verging, indeed, to the 
bombastic, nor the glittering, but ocea- 
sionally incongruous, metaphor of the 
Pleasures of Hope. Even in the selec- 
tion of the subject, we could see nothing 
of “the taste and feeling’ which the 
Edinburgh Reviewer ascribes to it: for 
© Youthful fancy, we should have said— 
for till i€ is organized and assimilated into 
order and coherence, it is not imagination, 
any more than atoms are a world, or me- 
teorie corruscations, however brilliant, are 
asun that can give warmth and light and 
vitality to a universe. - Imagination is not 
the ignition of a fire-work,' it is permanent 
and durable creation. : 
Philosophy of Contemporary Criticism—No. XLIV.. 
{May 1, 
feeling is concentric, and always» at- 
taches, with intensity, to its discriminate 
object ; and taste abhors the distraction 
of equally divided interests : — if, indeed, 
in the midst of such distraction, interest 
can be said to exist. Neither could we 
discover that “ fine and tender finish, 
both of thought and of diction ;”—that-. 
“ chastened elegance of words and ima- 
ges; - that “ mild dignity and tempered 
pathos in the sentiments,’ or “ that 
general tone of simplicity and direct- 
ness in the conduct of the story,”’ which 
the applauding reviewer ascribes to it ; 
and which, he tells us, constitutes, 
“of all others, perhaps, the kind of poetry 
best fitted to win on our softer hours, and 
to sink deep into vacant bosoms—unlock- 
ing all the sources of fond recollection, and 
leading us gently on through the mazes of 
deep and engrossing meditation—and thus 
ministering to a deeper enchartment and 
more lasting delight, than can ever be in- 
spired by the louder and more importunate 
strains of more ambitious authors.” 
Of all this, we find but little, even in 
the ample quotations, partially selected 
by the panegyrist. But if we find 
not in the quotations (tolerably copious 
also), as in those that are quoted by the 
antagonist, and in many other passages, 
not quoted by either—we might almost 
say throughout the whole poem, a me- 
chanical, and, at the same time,a prosaic 
tameness, we know not where to look 
for it. We will give a specimen from 
the quotations of the favouring critic. 
“*Her father dwelt where yonder Castle shines 
O’er clust’ring trees and terrace-mantling vines. 
As gay as ever, the laburnum’s pride 
Waves o’er each walk where she was wont to glide,— 
And still the garden whence she graced her brow, 
As lovely blooms, though trode by strangers now. 
How oft from yonder window o’er the lake, 
Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake, 
Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear, 
And rest enchanted on his oar to hear ! 
Thus bright, accomplish’d, spirited, and bland, 
Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land, 
Why had no gallant native youth the art 
To win so warm—so exquisite a heart }” 
If this (however an Edinburgh Re- 
viewer may commend it) be not very 
like the ¢itwm titum ti of a mere syllable 
counter of the muses—the mechanism of 
Pope, without his terseness, his rich- 
ness, or his euphony, we have no ear 
for the glorious, the varied and ex- 
pressive melodies of English versifica- 
tion. It would be indulgence, not illibe- 
rality, to say, that the whole series is in 
the same level and unvaried strain. And 
then, both for the euphonic grace of the 
compound. epithet, and for the gram- 
matical perspicuity of the epithet mers 
i what 
