"This Poem is decidedly his best, but those who delight in the wild and wonderful will prefer Thalaba. It has more of talent than of genius; more of reflection than perception; juster notions both of adventure and of situation than any other of his epics; but still, like them all, it fails to reach the heart, and though it pleases, never elevates the mind. The defect is undoubtedly owing to some lack both of power and of taste. Mr Southey cogitates himself into a state of poetical excitement, but he seems to be rarely touched with the fine phrenzy of the poet. He conceives his works according to certain predetermined principles, and is seldom inspired with the creative energy that calls forth those startling and glorious emanations, which at once make life felt and beauty visible. He has capacity and means to build a pyramid, but the little entaglio of Grey's Elegy is more valuable than all this great tumulus to the memory of the last of the Goths;-still the volume contains many splendid and beautiful passages, which, when first seen, afford a very high degree of pleasure. It is only when we read them a second and a third time that we find out how much of their beauty is more owing to the mechanical structure of the language, than to the feeling or the elegance of the fancy embodied in them. The following description of the return of Roderick to Leyria is perhaps one of the finest passages in the book; but although full of imagery and of circumstances, the slightest of which, effectively managed, would have melted the very heart, I doubt if its merits, great as they are, have ever received the tribute of a tear." P ""Twas even-song time, but not a bell was heard ; Instead thereof, on her polluted towers, Bidding the Moors to their unhallow'd prayer, The crier stood, and with his sonorous voice Through groves and pastoral meads. The sound, the sight And tawny skins, awoke contending thoughts Of anger, shame, and anguish in the Goth; The unaccustom'd face of human-kind Confused him now, and through the streets he went She said, Christ Jesus for his Mother's sake Wept like a child, and thus relieved his heart, Full even to bursting else with swelling thoughts. So through the streets, and through the northern gate, He breathed thanksgiving forth; then made his bed "A midnight march in Spain is also very beautifully described.". “The favouring moon arose, To guide them on their flight through upland paths Sprung up like sparks, and twinkled round their way; When all the soothing sounds of eve had ceased, Till when the stars were setting, at what hour Bright rose the flame replenish'd; it illumed The cork-tree's furrowed rind, its rifts and swells "There is also much sweetness and pleasing poetry in the description of the investiture of the young Alphonso with the honours of knighthood.” "Rejoicing in their task, The servants of the house with emulous love The sword, his comrade lifts the helm on high: And for the proof of battle. Many a time Where gleaming to the central fire it hung No season this for old solemnities, For wassailry and sport; . . the bath, the bed, Omitted now,. . here in the face of Heaven, Before the vassals of his father's house, With them in instant peril to partake The chance of life or death, the heroic boy The hose, the sleeves of mail: bareheaded then So shall the ceremony of this hour Exceed in honour what in form it lacks." "I will just read to you another passage, which, though of a different kind, is not less beautiful." "Methinks if ye would know How visitations of calamity Affect the pious soul, 'tis shown ye there! The rolling moon! I watch'd it as it came, And deem'd the deep opaque would blot her beams; Subdued, were silent, yielding to the hour. And now into its airy elements Resolved is gone; while through the azure depth |