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“ They come! they come! I see the groaning lands
White with the turbans of each Arab horde,
Alla and Mahomet their battle-word,
See how the Christians rush to arms amain!
The shadowy hosts are closing on the plain-
Their coward leader gives for flight the sign !
Is not yon steed Orelia ?-Yes, 'tis mine!
Lo! where the recreant spurs o'er stock and stone!
Rivers ingulph him!”—“ Hush,” in shuddering tone,
And twilight on the landscape closed her wings;
And in their stead rebeck or timbrel rings;
Bazars resound as when their marts are met,
And on the land as evening seemed to set, The Imaum's chaunt was heard from mosque or minaret.' The next scene represents the period when Spain was honoured by all the earth for her courage, and feared for her cruelty and superstition ; and it is introduced by flashes of flame and the newly invented thunders of artillery. The allegorical personages which are then described, are sketched in the true spirit of Spenser ; but we are not sure that we altogether approve of the association of such imaginary beings with the real events that pass over the stage; and these, as well as the form of Ambition which precedes the path of Buonaparte have somewhat the air of the immortals of the Luxemburg gallery, whose naked limbs and tridents, thunderbolts and caducei, are so singularly contrasted with the ruffs and whiskers, the queens, archbishops, and cardinals of France and Navarre. The spoils of America (enough is hardly made of such a subject) and the cruelties of the huquisition conclude the second act. The third, a peaceful state of indolence and obscurity,
where, though the court was degenerate, the peasant was merry and contented, is introduced with exquisite lightness and gaiety.
As once again revolved that measured sand;
Gay Xeres summons forth her vintage band';
The Mozo blithe, with gay Muchacha met,
She of her netted locks and light corsette,
When first from Carmel by the Tish bite seen,
Awhile, perchance, bedecked with colours sheen,
Limning with purple and with gold its shroud,
And blotted heaven with one broad sable cloud--
Like gathering clouds, full many a foreign band,
And offered peaceful front and open hand;
By friendship's zeal and honour's specious guise,
Then burst were honour's oath, and friendship's ties !
And well such diadem his heart became,
Or check'd his course for piety or shame;
Might flourish in the wreath of battles won,
Who, placed by fortune on a Monarch's throne, Recked not of Monarch's faith, or Mercy's kingly tone.' We are not altogether pleased with the lines which follow the description of Buonaparte's birth and country,—in historical truth, we believe, his family was not plebeian,--and setting aside the old
saying of 'genus et proavos,' the poet is here evidently becoming
With battles won in many a distant land,
“And hopest thou, then,” he said, “ thy power, shall stand ? O thou hast builded on the shifting sand,
And thou hast temper'd it with slaughter's flood;
Gore-moistened trees shall perish in the bud, And, by a bloody death, shall die the man of blood! The miseries and crimes of the Guerrilla warfare are painted with horrible energy; and the landing of the British succours, and the portrait of the nations who compose them, are already, we believe, and deservedly in the memories or the newspapers of half the readers of the English tongue. What is so well known it is unnecessary to instance, and our limits warn us that it is time to proceed to the conclusion. Of this the first three stanzas are spirited, but somewhat forced ; · lullaby,' st. 1, is a word unfortunately at present too common in English poetry; but which we own we did not expect to meet with in its present situation. The picture of Lisbon's matrons summing the myriads of France and listening to the distant thunders of the drum is happily imagined ; and the British soldier's sympathy with the victims of his enemy's lust and cruelty, is marked by the strongest features of truth and character.
« The rudest centinel in Britain born,
With horror paused to view the havoc done,
Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer grasp'd his gun.' The praises which follow of Wellington, Cadogan, and Beresford—(though to judge from the words of Mr. Scott himself, the second of these brave officers should seem to owe the minstrel's praise to an accidental meeting in the Hebrides,) are eloquent and powerful; and the merits of the last are finely discriminated in the praise accorded to him as the restorer of the military spirit of Portugal. The following stanzas, however, including the graceful and characteristic conclusion of the poem, excel the noisier and more general panegyrics of the commanders in Portugal, as much as the sweet and thrilling tones of the harp surpass an ordinary flourish of drums and trumpets,
Beneath the warrior's vest affection's wound,
Danger and fate he sought, but glory found.
The wanderer went; yet, Caledonia ! still
He dreamed mid Alpine cliffs of Athole's hill,
Whose war-cry oft has waked the battle-swell,
Wild sounding when the Roman rampart fell!
Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibber owned its fame,
But ne'er from prouder field arose the name,
(With Spenser's parable I close my tale)
And land-ward now I drive before the gale,
And nearer now I see the port expand,
And, as the prow light touches on the strand, I strike my red-cross flag, and bind my skiff to land.' The lines are for the most part exceedingly harmonious, and on the whole the rhythm of Spenser is far better preserved than by Mr. Campbell. There are, however, some careless rhymes which the latter would hardly have adopted; and there is in three, if not four instances, * an extension of the Alexandrine, which only occurs twice, we believe, in all the works of Dryden, and which Spenser has scarcely ever recourse to in the whole of his long poem. - Was wrote,' in the fifteenth stanza, will hardly be allowed as grammar. But trifes such as these are scarcely worth the instancing, except that even the slightest faults of eminent men cannot be safely passed over; and on the whole, it may be said, that Mr. Scott has presented his country with a poem worthy of his former name, and the glorious theme it celebrates,-a theme exalted above all the
• One of these is indeed altogether anomalous.
• Now, God and St. Jago strike for the good cause of Spain.'
petty interests of temporary politics, whose consequence will only cease to be felt when the importance of every earthly object shall expire.
It is right, though we believe it is hardly necessary, to mention, that Mr. Scott has devoted the profits of his poem to the relief of the suffering inhabitants of Portugal.
ART. XIV. Notices sur l'Interieur de la France, écrites in 1806,
par M. Faber. Tom. 1. St. Petersburgh, 1807. Re-imprimé
à Londres. Chez Vogel & Schultz, Poland-street, 1810. Sketches of the Internal State of France. By M. Faber. Trans
lated from the French. 8vo. pp. 300. London, Murray, Hatch
dard; Edinburgh, Blackwood. 1811. N O man that ever lived has paid to the power of the press a more
unequivocal homage than Buonaparte. He first courted it as an ally-he has since pursued it as an enemy; he now holds it as a captive. He treats it as Louis XIV did the Masque de Fer," with some outward show of respect, but with all the real jealousy of fear; and the vigilance at once active and mysterious with which it is watched, proves that the fortunes of the occupier of the throne of France might be endangered, if not overthrown, by its enlargement.
No instance, indeed, of his unexampled success,—not his battles, his consulate, his throne, nor his marriage,--appears to us so wonderful as his having been able to enslave the press to the extent that he has done; to destroy all the channels of intercourse and intelligence among men; to spread over his empire a cloud which no eye can pierce, and which covers those whom it involves from the world, and the world from them. We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the internal state of France; and in France, they know of what passes in the rest of Europe just as much as it pleases Buonaparte to tell them. It would be not winteresting to trace the steps, rapid and yet almost imperceptible, by which he has proceeded from a slight interference with the press, to the late decrees which have laid it prostrate at his feet; but that belongs not to us : we must content ourselves with seizing those occasions which may present themselves of counteracting his designs against literature and the free communication of public opinion, and of dispelling, whenever we find an opportunity and as far as we are able, that mist which he has spread around him. We cannot, indeed, expect that any external efforts will succeed in casting into France herself one ray of light; but we are still enabled to give to this country some glimpse of what is passing there; and whenever and to whatever extent we can lift the mysterious veil, we feel that we are performing a duty