66 Submit this description of music to one who has no soul for poetry, and he will tell you that it not sense, that it is a sad jumble of disconnected and incoherent ideas, and that although it may be a correct metaphor to liken darkness to "the raven's down," yet music could not smooth its surface," nor could "darkness smile." Now I admit that Milton is not here logically true, and that the figure cannot be submitted to any rules of criticism; yet we, nevertheless, bow before the genius which could give birth to a thought whose very extravagance is beauty; and while we cannot prove its truth, we feel it. I come next to speak of Passion. Passion is indispensable to the poet. It has by some been mistaken for Imagination, but they are totally distinct in their character. Passion may exist without imagination, although imagination is usually accompanied by passion. The poet whose passion is most impetuous, is always the greatest favorite with the world-he conquers mankind, for he speaks the language of the heart. Passion is a mighty power which impels imagination and sustains her in her lofty flights. The poet who would live in the memory of man, must combine taste and judgment with passion; and passion without the higher faculties of imagination, and fancy, although it may endow him with an ephemeral reputation, and enable him to astonish and dazzle for the time, can never entitle him to rank with those whose honours increase as time progresses, and who have won to themselves an abiding immortality. Byron is a poet of passion, and had his imagination been equally vigorous, he might have ranked with Milton and Shakspere. "Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me-could I wreak Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings strong or weak, All that I would have sought, and all I seek, Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe-into one word, And that one word were lightning, I would speak!— With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword." This is passion, but nothing more. The highest examples of real passion in the whole range of English literature are contained in Shakspere's tragedy of King Lear. Here the Poet revels in passion; here is an impetuosity, a force, which carries everything before him. When Lear calls upon the Heavens to avenge his wrongs, "for they are old like him;" when he curses Gonerill," May she feel how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child! Away! away!" or when he exclaims "Do not laugh at me; for, as I am a man, I think this lady to be my child Cordelia ;" and she cries "And so I am, I am!" Shakspere carries passion to sublimity. "The explosions of his passion are as terrible as a volcano: they are storms turning up, and disclosing to the bottom the rich ocean of his mind, with all the glitter of its wondrous wealth." Jun. T. T., 201 LÜTZEN; A BALLAD. PART I THE MARCH. COME, Memory, whisper of the deathless dead, Who by sweet haunted Avon's murmuring stream Clad in the garb of frail mortality, The stormy passions rise-people once more Call up the buried past-bid those who are not, be. "Now, by the God in whom I trust, this Wallenstein shall know The prey lies prostrate at his feet, his black bands wait the word, On which he led from Lützen's field his cuirassiers away. Give orders for our instant march, they know not we are near, They'll know when rolls our musquetry, and bursts our charging cheer." We swear these brigands shall receive the mercy that they show, Hours pass, and still the frozen earth gives back our measured tramp, His fleetest horsemen, like the wind, are spurring o'er the plain, Splash, splash: the Emperor's self could not wish us a road much worse- For hours have passed since yon tall spire first met my gladdened eye, If over many miles of this ploughed land is laid our way, A dollar to a creutzer we shall not fight to-day. Our ranks have lost the bounding step with which they marched at morn, No chance now of surprising them, our dauntless king must own, No chance of victory to-day-the sun is in the west, God, strike with those who strike with Thee. They halt! they form! they charge! Now gallant Swedes, now dauntless Scots, wait not for trump or drum, Like yonder horse will Friedland fly before to-morrow's night. Well, Lützen's long-sought plain we've reached with weary limbs at last, W. C. B. TACT AND TALENT. "Beware of them, Diana! their promises, enticements, oaths, tokens."- "AND SO Letty has come home from school," mused Charles Sandon, as he rode towards his uncle's residence at Hampstead. "I wonder if she is much changed. They say she is growing quite a woman; but I hope she has not thrown away her innocent gaiety, and learned to look demure and formal. And yet I should not mind how cold she grew to all the world, so that to me her voice was soft and kind, and her smile sunny and joyous." But I have some scruples, gentle reader, about playing eaves-dropper to the private thoughts of persons who wish to keep their own counsel; therefore we will accompany the rider to his uncle's house, and wait patiently the development of circumstances. The servant took his horse at the gate, while he walked round to the side door, which he opened and entered with the air of a familiar and frequent visitor. On the hall table lay a bonnet and shawl, and a small, very small, glove. It must be an elegant hand which owned it; and so thought Charles Sandon, as with a quickened pulsation of the heart he opened the parlour door. "Where is Letty-where is my cousin?" said he; and a light step bounded across the room to meet him. Her appearance was indeed changed, having become considerably taller and more womanly, while her dark-brown hair, which used to fall about her shoulders in the careless ringlets of unpretending girlhood, was now gathered into a Grecian braid at the back of the head-except a few tresses which were left to play upon her cheek, and fall on her graceful neck. Charles Sandon immediately exclaimed that he had never seen any one so improved in so short a time. And then her spirits were as light and buoyant as ever, time had not changed them; and as she laughed and talked of her pleasure at returning home, and her joy at seeing her dear cousin again, and looked innocently into his face with her glad bright eyes, he felt, notwithstanding his previous wishes, that he should have been happier if her pleasure had been more subdued-if she had taken pains to hide, and yet had betrayed it. The father felt a pride which none but fathers know, as he watched her every motion, and listened to her every word: and when she left the room to dress (for they were going that evening to a party at the Sinclairs), he could contain his feelings no longer. "Charles," said he, "perhaps it is only a father's foolishness, but I feel very proud of that girl; she is so gifted and full of spirits, yet so gentle and affectionate, that I do feel very proud of her." "And you well may, uncle," replied Charles," I don't see how you could help it. What will that man feel who is happy enough to obtain her for his wife?" "Aye, she will make some one very happy by-and-by, no doubt," replied the father; "but not yet awhile. She is quite a child yet, only sixteen, you know, Charles; four or five years hence will be time enough for her to begin to think of such things." "You have perhaps observed, uncle," said Charles, "that my affection for Letty is not that of a mere cousin. I have watched the gradual development of her mind, and more than that, of her heart : I need not tell you that the more I see of her, the more I love her. May I be assured that should I succeed in gaining her love, I shall meet with no opposition from you?" The father fixed his eyes upon the carpet, and remained for some time silent. At length he raised his head, and cast a searching look on his nephew. "Have you ever said anything to her of your feelings, or hopes for the future ?” Charles assured him he had not. "It is well," he replied; "she is but a child, and should not have her unsophisticated mind poisoned with the flatteries of a lover. Poor thing! it is time enough yet for her to begin to feel she is a woman. Look ye, Charles: I believe you to be an honourable young man, and one in every respect worthy of the girl; but then, it is quite preposterous now; besides, it would spoil the child to put such things in her head. Promise me you will not teach her, by any means, that your love towards her is more than that of a cousin, till I give you leave; and, some day, Charles, some day—————" "You will not refuse me your consent! A thousand thanks for that hope. Uncle! you may trust me: I will not betray your confidence in me." When they reached the Sinclairs', a great part of the company had already arrived; and Charles Sandon was not a little surprised to see his friend Wyliehart among the guests. He was evidently exerting himself to the utmost to fascinate the prima donna of the eveningthe handsome but haughty Miss Sinclair : it was also evident that he made no impression, except that he annoyed her with his importunities, and wearied her with his conversation. Charles was amused at his perseverance, and had made his way to the recess, where they were standing, in order to whisper a word of badinage in Wylie hart's ear, when he caught the sound of Miss Sinclair's voice, speaking in no very flattering tone. "I thank you, Sir," said she, with a curl of the lip, "for the great distinction you confer upon me, but if you begin to boast of your monopoly, it is high time it should be done away with. I am sorry I cannot dance with you to-night: I am engaged for the rest of the evening." And the proud girl swept away from him with a majestic and disdainful air, which made him feel for a moment, and but for a moment, how contemptible he was in her |