lection of fugitive pieces, which has come to our notice from a native bard. We hope with this sincere tribute, we shall be excused for adding that the volume contains a great deal too much. It is not in human nature that so many small effusions from one hand, and produced within so short a compass of years, should all possess that felicity, which is the great charm of fugitive pieces. Every person gifted with a moderate share of invention, knows that it is easier to produce a performance of considerable compass and arrangement, than an equal amount in short pieces, of all of which the merit should be equally great. In a long piece our indulgence is extended to the feeble or colder portions if the production in the main, be good, but a copy of verses, which is ordinary, appears even to the greater disadvantage, for standing in better company. Moreover, we cannot conceive it worth while, for an author of Mr Percival's poetical powers to devote so much time to the accumulation of these small pieces. He must, we doubt not, possess, with the genius, the ambition of the true poet; and with this ambition, why should he not take up a theme of extended interest, and aim at a permanent poetical fame. It is true this collection contains one entire tragedy, written, it appears, at the age of nineteen and twenty years, but the least valuable part of the volume. It is hinted in the preface that it was written for an occasion, and it has all the appearances of being written musâ invitâ. The plot is without interest or probability, a cold imitation of the Revenge; and the language is tame and prosaic, and far beneath the glow of Mr Percival's other pieces. And though to be able to write any tragedy in blank verse be highly creditable to a young man of nineteen, yet he should remember that tragedy is not only, in the words of Milton, as it was anciently composed, the gravest, moralest, and most profitable of all other poems,' but also by far the most difficult of execution. Of the smaller pieces which this volume contains, many have already attained uncommon popularity in the newspapers. In reading the whole series, the reader will find in them a great uniformity, and the constant recurrence of a technical poetical imagery, which is far from adding to their beauty, though a fault naturally enough incident to a large collection of little pieces, written without reference to each other. The following will afford a good specimen of our author's patriotic manner : Ode on the emancipation of South America. Star of the southern pole That from the Atlantic deep The Spaniard's haughty soul ! They started from their sleep, and tore The chains that bound them to their tyrant's throne: Uncheered, unaided, they alone Their banner reared on Plata's shore, And in the dawning light of Liberty Swore they would live and die united, firm, and free. Where rising o'er the silver tide, Fair shine their city's happy walls: They banded round their flag, and gave And o'er those plains like ocean spread, And o'er their mountains' icy head, And o'er their full majestic river, And through their halls, their fanes, their towers, Nor tyranny with all her powers, Though battled in her holy league, shall dare The statue they have reared from its high column tear. Sister in freedom! o'er the main We send our hearts to thee; Oh! ne'er may kings and priests again When carth beside was wrapped in night, The nations, who would spurn the chains And wash away their servile stains, Let all, who will not bow the knee, Unite, and draw their flashing steel, And, proud and daring in their second birth, Purge from its crowns and thrones the renovated earth.' In the class of the amatory poems the following has seemed to us among the prettiest : Star of my heart! thy light has gone, Where wild winds howl and tempests sweep, Well-I have toiled to reach a haven, Where joy at length in peace might dwell, And that my last bright days might sweetly flow with thee. Thou smiledst a beacon on that shore, And charm with beam more warm and bright, And still I hoped its rays were mine A sullen cloud came o'er, and all was wrapped in night. But though my course is lone and wild, Through booming waves, and wreck, and sorrow, I would be firm as when day smiled : Beyond the grave, there shines a morrow. Awhile chilled, harassed, dashed, and tost, To some dark, undiscovered coast, Where hope holds out no flag and mercy lights no ray.' The little piece called Serenade is uncommonly graceful and airy; and though rather too long, we will extract it entire. Softly the moonlight Is shed on the lake, Wake! O awake! Faintly the curfew Is heard from afar, List ye! O list To the lively guitar. Trees cast a mellow shade Over the vale, Sweetly the serenade Breathes in the gale, Softly and tenderly See the light pinnace At the heave of the oar, On its buoyant car, Now the wind rises Bounding from billow Like a wild swan is seen Of the gondolier's song. And high on the stern Stands the young and the brave, The tones of the night, His gold-hilted sword On his shoulder is flung, The maid from her lattice Where he shines like a star, Touch his guitar. She opens her lattice, And sits in the glow Of the moonlight and star-light, A statue of snow; And she sings in a voice, That is broken with sighs, His love-speaking pantomime How wild in that sunny Hearts and eyes roll. clime She waves with her white hand Her white fazzolet, And her burning thoughts flash From her eyes' living jet. The moonlight is hid In a vapour of snow! |