communicate to others a portion of the impulse which produced them? Then comes the dread of malignant criticism; and last, but not least tormenting, the advice of literary friends, each suggesting doubts and alterations, till the spirit is corrected out of the poem, as a sprightly boy is sometimes lectured and flogged, for venial indiscretions, into a stupid and inanimate dunce. The beautiful poem of Lochiel which Mr. Campbell has appended to the present volume as if to illustrate our argument, exhibits marks of this inju dicious alteration. Let us only take the last lines, where, in the original edition, the champion declares, that even in the moment of general rout and destruction, "Though my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their grave, Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame." The whole of this individual, vigorous, and marked picture of the Highland chieftain lying breathless amid his broken and slaughtered clan-a picture so strong, that we even mark the very posture and features of the hero-is humbled and tamed, abridged and corrected, into the following vague and inexpressive couplet: Shall victor exult in the battle's acclaim, Or look to yon heaven from the death-bed of fame." If the pruning knife has been applied with similar severity to the beauties of Gertrude of Wyoming, the hatchet of the Mohawk Brandt himself was not more fatally relentless and indiscriminate in its operations. The book contains, besides Gertrude of Wyoming, several smaller pieces. Two beautiful war odes, entitled The Mariners of England and The Battle of the Baltic, afford pleasing instances of that short and impetuous lyric sally in which Mr. Campbell excels all his contemporaries. Two ballads, Glenara and Lord Ullin's Daughter,—the former approaching the rude yet forcible simplicity of the ancient minstrels, the latter upon a more refined plan,-conclude the volume. They are models in their several styles of composition. THE BATTLES OF TALAVERA.* [Quarterly Review, November, 1809.] THERE is no point in which our age differs more from those which preceded it, than in the apparent apathy of our poets and rhymers to the events which are passing over them. From the days of Marlborough to those of Wolfe and Hawke, the Tower and Park guns were not more certain proclaimers of a victory, than the pens of contemporary bards. St. James's had then its odes, and Grub Street poured forth its ballads upon every fresh theme of national exultation. Some of these productions, being fortunately wedded to popular tunes, have warped themselves so closely with our character, that, to love liberty and roast beef is not more natural to an Englishınan, than to beat time to "Steady, boys, Steady," and "Rule Britannia." Our modern authors are of a different cast; some of them roam back to distant and dark ages; others wander to remote countries, instead of seeking a theme in the exploits of a Nelson, an Abercromby, or a Wellesley; others amuse themselves with luscious sonnets to Bessies and Jessies; and all seem so little to regard the crisis in which we are placed, that we cannot help thinking they would keep fiddling their allegros and adagios, even if London were on fire, or Buonaparte landed at Dover. We are old-fashioned men, and are perhaps inclined to see, in the loss and decay of ancient customs, more than can reasonably be traced from them; to regard, in short, that as a mark of apathy and indifference to national safety and glory, which may only arise from a change in the manner of expressing popular feeling. Be that as it may, we think that The Battles of Talavera. A Poem. By the Right Hon. J. W. CROKER. the sullen silence observed by our present race of poets, upon all themes of immediate national concern, argues little confidence in their own powers, small trust in the liberal indulgence of the public to extemporaneous compositions, and, above all, a want of that warm interest in such themes as might well render them indifferent to both considerations. Lord Wellington, more fortunate than any contemporary English general, whether we regard the success or the scale of his achievements, has been also unusually distinguished by poetical commemoration; and as his exploits form an exception to the train of evil fortune which has generally attended our foreign expeditions, the hearts of those capable of celebrating them seem to have been peculiarly awakened and warmed at the recital. Probably many of our readers have seen the superb Indian war-song which celebrated his conquest over the Mahrattas: beginning Shout, Britain, for the battle of Assay, When we stood in our array, Like the lion turn'd to bay, And the battle-word was conquer or die!" We are now happy to find that another bard has advanced with a contribution to adorn the most recent and most glorious wreath won by the same gallant general. The promptitude as well as the patriotism of the tribute might claim indulgence as well as praise; but it is with pleasure we observe that although this volunteer has rushed forward without waiting to arm himself in that panoply which is often, after all, found too slight to repel the assaults of modern criticism, neither his adventurous courage nor the goodness of his cause, is his sole or his principal merit. The battle of Talavera is written in that irregular Pindaric measure first applied to serious composition by Mr. Walter Scott, and it is doing no injustice to the ingenious author to say, that in many passages, we were, from the similarity of the stanza and of the subject, involuntarily reminded of the battle of Flodden, in the sixth book of Marmion. The feeling, however, went no farther than the perception of that kindred resemblance between those of the same family which is usually most striking at first sight, and becomes less remarkable, and at length invisible, as we increase in intimacy with those in whom it exists. In one respect the choice of the measure is more judicious on the part of the nameless bard, than on that of Mr. Scott. The latter had a long narrative to compose, and was necessarily forced upon passages in which the looseness and irregularity of his versification has an extravagant and slovenly appearance. It is where the tone of passion is low, that the reader demands a new interest from regularity of versification and beauty of selected diction. On the other hand, in passages of vivid, and especially of tumultuary and hurried description, the force of the poet's thought, and the intenseness of the feeling excited, ought to support his language. He may be then permitted to strip himself as to a combat, and to evince that "brave neglect" of the forms of versification which express an imagination too much exalted, and a mind too much occupied by the subject itself, to regard punctiliously the arrangement of rhymes or the measurement of stanzas. In this point of view, few themes present themselves which can better authorize a daring flight, than that which has been selected by the author of Talavera. The poem opens with the following stanza, of which the first nine lines are an exquisite picture of repose, and the last somewhat more feebly and prosaically expressed. "'Twas dark; from every mountain head Dropt, with the dew, her shadowy veil; Was quenched the golden ray; Welcome to them the clouds of night, France, every nation's foe, is there, The fortune of the fray." The attack of the French is then described with all the peculiar circumstances of uncertainty and horror that aggra vate the terrors of midnight conflict. The doubtful and suppressed sounds which announce to the defenders the ap. proach of the assailants; the rush of the former to meet and anticipate the charge; the reflection on those who fall with out witnesses to their valour; and all the "wonders of that gloomy fight," are successfully and artfully introduced to impress the dreadful scene upon the mind of the reader: the following lines have peculiar and picturesque merit. Darkling they fight, and only know If chance has sped the fatal blow, Furious they strike without a mark, In the succeeding stanzas, we have the repose after the action, and the preparation for the general battle of the next day. The anxiety of the British general is described, and a singular coincidence pointed out in the sixth stanza. We shall transcribe it, and "let the stricken deer go weep." "Oh heart of honour, soul of fire, When Britain's fortune dubious hung, The share which is assigned to Lord Wellington in the conduct of the fight, is precisely that which is really the lot of a commander-in-chief. Generals were painted in armour long after the fashion of the fight Had laid gilt steel and twisted mail aside And from some similar concatenation of ideas-modern poets, for many a day after the "eagle-glance" and commanding genius of a hero had been the attributes which decided the field, continued to describe him mowing down whole ranks with his sword, as if personal strength were as essential to his success as in the days of the Trojan war. This foolish fashion, which, like every false and unnatural circumstance, tends obviously to destroy the probability of |