emanated; but to pursue the comparison, there is not a page of Young, which can afford a passage equal to the following one of J. J. Rousseau. “When evening approached, I descended from the higher parts of the island, and seated myself at the side of the lake in some retired part of the strand. There the noise of the waves and the agitation of the water fixed my attention, and driving every other agitation from my soul, plunged it into a delicious reverie, in which night often imperceptibly surprised me. The flux and reflux of the waves, with their continued noise, but swelling in a louder degree at intervals, unceasingly struck my eyes and ears, while they added to my internal emotions, and caused me to feel the pleasure of existence without taking the pains to think. From time to time a weak and short reflection on the instability of human affairs, occurred to me, which was suplied by the surface of the waters; but these slight impressions were soon effaced by the uniformity of the continued motion which rocked my mind to repose; and which, without any active concurrence of my soul, attached me so strongly to the spot, that when summoned away by the hour and a signal agreed upon, I could not tear myself from the scene without a disagreeable effort." This passage of Rousseau reminds me that one night, when I was lying in a cottage, during my American travels, I heard an extraordinary sort of murmur from a neighbouring lake. Conceiving this noise to be the forerunner of a storm, I went out of the hut to survey the heavens. Never did I see a more beautiful night, or one in which the atmosphere was purer. The lake's expanse was tranquil, and reflected the light of the moon, which shone on the projecting points of the mountains, and on the forests of the desert. An Indian canoe was traversing the waves in silence. The noise, which I had heard, proceeded from the flood tide of the lake, which was beginning, and which sounded like a sort of groaning as it rose among the rocks. I had left the hut with an idea of a tempest-let any one judge of the impression which this calm and serene picture must have made upon me-it was like enchantment. Young has but ill availed himself, as I conceive, of the reveries, which result from such scenes; and this arose from his being eminently defective in tenderness. For the same reason he has failed in that secondary sort of sadness, which arises from the sorrows of memory. Never does the poet of the tombs revert with sensibility to the first stage of life, when all is innocence and happiness. He is ignorant of the delights afforded by the recollection of family incidents and the paternal roof. He knows nothing of the regret, with which a person looks back at the sports and pastimes of childhood. He never exclaims, like the poet of the Seasons: "Welcome, kindred glooms!' Congenial horrors, hail! With frequent foot, And sung of nature with unceasing joy, Trod the pure virgin snows, myself as pure." &c. Gray in his Ode on a distant view of Eton College has introduced the same tenderness of recollection. "Ah happy hills, ah pleasing shade, Ah fields belov'd in vain, Where once my careless childhood stray'd A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from you blow, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring." As to the recollections of misfortune, they are numerous in the works of Young. But why do they appear to be deficient in truth, like all the rest? Why is the reader unable to feel an interest in the tears of the poet Gilbert, expiring in a hospital, and in the flower of his age, finds his way to every heart, especially when he speaks of the friends who have forsaken him. "At life's convivial board I sat, And revell'd in its ehoicest cheer, I die-and none will shed a tear. Farewell, ye streams and verdant glades, And thou, bright sun, with smile so warm, Farewell, ye placid forest-shades, Farewell to nature's ev'ry charm! Oh may you long confer delight On friends I fondly deem'd so true, Without one final sad adieu !" Look in Virgil at the Trojan women, seated on the sea shore, and weeping while they survey the immensity of the ocean. "Cunctæque profundum Pontum aspectabant flentes." What beautiful harmony! How forcibly does it depict the vast solitude of the ocean, and the remembrance of their lost country! What genuine sorrow is conveyed by this one weeping glance over the surface of the billows! M.du Parny has combined the tender charms of memory with another species of sentiment. His complaint at the tomb of Emma is full of that soft melancholy, which characterizes the writings of the only elegiac poet of France. 66 Friendship, with fugitive deception kind, Chases thy image, Emma, from my mind; |
