later, have reason to regret the infatuation under which they laboured when they cultivated such acquaintances. Abstracting altogether from the numerous deficiencies and positive vices of the most remarkable of our Poets, they having formed themes for our previous dissertations, we come to the consideration of a question deserving of some reflection; and we fearlessly put it to the good sense of our readers, whether any respectable amount of matter, manifesting dignity in subject, wide creative power, and expressive strength, at all worthy of being placed side by side with the classic monuments which belong to the English language, has appeared in these countries within these last few years? Such platforms as have been generally selected whereon to base the structures which were, we suppose, intended to, "Raise their proud heads, and mount into the skies," would account in themselves for the rickety nature of the buildings, and prepare the most unpractised eye for beholding their speedy demolition. It would be worse than folly to suppose that subjects devoid of interest in themselves, and incapable, from their unenviable peculiarity of admitting in their treatment the inoculation or engraftinent of anything containing the germ of permanent interest and excellence, could possibly enable even great intellects to acquire enduring fame while employed in their development. If former Poets had unfortunately exhausted every congenial idea, had gleaned every grain in the poetical harvest fields, had collected every waif which lay scattered on the Ocean of Imagination, we might then forgive the necessitated wanderings of our men of genius, though we could not avoid deploring the circumstances that occasioned them; but such is not the case, as every reflective mind must obviously conclude. The earth is as beautiful to-day as it was in the days of Homer; as full of everything to charm the eye and delight the soul as it was centuries ago, and the legions of Poets who have sung its praise in all its regions have been merely what Newton described himself, "like to those who gather shells on the sea shore," where generations of the human race yet to exist may come and gather more, and still leave myriads to be collected by those who will people the earth when they are gone. It would have been like an imputation upon the power of God to suppose that such a subline creation of his as this our earth, with all the glorious properties it contains, both animate and inanimate, could cease to have any new attraction worthy of the Poet's pen after the lapse of a few centuries, and that we must fain have recourse to the analytic dissectinent of the most worthless attributes of the human mind if we desire fitting subjects for our inspiration. We trust such notions are not indicative of the gradual degeneracy of Man; they are certainly not of that character from which reasonable hopefulness in the progress of humanity are to be derived. In the last number of THE IRISH QUARTERLY we have commented at some length, and, we believe, with no sparing hand, upon the alarming errors which our most eminent Poets have lately exhibited; and it is with the most sincere pleasure we now find ourselves possessed of an opportunity, in embracing which we may be enabled to demonstrate that there are yet men, both here and in the sister country, who have not abandoned the bright path in which all our bards have trod who have left names behind them; who have not, as yet, bartered for the senseless theories of the Spirit Rapper, the noble enthusiasm and sublime reflection of the Poet. Charles Mackay, long known to the literary world as the author of various poems of considerable merit, such as Egeria," "Legends of the Isles," "The Salamandrine," &c. &c., has some time since presented us with a new work, namely, "The Lump of Gold and other Poems:" we have selected it for present notice, and we trust that our readers will have no reason to regret our choice; for though there is nothing very dazzling or wonderful in its pages, they contain far more than a sufficiency of desirable matter to render them an agreeable treat to every reader in the three kingdoms. Charles Mackay is a graceful Poet; without possessing an imagination of the highest order, he still commands enough to enable him to furnish his tales with no inconsiderable amount of interest; he has a good ear for musical cadences, almost invariably employs appropriate metres, and his diction is flexible and copious. But his most prominent and most admirable quality is his manly vigor; it is this which gives life to everything he writes; which leavens all his poetry with its animating properties, and stamps upon it the impress of originality. It seems to us a matter to be regretted that Mackay has not written more on the late war; he is just the poet fit to continue, what Dibdin and Campbell commenced; he is as patriotic as either, almost as pithy and as spirited, and he manifests a close resemblance to them in that happy power of calling up before the mind vividly, our dearest associations, and our most treasured remembrances of glory; reminding us by stirring allusion, brief, but luminous, and suggestive, of the heroism of our ancestors, and the greatness of their exploits. It is indeed surprising that an author of such vigorous lyric power in the construction of war ballads, would not feel impelled by an irresistible impulse to follow that course which Nature seems to have worked out for him; but whether he intends to devote himself to the creation of a collection of war songs, or not, we deem it right to assure him that it is our humble opinion, that there is no living poet at present in these countries more suited than he is for undertaking such a task. Mackay is generally fresh and pleasant, whatever be his theme; he is neither ponderous, sanctimonious, nor mystical, and the light of a clear intellect shines upon his pages with a steady lustre. Occasionally the pinions of his Muse come too near the earth, and get somewhat soiled by the unhallowed contact with our lowly sphere. Of this carelessness our author must beware; he must hold in mind, that we are, after all, but poor weak mortals, and that a tendency to closed eyelids, and temporary oblivion as to the actual state of external objects, is often unfortunately one of those traits by which we are characterized. Lavish ornament is the fault of some, poverty of diction is now and then the great mistake of Mackay. But it is not alone in his language that this is apparent; the inatter sometimes is tame and prosaic, and wears the appearance of dullness. Like an old woman's tale, there is that introduced for which no adequate reason is apparent, and the reader is annoyed by being obliged to tread the avenues of circomlocution, which though easily distinguishable, are at times more disagreeable than wandering through a Cretan labyrinth. These latter commentaries may not belong to those of an agreeable order, but as we make it a rule to express our candid opinion on all literary matters, their insertion is unavoidable, and we shall now cheerfully proceed to a more pleasing task, which is to illustrate the poetical attributes of Mackay by some selected passages. "The Lump of Gold," is a tale for which we must feel our selves indebted to the rather unpoetical mania which seized the people of these countries some years since. A young man who has married for love, hearing like those around him of the golden harvests which were to be reaped in Transatlantic realms, becomes suddenly fascinated with the idea of seeking his fortune among the mines of Australia, and is buoyed up with the hope of returning at no distant day, a millionaire, to lay at the feet of his beloved, the wreath which is to place her on a level with an Empress. In the prosecution of his undertaking he sails to Australia in company with a friend, in whom he places the most faithful reliance. Arrived upon the arena where their energies are to have full scope, the friends separate, each to follow out the same object. One auspicious morning our hero discovers a small speck of gold barely visible above the earth; he digs round it, and to his unbounded joy, it assumes a size not less than the body of a human being. His delight, however, is quickly replaced by a feeling of an opposite nature; he finds all his efforts to raise it unavailing, and he becomes fearful lest some other eye may behold the treasure, whose existence he would preserve an inviolable secret. As he stands gazing upon his idol, in a mingled state of delight and terror, trembling at each leaf that stirs, and every bird that chirrups, imagining them to proclaim the advent of a human presence, the sounds of mocking laughter smite his ears, and almost paralyze his frame. He looks round, and lo standing before him he beholds the form of the friend who had accompanied him from England, and sees the triumphant smile with which he proclaims the knowledge, of which the other so bitterly envied him the possession. His friend asks him to share the gold, which caps the climax of his rage, and taking up his mallet, he fells his fellow traveller to the earth, and leaves him there senseless and bleeding. Repentance comes too late, he is haunted with a perpetual vision of a murdered man, and in his agony flies the country, and returns to England. Even there the form follows him, and he finds no rest. In his wanderings one Sabbath day, he enters a church, while the clergyman is preaching, whom he recognizes as his father-in-law, and near him beholds his beloved wife. The remembrance of his former happiness overpowers him, he roams away into the forests to hide his grief, and entering the habitation of one of the neighbours in the evening, in a state verging on madness, a clue to his identity is obtained in his continual calls for "Parson Vale." The story soon concludes; he relates the tale to his wife, learns that his friend, of whom he had considered himself the murderer, is alive, well, and living in England, and scarcely has the joyful fact been communicated to him, when the man himself makes his appearance, who, when they have cordially joined hands, announces to the hero, that with his permission he will be enabled to bring over the gold from Australia, when it can be divided between them. A soliloquy of the spirit-haunted wretch in the streets of London, and at midnight, forms the commencement of the Poem; he is then represented as wandering along, agonized and despairing, so much so that even the miserable outcasts that stalk the streets in that dreary hour, find matter for observation in the unexampled evidences of grief which are marked upon his features. Under the doorways, Screened from the weather, Crouching together; They, as he passed them, "He raves, he is crazed!- And yet who can help it? Do you-if you can ; I'd trample on Sorrow He saw not-he heard not- His world was within, A world-or a chaos Of anguish and sin. The rain and the tempest Take it and welcome- Low in the quiet grave; Deep in the doleful wave; Weary of living, Down came the drenching rain, The ball-room was empty, Its roses were dead. All jaded and wan; Fast through the tempest 'Mid the black rain pools Flashed where they trod. Weary and warm, Saw from its chariot "Of drink!" said the Earl; "Or love!" said his daughter fairTwisting her flaxen hair Back into curl. Onwards he travels through the murky night; the morning comes, and with it his memory of happier days; back flows the tide of his recollection. |