ing, he tells us, in his preface," The poems that are marked with figures I devote to posterity!” We have not the good fortune to know any thing of the author of this volume intended for posterity. Perhaps Samuel Gower, Esq. is only his nom de guerre. Fudge appears now the prevailing taste of the day; and the reading public, good-natured souls, seem vastly in the humour of being gulled by it, come from what quarter, or in what shape it may. For ourselves, although "the hey-day in the blood" is hardly yet tame in any one member of our fraternity, we profess ourselves hearty disciples of the old school; and though we may appear somewhat unfashionable, we are so much attached to the old leaven, as to hold in mortal abhorrence the lately sprung-up dandyisms in our national literature. But though so far laudatores temporis acti, it is our province to judge Mr Gower only by his exploits and we would even be understood to thank him for presenting to our mind's eye something like Banquo's glass, in which we may indulge a sly peep at the reading taste of after ages. In a poem, or rather in a series of poems, tagged together by the common title of " NAPOLEON," we certainly did expect something beyond the ordinary dull set tune of modern versification, and of unintelligible bombast or Lakeish raving. At the drawing up of the curtain to such an important drama as Napoleon's eventful history exhibits, it was not unreasonable to hope, that even the prologue, if it did not exhibit the pungency or the pathos of Lord Byron, might, at least, have presented something like his solemn and majestic air; such, for instance, as his opening lines of the "Giaour," Such readers as discover any sense in this opening couplet of the first division, called "England," of the poem entitled "Napoleon," may probably understand the miserable and incoherent ravings which follow it.Having given the prologue, we now present the epilogue to the first division of this-Epic "England rejects my arms-She is my foe Red be the waves that shall between us flow! Gallia lies weltering now in princely blood Hence will I make my meaning under stood!" The next part is called "Egypt," and might with equal propriety have been baptised Timbuctoo, or Kamschatka. It consists of twenty-eight lines only, of which, those approaching the borders of rationality, or intelligibility, are "I care for nothing!-of remorse And "Old England, how unshook thy honours are! Thy Nelson calls me Thief-So be it: I Some admirers of the Lakers may, if they please, call this" singularly beautiful." We think it only "singularly wild" and nonsensical. In ancient times, the term Vates, was applied to the Prophet, as well as to the Poet. Now we really tremble for our own fate, as well as for that of Mr Gower and his poems, considering the awful responses he gives out, in virtue of his double office. Yet may we indulge the hope, that for posterity's sake, (in less ill-fated lands than our own, which, like a true radical, he has devoted to utter destruction,) he has taken care to have his poetry, like that of Shakespeare, Milton, and Byron, translated into other languages, and lodged in the warehouses of safer continental bibliopoles-otherwise it will presently appear, that posterity is in imminent danger of being deprived of the poems marked with figures," which certainly are a physiological curiosity, well worthy the attention of Dr Willis. Here is the "Malison of Heaven," or, of the Devil, or, of Samuel Gower, Esq. " And for you, ye warriors dead, Fate, soon or late, will e'en on Albion frown Brave spirits! ye shall yet be comforted: Your isle ere long shall founder and go down, Her lights extinguish'd, and her glory fled, And join ye in your desolate renown." All this would have been truly alarming, if uttered either by a prophet or a poet; but, fortunately, to prevent any idle qualms, we will just take the liberty to say, that we have as little faith in Mr Gower's pretensions to the prophetical, as to the poetical character. The next portion of this droll Epic is in the form of an epistle to the woman Josephine, and, by the bye, it is one of those portions "marked with a figure for posterity." It consists of fourteen lines only; but Jose phine being Napoleon's first love, of whom, if France "has writ her annals true," he got somewhat tired, brevity is on that account the more excusable. The prominent lines are, "My glory is my Fame's high sacra ment : My heart to beauty never to have lent, Nor ever risk'd, for love, my peerless throne, My character, still searchlessly my own." But the modern Cæsar is not to be fatigued by inditing an epistle to one wife only. We are, through Mr Gower, presented with another, and of greater length, addressed to his ei-devant Empress Maria Louisa, and in which, notwithstanding the glorified asseveration made to Josephine, there appears something like a dark insinuation of a third love: "I could repeat what it would be unsafe, To suffer on thy kinder heart to chafe, With which my tongue hath frozen like my tears Ne'er been familiar-neither shall thy ears." Truth, however, will out. We now find, that the Austrian princess has been treated somewhat scurvily, and that the boastful stanza addressed to Josephine is all humbug. In a sonnet addressed to-to whom Mr VOL. IX. Gower has not condescended to inform us-we meet with the following pathetic disclosure: "One who hath but too dearly lov'd thee, Jane, But whom the Fates forbid thee hence to know; Thus bids a long farewell to thee; and though A breaking heart would prompt him to complain," &c. This same Jane is perhaps the "English girl," "lost," or bewailed, during the " whirling of the universe," in the first couplet of this poem. To satisfy the curious in such matters, perhaps the forthcoming life of Buonaparte, to be written, or at least to be published, by Sir Richard Philips, may throw some light upon this mysterious affair. If not, Sir Richard should adopt two of Mr Gower's lines for a title-page motto, "Let no dull poets with their rhymes belie, Unless for custom's sake, my memory." p. 25. From such incoherent jabberings, it would be hopless to attempt to state what are Mr Gower's sentiments as to the life, character, and talents, of Napoleon. Posterity may find them out, if it can. We have produced enough, to satisfy ourselves, that Mr "dark Gower is either a wag, or a magnificent idiot." It is, we think, quite apparent that he is often out of order. Forgetting that he had commenced with the words of Napoleon, we find him all at once addressing himself to his readers, and telling them, in p. 37, "I do inoculate the world with my After all, we think he is quite serious, and that he endeavours, when the fit of deliration has gone off, to do his best. In evidence of this opinion, we quote the following lines from his "Napoleon's Epistle to the Ex-Empress Maria Louisa:" "Take my farewell, Maria! tell our child, When fifteen summers in his eyes have smil'd For ere that age such knowledge might do harm, In robbing child-hood of its sweetest charm The charm of wondering at novelty, 3 H Be sacred as the veil thy beauty wearsLet them be shed in secret, and unseen, For such should be the sorrow of a queen !" The extracts just given may be regarded as the most favourable specimens of Mr Gower's talent for versification. They seem, at least to us, to have escaped in some degree that infectious absurdity and sheer raving, which prevail too abundantly in the volume before us. We have a few words to add, as to the mechanical structure of this volume, devoted in part to posterity. Messrs C. & J. Ollier, having published for Mr Lamb and others, ought to know something (to use the technical phrase) of the getting up a book ;" and should be aware, that an error upon a title-page (which it is the publisher's province to look after) is more glaring than even an error in a foot-note. Why did they send their title-page to press with the motto Frangas non flectes, instead of Frangas non flectas? As for Mr Gower-poor fellow-how could they expect him to puddle even in "Irish bog Latin," when he has “ D’Enghien, I chiefly slew thee for a wrong Received from thee," &c. A blind man would see that it should be, "I slew thee chiefly," &c. Such good-natured readers as may not feel much inclined to boggle at this sample of vicious grammar, may, notwithstanding, stare a little at the specimen of Mr Gower's talent for prose, with which we shall anon present them. When an author affixes the imprimatur to his lucubrations, though sound taste may be is surely an indispensable requisite; looked for in vain, correct grammar and the case of Samuel Gower, Esq. attests it; for here, in one sentence, may be seen bad taste, bad grammar, and arrant nonsense, like three infernal furies, struggling for the ascendancy: "Whichever way I turn, a barrier of impassable gates at present frowns before me, through which I cannot pass; but I hope to pass them-and in the meanwhile, I beg of every reader not to hang, or drown himself, till this time next year, by which time -wherever I may have met with happiness, whoever he is, he shall be made to share it with me." Preface, p. viii. With the author's miscellaneous poems we have not interfered; the following extract, from the same page of his preface, will speak both for us and against us. It is, besides, another choice sample of his prose, and quite in unison with the sentence we have just quoted: "The miscellaneous poems require no further remark, than that the Queen Elizabeth is not the Eliza * Devoted, by a figure in the contents, to posterity. beth of Kenilworth, but the dust and ashes of what she once was, and dying, as was thought, of a broken heart; and that, with regard to satire, I will be quiet, if they'll let me alone; if not, when a little older, and more ill-natured, they who misbehave may have cause to wish me in heaven!" By this time, many of our readers will readily adopt our conclusion, not, that Mr Gower is a wag, but that he ought to have instant recourse to an antiphlogistic regimen. His lucubrations in prose and verse savour strongly of the delirious reveries of an English opium-eater. If Mr Gower is not one of the English masticators of that pernicious drug, it follows, we think, to demonstration, that the stupifying effects of intoxication are not at all requisite to set him into fits of raving. Persons affected like S. Gower, Esq., are in this country generally known by the appellation of-Daft Poets. We have still in our lumber-room many printed reams of poetry, of somewhat queerish appearance, though still uncut, unread, and unthumbed. We shall devote an occasional hour, snatched from more important labours, to examine these ; and we will, in all probability, soon find an opportunity of presenting the world with a few more choice samples of "POETRY DEVOTED TO POSTERITY." THE CROISADE; OR, THE PALMER'S OUR first thought, on entering upon the perusal of this poem, was to have given some account of the wanderings or exploits of the pilgrim; and in this way, if we could do no more, we at least expected to have imitated some critics of greater name, by producing a dry detail of the story. We soon found, however, that that was impossible, for in truth we could make nothing of it. We then thought that we might at least have been able to say why it was called the Croisade; but here, too, we found ourselves at a loss, and could not well say whether it is a poem about Palestine or Scotlandabout the battles in which Godfrey and Roland fought, or those which have immortalized the names of Wallace and of Græme. We next imagined, that however unable we might be to follow the thread of the story, we should at least be able to find some stanzas, which we might point out as either happy or wretched in their execution. But here again we were at a stand; for the whole seemed to our eyes like Chaos or Erebus. At last we discovered, that, in imitation of our great minstrel, the poem has a body of irregular and lyric-looking verse, each member of which is prefaced by something relating to Scottish or West Indian scenery, or some other subject on which we thought we could repose with some prospect of delight; and we also found out, that one of those productions is descriptive of the scenery betwixt Soultra and Edinburgh.This we thought would do; but when we attempted to fix in our minds how we should characterize this description, we were as much puzzled as by any of the preceding matter; so we determined to trust to the judgment of our readers themselves; and as this is an age in which the public taste is exercised by all kinds and qualities of verse, we had no doubt but we might just quote the greater part of this description, and leave it to our readers to say, whether the author ought any longer to pay his devotion to the Muse, or to confine himself to that love of nature, or to that admiration of the genius of other poets, with which we have no doubt that he is gifted. Northward from Soultra's summit pass thine eye, From east to west, th' indented shores survey; Of traitors, who, like thieves at midnight, came; Spill'd the life-blood, and drench'd the soil with the pure stream. Starts Borthwick's pile upon me, whose rude tower And mass more dungeon'd deep-its Crichton's bloody den. Umbrag'd by bowers, where shade on shade reposing, Thy Græme, thy Douglas!-names, that yet assume And lo! Edina's terrac'd heights appear, Now down the lovely Forth the breeze is curling, How stately steps she on her glassy ocean! Streamers that kiss the heavens-wind-wave in motion, Death in her touch;-swift lightnings round her drew; Say, didst thou e'er, at the soft hour when leans |
