admiration of the whole neighbourhood, as well they might, for this Hugo of Noroway is none other than her celestial guide Cela, and, to crown the whole, the poet modestly insinuates that he is descended from this extraordinary pair. Such is an abstract of this tale, in which it is difficult to determine whether we should most censure the extravagance of its original conception, or commend the genius displayed in some of its passages. It was written in the very wantonness of his fame, engendered by the success of the Queen's Wake; and really we would advise him, as friends, to be more careful of his reputation in future, for it did him no good; and many of those who had looked askance on the elevation of a shepherd, to the first ranks of the living poets, were forward enough to rejoice in what they were pleased to denominate a total failure. It was written in a few weeks; and, from the facility which he had then acquired of embodying his ideas in verse, we know that much of it might have been written " currente calamo;" and, from the inconsistencies in which it abounds, it does not appear to have undergone any revision. The celestial pilgrimage has no connection whatever with the Nursery Tale, which is its ground-work; and the fabric raised on this foundation is just as if an artist should sus pend a Gothic temple on a baby-house. The description of the destruction of a planet, and its reproduction as a comet, is no unfavourable specimen of its happier efforts. It is worthy of its author; and it is indeed impossible, that, in the course of a long work, genius like his should not often break forth from the mists in which inattention, or a slight remaining taint of bad taste, may have sometimes involved it. In radiant files, with awful reverence, Just in the middle of its swift career, twain That hung it to the heaven-Creation sob- seas Were churned into a spray, and, whizzing, flurred Around it like a dew. The mountain tops, And ponderous rocks, were off impetuous ever. "Away into the sunless starless void Rushed the abandoned world; and thro' its caves, And rifted channels, airs of chaos sung. the stillness Which there from all eternity had reigned Was rudely discomposed; and moaning sounds, Mixed with a whistling howl, were heard afar force, By darkling spirits! Still with stayless For years and ages, down the wastes of night Rolled the impetuous mass of all its seas And superfices disencumbered Its furnaced mines and hills of walled sul- Were blown into a flame-When meteor like, Bursting away upon an arching track, hosts Had deemed the globe extinct-nor thought To see the downfal of a sentenced world. event. er from the heart, nor better deserv« This poem was undertaken at the suggestion of a lady, a most ingenious woman, one of the earliest and the most faithful friends of the author. It speaks volumes in his favour, that his earliest associates have, amid all the varieties of his fortunes, been his most attached friends; and that he never gained a friend by his genius whom he lost by one act inconsistent with the purest and the most exalted principles of friendship. On this subject, the writer speaks from his own experience, and he speaks with confidence. At first, nothing more was meant than a short poem, descriptive of Highland scenery and manners, and in this view one book was written; but he began to think that it might be rendered more interesting if these descriptions were blended with a story. But, according to the plan adopted from the beginning of these essays, we shall proceed in our examination of the poem itself. There is more of life and manners in it than in any other of his poems; but we do not think him nearly so successful in the pourtraying of these as in the fairy creations of his own fancy. He has well described his own poetical propensities and powers in this address to his Muse. "Thou lovest amid the burning stars to sail, Or sing with sea maids down the coral deep, The groves of visionary worlds to hail, And it is perhaps to be regretted that he had ever abandoned these themes for others less congenial to him. The story of the poem may be told in one sentence. The King of Scot land is in the Highlands on a hunting party, and, in a frolic, leaves his courtiers, and goes to the cottage of Kincraigy, a Highland farmer, in the disguise of a strolling musician. The old man and his family are described, particularly his daughter May, with whom the king falls in love. They are privately married, and in due time a lovely boy is the consequence of this union. Albert of Glen, who had been a suitor of this beautiful maiden, is so enraged at the preference shewn to the wandering minstrel, that he drives Kincraigy out of his farm. In this extremity, the unhappy May quits her father's house in quest of her husband. In her solitary wanderings she meets a palmer, who conducts her on her way. After many hardships, she arrives at Stirling, and makes many fruitless attempts to gain admission at Court, where she believed her husband was. One evening she is observed by the Abbot of Dunfermline, who enters into conversation with her, and draws from her her story. He asks her if she had received any pledge from her husband; nothing, she says, but an old silver ring, which he at once recognizes to have belonged to the king. He prepares him for her reception, and she is introduced, acknowledged, and they are remarried, and of course pass years of "glory and felicity." The poem opens with a description of the scenery of the romantic Tay, which is in the author's happiest manner, and here he may enter the lists with the most distinguished poets of the age, some of whom have obtained so much glory by their picture of individual scenes. His genius was fostered among the mountains, and in some degree created by them, and whenever he approaches them, it is kindled into more than usual enthu siasm. "O that some spirit at the midnight noon Aloft would bear me, middle space, to see These thy first guests alone, thou fair, majestic Tay!" This is equal to any thing of the kind with which we are acquainted. Of the characters, he tells us, But ween not thou that Nature's simple Bard Can e'er unblemished character define; True to his faithful monitor's award, He paints her glories only as they shine. Of men all pure, and maidens all divine, Expect not thou his wild-wood lay to be; Such as in erring man we daily see— Mr Hogg has never sought to exalt human nature to a standard of ideal perfection, but has either painted what he himself saw, or his imagina tions have been compositions of known elements, and he is, therefore, never out of nature, but he sometimes forgets that many characters appear in the various drama of life, and many incidents occur there which are unfit for poetry. In the quest of truth he has sometimes descended to the com mon-place or the vulgar, and in this poem there are instances of both faults. In exculpation, we might bring his early history, but we are at present speaking of his works, not of himself, and we shall judge of them by their merits alone, without a reference to any thing out of them. Old Kincraigy is a man of a rough exterior, unused to the blandishments of speech, and the refined delicacies of domestic intercourse, but of a warm and generous heart, and of an impetuous but forgiving temper. His wife, who is the plague of his existence, is a loquacious shrew, who can judge of things only by their success, and who encourages her child in a connection fraught with danger; yet, on its failure, does she, by unmerited taunts, add to the wretchedness of a being whose heart was already broken. May was simply a mountain maiden, beautiful and gay, and frolicksome, but of an enthusiastic spirit, and capable of exertions which her acquaintances thought above her, just such a one as we have no doubt the poet had himself seen in is perhaps the best painting of the his native glens. The palmer, who whole, was a man of high rank, who had been deeply drenched in guilt, and passed his life in penitence and prayers and alms. Our limits do not permit us to make any extracts from the hunting in the first book, which may fairly vie with any thing of the kind. When the hunters had retired to the royal tent, for their amusement, he again strings the Border harp to its sweetest and wildest notes, and we are always refreshed when he does so. A harper is introduced, who sings a fairy song, superior in strange and visionary fancies to any thing of the kind Mr Hogg had hitherto written. We have already observed, that in the regions of pure fancy, even in this age of great poets, he has no rival, and the themes in which he is most at home, is fairy superstition. In proof of this assertion, we shall extract part of the harper's song; we regret that there is not room for the whole. There was ane auld caryl wonit in yon howe, Lemedon! lemedon ! ayden lillelu! His face was the geire, and his hayre was the woo, Sing Ho! Ro! Gillan of Allanhu ! But och ! quhan the mure getis his cuerlet gray, &c. Quhan the gloamyng hes flauchtit the nychte and the day, &c. Quhan the crawis haif flowin to the greinwode schaw, And the kydde has blet owr the Lammer Law; Quhan the dewe hes layde the klaiver asteep, And the gowin hes fauldit hir buddis to sleep; Quhan nochte is herde but the merlinis mene Och! than that gyre caryl is neuir his lene! "Ane bonnye baby, se meike and Ay walkis wythe hym the dowie wylde : "Hir browe se fayre, and her ee se And the damyske roz that blumis on her cheike; Hir lockis, and the bend of her bonnye bree, And hir smyle mochte waukin the deide to see! "Hir snoode, befryngit with mony a geme, Was stouin fra the raynbowe's brychtest beme; And hir raile, mair quhyte than snawye dryfte, Was neuir wovin anethe the lyfte; And they sang ane hyme, and the hyme was new! List, lordyngs, list! for neuir agayne Shalt' heire sikn wylde wanyirdlye strayne. For they sang the nychte-gale in ane swoone, And they sang the goud lockes fra the moone; They sang the reidbreiste fra the wud, And the laueroke out of the merlit clud; And sum wee feres of bludeless byrthe Cam out of the wurmholes of the yirthe, And swoofit se lychtlye round the lee, That they waldna kythe to mortyl ee; But their erlisch sang it rase se shill, That the waesum tod youlit on the hill! O lordyngs, list the cronach blande ! The flycherynge songe of Fayrie-laud!" VOL. II. The revels at the cottage of Kincraigie, produced by the residence of ed; but, though they are natural Mador there, are vigorously sketchenough, and in some cases humor ous, there is about them an air of coarseness which is not likely to be very popular in this age of refinement. "The dance and song prevailed till fell the night, The minstrel's forward ease advanced apace, He kiss'd their lovely May before their sight, Who struggled, smiling from the rude embrace, And call'd him fiddler Mador to his face." May's song over the cradle of her son is exquisitely tender. "Be still, my babe! be still!-the die is cast! Beyond thy weal no joy remains for me! Thy mother's spring was clouded and o'erpast Erewhile the blossom open'd on the tree! In spite of every taunt and jeering tongue; But I will nurse thee kindly on my knee, O thy sweet eye will melt my wrongs to see ! And thy kind little heart with grief be wrung! Thy father's far away, thy mother all too young! "If haggard poverty should overtake, And threat our onward journey to fores For thee I'll pull the berries of the brake, lay, Wake half the night, and toil the live long day; And when proud manhood o'er thy brow shall play, For me thy bow in forest shall be strung. And of the song of shame I oft have sung, The memory of my errors shall decay, Of father far away, and mother all to young! "But O! when mellow'd lustre gilds thine eye, And love's soft passion thrills thy youthful frame, Let this memorial bear thy mind on high Above the guilty and regretful flame, The mildew of the soul, the mark of shame! Think of the fruit before the bloom that sprung! When in the twilight bower with beau The palmer's morning hymn is a most successful imitation of the Hebrew poets, and breathes the very spirit of devotion. "Lauded be Thy name for ever, "I have seen thy wond'rous might The wanderings and sufferings of May, her discovery of Mador in the king, and her exaltation to the throne of Scotland, are narrated in an animated and interesting way. This poem has been composed with considerable care, and if not the best, is the most polished of his productions. The Spenserian stanza, the most difficult of our measures, is here easy and harmonious, and there is throughout the poem great richness and felicity of expression. There is nothing, perhaps, more surprising in Mr Hogg's literary history, than the complete mastery he has obtained over the English language, and the beautiful colouring which, by means of it, he has been enabled to give to the exuberant stores of his imagination. Upon the whole, if this poem does not rise to the dignity of the epic, nor even to the witchery of the Lady of the Lake, nor the chastened beauty, and occasional sublimity, and heart-stirring pathos of Gertrude of Wyoming, it is entitled to rank high among the numerous tales of this narrative age; and, if it speak not to the passions in the soft but irresistible whispers of nature, and open, as if by a spell, the fountains of our tears, it lifts the mind to the loftiest conceptions of mountain scenery; and though, in a few instances, it offends a refined taste by vulgarity, the subject is always treated in a poetical way,-the story is not without its interest,-and the remarks on the joys, and the sorrows, and the dangers, of man, in unison with our best feelings. One word more, and we have done. We are happy to learn that there is a design of publishing a new edition of the Queen's Wake by subscription, for the behoof of the author. Fame is almost the only reward he has hitherto obtained for the succession of delightful poems with which, for some years past, he has favoured the public, and the only one which he prizes; for never was there a man more careless of fortune, nor freer from selfishness. His wants are few; yet we know he would rather submit to the privation of the little that is necessary for their supply, than degrade himself by flattering any man on earth, or sacrificing a single item of his independence even to the public; and the plan does not originate with himself, but a gentleman whose genius, high as it is, does not surpass his benevolence, who is well acquainted with the regularity of his life, and the virtues of his heart, and has ever been the most zealous of his friends. In an age which is so distinguished for conferring honours on the memory of departed genius, we trust there will not be wanting a promptitude in cherishing a man whose name will long shed a lustre on the Scottish cottage, and whose modesty and worth are at least equal to the high qualities of his mind. The world has long been in possession of unequivocal proofs of the one, but the other is only known to his friends, and those who know him best, best know that the purity of his manners, and the honest independence of his mind, entitle him to the protection of his country, no less than his genius to its admiration. The subscription price is only one guinea. A small sum would raise him to independence, and we trust the public will not |