immature work of a man of genius, who possessed very imperfect cultivation. It is clumsy in plan, tediously dissertative, and tastelessly magniloquent, but it has passages of good and genuine poetry." This doubtless is true. Whether the poet would have produced more perfect work had time been given him it is vain to speculate. Professor Wilson said of him: "Pollok had much to learn in composition, and had he lived, he would have looked almost with humiliation on much that is at present eulogised by his devoted admirers. But," he added, "the soul of poetry is there, and many passages there are, and long ones too, that heave, and hurry, and glow along in a divine enthusiasm." To adequately represent such a work within possible limits is difficult, but the selected passages given in the following pages are sufficient to show the style and power of the poet, and to justify the criticisms already quoted. That the poem owed its popularity largely to its subject, and to its consistence with the theology of the time and place of its publication there can be little doubt, but that it has merits which entitle it to more respectful recognition than it has sometimes received is also beyond dispute. No one can deny its author the possession of a powerful imagination and a fluent pen; and if the work as a whole cannot be regarded as a complete success, it may fairly be contended that very few poets can be named who would have been equal to so vast a theme. ALFRED H. MILES. 1827. ROBERT POLLOK. I. THE POET'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. ONE of this mood I do remember well: We name him not-what now are earthly names? He listened, and heard from far the voice of Fame, And deeper vowed again to keep his vow. His parents saw-his parents whom God made Of kindest heart, saw, and indulged his hope. The ancient page he turned, read much, thought much, And with old bards of honourable name Measured his soul severely; and looked up Hope grew from inward faith, and promised fair. Ascending, where the laurel highest waved Her branch of endless green. But stood, admired, not long. He stood admiring; The harp he loved, loved better than his life, He searched, and meditated much, and whiles, Thus stood his mind, when him round came a cloud. Of ills we mention not: enough to say, 'Twas cold, and dead, impenetrable gloom. He saw its dark approach, and saw his hopes, It drew his soul; but fainted not at first, He called Philosophy, and with his heart He sought, and sought with eye that dimmed apace, On which to rest a hope; but sought in vain. Told all was past. His interest in life, In being, ceased; and now he seemed to feel, The blue heavens withered; and the moon and sun, Like something which had been, appeared, but now Was dead and mouldering fast away. He tried No more to hope, wished to forget his vow, Of loss, he as some atom seemed, which God Oh! who can tell what days, what nights he spent Of tideless, waveless, sailless, shoreless woe! And who can tell how many, glorious once, Wasted and pined, and vanished from the earth, It was not so with him. When thus he lay, As leaf of autumn, which the wolfish winds, His praise be ever new !—and on him breathed, That rolled its numbers down the tide of Time. Of men alone; ambitious most to be Approved of God, the Judge of all; and have II. LORD BYRON. (FROM BOOK FOURTH.) TAKE one example, to our purpose quite. And reputation, and luxurious life. |