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REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

The Celtic Annals. A Poem. By the Rev. John Parker, A.M. 1 vol. 8vo. Rivington; London, 1831.

THE poem before us is printed along with "The Passengers," a work with which our readers are already familiar. The title is a

vast and glorious one, and embraces events and ages of an extent and importance which are worthy of the proudest efforts of the British muse. Would that we could say Mr. Parker had succeeded in producing a fine poem: but whilst we deny that he has done so, we admit, most readily, that he has given us sufficient proof of the poetical nature of his mind, and a store of information, both historical and philosophical, that can very rarely be excelled. Had he applied these powers with a greater portion of taste and judgment towards so noble a subject, we have no hesitation in saying, from this specimen of his muse, that he might have produced a poem far more interesting to the Celtic and the general reader, as well as infinitely superior in intrinsic merit. But our author has unfortunately become possessed of a notion, that he can effectually introduce, through the medium of English, the most extraordinary, and to us almost intolerable, hexameters; and we will venture to assert that Mr. Parker has, ere this, discovered that we are not alone in our opinion.

Our readers will recollect that "The Passengers" contained, in the shape of dialogue, a very pleasant and interesting tour in Wales by three gentlemen, whose travelling names were Clanvoy, Allansley, and Larndon. The incidents are simply and prettily told, and the reflections in which the travellers indulged on the road are always agreeably, and frequently feelingly, related: there also appears a fair portion of scientific research. It would seem that during their tour, Clanvoy, having frequently alluded to various sorts of verses, threatens to repeat to his companions a whole chapter of hexameters, to wit, the poem of "the Celtic Annals." He says,

"This was called by Aristotle the grandest and least musical of all the metres. No great number of them will ever be made in English with rhyme, for we have but few rhyming spondees in our language. When the accent is greatly varied, it becomes the versification of Homer and Theocritus; when the accentual variation is much controlled, it is that of Horace and Virgil; when it is broken into pauses at short or equal intervals, it is the style, if not the verse, of the Hebrew prophets. You and Larndon are both so well acquainted with ancient hexameters, that you cannot help recognizing the

same form in those which I will repeat; otherwise I should have desired you to consider them as you would have measured the prose of Ossian, or our translations of scripture poetry. Now I beg of you for once to be satisfied without rhyme, and to acknowledge that, if under the present modern system blank verse can become both popular and melodious, there is yet a chance that the heroic verse of the classic age may obtain some indulgence in ours. Do not be surprised at the spelling contradicting the metrical quantities in many words: versification is the province of our ear, which is guided not by our eye in spelling, but by our tongue in pronunciation. I have nothing more to add by way of Preface than this, one declaration: I should as soon overlook an extra syllable as a false quantity." See Passengers, p. 200.

Now, in all good-nature and candour, we must beg leave to differ from the author in one or two points of this tolerably analytical and rather ingenious preface to his poem. First, to the opinion of the profound Aristotle we bow with deference: the metre is grand, and, unto our humble ears, devoid of all music whatever. As to there being "but few rhyming spondees in our language," surely the learned author cannot have forgotten how plentifully they seem to have come to the hands of Byron, in his most lamentably sensual, yet splendidly intellectual, poem of Don Juan: and although we would not willingly witness another modern production, either from Mr. Parker or any one else, in the same metre as his present effort, still, if the cacoethes be strong upon him, we suggest the imperative necessity of his clothing his verses in the garb of rhyme, in order to ensure a reception from the public not absolutely damnatory. With regard to the poetry of Homer and Theocritus, of Horace and Virgil, as well as to the more sublime strains of the Hebrew prophets, (notwithstanding that the Hebrew tongue is known to Mr. Parker, while we can only see it darkly through the medium of a translation,) we must confess that the poem of "The Celtic Annals" does not, nor can it from the rugged difficulties of the measure in which it is written, remind us of the sublime and immortal strains of any of them. On the contrary, almost all the lines fall harshly, and others glide flatly on the ear; and we have in vain sought for a passage, however short, in which both of these defects are not extremely prominent. Again, our author cannot but know that even "under the present modern system" blank verse is both "popular" and "melodious;" and we have invariably found, amongst readers of a truly poetical temperament, that its style is admired and honoured, as it ought to be: but that the bare imitation of "the heroic verse of the classic age" can ever become popular in Great Britain and Ireland, we can never believe. All professed imitations are bad; and we should as soon expect to see the verses of Voltaire and Racine preferred to those of Milton or Shakspeare, as that the heroic verse of the ancients should gain any influence among the literati of our country, when clothed in our Teutonic sounds. We have felt ourselves bound to say thus much on the grand defect in the execution of Mr. Parker's poem, viz. the form in which it is pre

sented; and once for all we must add, that this defect is of a nature so uncongenial to English tastes and ideas, that it can only have the effect of rendering abortive all future attempts to make it palatable. We believe "The Passengers" has met with the encouragement the book deserves, and that, consequently, "The Celtic Annals" has found its way into many hands; but we are confident that if the poem had been published separately, so as to have stood on its own merits, it would not have been perused by one tithe of the eyes which have now cast a cursory glance over its pages. We will now proceed to the more grateful portion of our task, by pointing out those beauties in poetical idea, and in general arrangement and execution of the subject, which the form, and the form only, of the poem could have prevented a genius, like that of Mr. Parker, from rendering highly interesting and popular.

The author states that "the Welsh Triads form the chief groundwork of this poem. The object is to combine into one continued epic narrative, the scattered fragments relating to the more splendid occurrences of Welsh history." A more grand and worthy object for poetry could not have been selected; and we feel the assurance that had the harmonious verse of Pope, the romantic stanza of Spencer, or the lofty and soul-stirring strain of Milton been adopted, instead of this extraordinary and unmanageable AngloGreek, "The Celtic Annals" might have been made one of the most attractive and excellent among modern poems.

Our readers will at once perceive, from the opening of the poem, that the author is not destitute of the inspiration necessary to grapple with his mighty subject.

"Hail, western sunbeam! thy rays are dear to the mountain
After a hot noontide; hail, time of sweet meditation!
When the poet lingers on some high watch-tower of light,
Gazing upon the shadows that roll so darkly beneath him:
When the shepherd, gathering his flock from afar to the twilight
Of some grassy meadow, surveys with care the surrounding
Stony desarts, anxious to behold some straggler among them.
Yon sky is unclouded: the blue air's calm brightness uninjured:
While underneath, out of an awful depth, massy vapours
Are swelling in surges from a secret lake's rocky margin,
Like a bottomless pit, whence pois'nous fumes are ascending;
Or the pillars of smoke that rise from volcanic Etna.

"Wilt thou hear the poem, thou friend of songs! the melodious
Answer of elder days to the call of one who honours them?
Have thy feet wandered in secret among the deserted
Fastnesses of rock bound nature; unseen, unattended;
Where frowning solitude hath rear'd her strange habitations?
Then hast thou ponder'd upon ancient lore, when above thee
Rose the solid mountain: then hast thou fondly demanded
Whence the powerful charm hath sprung, that fill'd, with emotion,

Thy spirit, exalting thee above thyself, to the noblest
Endeavourings; to the scenes where vast eternity rises
From the ruins of time, where guilt hath found an avenger?

"O land, once echoing to the warlike thunder of armies!
O mountain solitude, once throng'd with princely battalions;
Now cloth'd with silence, veil'd with forgetful abasement!
As dark misfortunes leave signs of past agitation

On features patient and peaceful now, tho' abandon'd
Lately to contending passion or tumultuous anger:

So the bitter sufferings of thy past age have occasion'd

A spirit of downcast and pensive weariness in thee!" P. 206.

With the exception of the opening lines, the passage we have extracted exhibits powers of producing poetry of the highest order; but the first twelve verses do not contain either the grandeur or variety of idea that we apprehend must have been called before Mr. Parker's mind, on the summit of the majestic Snowdon.

The author proceeds to quote Taliesin, as to the Asiatic origin of the Britons, who were doubtless descended from Japhet, the patriarch of Europe.

"A numerous race, fierce they were called,

First coloniz'd thee, Britain, chief of Isles !

Men of the country of Asia and the country of Gafis."

TALIESIN.

He then, imitating the strain of Taliesin, shews how their forefathers, fleeing from Babel, entered Europe, following the course of her rivers, and, at length, reached the then uninhabited island of Britain.

"First owners of the British land!

It was your possession, gain'd by no blood or outrage,
Your fair inheritance; for this, ye lightly regarded

Those towering palm trees, that lift o'er each dewy fountain,
Their branching diadems; for this ye turn'd, as in anger,

From central Europe, exchanging a more happy climate
For feebler sunbeams, and less productive abundance." P. 207.

And here let us observe how much more great and glorious was their title to a country, obtained simply by obeying the command of the omniscient and beneficent Creator of all, who expressly gave to man "dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth." Compare this, ye statesmen and diplomatists, ye kings and emperors of continental Europe, with the modern increase of dominions gained by you, who gathering together your armies, go forth, far and wide," seeking whom you may devour." Battling in the name and under the holy cross of Christ! ye perpetrate, without remorse, the greatest horrors! ye spread your dominions, east, west, north, and south, regardless of all truth, all justice, all law,

except the barbarous one of brute power and conquest; your dominions are flooded with the tears of the bereaved widow and the helpless orphan; and the way to your thrones is reeking with the best blood of a suffering country's martyred sons. Oh, shame to the age of increased information wherein we live! shame, alike to the absolute king, the intriguing minister, and the blood-thirsty general; who combine to overwhelm the fairest portion of the globe in the gulf of their worse than Eastern slavery! Behold Italy,-broken-hearted Poland, alas, unfortunate Poland! how similar thy fate to that of the disjointed tribes of ancient Cymru; who now look back, in envy, through the dim veil of ages, to the time when the Asiatic patriarchs, in peace and good will, took possession of Europe and Britain, tilling the ground and feeding their flocks and herds! Vain, indeed, have been the efforts, unheeded the aspirations of those two noble countries to be free. But let not the despots who now inthral them, believe that the day of retribution is far distant. It is at hand. Notwithstanding the idle vapouring of France, and the cold-blooded apathy of England, Poland must, ere long, be free. In such case Italy will follow, when the regenerated genius of liberty shall drive from their lands, for ever, the hideous tyrants who have so long triumphed over them-monsters, than whom a blacker list is not to be found in the history of what we call, (somewhat invidiously, perhaps,) "the dark ages."

We are reminded by the late disastrous events in Poland of many of the misfortunes which befel our ancient Celtic fathers. The numbers among the Polish nobility who are now driven to seek an asylum in foreign lands, present a piteous and heartrending spectacle. But worse is the fate of those who are taken by their ruthless conqueror, and made to traverse the horrid snows of Siberia; where, amid nature's desolation and, far worse, in mental agony, they are left to drag out the remains of their existence in despair. Far nobler was the fate of the brave, the royal Caractcaus who, when led forth in chains by victorious Rome, even in that barbarous age, was treated with a respect which might well make the Russian autocrat blush for shame.

"Lo, now, where Caradoc, led forth in chains as a captive,
Turns to the magnificence of Roman wealth in amazement;
And wonders that a nation, adorn'd so nobly, should envy
His turf-built residence, or assail and seize a cottage-throne!
By his honour'd father, then left in Rome as a hostage,
Were the jewels of truth convey'd ere long to Britannia;
And silently the faith of Christ was borne to this island,
(Ordain'd hereafter to become so true to the Gospel;)
For Druidic vanities, with Roman worship of idols,
Were leagu'd in hostile contention against the believers.
While the triumphal pomp invites all Rome to behold it,
Her gray-hair'd senators come forth, and gaze on a champion,

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