 | The powers of genius |  |
1. PART I.
ARGUMENT.
Genius described....Invention, the criterion of Genius ....The alliance of Genius with Fancy.... Memory, Judgment, and Sympathy....Progress of Genius....The climacterics of the Mind....Taste and Genius distinguished....Shakspeare's effect, and his neglect of Rules....Alonzo d'Ercilla.... Genius produced without cultivation.... Ossian.... Ariosto....Burns....The influence of Climate and the face of Nature on the Mind....Geographical illustrations.....Picture of the Savage.....Invocation.
That power which springs from origin divine;
Genius we know by her impetuous force;
We know the torrent by its headlong course;
We know the sun by his effulgent ray,
Which gloom disperses from the face of day.
Invention marks the genius of the soul,
And on the lightning rides from pole to pole.
And soars in air beyond the world's dim sight;
Disdains the paths that common footsteps tread,
But breathes the spirit of the mountain head:
It flies through scenes unvisited before,
“Exhausts this world, and then imagines” more.
Allied with Genius see bright Fancy move
The queen alike of terror and of love;
She gives the wings on which Invention soars
And untried regions of the world explores.
With ease she varies her enchanting forms,
Now roves thro' peaceful meads, now flies with storms:
Now her fair fingers kiss the shepherd's reed,
And now she shudders at some nameless deed:
Now sadly wandering thro' the twilight grove,
She tells the tale of unrequited love.
To arms she cries and grasps the quivering spear.
While sinks the world within the arms of sleep,
And Night's thick mantle falls upon the deep;
While not a murmur breaks the still serene,
And fairy footsteps only press the green,
Then wond'rous visions to her sight appear
And sounds celestial melt upon her ear;
Ev'n then enwrapt with murkiest shades she walks,
Pours sweetest numbers and with Genii talks.
....The memory notes transactions as they roll,
And calls past images before the soul.
Forth at her magic call the scene appears
Which long lay buried in the depth of years;
The active principle on her relies,
On her foundation bids the building rise.
Judgment with these and Sympathy refin'd
Guide and improve the genius of the mind.
The heart that melts not at another's woe,
The heart that owns not Handel's angel-lay
Shall sleep forever in its house of clay:
There Genius never dwells an happy guest,
She finds no entrance in the frozen breast.
Though erring taste be found in early years,
Yet blooming genius oft in youth appears;
Youth sometimes burns with all the poet's rage,
And speaks the glory of a riper age.
He rolls exulting in his fervid way;
He grows in strength till from meridian height,
He pours on earth his streams of burning light.
Thus Genius first begins her brightening course,
Proceeds increasing in resistless force;
And all collected in one great design,
Moves like a giant just refresh'd with wine:
Then sweeps the storm which chills with loud alarm,
Then falls the vigour of Alcides' arm.
When first he kindles with the muse's flame,
And shews a moon-struck phrenzy of the brain;
The world cries out, “What ails our neighbour's lad?
'Tis pity of the boy, for he is mad;”
He “often laughs aloud, and none know why,”
And looks so strange and wildly from his eye;
Heedless he roves all pale with moody care,
What pleases others, he will never share.
At morn and evening on yon giddy steep,
'Tis said he stands, and overhangs the deep.
'Tis said, he wanders at the dead of night,
And like a ghost, avoids the glare of light;
'Tis said, he babbles to the Moon's full-beam,
And sits, in silence, by the falling stream.
The various forms and times of mental change;
Beneath fond Nature's care our bodies grow,
And bear the bounty which her hands bestow.
Be unmolested left the human soul,
In deepest ignorance she would ever dwell,
Dungeon'd with Night within her gloomy cell.
Onward moves Genius, Dullness stays behind.
External causes lead to different ways,
When Passion prompts the ready mind obeys.
Some on the wings of wavering Fancy fly
While some in seas of metaphysics pry.
When first we enter life's deceitful scene,
Gaze on the sun and tread the lively green,
All Nature's objects meet our busy eyes
With equal pleasure, with the same surprise.
The same excitements chill our soul with fear,
The same afflictions draw the melting tear;
The same gay prospects kindle warm desire
Bid Hope stand tiptoe with her torch on fire....
When farther on life's journey we pursue,
And wider prospects open to our view;
For different objects then our passions burn,
To different paths our inclinations turn.
....If we the progress of the mind survey,
From infant weakness to her sad decay,
We'll mark the change which years succeeding bring,
The passions which from youth and manhood spring.
And novelty on every object blooms;
When knowledge first unrolls her endless page,
Rich with the records of preceding age,
The curious mind then roves with quick surprise,
Enjoys one object, to another flies;
Bends on each scene her momentary sight,
Sips like the bee, and wantons in delight.
....The wandering memory thro' the fields of lore
With thoughts and images augments her store:
Then Fancy fluttering in the morning beam,
Combines her pictures, gives to Hope her dream:
Then Judgment slumbering, we are led astray
And follow Fiction in her pathless way;
We love to listen to some dreadful tale
Which Mystery darkens with her magic veil.
Thro' which some dead-man's voice with shuddering accent calls.
When years revolving riper knowledge bring
And prune the wildness of young Fancy's wing,
Then Nature rises in true colours dress'd,
We feel her image pictured on the breast.
We throw the wanton from our vigorous arms;
Press to our hearts the lovely form of Truth
Cloth'd in the beauty of immortal youth.
Then Judgment, Reason hold their steadfast reign,
Nor feel the tangles of Delusion's chain.
Enchantment then no longer holds its sway
And Fancy's fairy landscape fades away.
Then toils the mind with firm unshaken pace,
And follows Error in her winding chace:
She searches Truth amidst the mighty deep,
She climbs for Knowledge up the rugged steep:
By demonstration she unveils Disguise,
And shews the haunt where lurking Folly lies.
At length old age steals o'er the bending frame
Destroys our vigour and our thirst for fame;
To mental toil, then weariness succeeds,
Remembrance looks upon our former deeds,
Then no new conquests kindle our desires
But proud Ambition glimmers and expires.
Then loves the mind on early days to dwell,
To call past life from Memory's darken'd cell.
Firm in opinions she maintains her course
While Opposition spends in vain its force;
Invention labour in pursuit of lore;
Chill o'er the senses noiseless stupors creep
And sink the passions in a deathful sleep,
Fitful and deep proceeds the vital breath
And man falls shivering in the arms of Death.
Then from the body bursts the ransom'd soul,
Spurns the base earth and soars where systems roll,
Great God! where angels in thy presence throng
She rests her flight and joins the ceaseless song.
And arm'd with sanctions acts without controul;
As Cynthia brightens from the source of day.
The seeds of taste in numerous breasts are sown,
But few can mighty Genius call their own.
Whose wishes centre in his small domain,
Who night and morning breasts the chilling air,
And tends his flock the object of his care;
Views Nature's landscape with admiring eye,
And looks with wonder on the evening sky;
He loves the grandeur of the gliding flood,
The pensive silence of the deep-dark wood;
He loves to hear, while stretch'd on lowly bed,
The storm beat loudly on his little shed;
Delighted views the golden sun of morn
And hears the hunter wind his early horn;
The voice of music meets his willing ear,
The tale of sorrow ever claims his tear.
These warm impressions speak uncultur'd Taste,
Which lives with rustics in the dreary waste;
Which spreads o'er Nature an enrapturing smile,
And smooths for man the rugged brow of Toil.
Will likewise love the bard's descriptive strains;
Who loves to listen to the feathered throng,
Enraptur'd hears the poet raise his song.
But Genius is the rarest boon of heaven.
The world's small limits can but few contain,
Who more than worlds, hold in their boundless reign;
Then more than earthquakes shake the solid earth.
Genius those fetters and those rules disdains;
No storm can stay the thunder of her wings,
O'er fields of blood she takes her wandering flight,
And calls from Death the shrieking ghosts of Night.
When Homer wrote no critic's laws confin'd,
The outstretch'd genius of his soaring mind;
He look'd on Nature, Nature's voice obey'd,
And snatch'd that glory which can never fade;
The subtle stagyrite then weav'd his rules,
And form'd a race of imitating fools.
Which beats the earth with hollow sounding tread;
Hark! from the tomb a voice of terror breaks,
The air breathes cold, the ground beneath me shakes,
A ghost appears, the moon withdraws her beams,
And all the thickets sound with frightful screams;
The critic's voice is now as hush'd as death,
His eyes are fix'd, we scarcely hear his breath;
And o'er the soul extends his dreadful power.
When in the tempest rais'd by Prosper's hand
He waves o'er Nature his commanding wand;
When on the field of Bosworth, Richard lay,
And horrors shuddered at approaching day,
The ghosts of York hung o'er his trembling bed
And breath'd their vengeance on their murderer's head;
When Ariel sings and moves amid the air,
When Banquo rises to the vacant chair;
Stalks pale and sullen by his warlike son.
Then gloom and terror throw their mantle round,
And every power lies still in awe profound.
Wild as the tempest, fleeting in the chace,
Ercilla pour'd his bold and wandering strain,
The pride of Genius and the boast of Spain.
When rest succeeded to the toils of war
And in the sky appear'd the evening star,
Stretch'd on a rock and drench'd with falling dews
He heard the dictates of his epic muse.
With manners polish'd, sentiments refin'd;
But Genius rises from the darkest shade,
Where never ploughshare cut the barren glade.
Amidst his native wilds and misty plains,
Sublimest Ossian, pours his wizard strains.
The voice of old revisits his dark dream,
On his sad soul the deeds of warriors beam;
Beneath him falls a melancholy rill;
His harp lies by him on the rustling grass,
The deer before him thro' the thickets pass;
No hunter winds his slow and sullen horn,
No whistling cow-herd meets the breath of morn;
O'er the still heath the meteors dart their light
And round him sweep the mournful blasts of Night.
O voice of Cona, bard of other times,
May thy bold spirit visit these dull climes!
May the brave chieftains of thy rugged plains,
Remember Ossian and revere his strains!
Thro' fields of air upon his griffin horse;
And bids the storms beat on his dauntless brow:
Ten thousand phantoms glimmer in his sight,
And on the winds attend him in his flight.
When knights and war he sings and war's alarms,
He speaks in terror, like the god of arms;
But when Angelica's soft charms he sings,
An angel's pinions sweep his trembling strings.
His sole instructors Nature and the heart;
See lowly Burns move slowly o'er the lea,
And breathe the song of sweetest harmony.
His soul delighted with the dashing roar;
Or when young summer mantles o'er the earth
And warm with life gives every flowret birth,
See him muse lonely o'er the village green,
And view with rapture each reviving scene,
Snatch his quick pencil and with fervour trace
“Transporting Nature in her wildest grace,
“The Tay meand'ring in his infant pride,
“The palace rising on his verdant side,
“The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's simple taste,
“The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste,
“The arches striding o'er the running stream,
“The village glittering in the noontide beam,
“The sweeping theatre of hanging woods,
“Th' incessant roar of headlong-tumbling floods.”
And look through Nature, with creative fire!
With feeling heart attune his melting strain,
And sing the manners of the simple swain.
Where sounds the sweetest her enchanting shell?
Do climates change the bias of the mind,
Are all her powers by earth or air inclin'd?
....Seldom will Genius dwell with unsun'd snows,
Or on the lap of burning heat repose;
Seldom she seeks the deep terrific shade,
Where Culture's footsteps never press'd the glade,
Incessant cold chills her impetuous course
And melting suns destroy her active force.
In endless solitude her powers decay
Imagination sickens, dies away:
To social life Man every comfort owes,
There Fancy brightens, Emulation glows.
There Joy is born and Friendship's healing charm,
And Sorrow leans on Love's supporting arm;
Compassion binds with silken ties the heart,
And Union links the varied forms of Art.
Feels some fond influence from its parent Earth:
In different regions different forms we trace,
Here dwells a feeble, there an iron race;
Here Genius lives and wakeful Fancies play,
Here noiseless Stupor sleeps its life away.
A rugged race the cliffs and mountains bear,
They leap the precipice and breast the air,
Follow the chamois on the pointed rock,
And clamber heights to seek their bearded flock.
Loud from the Baltic sounds the dreadful storm
And gathering hosts the face of day deform:
Beneath their rage the soft Italian yields
His boasted laurels and his blooming fields.
The wandering Tartars by their rigorous land,
Were led to war, to victory and command.
(An easy conquest to invading foes.)
They call'd to arms their sanguine flag unfurl'd
And spread their conquests o'er the wondering world....
....Where spreads the quiet and luxuriant vale,
Forever san'd by Spring's ambrosial gale,
Where over pebbles runs the limpid rill
And woods o'er-shade the wildly-sloping hill:
There roves the swain, all-gentle and serene,
And guards his sheep while browsing on the green.
He leads the dance by Cynthia's silver light
And lulls with sport the dusky ear of Night;
Breathes from his pipe the dulcet strain of Love
And warbles Ellen thro' the mead and grove.
....In those drear climes where scorching suns prevail,
And Fever rides the tainted burning gale;
Where draws the giant-snake his loathsome train,
And poisons with his breath the yellow plain;
And slothful Ease the mental power unstrings.
....Where Iceland spreads her dark and frozen wild
On whose fell snows no cheering sun-beam smil'd,
There in their stormy, cold, and midnight cell
The cheerless fishermen with Stupor dwell,
Wrapt in their furs they slumber life away
And mimic with their lamps the light of day....
His yell arose upon the howling blast:
Before him fled with all the speed of fear
His wealth and victim, yonder helpless deer.
Saw you the savage-man, how fell and wild,
With what grim pleasure as he pass'd he smil'd?
Unhappy man! a wretched wigwam's shed
Is his poor shelter, some dry skins his bed;
Sometimes alone upon the woodless height
He strikes his fire and spends his watchful night;
His dog with howling bays the moon's red-beam
And starts the wild-deer in his nightly dream....
Poor savage-man, for him no yellow grain
Waves its bright billows o'er the fruitful plain;
For him no harvest yields its full supply
When Winter hurls his tempests thro' the sky.
Unknown to him the charms of social life.
Rage, Malice, Envy, all his thoughts controul,
And every dreadful passion burns his soul....
Should Culture meliorate his darksome home,
And cheer those wilds where he is wont to roam;
Beneath the hatchet should his forests fall
And the mild tabor warble thro' his hall,
Should fields of tillage yield their rich increase,
And thro' his wastes walk forth the arts of peace;
His sullen soul would feel a genial glow,
Joy would break in upon the night of woe;
Knowledge would spread her mild, reviving ray,
And on his wigwam rise the dawn of day....
....Genius awaken in this new-born land,
Hold o'er these climes thy sceptre of command;
Here wave thy banners, sound thy trump of Fame,
And give to Glory the Columbian name;
Drive darkness far before thy golden ray
And let us live beneath thy noon of day....
Some native bard O kindle with thy fire!
And bid him pour the torrent of thy lyre,
Unfold thy visions to his searching mind,
Thy wreaths of laurel round his temples bind!
Invention is the first part of poetry and painting: and absolutely necessary to them both; yet no rule ever was of ever can be given how to compass it. A happy genius is the gift of Nature; it depends on the influence of the stars, say the astrologers; on the organs of the body, say the naturalists; it is the peculiar gift of Heaven, say the divines. How to improve it many books can teach us; how to obtain it, none; that nothing can be done without it, all agree:
It is by judgment that we discern the propriety of the plan and the execution of a work; the conformity of stile and manner to its peculiar nature, the rectitude of sentiment, the probability of incident, the clearness of investigation and the uniformity of design.....“Whatever (says Longinus) looks great both in poetry and prose, we must carefully examine whether it be not only appearance; we must divest it of all superficial pomp and garnish. If it cannot stand this trial, without doubt it is only swelled and puffed up, and it will be more for our honour to contemn than admire it.
Cowley, Dryden and Chatterton wrote several admired poems at a very early age. Milton wrote his paraphrases of the CXIV and CXIV psalms, at fifteen years of age. Tasso wrote his heroic poem, entitled Rinaldo, before he had attained his eighteenth year. Metastatio wrote a tragedy, entitled Guestino, while in his sixteenth year. Pope when no more than twelve years of age, wrote his ode on Solitude, when sixteen he wrote his Pastorals, and when twenty he wrote his essay on Criticism. Collins while he was in his eighteenth year wrote his Eclogues. The orator Bossuet discovered in some measure while a school boy, his great powers. Of him the poet might have said:
Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray
Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped.”
Definitions often rather confuse than enlighten the mind. The arbitrary terms of metaphysical and logical writers, require a train of reasoning before we can observe the basis on which they are founded. It may, however, tend to place taste in a clearer view than we can by the measures of poetry, if we select from some approved authors, the most satisfactory definitions of tastes “Imagination united with some other mental powers, and operating as a percipient faculty, in conveying suitable impressions of what is elegant, sublime or beautiful, in art or nature, is called Taste.”
This definition of Beattie has left unmentioned those mental powers united and operating with imagination; it has also confined taste to the discernment of what is elegant or beautiful, without noticing its rejection of what is faulty and improper....it is therefore in this respect incomplete.... “Taste (according to the classical writer of Fitzosborne's letters) is nothing more than an universal sense of beauty rendered more exquisite by genius and more correct by cultivation.” This definition, though not equal to the former, contains one beautiful remark; which is, that taste is rendered more exquisite by genius and more correct by cultivation. A much more complete definition of taste than either of these, is given by Rollin. “Taste (says he) with reference to the reading of authors and composition, is a clear and distinct discerning of all the beauty, truth and justness of the thoughts and expressions, which compose a discourse. It distinguishes what is conformable to eloquence and propriety in every character, and whilst, with a delicate and exquisite sagacity, it notes the graces, turns, manners, and expressions most likely to please, it perceives also all the defects which produce the contrary effect, and distinguishes precisely wherein those defects consist, and how far they are removed from the strict rules of art and the real beauties of nature. This happy faculty which it is more easy to conceive than define, is less the effect of genius than judgment, and a kind of natural reason wrought to perfection by study. It serves in composition to guide and direct the understanding. It makes use of the imagination but without submitting to it, and keeps it always in subjection. It consults nature universally, follows it step by step, and is a faithful image of it.
That mind possesses the seeds of taste, and frequently of immitative genius, which is powerfully impressed by the diversified appearances of nature: which is soothed, delighted, and aroused, by the valley, the lawn, the wilderness, the mountain, the rivulet and the ocean; which listens with correspondent emotions to the whisper of the breeze, and to the howling of the midnight storm. The sense of beauty and of grandeur is peculiar to man. The herd in common with him sensually enjoy the seasons as they roll. They repose upon the bank and beneath the shade of the tree; they receive their nourishment from the pasture and the stream; but man only perceives the images of beauty and sublimity in the skies and in the objects which surround him.
The pastoral, is generally the most delightful species of poetry to youthful genius. Smitten with the love of nature, her poetical enthusiast dwells unwearied on the pages of those who have depicted her charms; he roves with delight through the divine Georgics,....through Milton's descriptive scenes,....through the seasons of Thomson and the task of Cowper: He adopts the language of the bard of the Castle of Indolence.
I care not Fortune what you me deny;You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace.
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Thro' which Aurora shews her brightening face;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns by living stream at eve.
The “Farmer's Boy” is a fine exhibition of untutored genius. It discovers the powerful influence which the scenes of nature have upon the feeling bosom. The descriptions which it contains are accurate, but they are inferior to those of Burns in a glowing and exciting warmth. .....Cowper in the fourth book of his Task beautifully describes the sensations of his early days, when he began to feel the inspiration of the Muse:
My very dreams were rural; rural too,The first born efforts of my youthful muse,
Sportive and jingling her poetic bells:
Ere yet the ear was mistress of their powers
No Bard could please me but whose lyre was tun'd
To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats
Fatigu'd me, never weary of the pipe
Of Tityrus, assembling as he sung,
The rustic throng beneath his favourite beech.
Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms:
New to my taste his Paradise surpass'd
The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue
To speak its excellence.
If we examine the greatest works of genius that have appeared in the world, we will find that they were all written without attention to the rules or directions of any critic. Milton though he had Aristotle's writings full in his remembrance, nobly despised them. To impose laws upon Genius, is like hoppling an Arabian courser. After Aristotle wrote his Rhetorick and Poetics, no second Homer, no second Sophocles appeared. The greatest works of Rome were written before the art of poetry existed..... “Immitation (says Dr. Young) is inferiority confessed; emulation is superiority contested or denied; imitation is servile, emulation generous; that fetters, this fires; that may give a name, this a name immortal. This made Athens to succeeding ages the rule of Taste, and the standard of perfection. Her men of genius struck fire against each other; and kindled by conflict into glories which no time can extinguish. We thank Eschuylus for Sophocles and Parrhasius for Zeuxis; Emulation for both. That bids us fly the general fault of immitators; bids us not be struck by the loud report of former fame, as with a knell which damps the spirits, but as with a trumpet which inspires ardour to rival the renowned.”
So much has been said and written concerning this wonderful man, that no one can add to his praises, and no one without arrogance can attempt to detract from them. In the list of Genius, Shakspeare is perhaps the brightest name. His superiority of invention gives him his superiority of genius. His limited education allowed him little opportunity of being acquainted with the writers of Greece and of Rome. His soul was kindled by no borrowed fire. He was visited by no beams but those of the sun of Nature. In the smaller accomplishments of the poet, he is oftentimes deficient; but the richness of his description, his propriety of sentiment, his accuracy and variation of characters, and above all that inventive power which calls an ideal world into existence, mark the great original.
And let us hear Bernardo speak of this.
Bernardo....Last night of all,
When you same star that's westward from the pole,
Had made his course to illume that part of heaven
Where now it burns, Marcellus, and myself,
The bell then beating one.....
Marcellus.....Peace, break thee off, look where it comes again.
Hamlet.
About the end of the sixteenth century, the poem here alluded to was produced in Spain. It is celebrated for peculiar beauties, for the singularity of the subject, and is remarkable from the character of its author. His name was Don Alonzo d'Ercilla Y. Cuniga, he commanded some troops in Chili, where he waged war in a little mountainous country, called Auracauna, inhabited by a race of men more robust and ferocious than all the other American nations. In this war he underwent extreme dangers, and performed the most astonishing actions: This occasioned him to conceive the design of immortalizing himself, by immortalizing his enemies. He was both a conqueror and a poet, and entitled his poem Auracauna, from the name of the country. His pen was as busily employed amidst those wilds as his sword. He wrote his poem on the scenes of his battles: and as night afforded more rest from the toils of war than the day, he often obeyed the dictates of his muse, reclining on the rocks, and aided by the light of the moon. As he could not at all times obtain paper, parts of his work were written upon leather and upon the bark of trees. He has introduced much fire in his battles. His poem is as wild as the nations who are the subject, and discovers great copiousness and strength of imagination.
Ossian may be called the most mournful of bards. It is impossible to read his poems without being lulled into a thoughtful melancholy which is more beneficial to the heart than the brightest joy. The regions which a poet inhabits will always give a cast to his strains. Ossian amidst his isle of mists caught his gloomy enthusiasm. There was presented to his view a wild, picturesque and melancholy country, long tracts of mountainous desert, covered with dark heath. There he wandered through narrow vallies, thinly inhabited and bounded by precipices, which by the light of the moon presented a landscape the most grotesque and ghastly. There he heard on every side the fall of torrents, the mournful dashing of the waves along the friths and lakes, and the hollow sound of the winds through the rocks and the caverns, which he has compared to the voice of a spirit. The admiration which the works of Ossian have excited abroad, is a confirming evidence of their excellence, and should meliorate the criticism of those whose taste is submissive to the prejudice of the great Dr. Johnson. Most of the nations of Europe have listened to the songs of Ossian with delight. The Germans prefer them to the Iliad and the Ænied....and they have received in Spain all the decorations which the printer and painter could afford.
This poet, whom the author of the Pursuits of Literature has classed among the greatest geniuses of the world, had the kindred soul of Shakspeare. His imagination appears from his works to be inexhaustible. His impetuosity bears him above every difficulty. Amid fields of unlimited space he could only stretch his wings. His immense bark could float on no other waves than those of the ocean. His mighty arm would wield no sword but that of Orlando, which fell upon the foe like the thunder of heaven. In genius, Ariosto is much superior to his rival Tasso, but he sinks behind him in taste and in correctness. If we compare their different merits we will at once be struck with the greater originality of Ariosto, and with the greater tenderness of Tasso....Tasso abounds with some of the most moving beauties of poetry, but he also abounds with glittering tinsel, and the general outlines of his poem are drawn from Homer's Iliad.....Whereas Ariosto disdained any imitation. He delighted in the sublimity of irregularity. His flight is regulated by no rules. He soars beyond the reach of criticism.
Burns to an exquisite sensibility united a power of description, not inferior to that of the author of the Seasons. His scanty information, however, repressed the exertions of his wild Genius. His muse seldom looks beyond the glens of Scotland, its hills and romantic waters. Soured by misfortune and doomed to feel the pains of those, who, in humble life have listened to the trump of Fame, he sought indulgence to his sorrow among those scenes, which while they soothed his mind, awoke the pathos of his muse. His Cotter's Saturday Night....his Address to a Mountain Daisy....his Lament of Mary Queen of Scotts....his Lament on a Friend's Unfortunate Amour....his Lament on the Death of the Earl of Glencairn....his Vision....and the Petition of Bruar Water will be lasting monuments of his talents. The history of this bard, written by Dr. Currie, and prefixed to his elegant edition of his works is a composition extremely pleasing, and possesses biographical merit of the very first order.
The German nations who bordered on the Baltic coast have always been distinguished for their emigration and warlike disposition. The classical reader will recollect the Teutones and Cimbri who united their forces, which amounted to 300,000 men, and invaded the Roman territories; Ariovistus and his German bands, the invaders of Gaul; the Suevi, the Goths, the Vandals and the Lombards who made numerous irruptions into the Roman empire.
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