The bell of the neighbouring Church tolled mournfully in the ear, and every stroke seemed to deepen in the bosoms of the company as they approached the yard. At the grave the coffin rested for a moment on the bier, and was then deposited in its narrow house. Here every eye was bent upon the single mourner, as if expecting a natural burst of sorrow over the ashes of his departed partner; but there was none. He stood calm and collected. He saw the coffin lowered into the grave, and he dropped a tear, he saw the cords drawn up, and he heard a clod, by accident pushed into the grave, fall upon the remains of all in this world he held dear, and he dropped another, but it was all. The rest, if there were any, he wiped away. His friend then led him nearer to the grave, and after having gazed a moment, after having taken the last farewell, final look, he threw a twig of willow into it. At this mark of sensibility and affection, he was still composed; but the spectators were overcome, and many a tear was shed by strangers for the misfortunes of one they knew not.

This was a spectacle at which the Stoic might experience emotion, from which the painter might sketch his fairest subject, and on which the poet might dwell with all the glow of inspiration. Such little peculiarities of feeling and affection as these, coming

"Warm from the heart and faithful to its fires,"

declare to us, that he who is there possessor can boast a gift of no ordinary value. It is one which will bear him up through many a misfortune, and become the solace of his melancholy hours. A twig of willow in the grave of his departed wife! Oh! if those spirits whose discarded tenements are now mouldering into kindred dust, are permitted to hover over the destinies of those they loved and left behind, surely her's to whose gentle memory this weeping willow was at ribute, was looking down and at that time pronouncing a blessing on the head of him who offered it!

A REVIEW

OF

POEMS BY J. G. PERCIVAL.

New-York, published by Charles Wiley, 1 vol. 8vo. p.p. 396. That poetry, taken in its literal sense, is distinguished from prose by the peculiar formation of its language, rather than by the nature of its subjects or its modes of thought, is an opinion

which, in a late number of this magazine, we have already ventured to advance, although we know that it is in direct opposi tion to that generally entertained on the subject. The majority of critics look upon language as having only a secondary influence in rendering the effusions of mind prose or poetry; and maintain that the primary and essential character of each, depends solely on the nature of the thoughts which it comprises. If these be bolder, warmer, more fanciful, or more romantic, than such as are suggested by the ordinary affairs of life-than such as are suited to the pursuits of business, arts, philosophy, religion, or government, it is the general opinion, that they are no longer prose, and that although they should be expressed in the common, every day forms of speech, they are to all intents and purposes poetry. Force and fervour of thought, not musical or measured arrangement of language, are what have been said, and said almost without contradiction, to be the intrinsic constituents of poetry. But in holding a different doctrine, we believe we shall be supported not only by the examples of the poetry and prose of every known language, but by the very nature of the two species of composition.

We know of but one quality in writing or speaking, nor do we believe that any critic can inform us of another, which is not the common property of both prose and poetry, we mean, a musical arrangement of words. Wherever composition possesses this, our ordinary senses inform us that it has avoided the structure of prose and become poetry, But these senses will give us no such information if a musical arrangement of the language be absent, although the piece may possess every other quality, or combination of qualities, that can be introduced into literary composition.

Do we not every day meet with eloquent productions which no one would dream of calling poetical, but which, in the qualities of force and fervour, no poetry ever excelled? Do we not read books in prose, in which all the ardour of imagination, the wildness of fancy and the fire of enthusiasm, combine to give us "thoughts that breathe and words that burn," and in which nature and passion are often depicted in colours as faithful and strong as even a Shakspeare could give? Yes. And what pre

vents the contents of these from being poetry? Nothing, assuredly, but the want of musical numbers. We shall add, that throwing the most common and contemptible ideas into harmonious measure, will always procure for them the title of poetry, as is exemplified in the productions of Wordsworth, some of Crabbe's, many of Byron's and Hogg's, not to mention those of the whole race of doggerlists, from Propertius to Hudibras, and from Hudibras to Peter Pindar and the croaking authors of the delectable Fanny, and her numerous brazen-voiced kindred of the Beppo family.

The mistake as to bold and fiery thoughts and accurate representations of nature alone constituting poetry, seems to have arisen from the circumstance, that writing in numbers is more favourable to the expression of such thoughts, and to the exhibition of such representations than writing in the common language of life, not only because the latter is somewhat degraded by its ordinary daily use, but because its being so, has rendered it necessary to confine it more within the bounds of logical precision and cool decorum. The measured or poetical structure of language is allowed a liberty which those who write in it, frequently exercise, sometimes even to excess, of uttering thoughts in a style of pomposity and gorgeousness, which it would be neither just nor judicious to grant to prose. The writers of prose may be occasionally ornamented; but they would subject themselves to ridicule if they would assume the stately and inflated style so willingly admitted to poets.

This limit set to the range of thought in prose composition, has formed a collateral and adventitious distinction between it and poetry, which has imposed itself on the minds of men, as the primary and essential distinction between them. But whoever reflects for a moment on the subject, will percieve that this distinction arises altogether from the greater latitude allowed to the fancy of the poet, in consideration of the shackles thrown upon him by the very nature of his art confining him to musical measures, and also on account of these musical measures serving to conceal, or at least, to overshade whatever appearance of absurdity might attend the flights of thought permitted by this indulgence. But that these flights of thought are not VOL. I.-No. III.

30

of themselves poetry, literally speaking, whoever reads the florid Meditations of Harvey, the pompous Orations of Philips, or the turgid Novels of Lady Morgan, Marturin, or John Neal, Esq. of Baltimore, will be sufficiently convinced-for no one can consider these works to be poems, and yet their flights are as extravagant, and their expressions as much overhung with ornament, as those of any legitimate poetry extant.

By a figure of speech, indeed, not only has prose of a certain stamp acquired the epithet of poetical, but feelings and actions have metaphorically acquire the same epithet. Enthusiasm has been metaphorically styled the poetry of feeling, chivalry the poetry of manhood, and sensibility the poetry of womanhoodnay, if we mistake not, one of the authors just mentioned, Lady Morgan, calls dancing the poetry of motion. But all these expressions are mere tropes, and have no power whatever to alter the true philosophy of things. Composition, according to this philosophy, if destitute of musical numbers, must be prose, and if possessed of them, must be poetry, in spite of metaphors.

Such then, it appears evident, at least to us, is the true distinction between the two kinds of writing; and, while the nature of the human mind, and the forms of human speech continue to be what they are, such will continue to be the distinction.

If harmonious measure, therefore, constitutes poetry, it must follow that the goodness of the poetry will depend very much on the degree of its harmony. That a good taste, however, will require something besides mere harmony of verse, to give it satisfaction, is freely admitted. But we are not at present investigating the various ingredients that may be admitted into a poem to heighten its flavour; we are only enquiring after that ingredient which forms its intrinsic character, and without which it ceases to exist. Wine is naturally distinguished from water by the spirit it contains, but wine itself is more or less excellent according to the absence or presence of many other adventitious qualities, such as the sacharine principle, fixed air, &c. Without spirit, however, it is not wine, and with spirit it is not water-neither is composition, poetry, without harmony of numbers, and with harmony of numbers it cannot be prose.

We have dwelt on this subject longer than we should have done, had we not been introducing to the notice of our readers, the works of a poet, who has obtained more praise among our literati than any other votary of the Muses that ever sang in this country. Our responsible situation as conductor of a public Journal, we presume, gives us a right to enquire into the justice of the praises so abundantly bestowed on this poet; and requires us to elucidate, to the best of our ability, the true extent of his claims upon the admiration of the world. To do this fairly, and with effect, we considered it proper to point out what we believe to be the principle constituent quality of poetry, and because many, at present, affect to doubt the utility of its possessing that quality at all, to detail some of the leading reasons for our belief.

We have said enough to show that, necessary as we think harmony to be to the constitution of poetry, we do not conceive that its presence alone is sufficient to render a poem worthy of approbation. Other qualities, qualities that indicate force of mind and warmth of feeling, as well as delicacy of taste, are necessary to make pleasing poetry; but these are also necessary to make pleasing prose. Every quality, in fact, that is advantageous to one of these species of composition, is advantageous to the other, except musical numbers, which would be absolutely ruinous to prose.

Inattention, or rather perhaps, a studied disregard, to the harmonious-a word which, if our doctrine be true, is synonymous with the poetical-structure of our language, is one of the faults, which we have to allege against Dr. Percival; although he does not exhibit it so uniformly, nor carry it to such an excess as to render it the principal one. But as many people who profess to be judges of poetry, and among others, no doubt, Dr. Percival himself, may not consider this a fault, we thought it but fair, since we intend to pronounce it such, to advance some reasons for our opinion.

Dr. Percival, however, as a writer offends in a more essential point than this, by enwrapping his ideas, especially in his longer poems, in such clouds of obscurity that there is frequently