vamppi v usnip, wao bave

been driven to the acknowledgement that he frequently versifics in a manner that outrages all the rules of harmony, good taste, and common decency, mean by so emphatically and exclusively ascribing to his poetry a Soul, we are at some loss to understand. VOL. I.-No. IV.

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AN editor in Philadelphia, who holds the pen of a rapid writer, speaks of a certain Soul as existing in the Poems of Lord Byron, which he says "no versifier can gain," and which he holds out to the public as a full compensation for all the false rhymes, false numbers, false grammar, false reasoning, and false morality, which those are doomed to encounter who read that nobleman's productions.

In our preceding numbers, we have said so much concerning Lord Byron's poetry, that many of our readers are, no doubt, desirous that we should abandon the topic, at least for some time. We are indeed, ourselves tired of it, and should not, at present, have taken any notice of his Lordship's muse, which we are glad to find even its most determined eulogizers begin to be convinced is a muse destitute of taste, if it were not that some who candidly avow their conversion on this point, like the editor just mentioned, still fondly cling to the worship of their idol, on the ground, that, if his verses be not dressed up with taste, they are at least filled with thought, or as they rather choose to express it, possessed of the "Soul of Poetry."

What these obstinate worshippers of his Lordship, who have been driven to the acknowledgement that he frequently versifies in a manner that outrages all the rules of harmony, good taste, and common decency, mean by so emphatically and exclusively ascribing to his poetry a Soul, we are at some loss to understand. VOL. I.-No. iv.

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It is plain that if this Soul means any thing, it must be some quality distinct from any that can be found in prose. It cannot, therefore, be any species of thought. It can neither be fire, animation, force, nor enthusiasm of idea, for prose has often possessed these in the highest perfection; neither can it be pathos, tenderness, nor sublimity, for these are also frequently discovered in prose. What species of soul, therefore, is possessed by poetry that prose does not also possess, unless it be what we on a former occasion alluded to, the soul of Harmony, we could earnestly wish some of the connoissieurs to inform us. Now, that there is the smallest particle of this soul in nine tenths of Lord Byron's poetry, we believe no man whose ear can distinguish the sound of a violin from the rumbling of a wheelbarrow, will venture to assert. That in the multiplicity of his Lordship's productions we should by dint of industrious research, discover some easy flowing passages, and brilliant ideas, is not much to his credit; for we shall, if we make the experiment, find many things in the dull heroics of Sir Richard Blackmore, admirable in both these particulars. In his Poem of "The Creation," which we admit is by far his best production, this despised author has given us specimens of sublime originality, and, at the same time of propriety of conception, as well as of flowing and harmonious diction, which if Byron had written would have been produced by his idolators as sufficient atonement for whole volumes of that doggerel and coarse vulgarity, and cynical barking found in the heavy and clumsy stanzas with which, he has pestered the world.

The last observation is peculiarly suited to the present state of the public opinion respecting Byron's poetry. All who frequent those circles in which its character is made a topic of discussion, will find that those who undertake its defence, uniformly do so on the credit of one or two poems, among the dozens he has produced, permitting the rest to be consigned to that condemnation which they are obliged to acknowledge they deserve. When they are forced to abandon "The Island," "The Age of Bronze," and that epitome of every thing disgusting and despicable, "Don Juan," they immediately entrench themselves behind some passages of "The Corsair,"

"The Giaour," "The English Bards," and the tedious cogitations of "Childe Harold." Many passages in these last poems are good; but few, very few, indeed, can be looked upon as first rate poetry. In our estimation, "Eloisa to Abelard," "The Deserted Village," and "The Pleasures of Hope," are, each of them, of more value to our poetical literature than the whole catalogue of Byron's performances; and we think we might challenge all the admirers of the titled rhymster to produce from his whole works, passages of equal force, animation, pathos, and harmony of cadence, with those that we could, almost without selection, produce from either of the above mentioned poems.

That there are occasional beauties in even the worst of Byron's works, it would be unjust to deny; but that these beauties are, in either quantity or quality, sufficient to atone for the overwhelming host of blemishes they contain, we think that no man of judgment and true scrupulosity of conscience, who fairly considers the subject, will be hardy enough to maintain. As to permitting these beauties, which in proportion to the deformities of his poetry, are only as a few grains of wheat in a bushel of chaff, to elevate his poetical character to the height of a standard or classical poet, it appears to us as preposterous as it would be to make Mordecai Noah president of the United States, merely because he has the merit of having exposed the Geographical blunders of editor Stone. One or two good qualities are surely not sufficient to establish a man's reputation for surpassing virtue, when a thousand that are bad can be laid to his charge. The perfections and imperfections of every man should be carefully weighed, and the goodness or badness of his character determined according to the side which preponderates.

With respect to the Soul of poetry which some plead in favour of Byron as an atonement for his bad taste, we look upon it to be a phrase, the meaning of which, even those who use it must find it difficult to comprehend. But be its meaning what it may, it appears to us rather injudicious to bring it forward in defence of poetry written with bad taste, for the Soul of such poetry, if it has any, can never claim a legitimate connexion with the