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ART. IL-1. The Field of Waterloo; By WALTER SCOTT, 8vo. 5s.

2. Waterloo; by EDMUND L. SWIFT, Barrister at Law. 5s. 3. Waterloo, an Heroic Poem, by the author of "The General Post Bag," "Rejected Odes," &c. &c. 4to. 17. 5s. !~

4. The Heroes of Waterloo, an Ode, By W, S. Walker, of Trinity College, Cambridge, 1s. 6d.

5. The Battle of Waterloo, by GEORGE WALKER. Svo. 3. 6. Wellington's Triumph, or the Battle of Waterloo, by WILLIAM THOMAS FITZGERALD, Esq. 8vo. 1s.

7. An Ode on the Victory of Waterloo, by ELIZABETH COBBOLD. 8vo. 1s. 6d.

THE difficulty of celebrating contemporary actions and familiar subjects, has been long felt and universally acknowledged. It arises from an obvious cause. We all know that to enable us to impart any high interest to poetry, a certain degree of illu sion is necessary. Objects or events founded on matters of fact, of which many readers have been witnesses, and with whose details all are acquainted, can afford the poet no scope for exercising his powers of invention, and but few opportunities of recurring to the playful sallies and enchanting agency of fancy. If, in describing a recent event, the poet yenture to indulge enthusiasm, he will be in great danger of exaggerating and exaggeration in matters where the cold reality is before the eyes of a reader, will seldom fail to excite ridicule. Great moral, political, or military events may be, compared to those ruder productions of art, which on a near inspection appear coarse, rugged, and mis-shapen; but when surveyed at a proper distance, lose their harsher features, and are seen to possess symmetry and just proportion. To be seen to full advantage, they must be contemplated through the medium of memory, enriched by various associations: they then become mellowed and softened; the harsher points of the prospect are subdued, and it assumes a tone like that of the landscape illumined by the mild beams of the autumnal moon.

If Addison's Campaign' could not escape the censures of an eminent critic, who characterised it as a mere gazette in rhyme, how much have we to fear for the poets of our own day? Fortunately, they have no fear for themselves: the reader has but

to glance at the list which heads this article, to see how many have come confidently to the task of celebrating an achievement, as far superior to that commemorated by Addison, as his poem is to any of those which it is our present business to notice.

Of these efforts, the principal in point of interest and merit of execution, are Walter Scott's, Swift's, and that of the Anonymous Author of the Heroic Poem.

Scott's Field of Waterloo possesses the peculiarities of his former productions. It displays the feeling and tenderness, the picturesque and realizing effect, which he knows so well how to impart to his incidents and descriptions.

Mr. Swift is far from being an indifferent poet. His poem is short, and contains but little immediately descriptive of the deeds of Waterloo; yet that little is full of vigour and interest. We think, however, that the public will have reason to complain of the price at which they must purchase pamphlets of such a thin airy form as those just mentioned. Scott has five and thirty pages, Swift only sixteen, and yet five shillings is the price of each-a sum quite sufficient for both. Had we been consulted on this point we should have exclaimed, with Dryden: "Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown.'

The Heroic Poem' is characterized by a kind of turgid vehemence, a confusion of metaphor, a constant endeavour to unite images and things which no laws of association permit to come together; and the author loses himself completely in some of his attempts to attain sublimity-professus grandia, turget. It is right to apprize the reader, that the extracts we have given from this author are among the best parts of his poem.

The two first of the above writers have entered but little into the dreadfulpomp and circumstance of war.' They have pursued a more pleasing course by dwelling on the softening recollections of the bloody scene; by hailing its present, and anticipating its future beneficial results to Europe and to mankind. On the contrary, the Author of the Heroic poem,' though not a minute chronicler of what happened in the field, has descended to a more detailed account of events.

The following extracts will be found to be so arranged, as to give the reader an idea of the merits of these productions, and at the same time to present a tolerably correct view of the principal features of the ever memorable scene.

Walter Scott's poem opens with a view of the scenery and present appearance of the field of battle. The poet asks;

"Now, see'st thou aught in this lone scene
Can tell of that which late hath been ?---
A stranger might reply,
"The bare extent of stubble plain
Seems lately lighten'd of its grain;
And yonder sable tracts remain
Marks of the peasant's ponderous wain,
When harvest-home was nigh.
On these broad spots of trampled ground,
Perchance the rustics danced such round
As Teniers lov'd to draw:

And where the earth seems scorch'd by flame,
To dress the homely feast they came,
And toil'd the kerchief'd village dame
Around her fire of straw!"

So deem'st thou so each mortal deems,
Of that which is from that which seems:
But other harvest here

Than that which peasant's scythe demands,
Was gather'd in by sterner hands,

With bayonet, blade, and spear. -
No vulgar crop was theirs to reap,
No stinted harvest thin and cheap!
Heroes before each fatal sweep

Fell thick as ripen'd grain;
And ere the darkening of the day,
Piled high as autumn shocks, there lay
The ghastly harvest of the fray,

The corpses of the slain.

Aye, lool: again-that line so black
And trampled, marks the bivouack,
Yon deep-grav'd ruts the artillery's track,
So often lost and won;

And close beside, the harden'd mud,
Still shows where, fetlock-deep in blood,
The fierce dragoon, through battle's flood,
Dash'd the hot war-horse on.

These spots of excavation tell

The ravage of the bursting shell

And feel'st thou not the tainted steam,

That reeks against the sultry beam,

From youder trenched mound?

The pestilential fumes declare

That carnage has replenish'd there

Her garner-house profound."

This is in Scott's best manner; nor do we consider the following picture given by Swift of the assemblage of the troops as inferior in spirit and energy :

"They come !--The world in arms!-The nations come,
Strong in their quarrel, in their danger strong:

From every clime they strike the distant drum,
From every clime they call the countless throng,
To vindicate the Right, and quell the Wrong ...
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The tillers of a thousand plains are here,

Flashing on high the brand and bayonet;
The woodman and the hunter grasp their spear,
The fisher of the rock, the hardy mountaineer.

"Prussia!-Thy war-worn sons their line array,
Eagerly straining for the strife renewed;
Their wrath of memory broods o'er Jena's day,
That rent thy sceptre-not thy soul subdued.-
Stern Blucher smiles on the awaken'd feud,
How glad again the soldier-garb to wear!

The Landwehr spreads its lengthening multitude;
The sable standard lours aloft in air,

And every head is plumed, and every sword is bare.
But oh, the Island Band!-When march they forth,
Chaunting aloud their lay of battles won?

When from the West, the South, the rugged North,
Shall Erin green and dusky Caledon,

And snow-white Albion blend their strength in one?—
Lo! there their Arthur's pennon proudly shines,
That erst the crimson hand of Victory spun:
There the red rose, the redder cross entwines,
And in their sanguine stream the war incarnadines.
Short season this, when at the war-note's swell
All Europe gathers on the tented plain,
Short season for our timid muse to tell

Of Belgic, of Bavar, of Russe or Dane,

And legions stretched beyond her eye's last strain;
Their vanguard glimmering like a distant star.-
And thither speed the impatient sons of Spain;
And, rushing from its ridgy Alp afar,

Helvetia!-there descends thine Avalanche of war."

The conflict is thus described by the anonymous author of the Heroic poem.

"Hark to that crash!-was it tempest born

And rolls it down from the arch of heaven?
Is it some rude rock by earthquake uptorn?—
And why is the welkin red and riven?
The welkin is red with the cannon's breath,
The welkin is riven with the voice of death,
And many a hand the sword is grasping,
And many a gallant form lies gasping.

The storm roars loud; swift speed the fires
That light a thousand funeral pyres,
The altars of the dead;

The drooping glade is wet with blood;
The spot where erst the valiant stood,
Is now the hero's bed.

By the dear memory of the past,
Intrepid Prussia, stand thee fast!

:

By mighty triumphs won,

On-as thou lovest a conqueror's naine,
By all thy hopes of fire and fame;
By all thy laurels-on!

Britons be bold! your fathers stood,
In Cressy's field, breast-high in blood
Oh, emulate their fame;

Let not Aboukir's wreaths be torn,
Nor Maida's blooming laurels worn,

i

Mixed with the leaves of shame.
Stand, gallant guards; intrepid host,
Though dangers thicken round your post;
The morn is big with spoil.
Renown unlocks her sacred spring,
And richest wreaths shall evening bring
To crown a day of toil.

Be stout of heart, and strong of arm:
Let terror fly and hope be warm.
Repel the rebel foe;
For mad with impotent disdain,
They rush impetuous o'er the plain
To court their overthrow.
Swift at the word, the steel has sped,
And rais'd a rampart of the dead;
They fall, they reel, they fly :-
Renew the charge:-the torrent flood
Rolls back its reeking stream of blood;
That shout was victory.

On gallant guards, for by your side,
The Highland band, brave Scotland's pride,
Undaunted brave the fray;

On, brave Macdonnell, give the word,
Unloose the vigour of thy sword,

And win the glorious day.

Great was that charge-hurrah! they yield!
France trails her lines across the field,

Her lofty eagles fly:

As erst when Moskwa lock'd her streams,
And frozen death rode on the beams

Shot from an hostile sky."

Blucher's perilous situation entangled under his dead horse, and his hair-breadth escape, are told with much spirit:

"New aids arrive, the strengthen'd foe
Gives back the fatal overthrow;

Now, Blucher, spur thy steed;
Furious and drunk from many a wound,
Thy hot pursuers tear the ground;
Thy life hangs on thy speed.

He falls: protecting power that spread
Mists round the trembling Trojan's head,

His buckler and his

guide

Heaven hears th' unfinish'd prayer; the storm
Sweeps harmless round the veteran's form;
On rolls the battle-tide.