never with ambrosial fruit of vegetable gold, which can bloom for fallen man, and the only other that we hear of, is equally unknown, we believe, in the natural history of a lost world, the tree of knowledge. A sapphire fount pouring forth its "crisped brooks" over orient pearl and sands of gold, is more magnificent certainly, but not half so cool and refreshing as the "purling streams" of our common-place landscapes, at which Corydon and Thirsis slake their thirst with bona fide draughts of the pure element. Adam and Eve are perfect beings, and Aristotle himself hath said, upwards of two thousand years ago, that a tragic poet (and why not others?) should have nothing to do with perfect beings. Throughout all these descriptions, it is needless to add, that the mighty genius of the poet is every where visible; we are only endeavouring to account for his admitted want of popularity. His style is of a piece with the characters and the fable. He speaks as no other man ever spoke. His diction is fraught-overcharged with richness and power, yet every where perspicuous, precise and classical. But a reader must be somewhat of a scholar to have a just idea of its immeasurable treasures. Master of every branch of knowledge, but especially of ancient literature, he turns all he knew into poetry, and this unequalled and astonishing union of a daring creative genius, operating upon materials drawn from every quarter of the universe, and from every repository of learning, is what constitutes at once his peculiar excellence, and with a view to popularity, one of his capital defects. 66 "Old big-wigged Dr. Young," as Blackwood's Magazine most irreverently calls him, placed by the side of Milton, furnishes a striking illustration of Dugald Stewart's distinction between imagination and fancy. Milton's is the creative power. His flight is as sustained as it is lofty. He soars upon the seraph wing of extacy" through height and depth, through the Empyrean and the abyss, and his ample pinion never for a moment flags-he mounts up to the presence chamber of Deity, where He sits enthroned "in unapproached light,” and gazes with a steady and serene eye upon all its unutterable gloriesor utterable to him alone. His whole poem is a creation. Design is evident in every part of it-design projecting, composing, combining, harmonizing all. Whether his plot be interesting and probable or not, needs not here be said; but it is every where definitely marked, strongly brought out, and accurately arranged. Even in the details of his work, in his diction and imagery, the same originality, the same force of invention are every where visible. If, therefore, the term imagination, VOL. II.-No. 4. 58 is to designate exclusively the creative power, it may be considered as the first faculty of Milton's mind, and he as first among the possessors of that faculty. Dr. Young's fancy was wonderfully active. His flight was certainly not the eagle's, nor did he at any one time fly far or long; but he was always on the wing. Every thing he sees, hears or thinks of-the commonest objects in nature, the most trivial incidents in life, suggest to him impressive and original associations. There is no end to the variety of his goodly conceits, and we know no book that it is better worth while to commit to memory, for the purpose of apt quotation, or as furnishing hints for original thought on a certain order of subjects. But his tone, as is well known, is terribly lugubrious-he is a devout Heautontimorumenos. One were as "well converse with a death's head with a bone in its mouth," for any of the purposes for which poetry is sought after by that familiar and important personage, the "general reader." There is a hum-drum monotony of lamentation on a low key; but "no melodious tear," no lyrical woe, no outpourings of wounded sensibility in strains that pierce and wring the bosom, or melt away the heart in tears; though, indeed, his reflections be full of healing religious consolation for those who are wrapt in a settled and pensive grief. He deals in vigorous, pointed and striking thoughts, rather than in poetical ones. Indeed, we doubt whether they should be classed with poetry at all, for there is no blossom nor fragrance, nor genial warmth, nor gorgeous and dazzling hues, such as the sun gathers about his burning throne in the morning or evening sky; for it is in colours like these-so deep and glowing— that true genius lives and moves "like some gay creature of the element." The nature he depicts is bleak, desolate, sepulchral. He makes a Golgotha of the whole earth, and is even sad, that man-mortal man-should have the presumption to enjoy a moment's happiness. The wood in Dante's Inferno would have been his favourite haunt. Non verdi frondi, ma di color fosco Still the almost Shakspearian fertility of his fancy, and the terrible truth of his reflections upon life, death and immortality, must always secure to Dr. Young, in spite of his inharmonious versification and prosaic tone, the great popularity he enjoys among those whose character or situation incline them to serious meditation. Cowper, says Byron, is no poet. That is undoubtedly going too far, but not so far, it appears to us, as they have gone who have spoken of him as one of the great names of English literature. He is not remarkable for invention and originality, or deep pathos, or sublime thought. In short, he was not a man of genius-but he had much talent, a ready command of language, and of an easy, flowing versification, and above all, the most perfect purity of heart, and a tenderness and sensibility which overflow in love for all mankind, nay, for all created beings, and which, united with great simplicity, and tinged with a pleasing melancholy, make his verses the delight of sentimental and philanthropic, and especially of pious readers. But it is time we were come to our subject. Mr. Pollok, the author of the volume, of which the somewhat singular title is placed at the head of this article, was (for he is unfortunately no more) a Scottish clergyman of most promising talents and learning. This Poem was published towards the close of the last year-but a few weeks (says a British Magazine) before its excellent author, who had been long lingering under a pulmonary complaint, breathed his last on his way to the South of France, at the early age of thirty years. Deeply, indeed, to be regretted, is this premature extinction of so vigorous a mind which kindling with the fervor of a holy zeal, and "smit with the love of sacred song," had produced first fruits like those before us. It is also stated, in the same journal, that being born in rather humble circumstances, he came late to his studies, and that it was not before his seventeenth year that he began to learn the very rudiments of Latin. There is a passage in his Poem, in which he has traced the course of an aspiring young man, under circumstances so similar to what we suppose to have been his own, that we cannot help thinking it auto-biographical. Few passages of English poetry, in the same kind, are more vigorously executed than that which contains the description of the blank disappointment, the deadly, benumbing, vacant apathy of such a youth, suddenly checked in his lofty career by some insuperable obstacle. We believe, however, that the picture is not less just than it is strong and glowing : "In humble dwelling born, retired, remote, And fancy coloured them with every hue Possessed his soul, and held it still awhile. He listened and heard from far the voice of Fame- And deeper vowed again to keep his vow. His parents saw-his parents whom God made Of kindest heart-saw, and indulged his hope. The ancient page he turned; read much: thought much; Measured his soul severely; and looked up Hope grew from inward faith, and promised fair: Ascending, where the laurel highest waved Her branch of endless green. He stood admiring; But stood, admired not not long. The harp he seized; Thus stood his mind, when round him came a cloud; Of ills we mention not enough to say "Twas cold, and dead, impenetrable gloom. He saw its dark approach; and saw his hopes, One after one, put out, as nearer still It drew his soul, but fainted not at first; He called Philosophy, and with his heart Reluctantly, and therefore was not heard. He sought, and sought with eye that dimmed apace, Told all was past. His interest in life, In being, ceased: and now he seemed to feel, The vigorous, weak became; the clear, obscure : The blue heavens withered, and the moon, and sun, Like something which had been, appeared, but now Was dead and mouldering fast away. He tried Of loss, he, as some atom seemed which God Oh, who can tell what days, what nights he spent, Of tideless, waveless, sailless, shoreless wo! And who can tell, how many, glorious once, To others, and themselves of promise full, Conducted to this pass of human thought, This wilderness of intellectual death, Wasted and pined, and vanished from the earth, Leaving no vestige of memorial there! It was not so with him: when thus he lay, |