13 DECEMBER 1845, Page 17

SOUTHEY'S OLIVER NEWMAN.

THIS posthumous poem of the late Robert Southey was first suggested to his mind by reviewing Holmes's American Annals; when he pointed out the war of Philip, the Red Indian chief, as a proper subject for an Anglo-American Iliad. This was in 1811: according to a letter to Wil- liam Taylor of Norwich, he had shortly after "fallen in love" with the subject himself. But it was not till 1815 that he began the composition ; which, having been continued at different intervals amid the pressure of more urgent business, received the last additions in 1829. This, how- ever, still left the epic more than half unfinished. According to the rough sketches published as an appendix, the poem was to have consisted of twenty-one books ; but only nine exist in a complete state.

So far as we can judge from the story as it stands before us, the In- dian war and the chieftain Philip were not the proper subjects of the poem, but merely a means to forward the true action. Tins seems to be the protection of Goffe the Regicide by means of the hero, his son Oliver, and the marriage of the latter to Annabel, the daughter of a Royalist settler ; conclusions which were to be attained by Oliver's virtues and powers as a Christian missionary. The story contained in the nine books or rather cantos of Oliver Nauman does not exhibit anything of the Indian war, and scarcely does more than lay a foundation for the true action. Oliver, who seems designed to combine the stern sense of duty which characterized the Puritans with the mild graces and toleration of the catholic Christian has embarked to watch over the safety of his father, the expatriated Regicide, in obedience to his dying mother's request. The same vessel that carries him from England also contains the heroine and her mother • and the mother, dying, commits Annabel to the care of Oliver. Delayed by winds, they have to anchor at Cape Cod ; where Oliver is shocked at the cruel treatment of an Indian woman : and in buying her and her children, he seems to have bought the machinery of the epic. These things bring us to Boston ; where Leverett, the Governor, an old lover of Oliver's mother, moved by her portrait, the hero's only intro- duction, endeavours to dissuade him from his purpose. Failing in this, he unfolds at considerable length the state of the colony ; and the ninth canto ends with Oliver escorting Annabel to her father's house, prepara- tory to beginning the real action. According to the canon, the subject and the actors of an epic poem should be of great importance. The foundation or destruction of an empire is con- sidered the most fitting theme, or some great revolution at the least, such as the battle of Pharsalia,—although some critics doubt whether Lucan's is a true epic. It will be seen at once that Oliver Newman stops far short of this grandeur, and does not at all differ in subject from the ro- mantic tales of Scott and Byron • to which class, indeed, it belongs ; though filling short of their rapidity of narrative and crowded incident, as it is also without their moving vigour of style. To anything like the action of an epic Oliver Newman has no claim : nor, indeed, is there action, or even incident, in the nine cantos, beyond the purchase of Pamya, the Indian captive, an introduction to the Governor, and the journey to restore Annabel. The poem is one of narrative and dialogue, in which description and exposition abound. The death of the heroine's mother is not shown ; we learn it by her funeral at sea. A long dialogue between the captain and Randolph, the Royalist Commissioner to hunt up the Regicides, introduces the " antecedents " of the voyage and the character of Oliver. At Cape Cod it is all description and discourse : pretty much the same at Boston, where the Governor, among other things, enters into a long exposition of the history and political state of our "Indian re- lations " : but something more approaching the proper topics of poetry is visible towards the close of the last canto, in the growing reserve of the lovers as their affection gains strength. This prosaic kind of structure is not relieved by rapidity and comprehensiveness. There are many passages of touching and elaborate beauty ; very many exhibit great powers of versification and mastery of language ; but the general impression, especially AS the work proceeds, calls to mind the coarse and mocking remark of Byron— "1 know that what our neighbours call longueurs

(We've not so good a word, but have the thing

In that supreme perfection, which insures

An epic from Bob Southey every spring)."

A fragment hie Oliver Newman will not affect the reputation of the

author one way or another; but we are glad it has appeared. The editor truly observes, that this poem possesses "a human interest," in

which such productions as Thalaba and The Curse of Kehama were certainly deficient ; and this renders Oliver Newman more readable, in

our opinion, than any other of the author's so-called epics. It also seems curiously to exhibit the literary characteristics of Southey. We seem in many parts to trace the essayist using up his ideas so that nothing be lost, rather than the poet rejecting everything that is not essential to his purpose, and conveying an impression of the whole by a few comprehen- sive images. Southey does not seem to have waited for moments of in- spiration, and after pouring out his first thoughts to have laboriously re- vised them from time to time ; but to have sat down to poetry as he

would to any other literary employment: and, with his habits of in-

dustry, mastery of language, and practice in versifying, such a course was possible enough. But it is not a course which can produce the "thoughts that breathe and words that burn" ; though able views, good thoughts, and forcible expressions, may be the result : and these are the

staple of Oliver Newman.

Passages, as we have said, are much better ; and among the best are the fine descriptive stanzas of the opening, introducing the funeral at sea.

"The summer sun is riding high Amid a bright and cloudless sky; Beneath whose deep o'er-arching blue The circle of the Atlantic sea, Reflecting back a deeper hue, Is heaving peacefully. ' The winds are still, the ship with idle motion Rocks gently on the gentle ocean; Loose hang her sails, awaiting when the breeze Again shall wake to waft her on her way. Glancing beside, the dolphins, as they play, Their gorgeous tints suffused with gold display; And gay bonitos in their beauty glide: With arrowy speed, in close pursuit, They through the azure waters shoot; A feebler shoal before them in affright Spring from the wave, and in short flight, On wet and plumeless wing essay

The aerial element:

The greedy followers, on the chase intent, Dart forward still with keen and upturn'd sight, And, to their proper danger blind the while, Heed not the sharks, which have for many a day Hover'd behind the ship, presentient of their prey.

"So fair a season might persuade You crowd to try the fisher's trade; Yet from the stern no line is hung, Nor bait by eager sea-boy flung; Nor doth the watchful sailor stand Alert to strike, harpoon in hand. Upon the deck assembled, old and young, Bareheaded all in reverence, see them there; Behold where, hoisted half-mast high, The English flag hangs mournfully; And hark I what solemn sounds are these

Heard in the silence of the seas?"

The following, from the journey of Oliver and Annabel to the father's house, is equally fine as a description with more of human feeling in it. "Uneasy now became perforce The inevitable intercourse, Too grateful heretofore: Each in the other could descry The tone constrain'd, the alter'd eye. They knew that each to each could seem No longer as of yore; And yet, while thus estranged, I deem, Each loved the other more. Her's was perhaps the saddest heart; His the more forced and painful part: A sense of proper maiden pride To her the needful strength supplied. Then first perhaps the virgin thought How large a dower of love and faithfulness Her gentle spirit could have brought A kindred heart to bless; Herself then first she understood With what capacities endued; Then first, by undeserved neglect Roused to a consciousness of self-respect, Felt she was not more willing to be won Than worthy to be woo'd. "Had they from such disturbant thoughts been free, It had been sure for them A gladsome sight to see The Indian children, with what glee They breathed their native air of liberty. Food to the weary man with toil forespent Not more refreshment brings, Than did the forest breeze upon its wings To these true yonnglings of the wilderness: A happy sight, a sight of hearts content! For blithe were they As swallows, wheeling in the summer sky At close of day; As insects, when on high Their mazy dance they thread In myriads overhead, Where sunbeams through the thinner foliage gleam, Or spin in rapid circles as they play, Where winds are still, Upon the surface of the unrippled stream: Yea, gamesome in their innocence were they As lambs in fragrant pasture, at their will The udder when to press They run, for hunger less Than joy, and very love and wantonness:

Besides the unfinished epic, the volume contains some other fragments, which have rather a personal than a poetical interest.