LORD ROBERTSON'S SONNETS. * Ar.mouGn nnadapted in its versification to the
less flexible genius of the English tongue, the sonnet has frequently been a favourite mode of com- position, and of late years a fashion. This is very much owing to the facility offered by the sonnet to disguise poverty of matter, or dispense with clear coherent treatment. The heroic line, the artificial structure of the piece, the peculiarity of the rhymes, the practised (if not the licensed) running on of the meaning from line to line, invest it with an air of stiff formality that is easily mistaken for stateliness ; while the personal cha- racter of the sonnet, that permits individual opinion to be substituted for broad generality of idea, encourages a misty obscurity of thought that appears magnificent, on the principle of " mune ignotum." The sentiment that in prose would look common, and poor in the heroic couplet or elegiac verse, wears an appearance of depth when wrapped up in a foreign dress, just as a commonplace person may have more of " presence " dis- guised in masquerade. Intense feeling or deep thought, expressed by a poet with a sufficient knowledge of the Italian sonnet and a thorough mastery of his own tongue, may undoubtedly make a strong impression on the reader's mind. Except in some rare cases, a more pleasing effect would probably be produced by a different form of composition ; for, do what one may, it is impossible to avoid prosaic poetry in the sonnet, always excepting those cases where the poetical thought cannot be over- whelmed by any garb.
Bonnets, Reflective and Descriptive; and ogler Poems. By Lord Robertscn, LL.D. Published by Fraser, Edinburgh.
From the circumstances we speak tic the sonnet had tempting attrac- tions for Lord Robertson. It was adapted to his facility and fluency of style and to his poetical imagery of thought, while it did not task those peculiarities that spring from his legal practice. Sentiments not un- poetical in themselves arise in Lord Robertson's mind spontaneously, or are suggested by a landscape, or a ruin' or a sacred edifice, or a celebrated locality, and (the knack of the peculiar. versification being once acquired) off they run into fourteen artificially-arranged lines. As for the labor limte, there was surely labour enough in adjusting the rhymes : greater expansion to complete the general theme, or condensation to strengthen any particular thought, would destroy the product ; for into fourteen lines, neither more nor fewer, must the subject be extended or compressed. Hence, we fear, Lord Robertson's sonnets will be the least attractive of his works, as they clearly are the least impressive. When we have read them we are none the better ; no ideas remain upon the mind. A few excep- tions there are in the seventy or eighty sonnets ; of which th:s is one of the best.
' KILBRYDE CASTLE—EVENING.
" A Sabbath silence wraps the slumbering wold, Save ever and anon some truant breeze Steals o'er the hush that lulls the stately trees,— Or wood-doves languidly their wing unfold, A home to seek within thine antique hold; Her vesper hymn the streamlet ehanteth clear, The owlet moans, a solemn chronicler ;— 'Tis thus the time-worn tale is ever told.
How calm, how prayerful Nature's glories lie, i Inspiring thought, n hopeful rube serene, As twilight shadows watt tranquillity. Ah ! might the rapture of this fairy scene Be with its dream-fraught solace ever nigh, No darkness augur dread despondency."
The sonnet on France is perhaps the best in the book. It has most distinctness of subject, most purpose in the handling, and most of dogma- tism in the manner : and we suspect the dogmatic style—a clear, brief, definite annunciation and "no mistake"—is essential to effect in the sonnet.
" They prate of fallen grandeur, mourn the tale Of woes encompassing his aged head, Of outraged thrones, of terror's hosts arrayed: The bark of mighty Gaul I more bewail, Bereft of helmsman, compass, wellsreet'd sail, Launch'd on the billows of the boding sea, Whose treacherous bosom echoes liberty, As if that name profaned might quell the gale. Who o'er the breakers now thy helm may guide? Alack! they've rallied for her daring crew, Men who ne'er dumb the gallant vessel's side, Ne'er ocean's dark adventures struggled through, Who spurn the chart, the warnings of the skies, Reckless encounter fear-fraught jeopardies."
On a former occasion we suggested, that if Lord Robertson had applied himself early to poetry instead of law, he would probably have risen to eminence as a bard. And a more poetical mind in prose we have rarely met with : there is more of poetry in his prose than in his verse. His half-panegyrieal half-defensive preface on the divine art is full of genuine good feeling and various imagery : if it lacks the comprehensive character of the genuine bard, it has a terse brevity of accumulation which in these days does instead. This is an eloquent if not a poetical defence of poesy. "Nor let it be said that in these utilitarian days the power of poetry has ceased, or that no practical good can result from its cultivation. This may not be. Although poetry does not seek, like didactic philosophy, to unfold with rigid scrutiny the mysteries of the human soul; nor aspire to wield the sceptre of the kingdom within, as if she were the guiding power which regulated our actions, and controlled the vast and varied energies by which thought constructs its countless creations; yet doth she alleviate the asperities of life—speed the web in the struggles of daily and duller tasks—express fresher colours, imbued with the glowing fervour of the imagination, or tinged with the fleeting hues of fancy, —thus giving a softened yet healthful balm to the exhausting toils of harsher study. "There are in all aspects of society, from the rudest to the most refined, gen- tle and noble sympathies, which poetry alone may sustain. He must indeed 'be a stern and cold, nay, a false reasoner, who sees no utility in what dues not profess to contain mathematical precision, philosophic speculation, or scientific develop- ment. This partial restriction would at once annihilate the fine arts. Amid such discipline the fibres of the heart would become rigid, or decay; and the ma- chine, thus impeded, would stead still, as if the stream by which it was nourished had become frozen in the chill of an atmosphere bleaker than winter ever knew. The rude warrior who takes for his goblet the skull of his slaughtered foe and forms a drum from the ghastly skin, has still the chant of a wild bead to evoke his savage enthusiasm. The refined voluptuary, amid the allurements of Eastern magnificence, will indite, in languid strains mayhap, but still in measured numbers,' a sonnet to his mistress' eyebrow.' And need I say, that between these extremes, so far asunder, there are countless haunts for more graceful, more vigorous, and more plaintive song. Poetry is the sun of the intellectual system. It illumines every clime—it cheers every season; and although its fruitage may be fairest and most luxuriant in that temperate zone where learning and refine- ment put forth their stately branches, it dab not wither amid the sirocco of con- tending passions, nor perish in the regions of thick-ribbed ice, the sad abode of cheerless poverty. "Poetry is the lover's talisman, the warrior's watchword, the hero's reward. It is the solace of the humble, the balm of hurt minds.' It is the scholar's pas- time. It offers to the recluse his breviary, to piety her hymn. So sacred and universal is its sway, that science and statecraft welcome it to their courts; history proudly borrows its legend; and even the dreary routine of barter may not for- swear its influence. It is the friend of the philosopher, the comrade of the en- thusiast. The cradle and the altar, the temple and the mausoleum, are its dwel- ling-places. The toil-tossed city owns its presence. It peoples with its varied memories the desolation of the wilderness. It echoes among the mountains, whispers among the woods. It speaks in the tempest. It revels among the flowers, or lingers with the beams of the rainbow. It gilds the meridian sun, counts the fires of heaven, and greets the crescent moon. It is the record of the past, the day-star of the present, the prophet of futurity."
The book is dedicated to Sir Robert Peel, in a style anticipatory of the eulogies of the men of Aberdeen, but with a nicer taste and a more
scholarly sympathy.
Previous page
