The Sun.
London, England, 1832-08-28 00:00:00

LITERATURE.

FALLACIES OF HOPE. LONDON, 1832.

There is much in the condensed vigour of
this little poem which reminds us of Byron. It
is penned in a vein of strong feeling, as if the
writer threw his heart and soul into every line,
but has this pervading defect, that it leaves a
gloomy, melancholy impression on the mind.—
It is the converse of " Th e Pleasures of Hope."
The one poem dwells on the sunny, the other on
the dark side of the picture. One is the inspi-
ration of confidence, the other wrung out by
despondency. In point of stern, masculine
energy, we feel, with some hesitation, however,
inclined to give the preference to the present
production. Its descriptions teem with life,
and are the immediate reflections, not of books,
but of the writer's own personal feelings. For
every sentiment he has uttered, he has warrant in
his own heart, and so far deserves the praise of
originality. There is something very touching
in these lines. They are stamped with melan-
choly, but we feel their truth :
" But oftener still Hope's promises persuade
To fruitless toilings for a phantom shade,
And sad regret for all we might have been
The evening deepens of the closing scene.
Oh, better on life's sunny bank to lie
And dream of joy while steals occasion by,
Than thus to fret th' untasted hours away
For Hope's still coming, never-present day."
By way of working out his axiom that hope
is a fallacy, or in plain, homely English, a hum-
bug, the writer sketches Napoleon's last expedi-
tion to Russia, from which such momentous
consequences to Continental freedom were ex- .
pected by all Europe, and of the result of which
France was so blindly confident. The sub-
joined description which occurs at the commence-
ment of the episode, is as full of vigor and ani-
mation as one of Wilkie's earlier paintings.
" The drum! the drum!—and up that torpid mass
Starts into life on plain and mountain pass ;
Still the sun shines not, in a corpselike shroud
A thick fog winds them, from whose sullen cloud
Come out the bugle's call, the hollow sound
Of gun and tumbril rolling o'er the ground,
The squadron's tramp, the march's numerous tread,
Signs of the storm that gathers to a head.
All is dim outline in that hazy gloom
Of flag and bayonet and tossing plume,
That sink and rise, and waver to and fro,
- In masses crossing, joining, swift, and slow,
While ever and anon with loosened rein
From out the mist a rider skirts the plain.
Sudden the fog rolls off, the flooding light
Blazes on men and arms all trim and bright,
For death's new feast ; but at this burst of day,
Which shows each host its foe in near array,
The general voice is hushed, in every breast
The heart is throbbing and the breath comprest.
He, too, their chief, the yet-unconquered one,
A moment looks in silence on that sun ;
And then—from sudden impulse, or in art
Which looks like impulse and would play its part;
Exclaims, with finger pointed to the sky,—
Anticipation's triumph in his eye,—
' Behold the sun of Austerlitz:'—'tis strange!
A breath—a look—can thought's complexion change;
From rank to rank the word of omen flies,
'Till in the dawn all see Hope's rainbow rise ;
For them the sun is bright—alas! how few
Shall live to tell if false the sign or true."
Nor can any thing be more impressive in its
way than this graphic description of deserted
Moscow, and the chilling effect its silence
and solitude produced on the conquering vete-
rans who bivouacked within its walls. In the
first couplet the author alludes to the solitude of
nature :
" Though lone, Me is not desolate—though deep
Her silence oft, she does but gently sleep ;;
But a dead waste of marble, where the hum
And stir of men have ceased—for ever dumb—
A solitude of walls, from which the spring
Of life has dried, where loneness folds her wing,
And none but winds disturb her :—oh, it seems
The tomb of time, and saddens day-light's beams !
Speak not—the spirit of the echo here
Will freeze you with his sullen voice of fear;
Stir not—for desolation's stifling breath
Hangs round these walls, and chokes like mouldering death.
The very grandeur of their conquest chills
Their souls with awe, and creeping horror thrills.

- -
There is a fine, pensive vein ofthought opened
up in these lines, which remind us, though the
imitation is a generous one, and free from all
servility, of a similar apostrophe in the third canto
of Childe Harold :
" 0 Night! lone, still, inexplicable Night!
Thine is a world unlike the world of light,
Full of dark shapes and shadowy fears, that morn,
Clear-eyed and passionless, would laugh to scorn—
We know thee not but as the pilgrim knows
The trackless waste in which no fountain flows ;
Too deep thy darkness for the living hand
To lift the veil from mysteries yet uuscann'd ;
But when the soul shakes off this mortal coil,
Say, shall thy darkness then the reason foil?
Shall we not find thee then a peopled space
With forms of life our fancy cannot trace ?
E'en now, in every whisper of thy breeze,
In the dim shadows flung from waving trees,
We feel the presence and the voices hear
Of those so far ! and yet so very near !
Far as beyond the grave's untried abyss,
Near as the winds when winds the closest kiss,
And ever silent as the morn returns—
Yes, we still feel ye when the night-star burns,
Or fancy that we feel; and who shall tell
If truth with fancy or with reason dwell ?"

Young's pointed, emphatic line, " All men
think all men mortal but themselves," is the text
on which the author has founded some elaborate
but ably written reflections on death. We would
readily quote them, but space and time forbid ;
we hasten, therefore, to close our extracts with a
very spirited sketch of winter, contrary to the
author's prevailing mode in a spirit of lusty and
social fellowship :
" But winter comes—not that decrepid form
Which nurslings paint who shiver in the storm ;

Loud, reckless in his strength, he sweeps along
O•er the bare fields with wild yet joyous song ;
Impatient in his wrath, and rude of play,
No soft-breathed flatterer like voluptuous May,
He loves not those who from his roughness crouch
And pamper sloth on luxury's silken couch;
But meet him frankly, boldly on the hill,
When the ice glitters and the wilds are shrill,
Aye when they howl, and from the loaded trees
Whirl the wreathed snow and drops that falling freeze,
Then, though his brow be stern, his beard o'erhung
With frosty icicles, and sharp his tongue,
Roughly yet kind he welcomes with the grasp
Of lusty hands that tingle as they clasp."
Besides these extracts, whose beauty speaks
for itself, there are many insulated thoughts and
sentiments scattered here and there throughout
the volume, which prove that nervous and mus-
cular versification is not the only point in which
the writer excels. He is a man of reflection as
well as a good versifier. We subjoin a few of
these gems:—

" Oh, how falsely rings
The metal fashioned for the head of kings."—
" How well sleeps murder when he spills not blood
By stolen drops, but pours it in a flood."—
They march--still onward—still—with every eve
Hope cries " to-morrow,"—and they yet believe."—
" But he was young, and, though a seld-told truth,
The wisest, best philosopher is youth;
It seeks and finds enjoyment, where old age
Meets pain, and therefore deems itself a sage."—
" But hark, the clock—in vain—unheard its chime,
For busy pleasure has no ears for time."—
" A twilight creed which day all bravely mocks,
But go when darkness broods upon the rocks,
Climb their lone tops, while in the distant glen
The last lamp glimmers from the haunts of men,
When crag and cliff uncertain to the eye
Take forms of life and reason's gaze defy :
Then go and feel upon the wizard height,
What day denies, is awful truth by night"—
" We are but what we must be ; 'tis in vain
We strive to break the fine yet steel linked chain
Of human accident; and chance, whose name
So oft steals praise, should sometimes own the shame."—
" Life has strange neighbourhood—regret may wail
Where death lies pillowed by the lamp-light pale,
While revel, parted by a street—a wall—
Leads the light dance or banquet in the hall."—
This poem, though it has fallen on evil times,