FREE BOOKS

Author's List




PREV.   NEXT  
|<   128   129   130   131   132   133   134   135   136   137   138   139   140   141   142   143   144   145   146   147   148   149   150   151   152  
153   154   155   156   157   158   159   160   161   162   163   164   165   166   167   168   169   170   171   172   173   174   175   176   177   >>   >|  
in which this gentleman dandles his kid:-- "We are in the fields. Delight! Look around! The bird's-eyes bright; Pink-tipp'd daisies; sorrel red, Drooping o'er the lark's green bed; Oxlips; glazed buttercups, Out of which the wild bee sups; See! they dance about thy feet! Play with, pluck them, little Sweet! Some affinity divine Thou hast with them, Geraldine. "Now, sweet wanton, toss them high; Race about, you know not why. Now stand still, from sheer excess Of exhaustless happiness. I, meanwhile, on this old gate, Sit sagely calm, and perhaps relate Lore of fairies. Do you know How they make the mushrooms grow? Ah! what means that shout of thine? _You can't tell me, Geraldine._" Our extracts are now concluded; and in reviewing them in the mass, we can only exclaim--this, then, is the pass to which the poetry of England has come! This is the life into which the slime of the Keateses and Shelleys of former times has fecundated! The result was predicted about a quarter of a century ago in the pages of this Magazine; and many attempts were then made to suppress the nuisance at its fountainhead. Much good was accomplished: but our efforts at that time were only partially successful; for nothing is so tenacious of life as the spawn of frogs--nothing is so vivacious as corruption, until it has reached its last stage. The evidence before us shows that this stage has been now at length attained. Mr Coventry Patmore's volume has reached the ultimate _terminus_ of poetical degradation; and our conclusion, as well as our hope is, that the fry must become extinct in him. His poetry (thank Heaven!) cannot corrupt into any thing worse than itself. FOOTNOTES: {A} London: Moxon. 1844. MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN. PART XIII. "Have I not in my time heard lions roar? Have I not heard the sea, puft up with wind, Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat? Have I not heard great ordnance in the field, And Heaven's artillery thunder in the skies? Have I not in the pitched battle heard Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?" SHAKSPEARE. I had been familiar with the debates of the French Convention, and had witnessed the genius of French eloquence in its highest exertions. Nothing will cure this people of their aversion to nature. With them, all that is natural is po
PREV.   NEXT  
|<   128   129   130   131   132   133   134   135   136   137   138   139   140   141   142   143   144   145   146   147   148   149   150   151   152  
153   154   155   156   157   158   159   160   161   162   163   164   165   166   167   168   169   170   171   172   173   174   175   176   177   >>   >|  



Top keywords:
Heaven
 

Geraldine

 

French

 
reached
 

poetry

 

corrupt

 

extinct

 

MARSTON

 

MEMOIRS

 

FOOTNOTES


London

 
degradation
 

Delight

 
evidence
 
corruption
 

tenacious

 

vivacious

 

ultimate

 

volume

 

terminus


poetical

 

STATESMAN

 

Patmore

 

Coventry

 

fields

 
length
 

attained

 

conclusion

 

gentleman

 

debates


Convention

 

witnessed

 
genius
 

familiar

 

dandles

 

steeds

 

neighing

 

trumpets

 

SHAKSPEARE

 

eloquence


highest
 
nature
 

natural

 

aversion

 

Nothing

 
exertions
 

people

 
larums
 
thunder
 

artillery