fertility are much exaggerated, and that excepting near rivers, it is in this respect far below the British possessions in India.

"On the whole, not a third of the country we saw was cultivated. It, however, contained many fine villages, and some large towns, but most of the latter bore strong marks of decay. Umritsir alone, the sacred city of the Siks, and lately the seat of their national councils, appeared to be increasing; on the contrary, Lahore is hastening fast to ruin, but the domes and minarets of the mosques, the lofty walls of the fort, the mossy terraces of the garden of Shaulimar, the splendid mausoleum of the emperor Jehangeer, and the numberless inferior tombs and places of worship that surround the town, still render it an object of curiosity and admiration'

[To be concluded in the next Number.]

Art. V. Prescience, or the Secrets of Divination; a Poem, in two Parts. By Edward Smedley, Jun. foolscap 8vo. pp. 138. Price 7s. 6d. Murray. 1816.

THIS is, we think, the most splendid piece of versification

that has appeared since Mr. Heber's Palestine. Although extremely unequal, it is more imaginative and more interesting, than almost any poem we have recently met with of the same sch.coi; a school which we cannot better designate, than by comparing its elegant, elaborate, and dazzling productions, to paintings in enamel. For some classes of subjects, this style of poetry may be esteemed preferable. It would not suit an historic narrative, a tale of sublime or romantic character, an Alpine sketch, or a quiet landscape. But for didactic poetry, or as a vehicle for that metaphysical cast of sentiment, which loves to imbody itself in personification and metaphor, a stately diction and antithetical rhymes may be highly appropriate. They fill the ear in those intellectual pauses which almost necessarily occur in poetry of this description, like an obligato symphony, relieving at intervals the subject of the composition.

Mr. Smedley prefixes to his poem an extract from Lord Bacon, on the subject of Divination, which serves to illustrate the title, and the natural division of his subject.

DIVINATION hath been anciently and fitly divided into ARTIFI"CIAL and NATURAL: whereof Artificial is, when the Mind maketh "prediction by argument concluding upon signs and tokens: Natu"ral is, when the Mind hath a presentiment by an internal power "without the inducement of a sign. Artificial is of two sorts, either "when the argument is coupled with a derivation of causes, which "is rational; or when it is only grounded upon a coincidence of the "effect, which is Experimental: whereof the latter is for the most "part superstitious. But the Divination which springeth from the "internal nature of the soul, is that which we now speak of, which "has been made to be of two sorts; Primitive, and by Influxion. Pri

"mitive is grounded on the supposition that the Mind, when it is "withdrawn and collected into itself, and not diffused into the organs "of the body, hath some extent and latitude of Prenotion, which, "therefore, appeareth most in Sleep, in Extasies, and near Death, and "more rarely in waking apprehensions; and is induced and furthered by those abstinences and observances which make the mind most to "consist in itself. By Influxion is grounded upon the conceit that "the Mind, as a mirror or glass, should take illumination from the "foreknowledge of God and Spirits: unto which the same regimen "doth likewise conduce. For the retiring of the Mind within itself "is the state most susceptible of Divine Influxions, save that it is accompanied in this case with a fervour and elevation, which the an"cients noted by Fury, and not with a repose and quiet, as it is in "the other."Of the Advancement of Learning, Book II.

66

We can well imagine the stir and tumult which such a passage as this would be sufficient to awaken in a mind disposed to those metaphysical fancies which may be aptly termed the poetry of philosophy. We cannot call this passage poetry, but it possesses some of the sublimest attributes of poetry, and strikes the imagination with mysterious force, like the words of an Oracle, that mean, or seem to mean, more than is expressed. If the mood of the poet, and the circumstances in which these impressions found him, were favourable to the indulgence of a suitable train of ideas, his first thought would be, how fine a subject it presented for lofty rhyme; and this would probably be succeeded by a degree of satisfaction in the opportunity of appropriating such a theme for the exercise of his own talents. What a sublime array of cloud-like conceptions would perhaps occupy the whole of his intellectual horizon at that moment. But then-to fix them into definite and expressive forms-to give to such airy nothings' both shape and feature-to translate into expression the deep feelings of excited fancy !—the difficulty of accomplishing this, has induced many a possessor of the highest poetic qualities of mind, to shut himself up in the solitary enjoyment of his own incommunicable thoughts, leaving the drudgery of expression to those who can more easily utter all they feel.

Mr. Smedley has had the good fortune to select a noble subject. We are disposed, on the strength of the ability he has shewn in treating it, to give him credit for feeling his best ability wholly inadequate to do it that justice which, in his first conceptions, he had meditated. We are not sure, however, that had he felt the sublimity of which it was susceptible, and which in the hands of such a poet as Wordsworth it would have gained, he would not have relinquished the theme before he had written half his poem. The passage which approaches the nearest to sublimity, is that which portrays the Druid's circle at Stonehenge. The Author visited this scene on a night which will

be always fresh in his memory;' and he adds, that he has perhaps given but a faint copy of the feelings which were excited by its wild magnificence.'

To gentler scenes the Minstrel may repair
When the soft moonbeam tints the golden air;
There drink the fancies pious cells impart,
And trace their lavish wantonness of Art;
Chaunting in Lay far richer than his theme
The holy pride of Tweed's enamour'd stream.
But would you view the Druid's fane aright
Choose not the stilly season of "Moonlight."
Rather when heav'n's vast face is one black cloud,
And darkness 'clasps all Nature in her shroud;
When the big rain falls pattering thick and fast,
And the storm howls upon the gusty blast;
Then gather round your cloak-well suits the time
To tread the circle of that haunted clime.
Far o'er the dreary heathsward lies your road,
So far it seems not part of man's abode,
So dreary that in silence you may bless
The friendly gloom which hides its loneliness.
But little needs the torch's ruddy glare

To tell you when your steps have wander'd there :
So bright the lightning's angry glance is thrown
Where frowns that mighty shapelessness of stone.
Huge, and immeasurable; breadth, and height,
And thickness which o'ercharge the wondering sight;
As if the Fallen in his sport had rent
Some rock for his eternal monument;
And hurl'd the shivering quarry where it lies,
Fit emblem of his pride, and might, and size.
Apart from all the rest One seems to stand,
Grim-visaged Porter to the Brother band;
The Brother band, who fix'd for ever there,
In sullen state o'erlook the desert lair.
Few, yet how many! never to be told
Aright by man, or number'd in their fold.
Work, as the peasant fondly frames his tale,
Of him, the Wizard of Cayr-Merdin's vale:
Or sudden, of themselves upsprung from earth,
Convuls d and shrinking from her monstrous birth.
Erst girt around with everlasting Oak,

Whose broad limbs never felt the woodman's stroke:
Seen but by purer eyes, to which were known
The lustral vervain, and the paddock stone:

Touch'd but by hands which cull'd the golden bough,
Mute to all lips but those which pour'd the vow.

Such have they stood, till dim Tradition's eye

Looks vainly back on their obscurity.

Through the wild echoes of their maze have roll'd
Fierce harpings fit to rouse the slumbering bold:
And many a song which check'd the starry train,
And bade the moon her spell-bound car restrain.
For some in such mysterious ring of stone,
Could mark the semblance of Heav'n's fiery zone;
Read lore celestial in each mass, and name
The planets' courses from its magic frame.
Haply no common rites have there been done,
Strange rites of darkness which abhor the sun.
There charms, and divination, and the lay
Which trembling fiends must list to, and obey;
And horrid sacrifice: the knife has dared
To search his bosom whom the falchion spar'd;
O'er some pale wretch, yet struggling with the blow,
The Seer has bent to watch his life-blood flow;
Felt the pulse flutter, seen the eye grow dim,
Mark'd the quick throe and agony of limb;
Then pluck'd the living heart-strings from their seat,
And read each separate fibre while it beat.

'Scarce can I tell, what forms beneath the gloom
My rapt eye bade those fearful stones assume:
Shapes which ev'n memory shudders to relate,
Monsters which fear will to herself create.
Methought the Synod of those Gods appeared,
Whose damned altar 'mid the pile was reared;
O'er the rude shrine in grim delight they stood,
And quaff'd the still life-quivering victim's blood.
The lightning gave their brow a fiercer scowl,
The North-wind louder swell'd their frantic howl;
And as the skies wept on th' accursed place,
I felt the gore-drop trickle down my face!
Fierce with the phrenzied boldness of despair,
I touch'd the giant fiend who revell'd there;
It mov'd not, liv'd not, it was very stone;

Oh, God! I joy'd to find myself alone.' pp. 36-41.

The following description of the Witch, is written with still more energy of expression.

'Mark yon lone cot, whose many crannied wall
Admits the gale which else would work its fall :
Where through the rattling casement's shatter'd pane
Trickles the dropping of unhealthy rain;
And from the mossy roof long reft of straw,
The suns of summer baleful vapours draw.
Around it all is damp, and chill, and drear;
A boundless heath which man is seldom near,
Or if his feet should cross it, 'tis with fear.
There not a single bough nor leaf is seen,
Save one poor stunted willow's meagre green,

}

Which rears a sapless trunk that cannot die,
And clings to life with lifeless energy;

Stretch'd with grey arms which neither bud nor fade,
Above the slimy pool they fain would shade.

'Hous'd in such houselessness, there dwells alone,
Wasting the lees of age, a wither'd Crone.
Sad wreck of life and limb left far behind,
Forgotten, but in curses, by her kind;
Mateless, unfriended, unallied to earth,
Save by the wretchedness which mark'd her birth;
Knit to existence but by one dark tie,
Grappling with Being but through misery.

The tongues which curse her would not wish her dead,
They know not where to fix their hate instead ;

The hand whose vengeance daily works her wrong,
Stops short her lingering torture to prolong ;
And for herself, her Memory's faded eye
Sees but the moment which is passing by.

'Bent o'er hier scanty hearth, the Beldame drains
Heat long forgotten in her bloodless veins ;
Doubled within herself in grisly heap,

A blighted harvest Death disdains to reap.
A form unshapen, where nor arm, nor knee
Are clearly fashion'd, yet all seem to be.
The lank and bony hands whence touch is fled,
Fain would support, but cannot rest her head;
Her head for ever palsied; long ago

Time there has shed and swept away his snow:
Quench'd the dull eyeball, taught the front to bow,
And track'd his roughest pathway on her brow.
Can it be life! Or is there who would crave
Such bitter respite from the must-be grave!
Who kin to other worlds, on this would tread,
Or clasp a being, brother'd with the dead!

"Yet the fond wisdom of the rustic pours
Strange might of evil round that Beldame's doors.
There the Deceiver frames his deeds of harm,
And stamps his signet on her wither'd arm;
Traffics in ill, and from his willing prey,
Drains the slow drops which sign her soul away.
There, while the body sleeps in deadly trance,
The accursed Night-hags in their spirit dance;
Steep'd in strange unguents ride the burden'd air,

And mingle with the children of despair.' pp. 42-46.

The Second Part describes the Prescience of the Poet, of the Lover, of the Dying Patriot, and of the Martyr. It is scarcely equal to the first, and but very imperfectly fulfils the promise of the Argument, which is injudiciously prefixed. There occurs a fine passage on the slow progress of Milton's reputation: it is introduced by the following lines.