XXIV. POETRY THAT POETS LOVE. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR-LEIGH HUNT-PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -JOHN KEATS. To no one can the words that I have placed at the head of this paper apply more perfectly than to Mr. Landor. No poetry was ever dearer to poets than his. Nearly fifty years ago, we find Southey writing of and to the author of "Gebir," with a respectful admiration seldom felt by one young man for another; and, from that hour to the present, all whom he would himself most wish to please have showered upon him praises that can not die. The difficulty in selecting from his works is the abundance; but I prefer the Hellenics, that charming volume, because few, very few, have given such present life to classical subjects. I begin with the Preface, so full of grace and modesty. 'It is hardly to be expected that ladies and gentlemen will leave, on a sudden, their daily promenade, skirted by Turks, and shepherds, and knights, and plumes, and palfreys, of the finest Tunbridge manufacture, to look at these rude frescoes, delineated on an old wall, high up and sadly weak in coloring. As in duty bound, we can wait. The reader (if there should be one) will remember that Sculpture and Painting have never ceased to be occupied with the scenes and figures which we venture once more to introduce in poetry, it being our belief that what is becoming in two of the fine arts, is not quite unbecoming in a third, the one which, indeed, gave birth to them." And now comes the very first story; with its conclusion that goes straight to the heart. THRASYMEDES AND EUNÖE. Who will away to Athens with me? Who Loves choral songs and maidens crowned with flowers Unenvious? Mount the pinnace; hoist the sail. Ye shall not, while ye tarry with me, taste The sea smiles bright before us. What white sail Plays yonder? What pursues it? Like two hawks Away they fly. Let us away in time To overtake them. Are they menaces We hear? And shall the strong repulse the weak, Art thou the man? 'Twas Hippias. He had found "Brother! O brother Hippias! Oh, if love, "Ay, before all the gods, Ay, before Pallas, before Artemis, Ay, before Aphrodite, before Herè, I dared; and dare again. Arise, my spouse! From thy fair open brow." The sword was up, And yet he kissed her twice. Some god withheld The arm of Hippias; his proud blood seethed slower And smote his breast less angrily; he laid His hand on the white shoulder, and spoke thus: "Ye must return with me. A second time Offended, will our sire Peisistratos Pardon the affront? Thou shouldst have asked thyself Put up thy sword," said the sad youth, his eyes Thy pardon, thus abuse the holy rites Twice over." "Well hast thou performed thy duty," Firmly and gravely said Peisistratos. "Nothing, then, rash young man! could turn thy heart From Eunöe, my daughter ?" And love but once. O, Eunöe! farewell!" 66 Nay, she shall see what thou canst bear for her." But never let me see what he can bear; I know how much that is when borne for me." "Not yet: come on. And lag not thou behind, Before the people, and before the goddess, And now wouldst bear from home and plenteousness To poverty and exile, this, my child." Then shuddered Thrasymedes, and exclaimed, "I see my crime, I saw it not before. The daughter of Peisistratos was born Neither for exile nor for poverty, Ah! not for me!" He would have wept, but one Strode on, and said, "To-morrow shall the people The justice of Peisistratos, the love He bears his daughter, and the reverence In which he holds the highest law of God." He spake; and on the morrow they were one. Did not Mr. Landor write this scene of Orestes one fine June morning, seated on a garden-roller in the court before Mr. Kenyon's house in London? fitting home for such an inspiration! And is not that the way that such scenes are written? not sitting down with malice prepense to compose poetry, but letting it come when it will and how it will, and striking it off at a heat. THE DEATH OF CLYTEMNESTRA. ORESTES AND ELECTRA. Electra. Pass on, my brother! she awaits the wretch, Dishonorer, dispoiler, murderer None other name shall name him-she awaits As would a lover Heavenly Gods! what poison O'erflows my lips! Adultress! husband-slayer! Strike her, the tigress! Think upon our father Give the sword scope-think what a man was he, That he might gladden and teach us-how proud His joyous head, and calling thee his crown. Bite not thy lip, Nor tramp, as an unsteady colt, the ground, Go. Orestes. Loose me then! for this white hand, Electra, Than I can grasp the sword. Electra. Go, sweet Orestes, I knew not I was holding thee-Avenge him! The room before the bath! Sure he now hath reached The bath-door creaks! It hath creaked thus since he-since thou, O father! Ever since thou didst loosen its strong valves, Our father: she made thee the scorn of slaves: Me (son of him who ruled this land and more) Would I had been so Oh that Zeus Forever! ere such vengeance Electra. Had let thy arm fall sooner at thy side Without those drops! list! they are audible- Too rash Orestes! Couldst thou not then have spared our wretched mother? Orestes. The gods could not. Orestes. And didst not thou- She was not theirs, Orestes! 'Twas I! 'twas I who did it! Of our unhappy house the most unhappy! 'Tis now my time to suffer Mine be, with all its pangs, the righteous deed! What a picture is that of Agamemnon and his boy, His joyous head and calling thee his crown !" Long may Mr. Landor conceive such pictures, and write such scenes! The days are happily past when the paltry epithet of "Cockney Poets" could be bestowed upon Keats and Leigh Hunt: the world has outlived them. People would as soon think of apply. ing such a word to Dr. Johnson. Happily, too, one of the delightful writers who were the objects of these unworthy attacks has outlived them also; has lived to attain a popularity of the most genial kind, and to diffuse, through a thousand pleasant |