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gratulate Mr. Harris on his having achieved a task which few poets would have had the courage to undertake, and few would have executed so well.Literary Gazette.

Napoleon: an Epic Poem, in Twelve Cantos. By William Richard Harris. Longman & Co.

A very handsome quarto volume of more than 400 pages, with well-engraved portraits of Napoleon and Wellington. The writer is a cousin of Captain William Dawson, R.N., and of Sir W. Cornwallis Harris, H.E.I.C.S., author of "The Highlands of Ethiopia," &c., and to those gentlemen it is "respectfully dedicated."

In his preface Mr. Harris professes himself "deeply impressed with the feeling that the very idea of writing an epic poem in our times will be considered a proof of great daring;" and he adds, "no poet in England since Milton, I believe, and none in Germany since Klopstock, has ventured to attempt it." This is not quite correct. The attempts at least have been numerous: Pye, the poet-laureat, wrote an epic, of which King Alfred was the hero; a gentleman who died within the last year or two devoted thirty or forty years of his life to an epic on the same subject, which, being left incomplete, was finished and published by one of the Roscoes; some years ago, Miss Porden, afterwards Mrs. Franklin, the wife of Captain Franklin, of the Royal Navy, wrote an epic in sixteen books (two thick octavo volumes) on the subject of Richard Cour de Lion; and Mr. Atherstone, the author of "A Midsummer Day's Dream," has published three or four volumes of an epic poem, not yet complete, entitled "The Fall of Nineveh." There have been others, the subjects and titles of which are not within our recollection. Lucien Buonaparte also wrote an epic, taking his own brother, Napoleon, for its hero.

"I trust, however," observes Mr. Harris, "that my countrymen will receive the work favourably, if not on account of its intrinsic merits as a poem, at least for the sake of its object-to dispel the illusions of hero-worship, unless the hero idolized be good as well as great,-a Wellington, not a Napoleon,-the defender of his country, not the world's tyrant."

This is as it should be; and most fully do we enter into the principles, views, and feelings of the writer.

"The position," Mr. Harris proceeds to say, "I have taken up must, at all events, be admitted to be truly English. I have endeavoured to express, in as forcible language as possible, a burning hatred against tyranny, against that all-absorbing spirit of egotism which is the utter destruction of all national liberty and happiness, against falsehood and deceit in every shape; and a well-founded pride in my country, and in her gallant defenders, who, in those dreadful times of bloodshed and destruction which form the subject of the poem, wafted the fame of the British nation from zone to zone,-a sentiment which, I am convinced, will find an echo in every British bosom."

The poem opens at day-break on the morning of the famous battle of the Moskwa, September 7, 1812 :"Along the far-extended martial lines

A warning blast is blown-a solemn note
Calling to arms!"

and closes with Napoleon's return to the Tuilleries at
midnight after the Russian campaign, when-
"Rent is the dazzling veil; the Man of Blood-
Stripped of his meretricious lustre-pales;
NAPOLEON THE DESTROYER STANDS POR-
TRAYED!"

It is not our intention to subject this very spirited production to a trial by the laws of the Epopée, to which, on various accounts, we do not feel it to be amenable. The poem is in blank verse, with, however, an occasional change to rhyme. The change

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Or his, who told to an admiring world How godless Satan, from ambition, fell; Like his thy fall-never to rise again.' Having persuaded himself that the Homeric and Miltonian lyre-absolutely necessary for his subject-was at his command, Mr. Harris dashed, like an inspired one, in medias res.

The poet opens his first fire on the morning of the battle of the Moskwa, just before Napoleon opens his last fire on the Russians. The poet then, by a happy stroke of art, while the hostile emperors are looking unspeakable things at each other, recounts the birth, parentage, education, and career of his hero, all which occupies eleven of the above-recited cantos; then returning naturally to his mouton, he pursues the direct thread of his narrative. The originality of thus beginning the story at the end, and thence advancing backwards like the crab, must strike as a bright illustration of what the French call le commencement de la fin. But this is not the solitary claim to originality which this epic affords to its illustrious author. Whereas heretofore poets invariably sought, by every cunning device, to elevate their heroes, and hold them up to admiration, Mr. Harris, like a bold man, as he undoubtedly is, does the very contrary with his, and puts in use every art in his power to knock down and render contemptible the "dread captain," whose "mighty deeds demand Homeric lyre." Truly, Mr. Harris is destined, if we be not much deceived, to make Homer, Virgil, Tasso, Milton, et hoc genus omne, quite quite obsolete.

We must introduce the great Napoleon in his childhood, particularly as it gives us the opportunity of introducing with him the kindred spirits of Newton, Pope, Milton, and the author of "Napoleon Portrayed:"

"Napoleon's childhood-scornful and reserved,
By sullen gloom o'ercast, to wrathful ire
Easily kindled-was indicative

Of future greatness-fierce, abrupt, and proud.
The child, indeed, the father of the man!'
He spurn'd all knowledge, save of warlike strife;
His toy a cannon, and the well-charged mine
And turf-built fort his pastime and delight;
His day-dream slaughter, his night-vision blood!
Thus Newton blew his bubble worlds around,
Enraptured eyeing their prismatic hues ;
Thus Pope in childhood sought the forest shade,
Lisping sweet numbers to the sighing gale;
Thus he who, now adventurous tardy pours
Heroic lay, from earliest infancy

Courted, enamour'd, Milton's flowing strain-
Mute, till a heavenly theme his fancy fired!"

Having thus introduced Messrs. Harris and Co. in their infancy to our readers, we must pray them to skip with us over about 12,000 heroic lines-of which the above is a very favourable sample-and to fancy they see Napoleon, after his flight from Moscow, halting in Warsaw, and holding counsel with De Pradt, the French ambassador. The Emperor speaks :— "Welcome, De Pradt, we thought you were in bed." The modern conqueror was too shrewd a fellow not to know that ambassadors, as well as epic poets, will nod occasionally, and that most confoundedly, too. After a brief chat, he exclaims

"What, know ye not, Monsieur l'Ambassadeur,
From the sublime to the ridiculous

Is but a step? I am in haste. Adieu!" The next paragraph brings us to Paris, and to the end of this stupendous work of imagination. As it is intended to be a sort of epitome of the pathetic, the terrible-in short, all that is grand in the epic line, we quote it :

""Twas midnight, when from troubled sleep aroused By screams of terror and wild ecstasy, The youthful Empress of the French awoke.

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cannot be regarded otherwise than as a blemish, de-
tracting from the required dignity of style. We select,
by way of specimen, a passage relating to the conduct
of Napoleon after the destruction of Moscow:-
"Meantime great Moscow burns; and terrified-
His Kremlin twice in flames-to Petersköe,
Of Russia's Czars, suburban palace proud,
Napoleon in a cover'd carriage flies,

(So might he shun the fiery hell within!)
Five days and nights of horror now are pass'd,

The awful conflagration terminates.

Through smoking streets, 'midst blacken'd palaces,
The gloomy tyrant wends his silent way.
The Kremlin once again his sad abode,
Whence issue proclamations fairly penn'd,
Assuring all of his paternal love;
Their happiness his chief solicitude.
Ingrateful Muscovites, return, return :
Come taste your father's mild beneficence.
Why lingerest thou Napoleon? hence, away!
Russia thou canst not crush, nor circumvent;
Stern winter but delays, with keener blast
The year to rule, and mock thy overthrow.
Lose not an instant; from a capital
By patriot wrath in smoking ruins laid,
Retreating, as from Acre, swift depart.
Already war, fatigue, and misery,
Excess, indiscipline, and luxury,

Thy mighty power have 'minished; of thy host
A third is lost; be warn'd ere yet too late;
Fly whence thou camest, thy faithful army save!
His faculties benumb'd and stupified,
His judgment paralysed, his genius gone,
Blinded by pride, dementate by success,
Napoleon, deaf to counsel, lingers on ;
While Kutusoff swift gathering to a head
At Lectascova, as with Pallas' spear,
Protects the fertile southern provinces.
If on St. Petersburg Napoleon march,
Poland is lost, the Russian in his rear:
If on the Volga, every step he takes
From his resources leads him, and reserves.
The roads to Twer, Kalüga, Waldimir,
And Moscow's smouldering ruins, feebly held,
The centre and the circle of his power.
Pent in, surrounded, constantly assailed,
No respite day or night, the daring foe
No hour for necessary rest allows,
None for refreshment; war, incessant war,
Napoleon sought: sweet Peace, how welcome now!"
Naval and Military Gazette.

Napoleon: an Epic Poem, in Twelve Cantos. By W. R. Harris. Longman & Co.

a

Sooth to say, this is a handsome quarto, externally as well as internally. The binding displays. profusion of appropriate ornamental gold work, the edges are richly gilt, and the typography, paper, and portraits of Napoleon and of the Duke are executed in very superior style. As regards the narrative embodied in the letterpress, we cannot help differing in opinion with its author. The eulogiums which he passes upon the Duke of Wellington are doubtless well merited, but we think they are mixed up with too much gall. Mr. Harris's enthusiasm has hurried him into a wrong estimate of the character of the great French conqueror. Short as is the period which has elapsed since Napoleon's death, posterity has done much toward divesting his name of the atrocities with which it was formerly associated. The tributary nations which crouched in days of yore beneath his sway, now venerate his memory, and are grateful for the benefits which have gradually resulted from the wise and improved system of government which he introduced. Amended laws, the correction of long-existing abuses, the amelioration of the condition of the working-classes, the en

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Napoleon enters-"Tis my Sovereign Liege !
But, oh! how altered since we last embraced;
Not so my love, which in adversity
Daily increases: come then to my arms!
But wherefore thus alone at dead of night
Returns my gracious Lord and dearest Liege?'
For once abashed, confounded, motionless

The vanquished Conqueror stood, and smiling sad,
In falt'ring voice replied-Beloved Louise!
From the sublime to the ridiculous

Is but a step; that step, alas! I made.

I need repose; my heart is sick and faint;

The flames of Moscow scorch my inmost soul!

But I forget; how is our darling boy?
Let me behold him ere we sink to rest.
Alas, alas ! I dare not kiss thee, child ;

I have dethroned thee, pretty innocent!'

*

Rent is the dazzling veil; the Man of BloodStripp'd of his meretricious lustre-pales ; NAPOLEON, THE DESTROYER, STANDS PORTRAYED!" If any one fails to discover the more than Homeric beauties concealed in these specimens, we profess that we cannot help them.

The volume is beautifully brought out, and is embellished with two very fine engravings of Napoleon and Wellington. Altogether, it is a handsome book of the season.-Court Journal.

Napoleon: an Epic Poem, in Twelve Cantos. By William Richard Harris. Longman.

The product of a soil does not always correspond in value to the number and diligence of the labourers who work it. If it did, modern times would be rich in poetic excellence. The muse had never more ardent and more numerous worshippers, yet never did she so constantly withhold from them the favour of her smiles. Of respectable poetry we have abundance, of great poetry rarely a line; plenty of industry and talent, but of genius only an occasional flash.

It has been truly observed-and the observation is worth repeating for the lesson it conveys-that nothing is so wholly worthless as mediocre verse. There is no market for it in the world. Good abilities and steady labour will advantage men in almost every other pursuit, and frequently raise them to eminence; but in poetry they can do nothing. If excellence be denied the artist, he may yet find profitable employment for moderate talents judiciously exercised. If a prose writer cannot obtain admiration, he may yet make himself useful and respected. In law, in physic, in divinity, there are places for utility, but in poetry there is not one. Without the soul is touched by genuine fire from heaven talent is of no avail, and diligence is wasted. That a poet is born, not made, is one of the maxims of antiquity most surely confirmed by all modern experience. The disciples of art and science may become skilful by the study of art and science; but the poet is the child of Nature; she will let man have nothing to do with his productions. She forms and directs his powers herself. She makes his mind distinct from all minds that have preceded it. Her last creation seems always the most wonderful, because, when originality appeared impossible, she produces genius whose originality bursts forth with distinguished splendour. She observes no rule in her favours: sometimes she smiles on a peasant at his sometimes on a noble in his aristocratic plough ; school; sometimes on the student, whose mind is filled with various lore; sometimes on an idler, whose youth has been passed in untrained freedom. The culture is nothing in comparison with the stock. The Emperor Julian and Frederick the Great, though enthroned in splendour, were pigmies in the temple of the Muse. She will fly from gilded quartoes in morocco to nestle in sixpenny pamphlets-a truth to be established before our hand drops the pen it holds. Men may make for themselves character, fortune,

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couragement of the arts and sciences, and their judicious cultivation for the weal and comfort and instruction of every branch of the community-all these form the subject of grateful recollection throughout a large portion of the continent of Europe. Napoleon Bonaparte was not, as Mr. Harris alleges, a base-minded man. His was a stern master-mind, determined in its purposes, and resolute and inflexible in carrying them into effect. But he was neither the heartless monster, nor the oppressive and selfish tyrant, which less dispassionate times represented him to be. The prejudices and enmities of earlier years have given way to unbiassed reflection, and the motives and mainsprings of his actions are, or at least ought to be, discussed and examined by the solemn and unerring standard of truth. Be this as it may, the mighty one has fallen, and his sabre is for ever sheathed. He can do the world no more harm; then let his ashes rest in peace. Britons war with the living, and not with the dead. Of the poem itself-apart from these objections -we feel bound to speak in terms of praise. It is the production of a man of talent and lively imagination, who possesses the power of clothing his thoughts in energetic and graceful language. Take the opening passage as an instance :

Along the far-extended martial lines

A warning blast is blown-a solemn note
Calling to arms! Around each honour'd chief
In all that numerous host the soldiers press,
Anxious the high imperial will to learn
Of their famed leader. They to war inured,
And vain of former conquests, dreadless hear
That yet another battle is to fight,

Or ere the glittering prize, which fancy paints
Richer than ancient Rome, where Europe's wealth
With Asia's mingles, where bright gilded domes
Innumerable court the setting sun,
Or greet his rising beams-can be their own.
Moscow !-of all their warrior toils the goal,
Within whose palaces abundance reigns;
Vestments of Tyrian dye; rich wines the growth
Of every favour'd clime; gold,-as the sand
For plenty; diamonds sparkling 'midst the hair
Of blooming virgins, brighter in their thoughts
Than all the princely spoil within their grasp.
Say, whence this mighty army? who their chief?
From Gallia they,-a fair and fertile land;
NAPOLEON their dread captain-awful name!
Whose conquests, glories, crimes, and sudden fall
No feeble muse may sing! Thy mighty deeds,
Proud Corsican, demand Homeric lyre,
Or his who told to an admiring world,
How godless Satan, from ambition, fell-
Like his thy fall-never to rise again.'
At thy approach, Napoleon,-at thy frown,
All Europe trembles,-all her kings turn pale.
Britain alone, confiding in her God,

Thy madness watches, and foresees thy doom."

We have said, we trust, sufficient to shew that Mr. Harris is a poet of no mean order, and that, if he is not an impartial, he is, at all events, a forcible and harmonious biographer.-United Service Gazette.

· Napoleon Portrayed: an Epic Poem, in Twelve Cantos. We have delayed our notice of this work, in order to afford ourselves the opportunity of its entire perusal, and which has afforded us much gratification. In modern times, at least, this poem must stand in high estimation, and will secure the fame of Mr. Harris, as a poet of undoubted talent. The interest which the reader feels in the career of the hero never flags -no ordinary merit in a poem of such a length.

Hypercriticism will ever find cause for comment; but "Napoleon Portrayed" may confidently court severe, if honest, criticism. There are many points in Napoleon's history, which even his enemies cannot but ad

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name, station, happiness, but God only makes the poet.

Mr. Harris issues his epic poem of "Napoleon" in a magnificent form. The paper is like vellumthe binding is superb-the plates of Napoleon and Wellington characteristic and well executed-the typography all that could be desired. But the one quality which alone could stamp the book with value is wanting. The author is clever, perhaps accomplished. Unfortunately, he has mistaken his vocation-he is not a poet. Of his labour,-we think he must sometimes have worked hard at it-we could not with justice speak severely, even if we had any inclination to do so. He has, probably, ability to place him high in the rank of amateur critics, and to make his judgment looked up to in his own little circle. His sentiments are estimable-his views honest. There is always difficulty in dealing with works like his. What can be said of a composition in which there is nothing to admire or to condemnwhich calls neither for praise nor for censure? To ridicule would be cruel-to extol, false and absurd. Some authors there are-like Mr. George Jones, of Shakespeare-oration and Buckingham Institute notoriety-whom the critic may laugh at or scourge with a clear conscience. They have a skin rendered so impenetrable by vanity, that no shaft can wound them. To resort to a vulgar comparison, they are the Deaf Burkes of authorship. If you kick them out of your company, they have so little sense of the indignity, that they will unbrace and exhibit the bruise as a decoration of honour. They will persist in mistaking notoriety for fame, as it is said the man in brass at the last Lord Mayor's Show felt flattered, and sat more erect in his saddle, when the populace familiarly greeted him as Alderman Gibbs. But Mr. Harris is not one of those. He comes before us modestly. In his heart he thinks he has produced an epic that will live with "Paradise Lost" and "Jerusalem Delivered." But he makes no parade of this belief, and quietly insinuates a claim to praise on the score of the excellence of his motives and the patriotism of his feelings. In the very few lines we shall give to his work we will treat him considerately.

His aim in the epic is to present the world with a life of Napoleon in verse. Homer thought one incident in the siege of Troy-the anger of Achilles--sufficient for a poem which will live to the latest generation of man; Mr. Harris narrates sieges and pitched battles out of number. He follows his hero through all his campaigns, from the investment of Toulon to the retreat from Moscow. Perhaps the hundred days and the captivity at St. Helena will furnish matter for another quarto. So much for the subject. The verse is a little in the Satan-Montgomery style, though somewhat less mad, and somewhat more intelligible, than that. Setting out with the conviction that he must always be heroic, he regulates his pen by the same feeling that induces a respectable actor who personates tragedy kings to move with a stately and dignified strut. All his similes are drawn from the most legitimate sources, no matter whether the author or his personages speak. Thus in one place we have Napoleon declaring how he will defeat his enemies:

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mire, some of which afford fine scope for the poet's pen. Of these, his well-known visit to the plaguehospital in Egypt is one of the most remarkable, and has been most fervently and expressively portrayed by our author: we give an extract. To say that "Napoleon Portrayed" must rank amongst the productions of our first British poets is no mean commendation, and this we have no hesitation in affirming. Those best acquainted with the history of the period in which Napoleon lived, will derive infinite pleasure from the perusal of this poem; whilst those but moderately acquainted with it will derive both information and pleasure.

"Thus like a proud steed rein'd' Napoleon turn'd,
Restrain'd, yet fierce; though baffled, unsubdued!
As earthquake-swollen tide in dread recoil
Sweeps all away, thus in his hurried flight
Napoleon leaves his track a wilderness.
Him Sydney and the ever-vengeful Turk
Pursue, and harass on his painful march;
While on the wings of wind, invisible,

The plague his heartless, hopeless ranks assails,
Whose very name their joints with palsy strikes ;
The healthy tremble, and the sick despair.
Unmoved Napoleon strode; alike to him
The fierce equator or the frozen pole.
Did he in truth the Koran then believe?
Or were his star, his fate, his destiny,
Unmeaning words, Fortune herself a name?
If fatalist, as he so often vouch'd-

If convert to Mahomet's senseless creed-
One noble act, as verdant oasis
By fancy's eye beheld-illusory—
Approach'd, dissolves and vanishes in air.
Fain would Calliope this glorious act
To high nobility of soul ascribe;

If such, a lovely oasis indeed,
Welcome as that to thirsty caravan,
Or lonely pilgrim bound to Mecca's shrine,
By joyful cry of camel first reveal'd,
Where branching palms refreshing shade afford,
And water-blessed water-glads the sight!
Stretch'd on his miserable pallet, lies
The plague's sad victim; fearful agonies
His troubled senses shake; his fearful moans
None hear, none heed; none at his dying groans
One tear of pity sheds; not one to prop
His sinking head; his fever'd tongue no drop
Moistens or cools: alone the wretch must die;
All from the foul contagion shuddering fly.
One only still his wonted calm maintains,
One only firm and unperturb'd remains :
Napoleon only ventures to inhale

The plague's 'mephitic breath;' while deadly pale,
In mute amaze, his generals hesitate,
Fearless he enters, as defying fate :

'Can dastard fear my warriors' hearts appal?'
Re-echoes through that lone deserted hall.
'Not this the plague-approach without alarm!
Take courage-enter! Friend, extend thy arm!
This is no plague-spot, or, believe me, I
Not thus would squeeze the ulcer, thus apply
The needful bandage. Henceforth banish fear;
But let not him expect soft pity's tear,
Who, reckless of his dying comrade's state,
Unmoved deserts, and leaves him to his fate.'
Oh, why not ever thus? So had thy name,
Renown'd in song, an ever-during fame,
Napoleon, won; so with unmix'd delight
Some happier bard, thy glory, skill, and might
Recording, had thy bold humanity
Justly extoll'd, unstain'd by cruelty."
Mark Lane Express.

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Where great Æneas on the Latian plain,
Wins fair Lavinia's hand-bold Turnus slain."

We must remark here one peculiarity in the author's style. Without the slightest preparatory notice, he starts at once from blank verse into rhyme, and, after a dozen couplets or so, returns to blank verse again. This variety of measure is more novel than pleasing. We allow the author to ring the changes on Homer, Milton, and Virgil once more :

"Beauteous their chargers as the heavenly race
Yoked by the Hora to Apollo's car;
Swift as the snowy coursers Diomed

And sage Ulysses from the Thracian tents-
Ill-fated Rhesus slain-triumphant drove,

Through blood and slaughter, to the Grecian camp.”

"When, as Virgilius sings, by strange device
Of wooden horse gigantic, hero-cramm'd,
Triumphant dragg'd her prostrate walls within,
Stern Pyrrhus gave her temples to the flames."

We might fill our columns with like illustrations; but it is unnecessary. If the reader will imagine all Napoleon's exploits narrated in an equally magnificent style, he will have an adequate idea of Mr. Harris's epic. Occasionally, however, a familiar line slips from his pen unawares. The third canto opens thus:

"Rubbing his hands with undissembled glee, Napoleon cried," &c.

Though the expression is not heroic, we must admit it was much more natural that Napoleon should rub his hands than that he should "shake his pinions," or perform any other of the movements which epic poetry would seem to require. Yet it is seldom that Mr. Harris so far forgets what is due to the dignity of his verse. In a tragedy recently produced by Mr. Macready, pretending to depict the life of the day, the heroine, wishing her carriage, thus commands the startled footman who answers her bell:

"Harness my fleetest steeds!"

So Mr. Harris, when with patriotic ardour he calls on good King George the Third to oppose the tyrant Napoleon, loftily exclaims

"Up, Royal George! ascend thy charger's side ;" a form of adjuration which, if his charger were the Alps, might be very appropriate. To suit the exaltation of his verse, Mr. Harris finds it necessary to equally exalt his personages. It requires a bundle of splendid heroes to make one Wellington:"Achilles' heart, with patriot Hector's mind; Prudent as Nestor, as Tydides bold; As Cæsar fortunate, as Chatham wise; Renown'd as Nelson, and of equal might, Arthur of Wellington! illustrious Prince Of Waterloo!"

As for Buonaparte, he is Abaddon, Satan, and half a hundred bad deities besides. Mr. Harris's conception of the character reminds one of those melodramatic villains, who "strut and fret their hour" upon a Surrey or Coburg stage. Napoleon is represented as waiting the tidings of the Duke d'Enghien's death:

"Pale, agitated, trembling, and alone,

The revolutionary tyrant stood;

No word escaped his lips, but on his brow

A deadly gloom was seated, and his eye

Glanced fiercely round on vacancy. He seized,

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And from his scabbard drew a crooked blade,
Damascus temper; breathed upon and rubb'd
A spot which dimm'd its lustre; sheathed again,
And noiselessly resumed his gilded chair.
Upon a massive table scatter'd lay
Innumerable papers; some he read

And instant tore, gnashing his teeth with rage,
Replacing others with contemptuous smile.
A secret spring he pressed-wide open flew,
On silent hinges imperceptible,

A hidden door concealed with cunning art,
Known only to the tyrant. First he grasp'd
A Turkish dagger (lost at Waterloo);
Then carefully examined, loaded, primed,
Pistols of curious workmanship antique ;
Reclosed the door, and towards the window stole.
'Would it were morn-would that the deed were
done!'

With low and husky voice Napoleon said;
Unbarr'd a shutter-softly raised the sash-
Listen'd attently: No, not yet the hour;
Oh could I say 'tis done!"

This is really respectable verse. The reader is only disappointed that all the exciting preparations for a burglary or a murder-the pressing of springs, the opening of doors, the unbarring of shutters, the polishing of sword and dagger, the raising the sash, and the loading of pistols-come to nothing after all. In various passages scattered throughout the twelve cantos the author quietly gives expression to the hope, that the inspirations of his muse may live with the verse of the great poets he admires, Homer and Milton. We are sorry to undeceive him. There is enough of energy and work in the book to have won for the author a fair, perhaps an eminent name in any other pursuit to which he might have devoted himself. But they are utterly lost in this poem, which shows beside really great epics like a muddy road compared with the starry heaven. It is to be hoped that the author has found amusement in his labour, as it is very unlikely that he will acquire by it either profit or fame.

One word on a common remark which we find embodied in Mr. Harris's preface. No epic poem, it is said, has been attempted in England since Milton. This is wrong; for several attempts have been made within our recollection, though not one with the slightest success. Yet we have not wanted great poets. That they declined the labour which such authors as Mr. Horne and Mr. Harris have undertaken, is to us a proof, not of their want of genius, but of their possession of sense. An epic, as it is commonly understood, written by a modern poet, must be wholly artificial in its subject, its thought, its feeling, its language. The stories of antiquity are worn out. We desire no more of the heathen mythology. Jove, with his ægis, his thunderbolts, his eagles, and his curls, fails to fascinate us out of Homer. All the usages of modern life are opposed to epic style. Say that Wellington is as great a hero as Achilles, yet you will never make him so picturesque a one. Admit his truncheon is a more destructive weapon than the spear of Atrides, yet how can its point be described, flashing

"Like lightning, or like flame, or like the sun"? Say that his words, spreading from rank to rank, have caused more fatal carnage than the voice of Achilles, yet we want for poetry the terrible shout that sent confusion through the Trojan ranks, filling the longmaned coursers with affright, driving back the chariots with swift recoil, and crushing the noblest in the ranks of Troy, in the press and hurry of that dread retreat. We are utterly hopeless of any modern campaigns furnishing the subject of a great poem. Even Scott's genius forsook him when he left the wild adventures of border warfare for the plains of Waterloo. We will not be so rash as to assume that no more epics will be written; but we must confess, we think

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our age very unsuitable to their production, and also that we do not expect the announcement of one with any degree of impatience.-Britannia.

Napoleon: an Epic Poem, in Twelve Cantos. By W. R. Harris.

The author of this nondescript piece of inanity tells us that he is "deeply impressed with the feeling that the very idea of writing an epic poem in our times will be considered a proof of great daring;" and then adds, "No poet in England since Milton, I believe, and none in Germany since Klopstock, has ventured to attempt it." Now, this is really an astounding assertion! Why, it was only the other day that we reviewed an epic on King Alfred, of such compass and gigantic proportions, that the poem (?) before us compared therewithal is but as a weasel to a whale. There is an epic poem also on the same theme by a poet laureate of the name of Pye; and the late Mr. Southey himself indulged the world with three works having epic claims-"Joan of Arc," "Madoc," and "Roderick the last of the Goths." English and German literature, too, we believe, contains such names as Cowley, Blackmore, Cumberland, Glover, J. Montgomery, Voss, Goethe, and many more, who may be said, at least, to have "ventured to attempt" the epopea, whatever opinion may be formed of their success. If Mr. Harris denies these men to be poets, we are prepared to rejoin, that they are, perhaps, as much entitled to the appellation as himself; yet we doubt whether he would concede so much, considering his recorded opinion of his own qualifications, as intimated by his recollection of the early childhood of Napoleon, Newton, Pope, and-himself! "Napoleon's childhood-scornful and reserved, By sullen gloom o'ercast, to wrathful ire Easily kindled-was indicative

Of future greatness-fierce, abrupt, and proud; The child, indeed, the father of the man!' He spurn'd all knowledge, save of warlike strife; His toy a cannon, and the well-charged mine And turf-built fort his pastime and delight; His day-dream slaughter; his night-vision blood! Thus Newton blew his bubble worlds around, Enraptured eyeing their prismatic hues ; Thus Pope in childhood sought the forest shade, Lisping sweet numbers to the sighing gale; Thus he, who now adventurous tardy pours Heroic lay, from earliest infancy Courted, enamour'd, Milton's flowing strain, Mute-till a heavenly theme his fancy fired!" Small indication here of Miltonic harmony, and as little in other parts of the production; still less indicative of Mr. Harris having learned the epic art from the Bard of Paradise. These cantos, indeed, are biographical, not epic; beginning from Napoleon's birth, and ending with his flight from Moscow. What the writer means by describing his "theme" as "heavenly," we know not, seeing that he takes every opportunity of abusing his hero-sure sign that the argument must seek another poet. Enough, however, on such imbecility, though gorgeously printed, illustrated, and bound.

The Spinster at Home, in the Close of Salisbury; no Fable: together with Tales and Ballads. By Miss Child.

Another specimen of vanity well printed, bound, and illustrated. It is a mere topographical compilation in wretched doggrel. Such exhibitions of weakness on the part of persons educated, and holding some position in society, we suppose-certainly rich enough to get up their publications in a very costly style-are deplorable.-Athenæum.