A companion work is the similarly executed éloge of William Pitt—in whose personal character Dr. Croly impressively records the "solid connexion of private virtues with public fidelity"—while he insists on the "heaven-born minister's" success as commensurate with the lofty integrity of his principles, and dwells with exultant pride on his achievements in rebuilding into one superb confederacy the broken system of Europe, and closing by an unexampled triumph an unexampled war, which menaced the dissolution of every tie of nations and of men.
It is a long tale of years since Dr. Croly won his first laurels in verse by his "Paris in 1815"[1]—a decided success, which he followed up by a variety of other poetical ventures,—for example, "The Angel of the World," an Arabian legend; "Sebastian," a Spanish tale; a comedy, entitled "Pride shall have a Fall;" "Catiline," a tragedy; "Gems from the Antique;" numerous lyrics and occasional verses, " Scenes from Scripture," &c., &c. We cannot but assent to a lately deceased critic—himself a poet, tender and true—who, while according to Dr. Croly, as a poet, many great and shining qualities; a rich command of language, an ear finely attuned to musical expression, a fertile and lucid conceptive power, and an intellect at once subtle and masculine; yet observes, even of the best of his poems, that they are rather effusions than compositions, and abound with passages of mere declamation however eloquent, and, not unfrequently, substitute rhetoric for inspiration. We are reminded of the buskined tread and the stately regularity of the French theatre. We see the poet don the "learned sock" of one of our great masters, listen in vain for an echo of the "wood-notes wild," of another and a greater. We mark the imposing flow of canorous rhythm, the processional pomp of artful versification, the classical refinement of an uniformly elevated diction; but the touch of nature, the sudden thrill of feeling, the simple response of the heart to one that can sway it at will,—these we miss, and missing we deplore. Yet as we write, there occurs to us, as an instance quotable per contra, the touching-song of the gentle Moorish minstrel in "Sebastian"—which may be given in as evidence against us:
- ↑ Perhaps tho most vigorous and characteristic portion, as certainly the best known, of this poem, is that descriptive of the French retreat from Russia in 1812 beginning with the stanzas—
"Magnificence of ruin! what has time
Blood will have tenfold blood. What are they now? A name.
In all it ever gazed upon of war,
Of the wild rage of storm, or deadly clime,
Seen, with that battle's vengeance to compare?
How glorious shone the invader's pomp afar!
Like pampered lions from the spoil they came;
The land before them silence and despair,
The land behind them massacre and flame;
"Homeward by hundred thousands, columns-deep,
Broad square, loose squadron, rolling like the flood
When mighty torrents from their channels leap,
Bushed through the land the haughty multitude,
Billow on endless billow; on through wood,
O'er rugged hill, down sunless marshy vale,
The death-devoted moved, to clangour rude
Of drum and horn, and dissonant clash of mail,
Glancing disastrous light before that sunbeam pale."
