MODERN BRITISH POETS.

"Poets-dwell on earth,

To clothe whate'er the soul admires and loves,
With language and with numbers."

AKENSIDE.

NINE muses were enough for one Greece, and nine poets are enough for one country, even in the nineteenth century. And these nine are "a sacred nine," who, if not quite equal to Shakspeare, Spenser, and Milton, are fairly initiated masters of the wand and spell; and whose least moving incantation should have silenced that blasphemer, who dared to say, in the pages of Blackwood, that "all men, women, and children, are poets, saving only-those who write verses.

First-There is CAMPBELL-a poet; simply a poet-no philosopher. His forte is strong conception, a style free and bold; occasionally a passage is ill-finished, but the lights and shades are so happily distributed, the touch so masterly and vigorous, with such tact at knowing where to stop, that we must look for the faults in order to see them. There is little, if any, originality of thought; no profound meaning; no esoteric charm, which you cannot make your own on a first reading; yet we have all probably read Campbell many times. It is his manner which we admire; and in him we enjoy what most minds enjoy most, not new thoughts, new feelings, but recognition of

"What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed."

Thus, in Campbell's best productions we are satisfied, not stimulated. "The Mariners of England" is just what it should

be;—for we find free, deep tones, from the seaman's breast, chorded into harmony by an artist happy enough to feel nature— wise enough to follow nature. "Lochiel" is what it should be, a wild, breezy symphony, from the romantic Highlands. There are, in fact, flat lines and tame passages in "Lochiel ;" but I should never have discovered them, if I had not chanced to hear that noble composition recited by a dull schoolboy. The idealizing tendency in the reader, stimulated by the poet's real magnetic power, would prevent their being perceived in a solitary perusal, and a bright schoolboy would have been sufficiently inspired by the general grandeur of the piece; to have known how to sink such lines as

or,

"Welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock,

Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock;"

Draw, dotard, around thy old, wavering sight;"

and a few other imperfections in favour of

"Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn,"

and other striking passages.

As for the sweet tale of " Wyoming," the expression of the dying Gertrude's lips is not more "bland, more beautiful," than the music of the lay in which she is embalmed. It were difficult to read this poem, so holy in its purity and tenderness, so deliciously soft and soothing in its coloring, without feeling better and happier.

The feeling of Campbell towards women is refined and deep. To him they are not angels--not, in the common sense, heroines; but of a "perfect woman nobly planned," he has a better idea than most men, or even poets. Witness one of his poems, which has never received its meed of fame; I allude to Theodric. Who can be insensible to the charms of Constance, the matron counterpart to Gertrude's girlhood?

"To know her well,

Prolonged, exalted, bound enchantment's spell ;
For with affections warm, intense, refined,
She mixed such calm and holy strength of mind,
That, like Heaven's image in the smiling brook,
Celestial peace was pictured in her look;
Her's was the brow in trials unperplexed,
That cheered the sad and tranquillized the vexed;
She studied not the meanest to eclipse,
And yet the wisest listened to her lips;

She sang not, knew not Music's magic skill,

But yet her voice had tones that swayed the will.”

"To paint that being to a grovelling mind

Were like portraying pictures to the blind.

"Twas needful even infectiously to feel

Her temper's fond, and firm, and gladsome zeal,
To share existence with her, and to gain
Sparks from her love's electrifying chain,

Of that pure pride, which, lessening to her breast
Life's ills, gave all its joys a treble zest,
Before the mind completely understood
That mighty truth-how happy are the good!
Even when her light forsook him, it bequeathed
Ennobling sorrow; and her memory breathed
A sweetness that survived her living days,
As odorous scents outlast the censer's blaze.

Or if a trouble dimmed their golden joy,

"Twas outward dross and not infused alloy;
Their home knew but affection's look and speech,

A little Heaven beyond dissension's reach.
But midst her kindred there was strife and gall;
Save one congenial sister, they were all
Such foils to her bright intellect and grace,
As if she had engrossed the virtue of her race,
Her nature strove th' unnatural feuds to heal,
Her wisdom made the weak to her appeal;

And though the wounds she cured were soon unclosed,
Unwearied still her kindness interposed."

The stanzas addressed to John Kemble I have never heard admired to the fulness of my feeling. Can any thing be finer than this?

"A majesty possessed

His transport's most impetuous tone;
And to each passion of his breast
The graces gave their zone.”

or,

"Who forgets that white discrowned head,

Those bursts of reason's half-extinguished glare,

Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed
In doubt more touching than despair,

If 'twas reality he felt ?"

or,

"Fair as some classic dome,
Robust and richly graced,
Your Kemble's spirit was the home
Of genius and of taste.-

Taste like the silent dial's power,

That, when supernal light is given,

Can measure inspiration's hour

And tell its height in Heaven.

At once ennobled and correct,

His mind surveyed the tragic page;

And what the actor could effect,

The scholar could presage."

These stanzas are in Campbell's best style. Had he possessea as much lyric flow as force, his odes might have vied with those of Collins. But, though soaring upward on a strong pinion, his flights are never prolonged, and in this province, which earnestness and justness of sentiment, simplicity of imagery, and a picturesque turn in expression, seem to have marked out as his own, he is surpassed by Shelley, Coleridge, and Wordsworth, from their greater power of continuous self-impulse.

I do not know where to class Campbell as a poet. What he has done seems to be by snatches, and his poems might have been published under the title of "Leisure Hours, or Recreations of a Great Man." They seem like fragments, not very heedfully stricken off from the bed of a rich quarry; for, with all their individual finish, there is no trace of a fixed purpose to be discerned in them. They appear to be merely occasional effusions, like natural popular poetry; but, as they are written by an accomplished man in these modern days of design and system, we are prompted to look for an aim, a prevading purpose. We shall not find it. Campbell has given us much delight; if he has not directly stimulated our thoughts, he has done so much to refine ur tastes, that we must respectfully tender the poetic garland.

And thou, ANACREON MOORE, sweet warbler of Erin! What an ecstasy of sensation must thy poetic life have been! Certainly the dancing of the blood never before inspired so many verses. Moore's poetry is to literature, what the compositions of Rossini are to music. It is the hey-day of animal existence, embellished by a brilliant fancy, and ardent though superficial affections. The giddy flush of youthful impulse empurples the most pensive strains of his patriotism, throbs in his most delicate touches of pathos, and is felt as much in Tara's Halls as in the description of the Harem. His muse is light of step and free of air, yet not vulgarly free; she is not a little excited, but it is with quaffing the purest and most sparkling champagne. There is no temperance, no chastened harmony in her grief or in her joy. His melodies are metrically perfect; they absolutely set themselves to music, and talk of spring, and the most voluptuous breath of the blossom-laden western breeze, and the wildest notes of the just returning birds. For his poetic embodying of a particular stage of human existence, and his scintillating wit, will Moore chiefly be remembered. He has been boon-companion and toast-master