―17―

REVIEW.

Poems, by Peter Bayley, jun. Esq.
Philadelphia, Conrad & Co.p.232.
T. & G. Palmer, printers, 1804.

THIS is the first time that we
have seen the name of Peter Bayley
among the list of English poets. By
his works, however, he is entitled
to an honourable rank among them.
They rise far above the productions
of mediocrity with which the Eng-
lish press has lately groaned. The
volume before us contains specimens
of poetry of different descriptions.
The author has tried his strength in
blank verse and rhyme, in satire, in
description, in ode, in elegy, in son-
net, and in burlesque, and in each of
these he is considerably successful.

The first poem in this collection
is a satire, entitled An Apology for
Writing. The writer has adopted,
in this piece, the fashionable mode
of dialogue, annotation, and quota-
tion; his versification is melodious;
and his temper appears to be as iras-
cible as the lovers of the crack of
Gifford's horsewhip could wish it.

The three most considerable po-
ems, as to length, are “An Evening
in the Vale of Festiniog,” “A First
View of the World,” and “The De-
lusions of Love.” The first of these,
as the title would inform us, is de-
scription, intermixed with such re-
flection as the scenes described is
calculated to inspire. Mr. B. seems
to have that enthusiastic love of na-
ture, which is inseparable from the
truest and highest spirit of poetry.
The following passage will enable
the reader to judge, in some mea-
sure, how far this assertion is just:

	But who shall paint the mingled     waves of light,
	And hues effulgent, that together roll,
	Where with the sky the long-drawn     blazing line
	Of ocean mixes! There the ardent glow
	Of topaz, and the ruddy ruby's flush,
	Unite, convolved in floods; floating     along,
	Big clouds of purple, edg'd with bright-     est light,
	Spread their broad vans; above, a thin     light tinge
	Of palest saffron melts by faint degrees
	Into the pure cærulean: higher still,
	Through the broad veil of grey that     spreads around,
	And fills the vault of heaven, at inter-     vals,
	Bursts the blue sky, and sheds a milder     day.
	A cool half shadow, like the first     small mist
	That rises from the bosom of some lake
	In early eve, creeps up the rugged sides
	And cliffs of the vast mountains that     embrace
	On either side, with double range, the     vale *.
	Who so unblessed as to lock up his     heart
	Against the soothing power and sweet     illapse
	Of Nature's voice !—For sure there     dwells a voice,
	A moving spirit, and a speaking tongue,
	In the loud waters, and the nimble air,
	And the still moon-beam, and the living     light †
	Of suns resplendent in their mid career.
	And there are sounds that to reflect-     ing minds
	Speak feelingly, aiding the bland effect
	Of all that Nature offers to the eyes
	Of mortal men—And thus the lulling     strains,
	That, with low-welling tones and dying     falls,
	Come floating down the breeze, into my     heart
	Whisper strange things—Nor less the     varying voice
	That issues from the bubbling stream     affects
	My melting soul, when, now with still     small sound
	It trembles, then, with a sweet skir-     mishing,
	Fills all the breeze, and after many a     swell
	And sweeping strain of winding melody,
	It sinks away, quite lost in a full pause,

  * Look how the mountains, with the
double range, Embrace the vale of Tempe.

Akens [gap]

  † Un vivo Sole. Petrarch.

―18―

	And there are sounds that not unplea-     santly
	Fill the attentive ear, though chiming in
	With sharper music. Scarce discernible
	From the brown scaly hark to which she     clings,
	The wryneck pours her cry incessantly *,
	With wail monotonous: down by the     stream side
	Pipes the curlew; and, wheeling to and     fro
	With tumbling flight, and glancing in     the sun,
	Yon golden plovers whistle sharp and     shrill.
	Yet these are passing pleasant; for the     breeze
	Blends them together, and, low whis-     pering,
	Tempers each harsh sound with its own     sweet breath,
	With half-heard warblings, and unnum-     bered sighs
	Of rustling leaves; while, heard through     every note,
	The bubbling rill that murmurs at my     feet
	Rolls in mild concord, and pervades the     whole.

“The First View of the World”
contains many pleasing passages,
some happy descriptions of the vi-
vid and deceptive pleasures of youth,
and some just censures on the man-
ner in which wealth and power con-
fer their favours. It closes in the
following poetical manner:

	Dear native Wever, by whose gentle     stream
	I gave my soul to many a blissful dream,
	Though now in discontent and gloom I     stray
	Far from the vale that sees thy waters     play,
	Where'er I go, where'er my footsteps     roam,
	[gap] fancy still returns to thee and home;
	[gap] thy known banks and loved reces-     ses rise
	[gap] my soul, and cheat my long-     [gap] eyes;
	[gap] endeared by past events em-     [gap]
	[gap] and charm with momen-
	* —Iynx Torquilla.
	But ah not long the smiling visions stay,
	Vice comes—in air they melt, they fade     away.
	The baleful power rears high in pride     her face,
	And shows a different form in every-     place,
	Meets me at every turn where'er I go,
	Nor suffers me one hour of peace to     know;
	In vain her presence I attempt to fly,
	Turn where I will she meets my sicken-     ing eye.
	Thus some poor Indian, on his un-     known way,
	Worn with fatigue, and trembling with     dismay,
	Wanders ‘till night has spread her     shades around,
	Then throws him in despair upon the     ground;
	Sleep seals his eyes; he finds a short     repose,
	A short and sweet oblivion of his woes;
	Wrapt in a blissful dream he seems to     rove
	Through the sweet mazes of a spicy     grove,
	Where cool rills murmur through the     tangled glade,
	And tall bananas spread their graceful     shade;
	Or where through green savannahs,     clear and strong,
	The deep majestic waters sweep along.
	And ever to his senses stands displayed
	The beauteous image of his much-loved     maid;
	Near in the tamarind shade she seems     to stand,
	Arrayed in smiles, and beckoning waves     her hand;
	Glowing with love he gazes on her     charms,
	Then sighs, and wide extends his eager     arms;
	Already holds her in his strict embrace,
	And hangs in maddening rapture o'er     her face.
	Ah, bliss how short! he wakes, and all     aghast
	Hears the fierce yell of tigers in the blast,
	Hears the gaunt lion roaring for his prey,
	And fears the fell hyena in his way.—
	Frantic along his dismal way he speeds,
	And dreads when, murmuring in the     giant reeds,
	Strange whispers sound, as in the winds     they shake,
	Some unknown monster crouching in the     brake.

―19―

In “The Delusions of Love,” the
author has imitated closely the stile
and manner of Akenside's Pleasures
of Imagination. I expected more
from the title of this poem, than I
find it contains. The subject is so
copious, and so animating to youth-
ful imagination, that I thought here
the writer would have called into
exercise all his strength. I was
however disappointed. He seems
to have explored his way from bor-
rowed lights, and to have culled,
without acknowledgment, from A-
kenside, Armstrong, and Thomson.

Some of the smaller poems are
extremely happy. “The Forest
Fay” discovers a sportive and wan-
dering fancy. The following verses
in his address “To the Powers of
Fancy” contain a description of sen-
sations which those may have felt
who have loved.

	Oft as your influence led, my feet have     strayed,
	Through dells enlightened by the     moon's pale beam,
	Have sought the silence of the pathless     glade,
	The vaulted rock, or long-resounding     stream.

	Then would the murmurs of the passing     wind,
	That breathed, soft sighing, through     the rustling sprays,
	Create strange feelings in my melting     mind,
	And lead my ravished thoughts     through many a maze.

	Then would the cataract's impetuous     sound
	Exalt my soul, as down its rifted bed
	It drove unceasing, and my feet would     bound,
	As if upborn by wings, with loftier     tread.

	Sweet were ye, dreams of Fancy, when     my soul
	First felt the bosom-spring of young     desire,
	When first Love's dear enchantment     o'er me stole,
	And every pulse confessed his thrilling     fire.

	Then first did Hope unveil her laughing     eyes,
	And promise sunshine to my future     years;
	But ah! with Hope came mingled tears,     and sighs,
	And fond anxieties, and chilling fears.

	Then Love was all to me; all nature     round
	Seemed full of Love; in every leaf     and flower
	Something congenial with his flame I     found,
	Some apt memorial of his wide-spread     power.

	Oft as I shunned the busy haunts of     care,
	And roamed through glens and forest-     glooms, each sound
	That floated buoyant on the wings of     air
	Within my breast an answering echo     found.

The sonnets are in the usual sad
and complaining stile, but not mark-
ed by any bold strokes of originality.
“The Ivy-Seat” is the best of the
amatory verses, and paints little in-
cidents which feelingly touch the
heart.

“The Fisherman's Wife, dedi-
cated to all admirers of the familiar
style of writing, so popular in 1800,”
is intended as a burlesque on the
Lyrical Ballads, which we have al-
ready in this work justly condemned.
Though “The Fisherman's Wife”
is to be considered as the highest
kind of ridicule, yet, if viewed in a
serious light, it is vastly superior
either to “The Thorn” or “Idiot
Boy” of Wordsworth.

On reviewing the whole, we think
that Bayley's Poems must furnish an
acceptable repast for poetical taste.
Though they do not rise to any very
daring or original flights, yet they
keep a steady course above the level
of mediocrity, and occasionally break
forth into strains which betoken ge-
nius.