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The Buccaneer has for its foundation, one of the most remarkable traditions among the people of our coast. It is a story of fearful interest. Its capabilities appear to us understood, and its great points well chosen and well emphacized. The descriptions employed in bringing home to us its several circumstances, are full of truth and beauty.

The introduction is a description of the haunt of the Bucca

neer:

"The island lies nine leagues away.

Along its solitary shore,

Of craggy rock and sandy bay

No sound but ocean's roar,

Save, where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home
Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam.

"But when the light winds lie at rest,
And on the glassy, heaving sea,

The black duck, with her glossy breast,
Sits swinging silently;

How beautiful! no ripples break the reach,

And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach.

"Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat

In former days within the vale;

Flapp'd in the bay the pirate's sheet;

Curses were on the gale;

Rich goods lay on the sand, and murder'd men;
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then."

Matthew Lee, the pirate chief of the isle, is shortly after introduced in the opening of the story :

"Twelve years are gone since Matthew Lee
Held in this isle unquestion'd sway,

A dark, low, brawny man was he-
His law-It is my way.'

Beneath his thickset brows a sharp light broke
From small grey eyes; his laugh a triumph spoke.

"Cruel of heart, and strong of arm,

Loud in his sport, and keen for spoil,
He little reck'd of good or harm,
Fierce both in mirth and toil;

Yet like a dog could fawn, if need there were ;
Speak mildly, when he would, or look in fear."

The characteristic action with which Lee appears, is skilfully chosen. The villain is not painted up touch after touch. Scarce five stanzas deep in the tale, its hero is before our imaginations. "There's blood and hair, Matt, on thy axe's edge." We arc much struck with the originality of this character; its unity, we think, as remarkable. It seems to be the opinion of some of our modern poets, that truth, however excellent a thing in morals, has no place in art. They seem to be scrupulous about introducing to their readers a villain in his real blackness. They weave in here and there an incompatible virtue, and dress the whole in many agreeable qualities, in hopes that these will make

his way in the world for him. Lee is no beau ideal murderer, with dark glancing eye and high pale forehead, shaded by sable curls. We do not find him stealing in one stanza, and breathing a pure and tender passion in another. There is a strong savour of New-England in his manner, which makes us realize him. He reminds us of more than one in actual life, who has made us shudder with the thought of what he might do, if roused or tempted.

We are aware, that many object to painting a character so vile, and events so terrific, on the ground that they are frightful and loathsome subjects of contemplation; but an author need not feel much hurt at being attacked by the same censure, which must inevitably condemn most of the great poets who have lived. We could bear most manfully, the shame of seeing our works in the poetical pillory, in company with Othello and Macbeth. But the truth is, we are apt to make little or no distinction between the horrible and the terrific. Wherever mean and revolting objects of sense are brought before the imagination, though associated with all those ideas which maintain the strongest hold on our pity and our love-the mind is engrossed by disgust, and cannot give it sympathy. The dogs gnawing the skulls, under the walls of Corinth, in Lord Byron, are an instance of the horrible, without one spark of poetry. The greater the powers employed on such a picture, the more loathsome is the result, the more evident the bad taste. But the abysses and darkness of a bad mind, are as decidedly the regions of poetry, as the open heaven and light of virtue. The passions and crimes of a villain, his mad career, his ruin, are a noble and moral subject of fiction, in any form; and we call the delicacy that is offended by such a representation, squeamishness and bad taste. We make these remarks, not with the hope of setting in a new light, the effect of this poetry on the minds of the susceptiblestill less of heightening its effect; but with a wish to persuade those, who, in matters of sentiment, resort to reason for instruction, how they ought to feel; the cold and obtuse, in short, to look into their own minds for the defect, when they have no strong pleasing stir of sympathy in reading a tale of fear. Such can have in their minds little of the poetical temperament.

A tale of blood, from beginning to end, displeases from its monotony; but how much higher is the art that relieves the mind, by other characters of a more amiable nature, than that which interweaves and confounds virtue and vice, detestable and praiseworthy qualities?

The victim of the pirate's cruelty comes before us, in the following beautiful stanzas:

"Too late for thee, thou young, fair bride;

The lips are cold, the brow is pale,

That thou didst kiss in love and pride.
He cannot hear thy wail,

Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmur'd sound-
His couch is cold and lonely in the ground.

"He fell for Spain-her Spain no more;
For he was gone who made it dear;
And she would seek some distant shore,
At rest from strife and fear,

And wait amidst her sorrows till the day

Her voice of love should call her thence away."

We are unwilling, in giving outlines of the story, and dissections of character, to fill a space in our page, which we think can be occupied to so much greater advantage, by extracts of the finer parts of the poem. We would be to our reader, rather the humble cicerone who shows the way to an interesting object, and leaves the spectator to enjoy and profit by the sight of it, than the antiquarian or connoisseur, who annoys him with his learning and his opinions, and drowns in a torrent of talk all its effect on his mind:

"The sun goes down upon the sea;
The shadows gather round her home.
'How like a pall are ye to me!

My home, how like a tomb!

O! blow, ye flowers of Spain, above his head.-
Ye will not blow o'er me when I am dead.'

"And now the stars are burning bright;
Yet still she looks towards the shore
Beyond the waters black in night.
'I ne'er shall see thee more!

Ye're many, waves, yet lonely seems your flow,
And I'm alone-scarce know I where I go.'

"Sleep, sleep, thou sad one, on the sea!
The wash of waters lulls thee now;
His arm no more will pillow thee,
Thy hand upon his brow.

He is not near, to hush thee, or to save.

The ground is his-the sea must be thy grave.

"The moon comes up-the night goes on.
Why in the shadow of the mast,

Stands that dark, thoughtful man alone?
Thy pledge, man; keep it fast!

Bethink thee of her youth and sorrows, Lee :
Helpless alone-and, then, her trust in thee!

"When told the hardships thou hadst borne,
Her words were to thee like a charm.

With uncheer'd grief her heart is worn.—
Thou wilt not do her harm!

He looks out on the sea that sleeps in light,

And growls an oath- It is too still to-night!"

In the description of the scene of murder, we are struck by the choice and accumulation of circumstance, and the meaning of the language:

·

"On pale, dead men, on burning cheek,
On quick, fierce eyes, brows hot and damp,
On hands that with the warm blood reek,
Shines the dim cabin lamp.

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Lee look'd. They sleep so sound,' he, laughing, said,
They'll scarcely wake for mistress or for maid.'

"A crash! They've forced the door,-and then
One long, long, shrill, and piercing scream
Comes thrilling through the growl of men.
'Tis hers!-O God, redeem

From worse than death thy suffering, helpless child!
That dreadful cry again-sharp, sharp, and wild!

"It ceased. With speed o' th' lightning's flash,
A loose-robed form, with streaming hair,
Shoots by.-A leap-a quick, short splash!
'T is gone!-There's nothing there!
The waves have swept away the bubbling tide.
Bright-crested waves, how proudly on ye ride!
"She's sleeping in her silent cave,

Nor hears the stern, loud roar above,
Or strife of man on land or wave.
Young thing! thy home of love

Thou soon hast reach'd!-Fair, unpolluted thing!
They harm'd thee not!-Was dying suffering?

"O, no!-To live when joy was dead;
To go with one, lone, pining thought-
To mournful love thy being wed-
Feeling what death had wrought;
To live the child of wo, yet shed no tear,
Bear kindness, and yet share no joy nor fear;

"To look on man, and deem it strange

That he on things of earth should brood,
When all its throng'd and busy range

To thee was solitude

O, this was bitterness!-Death came and prest

Thy wearied lids, and brought thy sick heart rest.”

The following stanzas relate what happened on the night of the anniversary of the murder, when the pirate and his comrades were assembled to drown remorse in jollity :—

"The words they spoke, we may not speak.

The tales they told, we may not tell.

Mere mortal man, forbear to seek

The secrets of that hell!

Their shouts grow loud. 'T is near mid-hour of night.

What means upon the waters that red light?

"Not bigger than a star it seems:

And, now, 'tis like the bloody moon:
And, now, it shoots in hairy streams

Its light!-'T will reach us soon!

A ship! and all on fire!-hull, yards and mast!
Her sheets are sheets of flame!-She's nearing fast!

"And now she rides, upright and still,
Shedding a wild and lurid light

Around the cove on inland hill,

Waking the gloom of night.

All breathes of terror! Men in dumb amaze
Gaze on each other 'neath the horrid blaze.

"It scares the sea-birds from their nests.
They dart and wheel with deaf'ning screams;
Now dark, and now their wings and breasts
Flash back disastrous gleams.

O, sin, what hast thou done on this fair earth?
The world, O man, is wailing o'er thy birth.

"And what comes up above that wave,
So ghastly white?-A spectral head!
A horse's head!-(May heaven save
Those looking on the dead,-

The waking dead!) There on the sea he stands-
The spectre-horse!-He moves; he gains the sands!
"Onward he speeds. His ghostly sides
Are streaming with a cold, blue light.
Heaven keep the wits of him who rides
The spectre-horse to-night!

His path is shining like a swift ship's wake;
He gleams before Lee's door like day's gray break.

"The spirit-steed sent up the neigh.
It seem'd the living trump of hell,
Sounding to call the damn'd away,
To join the host that fell.

It rang along the vaulted sky: the shore

Jarr'd hard, as when the thronging surges roar.

"It rang in ears that knew the sound:

And hot, flush'd cheeks are blanch'd with fear.
And why does Lee look wildly round?
Thinks he the drown'd horse near?

He drops his cup-his lips are stiff with fright.
Nay, sit thee down!—It is thy banquet night.

"I cannot sit. I needs must go :

The spell is on my spirit now.

I go to dread-I go to wo!'

O, who so weak as thou,

Strong man!-His hoofs upon the door-stone, see,
The shadow stands!-His eyes are on thee, Lee !—

"Thy hair pricks up !-O, I must bear
His damp, cold breath! It chills my frame!
His eyes their near and dreadful glare
Speak that I must not name!"

Thou'rt mad to mount that horse!

A power within,

I must obey-cries, mount thee, man of sin!'

"He's now astride the spectre's back,
With rein of silk, and curb of gold.
"Tis fearful speed!-the rein is slack
Within his senseless hold:

Nor doth he touch the shade he strides-upborne

By an unseen power.-God help thee, man forlorn!”

We are not sure, but we suppose, that the return of the spectre horse a second and a third time, is one of the improvements of VOL. III.-No. 5.

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