we are well aware that an Irish nobleman either forgets that he is Irish, or at least imposes so far upon his own understanding, as to believe that the natives of the country are To him no countrymen of his. who is swayed by the dictates of common sense, this species of delusion would appear impossible; but to him who is acquainted with the people of whom we speak, it is well known to be a fact. Alexander the Great believed himself to be a God, and every Irish nobleman believes himself to be a prince at least, if he be no better; and has the additional satisfaction of believing himself no Irishman. In fact, an Irish nobleman thinks he possesses Hence but he can never imagine for a moment, that this highly favoured man is a mere Irishman. Ireland never produced a man of talent that was not obliged to transport it to some other country, and to extend that intelligence to others, which would have multiplied the rays, and increased the radiance of science and mental illumination in his native land. Had this illumination taken place, these self-created Gods would not blush to avow the country to which they belong. As an artist, Mr. Shee's merits are already well known to all who delight in the productions of taste, and are connoisseurs in painting. As a poet, perhaps, he is not so well known, because the subject of which he treats is interesting only to the lovers of the arts: to the rest of mankind, its principles are not only void of interest, but absolutely unintelligible. Indeed it would seem from its didactic and preceptive nature, incapable of the higher beauties of poetry, and this opinion seems to be strengthened by the motto which Mr. Shee prefixes to his" Elements of Art." "Ornari præcepta negent contenta, doceri." But it is still certain that Mr. Shee himself proves the contrary to be the fact, for he frequently clothes his precepts in the richest robes of poetic imagery. It is, however, an imagery that is always just because never idly introduced." It never forms any part of his subject, so that it always appears the mere dress of a body, which it merely ornaments, but never conceals from view. Mr. Shee belongs not therefore to our modern schools of poetry, which are conversant with the imaginative world alone: with them imagery is not only ornament, but the thing ornamented;-it is both substance and shadow. Hence it may properly be called "Much ado about nothing," and accordingly has neither strength, nerve, or energy. Poetic imagery soon palls upon the sense when unaccompanied by any thing of a more substantial nature; but whenever it is used to embellish our views of "the naked nature, and the living grace," and permits this naked nature to be seen through it, it gratifies at once both the senses and imagination, and imparts the highest charms and graces of which poetry is capable. Without this "naked nature," however, this ground work of poetry, all imagery is not only uninteresting, but childish and impertinent, and hence we have, in general, from our modern schools, only sing-songs, about nothing. No traces are to be found in them of "The varying verse, the full resounding line, The long majestic march, and energy divine," that characterized the school of Pope and Dryden. To the former of these, we would compare Mr. Campbell, so far as we can form our views of his poetic character from his "Pleasures of Hope," to the latter we would compare Mr. Shee. He wants the exquisite finish of Pope, but possesses all the strength, energy, and variety of Dryden. Like him he is irregular, bold, impetuous, yielding instinctively and unconsciously to all the influences and impulses of passion, and this too, in a subject which appeals only to the more delicate perceptions and finer feelings of our nature. The, works of art require taste, judgment and experience, to perceive their beauties; and what depends on the exercise of these faculties, seldom prompts to enthusiasm, or gives impulse to the energies of inspired genius. Indeed it would be idle to expect such enthusiasm in such a subject, from any other than Mr. Shee himself. It was a subject or an art, to which he had devoted himself, and consequently a subject that associated with the recollections of his earliest years. These recollections are the purest and brightest -the most inspiring, captivating, and seductive, that float in light visions round the poet's head. No wonder then that Mr. Shee has divested his "Elements of Art," of all appearance of being a didactic poem. He instructs without seeming to do so we are imbibing precepts that are soon to form our taste, and to regulate our judgment, while we imagine that we are revelling in the brightest worlds of fiction, reposing amid the wildest retreats of imagination, or twining the wreaths of fancy round the syren bowers of the seductive muse. This, indeed, is more than any reader of judgment could promise himself from such a subject as the "Elements of Art;" but the most stub born elements clothe themselves in light, softness, and beauty, when touched by the fairy finger of the bright eyed muse. It must, however, be confessed, that those poets who have had the art of rendering didactic subjects poetical, and impregnating them at the same time with all the fire and enthusiasm of genius, are few very few in number. So far as regards poetical expression in subjects of this nature, Virgil has, undoubtedly excelled all men in his Georgics: Pope, perhaps, comes next to him; but Shee certainly leaves both far behind him in fire and energy. His description of the celebrated statues of the Pagan divinities; of the Olympic Jupiter of Phidias, at Elis; his Minerva, at Athens; the Venus de Medici, the Apollo Belvidere, the Hercules Farnese, and others, are sketched with such a pencil of light and fire, that we have some difficulty in conceiving how a person who laughs at the Pagan creed and its imaginary deities, could feel such enthusiasm in such a theme. An extract, however, from the second canto of the "Elements of Art," in which this description occurs, will speak more than volumes of criticism." "Now throned at Elis first, the Olympic sire Appear'd sublime, amidst the immortal quire; Pride of the Pagan host! the form divine Betray'd Omnipotence in every line: With such an awful brow he bore command, "Now Pallas too, received her second birth, "Lo! first, where dazzling fair, as poets feign The vulgar trophies of the sword despise, "With modest mien the sov'reign Beauty stands, And seeks to shun the homage she commands, Averts her face with such a timid air, The marble seems to burn in blushes there; "Each charm divine that Nature's stores supply, When Nature, watchful of the process, view'd Like heav'ns pure angels, finds its bliss in praise. "But see! where Taste extends her brightest crown, Unclaim'd amid the contests of renown! Lost, in the darkest night of time, his name! By envious fate, defrauded of his fame, The hand divine! to whose high pow'rs we owe Bright as on Pindus, crown'd by all the Nine, The polish'd neck uniting strength and grace, In each light limb elastic vigour proves, A form divine, to heav'n's proportions just! That stamp'd heaven's image strong in every line, "Great shade of Genius! still decreed to raise Say, dost thou, pleased, from heaven's immortal bowers, "Nor less in characters of mortal mould, "What wonders still the stores of Greece display! What forms of mythologic glory rise, To justify the pride of Pagan skies! In every attribute of Beauty glow, And grace the elysium of Virtú below! But vain the task! beyond the Muse's boast! To trace Art's triumphs through the heathen host, Discriminate their qualities divine. As when disaster'd on Norwegia's strand The wreck of some proud galley floats to land, The rude inhabitants with rapture save Each shatter'd fragment wafted on the wave, And think, while grateful for the wealth supplied, Thus, from the wreck of years, a sacred prize! Eur. Mag. And while in wonder rapt, our ruder age, We judge what splendours must her prime have graced, "Touch gently as thou fliest, O Time! with care Say, through the world's wide circuit, say, if aught Thee too, the Muse, could aught of pray'r revoke "Hail, awful shade! that o'er the mouldering urn Those phoenix fires that glitter in our skies; But if Mr. Shee be carried away by the enthusiasm of his feelings when the ancient works of art become the subject of his pen, he is still more sa when he calls our attention to the ancient authors themselves. We cannot forbear quoting from his description of Michael Angelo, Raphael, and Rubens, whom he denominates the "Triumvirate of art.” Though purest forms from ancient Greece we trace, |