l'ourse, voilà le renard.-For all we know the Idiot Boy may be" a Poem founded on the affections," but we confess, that in reading such lines as "And now she's at the Pony's tail, And now she's at the Pony's head-" We care very little whether it be akin to Akenside or Mother Goose. We deem it, and Lines in March, and the Pet Lamb, as only written for the nursery, and published according to the mathematical demonstrations of its propriety, furnished by a theory, which is an excrescence, and no part of the poet himself. This, we believe, most of our readers will allow; though, we doubt not, that should this paper ever meet the eye of the illustrious individual of whom we speak, he would deem far otherwise. We can fancy him, smiling at our superficial view of the subject, in the serenity of his philosophic abstraction, while we are still assured, that, could he make himself one of those for whom he writes, he would pronounce the same verdict upon a system, in which no one can sympathize with its author. The true seed of Wordsworth's poetry, the condensation of its plan, seems to be the little fragment, that meets the eye on opening the first leaf of his volume. Pregnant with thoughtall that succeeds it seems born of it. He has dilated it into glorious compass, and illustrated it with beauties, in untiring variety. It is a point, from which he has produced a pyramid. It is the expression of an intellectual being, commencing its course for eternity;-the ejaculation of a man full-grown, but who is still in the sense of our blessed Saviour, "a little child." Its language is musical, dispassionate and pure, and such as a new-created angel might employ, coming forth in beauty, and looking into worlds unborn. We envy no one the heart that leaps not up with it, and joins not in its fervent prayer. 66 My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky! So was it when my life began, So be it when I shall grow old, The child is father of the man, And I could wish my days, to be Bound each to each by natural piety." Here is a high-born poet's soul anticipating its career of glory, of fame unfabled, and honor from the fountain of honor above. And here is the love of the dear world, of the beauty of nature, and thence of nature's God "My heart leaps up, etc." Here, is the poetic unwillingness to loose the hold on fair things of sense, which is apt to slacken with our growing years— "So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die !" And here is a verse which has deservedly become a part of our language "The child is father of the man." Here is a rising into the sublime on wings of dignified religion"And I could wish, etc." And could a spirit like this fail to soar towards the heaven, on which his eye was thus early set! Go, reader, follow him in his flight. Go tread with him the Alps, and gaze with him on clear Como. Or, in his own land, halt with him on the banks of the Wye. Nay, we will give you a glimpse of the picture here. Listen to his reflection; rejoice in the sweet music of his words; and confess that to love God and Nature, is to live above the world. "Oh, yet a little while May I behold in thee, what I was once, My dear, dear sister! and this prayer I make The heart that loved her. 'Tis her privilege, And let the misty mountain wind be free For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh then If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts And these my exhortations!" Here we have Cowper, and-we must say something more. How is old England blest in her Christian bards! How in the pure atmosphere, we are now breathing, we forget that such as Byron have sung. We stand on Niphates, and all is pure air and sunlight around us, however the storm may be vapouring below. We have made the transition through Shelley, from Byron, for this effect and now we have reached the top of the mount, and "methinks it is good to be here." Is religion a disqualifier for poetry? Is the world darker, and nature less lovely, when looked upon by the seraph-eye of the Christian? Is there less rapture in the bosom of him who gazes on the glacier, and the sky above, the lake, the spires, the valley below, and the merry vintagers anear, and all to retain unshaken our simple creed "That all which we behold Is full of blessings?" Is there less rapture in such a bosom, than in that of him, who can leave the glorious scenery of the mountains, and descend to the mart, and pry into its dark and steaming corners, to draw out "that dear production of our days-Don Juan ?" We would rather be Democritus than his opposite: we would prefer being the Christian observer of things earthly, than either. The natural mind looks on all things superficially. Byron, was all surface. The cultivated mind inquires deeper, perhaps, but discovers not the nice mechanism of the great mover. Shelley could look at the misery of the world and scoff. He might have taken a lesson from Parnell's hermit. But the christian mind, the true philosopher, can behold the hand of the first great cause in everything, and smiling say, "My Father made them all!" He has learned that sublime degree of confidence, that looks on the blue heaven, and says with calmness," shall not the judge of all the earth, do right!" We cannot but believe, that, in that pure world where all is harmony, where there is nothing to blunt the nice feelings of exquisite nature;-where music is the voice, and poetry the language; where the mind is free, ethereal, unclogged-we cannot but think that there is the perfection of that which the soul yearns after here, that great ideal of which the spirit, with growing wings, delights to dream. And if this be so, all that is its opposite is no poetry. It may be conceit, it may be harmony; it is not true poetry. And, consequently, we must believe that as our little planet rolls on to its long pledged golden reign, the elements of beauty which it contains, are destined to arrange themselves in fair and beautiful order, and to become as clear as crystal. And now hath this grand alchemy begun. Ages on ages of our world had elapsed, and, save from those who were mouths to the Eternal mind, we heard no sacred sound. It is of late only, that the silvery tones of poetry have begun to breathe religion. There is our greatwe will not call it epic, for it needs not the name. For Dante's Commedia, and for Milton's Paradise Lost, we claim a classification by themselves. They need not be judged by the side of Homer to be glorious. But there is our beginning, and the great star of the constellation, around which the lesser lights of Cowper, and Thomson, and Watts, and Montgomery, and Heber are dotting the surrounding darkness. Amid them, another luminary of the first magnitude is burning: and though in his elevation, so far from us groundlings, that his light has but slowly reached us, we believe that he is surely destined to become the poet of Christendom, as he is the poet of Christianity. We have professed to be merely considering the character of Wordsworth's poetry, without reviewing his works. Yet we cannot allow this opportunity to pass without pointing our readers to those parts of his writings, where the mind will enter, and feel more speedily at home. Besides his innumerous minor poems, he has several collections of sonnets, apparently disconnected, but in reality continuous works. Of these, his ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES are in our opinion preeminent. Except the sonnets of Milton, there are none in the language to compare with these. Their harmony not all alone, but their thought and imagery are generally perfect. We shall quote one, by no means the finest; and that, with the hope that it will be read, with Wordsworth's own caution,-by a reader! How are the finest passages of our best poets tattered daily, by the wretched recitations even of educated men. Poetry should be read aloud, unless by a man of imagination, that the ear may catch the rhythm. And this sonnet must be read slowly, sweetly, and contemplatively, or it will never be appreciated. So read, however, we hear the monks' music; we feel the thrill of the monarch; we float into reflection. "A pleasant music floats along the mere "My oarsmen," quoth the mighty king, "draw near, While his free barge skims the smooth flood along, Of heaven descended piety, and song." Next to Milton's " Avenge, oh Lord," we should be proud to adduce this as a specimen of the English sonnet. In the first line, the sound mirrors the sense; in the second, we see the fane on the waterside, and the devotees within. Then comes the dip of the oar-the royal hand stretched forth to check it the ear awake to listen-the far-off chanting--the effect on the mighty soul! We feel with him, and the thrill remains, "as the free barge skims the smooth flood along" the oars still suspended, dripping on the soft water, and the vessel itself gliding with its former impulse. On a Sunday morning, we may open Wordsworth with advantage, when we close our Bibles, to read the Thanksgiving Ode. We may dwell long on its sabbath-morning effect, with a pleasing delight that sweetly prepares us for worship; and lost in revery, our thoughts may wander away "Till hark, the summons! down the placid lake Floats the soft cadence of the church-tower bells- |