day, at the best school in Nottingham, wrote a separate composition for every boy in his class, which consisted of about twelve or fourteen. The master said he had never known them write so well upon any subject before, and could not refrain from expressing his astonishment at the excellence of Henry's.

At the age of thirteen, he wrote some verses, of which the following are a part:

ON BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL ONE PLEASANT MORNING IN SPRING.

In a few years he entered on the study of law, and pursued it with an application so unremitting that he scarce allowed himself time to eat his meals, or to refresh his body by sleep. Even in his walks his mind was intensely occupied. Thus his health suffered and soon gave way. His biography by Dr. Southey, his letters, and much of his poetry, are in a high degree fascinating. We have not room for long extracts from his poems, but will furnish one of the most affecting character, probably among the last that he ever penned-found in the close of his CHRISTIAD, an unfinished poem.

"Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme

With self-rewarding toil; thus far have sung
Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem
The lyre, which I in early days have strung;
And now my spirits faint, and I have hung
The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour,

On the dark cypress! and the strings which rung
With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er,

Or when the breeze comes by, moan, and are heard no more.

And must the harp of Judah sleep again?
Shall I no more reanimate the lay!
Oh! thou who visitest the sons of men,

Thou who dost listen when the humble pray,
One little space prolong my mournful day'

One little lapse suspend thy last decree !

I am a youthful tray'ler in the way,

And this slight boon would consecrate to thee,

Ere I with death shake hands and smile that I am free."

Lord Byron never employed his pen more innocently or judiciously than in preparing the following lines and notes, in memory of this talented and lamented youth.

LINES ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE-BY BYRON.
Unhappy White! (a) while life was in its spring,
And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing,
The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair
Has sought the grave, to sleep forever there.
Oh what a noble heart was here undone,
When Science 'self destroy'd her favorite son!
Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,
She sow'd the seeds, but Death has reap'd the fruit;
"Twas thine own genius gave the final blow,
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low.
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel,
He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel;
While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest,
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.

(a) Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume.

SECTION XXIII.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH,

as a poet, has been the subject of unqualified admiration by some, and of severe animadversion by others. To those who desire to examine the merits of this disputed matter, the author would recommend

Professor Wilson's elaborate and extended criticism on Wordsworth, in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine for 1829. He has therein proved, by appropriate extracts, that Wordsworth has displayed great powers of description, in the first place, of external nature; secondly, of nature, as connected with some internal passion or moral thought in the heart and mind of man; thirdly, of human appearance, as indicative of human character, or varieties of feeling. He has also shown that Wordsworth has manifested an ability to move the affections by means of simple pathos-that he has occasionally attained a chaste and classical dignity-that he has successfully illustrated religious and moral truth; and, finally, that he has brought the sonnet-that difficult vehicle of poetic inspiration-to its highest possible pitch of excellence. Professor Wilson has shown that Wordsworth has been overestimated by his too ardent admirers, and underrated by those who have had neither opportunity nor desire to investigate his claims to public notice. To this poet, he thinks, we are indebted for the most accurate and noble embodying of Nature's grandest forms.

The following descriptive passage is a triumphant proof of the powers of language, when wielded by a powerful mind:

"A step,

A single step, that freed me from the skirts
Of the blind vapor, open'd to my view
Glory beyond all glory ever seen

By waking sense, or by the dreaming soul!

*

*

*

*

*

The appearance, instantaneously disclosed,
Was of a mighty city-boldly say
A wilderness of building, sinking far
And self-withdrawn into a wondrous depth,
Far sinking into splendor, without end.
Fabric it seem'd of diamond and of gold,
With alabaster domes and silver spires,
And blazing terrace upon terrace high
Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright
In avenues disposed; there, towns begirt
With battlements, that on their restless fronts
Bore stars-illumination of all gems!

By earthly nature had the effect been wrought

Upon the dark materials of the storm

Now pacified; on them and on the coves,
And mountain steeps and summits, whereunto
The vapors had receded, taking there

Their station under a cerulean sky."-Excursion.

Here the In the fol

We might, perhaps, search in vain throughout the whole compass of English poetry for another example of "words tinged with so many colors." hues of nature are presented to the eye. lowing passage they are limited to the ear: "Astounded in the mountain gap By peals of thunder, clap on clap, And many a terror-striking flash, And somewhere, as it seems, a crash Among the rocks; with weight of rain, And sullen motions, long and slow, That to a dreary distance go

Till breaking in upon the dying strain,

A rending o'er his head begins the fray again.”

Wagoner.

The lines in the italic character discover the grace of imitative harmony. After God's own language, the Hebrew, and the affluent Greek, there is probably no tongue so rich in imitative harmonies as our own. Observe the difference between the two words snow and rain. The hushing sound of the sibilant, in the first, followed by the soft liquid and by the round, full vowel, is not less indicative of the still descent of snow than the harsher liquid and vowel in the second, are of the falling shower.

Wordsworth occasionally combines very beautiful feelings with beautiful imagery; in other words, as before remarked, he has successfully exhibited nature in connection with some internal passion, or moral thought, in the heart and mind of man. For ex

ample :

"Has not the soul, the being of your life,
Received a shock of awful consciousness,
In some calm season, when these lofty rocks,
At night's approach, bring down the unclouded sky
To rest upon their circumambient walls;
A temple framing of dimensions vast,
And yet not too enormous for the sound
Of human anthems-choral song, or burst

Sublime of instrumental harmony,
To glorify th' Eternal! What if these
Did never break the stillness that prevails-
Here, if the solemn nightingale be mute,
And the soft woodlark here did never chant
Her vespers, Nature fails not to provide
Impulse and utterance. The whispering air
Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights,
And blind recesses of the cavern'd rocks;
The little rills and waters numberless,
Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes

With the loud streams: and often, at the hour
When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard,
Within the circuit of this fabric huge,
One voice-one solitary raven, flying
Athwart the concave of the dark blue dome,
Unseen, perchance above the power of sight-
An iron knell! With echoes from afar,
Faint, and still fainter."-Excursion.

We have marked by the italic character those portions which deserve special remark.

WORDSWORTH'S PORTRAITS OF HUMAN BEINGS. In executing these, not unfrequently he gives some masterly touches, which are to the character described what the hands of a watch are to a dial-plate. They tell the "whereabout" of the whole man. The poet and the poetaster differ in this; while the latter only describes either from recollection or from a survey of some object, the former, like the true painter, paints from an image before his mental eye-an image in this respect transcending Nature herself, inasmuch as it combines the selectest parts of Nature. Here follows a portrait of a true English Ploughboy:

"His joints are stiff;

Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees
Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear,
Fellows to those which lustily upheld

The wooden stools, for everlasting use,

On which our fathers sat. And mark his brow!

Under whose shaggy canopy are set

Two eyes, not dim, but of a healthy stare;

Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and strange,
Proclaiming boldly that they never drew

A look or motion of intelligence

From infant conning of the Christ-cross row,