Nor hoary hermit from Hymettus' brow, Though graceful Athens in the vale be neath Along the windings of the Muse's stream, Pours the broad firmament its varied light; While from the central floor the seats ascend, Round above round, slow-widening to the verge, A circuit vast and high; nor less had held Imperial Rome, and her attendant realms, When drunk with rule she will'd the fierce delight, And op'd the gloomy caverns, whence outrush'd, Before the innumerable shouting crowd, By frequent converse with familiar death, Amid the piercing cries of sore distress In ancient days, the page alone declares, Or narrow coin through dim cerulean rust. name, Rejoiced: and the green medals frequent found, The fane was Jove's, its spacious golden Doom Caracalla to perpetual fame. roof O'er thick surrounding temples beaming wide, Appear'd, as when above the morning hills Half the round Sun ascends; and tower'd aloft, Sustain'd by columns huge, innumerous As cedars proud on Canaan's verdant heights Darkening their idols, when Astarte lured Too-prosperous Israel from his living strength." We are getting hoarse-so take you up the volume-thirteenth of Chalmers-and give us sonorously the fine lines about the ancient roads: "And see from every gate those ancient roads The stately pines, that spread their branches wide In the dun ruins of its ample halls, Good. Give us the volume-for a concluding skreed from the Ruins berty :of Rome-a noble address to li "Inestimable good! who giv'st us Truth, Whose hand upleads to light-divinest Truth, Array'd in every charm whose hand benign Teaches unwearied Toil to clothe the fields, And on his various fruits inscribes the name Of Property: O nobly hail'd of old With tombs high verged, the solemn paths By thy majestic daughters, Judah fair, of Fame; Deserve they not regard? O'er whose broad flints Such crowds have roll'd, so many storms of war And Tyrus and Sidonia, lovely nymphs, And Libya bright, and all-enchanting Greece, Whose numerous towns and isles, and peopled seas, Proud and more proud in their august approach: High o'er irriguous vales and woods and towns, Glide the soft whispering waters in the wind, And here united pour their silver streams Among the fissured rocks, in murmuring falls, Musical ever. These thy beauteous works: And what beside felicity could tell Of human benefit: more late the rest; At various times their turrets chanced to rise, When impious Tyranny vouchsafed to smile.' Probably not one in a hundred of our readers ever saw a line of Dyer's -except his Grongar Hill-and thousands will thank us for our specimens -preferring them, we hope, to our own effusions, of which enough is as good as a feast. It was so with our article on Warton and Young, and even Collins; and we have treasures inexhaustible to draw from-open indeed to all, but familiar, comparatively, to how few, in this age of intellect! We care not for originality in our articles. We desire but to delight and to instruct all our fellowcreatures, who have the happiness of dwelling within our sphere. And now you are wishful to hear more about Dyer's chief poem- The Fleece. But we perceive that we could not give you any thing like a complete idea of it, under twenty pages, at least, of extract and comment; and therefore you must wait till midsummer, which, in Scotland, is not likely to arrive for a good many months. But that you may know what a pleasant repast is awaiting you, we present you from it with a "SHEEPSHEARING FEAST AND MERRIMENTS ON THE BANKS OF THE SEVERN," which, we think you will say, ranks Dyer among the best of the pastoral poets of any age or country, and would have gladdened the heart of our own Thomson-he died ten years before who, as far as we remember, makes its publication-and of our own Burns, no mention of The Fleece. "At shearing-time, along the lively vales, To the shrill pipe and deep remurmuring chords Of th' ancient harp, or tabor's hollow sound. "While th' old apart, upon a bauk reclined, Attend the tuneful carol, softly mixt With every murmur of the sliding wave, And every warble of the feather'd choir Music of paradise! which still is heard When the heart listens; still the views appear Of the first happy garden, when content To Nature's flowery scenes directs the sight. Yet we abandon those Elysian walks, "May the sweet nightingale on yonder And mingles various seeds of flowers and "Deem not, howe'er, our occupation Steep'd grain, and curdled milk, with Linger among the reeds and copsy banks The judicious will see that Dyer's blank verse is excellent; and indeed we have sometimes thought that it has been studied by Wordsworth. Only eight o'clock-so 'tis an hour till breakfast. We rose at five, my lad, and have earned our eggs. by heart. And often, when our soul Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs, groves Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees, And the birds sing conceal'd." Few symptoms yet of Spring. One could almost fear that she had forgotten our garden, or worse, had looked in upon it, and then passed by, leaving these feeble blossoms to wither. But the poet's promise assures us of her return. Heaven bless her!-She is here Our friends say we wield the wand of a magician, but no such wand have we;-Imagination and genius belong to us by our birthright, as to our brethren; for we all walk-poets, though we know it not-in the midst of our own creations, more wondrous far when our souls are broad awake, than when struggling with dreams in the world of sleep. Therefore, let those whom the world calls poets beware of pride. "Blessings be with them and eternal praise!" but let them remember that passions and affections, common to us all, have illuminated before their eyes the mysterious book of life. No magician's wand have we, nor are we a magician. So let us stroll together -you and we-through this happy garden, and we shall see and hear poetry brightening and breathing By Nature's swift and secret-working hand, around, yet all the while emanation and whisper of our own hearts. It matters not who speaks, if there be intercommunion of spirits; but youth is reverent, and age is garrulous, and never yet didst thou interrupt monologue of ours, pleased still to let the old man know he had all the while been listened to, by a pleasant voice making music between the pauses, and feeding his flow of thought, as now and then a spring shower dropping through the sunshine enlivens a stream. "But who can paint Like Nature? Can imagination boast, And lose them in each other, as appears It can for it mirrors all that God was pleased to call into being; and lovelier is Nature's self in the reflection-there all spiritualized! Who is the greatest of descriptive poets? Let us say, THE AUTHOR OF THE "SEASONS." Well, then, if not the greatest, surely the most delightful; for what other poet's heart doth so perpetually overflow with love of our mighty mother, the Earth? No need of that poem among "Our Pocket Companions"-we have it all "At once array'd In all the colours of the flushing year, THE GARDEN GLOWS, and fills the liberal air With lavish fragrance, while the promised fruit Lies yet a little embryo, unperceived, Within its crimson folds." Just so, as in thine infant eyesson of our soul's brother-we saw the promise of the genius now known by its immortal fruits, There are many beautiful passages in the poets about rain; but who ever sang its advent so passionately as in these strains: "The effusive south Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven Breathes the big clouds, with vernal At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise, sails Along the loaded sky, and mingled deep, Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed, Into a perfect calm, that not a breath The falling verdure." The verdure is seen in the shower -to be the very shower-by the poet at least perhaps by the cattle, in their thirsty hunger, forgetful of the brown herbage. The birds had not been so ground, and swallowing the dropping sorely distressed by the drought as the beasts, and therefore the poet speaks of them, not as relieved from misery, but as visited with gladness— "Hush'd in short suspense, The plumy people streak their wings with oil, The stealing shower is scarce to patter To throw the lucid moisture trickling off, heard, By such as wander through the forest walks, Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves. But who can hold the shade while heaven descends In universal bounty, shedding herbs, And fruits, and flowers, on nature's ample lap? Swift fancy fired anticipates their growth; And while the milky nutriment distils, Beholds the kindling country colour round." Thomson, they say, was too fond of epithets. Not he indeed. Strike out one of the many there-and your sconce will feel the crutch. A poet less conversant with nature would have feared to say, "sits on the horizon round a settled gloom," or rather, he would not have seen or thought it was a settled gloom; and therefore, he could not have said— "but lovely, gentle, kind, And full of every hope and every joy, The wish of nature,” Leigh Hunt-most cordial of poet critics somewhere finely speaks of that ghastly line in a poem of Keates': "Riding to Florence with the murder'd man; that is, the man about to be murdered -imagination conceiving as one, doom and death. Equally great are the words And wait the approaching sign, to strike at once Into the general choir.' Then, and not till then, the humane poet bethinks him of the insensate earth-insensate not-for beast and bird being satisfied, and lowing and singing in their gratitude, so do the places of their habitation yearn for the blessing "Even mountains, vales, And forests, seem impatient to demand The promised sweetness." The religious Poet then speaks for his kind-and says gloriously "Man superior walks Amid the glad creation, musing praise, And looking lively gratitude." In that mood he is justified to feast his fancy with images of the beauty as well as the bounty of nature-and genius in one line, has concentrated them all "Behold the kindling country colour round." 'Tis "an a' day's rain" and "the well showered earth is deep-enriched with vegetable life." And what kind of an evening? We have seen many such and every succeeding one more beautiful-more glorious-more blessed than another-because of these words in which the beauty and tho glory of one and all are enshrined, "Full in the western sky, the downward sun Th' illumined mountain, through the forest streams, Far smoking o'er th' interminable plain, In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems. Moist, bright and green, the landscape laughs around, |