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Linger among the reeds and copsy banks by heart. And often, when our soul To listen, and to view the joyous scene." loses for a time its own creative ener

The judicious will see that Dyer's gy-and nature, unobedient to our blank verse is excellent; and indeed lamenting voice, lies far away in darkwe have sometimes thought that it ness, even as if she were not, and all has been studied by Wordsworth. her very images, too, were dead-in

Only eight o'clock-so 'tis an hour this poem she rises again into life, and till breakfast. We rose at five, my again we feel that we are her son. lad, and have earned our eggs.

“ From the moist meadow to the wither'd Our friends say we wield the wand

hill, of a magician, but no such wand have Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs, we;- Imagination and genius belong And swells and deepens ; and the juicy to us by our birthright, as to our groves brethren ; for we all walk - poets, Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees, though we know it not-in the midst Till the whole leafy forest stands display'd of our own creations, more wondrous In full luxuriance to the sighing gales ; far when our souls are broad awake, Where the deer rustle through the twining than when struggling with dreams in brake, the world of sleep. Therefore, let those And the birds sing conceal'd." whom the world calls poets beware of Few symptoms yet of Spring. One pride. « Blessings be with them and could almost fear that she had foreternal praise !" but let them remem- gotten our garden, or worse, had ber that passions and affections, como looked in upon it, and then passed by, mon to us all, have illuminated before leaving these feeble blossoms to wither. their eyes the mysterious book of life. But tha noet's

ook of life. But the poet's promise assures us of No magician's wand have we, nor are her return. Heaven bless her !_She we a magician. So let us stroll toge- is here ther you and we through this

“At once array'd happy garden, and we shall see and hear poetry brightening and breathing

In all the colours of the flushing year,

By Nature's swift and secret-working hand, around, yet all the while emanation

THE GARDEN GLOws, and fills the liberalair and whisper of our own hearts. It

With lavish fragrance, while the promised matters not who speaks, if there be

fruit intercommunion of spirits ; but youth Lies yet a little embryo, unperceived, is reverent, and age is garrulous, and within its crimson folds." never yet didst thou interrupt monologue of ours, pleased still to let the

Just so, as in thine infant eyes old man know he had all the while son of our soul's brother-We saw the been listened to, by a pleasant voice promise of the genius now known by making music between the pauses, and its immortal fruits, feeding his flow of thought, as now

There are many beautiful passages and then a spring shower dropping

in the poets about rain ; but who ever through the sunshine enlivens a stream.

sang its advent so passionately as in

these strains :“ But who can paint Like Nature ? Can imagination boast,

" The effusive south Amid its gay creation, hues like hers ? Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of Or can it mix them with that matchless heaven skill,

Breathes the big clouds, with vernal And lose them in each other, as appears

showers distent. In every bud that blows?".

At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise, It can_for it mirrors all that God Scarce staining ether; but by swift degrees, was pleased to call into being; and

In heaps on heaps, the darkling vapour lovelier is Nature's self in the reflec.

sails tion- there all spiritualized!

Along the loaded sky, and mingled deep, Who is the greatest of descriptive

Sits on the horizon round a settled poets ? Let us say, THE AUTHOR OF

gloom :

Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed, THE “ Seasons." Well, then, if not

Oppressing life; but lovely, gentle, kind, the greatest, surely the most delight. And

And full of every hope and every joy, ful; for what other poet's heart doth

The wish of nature. Gradual sinks the so perpetually overflow with love breeze of our mighty mother, the Earth? Into a perfect calm, that not a breath

No need of that poem among “ Our Is heard to quiver through the closing Pocket Companions"-we have it all woods,

Or rustling, turn the many trembling

“ Herds and flocks leaves

Drop the dry sprig, and mute-imploring, Of aspen tall. The uncurling Aoods, dif

eye fused

The falling verdure." In glassy breadth, run through delusive

The verdure is seen in the shower lapse,

to be the very shower-by the poet Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all,

at least-perhaps by the cattle, in their And pleasing expectation. Herds and

thirsty hunger, forgetful of the brown flocks

ground, and swallowing the dropping Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye.

herbage. The birds had not been so The falling verdure !"

sorely distressed by the drought as the All that follows is, you know, as beasts, and therefore the poet speaks good-better it cannot be-till we of them, not as relieved from

of them, not as relieved from misery, come to the close, the perfection of but as visited with gladnesspoetry, and then sally out into the

“ Hush'd in short suspense, shower, and join the hymn of earth to

The plumy people streak their wings with heaven.

oil, The stealing shower is scarce to patter To throw the lucid moisture trickling off, heard,

And wait the approaching sign, to strike By such as wander through the forest at once walks,

Into the general choir.' Beneath the umbrageous multitude of

Then, and not till then, the humane leaves.

poet bethinks him of the insensate But who can hold the shade while heaven

earth_insensate not-for beast and descends In universal bounty, shedding herbs,

bird being satisfied, and lowing and And fruits, and flowers, on nature's ample singing in their gratitude, so do the lap?

places of their habitation yearn for the Swift fancy fired anticipates their growth; blessingAnd while the milky nutriment distils,

“Even mountains, vales, Beholds the kindling country colour round.” And forests, seem impatient to demand

Thomson, they say, was too fond The promised sweetness.” of epithets. Not he indeed. Strike The religious Poet then speaks for out one of the many there and your his kind and says gloriouslysconce will feel the crutch. A poet less

“Man superior walks conversant with nature would have Amid the glad creation, musing praise, feared to say, “sits on the horizon And looking lively gratitude." round a settled gloom," or rather, he I n that mood he is justified to feast would not have seen or thought it was his fancy with images of the beauty a settled gloom; and therefore, he could as well as the bounty of nature—and not have said

genius in one line, has concentrated " but lovely, gentle, kind, them allAnd full of every hope and every joy, “ Behold the kindling country colour The wish of nature,"

round.” Leigh Hunt-most cordial of poet Tis « an a' day's rain"_and “ the critics_somewhere finely speaks of

well showered earth is deep-enriched that ghastly line in a poem of Keates': ,

: with vegetable life." And what kind “ Riding to Florence with the murder'd of an evening ? We have seen many man;

such and every succeeding one more that is, the man about to be murdered beautiful-more glorious—more bless-imagination conceiving as one, doom ed than another because of these and death. Equally great are the words in wbich the beauty and thọ words

glory of one and all are enshrined, “ Full in the western sky, the downward sun

Looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush
Of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam.
The rapid radiance instantaneous strikes
Th' illumined mountain, through the forest streams,
Shakes on the floods, and in a golden mist
Far smoking o'er th' interminable plain,
In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems.
Moist, bright and green, the landscape laughs around,

Full swell the woods; their very music wakes,
Mix'd in wild concert with the warbling brooks
Increased, the distant bleating of the hills,
And hollow lows responsive from the vales,
Whence, blending all, the sweeten’d zephyr springs.
Mean-time, refracted from yon eastern cloud,
Bestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow
Shoots up immense, and every hue unfolds
In fair proportion, running through the red

To where the violet fades into the sky." You say we recite poetry like a florid_but we must not criticize single poet. We think so too-and not like and separate passages --- we ought à player. Curse elocution. Every never to forget the character of the shade of feeling should have its shade poet's genius and his inspirations. He of sound-every pause its silence. luxuriates_he revels—he wantons, at But these must all come and go, un once with an imaginative and a sensutaught, unbidden, from the heart and ous delight in nature. from the soul. Then, indeed, and At times his style is as simple as not till then, can words be said to be one could wish ; and we defy you to set to music-to a celestial sing song. improve the expression of the many

It may be true that sometimes the deep and delightful feelings in these style of The Seasons is somewhat too exquisite lines.

"Thus pass the temperate hours; but when the Sun
Shakes from his noon-day throne the scattering clouds,
Ev'n shooting listless languor through the deeps;
Then seek the bank where flowering elders crowd,
Where scatter'd wild the lily of the vale
Its balmy essence breathes, where cowslips hang
The dewy head, where purple violets lurk,
With all the lowly children of the shade :
Or lie reclin'd beneath yon spreading ash.
Hung o'er the steep; whence, borne on liquid wing,
The sounding culver shoots; or where the hawk,
High, in the beetling cliff, his aery builds.
There let the classic page the fancy lead
Through rural scenes ! such as the Mantuan swain
Paints in the matchless harmony of song.
Or catch thyself the landscape, gliding swift
Athwart imagination's vivid eye:
Or by the vocal woods and waters lullid,
And lost in lonely musing, in the dream,
Confused, of careless solitude, where mix
Ten thousand wandering images of things,
Soothe every gust of passion into peace ;
All but the swellings of the soften'd heart,

That waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind.”
Shame on you if you have not as we have these lines by heart.

“ Still let me pierce into the midnight depth
Of yonder grove, of wildest, largest growth:
That, forming high in air a woodland quire,
Nods o'er the mount beneath. At every step,
Solemn and slow, the shadows blacker fall,
And all is awful listening gloom around.
“ These are the haunts of Meditation, these
The scenes where ancient bards th' inspiring breath,
Ecstatic, felt; and, from this world retired,
Conversed with angels and immortal forms,
On gracious errands bent: to save the fall
Of Virtue struggling on the brink of Vice ;
In waking whispers, and repeated dreams,
To hint pure thought, and warn the favour'd soul
For future trials fated to prepare :
To prompt the poet, who devoted gives

His Muse to better themes ; to soothe the pangs
Of dying worth, and from the patriot's breast
(Backward to mingle in detested war,
But foremost when engaged) to turn the death ;
And numberless such offices of love
Daily, and nightly, zealous to perform.

“ Shook sudden from the bosom of the sky,
A thousand shapes, or glide athwart the dusk,
Or stalk majestic on. Deep-roused, I feel
A sacred terror, a severe delight,
Creep through my mortal frame; and thus, methinks,
A voice, than human more, th' abstracted ear
Of fancy strikes. •Be not of us afraid,
Poor kindred man! thy fellow creatures, we
From the same Parent.Power our beings drew,
The same our Lord, and laws, and great pursuit,
Once some of us, like thee, through stormy life,
Toil'd, tempest-beaten, ere we could attain
This holy calm, this harmony of mind,
Where purity and peace immingle charms,
Then fear not us; but with responsive song,
Amid these dim recesses, undisturb'd,
By noisy folly and discordant vice,
Of Nature sing with us, and Nature's God
Here frequent, at the visionary hour,
When musing midnight reigns, or silent noon,
Angelic harps are in full concert heard ;
And voices chanting from the wood-crown'd hill,
The deepening dale, or inmost sylvan glade ;
A privilege bestow'd by us, alone,
On Contemplation, or the hallow'd ear

Of poet, swelling to seraphic strain.'”. We said to thee an hour ago them, in their perfection, will sad. that youth is reverent, and age gar- den thy heart. In their perfection! rulous—but for garrulous read elo. Ay-verily, even so-for the tenderquent-else how couldst thou and ness of spring will then be blending thy like often come to listen- more with the boldness of summer,-while than willingly-to our continuous something will still be wanting to the discourse ? To-morrow thou art to strength of the year. And the joy of leave town for a month-and thou the soul is brightest in the fulness of dost well ; for Scotland is the most hope, when the future is almost inbeautiful land in all the world in the stant as the present, and the present Season of Spring. Why? Because tinged with a gentle rainbow-like rehere Spring pays her earliest visits semblance of the past. stealthily, and as if in fear of her surly Would we were to be thy guide! sire, whom yet she loves, and takes There — let us lean our left shoulder care to show him that she means not on thine-our right on Tue CRUTCH. by her primroses to hint it is time for The time will come when thou wilt him to die. For well she knows that be! O Son of the Morning! even like though like a kind but stern father, unto the shadow by thy side-Chrisconfident in her affections-sometimes topher North. No chamois hunter he frowns almost with the same feeling fleeter than once was he- Mont Blanc, usually expressed by smiles; yet when speaks he not the truth? If he be a the world, wearied of him at last as he vain-glorious boaster, give him the lie is of the world, shall wish he were Ben-y. Glow and thy Brotherhooddead, and his grey head laid in the who heard our shouts-mixed with the mould, his last thoughts will be of her red deer's belling-tossed back in ex. and of her happiness, rising by the ultation by Echo, the omnipresent Au. law of nature from his dust.

ditress on youth's golden hills. Art thou going to the Highlands ? The world is all before thee the If so, 'tis well,- for in another week world is all behind us; hope is thy they will be beginning to be beautiful angel-memory is ours; but both are

and by the end of May to leave considerate spirits and they bid the young and the old, the joyful and the dowy life depictured there eludes not sorrowful - as thus we lean on one our human sympathies; nor yet, aerial another-think that time is but the though they be-so sweet and sad are threshold of eternity-and that the their voices-do there float by as un. shadow may survive the light, on this beloved, unpitied, or unhonoureddim spot men call earth!"

single, or in bands--the ghosts of the The central sun art thou of thine brave and beautiful ; when the few own bright world! Ours is broken stars are dim, and the moon is felt, into fragments and we are on the not seen, to be yielding what faint light edge of an abyss. But once we were there may be in the skies. like thee, a victorious Ego-and il. The Blockheads, meaning to be se. lumined nature all round her farthest vere, used to say that our style was horizon with the bliss of our own soul. Ossianic-but getting none to listen Fear, awe, and superstition, were to their nonsense, they grew ashamed ministers to our imagination among the of themselves, and have for years been midnight mountains in the dreadful gazing at us in mute astonishment, blank we worshipped the thunder and with their mouths wide open like so adored the cataract_but joy was then many barn-doors. Nay, an occasional our element-as now, tis thine-and sumph is seen assuming, what he supspite of such visitations that made us poses to be our Ossianic; and in the quake and tremble, fresh was our Tims Tartan absolutely exposing his spirit as a rising star, and strong as a hurdies to the derision of the elements, flowing sea.

during some piteous Holiday-among Now mind-you must write a Poem the Mountains-a spectacle more than -The Highlands. Not for a good sufficient, one would think, had it a many years to come-but we hope to single particle of feeling in its whole see some of it before we die-for such composition, to soften the heart of a a Poem as it will be, must compose rock-to melt Aberdeen granite into itself of fragments, and finally settle tears. down, beneath the united spirit of Never in all our blessed lives got beauty and grandeur, into a whole, we such a fright as on coming sudmagnificent as its subject-and thou denly, one day last summer, near the shalt be one of the Immortals.

Fall of Foyers, upon such an AppearCould such a Poem-think ye-be ance of Ourselves. We happened to written in Prose? You cannot bring have in our hand Sir David's delightyourself to say so-thinking perhaps ful volume, “ Natural Magic;" and, of Macpherson's Ossian. Is it not after the first flurry, taking a philosopoetry? Wordsworth says it is not phical view of the Phenomenon, we but Christopher North says it is- came to the conclusion that it was our with all reverence for the King. Let SIMULACRUM reflected and refracted its antiquity be given up-let such a heaven only knew how-from some state of society as is therein described sympathetic and admiring Cloud who be declared impossible_let all the had caught a glimpse of Us as he hung inconsistencies and violations of nature on the distant horizon. At that moever charged against it be acknow. ment his Evil Genius whispered to him ledged-let all its glaring plagiarisms -"handle the Crutch !" and we saw he from poetry of modern date inspire was an impostor. Not, by a score, the what derision they may-and far worse first fellow he, that has had the infatuathe perpetual repetition of its own tion to personate Christopher North! imbecilities and inanities, wearying one But he was the first we had caught in down even to disgust and anger;-yet, the fact--face to face-and, on the in spite of all, are we not made to feel, spur of the moment, assuredly we had not only that we are among the moun- tarred and feathered him, had the matains, but to forget that there is any terials been at hand. While we were other world in existence, save that pondering on what might be a fitting which glooms and glimmers, and wails punishment for the Scotch Cockneyand raves around us in mists and clouds, a horrid cross-up came " the boy with and storms, and snows-full of lakes his carpet-bag-a sight unendurable and rivers, sea-intersected and sea-sur- by our idiosyncracy--and we “ rerounded, with a sky as troublous as coiled into the wilderness." the earth-yet both at times visited with a mournful beauty that sinks

“ To.morrow for severer thought, but now strangely into the sonl-while the sha. For

ho For breakfast ---and keep holiday to-day.

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