UTH. One of the few ballad poems of the great Poet of the age and country-William Wordsworth. It is a composition of the rarest beauty, natural and true; and conveys a strong moral in language that renders it powerfully impressive.

The Poet is descended from a family of high respectability in Cumberland. He was born at Cockermouth on the 7th of April, 1770: he is, consequently, in his 74th year; and in the enjoyment of sound health and a vigorous constitution. His age

"Is as a lusty winter,

Frosty but kindly."

William Wordsworth was educated at Hawkesworth School, in Lancashire; his fellow-pupil was his almost equally distinguished brother-Dr. Christopher Wordsworth. In 1787, Mr. Wordsworth took his degree at St. John's College, Cambridge. Early in the year 1800, he settled in Westmoreland; and for nearly forty-three years his home has been either at his present residence, Rydal Mount, or within two miles of it. While a student at the university, he travelled on the Continent; and, it is understood, learned by experience, during a brief sojourn in France, the evil tendency of Republican Principles. Happily for society, he was a personal witness to the atrocities of the Reign of Terror; for to this circumstance we are no doubt indebted for some of the grandest, noblest, and most serviceable of his compositions. There is evidence in his writings that he subsequently visited the Continent; and we have abundant proof that frequent excursions into Scotland, and the several counties of England, produced the glorious fruitage we find in his great works. His departures from his own fireside, however, have been only brief and occasional: his life has been retired uniformly calm, and invariably useful. Mingling but little in "society," his career has been an almost uninterrupted continuance of philosophic repose. The possession of

"Health, peace, and competence,"

secured that tranquillity of mind and temper, out of which has proceeded the vast mine of intellectual wealth that will be exhausted only when Nature becomes untrue to herself. For many years Mr. Wordsworth held the post of "Distributor of Stamps for the district in which he resides; and on the death of his friend Southey, he was appointed "Poet Laureate -an appointment that conferred distinction upon, and elevated, the office. He has outlived nearly all his contemporaries; having reached a venerable age, beloved, honoured, and respected; still as capable of enjoying nature -and teaching others to enjoy it as he was in the heyday of his youth. In the 74th year of his age,

"The innocent brightness of a new-born day

Is lovely yet."

He has ever been a "Poet for Poets. from the commencement of his career, he "fit audience found, though few." But his popularity—in the ordinary sense of the term was long postponed. It is only of late years that his resolute energy in working on in his own steady way persevering almost in the teeth of despair- has received a portion of its recompence in the more general appreciation of mankind. But that he aimed at achieving a loftier purpose than temporary applause, he would long since have thrown aside the pen; for the fact will be classed hereafter among the marvels of this age, that the poetry of Wordsworth scarcely paid the cost of publication. The style of Wordsworth is essentially vernacular; at once vigorous and simple.

He is ever true to Nature; and therefore, excepting only Shakspeare, no writer is so often quoted by writers. Passages from his Poems have become familiar as household words, and are perpetually called into use to give force and expression to the thoughts and feelings of others. This is, of itself, "an exceeding great reward -perhaps the highest compliment a Poet can receive. With him the commonest objects,

"Bare trees and mountains bare,
The grass and the green fields,"

a

are things sacred: he has an alchemy of his own, by which he draws from them " kind of quintessence" entirely and altogether pure. "He sees nothing loftier than human hopes, nothing deeper than the human heart." His purpose ever is so to picture NATURE, that he may succeed in

from his contemporaries.

Linking to her fair works the human soul!"

His Poems are full of beauties peculiarly their own, of original thoughts, of fine sympathies, and of grave yet cheerful wisdom. Virtue never had a firmer friend, or a more effective advocate. No Poet of his time has received worthier compliments One of the most impressive was paid to him by the Author of "Ion," in the House of Commons, where a shrivelled soul was sceptical concerning poetical "utilities.". "He has supplied the noblest antidote to the freezing effects of the scientific spirit of the age; and, while he has done justice to the poetry of greatness, has cast a glory around the lowest conditions of humanity, and traced out the subtle links by which they are connected with the highest." A kindred spirit Felicia Hemans laid this offering upon the shrine :

"True bard and holy! Thou art even as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul, or eye,

In every spot beneath the smiling sun,

Sees where the springs of living waters lie!"

It is indeed impossible to exaggerate in praising the most eloquent and highsouled of all our British Poets-saving and excepting only one. His volumes will be"for ever and for ever' the text-books of those who love and reverence Nature, Virtue, and Eternal Truth.

Beneath her Father's roof alone

She seem'd to live; her thoughts her own,

Herself her own delight;

Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay;

And, passing thus the livelong day,

She grew to Woman's height.

There came a Youth from Georgia's shore

A military Casque he wore,

With splendid feathers drest;

He brought them from the Cherokees :

The feathers nodded in the breeze,

And made a gallant crest.

From Indian blood you deem him sprung: Ah no! he spake the English tongue,

And bore a Soldier's name;

And, when America was free
From battle and from jeopardy,

He cross the ocean came.

With hues of genius on his cheek,

In finest tones the Youth could speak:
While he was yet a Boy,

The moon, the glory of the sun,

And streams that murmur as they run,

Had been his dearest joy.

He was a lovely Youth! I guess

The panther in the wilderness

Was not so fair as he ;

And, when he chose to sport and play,

No dolphin ever was so gay

Upon the tropic sea.

Among the Indians he had fought;

And with him many tales he brought

Of pleasure and of fear;

Such tales as told to any Maid

By such a Youth, in the green shade,
Were perilous to hear.