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He writes with an energy which exalts, a sweetness which melts: at times, he stands on the mountain's brow, and the storm is the music he loves; but at other seasons, he reclines on some mossy bank, beneath the clear silver moonlight, and the soft breeze is the melody he chooses. The Ancient Mariner is a tale of supernatural beauty: we are entranced while perusing it; we become isolated, we are bound by some wild, deep spell; it is a strain of another existence; there are unearthly witcheries about it; it is sweeter than the murmur of a dream; it is the production of a brilliant imagination in some eventide when its brightness became, as it were, a soft, golden light. Madame de Stael says: "It is a great art in certain fictions to imitate by words the solemn stillness which imagination pictures in the empire of darkness and death;' and Coleridge has succeeded in this to admiration.

Christabel belongs to the same class; illus. trates our poet's theory of an intimate connexion between this and the unseen world; its imagery is as singular, and perhaps more so, whilst its versification is as strangely modulated. It is unfinished, and we are glad that it is so: another note might have jarred its exquisite music, another word might have rolled a cloud over its enchanting beauty; another line might have been as some dark storm, dispelling its thousand sweets. As it stands, we love it; it is a fragment of something wondrous; it is a figment of something mysterious: it reminds us of some soft hymn heard for a moment in fancy, when the moon is up, across a narrow stream: another minute, and the delicious delusion is gone. Just so with this poem; its strain is as silvery and as momentary; there is a wildness and a dimness. We ask questions who and what; but no answer can we get; all is enveloped in strangeness and loneliness: we try to break the spell, but cannot; we endeavour to free ourselves from the sorcery, but are unable; we are fascinated almost to pain; the very language is something marvellous.

His Odes are finely written, and display profound thought and sublime imagination. Those on France and to the Departing Year are magnificent. Coleridge is much a kindred spirit with Beethoven; they both arise above the earth into a wider and a more ethereal atmosphere; they breathe immortal air; their music is of the infinite heaven: both pensive and soothing at seasons, they alike swell with enthusiasm, and pour out such bursts of glorious, oceanic minstrelsy as seem to bear one into a sea of all majestic sounds. Mass on mass follows; sweep on sweep. Ere we recover ourselves from the first ponderous notes, we are thrilled by others of deeper power: the rolling of the thunders, and the surging of the evertumultuous waters are heard. It is peal succeeding peal, clap on clap; it is crash following crash; dashing waves ever breaking on the shore, or against some huge rock; the very elements mingle in chaotic confusion, clashings, jarrings, tremendous sounds, and yet all is the divinest harmony. There is sunshine, and flowers, and waving tree, and hum of bees, and silvery tones of eventide, and exquisite melodies of love. They string their lyres to the

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lofty symphonies of the angelic choir; they
make sky and earth one everlasting chord;
with their sublime outbreaks the soul is, as
it were, torn from its socket. Listen:-
Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star
In his steep course? So long he seems to pause
On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc !
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
Risest from forth the silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black;
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!

O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer,
I worshipped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,

So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy:
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused
Into the mighty vision passing-then,
As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven!
Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn!

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale!
O struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink:
Companion of the morning-star at dawn,
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Who called you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns called you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
For ever shattered, and the same for ever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?
And who commanded-and the silence came,-
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow
Adown enormous ravines slope amain-
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
And stopped at once, amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! Silent cataracts!
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven,
Beneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet!
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice;
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds;
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt th' eternal frost,
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest,
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm,
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds,
Ye signs and wonders of the element,
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise.

Thou, too, hoar mount, with thy sky-pointing peaks,
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast:
Thou, too, again, stupendous mountain; thou
That, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low
In adoration, upward from thy base;
Slow travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,
To rise before me, -rise, O ever rise,
Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth:
Thou, kingly spirit, throned among the hills,
Thou dread Ambassador from earth to heaven,
Great Hierarch, tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.
Our poet's translation of Wallenstein is ex-
ecuted in a masterly and brilliant manner; he

has entered so fully into the spirit of its author, that it loses nothing in its English dress. His Zapoyla-imitated from Shakspeare's Winter's Tale-and his Remorse, a tragedy, exhibit all the beauties and all the faults of his style. They are more suited for the closet than the stage; thought enhances their value, and opens up many unperceived graces: they are, however, deficient in energy and passion; but as works of genius, they, perhaps, have not been excelled in modern times.

Coleridge's poetry is a combination of the subtle witcheries of a calm, unruffled summer's eve, and the awe-inspiring grandeur of an autumnal sunset in a mountainous district. Thou hast seen, O reader, when sauntering along the straggling pathway of some lone wood, the day growing dim and dimmer; and thou hast heard the song of thrush in yon tall trees, and the leap of squirrel, and the murmuring of gnats, and the rustling of the leaves, and the stir of branches, and the lowing of the kine, and the silver music of the chapel-bell, and the gentle purling of the rill, and the distant hum of the great city; and thou hast felt a soothing influence steal over thy being as of elysian rest: and as the twilight has become more vague and indistinct, and the shadows more solemnly beautiful, thou hast felt that quietude becoming sweet and sweeter until it has borne thee far off among sunny glances and angel countenances, and soft, balmy tendernesses, and fond endearments, and liquid hymnings, and holiest breathings, and hallowed melodies, and flowers, and stars, and all the heaven of divinest things. Or, perchance, thou hast stood on ocean's sands, where they stretch away opposite the Ailsa Craig, and as the waves have beaten loud and louder on the shore, and thrown their snow-white foam aloft beneath the stirring wind, thou hast marked the deep, dark crimson colouring of the western sky, tinting the summit of Goat-fell with clouds of blood, and ever and anon casting over the wide hemisphere, and the boundless roll of waters, and the distant ship, and the far-off rock, and the screaming sea-gull, and the rising moon, and the pale vesper, its own hues of tremendous grandeur and dread magnificence: in these two, in the enchanting loveliness of the woodland scene, and in the ponderous glory of the heaving main, we have the characteristics of our poet's song.

His love poems are exquisitely beautiful, uniting with a confiding tenderness and sweet simplicity a captivating melancholy. He has enshrined the passion in a radiance lovelier than the silver crescent: his Genevieve is inimitable it is as enchanting as the sculptured Venus, or as Handel's delicious air, "Waft her, angels, to the skies:" it is chaste, elegant, melodious; it is the most delightful sketch of first-love we ever gazed upon ; it has all its fine, delicate colouring; it is more thrilling than starlight.

The calm eventide, the soft moonlight, the ruined tower, the statue of the armed knight, the minstrel and the harp, the romantic tale, the meek and gentle maiden, the blush of affection, the hopes and fears, the confiding artlessness and trusting love, all combine to form a picture of consummate beauty and consummate

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All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
Are all but ministers of love,
And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve:
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve.

She leaned against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listened to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve!
She loves me best whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story-
An old rude song that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand;
And that for ten long years he wooed
The lady of the land.

I told her how he pined; and ha!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love,
Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
And she forgave me that I gazed
Too fondly on her face.

But when I told the cruel scorn

Which crazed this bold and lovely knight,
And that he crossed the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night;

But sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade
And sometimes starting up at once,
In green and sunny glade,

There came and looked him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a fiend,
This miserable knight!

And that, unknowing what he did,
He leapt amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The lady of the land;

And how she wept and clasped his knees,
And how she tended him in vain-
And ever strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain.
And that she nursed him in a cave;
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest leaves
A dying man he lay;

His dying words--but when I reached
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul to pity!

All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve-
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes and fears, that kindled hope,
An undistinguishable throng;
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long!

She wept with pity and delight,
She blushed with love and virgin shame;
And like the murmur of a dream
I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved, she stept aside;
As conscious of my look she stept-
Then suddenly, with timorous eye,
She fled to me and wept.

She half-enclosed me with her arms,
She pressed me with a meek embrace,
And bending back her head, looked up
And gazed upon my face.

'Twas partly love and partly fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel than see
The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears; and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous bride!

COWPER.

SNOW falls thickly down this winter's day; flake after flake is blown by the bleak wind against the windows of this our cottage home. The It is a dreary afternoon, and dismal. sun, envelloped in dusky red, looks gloomy; and the moon just rising opposite, is cold and chilly. So on the hours pass; snow, snow, till the fields and bridge and village are covered. The "twanging horn" is heard; and the postboy "comes, the herald of a noisy world, with spattered_boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks." Day darkens into eve :—

Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in. The bronzed lamp throws its mellowed light around the quiet room; an air of snug security is felt. Snow falls faster without, but within all is full of comfort. The paper is brought, "which not even critics criticise," which holds in silence the happy inmates, and "which the fair, though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break."

'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat
To peep at such a world; to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates
At a safe distance, where the dying sound
Falls a soft murmur on th' uninjured ear.
Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease
The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced
To some secure and more than mortal height,
That liberates and exempts me from them all.
It turns, submitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold

The tumult and am still. The sound of war
Hast lost its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
And avarice that makes man a wolf to man;

Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats,
By which he speaks the language of his heart,
And sigh, but never tremble at the sound.
He travels and expatiates, as the bee
From flower to flower, so he from land to land;
The manners, customs, policy, of all

Pay contribution to the store he gleans;

He sucks intelligence in every clime,
And spreads the honey of his deep research
At his return-a rich repast for me.
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,
Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes
Discover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes;
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

Thus the paper brings the empire before us and seems, as the falling snow without, to make our home more comfortable and warm. How domesticated is the room. Even the pictures of innocence and beauty which adorn the crimson wails glow with a calm and delicious quietude. The fire burns brightly, throwing its glare on the figured carpet. Sweet, meanwhile, flows on the evening.

We are far away from the busy world; shut out from the anxiety of humanity. There is a charm in this snug domestic home which binds us to its hearth. Noiselessly pass the hours, as if they had "silken wings.' "The threaded steel flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds;" "the well-depicted flower wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, unfolds its bosom; buds and leaves and sprigs and curling tendrils, gracefully disposed, follow the nimble finger of the fair;" who loves not evening thus !Away, away from the dizzy Babel, embosomed in peace and quietude.

66

Fast falls the snow, but with comforts such as these, Winter, we dread thee not; nay we enjoyments, homeborn happiness and all the crown thee king of intimate delights, fire-side comforts, that the lowly roof of undisturbed retirement, and the hours of long uninterrupted evening, know." Fast falls the snow without; the fields lie hid, the thatched cottages are covered with the hoary flakes. Stir the fire, and draw nearer to the blazing hearth and think of those journeying homewards through such a night. "How calm is our recess; and how the frost raging abroad, and the rough wind endear the silence and the warmth enjoyed within!"

How delicious in such peaceful moments to take up Cowper and dream over his exquisite treats; and while the snow falls thickly on poems. To us it is the most delightful of the hills and vallies, and drives down on the slow moving wain, let us read some of the most striking portions of his writings. Nothing can be more suitable; nothing can so endear this fire-side to one's heart, purifying all the affections of the soul and shedding quietude and happiness on this tree-embosomed home.

We have ever loved the life of this saintedman. It abounds in so much that is pure, simple and artless. Humanity may shed its finest expression of admiration here. There is so much that is noble, mingled with so much that is gentle. There is such hallowed charms thrown around all that comes in the way of this holiest and best of poets. No one can rise from a perusal of his works without better thoughts and better feelings. He is like a fountain of crystal water; a crystal fountain, pouring forth the most limpid streams. From his very birth we love him and who

is there that does not thus love him after reading those exquisite lines on the receipt of his mother's picture? What heart melts not while listening to the thrilling strain? And then how sweetly he lets us into all the domestic blessings of his, oftentimes, happy lot. Those letters of his are beyond praise. No letters are equal to them in the language for warmth, elegance and purity. One becomes almost an inmate of his home; a beloved com

panion of the poet's. Sad indeed were those There is another and not less exquisite piece clouds that obscured his mental vision; sad and of Cowper's on the hateful practice of sweargloomy. But he had much exquisite blessed-ing; and will not be out of place as a further ness. Comparing him with others renowned in specimen of the chasteness of his wit:song, he would suffer little; indeed we doubt not but that he would be found to have enjoyed, upon the whole, the greater portion of comfort and happiness.

These letters of his will always live; indeed we know not which to prefer, his letters or his poems. We love both too well to part with either. Perhaps they are equally as interesting as Boswell's Johnson; to the child of God, infinitely more so.

How endeared those names are to us which his affectionate and sympathising friends bore! We can never forget his Mary, Lady Austin, Lady Heskett, Hayley, Joseph Hill and others. They are enshrined amid our sweetest and our holiest memories. And how beautiful the concluding couplet of his epistle to Joseph Hill, so exquisitely turned:

But not to moralize too much, and strain,
To prove an evil, of which all complain,
(I hate long arguments verbosely spun)
One story more, dear Hill, and I have done.
Once on a time an emperor, a wise man,
No matter where, in China, or Japan,
Decreed, that whosoever should offend
Against the well-known duties of a friend,
Convicted once should ever after wear
But half a coat, and show his bosom bare.
The punishment importing this, no doubt,
That all was nought within, and all found out.
O happy Britain! we have not to fear
Such hard and arbitrary measure here;
Else, could a law, like that which I relate,
Once have the sanction of our triple state,

Some few, that I have known in days of old,
Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold;
While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow,
Might traverse England safely to and fro,
An honest man, close buttoned to the chin,
Broad-cloth without and a warm heart within.

We are reading this from the edition printed but a few years after the poet's death; and we confess we feel a peculiar pleasure in handling a book bearing the date 1808 and the name of Johnson; all will remember his letters to the printer, so characteristic of the pure and unsophisticated Cowper. Yea, there is an exquisite feeling in knowing that these volumes appeared almost in the very life-time of their author; perhaps purchased by one of his friends. But we may be deemed rather giving way to folly in speaking thus; our mood, however, is to dream over this as well as all other things. Who would not dream in such a quiet home, the fire blazing brightly and casting its warmth and light on the pictures, books and busts, the carpet, and sweetly adorned tea-table on which a few modest snow-drops stand, enblems of perfect beauty and perfect purity; then the white fields lying all round the cottage habitation, and the snow falling fast and faster, the winds blowing bleak and wintry. We cannot but dream in such a calm, quiet, blessed home: cannot otherwise than turn page after page of our author in a desultory manner. Some of our readers, at least, will enter into all these peaceful feelings. They will remember times when they too have been lulled into the serene haven of silent happiness; they will understand us.

A Persian, humble servant of the sun, Who though devout yet bigotry had none, Hearing a lawyer, grave in his address, With adjurations every word impress, Supposed the man a bishop, or at least, God's name so much upon his lips, a priest; Bowed at the close with all his graceful airs, And begged an interest in his frequent prayers, His letters are even more enlivened with it than his poems. Those to Lady Heskett and Joseph Hill contain many exquisite specimens. Indeed, when rebuking, he is often playful; he rather seeks to exhibit the absurdity of the thing by some pleasing allusion, than to censure with sternness. This characteristic will be perceived at once by those who have read and admired his writings.

But let us turn to more serious passages: passages breathing more of the deep throbbing feelings of humanity than its playfulness and love. In listening to their noble music we would let the evening hour flow quietly away. Let the snow continue falling and the wind blow bleak and chilly, we are happy here and blessed. Then ply the needle while we read: yet we would linger a little over those sweeter melodies which breathe out the sorrows of his heart: full of tenderest expression are these:

No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels;
No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals.
And thou, sad sufferer, under nameless ill,
That yields not to the touch of human skill,
Improve the kind occasion, understand
A Father's frown and kiss the chastening rod !

This is a sight for pity to peruse,

Till she resembles, faintly, what she views;
Till sympathy contracts a kindred pain,
Pierced with the woes, that she laments in vain.
This, of all maladies, that man infest
Claims most compassion, and receives the less.
And again how sweetly he alludes to the
same trial in the following:-

But with a soul that ever felt the sting
Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing.

'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose,
Forgery of fancy, and a dream of woes.
Man is a harp, whose chords elude the sight,
Each yielding harmony, disposed aright;
The screws reversed (a task, which, if He please,
God in a moment executes with ease;)
Ten thousand, thousand strings at once go loose :
Lost, till He tune them, all their power and use.

But far more exquisitely, more touchingly beautiful than all are those lines in which he refers "to One who had himself been hurt by archers;" it is so simple, so pure, so thrilling. The heart dwells ever on the delicious notes: the softest that ever yet fell on human ear: it is sweet beyond expression :

I was a stricken deer, that left the herd
Long since. With many an arrow deep infixed
My panting side was charged, when I withdrew
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.
There was I found by one, who had himself
Been hurt by archers. In his side he bore,
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars.
With gentle force soliciting the darts,

He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live.

A note struck upon the soul, never to be forgotten! In simplicity and exquisite sweet

ness curl around the heart and live, entwined, for years. There is such a meek-breathing tone, so applicable to the subject; and the allusion is like the mild light of heaven throwing additional beauty over one of the most touching pictures in our language. It radiates with a calm spiritual lustre soothing to the very existence. Gently does he recall his sorrow, yea with all the gentleness of a child of God, and gently does it find its way to our bosom.

How fine is Cowper's reply to the sage who desires him to leave the world alone to babble on in its foolish hopes and fears. It is a noble passage; breathing from the inner depths of universal brotherhood. It is the utterance of the bursting soul of one who loved humanity with his very life :

'Twere well, says one sage erudite, profound,
Terribly arched and aquiline his nose,
And overbuilt with most impending brows,
"Twere well, could you permit the world to live
As the world pleases. What's the world to you?
Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk
As sweet as charity from human breasts.
I think, articulate, I laugh and weep,
And exercise all functions of a man.
How then should I and any man that lives
Be strangers to each other? Pierce my vein,
Take of the crimson stream meandering there,
And catechise it well; apply thy glass,
Search it, and prove now if it be not blood
Congenial with thine own: and, if it be,
What edge of subtlety canst thou suppose
Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art,
To cut the link of brotherhood, by which
One common Maker bound me to the kind?
True; I am no proficient, I confess,

In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift
And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds,
And bid them hide themselves in earth beneath;
I cannot analyse the air nor catch

The parallax of yonder luminous point,
That seems half quenched in the immense abyss:
Such powers I boast not-neither can I rest
A silent witness of the headlong rage,
Or heedless folly, by which thousands die,
Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine.

And again in that often quoted contrast between the simple peasant and the witty Voltaire, what mild lustre glows in every line:

Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little store;
Content tho' mean, and cheerful if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the livelong day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding and no wit,
Receives no praise; but, though her lot be such,
(Toilsome and indigent) she renders much;
That knows, and knows no more, her Bible true-
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;
And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

O happy peasant! O unhappy bard!
His the mere tinsel, her's the rich reward;
He praised perhaps for ages yet to come,
She never heard of half a mile from home:
He lost in errors his vain heart prefers,
She safe in the simplicity of her's.

How fine is that deep thrilling utterance of the wearied soul in the opening of the second

book of the Task :

O for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,
Where rumour of oppression and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or successful war
Might never reach me more.

What quiet sweetness, soft as the mellowed light of eve, characterises the walk to Emmaus;

what solemn eloquence breathes in his denunciation of unholy ministers, and how lofty and even magnificent are those anathemas against slavery and wrong. But where all is so beautiful, so manly and so gentle, how shall we choose? We love his colloquial style; his pure and christian flow of reasoning. Indeed his works abound in these; they are embued with all the silent happiness of home. They could not otherwise than have been written in a blessed abode. Had Cowper been differently placed he never had composed such charming volumes. We could fancy ten thousand circumstances that would have blighted all.

He is a poet of whom one never wearies. However we may love the others, still we are not always in the mood to enjoy them. To read them, they require you to bring the mind attuned to their music, whether it be swelling out with grandeur or flowing softly and dreamlike. But to Cowper you may ever give "capable ear." Times and seasons heed not you will find pleasure and profit: your heart will be purified; evil passions will be subdued, evil desires overcome; there will be a holy and blessed influence at work directly you turn his page. This hallowing power will harmonize your mind to its unsullied sanctity of purpose and will.

He is as a revered parent talking with you, his child. His hair is grey; and his aspect venerable, yet beaming with the tenderest affection; and you listen to the charmed notes with deepening joy. He is the most intimate companion and yet the holiest guide. You cannot otherwise than reverence him; and feel that he talks with you as one who knows every expression of your soul. He leads you through nature and tells of Him, its author. He leads you home and tells of domestic blessedness independent of the world's smile or frown. He leads you to the universal Father and shews Him once again reconciled to you by His divine Son.

Cast down and wounded art thou, he will soothe and comfort: weak and helpless-he will give strength and hope: harassed with unholy desires and wishes, he will purify and subdue; loving wife and child, he will deepen that hallowed love; clinging to parents, he will make thee cling more tenderly; happy, he will make thee happier. Be his companion for a morning; a winter's clear and frosty morning, and thy soul shall be gladdened by his converse and his smile. He will shew "the self-sequestered man fresh for his task, intend what task he may." He will tell thee that "inclement seasons recommend his warm but simple home, when he enjoys with her, who shares his pleasures and his heart, sweet converse." He will make thee feel the healthy happiness of the morning meal when partaken

with those we love. Then thou wilt wander forth with him into the garden; and though flowers now bloom not, still wilt thou find the most beautiful of all rearing its unsullied petals, even the sweet hope-breathing snowdrop and thou wilt find the air bracing though keen, and the sky all cloudless blue; and from this plot of cultivated ground will

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