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loveliness of nature ever feed the stirring flame, bliss arise! And yet we feel a sadness mingever increase the intense thirst. We gaze on ling its low music with our better hopes ; it some quiet landscape, mellowed into golden clings, it cleaves to us; we are bound down to beauty by the sun, its waters glancing beneath this estranged. orb; we cannot get free; we the light, its forests irradiated with brightness, are in the midst of decay; we long to be where its distant steeple shining like some silver streak change is unknown; nothing satisfieth but perof coming day, its sheep reclining beneath the fect glory ; music and eloquence, architecture, shade of tree and hedge, its butterflies alighting painting, sculpture, poetry, do but increase and on the wild-rose and woodbine, and immediately quicken these pantings after immortal, incorwe feel the burnings within—the longings after ruptible, inextinguishable beauty; they are immortality; or we stand before the blue moun- glimpses of the unseen good, gleams of the tains with their crests of snow, and our pantings radiant loveliness; they stir, move, dilate our become more sublime and ethereal; their gi- being; they are part of that exquisite happiness gantic forms seem part of another world; with we lost when Adam fell : all faded not then ; every-day life they have nothing to do; they we still possess something divine, something of are the emblems of some eternal existence; the original brightness. they contrast themselves strangely with the These are periods when realities dawn upon turmoil of cities; whilst looking on them, we us; we behold our condition; we long after are divested of self, we merge into the one freedom ; the vanities of this passing, wo-bemighty spirit; an everlastingness comes over gone scene appear in their proper light; they us; the noise and tumult of man cease here; belong not to immortals hastening heavenward.. the larch and fir which skirt their sides give a But the world turns on us again; we are semelancholy tone to the mind; the mortal is duced by its alluring pomps and pleasures; we lost in the immortal; the corruptible, in the forget our mightier existence; timeflies onwards, incorruptible; the transitory becomes firm, and they return with fresh vigour and glory; fixed, immovable; our fickleness changes itself we gaze on revelation's page, and read that into a deep and imperishable constancy; our can never die; we are cheered; we lay thoughts take the hue of heaven-they are vast hold of the soothing fact; it lighteth up the and infinite; our aspirations quicken; our feel-being, it radiates the inner shrine; the falling ings are spiritualized :

leaves, and the moaning winds, and the dim Witness this one fair lake, upon whose side

earth, and the pale moon, and the twinkling So oft at even 'tis my joy to roam

stars, become then the echo of this great and Gazing upon a thousand things that hide

sublime verity; we feel that we have sinned ; Their beauties, till the heart doth feel at home

that we have wandered far from the fold: we With nature's self beneath her open domeThat I do love the waters, and the woods,

look up for pardon ; we have it in the blood of And simple flowers that bloom in solitudes,

the Holiest; on him we henceforth lean, on And the green meadows, and the soft blue skies, him for ever repose; death and the grave are And mountains with their ever-changeful dyes;

stripped of their terrors; the tomb closes; And that I praise with no feigned melodies : Yet did the fairest scene that ever beamed

its overhanging willows, as the breeze rustles On my rapt gaze-the loveliest morn or even,

by, breathe out the music of immortality; PaBeneath whose spell I ever stood and dreamed, radise visions itself in tints of everlasting Leave but a deeper thirst-this spirit needs a heaven!

beauty; we think of Eden, faded, but weep There is something within us all which speaks not; there is a sweeter land above, without of everlasting life and beauty: those seasons are change, and without decay. far from few in which overwhelming thoughts Why have we this love for the unseen and rush on the soul; we pant after eternal reali- eternal :—whence this longing after invisible ties; we weep because all around us is transi- things ?—why this fondness for something betory; we sorrow because all is given to decay. yond the barrier of our present existence, if Man thus ever thinks : he gazes on the once there is nought but annihilation there, if noblossoming rose, it is now shrivelled, and dried, thing but profound nonentity, why this desire and without loveliness; he looks on the pale, for spiritual knowledge ? why this casting formarble features of his own little one ere it is ward the inextinguishable thought into the laid in the tomb, and he meditates on the insta- unknown, if being is not there-why these bility of all things here below; but in the midst | aspirations, which are in the bosom of every of sadness there is hope; he feels within him- man, after a more ethereal and perfect nature ? self an imperishable essence. Man is the child —why does imagination so often kindle its fires of anticipation; in his happiest hours he dreams in the world beyond, if we are not allied to of something more lasting and exquisite still ; something infinitely greater than anything on he creates something purer, and holier, and earth --why these pantings after some lasting better.

good, if we have no tie and no bond which And oh, how sweet when the pale moon and unite us to the Holiest?-why these golden the silver stars glimmer in the evening sky, glimpses of the coming heaven :-why these when the leaves fall rustling to the earth, refulgent gleams of beauty :-why these liquid when the low winds come moaning by, to let hymnings of praise ?-why these shadowings of loose the soul to revel in its imaginings ! The the lovely and the true :-why, oh why, the aspect of nature, so calm, yet so melancholy, dawn streaking so often the horizon of man's throws the mind into musings on its future soul and illumining its mysterious abysses with destiny; there is a solemnity in the twilight glory, if we are not the sons of the universal heavens, and the dim world; there is, too, a King and the universal Lord ? deep, hushed stillness on the thoughts of the The poem on Heavenly Rest, for beauty and heart. In such an hour, what scenes of quiet elegance, is exquisite: we deem it the sweetest

And rests at even:

flower in the bouquet, the brightest gem in the glance brings Eden in all its unfading beauty casket.

before us, their very

talk is more than sweetest

melody ; their eye is undimmed, their counteMan in the morning to his work goes forth,

nance unclouded. Bursts of glorious sunshine Christian, remember, labour is for earth,

seem ever and anon to break from their free Repose for heaven.

and lovely faces : we deem again that earth is Who now sows precious seed, though it may be without a sorrow, earth without a thorn. It is Too oft with weeping, Shall, if he patiently await it, see

true they sometimes quarrel, but it is a quarrel A joyous reaping.

quickly ending in love and tenderness; some Fruit shall be gathered, whose abundant store passing shadow, soon to be lost in the brightShall never perish;

ness of a clear blue firmament. But blissful love, where weeping shall be o'er, For ever cherish.

Their domain is home; they are the pledges Then scatter freely, nor withhold thy hand

of a true and holy faith ; the cup of labour beTill close of even:

comes then the cup of blessing; the curse of Earth is the place of toil--the better land

sin falls less heavily, the bitterness of our reOf rest is heaven.

bellion sinks less deeply; mercy is mixed with Our poet is a domestic man. Amid the judgment; the domestic hearth is Paradise resanctities of a hallowed home he gathers his gained, is Eden restored : children are its lovechoicest mercies. Somehow or other, we have 'liest, fairest flowers. They are smiled on each been too much accustomed to look for beauty day by the sun of love; they are breathed on out of this blessed retreat; in this we have by the breath of love: morning, noon, and greatly erred: the centre of all real beauty is night, they are carried to the throne, and bleshome, it is the concentration of loveliness; sings sought: they learn “the truth as it is earth possesses no other spot more truly fasci- in Jesus”; it refines, expands, exalts them; nating. In vain do we look elsewhere ; all the they become more divinely bright, more diaffections that perfume this hallowed recess are vinely beautiful: "Of such is the kingdom of highly poetical, each is pre-eminently beautiful: heaven”: the eye of childhood, its rainbow hopes, its

What were the grove without the wild courageous daring, its deep gushes of tenderness,

And merry warbler in the trees? its fuil confiding trust, its sweet simplicity,

What were the home without the child,

Whose laughter speaks his ecstasies? its firm reliance, are all glowing with the di

The minstrel may describe the one; vinest poetry; the throbbing feelings, the watch

But would ye rightly know the other, ful care, the thousand sacrifices of parental love

Go, ask the father, who hath done

His toil, and hastes to child and mother. are equally imbued with the spirit of ethereal

Or rather-for the words of men grace; the endearments of an affianced pair,

Feebly from swelling hearts arisetheir devoted and clinging attachment, their

Go, mark the gladsome child, and then resolve never to part from each other; their

Look up into the mother's eyes.

0, sweet it is in woods to roam eherishing regard, their innumerable acts of

And list the merry warblers wild ! fondness, their chiding the anticipation, their

But sweeter far to hear at home readings, their twilight hours, their evening The dancing, laughing, joyous child ! vespers, are each and all charactered with the Such is the delight children yield-yields the purest light : all that is homeborn is unutter- rose a sweeter? such the happiness they giveably fair and good; the open-hearted child, the give the stars a greater? Flowers are embleyearning mother, the kind father, the young matical of their beauty ; the stars significant of wife, the tender husband, are all poetical their brightness. They, indeed, are far more objects. Oh! how much beauty, loveliness, beautiful and bright than either: their little pratand glory circle the domestic abode; and thus tle, their beaming countenance, their confiding it is that we delight to see the expression of truth, their open-hearted affection, their looks this truth embodying itself in the description of thrilling tenderness, their light and joyous step, of poet and the work of painter, for the soul their candour, their honesties, their aspirations that never thought before may be led to prize it after something higher and nobler, their tears now, and the heart that never throbbed when for the distress of the poor, their blushings of gazing on such holy scenes, may be bound once heroic purpose, their kindling souls at the tale and for ever by the pure and powerful influence of self-sacrifice, their gratitude, their deep restealing from those exquisite works of art. membrance, their free and boisterous mirth, “ Children,” says the Scottish poet,

their sincerity, their fervent prayers, their ardent dew-drops at day-spring on a seraph's locks, affection, are all so many silken cords or roses that bathe about the well of life ;” and golden chains which bind us to children. The the Oracle, using another simile, has proclaimed creature is ever the most exquisite of God's in the deep intonation of its music, "happy is workmanship : the soul, as it issues from the the man that hath his quiver full of them.' Creator, is ever thus his most resplendent jewel: And indeed, no one can look upon children it is as the May-day of our hopes, the dawn of without an emotion of inexpressible joy : they our bliss. are comparatively innocent and untainted by Our poet has thus sweetly written on all sin; they exhibit so much openness and con- subjects connected with the domestic affections. fiding attachment. If they love, they will come His poems scent of the rich incense of a happy and throw their little arms around your neck, home; they breathe the softness, and peace, and kiss again and again; they act from feeling; and tenderness of that holy retreat: his talents hence they so often judge correctly. They are are suited to portray its worth and beauty. bound by no fashion, but the fashion of affection; The verses to his Own Beloved, to their Firstbound by no tie, but the tie of souls: their very born, to their Daughter, are redolent with these feelings. The Dewdrop, and the lines on Even the gay glory of the earth ; like us, pensive ing, show strongly his deep-rooted love of thoughts would steal over his soul at the evennature; but it is to home that he clings and ing hour; and he, too, would think of friend, cleaves; it is his element, his earthly Paradise. and kin, and love, in that dim tranquillizing And God hath cast thereon the sunshine of his season; and the stars of heaven would breathe favour, and the bright radiance of his counte- spiritual inspiration, and that silver moon look nance, and the unutterable blessings of his beautifully pale; they would speak in language mercy. The smile of heaven is on it—the liquid as the nightingale's when heard across beams of the Holy One are there.

are as

some gentle stream, yet deep, deep as their own beauty; and this would cheer him, when, sitting

by the midnight lamp, he turned the classic EMILY.

page, and hoped, and sighed, and prayed for

immortality: In the year 1759, there came a poem bearing But we have one expression of his heart: the handwriting of one Emily to the adjudi- it is original, pathetic, beautiful. Hearken :cators of the Seatonian prize. It spoke of death;

The festive roar of laughter, the warm glow but another was thought to speak in bolder and

Of brisk-eyed joy, and friendship's genial bowl, finer tones, and it was returned. Who he was,

Wit's seasoned converse, and the liberal fiow what he was, whence he came, whither he went, Of unsuspicious youth, profuse of soul, we know not; whether the son of wealthy pa

Delight not ever; from the boisterous scene

Of riot far, and Comus' wild uproar, rents, fondled on the breast of beauty, courted

From folly's crowd, whose vacant brow serene by the great, or whether the child of poverty, Was never knit to wisdom's frowning lore, and who had by struggles obtained an university Permit me, ye tiine-hallowed domes, ye piles education, we cannot tell; whether born amid Of rude magnificence, your solemn rest,

Amid your fretted vaults, and lengthening aisles, some wild, mountainous scenery, with nothing

Lonely to wander; no unholy guest but rocks, and pines, and wild goats, and waters, That means to break, with sacrilegious tread, and the blue heavens to look upon, or whether The marble slumbers of your monumented dead.

Permit me, with sad musings, that inspire brought forth beneath some lowly roof in Eng

Unlaboured numbers apt, your silence drear land's great metropolis, we are unable to dis

Blameless to wake, and with the Orphean lyre, cover.

Fitly attempered, soothe the merciless ear There is something touching in this brief Of Hades, and stern Death, whose iron sway

Great nature owns through all her wide domain. memorial-a few lines tell it all; the history of a life is compressed within a sentence. His

Know, on the stealing wing of time shall flee fears, his hopes, his aspirations, his throbbings Some few, some short-lived years, and all is past; after bliss, his romantic schemes of happiness,

A future bard these awful domes may see, his labours, his rambles, his melancholies, his

Muse o'er the present age, as I the last,

Who, mouldering in the grave, yet once, like you, disappointments, his loves, are wholly unknown. The various maze of life were seen to tread, So passes man, and the son of man! His poem Each bent their own peculiar to pursue, is all that we have; it is the hic jacet; it tells of

As custom urged or wilful nature led :

Mixed with the various crowd's inglorious clay, some one, but of whom we cannot ken. There

The nobler virtues undistinguished lie; is the mouldering tombstone, it is partly covered No more to melt with beauty's heaven-born ray, with moss ; nothing more than the name is No more to wet compassion's tearful eye,

Catch from the poet raptures not their own, traceable; his fate melts the soul, it invests the

And feel the thrilling melody of sweet renown. object of our regard with a sanctity, it throws

Where is the master-hand, whose semblant art around him a deep interest : across the heavens Chiselled the marble into life, or taught came a star, and waned; among the students From the well-pencilled portraiture to start

The nerve that beat with soul, the brow that thought? came a poet, who sang of sable death, and

Cold are the fingers that in stone-fixed trance perished.

The mute attention rivetting, to the lyre We often think of his resting-place. Where Struck language; dimmed the poet's quick-eyed glance, is it? Is it in some shady dell, near which rose

All in wild raptures flashing heaven's own fire.

Shrunk is the sinewed energy, that strung that village spire, on which he used to gaze so The warrior's arm. Where sleeps the patriot breast often at the sunset hour? or is it in some Whilom that heaved impassioned !--where the tongue churchyard now built upon and forgotten? Is it That lanced its lightning on the tow'ring crest by the murmuring of the silver stream, or by

Of sceptred insolence, and overthrew

Giant oppression, leagued with all her earth-born crew ? the city's constant hum? The eye which once grew eloquent whilst gazing on Beauty is All in the dust; the song, the dance, and orbless and rayless now; the pulse has forgotten eloquent oration no longer move them; the to beat, the throbbings of the heart are no whirlwind's sweep and the thistle's down pass longer heard; he lies silent; no sound disturbs over them, alike unnoticed and alike unfelt; him : the birds may sing in brake and field, the the blue heavens gaze down as before; no wild flower may rear its loveliness to the sum- change in them; the earth is fresh and beautimer sun, the voice of reaper may rise upwards, ful as then; it looks not old; we it is who the perfumes of rose may scent every breath of change, we it is who moulder, we it is who are wind, the stars may shine resplendently, and forgotten. The heavens and the earth liveagain fade out, the storm may bellow, and the live; we die, we fade away, we sink into oblilightnings gleam on the dark, tempestuous vion ; every hour but bears us to the tomb, blackness, the day-god may ascend, and the every moment but hurries us to the grave; day-god may descend, but our poet is as un- thus humanity passes onwards, making room concerned as if all was silence and inactivity. for those who follow. Oh, one would think

Ah, once it was otherwise ; his heart vibra- that the ocean, and the sky, and the dry land ted gazing on creation; like us, he loved would weep! no, they are silent; they move, but there is no busy hum; they revolve, Thus passes o'er through varied life's career, but there is no change. Their elements remain;

Man's fleeting age; the seasons as they fly

Snatch from us in their course, year after year, nature tells us nothing, it gives no certain hope;

Some sweet connexion, some endearing tie. we cannot, we dare not trust it; “ a dark im- The parent, ever honoured, ever dear, penetrable curtain shrouds us in, of which the Claims from the filial breast the pious sigh;

A brother's urn demands the kindred tear, sight is fearful, and the neighbourhood appal

And gentle sorrows gush from friendship's eye. ling. All men are moving towards this dark

To-day we frolic in the rosy bloom verge with ceaseless and anxious motion; and Of jocund youth--the morrow knells us to the tomb. sometimes it will approach and shroud up mul

How expressive the last couplet ! how pregtitudes prematurely in its invisible womb, and

nant with meaning ! the experience of ages all trace of them is for ever gone: it flits and

seems compressed therein; it is a fine, mascushifts before us with fearful incertitude, and no

line sweep of the lyre. Then followeth the man laying himself down at night is sure that

ruthless catalogue of the “ thousand maladies” he will rise again in the morning among his

which “are posted round with wretched man to friends and in his native land; but though it

wage eternal strife unseen. shift awhile, this gloomy bourne of our pilgrim

In it is gathered all the hideousness of death ; age hath an unshifting limit, behind which it

there is no one redeeming feature ; not one ray never recedes ; and soon and the extreme angle issues from heaven; the horizon is all dark; the of that limit is reached by all. On we move hemisphere is covered with black, heavy clouds ; with endless succession, helpless as the sheep there is not the glimmering of a single star ; it to the slaughter; and the moment we touch the is one ebon mass. The earth seems to be a lone, dark confine, we disappear, and all clue of us is

sepulchral abode; we move in uncertain twilost ; you may cry aloud, but we hear and

light; the tarnished brightness comes from the answer not; you may give us any signal, but

spirit; it reveals the chaotic gloom; the winds we see and return it not. No voice cometh

bear on their bosom the sighs of broken hearts from within the curtain, all there is silent and

and the pangs of separations; the cry of despair, unknown ; how it fares with them, whether

the voice of throbbing agony, the dying wail, they merge at once into another country, the shriek of severed loves rise upwards to the whether they are out at sea, by what compass thunderous sky; vitality is in ruins, existence or map they steer, or whether they are lost in

is broken up, being is snapped asunder, and that gulf and abyss of being—no man for thou

“ cast as some noisome weed away.” sands and thousands of years had the shadow But we tremble not, we do not shrink, we of an imagination. It was very mysterious ; have no fear; the dawn is breaking on this sad each man as he passed .shuffled off his mortal

night. In decay we live; our dust is vital with coil,' left us his slough, and nothing of himself; immortality ; death opens the ponderous gates his reason, his feelings, his society, his love, all

of eternity; it draws aside the veil; it takes went with him ; here with us was left all of him

from us our frail existence, and gives imperishthat we were wont to see, and touch, and able being ; the sick-room resounds with cheerhandle; how he could exist apart from these, ful melodies; the dying eye is lighted up; the the helps and instruments of being, was all pale countenance is irradiated with brightness ; a phantom and a dream; the existence, if ex- the languid and the parched lips grow eloquent istence there was, no human faculties could fix again ; there are sounds as if an angel trod; a thought upon; his spirit, if spirit there was, takes its fate in cold nakedness; but how it there are glances as if the Eternal smiled; the

there are scenes as if heaven were revealed; dwells, or feels, or suffers, or enjoys, when thus

chamber scents with the sweetest odours, beams divested, is altogether incomprehensible.” The

with the clearest sunshine; there are lookings rose that blossomed yesterday, and threw up

forward, holy anticipations, delicious hopes :wards its perfume to the clear sky, is to-day in

The good alone are fearless; they alone, the dust, its form, its beauty, its odour gone; the

Firm and collected in their virtue, brave tree which spread its foliage to a hundred summer The wreck of worlds, and look unshrinking down suns has faīlen in the forest; and to-morrow, On the dread yawnings of the ravenous grave: and no vestige will remain. How this can be

Thrice happy, who the blameless road along

Of honest praise, hath reached the vale of death! we know not; all is mysterious ; and our kins- Around him, like ministrant cherubs, throng men and friends, a few years since, and we re- His better actions, to the parting breath ceived their morning and evening salutations - Singing their blessed requiems; he the while now they are in the tomb. Do they still

Gently reposing on some friendly breast,

Breathed out his benizons; then with a smile exist? is the soul imperishable ? does the heart Of soft complacence, lay's him down to rest, vibrate, though in another clime ? do they forget Calun as the slumberinginfant: from the goal the earth remember they their former being

Free and unbounded flies the disembodied soul. and their former state are they changed into something more glorious ? do they weep: do pensive reveries breathe their sad music in that

GEORGE GILFILLAN. other land ? is it dark there as here are there struggles ? is there woe? or is all blessedness, GRANDEUR is the distinguishing feature in a realm of unruffled rest and unbroken calm the writings of this author ; grandeur of imaCreation is silent, with her myriad stars and gery, grandeur of illustration, grandeur of lanmillion forms. Look upwards :


Grandeur broods over every page ;

the grandeur of the setting sun on the oceanFast to the driving winds the marshalled clouds

wave or on the dark waters of some magSweep discontinuous o'er the ethereal plain! Another still upon another crowds,

nificent loch. All hastening downwards to their native main.

It is in this great and oppressive characteristic that he differs from almost every other His style reminds you of the “large utterance of the critic. Hazlitt is grand, but not always ; greener early Gods.". It is a giant speech, handed down from

Plato to Dante, from Dante to Bacon, from Bacon to tints of simpler beauty are seen gleaming Milton, Jeremy Taylor, and John Howe; from these on his page, and frequently does he carry his to Coleridge, Shelley and Wordsworth. It is the "speech readers away to some quiet sunny nook where

with which Spenser wrote his Faery Queen, and Milton the lily and the myrtle grow. Then too his

discoursed the Areopagitica to men, to angels, and to

eternity.” It is a speech of which we fear the type is language is elegant and even chaste at times ; | failing among modern men. You observe, finally, about he swells indeed, into grandeur of thought Shelley's poetry, the exceeding strength, sweetness, and expression, but then it is occasionally and beauty, and music of his versification. His blank verse, a relief to the sunshine and delicious perfumes Spenserian Stanza has not, except in parts, the melli

without having Miltonic majesty, is elegance itself. His of his paintings. Gilfillan never ceases to lose fluous flow of Spencer, but it is less rugged and arbitrary sight of grandeur; it meets us in every line; than Byron's; and in energy, fire, and sweep of sound, it is entwined around every essay. Even the

leaves Beattie, Thomson, &c. far behind. But it is perhaps

in his odes that his intensely lyrical genius has produced softness and the melting sweetness of Keats

the principal wonders of sweet or stormy melody. They cannot subdue him into anything less gorgeous: rise or fall, sink or swell, linger or hurry, lull to repose his periods still roll on with magnificence of or awaken to tempestuous excitement, laps or pierce the meaning and magnificence of illustration.

soul, at the perfect pleasure of the poet, who can “play

well upon his instrument,” be it pan pipe or lyre, Jew's And how unlike is he to Macaulay! How harp or organ, timbrel or trump. remarkable the difference between the clear historic style of the one, and the lurid gran

We would here notice how this style is deur of the other. Gifford is not to be named, free from dreaminess You are kept thoroughly and we cannot say that we very greatly love awake. There is no lulling Lydian measure"; Lockhart. We prefer infinitely his ballads

no soft gentle warbling. It is stern language. and his tales. To Leigh Hunt

he is the very being led back into the fond mazes of the past.

No such thing as thinking on other subjects or opposite. No sunny line and glancing smiling lightsome mood : grandeur moves slowly and You must keep and you do keep intent on the oftentimes oppressively along. He resembles subject. Now one often dreams over Jeffrey's Jeffrey in some few passages; but Jeffrey was

most beautiful pieces; we remember reading more subtle, more keenly alive to the beautiful him some years ago till we were lapped in alone. We are never oppressed by him; there calmest dreams. The line flowed gently; the is just enough and not too much magnificence. of evening," and the thoughts were full of

language seemed tinted with the “quiet green Perhaps this love of grandeur is more remarkable in the portraits published in one

beauty. Now we cannot do this with Gilvolume, than in those articles since issued in fillan ; no visions then but what he rolls before Tait. Indeed there seems to us a decided

us; no wanderings into the past unless he wandifference in tone and style; there is less of ders too: no sweet memory of poet unless grandeur and more of simplicity ; less of gor

he makes the quotation. You are arrested geous display and more of beauty; less of the by his power; you are completely under his high swelling and loaded line and more of the influence; that is, if you will understand you chaste and charming graces of Alison. There

must attend; for it is perfectly useless to call is, too, far less of illustration and more of feeling; other books tend to produce, and over which

thosemellowed and golden associations which less of the overpowering intellect and more of the throbbing heart. At certain times and

we may ponder while gliding along their page. in certain moods we prefer these later essays; There is less of dream in it than in any other

It is, as we have already said, no dream book. but there are hours in which we love the

that we know. deeper and more magnificent music of his col

He may indeed and often lected themes.

does awaken ten thousand blessed memories, But as Hume properly remarked, that no

but you cannot, you dare not follow them. Criticism was interesting without extracts, we

The soul must be given to him or to them ; it shall proceed at once to a few passages in

cannot be divided. This springs partly from which this love of grandeur is most discernible ;

his deep sterling earnestness and partly from and shall note by the way this chief charac- his love of grandeur. You are too much taken teristic of our author.

up with him to have time to attend to any His estimate of Pollok is as correct as it passing thought or pleasant reminiscence. is striking :

These criticisms are thoroughly their author's.

They remind you of no one else: they are He is better, too, at sounding the key-note than at finishing the melody. His prefatory flourishes are startling,

his own. They bear his own stamp; his own but the anthem is not always worthy of the prelude impress. They are the production of his own Had he ventured to describe the flood, he would have splendid mind, and full of the grandeur of his expended his strength in the gathering of the animals and the elements: his pen had faltered in describing the

thoughts. unchained deluge:-the darkened sun-the torrents of There is one fine description which struck rain cleaving the gloom--the varied groups of drowning us peculiarly when we first read this book, wretchedness—the ark riding in melancholy grandeur and which time has deepened in its splendour on the topmost billow of an ocean planet. As it is, he sweeps the stage nobly, for the "great vision of the

of meaning :guarded throne;" he excites a thrill of shuddering ex- We have seen this scene from the summit of Dunmore pectation; on the tremendous lyre of judgment, he strikes and the side of Melville's monument, which stands upon some brief strong notes, but recoils from the sounds

seen it at all hours, in all circumstances, and in he himself has made; and from an attempt to lift up all seasons--in the clear morning, while the smoke of his hand to the last trembling chords, he falls back ex- a thousand cottages was seen rising through the dewy air, hausted and helpless.

and when the mountains, seemed not thoroughly awakened Here is grandeur in every expression; ample feeling of mystery was removed by the open clearness,

from their night's repose--in the garish noon-day, when the illustration too, but far more in this on Shelley: but that of majesty in form and outline remained-in

it :

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