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In person he is tall, and slightly formed; his countenance is sin. gularly fine ; his eyes, like his complexion, are dark— but they have a gentle expression, akin to that of the gazelle. His look and his manner are both kindly and persuasive; indeed we have rarely met any one who so completely realizes our notions of benevolence. His conversation is exquisitely pleasing,"combining the vivacity of the schoolboy with the resources of the wit, and the taste of the scholar.” We know little of his political writings; they must have been fierce and bitter,—for they alarmed his opponents, and de. lighted and encouraged his friends : but unquestionably the man is to be seen in the tender, graceful, and affectionate effusions of the Poet. He is only at home where the heart presides. In the ear. lier part of his career, his opinions were assailed with the severest hostility. He has outlived the animosity to which he was subjected; the misfortunes to which he has been exposed have been met with philosophy; and his enemies have, like generous antagonists, aided in binding up the wounds they had inflicted. He has at length received justice from all,

,-save his political “ friends." The poetry of Leigh Hunt has been, and ever will be, appreciated, by all who love nature, and sympathize with humanity. It is liable to the charge of occasional affectation ; and it is to be lamented that, at times, he defaces the beauty of a composition by some trifling puerilities. Mr. Hazlitt appears to have divined the cause of these defects. “From great sanguineness of temper, from great quickness and unsuspecting simplicity, he runs on to the public as he does at his own fireside,—and talks about himself, forgetting that he is not always among friends." This disposition, however, is also the main source of his success. His nature is essentially good; and what he writes makes its way to the heart. The models he consults are the true old English Poets; and the gayer spirits of Italy. He is a scholar, and “a special lover of books;" yet we never find in him a touch of pedantry. His poetry is like his mind,—a sort of buoyant outbreak of joyousness; and when a tone of sadness pervades it, is so gentle, confiding, and hoping, as to be far nearer allied to resignation than repining. Perhaps there is no Poet who so completely pictures himself: it is a fine and natural and all-unselfish egotism; and a glorious contrast to the gloomy and misanthropic moods which some Bards have laboured first to acquire, and then to portray.




We are blushing roses,

Bending with our fulness, 'Midst our close-capp'd sister buds

Warming the green coolness.

Whatsoe'er of beauty

Yearns and yet reposes, Blush, and bosom, and sweet breath,

Took a shape in roses.

Hold one of us lightly,

See from what a slender
Stalk we bow'r in heavy blooms,

And roundness rich and tender:

Know you not our only

Rival flow'r,—the human? Loveliest weight on lightest foot,

Joy-abundant woman?


We are lilies fair,

The flower of virgin light; Nature held us forth, and said,

“Lo! my thoughts of white."

Ever since then, angels

Hold us in their hands;
You may see them where they take

In pictures their sweet stands.

Like the garden's angels

Also do we seem;
And not the less for being crown'd

With a golden dream.

Could you see around us

The enamour'd air,
You would see it pale with bliss

To hold a thing so fair.


We are slumbering poppies,

Lords of Lethe downs,
Some awake, and some asleep,

Sleeping in our crowns.
What perchance our dreams may know,
Let our serious beauty show.

Central depth of purple,

Leaves more bright than rose, Who shall tell what brightest thought

Out of darkest grows?
Who, through what funereal pain,
Souls to love and peace attain ?

Visions aye are on us,
Unto eyes



Pluto's alway-setting sun,

And Proserpine's bower:
There, like bees, the pale souls come
For our drink, with drowsy hum.

Taste, ye mortals, also;

Milky-hearted, we;-
Taste, but with a reverent care;

Active-patient be.
Too much gladness brings to gloom
Those who on the gods presume.


We are the sweet flowers,

Born of sunny showers, (Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith ;)

Utterance, mute and bright,

Of some unknown delight,
We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath:

All who see us love us,

We befit all places:
Unto sorrow we give smiles,—and unto graces, graces.

Mark our ways, how noiseless

All, and sweetly voiceless, Though the March-winds pipe, to make our passage clear ;

Not a whisper tells

Where our small seed dwells,
Nor is known the moment green, when our tips appear.

We thread the earth in silence,

In silence build our bowers,And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, sweet


The dear lumpish baby,

Humming with the May-bee, Hails us with his bright stare, stumbling through the grass ;

The honey-dropping moon,

On a night in June, Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bridegroom pass.

Age, the wither'd clinger,

On us mutely gazes, And wraps the thought of his last bed in his childhood's


See (and scorn all duller

Taste) how heav'n loves colour;
How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green ;-

What sweet thoughts she thinks

Of violets and pinks,
And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to be seen:

See her whitest lilies

Chill the silver showers, And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman of her flowers.

Uselessness divinest,

Of a use the finest,
Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use;

Travellers, weary eyed,

Bless us, far and wide;
Unto sick and prison'd thoughts we give sudden truce :

Not a poor town window

Loves its sickliest planting, But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian vaunting.

Sagest yet the uses,

Mix'd with our sweet juices, Whether man or May-fly, profit of the balm ;

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