teach us humility, and with it they would teach us charity." Winter comes on with his crest of sheeted snow, the sleet drives down, the rivers are frozen, the leafless branches of the trees make wintry music: How dazzling white the snowy scene! deep, deep The silence is almost vocal: the wintry scene is before us; we feel the biting air: yonder stands the church; its very key-stone is white with the drifted snow; the tombs lie partly hidden; no sound foot-fall rises on the ear; the sky is heavy with large white flakes; the sun is overshadowed; it has lost its golden beams, and has become dusky red. no Grahame's Biblical Pictures are very fine; they display much grandeur, combined with much simplicity. We have room only for one: it is on the words of our Saviour, when told that his "mother and brethren were without, desiring to speak with him:" "Who is my mother or my brethren ?" Grahame also published "British Georgics," which, although possessing passages of great beauty, is somewhat dull and wearisome. His "Sabbath," however, is an assemblage of exquisite sketches, displaying the skill of the artist with the warmth and feeling of the poet. It is a fine composition, and must hold a high place in the regard and love of every Christian. Many have been the seasons it has beguiled with its sweet descriptions; and often again will its scenes arise before the mental eye, in times of distress and anguish, to soothe, exalt, and purify. S. T. COLERIDGE. "We may give to our characters the lovely sensibility and lofty thoughts which only exist in a few, and we may show the forms of humanity free from its blemishes and alloys; we may look on female beauty, and imagine that there dwells in it an angelic spirit; -these are within the province of the truly inspired bards. But such notes are not reached except by the highly favoured of heaven. Thousands have felt the dim visions within, but have not been able to embody them: they have gone to their graves dissatisfied with themselves and unknown to the world.” SIR EGERTON BRIDGES. COLERIDGE-the dreamer, as many term him—was one of the most remarkable of men. It is his very dreaminess that we love: many are the beautiful, wild, and sublime combinations that we have in gentle slumberings. Indeed, some of our loveliest pictures have been presented in dreams: there has been a richer colouring, and a softer tint, and a browner shade, and a more unruffled calm, and a more hallowed quietude, and more magnificent bursts of melody, and fresher breezes, and more silvery tones, and more delicious scents, and a fairer moon, and a more resplendent sun, and more spiritual beauty breathing from the stars, and deeper music in the hum of bee and song of bird, and a darker forest foliage, and a more soothing twilight, and more enchanting day breaks, and looks more piercing, and glances more tender, and vows more fervent, and aspirations higher, and loftier, and more majestic. Keats, too, was a dreamer-he could "dream deliciously." He may be wanting in masculine energy, and tremendous power; but he fully makes up for this in sweetness of thought and diction; he melts his readers; his lines are luscious; he is the very spirit of love; his "Endymion" is full of all charming things; it is the dream of a soul redolent of earth's freshness, and earth's glory. He is one of the most luxurious of writers; his verses tremble with sweetness; they are flower-scented and flower-tinted; there is the odour of the rose, and violet, and pink; their richness cloys; the soft blue sky, and the light green meadows, and the silver voice of the lark, and the gentle music of the trees, and the melody of streams, and the black tresses of woman, and woman's tenderness and devotedness, and the unutterable bliss of pure attachment, and the eternal language of imperishable faith, are visioned in his poetry: they become vital; they live. It is like some old garden, where every shape and form of beauty suns itself beneath the summer heaven, but which has been neglected and forgotten. There is a wild luxuriance, a straggling and endless wealth; his words seem dipped in honey; he revels in the calm serenity of creation; you hear the murmuring of the rippling waters, and the deep, low sounds of the wild woods. He was nature itself-as divine, as rich, as delicious; he seemed to float on softest clouds; he was the incense of flowers; everything he said was music; he weltered in sweets; he talked of beauty; and there were silver S sounds. No man, before nor after, imaged the universe more truly: the fair and blushing charms of heaven and earth glow in all his paintings, and he was sublime; his "Hyperion" is a magnificent and massive fragment. The boy had a gigantic soul; it was endowed with grandeur and tremendous power. It is true, he has written much nonsense; but it is sweet nonsense. Other men's is harsh and grating; but this is as a lively strain of music; it took the hue and colouring of his own star-lit fancy; he bathed in the blue empyrean, and afterwards slept and dreamt on a bed of amaranths. How exquisite his opening line in "Endymion:" "A thing of beauty is a joy for ever!" It is dropping with nectar: the sweet, soft streams meandering through flowery meadows; "trees, young and old, sprouting a shady boon for simple sheep;" golden clouds, the serene blue of heaven; the chiming brook; the slant beam of the sun lighting up some dark copse; the murmur of gnats in the calm eventide of summer; the chirping of birds in the low dell; the kindling dawn; the new fresh spring; "the mid-forest brake, rich with a sprinkling of fair muskrose blooms;" the purple butterfly; the orange-blossom; the silver ray glancing through the green leaves, as they tremble in the breeze; the sound of the village bell; the perfumes of the honey-suckle; "the shells on the sea-sand;" the low cottage, with the vine climbing its windows; the steeple of some old church; the child playing with its companion; the infant reposing on the fond bosom of its mother; the first prayer; the domestic hymn, are all things of beauty, and are joys for ever! Coleridge is master of imperishable thought; many |