the only poet who exceeds him in devotional sublimity, yet, when we consider the universal excellence of the former in all that he has attempted-when we look upon him as the author of the great English epic-it never can be conceded that posterity will assign the latter a station beside him.

On the other hand, the variety of subjects which Wordsworth has touched; the varied powers which he has displayed; the passages of redeeming beauty interspersed even among the worst and the dullest of his productions; the originality of detached thoughts scattered throughout works, to which, on the whole, we must deny the praise of originality; the deep pathos, and occasional grandeur of his lyre; his accurate observation of external nature; and the success with which he blends the purest and most devotional thoughts with the glories of the visible universe-all these are merits, which, although insufficient to raise him to the shrine, yet fairly admit him within the sacred temple of poesy.

SECTION XXIV.

THOMAS MOORE

has written some beautiful poems, sacred as well as secular. It is to be regretted, as in the case of Byron, that he has allowed himself so often to lend his splendid talents to the sad business of corrupting the morals of mankind. He has done so not only in some of his poetical writings, but in his memoirs of Sheridan and Byron, particularly the latter. True and enlightened friendship for this distinguished poet would have led the biographer to make a more modest selection from the letters of his admired but dissipated friend. Mr. Knapp gives us the following just criticism upon the subject of this article:

It is difficult to speak of Moore without saying too little of his beauties or his faults. No man was ever more felicitous than he in his peculiar style of writing. His muse came not from Pindus, braced with mountain air, but all redolent from the paradise of Mohammed, full of joy and enchantment, bordering upon intoxication. His sweets never cloy, nor can it be said that he is ever vulgar, however sensual. It must be confessed that, in his late poetical works, he has atoned for the looseness of his earlier writings.

Z

A REFLECTION AT SEA.

See how, beneath the moonbeam's smile,
Yon little billow heaves its breast,
And foams and sparkles for a while,

And murmuring then subsides to rest.
Thus man, the sport of bliss and care,
Rises on Time's eventful sea;
And, having swell'd a moment there,
Thus melts into eternity!

MIRIAM'S SONG.

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumph'd, his people are free.
Sing, for the pride of the tyrant is broken,

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave,
How vain was their boasting! The Lord hath but spoken,
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumph'd, his people are free.

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Lallah Rook" is Moore's best poem.

Of all the song-writers (says Professor Wilson) that ever warbled, or chanted, or sung, the best, in our estimation, is verily none other than Thomas Moore. True, that Robert Burns has indited several songs that slip into the heart, just like light, no one knows how, filling its chambers sweetly and silently, and leaving it nothing more to desire for perfect contentment.

SECTION XXV.

ROBERT BURNS.

He has written much of the sweetest poetry in the language; much, also, that a just regard to his own reputation would have suppressed and thrown into oblivion. According to the poet Montgomery, "Burns, as a writer, when worthily employing his talents, is the poet of truth, of nature, and of Scotland. The high praises bestowed upon this author must be confined to the best and the purest in morals and in taste. The genius of Burns resembled the pearl of Cleopatra, both in its worth and its fortune: the one was moulded by nature in secret, beneath the depths of

the ocean; the other was produced and perfected by the same hand, in equal obscurity, on the banks of the Ayre. The former was suddenly brought to light, and shone for a season on the forehead of imperial beauty; the latter, not less unexpectedly, emerged from the shade, and dazzled and delighted an admiring nation, in the keeping of a Scottish peasant. The fate of both was the same; each was wantonly dissolved in the cup of pleasure, and quaffed by its possessor at one intemperate draught."

Mr. M. has beautifully delineated his poetic powers in verse:

What bird in beauty, flight, or song,

Can with this bird compare,

Who sang as sweet, and soar'd as strong
As ever child of air?

His plume, his note, his form, could BURNS
For whim or pleasure change;
He was not one, but all by turns,
With transmigration strange.
The black-bird, oracle of spring,
When flow'd his moral lay;
The swallow, wheeling on his wing,
Capriciously at play;

The humming-bird, from bloom to bloom,
Inhaling heavenly balm;

The raven, in the tempest's gloom;
The halcyon, in the calm:

In "auld Kirk Alloway," the owl,
At witching time of night;

By "bonnie Doon," the earliest fowl
That carol'd to the light.

He was the wren amid the grove,
When in his homely vein;

At Bannockburn the bird of Jove,
With thunder in his train:

The wood-lark, in his mournful hours;
The goldfinch, in his mirth;
The thrush, a spendthrift of his powers,
Enrapturing heaven and earth;

The swan, in majesty and grace,
Contemplative and still;

But, roused, no falcon in the chase
Could like his satire kill.

The linnet in simplicity,

In tenderness the dove;

But, more than all beside, was he
The nightingale in love.

Oh! had he never stoop'd to shame,
Nor lent a charm to vice,

How had devotion loved to name
That bird of paradise!

Peace to the dead! In Scotia's choir
Of minstrels great and small,

He sprang from his spontaneous fire
The phoenix of them all.

The style of his patriotic poetry may be judged of from the following stanza. It is taken from his "Cotter's Saturday Night :"

"O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent,

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be bless'd with health, and peace, and sweet content;
And oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From luxury's contagion weak and vile;

Then however crowns and coronets be rent,

A virtuous populace may rise the while,

And stand, a wall of fire, around their much-loved isle." The kindness of his heart may be seen in the following selections:

ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH TURIT.
Why, ye tenants of the lake,

For me your watery haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties?
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free;
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billows' shock.

Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.
Man, your proud, usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below;
Plumes himself in freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.

ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME WHICH A FEL-
LOW HAD JUST SHOT AT.

Inhuman man! curse on thy barbarous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye!
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!
Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
The bitter little that of life remains ;

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offense !"
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But, should my Author health again dispense,
Again I might desert fair virtue's way;
Again in folly's path might go astray;

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Again exalt the brute and sink the man;
Then how should I for heavenly mercies pray?
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran?
O thou, great Governor of all below!

If I may dare a lifted eye to thee,

Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
Or still the tumult of the raging sea;

With what controlling power assist e'en me,
Those headlong, furious passions to confine;
For all unfit I feel my powers to be

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line:
O, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

SECTION XXVI.

WALTER SCOTT.

In his poetry he imitated the style of the early minstrels of his own land, and of some specimens of German literature. He has revived the manners, customs, incidents, and sentiments of chivalrous times. The "Lay of the Last Minstrel," "Marmion," and "Lady of the Lake" are considered the finest of his tales. The opinion has been expressed that if it be possible for either to be forgotten, his poems will outlive his prose, since the latter possesses no valuable quality which is not possessed also by the former; these qualities being a deeply exciting story, true pictures of scenery, fine and accurate portraits