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Sublime of instrumental harmony,
To glorify th' Eternal! What if these
Did never break the stillness that prevails
Here, if the solemn nightingale be mute,
And the soft woodlark here did never chant
Her vespers, Nature fails not to provide
Impulse and utterance. The whispering air
Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights,
And blind recesses of the cavern'd rocks;
The little rills and waters numberless,"
Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes
With the loud streams: and often, at the hour
When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard,
Within the circuit of this fabric huge,
One voice-one solitary raven, flying

Athwart the concave of the dark blue dome,
Unseen, perchance above the power of sight-
An iron knell! With echoes from afar,"
Faint, and still fainter."-Excursion.

We have marked by the italic character those portions which deserve special remark.

WORDSWORTH'S PORTRAITS OF HUMAN BEINGS. In executing these, not unfrequently he gives some masterly touches, which are to the character described what the hands of a watch are to a dial-plate. They tell the "whereabout" of the whole man. The poet and the poetaster differ in this; while the latter only describes either from recollection or from a survey of some object, the former, like the true painter, paints from an image before his mental eye-an image in this respect transcending Nature herself, inasmuch as it combines the selectest parts of Nature. Here follows a portrait of a true English Ploughboy:

"His joints are stiff;

Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees
Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear,
Fellows to those which lustily upheld

The wooden stools, for everlasting use,

On which our fathers sat. And mark his brow!

Under whose shaggy canopy are set

Two eyes, not dim, but of a healthy stare;

Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and strange,
Proclaiming boldly that they never drew

A look or motion of intelligence

From infant conning of the Christ-cross row,

Cr puzzling through a primer, line by line,

Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last."

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There is, in the above lines, a kind of forcible humor which reminds one of Cowper's manner in The Task.

Again, simple pathos is an excellent attribute of Wordsworth. As an example of this, Professor Wil son introduces extracts from "The Complaint of a Forsaken Indian Woman." From sickness, or failure of strength, she was left behind in a wintery desert, while her companions moved on in pursuit of their business. The idea that she could have traveled a little farther with her companions is thus stated: "Alas! ye might have dragg'd me on

Another day, a single one!

Too soon I yielded to despair

Why did ye listen to my prayer?

When ye were gone my limbs were stronger."

This is beautifully true to nature. It is not for her own sake that she clings so tenaciously to life and to human fellowship. She is a mother; and, as every fraction of time spent with her infant is a heap of gold, so every least division of an hour passed apart from it is a weight of lead. Who can read the continuation of her complaint without being moved?

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My child! they gave thee to another,

A woman who was not thy mother.

When from my arms my babe they took,

Oh me, how strangely did he look!

Through his whole body something ran,

A most strange working did I see

As if he strove to be a man,

That he might pull the sledge for me."

The first couplet is worth whole realms of amplification. The single line,

"A woman who was not thy mother,"

is a world of feeling in itself. Thus does a great master find the shortest passage to the heart, while a mere describer, wandering in a labyrinth, never reaches the heart at all.

Another characteristic of Wordsworth is a certain classical dignity. His Laodamia is an illustration of

this. The following sonnet is a good example of the chaste severity of Wordsworth's loftier style:

T

SONNET.

LONDON, 1802.

MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour
England hath need of thee; she is a fen
Of stagnant waters; altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men,
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart;
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,
Pure as the naked heavens-majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

This is great writing: no affectation, no babyism here, whatever there may be in some of his writings. The portion marked by italics is, in particular, grand, from the very simplicity of its thought and diction. Wordsworth knows that an inch of gold is better than a yard of gold leaf.

Both as a moral and as a religious poet, Wordsworth may take a high station, not only by the side of Young and of Cowper, but even of Milton.

His sonnets are good, presenting specimens of the descriptive, the pathetic, the playful, the majestic, the fanciful, the imaginative. Lord Byron, in his works, has introduced many a contemptuous sarcasm on this fine poet, and yet has unblushingly stolen from him many a fine thought that adorns his own page: as instances, the third and fourth cantos of Childe Harold have been cited.

On the whole, Professor Wilson denies to Wordsworth a place among the greatest of English poets, and yet assigns him a high place among true poets in general. The want of a fixed style, the inequality of his compositions, the exuberant verbosity of some, and the eccentric meanness of others; the striking deficiency which his works usually display in judgment are all so many barriers between Wordsworth and the summit of fame. Although Milton is

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 Words worth has touched; the varied powers which he has dis played; 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, vet 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.

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

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