for some stir or sound, that may assure us of its life; yet is the fancy of the little sleeper busy, and every artery and every pulse of its frame engaged in the work and growth of secretion, though his breath would not stir the smallest insect that sported on his lips—though his pulse would not lift the flower leaf of which he dreamed from his bosom :-yet following this emblem of tranquillity into after life, we see him exposed to every climate-contending with every obstacle- agitated by every passion; and under these various circumstances, how different is the power and the degree or the heart's action, which has not only to beat, but to beat time through every moment of a long and troubled life."*

We feel in reading this passage, even if we have never felt before, that there is poetry in an infant's sleep. Its waking moments are less poetical, because of the many little cares and vexations they force upon us; and no power on earth could convince us that there was poetry in an infant's cry. Yet is it neither softness nor sweetness which always constitutes the poetry of sound; for what can be more discordant in itself than the caw of the * Dr. James Willson.

VOL. I.

rook, the scream of the sea-gull, or the bleating of the lamb?

There is poetry in the low-roofed cottage standing on the skirts of the wood, beneath the overshadowing oak, around which the children of many generations have gambolled, while the wreathing smoke coils up amongst the dark green foliage, and the grey thatch is contrasted with golden moss and glittering ivy. We stand and gaze, delighted with this picture of rural peace and privileged seclusion. We long to shake off the shackles of artificial society, the wearying cares of life, the imperative control of fashion, or the toil and traffic of the busy world, and to dwell for the remainder of our days in a quiet spot like this, where affection, that is too often lost in the game of life, might unfold her store of fire-side comforts, and where we and ours might constitute one unbroken chain of social fellowship, under the shelter of security and peace. But let us enter this privileged abode. Our ears are first saluted by the sharp voice of the matron, calling in her tattered rebels from the common. They are dragged in by violence, and a scene of wrath and contention ensues. The fragments of the last meal are scattered on the

floor. That beautifully curling smoke, before it found a way to escape so gracefully, has made many a circuit round the dark and crumbling walls of the apartment; and smoke within the house is any thing but poetical, whatever it may be without. Need I say the charm is broken? Even after having made good our retreat, if we turn and look again, the low-roofed cottage does not appear the same as when we first beheld it. The associations are changed-the charm is indeed broken. May not this be the reason why fine ladies and gentlemen talk so much more about the poetry of a cottage, than those who know no other home comforts than a cottage affords? Even poverty itself may be poetical to those who merely regard it from a distance, or as a picture; but the vision is dispelled for ever by the first gripe of that iron hand, that spares neither the young, the helpless, nor the old.

There is poetry in the mouldering pile, upon which the alternate suns and storms of a thousand years have smiled and spent their fury the old grey ruin hung over with festoons of ivy, while around its broken turrets a garland of wild plants is growing, from seeds

which the wandering winds have scattered. We behold the imperishable materials of the natural world collected together, shaped out and formed by the art of man into that beautiful and majestic edifice: but where are the ready hands that laboured in that work of time and patience? The busy feet that trod those stately courts - the laughter that echoed through those halls the sighs that were breathed in those secret cells-the many generations that came and went without leaving a record or a name-where are they? Scarcely can there be found an imagination so dull, but the contemplation of a ruin will awaken it to some dim and dreamy associations with past ages-scarcely a heart so callous, but it will feel, in connection with such a scene, some touch of that melancholy which inspired the memorable exclamation, "All is vanity and vexation of spirit!"

But let the ingenuity of man erect a modern ruin, or mock monastery, arch for arch, and pillar for pillar-nay, let him, if possible, plant weed for weed. The fancy will not be cheated into illusion-this mushroom toy of yesterday will remain a mockery still.

Amongst the labours of man's ingenuity and

skill, there are few things more poetical than the aspect of a ship at sea, whether she goes forth with swelling sails before the wind, or lies becalmed upon a quiet shore. Even the simplest or rudest vessels floating on the surface of the water-from the lazy barge that glides along the smooth canal, to the light gondola that sports among the glowing waters of more classic shores-from the simple craft that ply upon our own rivers, to the rude canoe of the savage darting among reefs of coral; afford choice subjects for the painter's pencil, and the poet's song. Who has not watched with intense interest a little speck upon the ocean, that neared, and neared, until human forms at length were visible, and then the splash of the oar was heard at regular intervals, and at last, on the crest of a foaming wave, the boat seemed to bound triumphant on the shore, where a little band of the longtried and the faithful, amongst whom woman is never found wanting, welcome the mariners home, safe from the storms and the dangers of the sea? Who has not stood upon the beach, a silent, but deeply-interested spectator, while a crew of hardy and weather-beaten sailors launched forth their little bark amongst