is most harmonious in the quickly changing and diversified beauties of wood and waterhill and valley-sombre shade, and glowing sun-shine-deep solitudes, and resplendent heavens. There is poetry in the hum of bees, when the orchards are in bloom, and the sun is shining in unclouded splendour upon the waving meadows, and the garden is richly spangled with spring flowers. There is poetry in the hum of the bee, because it brings back to us, as in a dream, the memory of by-gone days, when our hearts were alive to the happiness of childhood-the time when we could lie down upon the green bank and enjoy the stillness of summer's noon, when our hopes were in the blossoms of the orchard, our delight in the sunshine, our untiring rambles in the meadows, and our perpetual amusement in the scented flowers. Since these days, time has rolled over us with such a diversity of incident, bringing so many changes in our modes of living and thinking, that we have learned, perhaps at some cost, to analyse our feelings, and to say, rather than feel, that there is poetry in the hum of bees. But let one of these honey-laden wanderers find his way into our apartment, and while he struggles with frantic efforts to escape through the closed window, we cease to find pleasure in his busy hum. There is poetry in the flowers that grow in sweet profusion upon wild and uncultivated spots of earth, exposing their delicate leaves to the tread of the rude inhabitants of the wilderness, and spreading forth their scented charms to the careless mountain wind-in the thousand, thousand little stars of beauty looking forth like eyes, with no eye to look again; or cups that seem formed to catch the dew drops; or spiral pyramids of varied hue shooting up from leafy beds, and pointing faithfully to the shining sky; or crowns of golden splendour mounted upon fragile stems; or purple wreaths that never touched a human brow; all bursting forth, blooming and then fading, with endless succession in the midst of untrodden wilds;-in rain and sunshine, in silent night, and glowing day, with an end and purpose in their brief existence inscrutable to the mind of man. The flowers of the garden though possessing more richness and gorgeous beauty, are less poetical, because we see too clearly in their arrangement and culture, the art and labour of man; we are reminded at every group of the work of the spade, and perceive at once and without mystery, why they have been planted in the exact spot where they now grow. There is poetry in the first contemplation of those numerous islands which gem the southern ocean-poetry in the majestic hills that rise one above another, their varied peaks and precipices clear and bright in unclouded sunshine, and their very summits clothed with unfading verdure; while bursting from amongst their deep recesses are innumerable streams that glide down their rugged sides, now glancing out like threads of silver, now hidden in shade and darkness, until they find their way into the broad and silent lagoon, where the angry surf subsides, and the mountains, woods, and streams are seen again reflected in the glassy mirror of the unruffled water-unruffled, save by the rapid gliding of the light canoe, that darts among the coral rocks, and then lies moored in still water beneath some stately tree, whose leafy boughs form a welcome canopy of shade for the luxuriant revellers in that sunny clime, Time was when those who had rejoiced over the first contemplation of this scene were compelled to mourn over the contrast which ignorance and barbarism presented on a nearer view, but now, blessed be the power that can harmonize the heart of man with all that is grateful and genial in the external world, the traveller approaching, and beholding this lovely picture, need no longer shrink from the horrors which a closer inspection formerly revealed. If external nature abounds with poetry, how much more forcibly does it pervade the faculties and sentiments of the human mind. Consider only three-love, hope, and memory. What power even in the visions of the alchemist was ever able to transform like the passion of love? Investing what is real with all that we desire, converting deformity into loveliness, exchanging discord for harmony, giving to the eye, the exquisite faculty of beautifying whatever it beholds, and to the ear a secret charm that turns every sound to music. And hope would be hope no longer if it did not paint the future in the colours we most admire. Its very existence depends upon the power it possesses to sweeten to the latest dregs, the otherwise bitter cup of life. Yet love and hope may be degraded by the false estimate we sometimes form of what is worthy of our admiration. Passion too often asserts her mastery over both, compelling her blind and willing slaves to call evil good, and good evil; while memory, if not always faithful to her trust, is at least disposed to hold it charitably, and thus preserves in their genuine distinctness, the fairest passages of life, but kindly obscures those which are most revolting in remembrance. In looking back upon the past, how little that is sordid, mean, or selfish, appears conspicuous now. Past hours of simple, every-day enjoyment, are invested with a charm they knew not at the time. A veil is thrown over the petty cares of by-gone years-passion is disarmed of its earthborn violence, and sorrow looks so lovely in the distance, that we almost persuade ourselves it was better to weep such tears as we wept then, than to smile as we smile now. But why pursue this theme? It is evident that neither sounds, objects, nor subjects of contemplation are poetical in themselves, but in their associations; and that they are so just in proportion as these associations are intellectual and refined. Nature is full of poetry, |