We feel that to such a mind, hope would come as a blessed messenger, whose tidings would be of things sublime, and pure, and elevated above the low wants and wishes of a material existence.

We know of but one word in the whole of this beautiful poem which is at variance with good taste, and we quote the line, not from the pleasure of pointing out a single fault in the midst of a thousand merits, but for the purpose of showing how forcibly an error in taste strikes upon the attention and the feelings of the reader.

The living lumber of his kindred earth."

We are ready to imagine from this line, that the author has scarcely been aware of the high degree of beauty and refinement which pervades his work. "Lumber," in the poetical writings of Pope, might have occurred without any breach of taste, because his concise and forcible style is more characterised by power, than elegance; and lumber might, therefore, have been in keeping with the general tone of his expressions. But here,

where all is music to the ear, and harmony to the mind, this uncouth word is decidedly out of place; and while longing to exchange it for

another, we can only wonder that there should be but one small blemish in so many fair and beautiful pages of genuine poetry, adorned throughout with the most tender, refined, and elevated thoughts.

Gertrude of Wyoming is another poem strikingly illustrative of the influence of taste. In the death-song of the Indian chief, we observe how skilfully the poet has blended the indignant spirit of an injured man, with the strong affections, wild metaphors, and wilder visions, of that interesting and dignified people.

"And I could weep ;-th' Oneyda chief
"His descant wildly thus began;

"But that I may not stain with grief

“The death-song of my father's son !

"Or bow this head in woe;

"For by my wrongs, and by my wrath!

"To-morrow Areouski's breath,

"(That fires yon heaven with storms of death,)

"Shall light us to the foe:

"And we shall share, my Christian boy!

"The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

"But hark, the trump-to morrow thou
"In glory's fires shall dry thy tears:
"Even from the land of shadows now
"My father's awful ghost appears,
"Amidst the clouds that round us roll

He bids my soul for battle thirst

He bids me dry the last--the first-
The only tears that ever burst
"From Outalissi's soul;

Because I may not stain with grief

The death-song of an Indian chief."

Campbell's "lines on leaving a scene in Bavaria," full of the deep pathos of poetic feeling, afford one of the most splendid instances of the power of that faculty, which can strike with the rapidity of thought the chords of true harmony, and waken the genuine music of the soul-the echo of its deep, but secret passions. We cannot read these lines without feeling that there is a language for the wounded spirit-a voice amidst the solitudes of that

Unknown, unploughed, untrodden shore,"

whose melancholy cadence is in unison with the feelings which we may not, dare not, utter; and we inwardly bless the mournful minstrel for the wild sweet melody of his most harmonious lyre. Were we to attempt to quote passages from these lines, the temptation would extend to the whole of this inimitable poem, we can only recommend it to the reader as one of the finest specimens of poetic taste,

as well as poetic feeling, which our language affords.

After all that has been said on the subject, we feel that taste is something to be felt, rather than defined, yet of such unparalleled importance to the poet, that wanting this requisite, he may sing for ever, and yet sing in vain. As well might the musician expect to charm his audience, by playing what he assures them is the finest music, on a broken or defective instrument, as the poet hope to please without making himself thoroughly acquainted with the principles of taste-perhaps we should rather say, with what is, or is not in accordance with its rules, for as a principle, taste has not yet arrived at a definite state of existence; and if the young poet should read "The Pleasures of Hope" with reference to this subject, and not feel in his very soul the presence and the power of taste, he might bid adieu to the worship of the muses, and devote his genius to objects less elevated and sublime.

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CONCLUSION.

We have now examined the four requisites for writing poetry, to none of which it would be wise to assign a station of pre-eminence, because they are equally necessary to the success of the poet's art-impression to furnish lasting ideas, imagination to create images from such ideas, power to strike them out with emphasis and truth, and taste to recommend such as are worthy of approbation, and to dismiss such as are not. We have also been daring enough to maintain that poetry, as a principle, pervades all nature, and if the fact be acknowledged that poetry is neither written with that ardour, nor read with that delight, which characterised an earlier era in our history, it becomes an important and interesting inquiry, What is the cause?