a church in arms, a name struck out from the community of saints, are in comparison as nothing. Ask the criminal at the gallow's foot, when chains, and judges, and penitence and priests, have done their utmost to fortify his soul for its last mortal struggle, whether imagination does not paint the picture of his cottage in the wood, with her whose prayers he has neglected, fondly watching for his return, and whether the voices of his children come not on the wandering gale, as they lift their innocent hands to heaven, and bless their father in their evening hymns. Yes; and the stern moralist, who would strike out imagination from the soul of man, must first extinguish the principle of life. What then remains? That those who have the conduct of the infant mind, should seek to stamp it with a living impress of the loveliness of virtue, and the deformity of vice; and that the passions and affections should be so disciplined, that imagination, the busy faculty which must, and will exist, and act, either for happiness or misery, for good or evil, may bring home to the hungry soul food fit for the nourishment of an immortal being, and dispense from out the fulness of a grateful heart, the richest tribute man can offer at the throne of God. POWER. POWER, in connexion with the art of writing poetry, admits of two distinctions-as it relates to language and to mind. The former, however, is always dependent upon and subservient to the latter; but the power of mind may exist where there is little or no facility in the use of appropriate words. Were it possible that powerful language could proceed from an imbecile mind, the effect would be, that of heaping together ponderous words, and incongruous images, SO as to extend and magnify confusion, without rendering any single thought impressive. That the force of our ideas must depend in great measure upon the strength of our impressions, is as clear, as that the vividness of a picture must depend upon the colours in which it is painted; but in addition to impression, there is a tide of feeling which flows through the mind of man, in different degrees of velocity and depth, awakening his imagination, stimulating his energies, and supporting him under every intellectual effort. This tide of natural feeling obtains the character of enthusiasm, or power, according to the concomitants with which it operates. If connected with great sensibility, and liveliness of imagination, without clear perceptions, sound judgment, or habits of deep reasoning, it is with strict propriety called enthusiasm; and as such works wonders amongst mankind. Indeed we are indebted to enthusiasm for a great proportion of what is new in theory, and experimental in practice; as well as for most of the astonishing instances of valour, enterprize, and zeal with which the page of history is enlivened and adorned. But enthusiasm, while it partakes of the nature of power in its first impulse, is essentially different in its operation. Enthusiasm in action aims at one point of ardent desire, and regards neither time, nor space, nor difficulty, nor absurdity, in attaining it; while true mental power, in strict alliance with the highest faculties of the mind, is the impetus which forces them into action, so as to accomplish its purpose by the concentrated strength of human intellect directed to an attainable object. When this principle is diffused through the medium of language, it imparts a portion of its own nature, commanding conviction, stimulating ardour, and rousing determined action; or, bursting upon the poetic soul like sunshine through the clouds of morning, it opens the book of nature, and reveals a new world of light and loveliness, and glory. It creates not only conviction and approval, but actual sensation; and thrills through the awakened feelings, like those tremendous manifestations of physical force, which by the combined agency of different elements produce the most wonderful, and sometimes the most calamitous results. Were it possible that in any human mind, its faculties could have a complete and evident existence and yet lie dormant, we should say of such a mind that power alone was wanting; but since there must be some power to stimulate the slightest voluntary not be the case. There must to every individual, liable to human weakness and infir definitely requires an effort-when desire fails, and the grasshopper becomes a burden; but when the poet speaks of the blissful moment of inspiration, we suppose it to be that in which all his highest faculties are in agreeable exercise, at the same time that the operations of mental power are unimpeded. act, we must speak of this faculty as being always present, and existing in a greater or a less degree. Persons deficient in this fac-mity, be seasons when merely to think ulty and no other, are always content to imitate; and as a proof that they possess the other requisites for successful exertion, they sometimes imitate with great ability and exactness, while they shrink from the very thought of attempting any thing without a model, from an internal consciousness of inability. That many venture to strike out into new paths without attaining any thing like excellence, is owing to the want of some other mental quality; and that some continue to pursue such paths to their own shame, and the annoyance of their fellow creatures, arises from their enthusiasm, not from their power. Yet while many wander on in this eccentric course, without ever being aware of their inability to succeed, we believe that no man ever yet voluntarily commenced a deliberate undertaking, without some internal evidence of power, where it really did exist. A sudden effort is no test, because time is not allowed for the mind to examine its own resources; but the man who has this evidence, will work out his determined way, though all the world should pronounce him incompetent, and exclaim at his absurdity. Amongst our poets, those who display the greatest power of mind, are Milton, Pope, and Young. Had Young possessed the requisite of taste, he would perhaps have rivalled even Milton in power; but such is his choice of images and words, that by the frequent and sudden introduction of heterogeneous and inferior ideas, he nullifies what would otherwise be sublime, and by breaking the chain of association, strikes out, as it were, the key-stone of the arch. Nor is this all. The ponderous magnitude of his images, heaped together without room for adjustment in the mind, resembles rather the accumulation of loose masses of uncemented granite, than the majestic mountain, of which each separate portion helps to constitute a mighty whole. Still we must acknowledge of this immortal poet, that his path was in the heavens, and that his soul was suited to the celestial sphere in which it seemed to live and expand as in its native element. We can feel no doubt that his own conceptions were magnificent as the stars amongst which his spirit wandered, and had his mode of conveying these conceptions to the minds of others been equal to their own original sublimity, he would have stood pre-eminent amongst our poets in the region of power. It may be asked, if this evidence always accompanies the possession of power, how is it that certain individuals have not been aware of its existence until circumstances have called forth their energies? I answer, it is the test alone which brings this confidence to light; but even these individuals, for any thing which history tells us to the contrary, may have had in their private walk precisely the same sensations on commencing any trifling undertaking, as afterwards accompanied their more public and splendid career. We are not told with what energy or skill Cincinnatus cultivated his farm, but we have no proof that he did not feel the same consciousness of power in conducting his agricultural pursuits, as in regulating the affairs of the commonwealth of Rome. Still it would be absurd to main-line of his works, they often meet with mattain that power always exists in the same mind in an equal degree. There are physical as well as other causes why this should In order to prove that the poetry of Young is too massive and complex in its imagery to be within the compass of natural and ordinary association, it is unnecessary to quote many instances. Those who are most familiar with his writings--even his greatest admirers, must acknowledge, that in one ter, which if diffused and poetically enlarged upon, would fill pages, better calculated to please, as well as to instruct. "How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, Thus far the mind may keep pace with the writer, and, especially by the last two lines, must be impressed with ideas at once clear, imaginative, and sublime. Those which immediately follow are less happy. "A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorb'd! Though sullied and dishonour'd, still divine! Dim miniature of greatness absolute! A worm! a god! I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost." How is night's sable mantle laboured o'er, "The nameless He, whose nod is nature's birth; As that to central horrors: he looks down Young's description of truth is also strong One instance more, and we turn to pas-ly characterized by power. sages of a different character. "Lorenzo, blush at terror for a death Which gives thee to repose in festive bowers, And more than angels share, and raise, and crown, It is really a relief to pass on from this laborious collection of disjointed ideas, to instances of more perfect sublimity, which also abound in the works of the same poet. What can exceed in power and beauty his first address to Night? "Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty now stretches forth Again, his appeal to the Divine Inspirer of his solemn thoughts, is full of majesty and power. "Man's Author, End, Restorer, Law, and Judge! Thine, all; day thine, and thine this gloomy night, Cut through the shades of hell, great Love, by thee, "See from her tombs as from an humble shrine, After all, it is not so much in extended passages, as in distinct thoughts, and single expressions, that we feel and acknowledge || the power of this dignified and majestic writer. "Silence and darkness! solemn sisters!" is a striking illustration of how great an extent of sublimity may be embodied in a few simple and well chosen words; and it is unquestionably to beauties of this description that Young is indebted for his high rank amongst our poets. The same faculty of mind is exhibited under a different character in the writings of Pope. Power as an impulse is less apparent here, but in its mode of operation it is more uniform and efficient. Pope is less an enthusiast than Young, and therefore he pays more regard to means; whilst the agency by which these means are brought to bear upon their object seems to be slumbering in silent pomp. The genius of Young gives us the idea of continued, extraordinary, and sometimes ineffectual effort-even in the dead of night counting the stars, grappling with darkness, and grasping at infinity; while we imagine that of Pope seated on a throne of majesty, collecting, combining, and controlling the elements of mind, by author- | ity, rather than by direct force. The power of Young resembles that of a volcano, an earthquake, or a storm of thunder-that of Pope is like the flow of a broad and potent river-too copious to be interrupted in its course-too deep to be impetuous. And as it would be impossible to form any idea of the general agency of such a river by observing any particular portion of its surface, so it would be unjust to the character of Pope, to attempt to convey an adequate idea of his power as a poet, by any particular selection from his writings. One instance, almost too well known to need repetition, will serve our purpose. "All are but parts of one stupendons whole, As a proof that the exercise of power is not dependent upon the magnitude or sublimity of the subject described, we will add another passage from the same writer-a singular paradox-an example of power exhibited in the description of a spider's web! "The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! Here we have distinct ideas of the most delicate sensibility, the most acute perception, and the wonderful expansion and duration of the principle of life, in connection with the frailest, and one of the least perceptible objects in nature, without in any way interfering with our distinct ideas of that object; an evidence of mental power, well worthy of the genius that unbound the lyre of Homer, and awakened fresh music from his immortal strains. But it is in contemplating the nature of Milton's genius, in its connection with power, that we behold at once the full force of a stupendous impulse, associated with the greatest possible facility in the use of the best means of action. The difference to be observed in the character of power, as exhibited in the poetry of Pope and Milton, is, that the former affects us rather as the written transcript of well concocted thoughts; while the latter, bursting forth from the natural, and immediate, and constantly operating force of an enlightened and vigorous mind, opens for itself-for us-for the whole world and for ages yet to come, the gates of a paradise of thought, pours in an overwhelming flood of light, and diffuses through a region of unexplored sublimity, the loveliness of nature and the harmony of truth. In reading the poetry of Milton, we have perpetual evidence of his inspiration-of the fulness of the fountain of poetic feeing, whose copious streams are rich in majesty, and beauty, and spiritual life; and we are satisfied that the fountain could never have been sealed save by a hand divine. One tributary and mighty spring was closed, but the waters only became more pure and harmonious, and derived from their divine original a more seraphic sweetness-a grandeur more sublime. We feel that Milton could not but have written as he did. He was less capable of subduing the impulse of his soul, than of finding a language suited to its highest aspirations: and it is this uncontrollable impulse operating in conjunction with the noblest faculties of human nature, which constitutes his power. We cannot better illustrate the power of Milton's muse, than by selecting from his works, passages descriptive of the two opposite principles of good and evil. On the character of Satan the poet has bestowed so much of the native energy of his genius, that we scarcely feel as we ought to, that it is the nature of evil to degrade and debase. "Forthwith upright he rears from off the prol His mighty stature; on each hand the flames, Driven backward, slope their pointing spires, and, roll'd, In billows, leave in the midst a horrid vale. That felt unusual weight; till on dry land With stench and smoke: such resting found the sole -“he, above the rest In shape and gesture proudly eminent, "He spake and to confirm his words, outflew "The other shape, If shape it might be called, that shape had none And shook a dreadful dart; what seemed his head, -“I fled, and cried out, Death! Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sighed From all her caves, and back resounded, Death!" "Horror and doubt distract His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir Infinite wrath, and infinite despair? And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep Still threatening to devour me opens wide We now change the subject, and see how the same genius can ascend from the lowest depths of hell, to the highest regions of purity and bliss, tuning his harp to strains that harmonize with both. "No sooner had the Almighty ceased, but all "Immortal amaranth, a flower which once In Paradise, fast by the tree of life, Began to bloom: but soon for man's offence To heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows, And where the river of bliss through midst of heaven Then crowned again, their golden harps they took, "So spake the cherub; and his grave rebuke, "Hail, holy light, offspring of heaven first born, May I express thee unblamed Since God is light, |