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pleasure as that end is or is not attained. But the case is perfectly different with the poet.” If this be not a crude, false, and narrow doctrine, I should like to know what is.

The writer, who undertakes the defence of poetry against the aspersions of the literal and coarse-minded, has a difficult task to perform, because in its very nature it is so subtle and intangible, that however mighty its influence, it is impossible to indicate the precise character and extent of its effects. They therefore who have to place it in opposition to grosser and more palpable objects, can only trust for the effect of their arguments to men of kindred minds, who are able to understand that there are more things in heaven and earth, than are dreamt of in the philosophy of cold and unimaginative reasoners.

Though this article is already so full of quotations, I make room with particular pleasure for a grateful tribute to poetry from the pen of Coleridge.

“ I expect neither profit, nor general fame by my writings ; and I consider myself as having been amply repaid without either. Poetry has been to me its own 'exceeding great reward.' It has soothed my afflic. tions ; it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments ; it has endeared solitude; and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the good and the beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me."

Sir James Mackintosh once remarked, that in most vexations he successfully applied to poetry for consolation. Amidst all his active struggles in public life, Mr. Fox was always sighing for an opportunity to turn to the perusal of his favorite poets; and even in his latest years he was perpetually talking to his friends of his intention to write a treatise on " the three arts of Poetry, History, and Oratory.” Burke in a letter to Professor Richard. son, the author of the Essays on Shakespeare's dramatic characters, observes, that “

poetry is the study of human nature ; and as this is the first object of philosophy, poetry will always rank first among human compositions.” If poetry were to be struck out of the literature of a nation, how bare it would leave it!

When we reckon up the literary honours of a country, how large and conspicuous a share is divided amongst the poets! Let us turn either to the ancients or to the moderns, and the truth of this remark will be sufficiently obvious.



When o'er this glimmering land of dreams

Life's morning meteors brightly play,
And hope's and fancy's blending beams

With hues celestial light the way,
How rich the varied prospect seems!

How like Enchantment's fair array !


Alas ! full soon those glories fade,

Like rays that orient skies adorn,
As clouds on clouds in lurid shade

O’er all their azure depths are borne,
And leave Life's traveller, spell-betrayed,

A darkened path-a heart forlorn!


Ah, yes ! though brightly Fancy glows,

And fair the light by young Hope shed,
More true though sad, the soul's repose

When o'er the past, by Memory led,
We greet each scene she fondly shows,

And see the faces of the dead !


Close on the green marge of a lonely river
Fed by the mountain torrent heard afar
At hush of eve, a small white human nest,
Half-buried in a wilderness of bowers,
And but with broken sun-beams thinly specked,
’Neath Summer's brightest sky, like a faint light
Piercing the gloom umbrageous, shineth pale,
And on the cold wave's tremulous mirror throws
A dream-like shadow dim. That silent shed
As kindred to the sylvan landscape seems
As the green covert where the timid deer
Slumbers at noon, or clover-covered cell
Where wearied e'en of sunshine and of song
The skylark folds his wing. Its aspect wild
Would charm a hermit's soul, and scarce recalls
When the chance wanderer breaks the solitude
A dream of social life! There MAGDALINE,
Fled from the false world's glare, unsuited ever
To grief's dark night, as radiance to the tomb,
Her lone and widowed heart no longer stirred
With one sweet joy domestic, day by day,
Beneath its ivied porch, broods mournfully
O'er happier hours departed. Oft she sighs
To think how heavily and slow must fall
Her last few sands of life. Though three fair youths
Are mirrored still in her maternal breast,
These all are far away! In foreign lands
They seek what fate denied them in their own.

* Suggested by a German story.

But life is fraught with change;—the stillest pool
Is sometimes ruffled by the gentle play
Of wandering zephyrs wild. So fortune's breath
May stir the sullen waters of despair,
'Till the dull surface dimple into smiles !
Though hope was shrouded like a Lapland sun,
And day seemed gone from earth, the mourner's soul
At last was touched with light ! One summer's eve,
Late lingering on her long-accustomed seat
Beneath the shaded threshold, tranquil thoughts,
Accordant with the landscape and the time,
Fell on her withering heart like holy dew;
For Nature's tenderest influence benign
To that soft mood was ministrant.

The scene
Might well have calmed a spirit ruder far,
And soothed less gentle sorrow.

Fleecy clouds
Like white-robed phantoms fair, in radiant ranks
Close thronged the vault of heaven, whose azure tints
Gleamed out between like blue meandering veins
Of delicate marble. Fitfully the moon
Her beauty veiled, then gliding proudly forth
Again her glorious countenance revealed
To charm a subject world!

At such an hour How strangely dissonant or unusual sounds Flutter the dreaming soul! The silence deep Was broken, as when frighted birds arise From some still forest bower. A steed's quick tramp Rang through the rural solitude around, And MAGDALINE, up-starting with surprise, Her pale hands folded on her heaving breast, Peered through the verdant vista, lone and dim That fronts her Cottage-home ; when swift as thought,

Her strained eyes met the well-remembered form
Of him whose childhood's charms first taught her heart
A mother's transport! Motionless awhile,
Spell-bound, she stood, struck mute with sudden joy!
Till as he knelt before her, a faint sigh,
And one full burst of tears, her brief trance broke,
And while serener rapture thrilled her frame
She sunk upou his breast.

“ Kind Heaven,” she cried,
“ Hath blessed my midnight dream, my daily prayer,
And not in cold neglect and solitude
I now shall journey onward to my grave.
But soothed and cherished by the light of love
E’en age may wear a charm!” And gently then
Her eldest born, the favored EBERT, spake-
“ Fortune rewards my travel and my toil,
And fondly would my true heart now repay
The love maternal lavished on my life
Till youth was merged in manhood. Oh! no more
Echo the drear sighs of these river reeds,
Or the wild music of these mournful boughs,
That moan at every breeze! Oh ! quickly leave
This melancholy hermitage austere,
And share a social home !" With grateful heart
Glad MAGDALINE consents, and soon she smiles
Beneath a brighter roof. But not long there
Dwelt that shy guest, domestic happiness !
In Ebert's soul, with subtle poison fired,
Inebriate with a love far less divine,
The filial tie was loosened ; and his fate
In hour unblest was linked to one whose charms
Of outward form and feature, were the spell
That wrought his ruin. As a bright-hued cloud

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