rest, the first to glitter pale and clear in the fading West,afterwards flaming out like the leader of the heavenly army,— riding at the head of the host, "easy to be known, though all are fair;" then the grander and nobler luminary, so lately formed by the Creator to rule the night, first softly and broadly lighting the Eastern bank of clouds which veil her, at last comes pure and clear into the open blue of heaven, and clothes the night with her robe of subdued brightness. How admirably is all this given in the closing lines :

"Hesperus, that led

The starry host, rode brightest; till the moon,
Rising in clouded majesty, at length
Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light,
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw."

I have dwelt thus long on this passage, that we might be able to see as far as possible into the secret of the pleasure which we derive from such descriptions, and that some who hear me may acquire a habit to which they may not, perhaps, have been accustomed that of criticising minutely, and adequately judging of works of art for themselves.

One word more on the passage, and that respecting its metre-blank verse. It furnishes a good example of skill and variety in the cadences. Let us read it once again with

this view.

"Now came still evening on, and twilight gray
Had in her sober livery all things clad:||
Silence accompanied; | for beast and bird,
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,
Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale;||
She all night long her amorous descant sung: ||
Silence was pleased. Now glowed the firmament
With living sapphires: || Hesperus, that led
The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon,
Rising in clouded majesty, at length
Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, |
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw."||

I shall cite only one other specimen of English descriptive poetry, and that likewise of the very highest order. It is remarkably related to the last, in the time and scene described being nearly the same. It occurs in the "Merchant of Venice," of Shakspere, act v. scene 1. Lorenzo has taken Jessica from the house of the old Jew, her father, and they are passing in the moonlight through the avenue to Portia's house, at Belmont. After much beautiful interchanging of -"in such a night as this," and ordering the musicians to bring their music into the air to greet Portia's expected arrival, Lorenzo speaks thus :

"How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!

Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears: soft stillness, and the night,
Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica: look how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:

There's not the smallest orb which thou beholdest,
But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins:
Such harmony is in immortal souls :

But, whilst this muddy nature of decay

Doth grossly close us in, we cannot hear it."

This is indeed exquisite, and while we read it we doubt if anything could surpass it in beauty. And its majesty is equal to its beauty. The young lovers, themselves in the enjoyment of the very prime and flower of earthly bliss, gazing upon the glories of the heavenly world, and talking of all the higher bliss which dwells there; the stars "for ever singing as they shine;" the listening cherubim fresh in immortal youth: and then the contrast, gently but sadly drawn,-we who cannot hear all this; our earthly tabernacle of decay; the immeasurable distance between the highest that is human and the lowest that is divine,-what depths does all this reveal to us in the soul of the poet who could thus write!

And how do we feel conscious that we are reading the words, and standing in the presence, of the first mind among men ! Regarded, however, as the work of an artist, I should be disposed to rank this below the passage of Milton last cited. Some men, and Shakspere foremost among them, have been gifted with vast power of native genius; with an imagination gigantic in its reach, unwearied in its activity, universal in its manifold capacities. Shakspere is himself in turn every character that he draws:-even to the minutest touch of feeling, true to nature. It is impossible to say which he preferred, or where he bestowed most pains; all seems to come alike to him; it is equally his nature to be sublime, pathetic, joyous; to raise laughter or tears; we wonder at him and love him, and talk his language day by day. No man has ever so much affected the thoughts and literature of mankind, as Shakspere. Germany and England, the two most intellectual nations of the world, never cease borrowing from him and studying him. But as a conscious painstaking artist, from the very circumstances of his surpassing position, he is not to be compared with Milton. There is none, for example, in this passage of that admirable arrangement and combination,—none of that variation of cadence,—which we found occasion to notice before. But this is a lesson for us. We must work as artists. There may never be another Shakspere: but there may be another Milton. Grand exceptions occur but twice or thrice in the world's history; but grand rules are everywhere and always the same.

Whenever great and

And we must judge as artists too. overpowering genius bears us away on its flood,-whenever nature's power is so eminently manifested as apparently to supersede art, let no mean cavils be heard; let the critic stand aloof, and the man assert his right to feel and sympathise. When the heart beats high, and the eye fills with unbidden tears, genius has won its triumph: and the truest

critic will be the last to dispute it. But this is not the ordinary course of things. Poetical description is an artist's work, and must be tried by artists' rules.

If I have given you to-night any assistance towards the intelligent enjoyment of poetry as a work of art, my best wish has been realised. I am aware how sketchy, as a matter of necessity, a lecture has been, which has gone over so much ground, and touched on so many matters, each pregnant with materials for development and discussion. If your studies tend this way, some of you may be enabled to fill up the sketch for yourselves. And I hope and trust that the studies of us Englishmen will tend more and more this way; that Art, and the principles of Art, will become every year better known and appreciated among us. True views of Art are highly important, even in a moral and religious point of view; and the enlightened minister and professor of our common faith will hail the day when a pure and noble appreciation of the province and work of the imagination shall succeed to the many mistakes in taste and propriety, and indeed on the whole subject, which have long been prevalent among us.

And in speaking thus, I do not forget in what day we are living. I do not forget, that all eyes are strained in one direction, all hearts beating with mingled hope and fear for one great result. Neither am I unmindful, that the iron din of the battle-field is too apt to drown the voice of literary teaching, and the triumphs of war to eclipse the triumphs of art. Still I can never believe that He, who has brought us on so far in all that civilises and ennobles our race, will, in His providence, nip so many buds of fair promise, or cut short such a career of good for mankind. Rather would I think, that He is now only rebuking our cold and calculating national spirit, by subjecting us of necessity to a course of strong and earnest sympathy; that He is digging the foun

tain of our hearts deeper, that we may work better, and with more energy, and with purer motive for man's good and for His glory. And then, if such be His purpose, shall every branch of study of His image and works, and every employment of our faculties according to His laws, be ultimately benefited and invigorated in proportion.

May it be the office and result of this, and many similar institutions, to subserve successfully the spread of true ideas on this and on all matters which are here treated! For we may be certain of these two things: while on the one hand there is no truth in God's word from the assertion of which a Christian man need ever shrink,—so, on the other, no true word was ever spoken, no true view ever attained, be it on the meanest apparent trifle, which shall not live in, and, in its degree and measure, bless the Christian to all eternity.