it does produce an effect; and that effect we
think is poetry.

It has substantially two functions, and ope-
rates in two directions. In the first place,
when material qualities are ascribed to mind,
it strikes vividly out, and brings at once be-
fore us, the conception of an inward feeling
or emotion, which it might otherwise have
been difficult to convey, by the presentment
of some bodily form or quality, which is in-
stantly felt to be its true representative, and
enables us to fix and comprehend it with a force
and clearness not otherwise attainable; and,
in the second place, it vivifies dead and inani-
mate matter with the attributes of living and
sentient mind, and fills the whole visible
universe around us with objects of interest
and sympathy, by tinting them with the hues
of life, and associating them with our own.
passions and affections. This magical opera-
tion the poet too performs, for the most part,
in one of two ways-either by the direct
agency of similies and metaphors, more or
less condensed or developed, or by the mere
graceful presentment of such visible objects
on the scene of his passionate dialogues or
adventures, as partake of the character of
the emotion he wishes to excite, and thus
form an appropriate accompaniment or pre-
paration for its direct indulgence or display.
The former of those methods has perhaps
been most frequently employed, and certainly
has most attracted attention. But the latter,
though less obtrusive, and perhaps less fre-
quently resorted to of set purpose, is, we are
inclined to think, the most natural and effica-
cious of the two; and it is often adopted, we
believe unconsciously, by poets of the highest
order; the predominant emotion of their
minds overflowing spontaneously on all the
objects which present themselves to their
fancy, and calling out from them, and colour-
ing with their own hues, those that are natu-
rally emblematic of its character, and in ac-
cordance with its general expression. It would
be easy to show how habitually this is done,
by Shakespeare and Milton especially, and
how much many of their finest passages are
indebted, both for force and richness of effect,
to this general and diffusive harmony of the
external character of their scenes with the
passions of their living agents—this harmonis-
ing and appropriate glow with which they
kindle the whole surrounding atmosphere,
and bring all that strikes the sense into unison
with all that touches the heart.

But it is more to our present purpose to say, that we think the fair writer before us is eminently a mistress of this poetical secret; and, in truth, it was solely for the purpose of illustrating this great charm and excellence in her imagery, that we have ventured upon this little dissertation. (Almost all her poems are rich with fine descriptions, and studded over with images of visible beauty. But these are never idle ornaments: all her pomps have a meaning; and her flowers and her gems are arranged, as they are said to be among Eastern lovers, so as to speak the language of truth and of passion. This is peculiarly remark

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able in some little pieces, which seem at first found to tell upon the heart, with a deep sight to be purely descriptive but are soon moral and pathetic impression. But it is in truth nearly as conspicuous in the greater part of her productions; where we scarcely meet with any striking sentiment that is not ushered in by some such symphony of external nature-and scarcely a lovely picture that does not serve as an appropriate foreground to some deep or lofty emotion. We may illustrate this proposition, we think, by opening either of these little volumes at random, and taking what they first present to us.-The following exquisite lines, for example, on a Palm-tree in an English garden:

"It wav'd not thro' an Eastern sky,
Beside a fount of Araby;

It was not fann'd by southern breeze
In some green isle of Indian seas,
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep.
"But far the exil'd Palm-tree grew
'Midst foliage of no kindred hue;

T

Thro' the laburnum's dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of orient mould,
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the moss-beds at his feet.

"There came an eve of festal hours-
Rich music fill'd that garden's bowers:
Lamps, that from flowering branches hung,
On sparks of dew soft colours flung,
And bright forms glanc'd-a fairy show-
Under the blossoms, to and fro.

"But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng.
Seem'd reckless all of dance or song:
He was a youth of dusky mien,
Whereon the Indian sun had been-
Of crested brow, and long black hair-
A stranger, like the Palm-tree, there!
"And slowly, sadly mov'd his plumes,

Glittering athwart the leafy glooms:
He pass'd the pale green olives by,
Nor won the chesnut flowers his eye;
But, when to that sole Palm he came,
Then shot a rapture through his frame!
"To him, to him its rustling spoke!
The silence of his soul it broke!
It whisper'd of his own bright isle,
That lit the ocean with a smile;
Aye, to his ear that native tone
Had something of the sea-wave's moan!
"His mother's cabin home, that lay
Where feathery cocoas fring'd the bay;
The dashing of his brethren's oar;
The conch-note heard along the shore ;-
All thro' his wakening bosom swept;
He clasp'd his country's Tree-and wept!
"Oh! scorn him not!--The strength, whereby
The patriot girds himself to die,
Th' unconquerable power, which fills
The freeman battling on his hills-
These have one fountain, deep and clear,-
The same whence gush'd that child-like tear!"F
"Graves of a Household," has rather less of
The following, which the author has named,
external scenery, but serves, like the others,
to show how well the graphic and pathetic
may be made to set off each other:

They grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill'd one home with glee
Their graves are sever'd, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea!

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"The same fond mother bent at night

O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight,-
Where are those dreamers now?
"One, midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid,—

The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

"The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one!
He lies where pearls lie deep:
He was the lov'd of all, yet none

O'er his low bed may weep.

"One sleeps where southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain :

He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.
"And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,→→
The last of that bright band!
"And parted thus they rest, who play'd
Beneath the same green tree!
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee!
"They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth,—
Alas! for Love, if thou wert all,

And nought beyond, oh earth!”

We have taken these pieces chiefly on account of their shortness: But it would not be fair to Mrs. Hemans not to present our readers with one longer specimen-and to give a portion of her graceful narrative along with her pathetic descriptions. This story of "The Lady of the Castle," is told, we think, with great force and sweetness:-.

"Thou seest her pictur'd with her shining hair,
(Fam'd were those tresses in Provençal song)
Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair

Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along
Her gorgeous vest. A child's right hand is roving
'Midst the rich curls, and, oh! how meekly loving
Its earnest looks are lifted to the face,
Which bends to meet its hip in laughing grace!
Yet that bright lady's eye methinks hath less
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness,
Than might beseem a mother's: On her brow
Something too much there sits of native scorn,
And her smile kindles with a conscious glow. [tell
But how shall Woman
-These may be dreams!
Of woman's shame, and not with tears?-She fell!
That mother left that child !-went hurrying by
Its cradle-haply not without a sigh;
Haply one moment o'er its rest serene

She hung-But no! it could not thus have been,
For she went on !-forsook her home, her hearth,
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth,
To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing,
Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king.

"Her lord, in very weariness of life,
Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife;
He reck'd no more of Glory :-Grief and shame
Crush'd out his fiery nature, and his name
Died silently. A shadow o'er his halls
Crept year by year; the minstrel pass'd their walls;
The warder's horn hung mute:- Meantime the
child,

On whose first flow'ring thoughts no parent smil'd,
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew
Into sad youth: for well, too well she knew
Her mother's tale! Its memory made the sky
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye;
Check'd on her lip the flow of song, which fain
Would there have linger'd; flush'd her cheek to
If met by sudden glance; and gave a tone [pain,
Of sorrow as for something lovely gone,
Even to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low
And plaintive-Oh! there lie such depth of woes

In a jeung ongnted spirit! Manhood rears
A haughty brow; and Age has done with tears;
But Youth bows down to mis'ry, in amaze
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days,-
And thus it was with her. A mournful sight
In one so fair-for she indeed was fair-
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light.
Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and
pray'r ;

And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek,
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek.
"One sunny morn,

With alms before her castle gate she stood,
'Midst peasant-groups; when, breathless and o'er-

worn,

And shrouded in long robes of widowhood,
A stranger through them broke :-The orphan maid
With her sweet voice, and proffer'd hand of aid,
Turn'd to give welcome: But a wild sad look
Met hers; a gaze that all her spirit shook;
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued
By some strong passion in its gushing mood,
Knelt at her feet, and bath'd them with such tears
[press'd
As rain the hoarded agonies of years
From the heart's urn; and with her white lips
The ground they trode; then, burying in her vest
Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out-Oh! un-
defil'd!

I am thy Mother-spurn me not, my child!'

"Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother; wept
O'er her stain'd memory, while the happy slept
In the hush'd midnight; stood with mournful gaze
Before yon picture's smile of other days,
But never breath'd in human ear the name
Which weigh'd her being to the earth with shame.
What marvel if the anguish, the surprise,
The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise,
Awhile o'erpower'd her?-from the weeper's touch
She shrank!-'Twas but a moment-yet too much
For that all-humbled one; its mortal stroke
Came down like lightning, and her full heart broke
At once in silence. Heavily and prone
She sank, while, o'er her castle's threshold-stone,
Those long fair tresses-they still brightly wore
Their early pride, though bound with pearls no

Within, the light, Through the rich gloom of pictur'd windows flowing.

Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight,

The chivalry of France, their proud heads bowing
In martial vassalage!-while 'midst the ring,
And shadow'd by ancestral tombs, a king
Received his birthright's crown. For this, the hymn
Swell'd out like rushing waters, and the day
With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim,

[ing,

As through long aisles it floated, o'er th' array
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone
And unapproach'd, beside the altar stone,
With the white banner, forth like sunshine stream-
And the gold helm, through clouds of fragrance
gleaming,

Silent and radiant stood?-The helm was rais'd,
And the fair face reveal'd, that upward gaz'd,
Intensely worshipping ;-a still, clear face,
Youthful but brightly solemn!-Woman's cheek
And brow were there, in deep devotion meek,
Yet glorified with inspiration's trace!

"A triumphant strain,
A proud rich stream of warlike melodies,
Gush'd through the portals of the antique fane,
And forth she came.'

"The shouts that fill'd
The hollow heaven tempestuously, were still'd
One moment; and in that brief pause, the tone,
As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown,
Sank on the bright maid's heart!-Joanne !'-
Who spoke?

Like those whose childhood with her childhood
grew

"There went a swift bird singing past my cell-
O Love and Freedom! ye are lovely things!
With you the peasant on the hills may dwell,

And by the streams; But I-the blood of kings.
A proud unmingling river, through my veins
Flows in lone brightness, and its gifts are chains!
-Kings-I had silent visions of deep bliss,
Leaving their thrones far distant! and for this
I am cast under their triumphal car,
An insect to be crush'd!

"Thou hast forsaken me! I feel, I know!
There would be rescue if this were not so.
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board,

Under one roof?- Joanne!'-that murmur broke
With sounds of weeping forth!-She turn'd-Thou'rt where the red wine free and high is pour'd,

she knew

Beside her, mark'd from all the thousands there,
In the calm beauty of his silver hair,

The stately shepherd! and the youth, whose joy
From his dark eye flash'd proudly; and the boy,
The youngest-born, that ever lov'd her best!
Father! and ye my brothers!'-On the breast
Of that grey sire she sank-and swiftly back,
Even in an instant, to the native track [more!
Her free thoughts flow'd.--She saw the pomp no
The plumes, the banners!--To her cabin door,
And to the Fairy's Fountain in the glade,
Where her young sisters by her side had play'd,
And to the hamlet's chapel, where
Hallowing the forest into deep repose,
Her spirit turn'd.-The very wood-note, sung
In early spring-time by the bird, which dwelt
Where o'er her father's roof the beech-leaves hung

rose

Was in her heart; a music heard and felt,
Winning her back to nature!-She unbound
The helm of many battles from her head,
And, with her bright locks bow'd to sweep the
ground,

Lifting her voice up, wept for joy, and said,Bless me, my father, bless me! and with thee, To the still cabin and the beechen-tree,

Let me return!'"'

Thou'rt where the dancers meet a magic glass
Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass,
Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall!
I see one shadow, stateliest there of all,-
Thine! What dost Thou amidst the bright and fair,
Whisp'ring light words, and mocking my despair ?”

The following, though it has no very distinct object or moral, breathes, we think, the very spirit of poetry, in its bright and vague picturings, and is well entitled to the name it bears "An Hour of Romance :"

"There were thick leaves above me and around,
And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood's
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound [sleep,

Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still
They seem'd but pictur'd glooms: a hidden rill
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream,
Under the fern-tufts: and a tender gleam

As of soft showers on water! Dark and deep

Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed,
Came pouring thro' the woven beech-boughs
And steep'd the magic page wherein I read [down,
Of royal chivalry and old renown;

A tale of Palestine.-Meanwhile the bee

But ere long,

Swept past me with a tone of summer hours, There are several strains of a more passion- A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers, ate character; especially in the two poetical Blue skies and amber sunshine: brightly free, epistles from Lady Arabella Stuart and Pro-On filmy wings the purple dragon-fly perzia Rossi. We shall venture to give a few Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by; lines from the former. And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell The Lady Arabella Where sat the lone wood-pigeon: was of royal descent; and having excited the fears of our pusillanimous James by a secret All sense of these things faded, as the spell union with the Lord Seymour, was detained Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong in a cruel captivity, by that heartless monarch, On my chain'd soul!Twas not the leaves [beardtill the close of her life-during which she is A Syrian wind the Lion-banner stirr'd, supposed to have indited this letter to her Thro' its proud, floating folds!-'twas not the Singing in secret thro' its grassy glen;- [brook, lover from her prison house:A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen The burning air!-Like clouds when winds are Peal'd from the desert's lonely heart, and shook O'er glitt'ring sands flew steeds of Araby; [high, And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear Flash'd where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear, Shadow'd by graceful palm-trees! Then the shout of merry England's joy swell'd freely out, Sent thro' an Eastern heaven, whose glorious hue Made shields dark mirrors to its depth of blue! And harps were there;-I heard their sounding strings,

My friend, my friend! where art thou? Day by
day,
Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away,
My silent youth flows from me! Spring, the while,
Comes, and rains beauty on the kindling boughs
Round haf. and hamlet: Summer, with her smile,
Fills the green forest ;-young hearts breathe

their vows;

Brothers, long parted, meet; fair children rise
Round the glad board: Hope laughs from loving

eyes.

Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers!
By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent;
O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers,
And the lark's nest was where your bright cups
bent,

Quivering to breeze and rain-drop, like the sheen
Of twilight stars. On you Heaven's eye hath been,
Through the leaves pouring its dark sultry blue
Into your glowing hearts; the bee to you

Hath murmur'd, and the rill.-My soul grows faint
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams paint
Your haunts by dell and stream,--the green, the
free,

The full of all sweet sound,--the shut from me!

As the waste echo'd to the mirth of kings.-
The bright masque faded!-Unto life's worn track,
What call'd me from its flood of glory back?
A voice of happy childhood!-and they pass'd,
Banner, and harp, and Paynim trumpet's blast
Yet might I scarce bewail the splendours gone,
My heart so leap'd to that sweet laughter's tone."

There is great sweetness in the following
portion of a little poem on a "Girl's School:
"Oh! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest,

Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest, 'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun

the temptation of noting down every beautiful passage which arrests us in turning over the leaves of the volumes before us. We ought to recollect, too, that there are few to whom our pages are likely to come, who are not already familiar with their beauties; and, in fact, we have made these extracts, less with the presumptuous belief that we are introducing Mrs. Hemans for the first time to the knowledge or admiration of our readers, than from a desire of illustrating, by means of them, that singular felicity in the choice and

Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspir'd, And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain; Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, And, oh! to Love through all things!-there-employment of her imagery, of which we fore pray !"

have already spoken so much at large;—that There is a fine and stately solemnity, too, world of sense and of soul-that delicate fine accord she has established between the

PHILOSOPHY OF THE MIND,

METAPHYSICS, AND JURISPRUDENCE.

I AM aware that the title prefixed to this head or Division of the present publication, is not likely to attract many readers; and, for this reason, I have put much less under it, than under any of the other divisions. But, having been at one time more addicted to the studies to which it relates than to any other-and still confessing to a certain partiality for them-I could not think of letting this collection of old speculations go forth to the world, without some. specimen of those which once found so much favour in my eyes.

I will confess, too, that I am not unwilling to have it known that, so long ago as 1804, I adventured to break a spear (and I trust not quite ingloriously) in these perilous lists, with two such redoubted champions as Jeremy Bentham and Dugald Stewart, then in the maturity of their fame; and also to assail, with equal gallantry, what appeared to me the opposite errors of the two great Dogmatical schools of Priestley and of Reid.

I will venture also to add, that on looking back on what I have now reprinted of these early lucubrations, I cannot help indulging a fond, though probably delusive expectation, that the brief and familiar exposition I have there attempted, both of the fallacy of the Materialist theory, and of the very moderate practical value that can be assigned to Metaphysical discussions generally, and especially of the real shallowness and utter insignificance of the thorough-going Scepticism (even if unanswerable) to which they have been supposed to lead may be found neither so tedious, nor so devoid of interest even to the general reader, as the mere announcement of the subjects might lead him to apprehend.

(April, 1804.)

Traités de Législation Civile et Pénale; précédés de Principes Généraux de Législation, et d'une Vue d'un Corps complet de Droit; terminés par un Essai sur l'influence des Tems et des Lieux relativement aux Lois. Par M. JÉRÉMIE BENTHAM, Jurisconsulte Anglois. Publiés en François par M. DUMONT de Genève, d'après les Manuscrits confiés par l'Auteur. 8vo. 3 tom. Paris, an X. 1802.

THE title-page of this work exhibits a curi- | While the author displayed, in many places, ous instance of the division of labour; and of the combinations that hold together the literary commonwealth of Europe. A living author consents to give his productions to the world in the language of a foreign editor; and the speculations of an English philosopher are published at Paris, under the direction of a redacteur from Geneva. This arrangement is not the most obvious or natural in the world; nor is it very flattering to the literature of this country; but we have no doubt that it was adopted for sufficient reasons.

great originality and accuracy of thinking, and gave proofs throughout of a very uncommon degree of courage, acuteness, and impartiality, it was easy to perceive that he was encumbered with the magnitude of his subject, and that his habits of discussion were but ill adapted to render it popular with the greater part of his readers. Though fully possessed of his subject, he scarcely ever appeared to be properly the master of it; and seemed evidently to move in his new career with great anxiety and great exertion. In the subordiIt is now about fifteen years since Mr. nate details of his work, he is often extremely Bentham first announced to the world his de- ingenious, clear, and satisfactory; but in the sign of composing a great work on the Prin- grouping and distribution of its several parts, ciples of morals and legislation. The specimen he is apparently irresolute or capricious; and which he then gave of his plan, and of his has multiplied and distinguished them by such abilities, was calculated, we think, to excite a profusion of divisions and subdivisions, that considerable expectation, and considerable the understanding is nearly as much bewil. alarm, in the reading part of the community. I dered from the excessive labour and com

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