“Our birth is but a sleep, and a forgetting:

The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath elsewhere known its setting,

And cometh from afar;

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in atter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God that is our home:

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;

The Youth that daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's priest,

And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended;

At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day."

But the following is the noblest passage of the whole; and such an outpouring of thought and feeling-such a piece of inspired philosophy-we do not believe exists elsewhere in human language :

"O joy that in our embers

Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive !

The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benedictions: not indeed

For that which is most worthy to be blest;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed

Of Childhood, whether fluttering or at rest,
With new-born hope for ever in his breast:-
Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,

Fallings from us, vanishings;

Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realiz'd, High instincts, before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty Thing surpriz'd: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish us, and make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,

To perish never;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor Man nor Boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy !

Hence, in a season of calm weather,
Though inland far we be,

Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the Children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore."

After this rapturous flight the author thus leaves to repose on the quiet lap of humanity, and soothes us with a strain of such mingled solemnity and tendermight make angels weep :"),

ness, as

"What though the radiance which was once so

bright

Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering,

In the faith that looks through death,

In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And oh ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Think not of any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;"
I only have relinquish'd one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;

The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."

The genius of the poet, which thus dignifies and consecrates the abstractions of our nature, is scarcely less felicitous in its pictures of society at large, and in its philosophical delineations of the characters and fortunes of indivi

dual man. Seen through the holy medium of his imagination, all things appear" bright and solemn and serene"

the asperities of our earthly condition are softened away-and the most gentle and evanescent of its hues gleam and tremble over it. He delights to trace out those ties of sympathy by which the meanest of beings are connected with the general heart. He touches the delicate strings by which the great family of man are bound together, and thence draws forth sounds of choicest music. He makes us partake of those joys which are " spread through the earth to be caught in stray gifts by whoever will find them-discloses the hidden wealth of the soul-finds beauty every where, and "good in every thing." He draws character with the softest pencil, and shades it with the pensive tints of gentlest thought. The pastoral of The Brothers-the story of Michael-and the sweet histories in the Excursion which the priest gives while standing among the rustic graves of the churchyard, among the mountains, are full of exquisite portraits, touched and softened by a divine imagination which human love inspires. He rejoices also to

"Three years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, a lovelier flower

On earth was never sown;
This child I to myself will take,

She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own!

Myself will to the darling be

Both law and impulse: and with me
The girl, in rock and plain,

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power,

To kindle or restrain.

She shall be sportive as the fawn,
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs;
And her's shall be the breathing balm,
And her's the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.

The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see

Even in the motions of the storm
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
By silent sympathy.

The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean on air

In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face!"

But we must break off to give a passage in a bolder and most passionate strain, which represents the effect of the tropical grandeur and voluptuousness of nature on a wild and fiery spirit at once awakening and half-redeeming its irregular desires. It is from the poem of Ruth," a piece where the most profound of human affections is disclosed amidst the richest imagery, and incidents of wild romance are told with a Grecian purity of expression. The impulses of a beautiful and daring youth are thus represented as inspired by In

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dian scenery:

"The wind, the tempest roaring high,

The tumult of a tropic sky,
Might well be dangerous food

For him, a youth to whom was given
So much of earth, so much of heaven,
And such impetuous blood.

Whatever in those climes he found
Irregular in sight or sound,
Did to his mind impart

A kindred impulse, seem'd allied
To his own powers, and justified
The workings of his heart.

Nor less to feed voluptuous thought,
The beauteous forms of Nature wrought,
Fair trees and lovely flowers;
The breezes their own languor lent;
The stars had feelings which they sent
Into those gorgeous bowers.
Yet in his worst pursuits, I ween
That sometimes there did intervene
Pure hopes of high intent :

For passions link'd to forms as fair

And stately, needs must have their share.
Of noble sentiment."

We can do little more than enumerate those pieces of narrative and character, which we esteem the best in their kind of our author's works. The old Cumberland Beggar is one of those which linger most tenderly on our me mories. The poet here takes almost the lowliest of his species-an aged mendicant, one of the last of that class who made regular circuits amidst the cottages of the north-and after a vivid picture of his frame bent with years, af his slow motion and decayed senses, he asserts him not divorced from goodtraces out the gentle links which bind him to his fellows-and shews the be nefit which even he can diffuse in his rounds, while he serves as a record to bind together past deeds and offices of charity-compels to acts of love by "the mild necessity of use" those whose hearts would otherwise harden-gives to the young" the first mild touch of sympathy and thought, in which they find their kindred with a world where want and sorrow are❞—and enables even the poor to taste the joy of bestowing. This last blessing is thus set forth and illustrated by a precious example of selfdenying goodness and cheerful hope, which is at once more tear-moving and more sublime than the finest things in Cowper :

——“Man is dear to man; the poorest poor
Long for some moments in a weary life
When they can know and feel that they have been,
Themselves, the fathers and the dealers out
Of some small blessings; have been kind to such
As needed kindness, for this single cause,
That we have all of us one human heart.

-Such pleasure is to one kind being known,
My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week

Duly as Friday comes, though prest herself
With her own wants, she from her chest of meal
Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
Of this old mendicant, and, from her door
Returning with invigorated heart,

Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in Heaven.”

Then, in the Excursion, there is the story of the Ruined Cottage, with us admirable gradations, more painful than the pathetic narratives of its author usually are, yet not without redeeming traits of sweetness, and a reconciling

voted the ninth, who followed them unarmed, is slain while he strives to bear away, for their sake, the banner which he had abjured-the sole survivor, a helpless woman, is left to wander desolate about the silent halls and tangled glades, once witnesses of her joyous infancy-and yet all this variety of grief is rendered mild and soothing by the influences of the imagination of the poet. The doe which first with its quiet sympathy excited relieving tears in its forsaken mistress, which followed her a gentle companion through all her mortal wanderings, and which years after made Sabbath visits to her grave, is like the spirit of nature personified to heal, to bless, and to elevate. All who have read the poem aright, will feel prepared for that apotheosis which the poet has reserved for this radiant being, and will recognize the imaginative truth of that bold figure, by which the decaying towers of Bolton are made to smile upon its form, and to attest its unearthly relations :

"There doth the gentle creature lie
With these adversities unmoved;
Calm spectacle, by earth and sky
In their benignity approved!
And aye, methinks, this hoary pile,
Subdued by outrage and decay,
Looks down upon her with a smile,
A gracious smile, that seems to say,
Thou art not a Child of Time,
But daughter of the eternal Prime !”

Although Wordsworth chiefly delights in these humanities of poetry, he has shewn that he possesses feelings to appreciate and power to grasp the noblest of classic fictions. No one can read his Dion, his Laodamia, and the most majestic of his sonnets, without perceiving that he has power to endow the stateliest shapes of old mythology with new life, and to diffuse about them a new glory. Hear him, for example, breaking forth, with holy disdain of the worldly spirit of the tíme, into this sublime apostrophe :—

"Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn: So might I, standing on some pleasant lee, Have glimpses which might make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea, Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn !"

But he has chosen rather to survey the majesties of Greece, with the eye of a philosopher as well as of a poet. He reviews them with emotions equally remote from pedantry and from intolerance -regarding not only the grace and the loveliness of their forms, but their symbolical meaning-tracing them to their

elements in the human soul, and bringing before us the eldest wisdom which was embodied in their shapes, and speedily forgotten by their worshippers. Thus, among the palpable array of sense," does he discover hints of immortal life-thus does he transport us back more than twenty centuries and enable us to enter into the most mysterious and far-reaching hopes of a Grecian votary:

-"A Spirit hung,
Beautiful region! o'er thy Towns and Farms,
Statues, and Temples, and memorial Tombs;
And emanations were perceived, and acts
of immortality, in Nature's course,
As bonds, on grave Philosopher imposed
Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt

And armed Warrior; and in every grove,
A gay or pensive tenderness prevail'd
When piety more awful had relax'd.
-Take, running River, take these locks of mine,'
Thus would the votary say this sever'd hair,

My vow fulfilling, do I here present,
Thankful for my beloved child's return.
Thy banks, Cephisus, he again hath trod,
Thy murmurs heard; and drunk the crystal lymph
With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip,
And moisten all day long these flowery fields.'
Aad doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed
Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose
Of life continuous, Being unimpair'd,

That hath been, is, and where it was and is
There shall be,-seen, and heard, and felt, and
known,

And recognized,-existence unexposed.
To the blind walk of mortal accident;

From diminution free, and weakening age,

While man grows old, and dwindles, and decays;TM And countless generations of mankind

Depart; and leave no vestige where they trod»

We must now bring this long article to a close--and yet how small a portion of our author's beauties have we even hinted! We have passed over the clear majesty of the poem of "Hart leap well"-the lyrical grandeur of the Feast of Brougham Castle-the masculine energy and delicate grace of the Sonnets which with the exception perhaps of

one or two of Warton and of Milton far exceed all others in our language"The Waggoner," that fine and hearty concession of a water-drinker to the joys of wine and the light-hearted folly which it inspires-and numbers of smaller poems and ballads, which to the superficial observer may seem only like woodland springs, but in which he who ponders intently will discern the breakings forth of an under-current of thought and feeling which is silently flowing beneath him. We trust, however, we have written or rather quoted enough to induce such of our readers hitherto have despised the poet on the faith of base or ignorant criticism to

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read him for themselves, especially as by the recent appearance of the Excursion in octavo, and the arrangement of the minor poems in four small volumes, the whole of his poetical works are placed within their reach. If he has little popularity with the multitude, he is rewarded by the intense veneration and love of the finest spirits of the age. Not only Coleridge, Lloyd, Southey, Wilson, and Lamb-with whom his name has been usually connected-but almost all the living poets have paid eloquent homage to his genius. He is loved by Montgomery, Cornwall, and Rogers revered by the author of Waverley-ridiculed and pillaged by Lord Byron! Jeffrey, if he begins an article on his greatest work with the pithy sentence "this will never do," glows even while he criticises, and before he closes, though he came like Balaam to curse, like him "blesses altogether." Innumerable essays, sermons, speeches, poems-even of those who profess to despise him-are tinged by his fancy and adorned by his expressions. And there are no small number of young hearts, which have not only been enriched but renovated by his poetry which he has expanded, purified, and exalted-and to which he has given the means of high communion with the good and the pure throughout the universe. These, equal at least in number to the original lovers of Shakspeare or of Milton, will transmit his fame to kindred spirits, and whether it shall receive or be denied the honour of fashion, it will ever be cherished by the purest of earthly minds, and connected with the most majestic and undecaying of nature's scenery.

Too many of our living poets have seemed to take pride in building their fame on the sands. They have chosen for their subjects the diseases of the heart-the sad anomalies of humanity -the turbulent and guilty passions which are but for a season. Their renown, therefore, must necessarily de

cline as the species advances. Instead of tracing out the lineaments of the image of God indelibly impressed on the soul, they have painted the defor mities which may obscure them for a while but can never utterly destroy them. Vice, which is the accident of our nature, has been their theme instead of those affections which are its groundwork and essence. "Yet a little space, and that which men call evil is no more!" Yet a little space, and those wild emotions-those horrid deedsthose strange aberrations of the soulon which some gifted bards have delighted to dwell, will fade away like the phantoms of a feverish dream. Then will poetry, like that of Wordsworth, which even now is the harbinger of a serener day, be felt and loved and held in undying honour. The genius of a poet who has chosen this high and pure career, too, will proceed in every stage of being, seeing that "it is a thing immortal as himself," and that it was ever inspired by affections which cannot die while the human heart shall endure. The holy bard even in brighter worlds will feel, with inconceivable delight, the connection between his earthly and celestial being-live along the golden lines of sentiment and thought back to the most delicious moments of his contemplations here-and rejoice in the recognition of those joys of which he had tastes and intimations on earth. Then shall he see the inmost soul of his poetry disclosed-grasp as assured realities, the gorgeous visions of his infancy-feel "the burthen of the mystery of all this unimaginable world," which were lightened to him here dissolved away-see the prophetic workings of his imagination realizedexult while "pain and anguish and the wormy grave," which here were to him

shapes of a dream," are utterly banished from the view-and listen to the full chorus of that universal harmony whose first notes he here delighted to awaken! T. N. T.

THE term "useful arts" as applied to handicraft trades, is particularly appropriate in modern days, when the chief requisite to make a man respectable is money, let his profession be what it may. It was first used, as well as can be ascertained, by the celebrated Very, the restaurateur of Paris; whose merits

resound from Petersburgh to Cadiz, as the very best maker of ragouts and savory sauces, that France or indeed any other country can boast. On a tombstone erected in the cemetery of Père Lachaise, in his native city, the following epitaph contributes its aid to immortalize this son of a ladle :