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placed, the plan, which a fine philosophy conceived, a fine poetry executed-the simplicity of the thought and language is at all times preserved from the slightest tinge of meanness by a taste purely and natively classical so that, while the most ordinary reader finds every thing intelligible and clear, and believes that graceful and elegant diction to be familiar to his ears, the scholar experiences an ineffable pleasure in the beautiful adaptation of sounds to all the various meanings of the soul,-and, blended with the enjoyment arising from the objects described; is conscious of many noble reminiscences brought to life by the attic character of the composition.

It is to this perfection of art and skill that the universal popularity of this poem is, at last, to be ascribed. Even they who know nothing of the principles of taste, feel the power of them during its perusal,-and while they ascribe all their pleasure to this or that touching passage, they know not that it is the plastic skill of the poet that moulds all the forms of past life into a more mournful beauty, and his inspiration that breathes over them the magical light through which that beauty smiles out with such winning and irresistible influence.

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The very subject of the " Past" gives a touching unity to the poem. "Sweet but mournful to the soul is the memory of days that are gone." So loath is the soul to part with any of its own thoughts, that it cannot bear even the oblivion of its wretchedness, and we look back with something like regret even on our darkest hours of trouble and misfortune. They are gone for ever; and having been part of ourselves, therefore do we almost love and lament them. Sorrow herself, when laid in the grave of time,

seems to have been a mistress of whom we were enamoured; and pain and pleasure, when left behind us on the dark road of life, seem to be children of one family. It was therefore an unphilosophical thought to write a poem, called the "Pains of Memory," as a counterpart to that of Mr Rogers -because mere pain can never be described in poetry for its own sake alone, and there is always, to our imagination, enough of real sadness in the memory of departed joy.

But we must leave, however reluctantly, the contemplation of that in comparable work

"Of brede ethereal wove," and give our readers something better than our reflections-some extracts from the new poem of " Human Life.”

Nothing can be simpler than the design of the poem, which is to give us an image of Human Life, by means of a rapid and general sketch of its great outlines. Mr Rogers, accordingly, after a beautiful introduction, in which he says of his theme,

Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,
Asfull methinks of wild and wondrous change,
As any that the wandering tribes require,
Stretched in the desert round their evening-

fire;

As any sung of old in hall or bower
To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching-
hour!

proceeds immediately to the delinea-
tion of a human being,
"Schooled and trained up to wisdom from
his birth,"

in whose destiny he intends to shadow
out the great features of human suffer-
ing and happiness.

The hour arrives, the moment wished

and feared;

The child is born, by many a pang endeared.
And now the mother's ear has caught his cry;
Oh grant the cherub to her asking eye!
He comes-she clasps him. To her bosom
He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest.
pressed,
Her by her smile how soon the Stranger

knows;

How soon by his the glad discovery shows!
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy,
What answering looks of sympathy and joy!
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken

word

And ever, ever to her lap he flies,
His wants, his wishes, a ndhis griefs are heard.
When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise.
Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung,
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue)
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And cheek to cheek, her lulling song she
sings,

How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding
impart ;
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!
dove,

After a beautiful picture of the innocent delights of infancy, Mr Rogers thus speaks of the growing youth of his hero.

Thoughtful by fits, he scans and he reveres
The brow engraven with the Thoughts of
Close by her side his silent homage given
Years;

As to some pure Intelligence from Heaven;
His eyes cast downward with ingenuous
His conscious cheeks, conscious of praise or
shame,
blame,

At once lit up as with a holy flame! He thirsts for knowledge, speaks but to inquire;

And soon with tears relinquished to the Sire, Soon in his hand to Wisdom's temple led, Holds secret converse with the Mighty Dead; Trembles and thrills and weeps as they inspire,

Burns as they burn, and with congenial fire! Then is the Age of Admiration-Then God walks the earth, or beings more than men !

Ha! then comes thronging many a wild desire, And high imagining and thought of fire! Then from within a voice exclaims "Aspire!"

Phantoms, that upward point, before him

pass,

As in the Cave athwart the Wizard's glass; They, that on Youth a grace, a glory shed Of every Age the living and the dead!

The influence of love on a fine and noble nature-that passion to which human beings owe so much of their "heaven or hell on earth," is then painted, in our opinion, somewhat too fancifully, and with too great an admixture of romance; but nothing can be more beautiful than the description of the happiness of the betrothed lovers, their marriage, and first married

life.

Then come those full confidings of the past;

All sunshine now where all was overcast. Then do they wander till the day is gone, Lost in each other; and, when Night steals

on,

Covering them round, how sweet her accents are!

Oh when she turns and speaks, her voice is far,

Far above singing!-But soon nothing stirs
To break the silence-Joy like his, like hers,
Deals not in words; and now the shadows
close,

Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows
Less and less earthly! As departs the day
All that was mortal seems to melt away,
Till, like a gift resumed as soon as given,
She fades at last into a Spirit from Heaven!
Then are they blest indeed; and swift
the hours
Till her young Sisters wreathe her hair in

flowers,

Kindling her beauty-while, unseen, the

least

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Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing!

How oft her eyes read his; her gentle mind
To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined;
Still subject-ever on the watch to borrow
Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his sorrow.
The soul of music slumbers in the shell,
Till waked to rapture by the master's spell;
And feeling hearts-touch them but rightly
-pour

A thousand melodies unheard before!

Nor many moons o'er hill and valley rise. Ere to the gate with nymph-like step she flies, And their first-born holds forth, their darling boy,

With smiles how sweet, how full of love and joy,

To meet him coming; theirs through every

year

Pure transports, such as each to each endear-!
And laughing eyes and laughing voices fill
Their halls with gladness. She, when all
are still,

In sleep how beautiful!
Comes and undraws the curtain as they lie,,

But this Elysium is yet in a mortal world and the sickness and death of a child breathes over it the sanctity of sorrow. Here Mr Rogers, with his usual felicity, alludes to a domestic affliction of his own, in a passage which recalls to our minds that affecting invocation to his deceased brother in the "Pleasures of Memory." It brings us at once into the very bosom of afflic tion.

'Twas thine, Maria, thine without a sigh
At midnight in a Sister's arms to die!
Oh thou wert lovely-lovely was thy frame,
And pure thy spirit as from Heaven it came!
Thou diedst a victim to exceeding love,
And, when recalled to join the blest above,
Nursing the young to health. In happier

When idle Fancy wove luxuriant flowers,
hours,
Once in thy mirth thou badst me write on

thee;

And now I write-what thou shalt never see!

The quiet of domestic life is now broken in upon by civil war, and the husband and father takes the field-from which he returns in safety and renown. Mr Rogers was desirous, we suppose, of breaking the tedium and wearisomeness of an uninterrupted calm, by those sudden and unexpected military exploits-but we really cannot compliment him on the expedient hit upon, which, in our humble opinion, is a very awkward one, both in itself and the manner of its introduction. He, however, be comes himself again in his description of the happiness of his wedded pair, after the return of the hero from his

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flower :'

herself a fairer

A morning-visit to the poor man's shed,
(Who would be rich while One was wanting
bread?)

When all are emulous to bring relief,
And tears are falling fast-but not for grief:-
Graver things

Come in their turn. Morning, and Evening, brings

Its holy office; and the sabbath-bell,
That over wood and wild and mountain-dell
Wanders so far, chasing all thoughts unholy
With sounds most musical, most melan-
choly,'

Not on his ear is lost. Then he pursues
The pathway leading through the aged yews,
Nor unattended; and, when all are there,
Pours out his spirit in the House of Prayer,
That House with many a funeral garland
hung

Of virgin-white-memorials of the young, The last yet fresh when marriage-chimes were rung;

That House where Age led in by Filial Love, Their looks composed, their thoughts on things above,

The world forgot, or all its wrongs forgivenWho would not say they trod the path to Heaven?

This perfect happiness is at last again broken in upon, for he becomes the object of political tyranny, and, being tried for some supposed statecrime, his life is in jeopardy. We cannot help feeling that a calamity which, in the course of things, happens to so

very few persons, is not very judiciously selected from all the other adversities of human life, to distinguish. the fate of him who is chosen to be, as it were, its general representative. But be this as it may, the sufferings and liberation of the patriot are given with much spirit and animation.

The poem now hastens to a close, and we feel that the hero of it, by this time a gray-headed sage, is no more to be disturbed in the abode of peace, and love, and virtue, till death removes him from the scene. In the

passage which follows, we think that Mr Rogers has very happily breathed a wild, romantic, and poetical light, over a scene which, in the hands of an ordinary writer, would have been one merely of common enjoyment. It has all the truth of Cowper, with a fine poetry of its own.

And such, his labour done, the calm He

knows,

Whose footsteps we have followed. Round him glows

An atmosphere that brightens to the last; The light, that shines, reflected from the

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ers,

He muses, turning up the idle weed;
Or prunes or grafts, or in the yellow mead
Watches his bees at hiving-time; and now,
The ladder resting on the orchard-bough,
Culls the delicious fruit that hangs in air,
The purple plum, green fig, or golden pear,
Mid sparkling eyes, and hands uplifted there.

At night, when all, assembling round the

fire, Closer and closer draw till they retire, A tale is told of India or Japan, of merchants from Golcond or Astracan, What time wild Nature revelled unrestrained, And Sinbad voyaged and the Caliphs reigned ;

Of some Norwegian, while the icy gale
Rings in the shrouds and beats the iron sail,
Among the snowy Alps of Polar seas

Immoveable for ever there to freeze!
Or some great Caravan, from well to well
Winding as darkness on the desert fell,
In their long march, such as the Prophet
bids,

To Mecca from the Land of Pyramids,
And in an instant lost-a hollow wave
Of burning sand their everlasting grave!—
Now the scene shifts to Venice-to a square
Glittering with light, all nations masking
there,

With light reflected on the tremulous tide, Where gondolas in gay confusion glide, Answering the jest, the song on every side; To Naples next-and at the crowded gate, Where Grief and fear and wild Amazement wait,

Lo, on his back a son brings in his Sire, Vesuvius blazing like a World on fire !-Then, at a sign that never was forgot,

A strain breaks forth (who hears and loves it not!)

From lute or organ! 'Tis at parting given,
That in their slumbers they may dream of
Heaven:

Young voices mingling, as it floats along,
In Tuscan air or Handel's sacred song!

We have then some cheerful-and solemn pictures of his declining years. Of this retired philosopher Mr Rogers says, in a note,

"That every object has a bright and a dark side, and I have endeavoured to look at things as Cicero has done. By some, however, I may be thought to have followed too much my own dream of happiness; and in such a dream, indeed, I have often passed a solitary hour. It was Castle-building once; now it is no longer so. But whoever

would try to realise it, would not, perhaps,

repent of his endeavour."

In accordance with the principles of this creed, Mr Rogers so writes of old age as to make it both loving and lovely-and he begins his concluding description of the venerable old man, with an apostrophe to that most eloquent and most feeling of all philosophers, who has written so divinely of

the last season of life.

Oh thou all-eloquent, whose mighty mind Streams from the depth of ages on mankind, Streams like the day-who, angel-like, hast shed

Thy full effulgence on the hoary head, Speaking in Cato's venerable voice, "Look up, and faint not-faint not, but rejoice!"

From thy Elysium guide him. Age has now Stamped with its signet that ingenuous brow; And, mid his old hereditary trees,

Trees he has climbed so oft, he sits and sees His children's children playing round his knees:

Then happiest, youngest, when the quoit is flung,

When side by side the archers' bows are strung;

His to prescribe the place, adjudge the prize, Envying no more the young their energies Than they an old man when his words are

wise;

His a delight how pure. without alloy; Strong in their strength, rejoicing in their joy!

Now in their turn assisting, they repay The anxious cares of many and many a day;

And now by those he loves relieved, restored,
His very wants and weaknesses afford
A feeling of enjoyment. In his walks,
Leaning on them, how oft he stops and talks,
While they look up! Their questions, their
replies,

Fresh as the welling waters, round him rise, Gladdening his spirit: and his theme the past,

How eloquent he is! His thoughts flow fast; And while his heart (oh can the heart grow old?

False are the tales that in the World are told !)

Swells in his voice, he knows not where to end;

Like one discoursing of an absent friend.

But there are moments which he calls his

own.

Then, never less alone than when alone, Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves-not dead-but gone before,

He gathers round him; and revives at will Scenes in his life-that breathe enchantment still

That come not now at dreary intervalsBut where a light as from the Blessed falls, A light such guests bring ever-pure and Lapping the soul in sweetest melancholy! holy

-Ah then less willing (nor the choice condemn)

To live with others than to think on them! At last he dies and is gathered to his fathers.

'Tis past! That hand we grasped, alas,
in vain!

Nor shall we look upon his face again!
But to his closing eyes, for all were there,
Nothing was wanting; and, through many

a year

We shall remember with a fond delight The words so precious which we heard to

night;

His parting, though awhile our sorrow flows, Like setting suns or music at the close!

The last lines of the poem are, we think, exceedingly beautiful, and leave on our minds an impression like that spoken of at the close of the former quotation,

"Like setting suns or music at the close." We give them to our readers, nor shall we weaken their solemn effect by any observations on a poem which, must have already felt assured is chafrom all these extracts, our readers racteristic and worthy of the genius of Rogers.

But the day is spent ; And stars are kindling in the firmament, To us how silent-though like ours perchance

Busy and full of life and circumstance;

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Dialogue between BEN JONSON and DRUMMOND of Hawthornden.

"And I will deck anew that faded bower
Where Jonson sat in Drummond's classic shade."

Jons. Master Drummond, will you do me one special favour?

Drum. Excellent sir, why do you ask? shall not I, and all my household, bend the knee to the laureate; the king of scholars and of bards? It is your part to command, and ours to obey.

Jons. Marry sir, the favour I have to ask is but this, that you would order your serving men not to ring that great bell in the old tower at night; and secondly, that you would prevent your clock in the outer hall from striking any more. What have we to do with the vulgar admeasurement of time?

Drum. Your desire shall be implicitly fulfilled, and orders given forthwith. Formerly, indeed, I was an early riser, especially at this time, when the first of the spring-season invites the birds to sing at break of day; and I was as regular in my habits as any pleader in the courts of the city. But those humours had their sway, and are now worn out. What I once was I never shall be again.

Jons. My friend, you have laboured in the school of Petrarch, till even your ordinary conversation resembles one of his doloroso sonnets. Will the study of green leaves and singing birds' ever make one a poet? No! for the short time that I can remain with you now, let us live in the society of noble and worthy authors; and let us look on them, not through the medium of cold air and watery sunshine, but through that internal light of cheerfulness which is rekindled by sack and canary!

Drum. With submission, sir, I still think, that Petrarch is one of the noblest of these worthies with whom

we are acquainted. Misfortune, as you know, hath lately broken the dearest ties that bound me to mine own country. I intend, ere long, retracing your steps through France, and also going over into Italy. One of my chief objects there will be, to pay my devotions to his memory at Valclusa.

Jons. Petrarch, sir, as I have often told you, was fit only to be a mere monk or hermit of the desert, and was no poet. No man that ever had the genuine temperament of poetic fantasy, would voluntarily write sonnets, which are a species of crambo, suited only to the self-conceited melancholiac, and deserving the execration of every wise critic. I cry you mercy! That you are a sonnetteer, proceeds not from your natural bent, but from the i. e of bad example.

Drum. Master Johnson, may I beg to remind you, that this is a subject on which we are not likely ever to agree? It had better, therefore, be dismissed. For if we have recourse to some of those other noble authors to whom you referred just now, I can chime well enough with you in their praise, though you will not unite with me in approbation of my favourites.

Jons. I pray, sir, that you will hear me out for once. I speak in the spirit of friendship, and for your improvement. Petrarch, sir, I repeat, was fitter for a mere monk than a poet. His redacting poetry into sonnets is insufferable. I am persuaded, as I said the other day, that even the most ordinary among your sister's servingmaids is as deserving of love-addresses as the far-famed Laura. But were your Tuscan sonnetteer alive, and here, I doubt if he would have wit or

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