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or a Deist, as he happened to be in

"Oh! night, the mood_or as this no-belief or that And storm and darkness, ye are wondrons seemed best suited for a series of strong, stanzas to astonish the natives. We Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light have seen what he made by trying to Of a dark eye in woman !!!“ mingle with the universe." In one There are some fine and noble things of the most admired passages in the in these same stanzas, but mixed with third book of the Childe, throughout baser matter, and that, too, at the very the whole of which he is haunted by moment when the soul in its emotion Wordsworth, whom he would, all in of grandeur was desiring nothing but vain, hate and imitate-while decla- the truth. ring that he has delivered himself up,

" Far along, soul and body, to the feeling of the From peak to peak, the rattling crags infinite, the supersensual, and the spi- among, ritual, sympathizes with the carly Leaps the live thunder" Persian in making

is glorious; but, alas ! how could the

same man who said that say “ His altar the high places, and the peak Of earth o'ergazing mountains,"

" And now the glee

Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain. and exclaims,

mirth, « Come and compare

As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthColumns and idol-dwellings, Goth or

quake's birth!!" Greek,

Now turn to Wordsworth-not on With nature's realms of worship, earth and air,

account of any similarity of style, for

there is none, between him and Byron Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer ;"

-Nor yet on account of much similar

ity between the objects dealt with, for even in that very mood of ecstasy, there is little, except that they are in rapt and inspired beyond this “ visible both cases objects of nature—but on diurnal sphere" by the more glorious account of the manifest but unsuccessaspects itself assumes, he destroys our ful straining, in the stanzas we have delusion, and lets us into the secret of been reading, after the spirit of the his own-or rather into that of his de- communion which Wordsworth holds ception-by a single blow that jars all in his poetry with all outward things. the nerves in our body

66 These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration :-feelings, too, Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, Ilis little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift Of aspect more sublime ; that blesses most In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lighten'd :--that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us onUntil the breath of this corporeal frame, And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.

" If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,
In darkness, and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Has hung upon the beatings of my heart-
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O silvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee !
And now with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again :
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts,
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years.

And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
I came among these hills.

" When like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led: more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad varied moments all gone by)
To me was all in all. I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite ; a feeling and a love
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.

" That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed; for such loss I would believe
Abundant recompense.

For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes
The still sad music of humanity,
Not harsh nor grating, but of amplest power
To soften and subdue.

" And I have felt
A passion that disturbed me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interposed,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting sun,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and on the mind of man :
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects and all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear, both what they half create
And what perceive ; well pleased to recognise,
In nature and the language of the sense,

The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul

Of all my moral being."
What divine exaltation, and what divine composure! Poetry, Philosophy,
Religion. And clear as light-harmonious as music—the perfectly beautiful
language of the Revelation !

Or turn to that glorious passage in the Excursion--but the mountains all wear an unusual hush, and we shall give it utterance to glorify the gloom.

“ Such was the Boy--but for the growing youth
What soul was his, when from the naked top
Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun
Rise up, and bathe the world in light ! he looked--
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth
And ocean's liquid mass, beneath him lay
In gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touched,
And in their silent faces could he read
Unutterable love. Sound needed none,
Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank
The spectacle : sensation, soul and form
All melted into him ; they swallowed up
His animal being ; in them did he live,
And by them did he live; they were his life
In such access of mind, in such high hour
Of visitation from the living God,
Thought was not ; in enjoyment it expired.
No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request ;
Rapt into still communion that transcends
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise.
His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power
That made him ; it was blessedness and love!
A herdsman on the lonely mountain top,
Such intercourse was his, and in this sort
Was his existence oftentimes possessed.
O then how beautiful, how bright appeared
The written promise! Early had he learned
To reverence the volume that displays
The mystery, the life which cannot die ;
But in the mountains did he feel his faith.
All things, responsive to the writing, there
Breathed immortality, revolving life,
And greatness still revolving ; infinite ;
There littleness was not; the least of things
Seemed infinite ; and then his spirit shaped
Her prospects, nor did he believe,-he saw
What wonder if his being thus became
Sublime and comprehensive! Low desires,
Low thoughts had there no place; yet was his heart
Lowly; for he was meek in gratitude,
Ost as he called those ecstasies to mind,
And whence they fowed; and from them he acquired
Wisdom, which works through patience; thence he learned,
In oft recurring hours of sober thought,
To look on nature with a humble heart,
Self-questioned where it did not understand,
And with a superstitious eye of love."

Let us

People say that, of all poets, Byron alone has fitly sung the sea. recite the celebrated close of Childe Harold.

“Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place,
With one fair Spirit for my minister,
That I might all forget the human race
And, hating no ove, love but only ber!

Ye Elements !-in whose ennobling stir
I feel myself exalted-Can ye not
Accord me such a being? Do I err

In deeming such inhabit many a spot ?
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.

“ There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar :
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or bave been of yore,

To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal.

“ Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ;
Man marks the earth with ruin_his control
Stops with the shore ;- upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffin'd, and unknown.

“ His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields
Are not a spoil for him,-thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies

His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth :- there let him lay,

“ The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ;
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,

They melt into thy yest of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts :- not so thou,
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow-
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time,
Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving ;-boundless, endless, and sublime-
The image of Eternity--the throne
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime

The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless alone,

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66 Do I err

“ And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy
I wanton'd with thy breakers—they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,

And trusted to thy billows far and near,

And laid my hand upon thy mane- as I do here." What connexion of thought or therefore be a natural and pleasing feeling is there between the first and one ; but here it reminds one of Paul the second of these stanzas ? None. Pry. “ And music in its roar" is Nay, thougli manifestly supposed by an irrelevant and impertinent fact. the poet to be embued with one and “ From these our interviews” is far the same spirit, they cut each other's from poetical—and it is paying Nature throats. In the first he longs and but a poor compliment to say " I love prays for a friend of his soul-a fe- her the more. 6 To mingle with male-to sip with him in the desert the universe" we have had rather too the goblet of delight ; in the second often—it is strong, but far from origihe declares there is no happiness like nal; and never was there such an inthat of mingling with the universe. potent conclusion as

“ and feel “ With one fair spirit for my minister.”

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all It would seem she were not to be hu

conceal!" man, for with her he yearns to live,

But what think ye, Mountains, of that “ he might forget all the human the Address to the Ocean? What! race.” Yet while fancying such an

not one among you that has got the one as he desires, he asks

courage to speak out? You all look

as if ye were deaf and dumb. Clap In deeming such inhabit many a spot,

your hands then, in sign of praiseThough with them to converse can rarely and Thou with the coronet of clouds, be our lot ?"

unking thyself in homage to the great

Poet of the Sea. He asks the elements if they can accord him such a being-the elements _'tis their Siesta — and every mo

Not a word will one of them utter “ in whose ennobling stir he feels ther's son of them is asleep. Like himself cxalted”--though

horses they seldom lie down, and preno high exaltation in such an apos- fer to dream on their feet. But we trophe-and we shall believe, there

must awaken them-Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! fore, that “ the one fair spirit” is a child of their own—but in what is to while coming here, all the way from

HA! ha! ha! - Well, it was worth liv her ministry? Will her sex pro- Auld Reckie, for sake of that circular tect her? Why has the fair spirit series of echoes. Another yet-like

Is he too to be a spirit in the the smothered laughter of a Fairy, far desert? Ah! no. A man.

So it is only a new version of the old story

far away, hiding herself in a hillock the impassioned poet is still flesh and with the voice of some mysterious

so sweet and wild it was—so musical blood—and the child of the elements, kind of life! aerial as she seems, or of illumined

If Cruachan will not criticise, Christears, or lambent fire that burns not, will be found after all to have a tain: topher must-and what then, we ask of earth.

ourselves, and you most attentive Setting aside its inconsistency with audience of Clouds, who, judging

from what precedes it, there is not in the have made up your minds to follow

the enlightened gloom on your faces, second stanza much power either of

our lecture with thunders of applause thought or expression.

- what then, thou beautiful but broThere is society where none intrudes,

ken Sky who look'st somewhat restless By the deep sea, and music in its roar," and as if thou wast given to changeis the repetition, for the tenth or twen- what then, 0 Sun who hast such an tieth time in the poem, of a sentiment eye for nature-and what, О Nature, that pleased Cicero, Plutarch, Bacon, who lovest all things and hast them and many other wise men, and must given thee into thy holy keeping-what




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