had ever reached her home. After pining in agony for years in her native Wales, she had been drawn by an irresistible impulse to take up her abode in the sea-port from which she had seen her beloved child depart, and to gaze daily on the devouring waters in which she believed her to be entombed. The following lines we think are pathetic.

"And now that seven long years are flown,
Though spent in anguish and alone,
How short the time appears!
She looks upon the billowy main,
And the parting-day returns again.
Each breaking wave she knows;
And when she listens to the tide,
Her child seems standing by her side;
So like the past it flows.

She starts to hear the city bell;

So toll'd it when they wept farewell!

She thinks the self-same smoke and cloud
The city domes and turrets shroud;
The same keen flash of ruddy fire
Is burning on the lofty spire;

The grove of masts is standing there

Unchanged, with all their ensigns fair;

The same, the stir, the tumult, and the hum,

As from the city to the shore they come." p. 157, 158.

As she is lingering one sunny day on the beach, a shout is raised for the approach of a long expected vessel; and multitudes hurry out to meet their returning friends and relations. The unhappy mother flies, sick at heart, from the joyful scene of con gratulations; but strange murmurs pursue her in her retreat.

"Dark words she hears among the crowd,

Of a ship that hath on board

Three christian souls, who on the coast
Of some wild land were wreck'd long years ago,
When all but they were in a tempest lost;

And they are speaking of a child,

Who looks more beautifully wild

Than pictured fairy in Arabian tale;
Wondrous her foreign garb, they say,
Adorn'd with starry plumage gay,
While round her head tall feathers play,
And dance with every gale." p. 165, 166.

She turns in breathless impatience, and sees the sailors rushing eagerly to the embraces of their wives and children-but

"-No sailor, he, so fondly pressing
Yon fair child in his arms,

Her eyes, her brow, her bosom kissing,
And bidding her with many a blessing
To hush her vain alarms.

How fair that creature by his side!
Who smiles with languid glee,
Slow-kindling from a mother's pride!
Oh! thou alone may'st be

The mother of that fairy child.
These tresses dark, these eyes so wild,
That face with spirit beautified,
She owes them all to thee.

Silent and still the sailors stand,

To see the meeting strange that now befel.
Unwilling sighs their manly bosoms swell,

And o'er their eyes they draw the sun-burnt hand,

381

To hide the tears that grace their cheek so well." p. 167, 168.

They then all retire to the romantic shades of their native Wales; and the piece concludes with another apostrophe to that fairy child, who seems to have chiefly possessed the raised imagination of the author.

"O, happy parents of so sweet a child,
Your share of grief already have you known;
But long as that fair spirit is your own,
To either lot you must be reconciled,
Dear was she in yon palmy grove,

When fear and sorrow mingled with your love,
And oft you wished that she had ne'er been born;
While, in the most delightful air

Th' angelic infant sang, at times her voice,

That seem'd to make even lifeless things rejoice,
Woke, on a sudden, dreams of dim despair,
As if it breathed, "For me, an orphan, mourn!"
Now can they listen when she sings
With mournful voice of mournful things,

Almost too sad to hear;

And when she chaunts her evening-hymn,
Glad smile their eyes, even as they swim

With many a gushing tear.

Each day she seems to them more bright
And beautiful,-a gleam of light

That plays and dances o'er the shadowy earth!

It fadeth not in gloom or storm,

For nature charter'd that aërial form

In yonder fair Isle when she bless'd her birth!

The Isle of Palms!-whose forests tower again,

Darkening with solemn shade the face of heaven!

Now far away they like the clouds are driven,

And as the passing night-wind dies my strain!" p. 178, 179.

We are rather unwilling to subjoin any remarks on a poem, of which, even from the slight account we have given of it, we are aware that the opinion of different readers will be so different. To those who delight in wit, sarcasm, and antithesis, the greater part of it will appear mere raving and absurdity;-to such as have an appetite chiefly for crowded incidents and complicated adventures, it will seem diffuse and empty;-and even by those who seek in poetry for the delineation of human feelings and affections, it will frequently be felt as too ornate and ostentatious. The truth is, that it has by far too much of the dreaminess and intoxication of the fancy about it, and is by far too much expanded; and though it will afford great delight to those who are most capable and most worthy of being delighted, there are none whom it will not sometimes dazzle with its glare, and sometimes weary with its repetitions.

The next poem in the volume is perhaps of a still more hazardous description. It is entitled The Angler's Tent;' and fills little less than thirty pages with the description of an afternoon's visit which the author had the pleasure of receiving from the simple inhabitants around Wast-Water, when he and Mr. Wordsworth and some other friends had pitched their tent on the banks of that sequestered lake, one beautiful Sunday, in the course of a fishing excursion among the mountains. It is one of the boldest experiments we have lately met with, of the possibility of maintaining the interest of a long poem without any extraordinary incident, or any systematic discussion: and, for our own parts, we are inclined to think that it is a successful one. There are few things, at least, which we have lately read, that have pleased or engaged us more than the picture of simple innocence and artless delight which is here drawn, with a truth and modesty of colouring far more attractive, in our apprehension, than the visionary splendours of the Isle of Palms. The novelty of the white tent, gleaming like an evening cloud by the edge of the still waters, had attracted the curiosity of the rustic worshippers, it seems, as they left the little chapel in the dell; and they came in successive groupes, by land and by water, to gaze on the splendid apparition. The kind-hearted anglers received them with all the gentleness and hospitality of Isaac Walton himself; and we sincerely compassionate the reader who is not both touched and soothed with the following amiable representation.

"And thus our tent a joyous scene became,

Where loving hearts from distant vales did meet

As at some rural festival, and greet
Each other with glad voice and kindly name.
Here a pleased daughter to her father smiled,
With fresh affection in her soften'd eyes;
He in return look'd back upon his child
With gentle start and tone of mild surprise :
And on his little grandchild, at her breast,
An old man's blessing and a kiss bestow'd,
Or to his cheek the lisping baby prest,
Light'ning the mother of her darling load;
While comely matrons, all sedately ranged
Close to their husbands, or their children's side,
A neighbour's friendly greeting interchanged,
And each her own with frequent glances eyed,
And raised her head in all a mother's harmless pride.
Happy were we among such happy hearts!
And to inspire with kindliness and love
Our simple guests, ambitiously we strove,
With novel converse and endearing arts!

The gray-hair'd men with deep attention heard,
Viewing the speaker with a solemn face,

While round our feet the playful children stirr❜d
And near their parents took their silent place,

Listening with looks where wonder breathed a glowing grace.
And much they gazed with never-tired delight

On varnish'd rod, with joints that shone like gold,

And silken line on glittering reel enroll'd,

To infant anglers a most wondrous sight!
Scarce could their chiding parents then control
Their little hearts in harmless malice gay,
But still one, bolder than his fellows, stole
To touch the tempting treasures where they lay.
What rapture glistened in their eager eyes,
When, with kind voice, we bade these children take
A precious store of well-dissembled flies,
To use with caution for the strangers' sake!
The unlook'd-for gift we graciously bestow
With sudden joy the leaping heart o'erpowers;
They grasp the lines, while all their faces glow
Bright as spring blossoms after sunny showers,

And wear them in their hats like wreaths of valley flowers!"
p. 197, 199

The following picture of the mountain damsels is equally engaging.

"Well did the roses blooming on their cheek, And eyes of laughing light, that glisten'd fair

Beneath the artless ringlets of their hair,

Each maidens's health and purity bespeak.
Following the impulse of their simple will,
No thought had they to give or take offence:
Glad were their bosoms, yet sedate and still,
And fearless in the strength of innocence.
Oft as, in accents mild, we strangers spoke
To these sweet maidens, an unconscious smile
Like sudden sunshine o'er their faces broke,
And with it struggling blushes mix'd the while.
And oft as mirth and glee went laughing round,
Breath'd in this maiden's ear some harmless jest
Would make her, for one moment, on the ground
Her eyes let fall, as wishing from the rest

To hide the sudden throb that beat within her breast."

p. 205, 206.

The delighted guests depart by moonlight; and while they are climbing the shadowy hills, their entertainers raise a splendid bonfire to light them on their way, and hear new clamours of acclamation ring round all the awakened echoes. The following are some of the concluding reflections, which not only do great honour to Mr. Wilson's powers of composition, but show him to be habitually familiar with thoughts and affections, far more to be envied than the fading renown that genius has ever won for her

votaries.

"Yet, though the strangers and their tent have past
Away, like snow that leaves no mark behind,
Their image lives in many a guiltless mind,
And long within the shepherd's cot shall last.
Oft when, on winter night, the crowded seat
Is closely wheel'd before the blazing fire,
Then will he love with grave voice to repeat
(He, the gray-headed venerable sire,)
The conversation he with us did hold
On moral subjects, he had studied long;

And some will jibe the maid who was so bold
As sing to strangers readily a song.

Then they unto each other will recal
Each little incident of that strange night,

And give their kind opinion of us all.
God bless their faces smiling in the light

Of their own cottage-hearth! O, fair subduing sight!"

p. 215, 216.

The same tenderness of thought and warmth of imagination are visible in the lines addressed to a Sleeping Child; from which we shall make a few detached extracts. It begins,