A sweet appearance, but a dread illusion, [Here, behind the scenes, a voice sings Hear the mild spell, and tempt no blacker charm! So shall the church's cleansing rites be thine, SONG, Behind the scenes, accompanied by the same instruments as before. HEAR, Sweet Spirit, hear the spell, And at evening evermore, Shall the chaunters, sad and saintly, Hark! the cadence dies away, On the yellow moonlight sea: The boatmen rest their oars and say, *Shew pity, O Lord; words from a Roman Catholic Chaunt. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. WORDSWORTH and Coleridge are the two greatest poets of the modern age. In some respects their poetical character is similar; but the genius of Coleridge is more wild and energetic and on the whole of a higher order; that of Wordsworth is more still and contemplative. The language of the former combines richness and romance and splendour with its chastness; that of the latter is severe in natural simplicity. Coleridge has more fancy and invention, and delineates objects that are in themselves beautiful or sublime, clothing them at the same time with associated intellectual and moral conceptions. Wordsworth's characteristic is "the power of raising the smallest things in nature into sublimity by the force of sentiment. His peculiarity is his combination of simplicity of subject with profundity and power of execution. He is sublime without the muse's aid, and pathetic in the contemplation of his own and man's nature." He possesses great descriptive power, and delineates the varieties of natural scenery with minute accuracy of observation and appropriateness of colouring. It were easier to write an eulogy than to speak in calm admiration of the powerful manner in which he links universal human feeling with the loveliness of the external world. Passages come to view on every page in his volumes of which the spirit goes down into the stillest depths of the soul; and touches of exquisite tenderness are scattered abundantly with such simplicity and freedom, that they seem as if they had dropped unconsciously from the author in the pursuit of his silent musings. The influence of his poetry is such that we cannot read it in a proper manner without having the understanding enlightened and the affections ameliorated. His are the thoughts which all mankind recognize as their most precious birthright. Every thing mean, passionate, and worldly, retires from their influence. All is purity, mildness, affectionate pathos; the lessons of experienced wisdom, noble philosophy, and pious reflection. Amidst a multitude of minor poems, the most of which are beautiful, it were vain to point out the most exquisite; but the poem of The Brothers may be referred to among his pathetic pieces, as displaying, in his own words, "the strength of moral attachment, when early associated with the great and beautiful objects of nature." The Excursion, his longest poem, combines all the qualities of excellence which delight us in his shorter productions, and is the noblest effort of a great and comprehensive mind. He is indeed a mighty poet; possessed of an imagination grand and powerful, equalling perhaps what any writer has exhibited since the days of Shakspeare and Milton. She had a rustic, woodland air, Her eyes were fair, and very fair; "Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, "And where are they? I pray you tell." Two of us in the church-yard lie, "You say that two at Conway dwell, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, Then did the little maid reply, "You run about, my little maid, If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen,” The little maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. My stockings there I often knit, And often after sunset, sir, The first that died was little Jane; Till God releas'd her of her pain; So in the church-yard she was laid; Together round her grave we played, And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." "How many are you then," said I, "O master! we are seven.' "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in Heaven! 'Twas throwing words away: for still The little maid would have her will, Nay, we are seven!" And said, 66 THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN. When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey with his companions, he is left behind, covered over with deerskins, and is supplied with water, food, and fuel if the situation of the place will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he is unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes alone in the desart; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in with some other tribes of Indians. The females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that very interesting work, Hearne's Journey from Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean. In the high northern latitudes, as the same writer informs us, when the Northern Lights vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling noise. This circumstance is alluded to in the first stanza of the following poem. BEFORE I see another day, In sleep I heard the northern gleams; My fire is dead: it knew no pain; And they are dead, and I will die. When I was well, I wished to live, For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire; No pleasure now, and no desire. Then here contented will I lie ! Alone I cannot fear to die. Alas! ye might have dragged me on Another day, a single one! Too soon I yielded to despair ; Why did ye listen to my prayer ? When ye were gone my limbs were stronger; And oh how grievously I rue, That afterwards, a little longer, For strong and without pain I lay, My friends, when ye were gone away.) My Child! they gave thee to another, |