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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; pos

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She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
-Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be ?"

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
T'wo of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree.”

"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;

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,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit-
I sit and sing to them.

And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

The first that died was little Jane ;
In bed she moaning lay,

Till God releas'd her of her pain;
And then she went away.

So in the church-yard she was laid;
And all the summer dry,

Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

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."

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"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in Heaven!

"T was throwing words away: for still
The little maid would have her will,

And said, "Nay, we are seven !"

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,
O let my body die away!

In sleep I heard the northern gleams;
The stars were mingled with my dreams:
In rustling conflict, through tho skies,
I heard and saw the flashes drive;
And yet they are upon my eyes,
And yet I am alive.

Before I see another day,
Oh let my body die away!

My fire is dead: it knew no pain;
Yet is it dead, and I remain.
All stiff with ice the ashes lie;
And they are dead, and I will die.
When I was well, I wished to live,

For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire;
But they to me no joy can give,
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,
My friends I did not follow you!

For strong and without pain I lay,

My friends, when ye were gone away.

My Child! they gave thee to another,
A woman who was not thy mother.
When from my arms my babe they took,
On me how strangely did he look!

Through his whole body something ran,
A most strange working did 1 see;
-As if he strove to be a man,

That he might pull the sledge for me.
And then he stretched his arms, how wild!
Oh mercy! like a helpless child.

My little joy! my little pride!

In two days more I must have died.
Then do not weep and grieve for me;
I feel I must have died with thee.
Oh wind, that o'er my heart art flying
The way my friends their course did bend,
I should not feel the pain of dying
Could I with thee a message send!
Too soon, my friends, ye went away;
For I had many things to say.

I'll follow you across the snow;
Ye travel heavily and slow;
In spite of all my weary pain,
I'll look upon your tents again.
-My fire is dead, and snowy white
The water which beside it stood;
The wolf has come to me to-night,
And he has stolen away my food.
Forever left alone am I,

Then wherefore should I fear to die?


O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice:

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering voice?

While I am lying on the grass,
Thy loud note smites my ear!
It seems to fill the whole air's space,
At once far off and near!

I hear thee babbling to the vale

Of sunshine and of flowers;

But unto me thou bring'st a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me

No bird; but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery.

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