pleasure as that end is or is not attained. But the case is perfectly different with the poet." If this be not a crude, false, and narrow doctrine, I should like to know what is. The writer, who undertakes the defence of poetry against the aspersions of the literal and coarse-minded, has a difficult task to perform, because in its very nature it is so subtle and intangible, that however mighty its influence, it is impossible to indicate the precise character and extent of its effects. They therefore who have to place it in opposition to grosser and more palpable objects, can only trust for the effect of their arguments to men of kindred minds, who are able to understand that there are more things in heaven and earth, than are dreamt of in the philosophy of cold and unimaginative reasoners. Though this article is already so full of quotations, I make room with particular pleasure for a grateful tribute to poetry from the pen of Coleridge. "I expect neither profit, nor general fame by my writings; and I consider myself as having been amply repaid without either. Poetry has been to me its own exceeding great reward.' It has soothed my afflictions; it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude; and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the good and the beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me.' Sir James Mackintosh once remarked, that in most vexations he successfully applied to poetry for consolation. Amidst all his active struggles in public life, Mr. Fox was always sighing for an opportunity to turn to the perusal of his favorite poets; and even in his latest years he was perpetually talking to his friends of his intention to write a treatise on " the three arts of Poetry, History, and Oratory." Burke in a letter to Professor Richardson, the author of the Essays on Shakespeare's dramatic characters, observes, that " poetry is the study of human nature; and as this is the first object of philosophy, poetry will always rank first among human compositions." If poetry were to be struck out of the literature of a nation, how bare it would leave it! When we reckon up the literary honours of a country, how large and conspicuous a share is divided amongst the poets! Let us turn either to the ancients or to the moderns, and the truth of this remark will be sufficiently obvious. MEMORY. I. WHEN o'er this glimmering land of dreams. II. Alas! full soon those glories fade, O'er all their azure depths are borne, III. Ah, yes! though brightly Fancy glows, THE THREE SONS*. CLOSE on the green marge of a lonely river To think how heavily and slow must fall Her last few sands of life. Though three fair youths Are mirrored still in her maternal breast, These all are far away! In foreign lands They seek what fate denied them in their own. Suggested by a German story. But life is fraught with change;-the stillest pool Of wandering zephyrs wild. So fortune's breath 'Till the dull surface dimple into smiles! Though hope was shrouded like a Lapland sun, And day seemed gone from earth, the mourner's soul To that soft mood was ministrant. The scene Might well have calmed a spirit ruder far, And soothed less gentle sorrow. Fleecy clouds Of delicate marble. Fitfully the moon Her beauty veiled, then gliding proudly forth To charm a subject world! At such an hour How strangely dissonant or unusual sounds Flutter the dreaming soul! The silence deep Was broken, as when frighted birds arise From some still forest bower. A steed's quick tramp And MAGDALINE, up-starting with surprise, That fronts her Cottage-home; when swift as thought, Her strained eyes met the well-remembered form Of him whose childhood's charms first taught her heart A mother's transport! Motionless awhile, Spell-bound, she stood, struck mute with sudden joy! Till as he knelt before her, a faint sigh, And one full burst of tears, her brief trance broke, And while serener rapture thrilled her frame She sunk upon his breast. Hath blessed my midnight dream, my daily prayer, And not in cold neglect and solitude I now shall journey onward to my grave. But soothed and cherished by the light of love Her eldest born, the favored EBERT, Spake 66 Fortune rewards my travel and my toil, And fondly would my true heart now repay The love maternal lavished on my life Till youth was merged in manhood. Oh! no more Echo the drear sighs of these river reeds, Or the wild music of these mournful boughs, And share a social home!" With grateful heart The filial tie was loosened; and his fate In hour unblest was linked to one whose charms |