be forced up in the scale of intellect and morality-it is sufficient to let us down. Nevertheless, defaced as is the statue, how much beauty yet remains! how much to show its Author! and how much likeness does it still bear to superior intelligences! Hapily, that likeness shall be completed; and our little fires at once encreased and absorbed by the fountain of eternal radiance. PERCEIVING in several of these pieces, a considerable play of imagination, and something approaching to the elevation of poetry; I often said to his mother, "There is here and there something like a poet in our dear boy.' Yet I more frequently said, 'William, you will make a very good metaphysician, perhaps, a good mathematician; but never a poet. How can you become one? for neither father nor mother have a particle of imagination to give you.' This, I conceive, determined him to try. He did not write, I believe, "because the numbers came;" but because he wished to see what he could do. This was no unusual thing with him. Feeling, I suppose, the strength of his powers, he always attempted what was represented to be, or what was in reality, the most difficult of its kind. In April, 1817, while I was in London, his mother, to my great surprise, sent me a few verses written by him. He happened to see the plays of Crebillon at a shop in the town, and begged his mother to purchase them for him. On the following Friday, intent as usual, upon his new volumes, he said, "Let me write a translation of the Idomeneus." By all means.' "But shall I give you an elegant translation ?" She, smiling, said, ‘As elegant as you please.' In two or three hours, he brought her ninety lines, from which she sent me the following extract: Back to the shores of Crete I haste, I fly, ; The north wind groans not, but it roars, it flies, And rends the sea, and shakes the burning skies: Above, around, below, 'tis all the same, One universal sheet of billowy flame! : For several successive weeks, he continued and completed that translation; and never wrote, till he went to College, another prose essay. Some time before this, I had picked up in his study a scrap of paper on which some rhymes were rather illegibly written. I asked him what it was, without dreaming that it was a production of his he looked at it, took it out of my hand, said, it was not worth reading, and put it into the fire. When I returned from London, I found accidentally lying upon his desk a similar piece; and, after decyphering his almost hieroglyphical writing, made out a spirited address to a noble poet, whose very name,-connected with all that is transcendant in talent, and base in morals,produces a strange and painful mixture of admiration, pity, horror, and indignation. Oh! "What is thy poetic fame! "What is thy melodious lyre!" Passing over this address, I will here offer a few other specimens of poetry, written when he was between fourteen and fifteen : ON THE SETTING SUN, (July, 1817.) 1. On! have ye ever seen the orb of light, 2. Proudly he sets, and gilds the ocean's breast, 3. That globe of flame is not so dazzling bright, |