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 aerial 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 poen, 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

traordinary 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 bloomting on their cheek,
And eyes of laughing light, that glisten'd fair
Beneath the artless ringlets of their hair,
Each maiden'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,

The

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,

Art thou a thing of mortal birth,

Whose happy home is on our earth?
Does human blood with life embue
Those wandering veins of heavenly blue,
That stray along thy forehead fair,
Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair?
Oh! can that light and airy breath
Steal from a being doom'd to death;
Those features to the grave be sent
In sleep thus mutely eloquent;
Or, art thou, what thy form would seem,
The phantom of a blessed dream?'
Oh! that my spirit's eye could see
Whence burst those gleams of extasy!
That light of dreaming soul appears
To play from thoughts above thy years.
Thou smil'st as if thy soul were soaring
To heaven, and heaven's God adoring!
And who can tell what visions high
May bless an infant's sleeping eye?
What brighter throne can brightness find
To reign on than an infant's mind,
Ere sin destroy, or error dim,
The glory of the seraphim?

Oh! vision fair! that I could be
Again, as young, as pure as thee!
Vain wish! the rainbow's radiant forma
May view, but cannot brave the storm;
Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes
That paint the bird of paradise,
And years, so fate hath order'd, roll
Clouds o'er the summer of the soul.'

Fair was that face as break of dawn,
When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn
Like a thin veil that half-conceal'd
The light of soul, and half-reveal'd.
While thy hush'd heart with visions wrought,
Each trembling eye-lash mov'd with thought,
And things we dream, but ne'er can speak,
Like clouds came floating o'er thy cheek,
Such summer-clouds as travel light,

When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright;
Till thou awok'st,---then to thine eye
Thy whole heart leapt in extacy!
And lovely is that heart of thine,
Or sure these eyes could never shine
With such a wild, yet bashful glee,

Gay, half-o'ercome timidity!'

We have now quoted enough, we believe, to give our readers a pretty just idea of the character of Mr Wilson's poetry. We shall add but one little specimen of his blank verse; which seems to us to be formed, like that of all his school, on the mos del of Akenside's; and to combine, with a good deal of his diffuseness, no ordinary share of its richness and beauty. There are some fine solemn lines on the Spring, from which we take the following, almost at random.

-The great Sun,

Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile,
Came forth to do thee homage; a sweet hymn
Was by the low winds chaunted in the sky;
And when thy feet descended on the earth,
Scarce could they move amid the clustering flowers
By nature strewn o'er valley, hill, and field,
To hail her blest deliverer!--Ye fair trees,
How are ye changed, and changing while I gaze!
It seems as if some gleam of verdant light
Fell on you from a rainbow; but it lives
Amid your tendrils, brightening every hour
Into a deeper radiance. Ye sweet birds,
Were you asleep through all the wintry hours,
Beneath the waters, or in mossy caves?

-Yet are ye not,

Sporting in tree and air, more beautiful
Than the young lambs, that from the valley-side
Send a soft bleating like an infant's voice,
Half happy, half afraid! O blessed things!
At sight of this your perfect innocence;
The sterner thoughts of manhood melt away
Into a mood as mild as woman's dreams.
The strife of working intellect, the stir