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mind-such as the lleas of amb r and figure, and the logical forms and combinations 0 cocep?ion or thoi t. Tiie mind that is rich and exuberant in this intellectual wealth is t, like a. icer, o dwell upon the vain contemplation of its riches, is disposed to generaliz and rrethodise to excess, ever philosophising, and never descending to action, spreadirg its wings high in the air above some beloved spot, but never flying far and wide over earth and sea, to seek food, or to enjoy the endless beauties of nature; the fresh morning, and the warm noon, and the dewy eve. On the other hand, still less is to be expected, towards the methodising of science, from the man who flụtters about in blindness like the bat; or is carried hither and thither, like the turtle sleeping on the wave, and fancying, because he moves, that he is in progress.

It is not solely in the formation of the human understanding, and in the constructions of science and literature, that the employment of method is indispensably necessary; but its importance is equally felt, and equally acknowledged, in the whole business and economy of active and domestic life. From the cottager's hearth or the workshop of the artisan, to the palace or the arsenal, the first merit- that which admits neither substitute nor equivalent–is, that everything is in its place. Where this charm is wanting, every other merit either loses its name, or becomes an additional ground of accusation and regret. Of one by whom it is eminently possessed we sa, , proverbially, that he is like clock-work. The resemblance extends bey nd the point of regularity, and yet falls far short of the truth. Both do, indeed, a o ; divide and announce the silent and otherwise indistinguishable lapse of time; bu the man f m thodical industry and honourable pursuits does more; be realises its idea! divisions, and gives a character and individuality to its moments. If the iar des ibed as killing time, e may be justly said to call it into life and moral bein“, while he makes it the listinct object not only of the consciousness, but of the CO ice. He organizes the hours, and gives them a soul; and to that, the very essenr ; o which is to fleet and to have been, he communicates an imperishable and a spi tua. nature Of the good and faithful servant, whose energies, thus directed, are thu nethodised, it is less truly affirmed that he lives in time, than that time lives i him. His days, months, and years, as the stops and punctual marks in the records of duties performed, will survive the wreck of worlds, and remain extant when time itself shall be no more.


The Rev. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES (1762-1850) enjoys the distinction of having 'delighted and inspired' the genius of Coleridge. His first publication was a small volume of sonnets published in 1789, to which additions were made from time to time, and in 1805 the collection had reached a ninth edition. Various other poetical works proceeded from the pen of Mr. Bowles:‘Coombe Ellen and St. Michael's Mount,' 1798; “Battle of the Nile,' 1799; 'Sorrows of Switzerland, 1801; Spirit of Discovery,' 1805; The Missionary of the Andes,' 1815; Days Departed, 1828; •Śt. John in Patmos,' 1833; &c. None of these works can be said to have been popular, though all of them contain passages of fine descriptive and meditative verse.

Mr. Bowles had the true poetical feeling and imagination, refined by classical taste and acquirements. Coleridge was one of his earliest and most devoted admirers. A volume of Mr. Bowles's sonnets falling into the hands of the enthusiastic young poet, converted him from some 'perilous errors' to the love of a style of poetry at once tender and manly. The pupil outstripped his master in richness and luxuriance, though not in elegance or correctness. Mr. Bowles, in 1806, edited an edition of Pope's works, which, being attacked by Campbell in his Specimens of the Poets, led to a literary controversy. in which Lord Byron and others took a part. Bowles insisted strongly on descriptive poetry forming an indispensable part of the poetical character; 'every rock, every leaf, every diversity of hue in nature's variety.' Campbell, on the other hand, objected to this Dutch minuteness and perspicacity of colouring, and claimed for the poet (what Bowles never could have denied) nature, moral as well as external, the poetry of the passions, and the lights and shades of human manners. În reality, Pope occupied a middle position, inclining to the artificial side of life. Mr. Bowles was born at King'sSutton, Northamptonshire, and was educated first_at Winchester School, under Joseph Warton, and subsequently at Trinity College, Oxford. He long held the rectory of Bremhill, in Wiltshire (of which George Herbert and Norris of Bemerton had also been incumbents), and from 1828 till his death he was a canon residentiary of Salisbury Cathedral. He is described by his neighbour, Moore the poet, as a simple, amiable, absent-minded scholar, poet, and


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To Time.
O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay

Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
Lulling to sad repose the weary sense-
The faint pang stealest, unperceived away;
On thee I rest my only hope at last,

And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear

That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile

As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,

Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower,
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:
Yet. ah ! how much must that poor heart endure
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!

Winter Evening at Home.
Fair Moon! that at the chilly day's decline

Of sharp December, through my cottage pane

Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane;
In thought, to scenes serene and still as thine,
Wanders my heart, whilst I by turns survey

Thee slowly wheeling on thy evening way;
And this my fire, whose dim, unequal light,

Just glimmering, bids each shadowy image fall
Sombrous and strange upon the darkening wall,
Ere the clear tapers chase the deepening night!
Yet thy still orb, seen through the freezing haze,
Shines calm and clear without; and whilst I gaze,
I think around me in this twilight gloom,
I but remark mortality's sad doom;
Whilst hope and joy, cloudless and soft appear
In the sweet beain that lights thy distant sphere.

Hope. .
As one who, long by wasting sickness worn,

Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard,
Heartless, the carol of the matin bird

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Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn
Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed;

He the green slope and level meadow views,

Delightful bathed in slow ascending dews;
Or marks the clouds that o'er the mountain's head,
In varying forms, fantastic wander white;
Or turns his ear to every random song

Heard the green river's winding marge along,
The whilst each sense is steeped in still delight:
With such delight o'er all my heart I feel,
Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal.

Bamborough Castle.
Ye holy towers that shade the wave-worn steep,

Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime,

Though hurrying silent by, relentless time
Assail you, and the wintry whirlwind sweep.
For, far from blazing grandeur's crowded halls,

Here Charity has fixed her chosen seat;
Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat
With hollow bodings round your ancient walls;
And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour

Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high,
Keeps her Tone watch upon the topmost tower,

And turns her ear to each expiring cry,
Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might save,
And snatch him cold and speechless from the grave,

South American Scenery.
Beneath aërial cliffs and glittering snows,
The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose,
Chief of the mountain tribes; high overhead,
The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread,
Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires,
And Chillan trailed its smoke and smouldering firer.

A glen beneath-a lonely spot of rest-
Hung, scarce discovered, like an eagle's nest.

Summer was in its prime: the parrot flocks
Darkened the passing sunshine on the rocks ;
The chrysomel and purple butterfly,
Amid the clear blue light, are wandering by ;
The humming-bird, along the myrtle bowers,
With twinkling wing is spinning o'er the flowers ;
The woodpecker is heard with busy bill,
The mock-bird sings--and all beside is still.
And look! the cataract that bursts so high,
As not to mar the deep tranquillity,
The tumult of its dashing fall suspends,
And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends ;
Through whose illumined spray and sprinkling dews,
Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues.

Checkering, with partial shade, the beams of noon,
And arching the gray rock with wild festoon,
Here, its gay network and fantastic twine
The purple cogul threads from pine to pine,
And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe,
Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath.
There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white
The sunshine darts, its interrupted light,
And 'mid the cedar's darksome bough, illumes,
With instant touch, the lori's scarlet plumes.

Sun-dial in a Churchyard.
So passes, silent o'er the dead, thy shade,

Brief Time! and hour by hour, and day by day,
The pleasing pictures of the present fade,

And like a summer vapour steal away.
And have not they, who here forgotten lie

Say, hoary chronicler of ages past-
Once marked thy shadow with delighted eye,

Nor thought it fled-bow certain and how fast ?
Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept,

Noting each hour, o'er mouldering stones beneath
The pastor and his flock alike have slept,

And dust to dust' proclaimed the stride of death.
Another race succeeds, and counts the hour,

Careless alike; the hour still seems to smile,
As hope, and youth, and life were in our power;

So smiling, and so perishing the while.
I heard the village-bells, with gladsome sound

When to these scenes a stranger I drew near-
Proclaim the tidings of the village round,

While memory wept upon the good man's bier.
Even so, when I am dead, shall the same bells

Ring merrily when my brief days are gone;
While still the lapse of time thy shadow tells,

And strangers gaze upon my humble stone!
Enough, if we may wait in calm content

The hour that bears us to the silent sod;
Blameless improve the time that heaven has lent,

And leave the issue to thy will, O God.


It is a singular circumstance in literary history, that what many consider the finest sonnet in the English language should be one written by a Spaniard. . The REV. JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE (1775– 1841) was a native of Seville, son of an Irish Roman Catholic merchant settled in Spain. He was author of Letters from Spain by Don Leucadoin Doblado' (1822), "Internal Evidence against Catholicism' (1825), and other works both in English and Spanish. A very interesting memoir of this remarkable man, with portions of his correspondence, &c. was published by J. H. Thom (London, 3

vols. 1845):

Sonnet on Night.
Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew

Thee from report divine, and heard thy name.

Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue ?
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,

Hesperus with the host of heaven came:
And lo! Creation widened in man's view !
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed

Within thy beams, 0 Sun? or who could find,

Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed,

That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ?
Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious strife ?
If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life ?

ROBERT SOUTHEY. One of the most voluminous and learned authors of this period was ROBERT SOUTHEY, LL. D., the poet-laureate. A poet, scholar, antiquary, critic, and historian, Southey wrote more than even Scott, and he is said to have burned more verses between his twentieth and thirtieth year than he published during his whole life. His time was entirely devoted to literature. Every day and hour had its appropriate and select task; his library was his world within which he was content to range, and his books were his most cherished and constant companions. In one of his poems, he says:

My days among the dead are passed ;

Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,

The mighty m nds of old;
My never-failing friends are they,

With whom I converse night and day. It is melancholy to reflect, that for nearly three years preceding his death, Mr. Southey sat among his books in hopeless vacuity of mind, the victim of disease. This distinguished author was a native of Bristol, the son of a respectable linen-draper of the same name, and was born on the 12th of August 1774. He was indebted to a maternal uncle for most of his education. In his fourteenth year he was placed at Westminster School, where he remained between three and four years, but having in conjunction with several of his school associates set on foot a periodical entitled “The Flagellant,’in which a sarcastic article on corporal punishment appeared, the head-master, Dr. Vincent, commenced a prosecution against the publisher, and Southey was compelled to leave the school. This harsh exercise of authority probably had considerable effect in disgusting the young enthusiast with the institutions of his country.

In November 1792 he was entered of Balliol College, Oxford. He had then distinguished himself by poetical productions, and had formed literary plans enough for many years or many lives. In political opinions he was a democrat; in religion, a Unitarian; consequently he could not take orders in the church, or look for any official appointment. He fell in with Coleridge, as already related, and joined in the plan of emigration. His academic career was abruptly closed in 1794. The same year, he published a volume of poems in conjunction with Mr. Robert Lovell, under the names of Moschus and Bion. About the same time he composed his drama of Wat Tyler,' a revolutionary brochure, which was long afterwards published surreptitiously by a knavish bookseller to annoy its author. * In my youth,' he says, 'when my stock of knowledge consisted of such an acquaintance with Greek and Roman history as is acquired

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