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above the low condition of mortality, and which, not only on this account, but on account of its novelty, we are disposed to admire. But Goldsmith describes nothing but what strikes us at once; for even when he describes feelings which, perhaps, we never felt before, we are so constituted by nature, that the moment they are described, they appear feelings with which we are long and intimately conversant. The heart recognizes at once, as something belonging to itself, whatever is congenial to it, whatever it would feel if placed in the same situation with him by whom it is felt. Hence it is, that Goldsmith is a favourite with all men, while Gray is only admired by the learned few, because it is the business of a scholar to know and be able to talk of whatever is considered admirable, and of a superior order. For the same reason, Milton is read only by scholars, while Homer pleases the bulk of mankind. We doubt not, therefore, if Mr. Butler drew his information from a more general acquaintance with society, and rested not his opinion.on the learned by profession, he would find that Goldsmith is more generally known, and more generally quoted, than Gray, though we doubt not that those who become, like Gray himself, more fastidious than natural in subjects of literature, study only what they consider placed above the ordinary grasp of mankind.

These observations have been suggested by the three following Poems. As the offspring of imagination, we think they possess considerable merit, but, like all other productions of mere imagination, they are more calculated to create our admiration than to secure our esteem, or gain upon our sympathies. We make the observations, however, not to find fault with them, but to draw a distinction between works of feeling and those of imagination. We must add, at the same time, that the latter should always be short, for the imagination will not endure to be exercised long, unless occasionally relieved by those tender and affecting scenes which appeal only to the heart, and on which, consequently, we could dwell for ever. However highly we admire, or profess to admire Milton, we soon tire of

reading him, but we can give our days and nights to works of feeling and sensibility.

The structure and cadence of the versification in the MIDNIGHT is an evident imitation of the Allegro and Penseroso; but there is an obscurity in the diction, which can never impart the pleasure arising from the perspicuity and distinct individuality of the images with which Milton has peopled the creations of his joyous and melancholy feelings. We do not mean to say there is any real obscurity in the Midnight; we only mean to say that the sense does not strike us as fast as we read, the images being mingled rather confusedly with each other.-ED.

MIDNIGHT,

Written on the sea-shore, in Norfolk, near a Lighthouse. By the Rev. GEORGE CROLY, A. M.

It is the witching hour! The Night
Sits on her cold, meridian height,

And the starry troops are seen,
Many a cloudy rift between,
Camping round her matron throne,
Till the silent pomp is gone;
And Lucifer, her youngest born,
From his high watch sees the morn,

Now the hamlot sounds are o'er,
Peasants' laugh, and closing door;
Ebbing far away, the tide

Silent leaves the sea-beach wide;
Yet ever and anon, the ear,

Pondering with no unpleased fear,

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As if a spirit bore them by :

Drowsy sheep-bells, and the chime,
Where the distant turrets climb;
Voice of lonely waggoner

Singing, his slow team to cheer;
Mingled with the watch-dog's bark,
Warning rovers of the dark;
Or the stroke of midnight, toll'd
Dreary o'er the church-yard mould.
But from my cottage casement, wound
With every flower that's sweetest found
On heathy hill, or blossom'd mead,
By the virgin's May-morn tread;
I see one sleepless, earthly star,
Shoot its wild splendors free and far,
Defying night, and cloud and shower,
The meteor of yon sea-shore tower.
The gale is up, and as the haze
Round the burning circle strays,
Rainbow'd, through its curtain stream
Dazzling hues of cloud and gem,
Till the deeper volumes low'r
And the tall and lonely tower
Looks a giant in his shroud;
Or an Indian idol proud,
With his eye of smother'd fire,
Like a half-burnt funeral pyre,
Glaring, in his midnight cave,
Over prostrate prince and slave.

Then afar the beam is thrown,
Binding with an azure zone,
Hill and vale, and dusky sea,
A lovely, earth-born galaxy!
Where, along the slumbering tide,
The anchor'd ships like dolphins ride,
Touching into woofs of light,

Sail and shroud, and pennant slight;
O'er the trees, the village spire,
Shoots a shaft of azure fire;
Sweeping thence, a transient gleam
Lights the solitary stream,
Through the flower'd hawthorn brake
Glist'ning, like a summer snake,
To where my lowly cottage roof
Hides from the worldly din aloof,
Nestled in the fragrant twine
Of bushy rose and jessamine.

Now around me, and beneath,
All is slumber, still as death;
In my hand some pale, proud page,
Of the mind's heroic age,
By divinest Virgil sung,

On his Mantuan lilies flung:
Or the love-born poet,-he
Who pined by the Propontis' sea;
Or that Sappho on her steep
Wept, as love and madness weep;
Or th' Olympian eagle wing,
Shook from Pindar's stormy string.
Then, in fancy's wayward fit,
I turn to Chaucer's mystic wit,

And see in his enchanted glass,
Pilgrim, nun, and warrior pass;
Rosy smiles beneath the hood,
Steel-clad bosoms love subdued,
Tonsured crowns, with roving eye,
Thronging the rich pageantry.
Or the blacken'd tome unhasp,
Shrined in many a brazen clasp,
Where in kindred darkness lie
Tales of hoary alchemy,

Tomb'd in bold, bewilder'd rhyme,

Oracles of elder time!

How the mighty Sigel tamed

The Spirit, while he raved and flamed;
Round the guarded circle wan,
Winging still with feebler ban,
As within the crucible,
Star-bright rose the golden spell,
And symphonies of earth and air,
Told the gem of gems was there!

Oft with curious vision mazed,
I trace the monkish scroll, emblazed
With gorgeous hues and emblems high,
Alike of church and chivalry,

Kneeling saints, and prelates old,
Monarchs, silk and ermine stol'd,
Cup and crosier, helm and targe,
Cluster'd on the dazzling marge!

Thus bewitch'd the moments sweep,

Till the honey-pinion'd sleep,

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