418 time, so full of poetical feeling, and Greek | chamber, and of all that passes in that swee elegance and simplicity, as this address to Autumn: "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness- "Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are Think not of them! Thou hast thy music too; Or sinking, as the light wind lives or dies! and angel-guarded sanctuary: every part of "Out went the taper as she hurried in! "A casement high and treple-arch'd there was, All garlanded with carven imageries Of fruits and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass; And diamonded with panes of quaint device Innumerable, of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger moth's deep-damask'd wings! "Full on this casement shown the wintery moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon! Rose bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross, soft amethyst; And on her hair, a glory like a saint! She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest Save wings, for heaven!-Porphyro grew faint, She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint! "Anon his heart revives! Her vespers done, Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; Unclasps her warmed jewels, one by one; Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees One of the sweetest of the smaller poems ie Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees! that entitled "The Eve of St. Agnes:" though Half hidden, like a Mermaid in sea weed, we can now afford but a scanty extract. The Pensive a while she dreams awake, and sees In fancy fair, St. Agnes on her bed! superstition is, that if a maiden goes to bed But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled! on that night without supper, and never looks "Soon, trembling, in her soft and chilly nest, up after saying her prayers till she falls In sort of wakeful dream, perplex'd she lay; asleep, she will see her destined husband by Until the poppied warmth of Sleep oppress'd her bed-side the moment she opens her eyes. Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away! The fair Madeline, who was in love with the Haven'd alike from sunshine and from rain, gentle Porphyro, but thwarted by an imperi- As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again! ous guardian, resolves to try this spell:-and "Stolen to this paradise, and so entranc'd, Porphyro, who has a suspicion of her purpose, Porphyro gaz'd upon her empty dress, naturally determines to do what he can to And listen'd to her breathing; if it chanc'd help it to a happy issue; and accordingly To sink into a slumb'rous tenderness? prevails on her ancient nurse to admit him Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And breath'd himself;-then from the closet crept, to her virgin bower; where he watches rev- Noiseless as Fear in a wide wilderness, erently, till she sinks in slumber;-and then, And over the hush'd carpet silent stept. arranging a most elegant dessert by her "Then, by the bed-side, where the sinking couch, and gently rousing her with a tender Made a dim silver twilight, soft he set and favourite air, finally reveals himself, and A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon persuades her to steal from the castle under A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet, &c. his protection. The opening stanza is a fair. And still she slept—an azure-lidded sleep! specimen of the sweetness and force of the composition. "St. Agnes Eve! Ah, bitter cold it was! But the glory and charm of the poem is in the description of the fair maiden's antique moon In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd; It is difficult to break off in such a course of citation: But we must stop here; and shall close our extracts with the following lively lines: "O sweet Fancy ! let her loose! To banish Even from her sky. Distant harvest carols clear; Sweet birds antheming the morn; Or the rooks, with busy caw, Sapphire queen of the mid-May; There is a fragment of a projected Epic, entitled "Hyperion," on the expulsion of Saturn and the Titanian deities by Jupiter and his younger adherents, of which we cannot advise the completion: For, though there are passages of some force and grandeur, it is sufficiently obvious, from the specimen before us, that the subject is too far removed from all the sources of human interest, to be successfully treated by any modern author. Mr. Keats has unquestionably a very beautiful imagination, a perfect ear for harmony, and a great familiarity with the finest diction of English poetry; but he must learn not to misuse or misapply these advantages; and neither to waste the good gifts of nature and study on intractable themes, nor to luxuriate too recklessly on such as are more suitable. (March, 1819.) Human Life: a Poem. By SAMUEL ROGERS. 4to. pp. 94. London: 1819. with strange adventures, embodied in extraordinary characters, or agitated with turbulent passions—not the life of warlike paladins, or desperate lovers, or sublime ruffians-or piping shepherds or sentimental savages, or bloody bigots or preaching pedlars-or conquerors, poets, or any other species of mad THESE are very sweet verses. They do not, indeed, stir the spirit like the strong lines of Byron, nor make our hearts dance within us, like the inspiring strains of Scott; but they come over us with a bewitching softness that, in certain moods, is still more delightful-and soothe the troubled spirits with a refreshing sense of truth, purity, and ele-men-but the ordinary, practical, and amiable gance. They are pensive rather than passionate; and more full of wisdom and tenderness than of high flights of fancy, or overwhelming bursts of emotion-while they are moulded into grace, at least as much by the effect of the Moral beauties they disclose, as by the taste and judgment with which they are constructed. The theme is HUMAN LIFE!-not only "the subject of all verse"-but the great centre and source of all interest in the works of human beings-to which both verse and prose invariably bring us back, when they succeed in rivetting our attention, or rousing our emotions and which turns every thing into poetry to which its sensibilities can be ascribed, or by which its vicissitudes can be suggested! Yet it is not by any means to that which, in ordinary language, is termed the poetry or the romance of human life, that the present work is directed. The life which it endeavours to set before us, is not life diversified life of social, intelligent, and affectionate men in the upper ranks of society-such, in short, as multitudes may be seen living every day in this country-for the picture is entirely English-and though not perhaps in the choice of every one, yet open to the judg ment, and familiar to the sympathies, of all. It contains, of course, no story, and no individual characters. It is properly and peculiarly contemplative-and consists in a series of reflections on our mysterious nature and condition upon earth, and on the marvellous, though unnoticed changes which the ordinary course of our existence is continually bringing about in our being. Its marking peculiarity in this respect is, that it is free from the least alloy of acrimony or harsh judgment, and deals not at all indeed in any species of satirical or sarcastic remark. The poet looks here on man, and teaches us to look on him, not merely with love, but with reverence; and, mingling a sort of considerate pity for the shortness of his busy little career, and the | or not, that as readers of all ages, if they are disappointments and weaknesses by which it is beset, with a genuine admiration of the great capacities he unfolds, and the high destiny to which he seems to be reserved, works out a very beautiful and engaging picture, both of the affections by which Life is endeared, the trials to which it is exposed, and the pure and peaceful enjoyments with which it may often be filled. This, after all, we believe, is the tone of true wisdom and true virtue-and that to which all good natures draw nearer, as they approach the close of life, and come to act less, and to know and to meditate more, on the varying and crowded scene of human existence. When the inordinate hopes of early youth, which provoke their own disappointment, have been sobered down by longer experience and more extended views-when the keen contentions, and eager rivalries, which employed our riper age, have expired or been abandoned-when we have seen, year after year, the objects of our fiercest hostility, and of our fondest affections, lie down together in the hallowed peace of the grave-when ordinary pleasures and amusements begin to be insipid, and the gay derision which seasoned them to appear flat and importunate--when we reflect how often we have mourned and been comforted-what opposite opinions we have successively maintained and abandoned-to what inconsistent habits we have gradually been formed and how frequently the objects of our pride have proved the sources of our shame! we are naturally led to recur to the careless days of our childhood, and from that distant starting place, to retrace the whole of our career, and that of our contemporaries, with feelings of far greater humility and indulgence than those by which it had been actually accompanied:-to think all vain but affection and honour-the simplest and cheapest pleasures the truest and most precious and generosity of sentiment the only mental superiority which ought either to be wished for or admired. We are aware that we have said "something too much of this ;" and that our readers would probably have been more edified, as well as more delighted, by Mr. Rogers' text, than with our preachment upon it. But we were anxious to convey to them our sense of the spirit in which this poem is written ;-and conceive, indeed, that what we have now said falls more strictly within the line of our critical duty, than our general remarks can always be said to do;-because the true character and poetical effect of the work seems, in this instance, to depend much more on its moral expression, than on any of its merely literary qualities. The author, perhaps, may not think it any compliment to be thus told, that his verses are likely to be greater favourites with the old than with the young;-and yet it is no small compliment, we think, to say, that they are likely to be more favourites with his readers every year they live:-And it is at all events true, whether it be a compliment any way worth pleasing, have little glimpses and occasional visitations of those truths which longer experience only renders more familiar, so no works ever sink so deep into amiable minds, or recur so often to their remembrance, as those which embody simple, and solemn, and reconciling truths, in emphatic and elegant language and anticipate, as it were, and bring out with effect, those salutary lessons which it seems to be the great end of our life to inculcate. The pictures of violent passion and terrible emotion the breathing characters, the splendid imagery and bewitching fancy of Shakespeare himself, are less frequently recalled, than those great moral aphorisms in which he has so often Told us the fashion of our own estate and, in spite of all that may be said by grave persons, of the frivolousness of poetry, and of its admirers, we are persuaded that the most memorable, and the most generally admired of all its productions, are those which are chiefly recommended by their deep practical wisdom; and their coincidence with those salutary imitations with which nature herself seems to furnish us from the passing scenes of our existence. The literary character of the work is akin to its moral character; and the diction is as soft, elegant, and simple, as the sentiments are generous and true. The whole piece, indeed, is throughout in admirable keeping; and its beauties, though of a delicate, rather than an obtrusive character, set off each other to an attentive observer, by the skill with which they are harmonised, and the sweetness with which they slide into each other. The outline, perhaps, is often rather timidly drawn, and there is an occasional want of force and brilliancy in the colouring; which we are rather inclined to ascribe to the refined and somewhat fastidious taste of the artist, than to any defect of skill or of power. We have none of the broad and blazing tints of Scott-nor the startling contrasts of Byronnor the anxious and endlessly repeated touch of Southey-but something which comes much nearer to the soft and tender manner of Campbell; with still more reserve and caution, perhaps, and more frequent sacrifices of strong and popular effect, to an abhorrence of glaring beauties, and a disdain of vulgar resources. The work opens with a sort of epitome of its subject-and presents us with a brief abstract of man's (or at least Gentleman's) life, as marked by the four great eras of his birth -his coming of age-his marriage-and his death. This comprehensive picture, with its four compartments, is comprised in less than thirty lines.-We give the two latter scenes only. Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees "And soon again shall music swell the breeze : Vestures of Nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scatter'd round; and old and young, Known by her laugh that will not be suppress'd. Beautiful as this is, we think it much inferior to what follows; when Parental affection comes to complete the picture of Connubial bliss. The hour arrives, the moment wish'd and Gleams, and the wood sends up its harmony, fear'd; The child is born, by many a pang endear'd. He comes!-she clasps him. To her bosom press'd, Her by her smile how soon the stranger knows; How soon, by his, the glad discovery shows! As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy, What answering looks of sympathy and joy! He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard. And ever, ever to her lap he flies, When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise. Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung (That name most dear for ever on his tongue), As with soft accents round her neck he clings, And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings, How blest to feel the beatings of his heart, Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart; Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove, And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!" pp. 19, 20. This is pursued in the same strain of tenderness and beauty through all its most interesting bearings;-and then we pass to the bolder kindlings and loftier aspirations of Youth. "Then is the Age of Admiration-then Gods walks the earth, or beings more than men! Ha! then come thronging many a wild desire, And high imaginings and thoughts of fire! Then from within a voice exclaims 'Aspire!' Phantoms, that upward point, before him pass, As in the Cave athwart the Wizard's glass," &c. p. 24. We cut short this tablature, however, as well as the spirited sketches of impetuous courage and devoted love that belong to the same period, to come to the joys and duties of maturer life; which, we think, are described with still more touching and characteristic beauties. The Youth passes into this more tranquil and responsible state, of course, by Marriage; and we have great satisfaction in recurring, with our uxorious poet, to his representation of that engaging ceremony, upon which his thoughts seem to dwell with so much fondness and complacency. "Then are they blest indeed! and swift the hours 'Till her young Sisters wreathe her hair in flowers, Kindling her beauty-while, unseen, the least Twitches her robe, then runs behind the rest, "And laughing eyes and laughing voices fill He turns their thoughts to Him who made them all." pp. 34-36. "But Man is born to suffer. On the door Sickness has set her mark; and now no more Laughter within we hear, or wood-notes wild As of a mother singing to her child. All now in anguish from that room retire, Where a young cheek glows with consuming fire, And innocence breathes contagion !-all but one, But she who gave it birth !-From her alone The medicine-cup is taken. Through the night, And through the day, that with its dreary light Comes unregarded, she sits silent by, Watching the changes with her anxious eye: While they without, listening below, above, (Who but in sorrow know how much they love?) From every little noise catch hope and fear, Exchanging still, still as they turn to hear, Whispers and sighs, and smiles all tenderness! That would in vain the starting tear repress." pp. 38, 39. The scene, however, is not always purely domestic-though all its lasting enjoyments summation. His country requires the arm of are of that origin, and look back to that cona free man! and home and all its joys must be left, for the patriot battle. The sanguinary and tumultuous part is slightly touched; But the return is exquisite; nor do we know, any heartfelt beauty, than some of those we are where, any verses more touching and full of about to extract. One hangs the wall with laurel-leaves, and all Again with honour to his hearth restor'd, (The humblest servant calling by his name), -On the day destin'd for his funeral! Lo, there the Friend, who, entering where he lay, pp. 48-50. What follows is sacred to still higher remembrances. "And now once more where most he lov'd to be, Scatters her loose notes on the sultry air, "Like Hampden struggling in his country's cause, The last to brook oppression! On he moves, Went Sidney, Russel, Raleigh, Cranmer, More! * Traitor's Gate, in the Tower. + We know of nothing at once so pathetic and so sublime, as the few simple sentences here alluded to, in the account of Lord Russel's trial. Lord Russel. May I have somebody write to help my memory? Mr. Attorney General. Yes, a Servant. Lord Chief Justice. Any of your Servants shall assist you in writing any thing you please for you. Lord Russel. My Wife is here, my Lord, to do it? -When we recollect who Russel and his wife were, and what a destiny was then impending, this one trait makes the heart swell, almost to bursting. How oft from grove to grove, from seat to seat, The scene of closing Age is not less beautiful and attractive-nor less true and exemplary. ""Tis the sixth hour. The village-clock strikes from the distant tower. glows An atmosphere that brightens to the last; "At night, when all, assembling round the fire, Of merchants from Golcond or Astracan, |