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Doubtless there is more or less truth in these and a thousand other similar phrases of Young; but let it be remembered, that they are not the whole truth; and if they were, the truth is not to be spoken at all times. If the courteous and Christian, though worldly-minded doctor, had imbibed a more cheerful theology; if he had walked less in grave-yards and more among his fellowcreatures; if an expansive benevolence and a sunny temper had made him more alive to the good, the beautiful and the true, he would have suffered some misgivings, in thus libelling this poor world, and exaggerating the trials of life. Instead of lamenting our "short correspondence with the sun," he would have rejoiced in its beams while he could. Instead of declaring the "clime of human life inclement," he would have done his best to warm it with the glow of social sympathy and cheerful gratitude. Instead of finding "human happiness" a "sad sight," he would have been exhilarated at its presence, however transient; and felt thankful, that, with all their troubles, it is still given to frail mortals,

"To drink the golden spirit of the day,

And triumph in existence."

Young's command of language is remarkable, and many of his comparisons ingenious. We are surprised to encounter in the midst of some of his loftiest flights, an image borrowed from familiar and common life. Perhaps it is this mingling of the well-known and the lofty, that makes him a favourite with a certain class of readers. To this attraction must be added his evangelical character and the religious tone he assumes, which invest his poems with no little authority, in the view of those who profess similar tenets. But while in justice we allow him occasional felicity and impressiveness of thought and grandeur of style, we cannot but agree with Dr. Johnson, that it is very difficult to assign any general

character to him as a poet. He has no fair claim to be considered emphatically the minstrel of the tomb, or the The mournful aspects of human life and

bard of sorrow.

destiny can be set forth in a far nobler manner. Around the memories of the departed, poetry has scattered far richer flowers than can be found in the Night Thoughts. The sorrows of humanity have been sung in sweeter strains. Lessons of courage and hope, emotions of patient tenderness, sentiments of magnanimity and trust have been inspired, when bards of more simplicity and love have struck the lyre. Poetry can make even the thought of death beautiful, and the sadness of bereavement not without a certain pleasure. Great poets have elicited from the sternest suffering, a principle of enjoyment. Sublime faith and earnest love can conjure spirits the most lovely from the darkest abyss. By exhibiting human energy in conflict with adversity, by giving free scope to the eloquence of sorrow, by invoking the spirit of hope, the muse often weaves a rainbow over the valley of tears. Who pities Hamlet? Who does not recognize a profound interest in the workings of his delicate soul, surpassing and illuming the darkness of his lot? Who is not soothed instead of saddened by true elegiac poetry-the tender strams, for instance, of such a bard as Hervey? Night, even to the mourner, brings not, ever or often, such unalloyed bitterness as Young portrays. To Schiller and Thomson it was the brightest season. To the genuine poetical soul its silence and shadows, its moaning breeze and countless stars, its mystery and beautiful repose, bring a solemn happiness. We may, indeed, then "keep assignation with our woe;" but in such peaceful and lovely hours, how often does anguish melt in tears and wild grief become sad musing! How often by some invisible influence, do we grow reconciled and hopeful' How often do " stars look down as they were

angel's eyes!" Many of the sentiments, and most of the spirit of Young's Night Thoughts, is false to the true inspiration and the holy effulgence of that sacred season. To one of our own poets it has spoken in a higher and more blessed strain. He makes us feel that there are "Voices of the Night" which cheer, elevate, and console: O holy night! from thee I learn to bear

What man has borne before!

Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more.

O, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died.

The star of the unconquered will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,
And calm, and self-possessed.

O fear not, in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know, how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.

ALFIERI.

PERHAPS there is no character in modern literary history who so strikingly illustrates the power of will as Victor Alfieri. Irresolution is one of the most common infirmities of poetic genius. In practical pursuits firmness of purpose is so essential to success that the want of it very soon leads to fatal consequences. Intellectual effort, on the contrary, is so much more dependant for its power and felicity upon peculiar moods of feeling and combinations of circumstances, that we scarcely expect a continuous regularity in its exercise. Hence we speak of a writer's happy moments, of being in the vein for a particular subject, and of the ebb and flow of that mysterious tide of inspiration which bears into light the creations of thought. Imaginative men are confessedly more variable, capricious, and undeterminate than others. Their memoirs usually exhibit the utmost want of method and continuity as regards the time and progress of their labours. Individuals of strong sense and calm temperament can discern no law governing the mental existence of poetical beings. There is so much that is apparently wayward and disorderly in the application of their gifts, that ill success in life is proverbially their lot, and common prejudice deems all genius erratic. Probably no single fact relative to Scott has excited greater surprise than his habitual and regular industry. Social and local influences, personal circumstances, the state of the health,

and even of the weather-and far more, the mood of mind, are supposed to absolve poets from the obligation of firmness. Victor Alfieri demonstrated the immense efficacy of this single quality. We are almost tempted, as we contemplate his career, to rank powerful volition with genius itself. For by virtue of his force of purpose he overcame the formidable obstacles of a most unpropitious education, long habits of indulgence and an undisciplined mind. Upon the most unpromising basis he reared a splendid intellectual fabric. Amid the most enervating influences he displayed extraordinary strength. With scarcely any external encouragement he wrought out in his own nature a stupendous revolution. His example is a most eloquent appeal in favour of human versatility. Disposition, habit, the want of knowledge, he conquered by moral determination. As Napoleon cut the Simplon through the rocks and snow of the Alps, Alfieri shaped his lonely way to the temple of fame over mountains of difficulty and amid the barren wastes of ignorance. This strength of purpose did not appear in his childhood except in one or two instances of juvenile obstinacy, by no means rare at that age. Another characteristic, perhaps inseparable from great decision, was much more manifest. From his earliest years it is evident he felt profoundly. Mortification of any kind sank deeply into his soul. The novices who officiated at church won his young affections, though he only beheld them in attendance at the altar. In that spontaneous and almost ideal love, we recognise the germs of the passion that in after life fired his heart. There is a vividness in his reminiscences of infancy which proves that his very earliest experience was intense.

Alfieri complains that he was born in an amphibious country. And certainly there is no section of Italy where the national characteristics are more invaded than

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