evidently at work in the very rush of emotion. The poet has discovered that he cannot hope

"from outward forms to win

The passion and the life, whose fountains are within." A new sentiment, the most solemn that visits the breast of humanity, is aroused by this reflective process-the sentiment of duty. Upon the sunny landscape of youth falls the twilight of thought. A conviction has entered the bosom of the minstrel that he is not free to wander at will to the sound of his own music. His life cannot be a mere revel in the embrace of beauty. He too is a man, born to suffer and to act. He cannot throw off the responsibility of life. He must sustain relations to his fellows. The scenery that delights him assumes a new aspect. It appeals not only to his love of nature, but his sense of patriotism:

O divine

And beauteous island! thou hast been my sole
And most magnificent temple, in the which
I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs,
Loving the God that made me !

More tender ties bind the poet-soul to his native isle—

A pledge of more than passing life

Yea, in the very name of wife.

Then was. I thrilled and melted, and most warm
Impressed a father's kiss.

Thus gather the many-tinted hues of human destiny around the life of the young bard. To a mind of philosophical cast, the transition is most interesting. It is the distinguishing merit of Coleridge, that in his verse we find these epochs warmly chronicled. Most just is his vindication of himself from the charge of egotism. To what end are beings peculiarly sensitive, and capable of rare expression, sent into the world, if not to make us feel the mysteries of our nature, by faithful delineations,

It is the lot, not

drawn from their own consciousness? of the individual, but of man in general, to feel the sublimity of the mountain-the loveliness of the flower-the awe of devotion-and the ecstacy of love; and we should bless those who truly set forth the traits and triumphs of our nature—the consolations and anguish of our human life. We are thus assured of the universality of Nature's laws of the sympathy of all genuine hearts. Something of a new dignity invests the existence, whose common experience is susceptible of such portraiture. In the keen regrets, the vivid enjoyments, the agonizing remorse and the glowing aspirations recorded by the poet, we find the truest reflection of our own souls. There is a nobleness in the lineaments thus displayed, which we can scarcely trace in the bustle and strife of the world. Selfrespect is nourished by such poetry, and the hope of immortality rekindled at the inmost shrine of the heart. Of recent poets, Coleridge has chiefly added to such obligations. He has directed our gaze to Mont Blanc as to an everlasting altar of praise; and kindled a perennial flame of devotion amid the snows of its cloudy summit. He has made the icy pillars of the Alps ring with solemn anthems. The pilgrim to the Vale of Chamouni shall not hereafter want a Hymn, by which his admiring soul may" wreak" itself upon expression."

Rise, O, ever rise,

Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth!
Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven,
Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,

Earth, and her thousand voices praises God.

To one other want of the heart has the muse of Coleridge given genuine expression. Fashion, selfishness, and the mercenary spirit of the age, have widely and

deeply profaned the very name of Love. To poetry it flies as to an ark of safety. The English bard has set apart and consecrated a spot sacred to its meditationmidway on the mount,'' beside the ruined tower;' and thither may we repair to cool the eye fevered with the glare of art, by gazing on the fresh verdure of nature, when

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene

Has blended with the lights of eve,
And she is there, our hope, our joy,
Our own dear Genevieve.

KEATS.

A FEELING has gone abroad prejudicial to the manliness of Keats. Such an idea in relation to any one who has given undoubted proof of intellectual vigour, should never be confidently entertained. Strong sense generally accompanies strong feeling; and it may be fairly presumed that when a man of true force of character is chargeable with great weakness, it is usually to be ascribed more to physical and accidental causes than to any inherent and absolute defect. The whole environment of circum- . stances must be weighed in the balance with the genuine characteristics of the individual, before we can truly pronounce on the case. Keats was a man of a most affluent imagination, sensitive feelings, and high aims; but he was born at a livery stable; his constitution was radically feeble, and his affections grievously disappointed. Considering what a world we live in, and the traits of our common nature, this was a painful combination. Almost every young man cherishes an idea which he confidently expects to realize. A poetical mind unites with such hopes a singular intensity of purpose; failure is accordingly the signal for despair. It is not in moral. enterprises as in trade. When the hopes of the heart are bankrupt, renovation is not easy; they are too often all risked upon one adventure, and when that miscarries, iron nerves and an indomitable will are required to stand the shock. The cherished aim of Keats was doubtless to

retrieve his social condition by the force of his genius. There was nothing presumptuous in such an anticipation. He had evinced more of the divine afflatus' than many English poets of good reputation, and his powers were by no means fully ripe. He had an exuberance of fancy truly wonderful-the independence to choose his own path, and an honest ambition to win the laurel which he felt was within his grasp. He published his first volume at the age of twenty-one. His political opinions and those of his associates, drew upon his literary efforts the most severe vituperation; and when Endymion appeared in 1818, it was furiously assailed by the great critical authority of the day. Gifford declared his intention of attacking it, even before its appearanee. The lowly birth of the poet, the character of his friends, and the humble nature of his early education, were turned into arrows, dipped in gall, to rankle in his sensitive heart. The courtesies of private life were invaded, and the grossest calumnies resorted to, in order to carry out the system of abuse then prevalent. With good health and a reasonable prospect of continued existence, Keats could have faced the storm. He could have lived down opprobrium, and awed a venal press by the shadow of his mature genius. But feeling that the seeds of death were already within him, and having striven in vain

'to úprear

Love's standard on the battlements of song,'

be no longer hoped to leave his name upon the harpstring.' He felt that he must pass away unvindicated. The criticism to which his death is commonly ascribed, was but the last of a series of painful experience. It is very unjust to select one, and that the least dignified of his trials, and represent him as thus unworthily vanquished. It was "in battalions" and not singly, that trouble overpowered him. It was physical infirmity rather than