Which come, and die-so quick-so bright- Conveys th' idea, from this its seeming, The breeze may blow, the waves may roll, That isle is centered in the soul! Nor tempest's chill can ever tear The flowers which bloom forever there. "Tis Memory! Moments there are! when we must brood O'er broken vows in solitude; Then, who does not delight to turn "A tearful eye to Friendship's urn," As, through the shades of Time, he traces A radiant halo o'er the past! And there are hours! when earth and sky When cheerless as the winter's snow Were life, did not that light still glow. For as upon the crumbling pile The moonbeams rest with sadd'ning smile 4 Of Memory. The feeling tear! the crystal gem The senses dull! the soul confined! "(Did deep Oblivion's stream surround,") That little consecrated ground, What feelings were there then to bind Our social hearts to human kind? For who would idly seek to cherish Joys that he knows must surely perish? Yet die when in that beam you've laid them, And leave no incense on the heart If there's a music can control No Memory. The softer breathings of the soul Whose magic chords have power to bare It is the deep, the moral tone, Which springs from Memory's Harp alone, As o'er the cold and icy lake The winds of Spring their pinions shake- Where they have dipp'd their wings so often; Touched by that sweet song from the land Of Memory! WILSON'S "CITY OF THE PLAGUE." ENTHUSIASM, gentle reader, is one of those subtle things which we trace by suspicion-whose presence is detected by the tinge (couleur de rose, in this case, perhaps) that dwells, more or less hidden, wherever it is found and in sooth, this particular agent of which we speak is a "delicate and most delectable monster," when it lightens up our hopes or joys, and chases the light cloud of sadness from the brilliant vista of youth's future. To those with whom this spirit dwells, there are smiles and energies of which cold philosophy has never dreamed: their hopes, fears, joys, sorrows, and aspirations-all grow under its fostering hand, till the dark and drowsy intellect becomes at once alive, as it were, and populous; and new agents and ministers" flit busily through the heart's chambers. 66 The influence of enthusiasm was never, perhaps, more manifest than in the character of Prof. Wilson; even the sports of his boyhood, or more sturdy youth, were marked by the presence of this spirit. All that was bold and daring, grand or exciting, his hungry energy sought and seized on; notorious throughout his life, as the best leaper, swimmer, and angler in the nation, he accounted for his own success by the intense love he bore these sports. Indeed, in whatever he undertook, be it prose or poetry, an act of kindness, or biting, burning sarcasm, a deer-hunt, or a flirtation with the Muses, he hurries not only himself but his readers from page to page with a thirsty and insatiable delight-an almost intoxicating eagerness, that tires not, till the failing light or the aching eye demands a pause, and you wake as from a dream. It is a universal spirit of poetry, whether with or without the form; and though he write Hogg's broad Scotch, or the opium-eater's involved English, you feel (despite his admirable mimicry) into the breath of life, and coaxed it upon the stage. Such are the thoughts with which we invariably close a perusal of Mr. Wilson's productions, and with such have we just devoured, for the twentieth time, his "City of the Plague." His mind has evidently dwelt on this loathsome and terrible picture till his faculties were filled and saturated, so to speak, with the dread scenes to which they bore witness. One almost fancies the poet's blanched cheeks and bristling hair, as he pens the hideous recital; while those who know him are ready to shrink away and close their eyes, as the curtain rises from before that mighty desolation-that "panting, delirious monster," plagued and dying London. But with that constant perception of the beautiful, which, in the poet's mind, always crowns the terrible with the sublime, the eye rests, here and there, on such sweet, sad scenes, as bow the full heart with a kindly sorrow, refreshing as the dew. The drama opens at a short distance from London, presenting two sailors, the mother of one of whom has been living there, hastening to rescue and remove her; but he comes too late! after wandering through the awful incidents of the dying, despairing city, he reaches her corpse and his little brother's, laid out, side by side, for burial. Then he and his mistress tread the same sad path, and vanish from our sight forever. There is no plot-there needed none; the picture of each day's adventures is enough. All of the horrible and hideousthe " shattering recollections" of that fiery ordeal-the pest-house, the pit, the mad-house, the revel, grinning a ghastly smile over these chilly terrors-all these and more he has reproduced with fearful power. Frankfort meets an old man with an infant in his arms, wandering away, after a "three months' sojourn in a sepulchre ;" and from him he hears the first detailed account of the pestilence-how Death's icy hand hath frozen, with a touch, The fountain of the river that made glad The city of the Isle ! Undismayed, they press forward in their filial search for a parent, through "The waveless silence of the sea of death,”— and here we lose sight of them, till they reappear in the very fullness of its terrors. A wild and savage being, with his multitude of dupes, comes next before us; shaking their inmost souls with a rude and brutal eloquence, cheating them to despair and death for the sake of gain. On this scene, as might be expected, the poet has lavished much skill and labor; and verily, if to paint this dread farce to the life-if to make his reader "hate this shadow and pity that," be the climax of tragic power, then has our author reached it. But we hasten to a scene of strange and terrible sweetness, more absorbing still. A holy stillness has fallen on the plague-stricken city: its voices of despair, though not dead, are distant; and we stand, in the solemn hush, by the dark tower of the tall cathedral, and gaze upon the tombstones that watch so silent 'mid the gilded twilight. Two mourners count their sorrows in a dark corner, till a hymn of unutterable melody fills the air-then dismay; and the striving ear catches the silvery murmured prayer of tried yet trusting innocence Oh let me walk the waves of the wide world Through faith unsinking-stretch thy saving hand Who hopes no resting place, except in heaven, That sky so glorious in infinitude— That countless host of softly burning stars, And all that floating universe of light, Lift up my spirit far beyond the grave, And tell me that my prayers are heard in heaven! Has it ever been your fortune, reader, while paralized by some stunning sorrow, unable to think or speak correctly-your spirit blighted by the dread misfortune-has it ever chanced to you at such a moment, to gaze at green hill and dell sleeping in quiet sunshine, while gentle breezes fanned sympathizingly your burning cheek? If so, you must have found that the feeling of punishment and wrath that always accompanies grievous misfortune, and that had rested like an incubus upon you, was suddenly gone-there was a look of love in Nature's smiling face that disarmed despair, and reconciled you even to this new privation, and to life. So did sweet Magdalene restore her trust in the Deity, though the Plague stayed not-and she had her reward: the murderer who had followed her for her gold, melts to deep penitence beside the altar, and asks her prayers; her innocence clothed her not only in triple mail-'twas the sword and shield of victory! A few negotiations, and we must drop the curtain; and the first is a brief picture of the Plague in Scotland. The morning smiled on—but nae kirk-bell was ringing, With what a lonesome sadness do these words weigh down the spirit, like the lake's cold ripple in a misty winter's morning! Indeed, all is sad here, that is not terrible-one looks in vain for joy or triumph here, except in mad revels or wild delirium; but the tone varies (to continue the figure) from the sullen plunge of stricken vice, to the gentle sigh of sobbing girlhood. When Frankfort, having heard of bis mother's death, is about to enter the room where she lies, awaiting his last farewell, he says to the kind old priest who has watched her last sigh and guides him to her : I go into her chamber-fear me not; And with suspended breath, will reach her bed; This is the effort of frantic sorrow to restrain itself to urge a calm solemnity on its threshold violence-how tender and affectionate! It is in these subduing, life-like exhibitions of nature in her hours of trial, that Wilson excels; but where, in transition from one such crisis to another, the language, from the absence of incident, should become calm and natural, his power fails him, and one feels uneasy at the defective representation of still life-the energy that bears him through tragic scenes and great occasions exaggerates and distorts the more trivial : : yet surely, we may forgive the fault that leads to such happy effect and beautiful poetry as that which we have just been considering. A further analysis of his works would be a pleasure indeed, and holds out a strong inducement to longer lingering in this land of sad reverie; but we must reserve this luxury for another occasion, when we hope to "cull fresh flowers" from his shorter though not less delightful poems. TENDENCIES IN GOVERNMENT. NATIONS in the days of their prosperity expect to last forever. From the time when ancient bards first tuned their voices in unison with roughly fashioned lyres, and, by the still waters of the rivers of the East, poured forth their evening song of thanksgiving to their country's gods; or at crowded festivals sang praises to the heroes of the land, down to this very present hour,- -a Government which should know no change of name or form has ever been the idol of a nation's hopes, the crowning point of its ambition. But the nations of those times-where are they now? Alas for hopes scarcely did they outlive the bards, who sang that they should never die. A few short pages of often doubtful history-perchance a |