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JOHN WILSON.

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PROFESSOR WILSON, the North" of Blackwood, and altogether one of the most remarkable men of our age, was born at Paisley, in Scotland, in May, 1789. On completing his preparatory studies at Glasgow, he entered Magdalen College, Oxford, where he soon distinguished himself, and obtained the prize for English poetry against a numerous and powerful competition. His education finished, he purchased a beautiful estate on the borders of the Winandermere, where he resided until called to the chair of Moral Philosophy, in the University of Edinburgh, in 1820.

Christopher | reputation, however, rests less upon these works than upon his contributions to Blackwood's Magazine, of which he has been editor from nearly its commencement. His critical and miscellaneous essays in Blackwood have recently been collected and published by Carey and Hart, who have likewise issued an edition of that most remarkable series of papers that ever appeared in any periodical, The Noctes Ambrosianæ. It is difficult to describe these Noctes. They exhibit a genius the most versatile in English literature. More than any thing else they gave the magazine its deserved reputation as the first of its class in the world. It is almost unnecessary to say, since they have been so universally read, that The Noctes Ambrosianæ purport to be dialogues between Christopher North (Professor WILSON,) The Shepherd (JAMES HOGG,) Sir Morgan O'Doherty (the late Dr. MAGINN,) and other persons, on subjects of popular interest in the months preceding the publication of the respective numbers; that they abound in masterly criticism and striking portraitures of character; that they are full of the richest humour, the keenest wit, the most biting sarcasm, the deepest pathos, and the most profound philosophy; amusing by a playful dalliance, and commanding attention by high reflections on life and death, the terrors of conscience and the hope of immortality.

He had already established on a firm basis his reputation as a poet, by the publication of The Isle of Palms, written in his eighteenth year, and a work of still higher merit, The City of the Plague, which appeared in 1816. The Isle of Palms is the story of two lovers, wrecked on an island of the Indian seas, where they remain seven years, at the end of which time they are discovered and carried home to England. It is full of splendid descriptions of nature and of feeling. The City of the Plague is founded on the history of the great plague in London. It is referred to by LORD BYRON in the preface to The Doge of Venice, as one of the very few evidences that dramatic power was not then extinct in England. Without a doubt it is the best of WILSox's poems, and one of the first productions of the sort which the century has furnished.

WILSON is most successful as a descriptive poet. His fancy is somewhat too exuberant, his metaphors too profuse: but they are from life and nature, and not from the elder bards. He has great delicacy of sentiment, and some of his delineations of character are not surpassed in English poetry. His morality is never hesitating or questionable. In all his works there is no sentiment of doubtful application.

Since his election to the Professorship of Philosophy, WILSON has written little poetry, but in his prose tales, The trials of Margaret Lindsay, The Foresters, and the admirable Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life, he has shown the genius of which in an earlier period his poetical writings gave assurance.

His

The works of Professor WILSON reflect the man. His colloquial powers are very great, and he talks as he writes with a hearty sincerity and originality that command respect and admiration. He has a sound heart, and a body, like his mind, of manly proportions, robust, and powerful. Few are more fond of the sports of the field, of the rod and the gun, or use them with more skill. The mountains and lakes of Scotland are as familiar to his eye as is his own estate on the Winandermere. He still fills the chair of Philosophy at Edinburgh, and from all that I have read, or learned in conversation with those who know him, he is about as fine a specimen of a man as the times can furnish, all the severe things he has said of our country to the contrary notwithstanding.

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TO A SLEEPING CHILD.

ART thou a thing of mortal birth, Whose happy home is on our earth? Does human blood with life embue Those wandering veins of heavenly blue, That stray along thy forehead fair, Lost mid a gleam of golden hair? Oh! can that light and airy breath Steal from a being doom'd to death; Those features to the grave be sent In sleep thus mutely eloquent;

Or, art thou, what thy form would seem,
A phantom of a blessed dream?

A human shape I feel thou art,
I feel it at my beating heart,
Those tremors both of soul and sense
Awoke by infant innocence !
Though dear the forms by fancy wove,
We love them with a transient love,
Thoughts from the living world intrud
Even on her deepest solitude:
But, lovely child! thy magic stole
At once into my inmost soul,
With feelings as thy beauty fair,
And left no other vision there.

To me thy parents are unknown;
Glad would they be their child to own!
And well they must have loved before,
If since thy birth they loved not more.
Thou art a branch of noble stem,
And, seeing thee, I figure them.
What many a childless one would give,
If thou in their still home wouldst live!
Though in thy face no family line
Might sweetly say, "This babe is mine!"
In time thou wouldst become the same
As their own child,-all but the name!
How happy must thy parents be
Who daily live in sight of thee!
Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek
Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak,
And feel all natural griefs beguiled
By thee, their fond, their duteous child.
What joy must in their souls have stirr'd
When thy first broken words were heard,
Words, that, inspired by heaven, express'd
The transports dancing in thy breast!
And for thy smile!-thy lip, cheek, brow,
Even while I gaze, are kindling now.

I call'd thee duteous; am I wrong?
No! truth, I feel, is in my song:
Duteous thy heart's still beatings move
To God, to nature, and to love!
To God!-for thou a harmless child
Has kept his temple undefiled:
To nature-for thy tears and sighs
Obey alone her mysteries:

To love!-for fiends of hate might see
Thou dwell'st in love, and love in thee!
What wonder then, though in thy dreams
Thy face with mystic meaning beams!

Oh! that my spirit's eye could see Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy : That light of dreaming soul appears

To play from thoughts above thy years.
Thou smilest as if thy soul were soaring
To heaven, and heaven's God adoring!
And who can tell what visions high
May bless an infant's sleeping eye?
What brighter throne can brightness find
To reign on than an infant's mind,
Ere sin destroy, or error dim,
The glory of the seraphim?

But now thy changing smiles express
Intelligible happiness.

I feel my soul thy soul partake.

What grief! if thou shouldst now awake!
With infants happy as thyself

I see thee bound, a playful elf:
I see thou art a darling child
Among thy playmates, bold and wild.
They love thee well; thou art the queen
Of all their sports, in bower or green;
And if thou livest to woman's height,
In thee will friendship, love, delight.

And live thou surely must; thy life
Is far too spiritual for the strife
Of mortal pain, nor could disease
Find heart to prey on smiles like these.
Oh! thou wilt be an angel bright!
To those thou lovest, a saving light!
The staff of age, the help sublime
Of erring youth, and stubborn prime;
And when thou goest to heaven again,
Thy vanishing be like the strain
Of airy harp, so soft the tone
The ear scarce knows when it is gone!

Thrice blessed he! whose stars design
His spirit pure to lean on thine;
And watchful share, for days and years,
Thy sorrows, joys, sighs, smiles, and tears!
For good and guiltless as thou art,
Some transient griefs will touch thy heart,
Griefs that along thy alter'd face
Will breathe a more subduing grace,
Than even those looks of joy that lie
On the soft cheek of infancy.

Though looks, God knows, are cradled there,
That guilt might cleanse, or sooth despair.
Oh! vision fair! that I could be
Again, as young, as pure as thee!
Vain wish the rainbow's radiant form
May view, but cannot brave the storm;
Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes
That paint the bird of paradise,
And years, so fate hath order'd, roll
Clouds o'er the summer of the soul.
Yet, sometimes, sudden sights of grace,
Such as the gladness of thy face,
O sinless babe! by God are given
To charm the wanderer back to heaven.
No common impulse hath me led
To this green spot, thy quiet bed,
Where, by mere gladness overcome,
In sleep thou dreamest of thy home.
When to the lake I would have gone,
A wondrous beauty drew me on,
Such beauty as the spirit sees
In glittering fields, and moveless trees,

After a warm and silent shower, Ere falls on earth the twilight hour. What led me hither, all can say, Who, knowing God, his will obey.

Thy slumbers now cannot be long :
Thy little dreams become too strong
For sleep-too like realities:

Soon shall I see those hidden eyes!
Thou wakest, and, starting from the ground,
In dear amazement look'st around;
Like one who, little given to roam,
Wonders to find herself from home!
But when a stranger meets thy view,
Glistens thine eye with wilder hue.
A moment's thought who I may be,
Blends with thy smiles of courtesy.

Fair was that face as break of dawn,
When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn,
Like a thin veil that half-conceal'd
The light of soul, and half-reveal'd.
While thy hush'd heart with visions wrought,
Each trembling eye-lash moved with thought,
And things we dream, but ne'er can speak,
Like clouds came floating o'er thy cheek,
Such summer-clouds as travel light,
When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright;
Till thou awokest,-then to thine eye
Thy whole heart leapt in ecstasy!

And lovely is that heart of thine,
Or sure these eyes could never shine
With such a wild, yet bashful glee,
Gay, half-o'ercome timidity!
Nature has breathed into thy face
A spirit of unconscious grace;

A spirit that lies never still,

And makes thee joyous 'gainst thy will.
As, sometimes o'er a sleeping lake
Soft airs a gentle rippling make,
Till, ere we know, the strangers fly,
And water blends again with sky.

O happy sprite! didst thou but know
What pleasures through my being flow
From thy soft eyes! a holier feeling
From their blue light could ne'er be stealing;
But thou wouldst be more loth to part,
And give me more of that glad heart!
Oh! gone thou art! and bearest hence
The glory of thy innocence.

But with deep joy I breathe the air
That kiss'd thy cheek, and fann'd thy hair,
And feel, though fate our lives must sever,
Yet shall thy image live for ever!

THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE.

WITH laughter swimming in thine eye, That told youth's heartfelt revelry! And motion changeful as the wing Of swallow waken'd by the spring; With accents blithe as voice of May, Chanting glad nature's roundelay; Circled by joy like planet bright That smiles mid wreaths of dewy light,Thy image such, in former time, When thou, just entering on thy prime,

And woman's sense in thee combined Gently with childhood's simplest mind, First taught'st my sighing soul to move With hope towards the heaven of love!

Now years have given my Mary's face A thoughtful and a quiet grace ;— Though happy still-yet chance distress Hath left a pensive loveliness!

Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams,

And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams!
Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild,
Shower blessings on a darling child;
Thy motion slow, and soft thy tread,
As if round thy hush'd infant's bed!
And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone,
That tells thy heart is all my own.
Sounds sweeter, from the lapse of years,
With the wife's love, the mother's fears!

By thy glad youth, and tranquil prime
Assured, I smile at hoary time!
For thou art doom'd in age to know
The calm that wisdom steals from wo;
The holy pride of high intent,
The glory of a life well spent.
When earth's affections nearly o'er
With peace behind, and faith before,
Thou renderest up again to God,
Untarnish'd by its frail abode,

Thy lustrous soul,-then harp and hymn,
From bands of sister seraphim,
Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye
Open in immortality!

THE HUNTER.

HIGH life of a hunter!-he meets, on the hill, The new-waken'd daylight, so bright and so still; And feels, as the clouds of the morning unroll, The silence, the splendour, ennoble his soul! "Tis his on the mountains to stalk like a ghost, Enshrouded in mist, in which nature is lost; Till he lifts up his eyes, and flood, valley, and height, In one moment, all swim in an ocean of light,While the sun, like a glorious banner unfurl'd, Seems to wave o'er a new, more magnificent world! "Tis his, by the mouth of some cavern his seat, The lightning of heaven to see at his feet,While the thunder below him, that growls from the cloud,

To him comes in echo more awfully loud.
When the clear depth of noontide, with glittering
motion,

O'erflows the lone glens--an aërial ocean,—
When the earth and the heavens, in union profound,
Lie blended in beauty that knows not a sound,-
As his eyes in the sunshiny solitude close,
Neath a rock of the desert in dreaming repose,—
He sees in his slumbers such visions of old
As wild Gaelic songs to his infancy told;
O'er the mountains a thousand plumed hunters are
borne,-

And he starts from his dream, at the blast of the horn!

SIGNS OF THE PLAGUE.

WHY does the finger,

Yellow mid the sunshine, on the minster-clock,
Point at that hour? It is most horrible,
Speaking of midnight in the face of day.
During the very dead of night it stopp'd,
Even at the moment when a hundred hearts
Paused with it suddenly, to beat no more.
Yet, wherefore should it run its idle round?
There is no need that men should count the hours
Of time, thus standing on eternity.
It is a death-like image. How can I,
When round me silent nature speaks of death
Withstand such monitory impulses ?
When yet far off I thought upon the plague,
Sometimes my mother's image struck my soul,
In unchanged meekness and serenity,
And all my fears were gone. But these green banks,
With an unwonted flush of flowers o'ergrown,
Brown, when I left them last, with frequent feet
From morn till evening hurrying to and fro,
In mournful beauty seem encompassing
A still forsaken city of the dead.

O unrejoicing Sabbath! not of yore
Did thy sweet evenings die along the Thames
Thus silently! Now every sail is furl'd,
The oar hath dropt from out the rower's hand,
And on thou flowest in lifeless majesty,
River of a desert lately fill'd with joy!
O'er all that mighty wilderness of stone
The air is clear and cloudless, as at sea
Above the gliding ship. All fires are dead,
And not one single wreath of smoke ascends
Above the stillness of the towers and spires.
How idly hangs that arch magnificent
Across the idle river! Not a speck

Is seen to move along it. There it hangs,
Still as a rainbow in the pathless sky,

THE PLAGUE IN THE CITY.

KNOW what ye ye will meet with in the city? Together will ye walk through long, long streets, All standing silent as a midnight church. You will hear nothing but the brown red grass Rustling beneath your feet; the very beating Of your own hearts will awe you; the small voice Of that vain bauble, idly counting time, Will speak a solemn language in the desert. Look up to heaven, and there the sultry clouds, Still threatening thunder, lower with grim delight, As if the spirit of the plague dwelt there, Darkening the city with the shades of death. Know ye that hideous hubbub? Hark, far off A tumult like an echo! on it comes, Weeping and wailing, shrieks and groaning pray'r, And, louder than all, outrageous blasphemy. The passing storm hath left the silent streets, But are these houses near you tenantless? Over your heads from a window, suddenly A ghastly face is thrust, and yells of death With voice not human. Who is he that flies, As if a demon dogg'd him on his path?

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With ragged hair, white face, and bloodshot eyes,
Raving, he rushes past you; till he falls,
As if struck by lighting, down upon the stones,
Or, in blind madness, dash'd against the wall,
Sinks backward into stillness. Stand aloof,
And let the pest's triumphal chariot
Have open way advancing to the tomb,
See how he mocks the pomp and pageantry
Of earthly kings! a miserable cart,
Heap'd up with human bodies; dragg'd along
By pale steeds, skeleton-anatomies!
And onwards urged by a wan, meager wretch,
Doom'd never to return from the foul pit,
Whither, with oaths, he drives his load of horror.
Would you look in? Gray hairs and golden tresses,
Wan shrivell'd cheeks, that have not smiled for years,
And many a rosy visage smiling still;
Bodies in the noisome weeds of beggary wrapt,
With age decrepit, and wasted to the bone;
And youthful frames, august and beautiful,
In spite of mortal pangs-there lie they all,
Embraced in ghastliness! But look not long,
For happily mid the faces glimmering there,
The well-known cheek of some beloved friend
Will meet thy gaze, or some small snow-white hand,
Bright with the ring that holds her lover's hair.

THE SHIP.

AND lo! upon the murmuring waves
A glorious shape appearing!
A broad-wing'd vessel, through the shower
Of glimmering lustre steering!
As if the beauteous ship enjoy'd
The beauty of the sea,
She lifteth up her stately head
And saileth joyfully.
A lovely path before her lies,
A lovely path behind;

She sails amidst the loveliness

Like a thing with heart and mind. Fit pilgrim through a scene so fair, Slowly she beareth on;

A glorious phantom of the deep,

Risen up to meet the moon.

The moon bids her tenderest radiance fall

On her wavy streamer and snow-white wings, And the quiet voice of the rocking sea

To cheer the gliding vision sings. Oh! ne'er did sky and water blend In such a holy sleep,

Or bathe in brighter quietude

A roamer of the deep.

So far the peaceful soul of heaven
Hath settled on the sea,

It seems as if this weight of calm
Were from eternity.

O world of waters! the steadfast earth
Ne'er lay entranced like thee!
Is she a vision wild and bright,
That sails amid the still moonlight
At the dreaming soul's command ?
A vessel borne by magic gales,
All rigg'd with gossamery sails,
And bound for fairy-land?

Ah, no!-an earthly freight she bears,
Of joys and sorrows, hopes and fears;
And lonely as she seems to be,

Thus left by herself on the moonlight sea
In loneliness that rolls,

She hath a constant company,
In sleep, or waking revelry,

Five hundred human souls!
Since first she sail'd from fair England,
Three moons her path have cheer'd:
And another lights her lovelier lamp

Since the Cape hath disappear'd.
For an Indian isle she shapes her way
With constant mind both night and day:
She seems to hold her home in view
And sails, as if the path she knew;
So calm and stately is her motion
Across the unfathom'd trackless ocean.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A LONELY BURIAL GROUND ON THE NORTHERN COAST OF THE HIGHLANDS.

How mournfully this burial ground
Sleeps mid old Ocean's solemn sound,
Who rolls his bright and sunny waves
All round these deaf and silent graves!
The cold wan light that glimmers here,
The sickly wild-flowers may not cheer;
If here, with solitary hum,

The wandering mountain-bee doth come,
Mid the pale blossoms short his stay,
To brighter leaves he booms away.
The sea-bird, with a wailing sound,
Alighteth softly on a mound,
And, like an image, sitting there
For hours amid the doleful air,
Seemeth to tell of some dim union,
Some wild and mystical communion,
Connecting with his parent sea
This lonesome, stoneless ceme'try.

This may not be the burial-place
Of some extinguish'd kingly race,
Whose name on earth no longer known
Hath moulder'd with the mouldering stone.
That nearest grave, yet brown with mould,
Seems but one summer-twilight old;
Both late and frequent hath the bier
Been on its mournful visit here,
And yon green spot of sunny rest
Is waiting for its destined guest.
I see no little kirk-no bell

On Sabbath tinkleth through this dell,
How beautiful those graves and fair,
That, lying round the house of prayer,
Sleep in the shadow of its grace!

But death has chosen this rueful place

For his own undivided reign!
And nothing tells that e'er again
The sleepers will forsake their bed-
Now, and for everlasting dead,
For hope with memory seems fled!
Wild-screaming bird! unto the sea
Winging thy flight reluctantly,
Slow-floating o'er these grassy tombs,

So ghost-like, with thy snow-white plumes,
At once from thy wild shriek I know
What means this place so steep'd in wo!
Here, they who perish'd on the deep
Enjoy at last unrocking sleep,
For ocean, from this wrathful breast,
Flung them into this haven of rest,
Where shroudless, coffinless, they lie,-
'Tis the shipwreck'd seaman's cemet'ry.

Here seamen old, with grizzled locks,
Shipwreck'd before on desert rocks,
And by some wandering vessel taken
From sorrows that seem God-forsaken,
Home bound, here have met the blast
That wreck'd them on death's shore at last!
Old friendless men, who had no tears
To shed, nor any place for fears
In hearts by misery fortified,-
And, without terror, sternly died.
Here, many a creature, moving bright
And glorious in full manhood's might,
Who dared with an untroubled eye
The tempest brooding in the sky,
And loved to hear that music rave,
And danced above the mountain-wave,
Hath quaked on this terrific strand,-
All flung like sea-weeds to the land;
A whole crew lying side by side,
Death-dash'd at once in all their pride.
And here, the bright-hair'd, fair-faced boy,
Who took with him all earthly joy
From one who weeps both night and day
For her sweet son borne far away,
Escaped at last the cruel deep,
In all his beauty lies asleep;

While she would yield all hopes of grace
For one kiss of his pale, cold face!

Oh, I could wail in lonely fear,
For many a woful ghost sits here,
All weeping with their fixed eyes!
And what a dismal sound of sighs
Is mingling with the gentle roar
Of small waves breaking on the shore;
While ocean seems to sport and play
In mockery of its wretched prey!

And lo! a white-wing'd vessel sails
In sunshine, gathering all the gales
Fast-freshening from yon isle of pines,
That o'er the clear sea waves and shines.
I turn me to the ghostly crowd,
All smear'd with dust, without a shroud,
And silent every blue-swollen lip!
Then gazing on the sunny ship,
And listening to the gladsome cheers
Of all her thoughtless mariners,

I seem to hear in every breath
The hollow under-tones of death,
Who, all unheard by those who sing,
Keeps tune with low wild murmuring,
And points with his lean, bony hand
To the pale ghosts sitting on this strand,
Then dives beneath the rushing prow,
Till on some moonless night of wo
He drives her shivering from the steep
Down-down a thousand fathoms deep.

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