developed talent, the secret virtue, the obscure excellence of the millions who die and "make no sign." And who has not strayed at sunset into the quiet precincts of a country church-yard? Who has not sought the spot where" the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep?" Who has not felt a melancholy pleasure steal upon his soul, as he has stood among the graves and received the solemn teachings of the scene, " amid the lingering light?" The spirit of such reveries, the tone and hues of such a landscape, Gray has caught and enshrined forever in verse. The thoughts which compose the Elegy are not startling and new; not a line it contains but has been traced by learned criticism to some ancient or modern source, and scarcely a word has escaped question from those microscopic commentators who rejoice to pick flaws in whatever gem of art or literature charms the world. Gray's Elegy may, indeed, absolutely possess no higher claim to the reputation it enjoys than that of being an ingenious piece of mosaic; but wherever the materials were derived, the effect of the whole is too excellent to permit us to quarrel with the details. The very cadence of the stanza is attuned to elegiac music. It floats solemnly along like the moaning of the breeze in spring, amid the cypresses and willows. The hues of the picture are subdued to the "sober livery" of twilight. Tender sentiments-a regret made sublime by the sense of beauty-a recognition of death blended with a vague feeling of its mysterious revelations-the sweet quietude of evening— sad but soothing thoughts of "passing away"-the memory of the departed-all throng upon us in every verse of the Elegy, and associate the name of the gentle student of Cambridge, with ideas of contemplative delight.

COLLIN S.

ENTHUSIASTIC men delight to place themselves in direct relation with whatever interests their minds. The merely curious are satisfied to observe, to acquaint themselves with the remarkable points of any subject. Such is the difference between knowledge and sympathy, intellect and feeling, the philosopher and the poet. The former calmly inquires, and when the truth is elicited is content; the latter earnestly contemplates, till the sentiment of his theme warms and overflows his heart. The antiquarian is delighted when a half-legible inscription is plausibly conjectured or the age of an architectural fragment defined. The more ardent explorer of ruins, finds enjoyment in summoning back the men and events that hallow the scene; in musing, amid broken columns and mossy walls, over the wonders of human destiny and the poetry of time. This spontaneous interest, this sympathetic attraction is one of the characteristics of the genuine poet. He occupies toward congenial subjects of thought the relation of a lover. He kneels to win the veneration he seeks, he pleads for sioned regard, he boldly addresses the creature of his fancy, the idea of his mind, the object of his thought, finding relief and joy in the eloquent appeal. What we call personification is the natural language of ideal and sincere minds. It is a language which it is difficult to counterfeit. No resource of the poet and orator is less

response to his impas

easy to feign. We are either borne along or repelled by an apostrophe. When a speaker or a bard adopts such language merely for effect, his failure is decisive. The imagery and tone too suddenly fall short of the opening address. When Bryant, for instance, begins his apostrophe to a waterfowl, we feel that it is no trick of art, but a genuine poetic impulse that prompts his muse. She follows the lonely bird with the instinct of a wondering interest, through the grey twilight, till the "abyss of heaven has swallowed up its form." There is no faltering or artificial effort, all is sustained and free as that solitary flight itself. We feel that the eye and mind of the poet were actually in relation with the form he invoked. Far more dangerous is the attempt to apostrophize anything abstract, without any real and deep interest in the subject. The very adoption of this form of verse presupposes that the poet's soul is filled and kindled by his subject. He manfully and earnestly confronts his theme, and if he does not succeed in placing it in a new and striking light, or throwing around it a warm colouring and expressive interest, he convicts himself of absurd presumption. The poet of true feeling, whose inspiration springs from the soul rather than mere art or taste, will naturally often resort to personification and apostrophe. Some of Byron's first passages are of this description, and a striking proof of his genius may be found in the fact that, with few exceptions, we sympathize at once with these flights. They accord with the state of feeling the poet has awakened. The address to Parnassus, to Rome, and to some of the celebrated works of art, find an echo in every bosom where meditative sentiment abides. "I cannot furbish," says Byron. "I am like the tiger, if I miss the first spring, I go growling back to my jungle."

How admirably are examples of this kind introduced in Shakspere. How perfectly are we prepared for the

Of the

Moor's apostrophe to Patience, "that young and roselipped cherubim," and Macbeth's address to the airy dagger. When feeling is wrought up to a certain point, its language is poetic. We then forget the conventional and grapple with the one overmastering idea. Such is the case in actual experience; and so the poet, when by earnest contemplation his sympathies are all enlisted in a subject, turns the whole force of his mind in that direction, expands his nature to drink in its suggestions as a flower opens to the sun and pours forth upon it the concentrated flow of thought, as a pilgrim at his long-sought shrine or a lover at the feet of his mistress. English poets whose sensibility and ardour of thought have led them successfully to personify their themes, William Collins takes a high rank. He is the acknowledged author of one of the few immortal odes of the language. His life was clouded with disappointment. He failed in obtaining a fellowship, after a promising college career; and this circumstance, together with pecuniary embarrassments, led him to quit the university for London, and embark in the precarious pursuits of literary adventure. Irresolute and visionary, he projected grand schemes which were often never seriously commenced and in no case fully realized. Some critics charge the failure of these designs wholly to the poet's indolence, without considering how difficult regular mental occupation must be to a sensitive man harassed by poverty, watched by bailiffs, and in daily anxiety for the means of subsistence. His eyes were so weak that blindness was apprehended. It was his misfortune to love in vain, and when affections such as his served "to water but the desert," the apathy he manifested in regard to his plans of research, must have been confirmed. His odes were so neglected at their first appearance, that with indignant warmth he burned the balance of the edition.

He was early separated from his immediate family, and the only relative with whom he maintained intercourse was a sister who possessed not a single trait of character in common with him, evinced no interest in his pursuits and scorned his generous impulses. When at last fortune smiled upon Collins, and the bequest of an uncle placed him above want, the brilliant faculties which had been his consolation and sustained his self-respect, began to fail. Change of scene produced no amendment, and the gifted and susceptible bard became a lunatic. His malady seems to have alternated for several years between violence and melancholy; sometimes there were lucid intervals, when he rallied his disordered powers; at others his imbecility or insane ravings terrified all about him.

In the cathedral of Chichester is a monument, by Flaxman, representing the unfortunate poet in a reclining posture, the New Testament open before him, his lyre. and one of his compositions neglected at his feet, his expression calm and benevolent, and on the pediment are carved the effigies of Love and Pity. It must be soothing to gaze upon these peaceful emblems and remember how often the adjacent cloisters have echoed with the frantic cries of one who is now slumbering so quietly. From the few facts recorded of Collins, it is evident that he was a man of keen sensibility and a glowing mind. He seems to have charmed all who knew him, and most of his intimates were men distinguished for talent. His sympathies were broad and earnest, such as win love and inspire confidence. He was the endeared companion of Thomson and Garrick, Dr. Armstrong and Hill. Even Johnson, little as he appreciated his verses, evidently felt the graces of his character. Indeed, in some of the letters of the moralist, there are expressions of tender concern in behalf of Collins which indicate the rare estimation in which he was held. The social spirit