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the boldest fictions of the poet, much more may it be expected in his delineations of life; for the present life, which is the first stage of the immortal mind, abounds in the materials of poetry, and it is the high office of the bard to detect this divine element among the grosser labours and pleasures of our earthly being. The present life is not wholly prosaic, precise, tame, and finite. To the gifted eye, it abounds in the poetic. The affections which stretch far into futurity— the workings of mighty passions, which seem to arm the soul with an almost superhuman energy-the innocent and irrepressible joy of infancy-the bloom, and buoyancy, and dazzling hopes of youth-the throbbings of the heart, when it first wakes to love, and dreams of a happiness too vast for earth-woman, with her beauty, and grace, and gentleness, and fulness of feeling, and depth of affection, and her blushes of purity, and the tones and looks which only a mother's heart can inspire,-these are all poetical. It is not true that the poet paints a life which does not exist. He only extracts and concentrates, as it were, life's ethereal essence, arrests and condenses its volatile fragance, brings together its scattered beauties, and prolongs its more refined but evanescent joys: and in this he does well; for it is good to feel that life is not wholly usurped by cares for subsistence, and physical gratifications, but admits, in measures which may be indefinitely enlarged, sentiments and delights worthy of a higher being. This power of poetry to refine our views of life and happiness, is more and more needed as society advances. It is needed to withstand the encroachments of heartless and artificial manners, which make civilization so tame and uninteresting. It is needed to counteract the tendency of physical science, which being now sought, not as formerly for intellectual gratification, but for multiplying bodily comforts, requires a new development of imagination, taste, and poetry, to preserve men from sinking into an earthly, material, epicurean life.
THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.
A WELL there is in the west country,
An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,
A traveller came to the well of St. Keyne-
For from cock-crow he had been travelling,
He drank of the water so cool and clear,
And he sat down upon the bank
Under the willow-tree.
There came a man from the neighbouring town,
At the well to fill his pail;
On the well-side he rested it,
And he bade the stranger—hail!
"Now art thou a bachelor, Stranger?" quoth he, "For, an' if thou hast a wife,
The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day
Or, has thy good woman, if one thou hast,
For, an' if she have, I'll venture my life
She has drunk of the well of St. Keyne."
I have left a good woman who never was here,"
"But that my draught should be better for that,
"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man,
And before the Angel summon'd her,
"If the husband, of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife,
A happy man henceforth is he,
For he shall be master for life!
But if the wife should drink of it first,
The stranger stoop'd to the well of St. Keyne,
"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes ?"
He to the Cornish-man said;
But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake,
"I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch;
But i'faith she had been wiser than I,
For she took a bottle to church!"
THE WORLD COMPARED TO A STAGE.
ALL the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
Made to his mistress' eyebrow!-Then, a Soldier,
Even in the cannon's mouth!—And then, the Justice,
And so he plays his part!-The sixth age shifts
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything!
HEDDERWICK AND SON, PRINTERS.