scriptive poetry. They are the growth of many years: the following, which stands the fourteenth, was the first produced;" others being added upon occasional visits to the Stream, or as recollections of the scenes upon its banks awakened a wish to dẹscribe them.

O Mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his cot
Are privileged inmates of deep solitude;
Nor would the nicest anchorite exclude
A field or two of brighter green, or plot
Of tillage ground, that seemeth like a spot
Of stationary sunshine:-thou hast view'd
These only, Duddon! with their paths renew'd
By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not.
Thee hath some awful Spirit impelled to leave,
Utterly to desert, the haunts of men,
Though simple thy companions were and few ;
And through this wilderness a passage cleave
Attended but by thy own voice, save when

The Clouds and Fowls of the air thy way pursue !'

In thus breathing a lonely sentiment intothe material elements of picturesque beauty, no living poet has shewn greater skill and fancy than Mr. Wordsworth. The next we shall select, is, it is true, no more than a sonnet; but pages of description are compressed within the compass of fourteen lines, and hours of feeling are concentered in the spirit which animates them.

Child of the clouds! remote from every taint

Of sordid industry thy lot is cast;

Thine are the honors of the lofty waste;
Not seldom, when with heat the valleys faint,

Thy handmaid Frost with spangled tissue quaint

Thy cradle decks ;-to chaunt thy birth, thou hast
No meaner Poet than the whistling blast,

And Desolation is thy patron-saint!

She guards thee, ruthless Power! who would not spare
Those mighty forests, once the bison's screen,

Where stalk'd the huge deer to his shaggy lair

Through paths and alleys roofed with sombre green,

Thousand of years before the silent air

Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter keen!'

The following is in a different strain: it is entitled 'The Faery Chasm,' and is singularly elegant.

• No fiction was it of the antique age:

A sky blue stone, within this sunless cleft,

Is of the very foot-marks unbereft

Which tiny Elves impress'd; on that smooth stage

Dancing with all their brilliant equipage

In secret revels-haply after theft

Of some sweet babe, flower stolen, and coarse weed left,

For the distracted mother to assuage

Her grief with, as she might-But where, oh where
Is traceable a vestige of the notes

That ruled those dances, wild in character?
-Deep underground?-Or in the upper air,
On the shrill wind of midnight? or where floats
O'er twilight fields the autumn gossamer?'

In the twenty first sonnet of the series, there occurs a strange catachresis, if we may not rather term it metaphor run mad. Memory is described as breaking forth from her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall of Time;' the precise import of which expressions we do not quite enter into. And then to the Poet's eye, this metaphysical abstraction is embodied in a palpable form- Her glistening tresses bound:' this would seem bold enough; yet the Author might think himself justified in venturing thus far by the exquisite line of Collins,

• And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.' But Mr. Wordsworth wants just that one thing which Collins possessed in perfection-taste. The Author of the Ode on the Passions knew by instinct the precise boundary line between the sublime and the extravagant, between figure and nonsense. He never for a moment loses himself amid his own imagery, or confounds the figurative with the physical. But Mr. Wordsworth goes on to define the appearance of the glistening tresses of Memory, and to compare them to golden locks of birch ;" and then forgetting altogether, as it should seem, the imaginary being he bas conjured up, his mind fastens upon the new idea, one that relates to a simple object of perception :

-'golden locks of birch that rise and fall
On gales that breathe too gently to recal
Aught of the fading year's inclemency.'

If these last lines have any intelligible connexion with the idea of Memory as introduced in the foregoing part of the stanza, we confess that it eludes our dull apprehensions.

Vaudracour and Julia is a tale in blank verse, which was originally intended, we presume, to form an episode in some future portion of "The Excursion." The incidents are stated to be facts, no invention having as to them been exercised. It is a touching and melancholy tale of unfortunate love, and told in Mr. Wordsworth's happiest manner. From the lyrical pieces which follow it in order, we cannot do otherwise than select the very beautiful stanzas entitled

• LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS,

ON THE EVE OF A NEW YEAR.

"Smile of the Moon !-for so I name

That silent greeting from above;

A gentle flash of light that came
From Her whom drooping Captives love;
Or art thou of still higher birth?

Thou that didst part the clouds of earth,
My torpor to reprove!

"Bright boon of pitying Heaven-alas,
I may not trust thy placid cheer!
Pondering that Time to-night will pass
The threshold of another year;
For years to me are sad and dull;
My very moments are too full
Of hopelessness and fear.

"And yet the soul-awakening gleam,
That struck perchance the farthest cone
Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem
To visit me and me alone;

Me, unapproach'd by any friend,

Save those who to my sorrows lend
Tears due unto their own.

"To-night, the church-tower bells shall ring,
Through these wide realms, a festive peal;
To the new year a welcoming;

A tuneful offering for the weal

Of happy millions lulled in sleep;

While I am forced to watch and weep,

By wounds that may not heal.

Born all too high, by wedlock raised
Still higher-to be cast thus low!
Would that mine eyes had never gaz'd
On aught of more ambitious show
Than the sweet flow'rets of the fields !
-It is my royal state that yields
This bitterness of woe.

"Yet how?-for I, if there be truth
In the world's voice, was passing fair;
And beauty, for confiding youth,
Those shocks of passion can prepare
That kill the bloom before its time,
And blanch, without the Owner's crime,
The most resplendent hair.

"Unblest distinctions! showered on me
To bind a lingering life in chains;
All that could quit my grasp or flee,
Is gone ;-but not the subtle stains
Fixed in the spirit; for even here
Can I be proud that jealous fear
Of what I was remains.

"A woman rules my prison's key; A sister Queen, against the bent

Of law and holiest sympathy,
Detains me-doubtful of the event;
Great God, who feel'st for my distress,
My thoughts are all that I possess,
O keep them innocent!

"Farewell for ever human aid,
Which abject mortals vainly court!
By friends deceived, by foes betrayed,
Of fears the prey, of hopes the sport,
Nought but the world-redeeming Cross
Is able to supply my loss,

My burthen to support.

"Hark! the death-note of the year,
Sounded by the castle-clock !"—
From her sunk eyes a stagnant tear
Stole forth, unsettled by the shock;
But oft the woods renewed their green,
Ere the tir'd head of Scotland's Queen
Repos'd upon the block!' pp. 92-95.

The odes are the least pleasing compositions in the volume, being for the most part very affected and very enigmatical. There are, however, some exceptions. The one hearing date September, 1816, merits transcription as a varied specimen of the contents of the volume.

The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields
Are hung, as if with golden shields,
Bright trophies of the sun!

Like a fair sister of the sky,

Unruffled doth the blue Lake lie,

The Mountains looking on.

And, sooth to say, yon vocal Grove
Albeit uninspired by love,

By love untaught to ring,
May well afford to mortal ear,
An impulse more profoundly dear
Than music of the Spring.

For that from turbulence and heat
Proceeds, from some uneasy seat
In Nature's struggling frame,
Some region of impatient life;
And jealousy, and quivering strife,
Therein a portion claim.

1

But list!-though winter storms be nigh,
Unchecked is that soft harmony :
There lives Who can provide

For all his creatures; and in Him,
Even like the radiant Seraphim,

These Choristers confide.' pp. 187–188.

There is among the Inscriptions also, a short piece written in a style with which we have not been accustomed to meet in our Author's productions.

Not seldom, clad in radiant vest,
Deceitfully goes forth the Morn;
Not seldom Evening in the west
Sinks smilingly forsworn.

The smoothest seas will sometimes prove,

To the confiding bark, untrue;

And, if she trust the stars above,
They can be treacherous too.

The umbrageous Oak, in pomp outspread,
Full oft, when storms the welkin rend,
Draws lightning down upon the head
It promis'd to defend.

But Thou art true, incarnate Lord!
Who didst vouchsafe for man to die ;
Thy smile is sure, thy plighted word
No change can falsify!

I bent before thy gracious throne,
And asked for peace with suppliant knee;
And

peace was given,-nor peace alone,

But faith, and hope, and extacy!' pp. 171-172

We can make room for only two more specimens: they are in themselves sufficient to justify all the praise that has been bestowed on Mr. Wordsworth's sonnets.

• SONNET.

The Stars are mansions built by Nature's hand;
And, haply, there the spirits of the blest
Live, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest ;
Huge Ocean frames, within his yellow strand,
A habitation marvellously planned,

For life to occupy in love and rest;
All that we see is dome, or vault, or nest,
Or fort, erected at her sage command.
Is this a vernal thought? Even so, the Spring
Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart,
Mid song of birds and insects murmuring;
And while the youthful year's prolific art-
Of bud, leaf, blade and flower-was fashioning
Abodes, where self-disturbance hath no part.'