which he expatiates upon the images suggested by a contemplation, (in his own character, as a remote spectator,) of the events in which they are supposed to move. With this propensity, Wilson can never become the creator of living characters; nor are we acquainted with a single figure in his works which makes the slightest approach towards robust vitality. The universe, indeed, in which his poetical experience has gathered its treasures, is a purely imaginary region; a Fata Morgana, which can but be approached through the clouds. He stamps his representations of life with the impress of a fanciful coinage; the joys and sorrows he describes are alike unsubstantial. The grief of his mourners is not the stern tyrant that wrings the heart's-blood from human bosoms, but a winged monitor, breathing, with a placid mien, the tidings of a speedy extinction of all woes in the rejoicings of a region beyond the grave. His personages ever dwell within the shadow of a further existence, which softens every perception of suffering or delight. They tread but lightly upon a world, which is to them but as a bridge leading to a region of perfect communion and happiness. This is a beautiful conception of what human motives might be ; perhaps, were it not otherwise ordained, we would say ought to be, considering the actual conditions and tenure of life; and we may feel inclined at times to lament, that the heart of man should seem unable thus to prevail over the passionate eagerness of the present, by stedfastly looking towards the future. But until the temper of human feeling has undergone a thorough change, representations like the following, however exquisite as conceptions, cannot be admitted to possess any actual, or even poetical fidelity. "There is in love A consecrated power, that seems to wake, Superior to the outward signs of grief, Sighing or tears; when these have past away, City of the Plague, Act II. A son is seated by the corpse of his mother, whose death he has but lately learned. "Even then a smile Came o'er her face, a sweet, upbraiding smile, O! look upon her face! eternity Is shadowed there! a pure, immortal calm, City of the Plague, Act III. Is this the strain of filial grief in the first consciousness of its bereav ment? A young girl looks on the grave of her only protector and friend, whom she has just seen expire, and then hastily committed to the earth. She is asked, "Is not this church-yard now a place of peace? Isabel. Of perfect peace! My spirit looks with eyes With them she loved on earth. O mortal body, In faded beauty stretched upon the dust, I love thee still as if thou wert a soul." In the sweet passage quoted beneath, the fanciful mood which per vades it is welcome and appropriate; for the theme is accessible to conjecture alone: : "Of all the mournful, sad, affecting things, And turn its tears to rapture. Beauteous beings, City of the Plague, Act III. None of Wilson's poems deserve the title of works of art. They are the productions of a warm and kindly genius, that delights in the creation of lovely forms; the spontaneous utterances of a poetical temperament, which has been preserved in healthful activity by the ministrations of Nature and the food of Contemplation; but which has not been subjected to that higher discipline which the artist, in the true sense of the term, bestows upon his natural endowments; aware that, without such teaching, however strong be the native energy of his mind, it will grow to no thorough and commanding development of power. Of this truth our poet seems to have taken little heed. His works, as far as we can judge, are merely the outpourings of a spirit of song born within him, uttered without effort, and preserved without correction. His later productions, " Unimore," "Lady Emmeline's Dream," &c., have still more of the fantastic and dreamy character which we have already described. They are marvellous pleasant reading; the verse flows with a richer harmony than usual, and his language shines with a wealth of imagery: you surrender yourself to the spell without forethought or inquiry. But the chief garniture of the strain consists of mysterious symbols, and those vague fugitive impressions, which reluctantly submit to verbal constraint, even in the moment of their birth, and which are incapable of being distinctly represented to another mind. All who have quick or pensive feelings are aware of such remote and volatile suggestions; but the same whisper rarely strikes two persons with the like tone. This it is which removes them, in a great measure, beyond the limits of poetical exercise. There are in nature, as natural. ists aver, many sounds so fine as to be perceptible to peculiar ears alone; and which strike, each of those who can distinguish them, differently. No great master would attempt to compose a symphony of such thin murmurs. The effect left by a perusal of the poems in question amounts to little more than a dim remembrance of a certain shadowy beauty and magnificence, or of glimpses of pathos and tenderness, seen, like the quiet vale-dwellings, through broken wreaths of mist from the hill-side. All is indistinct and bewildering; the memory retains none of those figures which " once seen become a part of sight;" the strain was— * An irreverent commentator of our acquaintance insists that there is a double meaning in this image. If introduced without regard to the literal, as well as to the figurative truth of the simile, it must be considered as an additional instance of the "accident heureux' "Comme un vague chant, dont expire Le lointain et dernier accord." We experience a rapture, but it is fugitive; we close the book, and discover, like the son of Leonteus, that we have been embracing a beautiful cloud. It would be easy to produce a serious charge of faults, omissions, &c., against our author. From any unnecessary enumeration of such, as we have already declared, it is our intention to abstain: a brief notice of some principal defects with which his poetry may be taxed, is requisite to complete the sketch we have attempted to give. His versification, especially in the "Isle of Palms," is often rugged and unmusical, and disfigured by metrical liberties which a delicate ear, or even moderate care, would have rejected. In the use of language, as may be observed in the extracts we have given, he is frequently loose or infelicitous. Many of his finest passages are defaced by mean or inappropriate phrases, or thoughts wholly out of keeping with the character of the scene. His leaning towards prolixity has been noticed; it would seem, together with the discursive habit of his mind, to disqualify him for pure lyrical composition, in which we know of no instance where he has succeeded: he appears to want the rapidity and compactness required for the production of excellence in this style of writing. The faithlessness of his life-sketches, and his failures in the truthful delineation of character, which strike a reader with coldness and dissatisfaction, have already been commented upon, and, in some measure, explained. We must further hint, that he is prone, especially in his later works, to substitute an array of musical and picturesque phrases for clear poetical ideas; and, with this observation, we willingly close the catalogue of his sins and shortcomings. To conclude: Wilson is entitled to the praise of all lovers of song, for the purity and lightness of his imagination; for his sensibility to the dignified and the beautiful; for the graceful fictions, pale and unsubstantial though they be, which people the Elysium he has created around them; and, above all, for the devout, cordial, and affectionate spirit which pervades all his poetical compositions. The lovers of song may, indeed, regret that so liberal a genius had not received more assiduous and confirmed culture; but they will not, therefore, the less heartily pronounce him to be a true poet, and worthy to be joined to that noble band whose accents the world shall not willingly let die. V. TRANSLATION Of Verses written on the Funeral Obsequies of Miss Elisa Frisssel, by The coffin is gone down with the pure and taintless roses, Ah! mother, kindly keep them; ah! let them not return Maiden and flower! Thou art gone, my poor Elisa, thus early to thy slumber, Ah! never more to shrink beneath the heavy noon-day hour; Oh! fresh, and cool, and sweet, have been the mornings that ye number, Maiden and flower! But thy father, young Elisa, o'er thine ashes fondly bendeth, On the Maiden and the flower. REFORMS IN THE BRITISH EXTERNAL EMPIRE. OUR countrymen are willing Reformers; but they have yet to learn the power which is in union, constancy, and resolute perseverance in the good cause. To bring them to employ well their constitutional energies, is, fortunately, now our only task; but it is a heavy task, and the PRESS must labour in it unremittingly. In furtherance of this grand object, it is our purpose to unfold, in a series of Articles, what has to be done in the wide field of COLONIAL REFORMS,-to point out abuses, the encrusted product of centuries, which have grown up under the protection of Ministerial ignorance and intrigue, and the dark selfishness of an Oligarchy, now, by the blessing of Heaven, no more! We undertake to make fully known what our countrymen must no longer overlook or regard with apathy, for they are now freemen; and we hold that every freeman is under a weight of obligation to the whole universe, past, present, and to come. To relate the injuries done our Colonists, to demand redress for the heavy wrongs endured from us by the uncounted millions who bend before the British sceptre, is the task to which we solemnly dedicate our pen; but we feel that, in doing this, we shall also be engaged in vindicating the privileges of our own countrymen, and claiming, on their behalf, a full measure of protection; seeing that, as it is written in the nature of things, no nation can enact the tyrant, without bringing a sure retribution upon itself. Steadily eschewing long documents, we shall be able to do little more, in this paper, than simply to bring out, as it were, our table of contents; to rest the sole of our foot, for a passing instant, on each of those multitudinous and far-distant spots, where we descry a floating Union Jack amid the earth's continents and oceans. A map of the world, good reader, will here wonderfully assist you; and we humbly solicit you to unroll one, that your eye, as well as mind, may go along with us, whilst we journey for a space amongst "the isles of the Gentiles." I. Besides the United Kingdom, the Principality of Man, and the islands of Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney, and Sark, near the coast of France, all which may be included under the name Great Britain,—we hold Hanover on the Continent,-the rock and light-house of Heligoland, opposite the embouchure of the Elbe, and principally interesting as a geological relic of the old, but now submarine, north of Europe,—the fortress and city of Gibraltar, commanding the western mouth of the Mediterranean, the isles of Malta and Gozo, near the middle of that sea,-and the string of Ionian islands lying along the coasts of Albania and Greece, and incorporated into a federal republic, of which Britain was burdened with the protectorate by the Congress of Vienna. Hanover belongs less to this country than to our present line of kings, who retain it as their original patrimonial possession. Its law of inheritance forbids the accession of a female to the sovereignty; so that, in the event of the Princess Victoria ascending our throne, it will pass to the Duke of Cumberland. No loss will hence accrue to Great Britain, either in profit or honour; as it mingles us up with the affairs of the Continent, while, at the same time, the British nation has not the slightest control over the acts of its Government. In the event of war, too, it almost necessitates our taking part in land-fighting, a sort of contest which we should always feel it our interest to avoid; and it gives us no advantage even there, as it has no natural fortresses. The Hanoverians say, we pilfer their revenue; but, of course, no person who knows John Bull's great object in having foreign dominions will believe that. The population is 1,560,000. Our only valuable European possessions are the Mediterranean ones; and they are certainly the only sort of external strongholds which Britain ought to retain for the purpose of intimidating or influencing the other European powers. Gibraltar and Malta are maritime stations of first-rate excellence. Malta has a harbour unsurpassed any where; and the situation of Gibraltar is invaluable. No fighting henceforth for us but sea-fighting! Let us trust to our boy-dolphins, and who shall alarm us? Long may the deep rolling of England's thunder be a sound only of memory; but if again it MUST be heard, let the despots listen to it, and tremble from the White Sea to the Mediterranean! Gibraltar and Malta, of course, bleed us sweetly-fully £240,000 per annum. From their nature, they will never be able to support themselves; as they are not so much colonies as out-works, external fortifications; but in the above overplus, there is, doubtless, the usual quantity of sinecure and overpay, all which the Reform Act will correct. Their commerce is quite trifling. Why is Malta not a free port? The united population do not amount to more than 140,000. Of the Ionian Islands we can say but this; Britain should never have had them, and will doubtless soon see to their confederation with Greece. An important southern power would thus be strengthened, and Britain freed of a useless, and therefore cumbrous burden. Insignificant as these islands are, they yet do "excellent well" as beds for our noble-minded Aristocracy to spawn upon; and offer, accordingly, a tolerable account of extravagant military positions, civil offices, &c., &c., under the patronage of My Lord the High Commissioner. Their population is only 180,000. II. We pass from the wintry and withered old world, to regions wider and freer, and which have a longer look into futurity! To the west but a few degrees, is AMERICA-a name of portent and prophecy! Notwithstanding that an immense territory was, in a happy hour, torn from our imbecile and avaricious grasp, we still retain hold of many of the stems of America's after greatness. Amid the wastes around Hudson's Bay, are the little palisado fortresses of the fur merchants. There are only a few hundred whites engaged in the trade, and these are sufficient to keep up an extensive commerce with the Indians. The exports of this Company may average about £16,000 annually. South of Hudson's Straits, and at the mouth of the deep gulf of the St. Lawrence, lie our fisheries. A large and quiet sand-bank in that neighbourhood invites shoals of cod-fish from the more troubled seas; and these are a source of great wealth to our coast colonists, and also of much satisfaction and high relish to the devout lent-keepers of southern Europe. The settlements of New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Cape Breton, Prince Edward's Island, and Newfoundland, derive their revenue principally from the timber trade and these fisheries; they export into Great Britain an official value of about £600,000 annually; and their united populations exceed 300,000. With the exception of Newfoundland, they have all provincial legislatures; and the want to this large island is in the act of being made up. West of Newfoundland, upon the Continent, on the north bank of the river St. Lawrence, and stretching away to the oceanlakes of the interior, lie the CANADAS,—at this moment, the most pros |