what ought to be done, and then show by his own conduct, what ought to be avoided. It certainly was ill advised in the noble poet, so rashly to betray his own and his brethren's infirmity. The laborer is doubtless worthy of his hire; but it is in literature as in religion, he who receives his good things in this life, ought not to expect to be carried by the angels into Abraham's bosom.

British journalists, as every body knows, have brought a charge against America, that she produces no great writers. Perhaps the safest answer would be to retort the charge, and assure our transatlantic brethren, that we are only sick of the same disorder which has brought them so near death's door.

'Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas

Regumque turres.'

More than a quarter of the nineteenth century has already elapsed, yet how few permanent additions has it made to English literature. The varied and exuberant beauties of the Waverley novels, have gained for Sir Walter Scott a lasting name; and the exquisitely harmonious diction, the graceful fancy and the rich humor of our own Irving, promise to secure him a permanent reputation; but what other of all our contemporary authors, can justly anticipate the proud distinction of standing in the first rank of English classics? Byron, no doubt, has many enthusiastic admirers; but contemporary fame, and, most of all, the fame of a poet among his contemporaries, is extremely delusive. Sylvester once had more admirers than Shakspeare, and Cleiveland eclipsed the rising reputation of Milton. Byron undoubtedly possessed great talents, but instead of treasuring up his strength for one great effort, he wasted it on a thousand unworthy subjects. Like most of his contemporaries he has written much and finished nothing; and already the hasty and uncemented structure of his fame trembles from its foundations. Wordsworth too, wants neither admirers nor imitators, and perhaps the disciples of this school console themselves for their master's want of present popularity by the examples which have just been mentioned. Let them beware how they deceive themselves.* Some writers are so extremely unfortunate as to be neglected by their own age, and forgotten by posterity. He who wishes for rational admiration ought to write intelligibly. It is as difficult to admire as it is to believe what we cannot understand. Byron and Wordsworth are in some respects much alike. Both seem to feel the impulses of poetic inspiration,

* We differ from our able correspondent here. We think time will mellow rather than corrode the fame of Wordsworth. If we have not wholly mistaken its temper, his is a more enduring poetry than Byron's-far more enduring than that of all other of his contemporaries. He will stand out from his age, we doubt not, as Shakspeare and Milton do from theirs, and be more studied and better appreciated century after century, as they are.

ÉDITOR.

but to feel them imperfectly. Both seem to clutch at some ideal vision of beauty and magnificence, which forever eludes their grasp. We now and then catch glimpses of their meaning, but they are continually rivalling the obscurity of the Delphic prophetess.

But why pursue this criticism further. Why, like the fantastic pursuivants that flitted around Dun-Edin's cross the night before the fatal battle of Flodden, call off the names of the 'gallant and the gay' who are doomed to a long oblivion? Time needs no herald. Already has he marked his victims, already are they wasting away beneath his touch.

This may seem but a gloomy picture of the present prospects of literature. It is drawn in a spirit, not of exultation, but of sadness. And let those who are disgusted by its dark and sullen tints, prove it to be false, by producing two or three original works of sterling value-a Fairy Queen, an Amelia, a Spectator, a History like Hume's, or an Essay like Locke's, and they will find no one so ready to acknowledge their merits and sound their praises, no admirer so fond, and no friend so true, as he who now tells of barrenness and decay.

H.

THE SHUNAMITE.*

Ir was a sultry day of summer time.

The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grain
With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves
Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills
Stood still, and the divided flock were all
Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots,
And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd
As if the air had fainted, and the pulse
Of nature had run down, and ceas'd to beat.

'Haste thee, my child!' the Syrian mother said,
'Thy father is athirst'-and from the depths
Of the cool well under the leaning tree,
She drew refreshing water, and with thoughts
Of God's sweet goodness stirring at her heart,
She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way
Committed him. And he went lightly on,
With his soft hands press'd closely to the cool
Stone vessel, and his little naked feet
Lifted with watchful care, and o'er the hills,

*2 Kings iv. 18-37.

And thro' the light green hollows, where the lambs
Go for the tender grass, he kept his way,
Wiling its distance with his simple thoughts,
Till, in the wilderness of sheaves, with brows
Throbbing with heat, he set his burden down.

Childhood is restless ever, and the boy
Stay'd not within the shadow of the tree,
But with a joyous industry went forth
Into the reapers' places, and bound up
His tiny sheaves, and plaited cunningly
The pliant withs out of the shining straw,
Cheering their labor on, till they forgot
The very weariness of their stooping toil
In the beguiling of his carnest mirth.
Presently he was silent, and his eye
Closed as with dizzy pain, and with his hand
Press'd hard upon his forehead, and his breast
Heaving with the suppression of a cry,
He uttered a faint murmur, and fell back
Upon the loosen'd sheaf, insensible.

They bore him to his mother, and he lay
Upon her knees till noon-and then he died!
She had watch'd every breath, and kept her hand
Soft on his forehead, and gaz'd in upon

The dreamy languor of his listless eye,
And she had laid back all his sunny curls,
And kiss'd his delicate lip, and lifted him
Into her bosom, till her heart grew strong-
His beauty was so unlike death! She leaned
Over him now, that she might catch the low
Sweet music of his breath, that she had learn'd
To love when he was slumbering at her side
In his unconscious infancy-

I cannot see it stir; but his red lip!

Death would not be so very beautiful!

And that half smile-would death have left that there?
-And should I not have felt that he would die?
And have I not wept over him?—and pray'd
Morning and night for him?-and could he die?
-No-God will keep him. He will be my pride
Many long years to come, and this fair hair
Will darken like his father's, and his eye
Be of a deeper blue when he is grown;
And he will be so tall, and I shall look
With such a pride upon him!-He to die!"
And the fond mother lifted his soft curls,
And smiled, as if 'twere mockery to think
That such fair things could perish-

-Suddenly

Her hand shrunk from him, and the color fled
From her fix'd lip, and her supporting knees
Were shook beneath her child.

Her hand had touch'd

His forehead, as she dallied with his hair-
And it was cold-like clay! Slow-very slow
Came the misgiving that her child was dead.
She sat a moment and her eyes were clos'd
In a still prayer for strength, and then she took
His little hand and press'd it earnestly-
And put her lip to his-and look'd again
Fearfully on him—and then, bending low,
She whisper'd in his ear, "My son !-My son!"
And as the echo died, and not a sound
Broke on the stillness, and he lay there still,
Motionless on her knee-the truth would come!
And with a sharp, quick cry, as if her heart
Were crush'd, she lifted him and held him close
Into her bosom-with a mother's thought-
As if death had no power to touch him there!

The man of God came forth, and led the child
Unto his mother, and went on his way.
And he was there-her beautiful-her own-
Living and smiling on her with his arms
Folded about her neck, and his warm breath
Breathing upon her lips, and in her ear
The music of his gentle voice once more!

Oh for a burning word that would express
The measure of a mother's holy joy,
When God has given back to her her child
From death's dark portal. It surpasseth words.

REVIEW.

THE LITERARY REMAINS OF THE LATE HENRY NEELE, consisting of Lectures on English Poetry, Tales, and other Miscellaneous Pieces, in Prose and Verse. Smith, Elder & Co. London.

THERE is a feeling mingled up with our admiration of genius when not absolutely of the first order, which gives our interest in its possessor almost the character of an affection. The 'tall spirits' of our race win from us, for the time, a louder admiration, and we are ever ready, in the triumph of supreme power, or the terrible beauty of the poet's madness, or the dizzy reach of philosophy into the depths of Heaven, to forget the lesser and more familiar spirits, who walk our own sphere, and dream dreams like ours, and make our daily interests the subject of their analysis or the burthen of their song. There is an exciting mystery in the solitary path of greatness, which absorbs and bewilders us while its splendid results are flashing upon our eyes. Our wonder is a species of worship, a phantasm of idolatry, which, however earnest in itself, and flattering to its object, is both too indefinite and too violent to endure. We are dazzled and exhausted with so much abstract admiration. We need the refreshment of our sympathies to sustain us in that thin atmosphere, and we come down to those whom we can love and appreciate while we admire, and cling to them with a closer regard for our sometime forgetfulness. It is the difference of the sun and the stars. Our affections awake, and our better nature has a freer pulse under the shining of those timid and pure lamps hung up in the darkness; and though the sun has more glory, it is only on the stars that our look lingers, and our eyes are not pained with contemplation.

It is on this principle, perhaps, that in history we are more interested for the courtier than the king; and, in the story of a battle, remember the daring of the boy longer than the chivalry of the knight; and even in fiction, the perfections of the hero are often forgotten in the weaknesses or humble virtues of the inferior characters. We love the unfortunate Mary more than the regal Elizabeth, Buckingham better than Charles, Ariel better than Prospero, Gulnare better than Medora. We would rather be the Knight of the Leopard with the stolen love of Edith, than Richard Plantagenet with the proper duty and the allowed service of the stately Berengaria.

In our sympathy with genius, too, there is something in the mere possibility of doing its possessor service, which involves the heart.