traordinary incident, or any systematic discussion; and, for our own parts, we are inclined to think that it is a successful one. There are few things, at least, which we have lately read, that have pleased or engaged us more than the picture of simple innocence and artless delight which is here drawn, with a truth and modesty of colouring far more attractive, in our apprehension, than the visionary splendours of the Isle of Palms. The novelty of the white tent, gleaming like an evening cloud by the edge of the still waters, had attracted the curiosity of the rustic worshippers, it seems, as they left the little chapel in the dell; and they came in successive groupes, by land and by water, to gaze on the splendid apparition. The kind-hearted ang lers received them with all the gentleness and hospitality of Isaac Walton himself; and we sincerely compassionate the reader who is not both touched and soothed with the following amiable representation. And thus our tent a joyous scene became, Where loving hearts from distant vales did meet Each other with glad voice and kindly name. The gray-hair'd men with deep attention heard, While round our feet the playful children stirr'd, And near their parents took their silent place, Listening with looks where wonder breathed a glowing grace, On varnish'd rod, with joints that shone like gold, Scarce could their chiding parents then control Their little hearts in harmless malice gay, And wear them in their hats like wreaths of valley flowers!' p. 197-199. The following picture of the mountain damsels is equally engaging. Well did the roses blooming on their cheek, To hide the sudden throb that beat within her breast. p. 205, 206. The delighted guests depart by moonlight; and while they are climbing the shadowy hills, their entertainers raise a splen did bonfire to light them on their way, and hear new clamours of acclamation ring round all the awakened echoes. The following are some of the concluding reflections, which not only do great honour to Mr Wilson's powers of composition, but show him to be habitually familiar with thoughts and affections, far more to be envied than the fading renown that genius has ever won for her votaries. Yet, though the strangers and their tent have past Then Then will he love with grave voice to repeat Of their own cottage-hearth! O, fair subduing sight! p. 215---216, The same tenderness of thought and warmth of imagination are visible in the lines addressed to a Sleeping Child; from which we shall make a few detached extracts. It begins, 6 Art thou a thing of mortal birth, Or, art thou, what thy form would seem," Oh! vision fair! that I could be And years, so fate hath order'd, roll Clouds o'er the summer of the soul.' • Fair 1 Fair was that face as break of dawn, We have now quoted enough, we believe, to give our readers a pretty just idea of the character of Mr Wilson's poetry. We shall add but one little specimen of his blank verse; which seems to us to be formed, like that of all his school, on the model of Akenside's; and to combine, with a good deal of his diffuseness, no ordinary share of its richness and beauty. There are some fine solemn lines on the Spring, from which we take the following, almost at random. -The great Sun, Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile, Sporting in tree and air, more beautiful 249---250. Of hopes ambitious, the disturbing sound Of fame, and all that worshipp'd pageantry That ardent spirits burn for in their pride, Fly like disparting clouds, and leave the soul Pure and serene as the blue depths of heaven. There is a very sweet and touching monody on the death of Grahame, the much-lamented and most amiable author of the "Sabbath" and other poems; from which we shall indulge ourselves by making one more extract. The moral character of Mr Wilson's poetry is, throughout, very much the same with that of the friend he here commemorates; and, in this particular piece, he has fallen very much into his manner also. Some chosen books by pious men compos'd, Kept from the dust, in every cottage lye Through the wild loneliness of Scotia's vales, Beside the Bible, by whose well-known truths All human thoughts are by the peasant tried. O blessed privilege of nature's bard! To cheer the house of virtuous poverty, With gleams of light more beautiful than oft Play o'er the splendours of the palace wall. Methinks I see a fair and lovely child Sitting composed upon his mother's knee, And reading with a low and lisping voice Some passage from the Sabbath, while the tears Stand in his little eyes so softly blue, Till, quite o'ercome with pity, his white arms He twines around her neck, and hides his sighs Most infantine, within her gladden'd breast, Like a sweet lamb, half sportive, half afraid, Nestling one moment 'neath its bleating dam. And now the happy mother kisses oft The tender-hearted child, lays down the book, And asks him if he doth remember still The stranger who once gave him, long ago, A parting kiss, and blest his laughing eyes! His sobs speak fond remembrance, and he weeps To think so kind and good a man should die. p. 411-412. We now lay aside this volume with regret: for though it has many faults, it has a redeeming spirit, both of fancy and of kindness, about it, which will not let them be numbered: It has, moreover, the charm of appearing to be written less. from ambition of praise, than from the direct and genuine impulse of the feelings which it expresses; and though we cannot undertake to defend it from the scorn of the learned, or the ridicule of the witty, we are very much mistaken if it does not afford a great deal of pleasure to many persons almost as well worth pleasing. 3 ART: |