leagued itself with corruption and tyranny; the fall of the Papal power; the uprooting of monastic superstitions; the regular, yet obvious development of the spirit of reform; what a variety of thoughts to dwell upon! What virtues, whether gentle or heroic; what vices, whether timid or daring, are not to be found among the actors in the great moral combat spread over so many generations-a combat between the usurping strength of the few, and the suffering patience, or the indignant restlessness, of the many between improvement and the sinister interests which are opposed to all improvement? That combat still rages; and we may say, in perfect security, that Wordsworth's sympathies are not now where they would have been, had the events passing around us at this moment been the events of centuries gone by.

In truth, since Wordsworth changed his politics, his writings have lost much of their charm. When he goes far back into other days, and moves out of the influence of present prejudices, he can be led by all the glowing inspiration of his genius; but when he approaches modern times, he dares not-he dares not give vent to the thoughts that must intrude on him. He would hurl no denunciations like these at the clergy of his day, however richly deserved, or obviously invited :

"Woe to you, Prelates! rioting in ease And cumbrous wealth-the shame of your estate; You on whose progress dazzling trains await

Of pompous horses; whom vain titles please,

Who will be served by others on their knees,

Yet will yourselves to God no service Pastors who neither take nor point the

pay;

way

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and the will." In justice we must notice here, that the Bishops of the Catholic Church (especially in the Peninsula) form a singular contrast to the Episcopal bench at home; they are unaffected, enlightened, accessible; they leave no vast wealth accumulated "in the church's service" to their heirs; and be it remembered, their authority is of a much higher character than any that is claimed by the mitred prelates of the Anglican Church.

We stumble at the very threshold. Here is a poet that tells us, in these our " evil days," that "Liberty has found its natural resting-place in victory" (p. 3). What! when Europe is filled with one indignant cry,-though smothered, not less indignant-that a horde of despots have dared, and, alas, too successfully dared, to stem the progress of "the noble stream" of freedom; when hundreds of thousands of hired and brutal soldiery are leagued against the progress of human right and human happiness; when Finland and Poland and Italy and Holland and Greece-not to speak of France and Germany-are writhing under an accursed yoke; and every colour of the map marks some region enslaved or enslaving;-in such a moment are we taunted with the triumphs of liherty? But what cares Wordsworth for liberty? Yes! while its influence was employed against that illegitimate robber who betrayed again and again the cause of which he ought to have been the foremost champion, Wordsworth had sympathy and poetry with which to hallow it; but where is his anger, where are his execrations now, when tyranny is no longer grounded on the tangible principle of force, but on the horrible and execrable plea of Holland-her glories are in the dust, divine and legitimate right? He visits her people are in sackcloth and ashes, -has he breathed a thought of indignation? He crosses Germany-hér citizens have been cozened and betrayed by their tyrants,-has he one anathema in store? He passes the Alps and sings the Jung-frau. He sees Switzerland crowded with the persecuted heroes of freedom,-has he one tone of pity? He treads the land of Alfieri and Fillacaja, — he knows it is crushed and trampled on by the savages of Hungary, by Croates and the barbarians of the Danube,—

But we have no commissionerships of stamps and taxes to give.

Have we aught to console us? Yes! even of those who have deserted us we have had the best services. The harps of recreants are "vain and voiceless" when they touch the wonted chords. The young enthusiasm of early and hallowed devotion is passed away. They sell their laurels, but they have been plucked from the tree on which they grew-they have lost their brightness and their beauty; the stem of the flower is broken: it may be held up once, but it fades swiftly, and for ever.

We will not dwell on thoughts like these. In speaking of Wordsworth we wish they could be exiled, we almost wish he could exile them-we

would fain meet him in a sphere where they need not intrude. We will forget them. The storm of our indigna

tion hath ceased:

The storm hath ceased, the birds regain

Their cheerfulness, and busily retrim Their nests, or chaunt a gratulating hymn

To the blue ether and bespangled plain."

line

Shall draw, the limits of the power define,

That even imperfect faith to man af

fords ?"

P. 20.

Ease from this noble Miser of his time No moment steals; pain narrows not his cares. P. 28. There is little indignation expressed on the arrival of the Normans: though and destroyed every vestige of liberty, they broke up all popular institutions, aristocracy, founded on force and though they introduced an hereditary fraud, which sacrificed every thing to its unrestrained usurpations, we have the tame assurance that this thraldrom " brings to Religion no injurious change."-P. 33.

The Sonnet to Wickliffe is rich in poetry and beauty :

"Once more the Church is seized with sudden fear,

And at her call is Wicliffe disinhumed:
Yea, his dry bones to ashes are con-
sumed,
And flung into the brook that travels

The gadding bramble hang her purple

fruit;

And the green lizard and the gilded newt Lead unmolested lives, and die of age."

P. 56. And with what a striking association of imagery is the Virgin depicted!

"Purer than foam on central Ocean tost;

Brighter than eastern skies at day-break

strewn

With fancied roses, than the unblemished

There are two Sonnets in laud of Edward the Sixth. We know nothing in that youth's conduct or character which could lead to the reasonable expectation that he would have been

better than those who went before or those who followed him. If his intentions were good, his deeds were execrable. If his early tears can wash away the stains of his after errors, they have more virtue than the tears of meaner men. If Edward was not a cruel and a wicked young man, he was a miserably weak and silly one; but he was a monarch, and must have his portion of praise.

A noble Sonnet, (p. 75,) and repeated in the volume of Memorials, p. 14, meant to illustrate the "Gunpowder Plot," might with much more correctness be applied to the magnificent array of despotic power, which so often blinds and deludes the gazer and conceals the terrors which are linked to it:

"The Virgin Mountain, wearing like a Queen

A brilliant crown of everlasting Snow, Sheds ruin from her sides; and men below

Wonder that aught of aspect so serene Can link with desolation. Smooth and

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And doth in more conspicuous torment writhe,

Deafening the region in his ireful mood." P. 75.

Laud is one of our poet's heroes— a saint and patriot." His death was, however, so fine and noble, that we would fain forget it was the last scene of such a life.

has done justice, (p. 83,) and to the To Charles the Second, Wordsworth Nonconformists too, if they can be dis

covered in the crowd under their new name.

"Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject

Those Unconforming; whom one rigorous day

Drives from their Cures, a voluntary prey
To poverty and grief, and disrespect,
And some to want-as if by tempest

wreck'd

Did he ever read the history of his early reception in the West of England? He was anxiously expecthad been dismissed by James, and ed," no doubt, by those placemen who who, for their selfish interests, plotted revolution was ever so worthless in the overthrow of the Stuarts; but no its results as that which brought in the House of Orange.

Several of the Sonnets are dedicated to "New Churches," Cathedrals," College Chapels," &c.

66

Bright ladders to the world above;" and the poet seems to consider their architectural beauties worthy of Him

to whom they are dedicated. But in any abode where a just sense of the Deity fills the soul,

"Such bubbles burst, and folly's dancing

foam

Melts, if it cross the threshold; where the wreath

Of awe-struck wisdom droops." P. 106. We meant to say not one word more on the subject of Wordsworth's politics, but the Sonnet of "Congratulation," p. 98, has flashed upon our eye, and we cannot refrain. Mr. W. has lately travelled through the South of Europe. He can hardly have journeyed a league without hearing indignation in every form against his country's perfidy. He has probably been at Genoa. He knows that England is every where accused of having consented to every scheme of spoliation and tyranny. He knows that every country which has lost its liberty looks upon England (or the English government) as having rivetted its chains. He knows that England has lost her reputation for hospitality and generosity, ever since she denied (no ! England has not denied!) the protection of her laws to the exiles who might seek her shores. The cruel and Antienglish Alien Bill exists-and Words. worth writes:

"We have felt, As a loved substance, their futurity; Good, which they dared hope for, we have

What sense so dull as not to be touched by such a passage as this→ "On the Fall of the Aar"?

"From the fierce aspect of this river throwing

His giant body o'er the steep rock's brink,

Back in astonishment and fear we shrink: But, gradually a calmer look bestowing, Flowers we espy beside the torrent growing;

Flowers that peep forth from many a cleft and chink,

And, from the whirlwind of his anger,

drink

Hues ever fresh, in rocky fortress blowing:

They suck, from breath that threatening to destroy

Is more benignant than the dewý eve, Nor doubt but HE to whom yon pineBeauty, and life, and motions as of joy:

trees nod

Their heads in sign of worship, Nature's God,

These humbler adorations will receive.”

P. 18.

The Elegiac stanzas (pp. 60-64) are most pathetic. It were worth dy

"And thou

Didst oft the flame-eyed eagle scare
With infant shout,-as often sweep,
Paired with the Ostrich, o'er the plain;
And, tired with sport, wouldst sink asleep
Upon the couchant Lion's mane!"

P. 73.
"Inflamed by thee, the blooming Boy
Makes of the whistling shrouds a toy,
And of the Ocean's dismal breast
A play-ground and a couch of rest."
P. 74.

All the charm and beauty of that poetical creed of which Wordsworth is the high-priest, is contained in the following powerful lines:

"But oh! what transports, what sublime reward,

Won from the world of mind, dost thou prepare

For Philosophic Sage-or high-souled

Bard

Several of the "Desultory Stanzas," on sending his "little book" into the world, are magnificent-a concentration of sublime thoughts and feelings crowded by busy memory into a moment of inspiration.

"Is not the Chamois suited to his place? The Eagle worthy of her ancestry? -Let empires fall; but ne'er shall Ye disgrace

Your noble birthright, Ye that occupy Your council-seats beneath the open sky, On Sarnen's Mount, there judge of fit and right,

In simple democratic majesty ;

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genuous, the susceptible and the strong-minded have laid down their grateful offerings. Though noiseless as the voice of time, he has produced a deeper and a more lasting influence on modern English poetry than any writer of his epoch. His spirit may be traced in almost every thing that has obtained the chance of enduring fame. His poetry has hade its way -an unobtrusive, gentle proselytizerlike the great stream of knowledge and improvement. He has not gathered the harvest of general applause: it will be for his memory and not for his earthly triumph. Of the living names which will be immortal, Two at least will be said to have been little honoured in their day and generation.

B.

ART. III.-A Letter to the Ven, and Rev. Francis Wrangham, M. A., F. R. S., Archdeacon of Cleveland, on the Subject of his Charge, delivered to the Clergy at Thirsk, on the 18th of July, 1821. By Captain Thomas Thrush, R. N. With an Appendix, &c. 8vo. pp. 144. York, printed by Wilson and Sons; sold by Hunter, London. 1822.

CAPT

APT. THRUSH's excellent Letter to his Fellow-parishioners has excited, it seems, no little attention in his immediate neighbourhood. Several clergymen of the vicinity have thought it their duty to warn their respective flocks against his errors, and Mr. Wrangham, the archdeacon of Cleveland, delivered and has since published a Visitation Charge to excite the Clergy to watch and counteract the heretical efforts of the Naval Officer. Undaunted by this polemic array, and unwearied in the cause of truth, Capt. Thrush has addressed this Letter to the Archdeacon, containing much sober argument and Christian remonstrance. In the Apter to the Inhabitants of the Parish of pendix, he has re-published the "LetFiliskirk," and on this subject he says, "That those who have heard or read

P. 98.

Wordsworth is indeed a great poet. If his admirers be few, they are chosen from among the best of our species. At his shrine the young, the in

descend to read these pages, may form a correct judgment concerning my delin

This "Letter" was reprinted in the Christian Reformer, Vol. VII. pp. 169— 178, 194–202, 238-246.