could, no doubt, tell us all about her. As a specimen of the sketches, we cannot do better than extract part of Arvendel's reflections on Rome.

It was beneath the awful dome of St. Peter's, that Arvendel met his valued friend St. Clair. Many kindred feelings had long united their affections.......They walked together down one of the vast aisles in perfect silence. They retraced their steps-they stood beneath the mighty dome-crossed slowly to another aisle-paused often to contemplate each mighty vista, and appeared to receive impressions which neither were willing to explain. The symmetry, the vastness, the depth, the beauty, the lightness of the architecture, give St. Peter's a character of loftiness and of perpetuity which is, perhaps, unequalled by any other edifice. It bears forward the thoughts irresistibly to that Eternity of which it is the emblem.

Arvendel met his friend daily at St. Peter's. Often, when the wind swept along the vale, and the air was sickly and damp without, they entered St. Peter's, and breathed the softness of a heavenly climate, and walked in all the peace and luxury of a moral enchantment. St. Clair found it continually a growing emblem to him of Heaven and Eternity. It was to Arvendel the presence-chamber of the Monarch of the world, rather than the scene which a sinner would select in order to meet his God; and yet he felt, that, were he in affliction, he would take shelter there-that the soft air, the vast space, the rich and varied beauty, the upward aspirings of that stupendous dome, assisted the weakness of the mind, and diminished sensibly the pressure and the importance of human things. Such was the power of this structure upon the imagination of Arvendel, that, when he quitted Rome, it was a serious impression to him to recollect that he might see St. Peter's no more. Yet were there thoughts, connected with this edifice, of a kind the most opposite, and of a tendency the most painful.'

*

‹‹ With similar views," observed Arvendel, "how perfect a contrast of feeling have I experienced sometimes, when standing within that majestic edifice of St. Peter's. This hour, the quietness, the warmth, the beauty, the fragrance, the light, the solitude, the vastness of the scene, have placed me in an element with which earth has been scarcely connected. I have felt detached from all human and immediate interests. The presence of God has cheered my spirit, and united me to all the lofty objects of eternity. The love, the grace of the great Saviour and Benefactor, have carried their ineffable consolations to my heart; and I have longed for the wings of a dove, that I might flee away and be for ever at rest. The next hour, the scene has been wholly changed: I have seen the multitude kiss the image, which was that of Jupiter, and is that of St. Peter; I have heard the addresses to God in a language which the people cannot understand; I have considered the repugnance of the government to education, the jealousy with which the diffusion of the Scriptures is regarded:and all the previous enchantment has vanished from my mind! I

have been compelled to turn from the magnificence of art, from the beauty of sculpture, from the lofty aspirations of an outward edifice, from the balmy breath of a fragrant atmosphere, from the fine emblems of heaven and of eternity, to the appalling consideration, that the beams of Truth have feebly irradiated these walls, that the chillness of a moral death reigns eternally within them; that the very structure, which had given the former enchantment to my senses and my heart, owes its existence to the ambition and despotism of human crime, and that, in very truth, these magnificent buildings, in the words of an energetic writer, are as triumphal arches erected in memorial of the extermination of that Truth which was given to be the light of the world."'—How fearful is the consideration, that all the best faculties of the mind and of the hand have thus been seized by a foreign force, and made instrumental against the happiness of their possessors, and against the glory and authority of Him who called them into existence !" "

Art. X. An Essay on Mind, with other Poems. 12mo. pp. 152. Price 5s. London. 1826.

THAT this little volume is the essay of no ordinary mind,—

that it discovers considerable talents, informed by extensive reading, no one, we think, can hesitate to admit. We wish we could add, that the judgement and poetical skill displayed in the principal poem are equal to the power of thought which has been exerted in its production. If ́ ethical 'poetry be the highest of all poetry,'—and as it is the highest, so, it is the coldest and most barren region,-metaphysical poetry may be pronounced to be the deepest of all poetry,deep as the abyss-the very chaos of fancy. Akenside, we need not be reminded, has made philosophy speak the language of poetry, and his Pleasures of Imagination is a splendid achievement. But he is likely to stand alone. The subject of the present Essay is decidedly ill chosen, and the most brilliant success alone could have redeemed this original fault. In order to this, a style far more remote from the sparkling, crackling style of Pope, with his sardonic grin and everrecurring antithesis, or from the tinsel and affectation of Darwin, should have been adopted. Philosophical thoughts require to be clothed in philosophical language, which is always clear, simple, and colourless. Obscurity is, in such writings, the greatest of faults. But this Essay on Mind is perpetually running into enigma, and the constant attempt to convey abstract propositions in metaphorical language, can be compared only to those ingenious little works for children, called Hieroglyphic Bibles, in which passages of Scripture are expressed by pictures. The Author has indeed had the precaution to affix to each book, a commentary under the name of an

analysis; but how far this will answer the purpose of a key, our readers shall judge. The following is part of the analysis of the first book.

'The poem commences by remarking the desire, natural to the mind, of investigating its own qualities-qualities the more exalted, as their developement has seldom been impeded by external circumstances-The various dispositions of different minds are next considered, and are compared to the varieties of scenic nature: inequalities in the spiritual not being more wonderful than inequalities in the natural-Byron and Campbell contrasted-The varieties of genius having been thus treated, the art of criticism is briefly alluded to, as generally independent of genius, but always useful to its produc tions-Jeffrey-The various stages of life in which genius appears, and the different causes by which its influence is discovered-Cowley, Alfieri-Allusion to the story of the emotion of Thucydides on hearing Herodotus recite his History at the Olympic Games-The elements of Mind are thus arranged, Invention, Judgment, Memory, and Association-The creations of Mind are next noticed, among which we first behold Philosophy-History, Science, and Metaphysics, are included in the studies of Philosophy.'

Now for the text.

Since Spirit first inspir'd, pervaded all,
And Mind met Matter, at th' Eternal call
Since dust weigh'd Genius down, or Genius gave
Th' immortal halo to the mortal's grave;

Th' ambitious soul her essence hath defin'd,
And Mind hath eulogiz'd the pow'rs of Mind.
Ere Revelation's holy light began

To strengthen Nature, and illumine Man-
When Genius, on Icarian pinions, flew,

And Nature's pencil, Nature's portrait, drew;
When Reason shudder'd at her own wan beam,
And Hope turn'd pale beneath the sickly gleam-
Ev'n then hath Mind's triumphant influence spoke,
Dust own'd the spell, and Plato's spirit woke→
Spread her eternal wings, and rose sublime
Beyond th' expanse of circumstance and time:
Blinded, but free, with faith instinctive, soar'd,
And found her home, where prostrate saints ador’d!
'Thou thing of light! that warm'st the breasts of men,
Breath'st from the lips, and tremblest from the pen!
Thou, form'd at once t' astonish, fire, beguile,
With Bacon reason, and with Shakespeare smile!
Thou subtle cause, ethereal essence! say,
Why dust rules dust, and clay surpasses clay;
Why a like mass of atoms should combine
To form a Tully, and a Catiline?

Or why, with flesh perchance of equal weight,
One cheers a prize-fight, and one frees a state?

Why do not I the muse of Homer call,
Or why, indeed, did Homer sing at all?
Why wrote not Blackstone upon love's delusion,
Or Moore, a libel on the Constitution?
Why must the faithful page refuse to tell
That Dante, Laura sang, and Petrarch, Hell-
That Tom Paine argued in the throne's defence-
That Byron nonsense wrote, and Thurlow sense-
That Southey sigh'd with all a patriot's cares,
While Locke
gave utterance to Hexameters ?
Thou thing of light! instruct my pen to find
Th' unequal pow'rs, the various forms of Mind!
'O'er Nature's changeful face direct your sight;
View light meet shade, and shade dissolve in light!
Mark, from the plain, the cloud-capp'd mountain soar;
The sullen ocean spurn the desert shore!
Behold, afar, the playmate of the storm,

Wild Niagara lifts his awful form

Spits his black foam above the madd'ning floods,
Himself the savage of his native woods-
See him, in air, his smoking torrents wheel,
While the rocks totter, and the forests reel-
Then, giddy, turn! lo! Shakespeare's Avon flows,
Charm'd, by the green-sward's kiss, to soft repose;
With tranquil brow reflects the smile of fame,
And, 'midst her sedges, sighs her Poet's name.
Thus, in bright sunshine, and alternate storms,
Is various mind express'd in various forms.

In equal men, why burns not equal fire?

Why are not valleys hills,-or mountains higher?
Her destin'd way, hath destin'd Nature trod;

While Matter, Spirit rules, and Spirit, God.' p. 5-9.

This last line, to say nothing of other objections which lie against it, is so exquisitely equivocal, that whether it be meant that spirit rules matter, or that matter rules spirit, is riddle-meree. In reviewing a poem, we do not expect to be required to enter the lists of polemical discussion; we shall therefore waive any animadversions on the Author's doctrines. We must, however, protest against the flippancy with which some subjects are treated, and the rash and self-complacent manner in which sentence is passed on the illustrious men referred to. Thus, while Lord Byron is styled, very affectedly the Mont Blanc of intellect, who o'erlook'd the nations and shook hands with Time ;'-and Jeffrey, the Northern Aristarchus, is described in the language of fulsome praise, as

• The lettered critic of a lettered age,

Who justly judges, rightfully discerns,

With wisdom teaches, and with candour learns ;

Leibnitz is compared to the owlet meeting the eagle (Newton) at the sun.' The following lines are in a sounder spirit of criticism.

• Let Gibbon's name be trac'd, in sorrow, here,—
Too great to spurn, too little to revere !
Who follow'd Reason, yet forgot her laws,

And found all causes, but the great first Cause:"
The paths of time, with guideless footsteps, trod;
Blind to the light of nature and of God;

Deaf to the voice, amid the past's dread hour,
Which sounds His praise, and chronicles His pow'r !
In vain for him was Truth's fair tablet spread,
When Prejudice, with jaundiced organs, read.
In vain for us the polish'd periods flow,
The fancy kindles, and the pages glow;

When one bright hour, and startling transport past,
The musing soul must turn to sigh at last.
Still let the page be luminous and just,
Nor private feeling war with public trust;
Still let the pen from narrowing views forbear,
And modern faction ancient freedom spare.
But ah! too oft th' historian bends his mind
To flatter party-not to serve mankind:
To make the dead, in living feuds, engage,
And give all time, the feelings of his age.

Great Hume hath stoop'd, the Stuarts' fame t' increase;
And ultra Mitford soar'd to libel Greece !'

We gladly turn from these barren and dazzling themes, to the green spots which indicate the genial flow of feeling in the minor poems. The following, we think, will best please our readers.

Stanzas, occasioned by a passage in Mr. Emerson's Journal, which states, that on the mention of Lord Byron's name, Captain Demetrius, an old Roumeliot, burst into tears.

• Name not his name, or look afar-
For when my spirit hears

That name, its strength is turned to woe

My voice is turned to tears.

Name me the host and the battle-storm,

Mine own good sword shall stem;

Name me the foeman and the block,

I have a smile for them!

'But name him not, or cease to mark
This brow where passions sweep

Behold, a warrior is a man,

And as a man may weep!

VOL. XXVI. N.S.

H