They see not what the wise might see,

(Lost wanderers in the storm!) How far above mortality,

As man above the worm,

Is He whose awful glory seems
Impalpable to earthly dreams.

Yet man to mournful blindness given
Would pierce the mystic veil of heaven,
And with delirious boldness scan
His unseen Maker's secret plan;
Forgetful that he could not part
The curtain of his own proud heart!

SONNET, WRITTEN IN INDIA.

NIGHT AND MORNING.

THE moon was shrouded; cold, continuous rain

Fell on the grove with melancholy sound;
The jackal's distant cry, the voice profound
Of Gunga's rolling wave, like moans of pain,
Came on the midnight blast! Hill, vale, and plain

Lay in impenetrable gloom o'ercast,

Save when the fitful meteor glimmered past,

Or the blue lightning lit the drear domain !

Lo! what a glorious change! The rising sun

Spreads wide his living light! The fragrant bower Ringing with morning hymns-the stately towerThe shepherd's simple home, alike have won

The cheerful smile of heaven. Fair Nature's dower Of beauty is restored, and Care's brief reign is done!

VOL. II.

NATURE.

1.

THE fair smile of morning,
The glory of noon,
The bright stars adorning

The path of the moon ;

The sky-mingled mountain,

The valley and plain,
The lake and the fountain,

The river and main ;

Their magic refining,

And raising the soul,

Its care and repining,

Illume and controul.

II.

The timid Spring stealing

Through light and perfume,

The Summer revealing

His beauty and bloom;

The rich Autumn glowing

With fruit-treasures crowned,

The pale Winter throwing

His snow-wreaths around;

All widely diffusing

A charm on the earth,

Wake loftiest musing,

And holiest mirth.

2 E

III.

There is not a sorrow

That hath not a balm,

From Nature to borrow,

In tempest or calm ;

There is not a season,

There is not a scene,

But Fancy and Reason
May hail it serene,

And own its possessing

A zest for the glad,

A beauty or blessing

To solace the sad!

SONG.

A GLORIOUS fate is thine, fair Maid!
The green earth and the sky
Nor bear an ill, nor cast a shade
To dim thine azure eye.

Thy soul is flashing o'er thy face,
Where bright emotions play,
As waves o'er breezy rivers race
Beneath the morning ray.

My path was lone, and all around
The ruthless storm had been,
And life had not a sight or sound
To cheer the clouded scene.

But now my darker dreams depart,
Thy form and voice are near,
A light is on my raptured heart,
And music in my ear!

ON FOUR COMIC CHARACTERS:

SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, DON QUIXOTE, SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY AND MY UNCLE TOBY.

THE finest comic characters that human genius has yet familiarized to the imagination of mankind, are Sir John Falstaff, Don Quixote, Sir Roger de Coverley, and My Uncle Toby. He who has once become acquainted with these unrivalled intellectual creations, (as substantial as flesh and blood,) has increased the number of his associates with four delightful beings, who will never leave him while he breathes the breath of life. These comic personages are not like the slight and vulgar sketches of ordinary nature or of mere manners, that we generally meet with in the page of fiction, and which

"Come like shadows, so depart."

The majority of modern novelists perplex us with shadowy shapes that leave no trace behind them, but these four characters are as distinct to our apprehension as living creatures, and have an individuality founded upon general nature that renders them equally intelligible and pleasing to all times and nations. It is strange that no critic has yet thought of bringing into contact and comparison these masterpieces of comic genius. In the hope that some writer who has more ability for the task, may be induced to pursue the subject further, we venture to offer the following very imperfect remarks and illustrations.

It is interesting to remember, that Shakespeare and Cervantes were contemporaries, and that they finished their mortal career

upon the same day. Lope de Vega, who has been called the Spanish Shakespeare, flourished about the same period; but though a successful dramatist, he was not so nearly allied in genius to our own great poet as Cervantes. It is true, that Lope de Vega was a better playwright than the author of Don Quixote, but he stands considerably lower as a man of genius. As a dramatist, Cervantes was singularly unsuccessful, and was a striking illustration of the strange truth, that a man may display a rich dramatic invention in a romance or novel, and fail entirely in writing for the theatre. In later times and in our own country, Fielding and Sir Walter Scott have both shown, that the order of mind which supplies a prose fiction with dramatic scenes and characters, is not precisely the same as that which produces and adapts a picture of human life for representation on the stage. The novelist excels chiefly in description and narration, the dramatist in dialogue; and though we often see fine dramatic materials in a well-conceived novel, there is rarely at the same time that unaccountable skill or instinct or intuition which is displayed by a genuine dramatist in making the several creatures of his brain develop their own peculiar characters. In the same way we are sometimes puzzled at observing all the elements of rich and beautiful poetry in a prose romance by a writer, whose brain seems as barren as winter the moment he attempts a regular poem. It would lead us too far from our present purpose if we were to make any attempt to account for these well known facts in the world of intellect.

We have reason to know that Cervantes could not have written plays like those of Shakespeare; but it is quite certain, that he has produced a comic character that is as perfect in its way as old Jack Falstaff himself. It has probably indeed given pleasure to a much greater number of readers, for the far-famed romance of Cervantes has been translated into every European language. The author was neglected, but his book was extremely popular