only contend that their judgment is not infallible ; but I still think they are greatly better critics upon poetry than the generality of mankind. If we could suppose a poet with no exclusiveness of taste, (and there may be many such,) we might be pretty sure that his superior sensibility to poetic excellence, would make him a much better critic than other men; and even those poets who are wedded to some particular branch or style of art, are generally the best judges of the relative merit of productions in their own favourite department. It is a rare thing indeed to meet with a true critic upon either of the fine arts, but though such a judge is not often to be found, he is more frequently to be found amongst the artists themselves than elsewhere. It is on this account that a poet so fondly treasures up to his dying day a single word of praise from the lips of some great master in his profession. “I really believe," exclaims Sir Egerton Brydges, " that three or four cherished lines in the hand of Wordsworth upon one of my sonnets, saved me from a total mental wreck ; and the recovery was completed by the letters of Southey and Lockhart, which have been impressed so deeply on my heart, that, while it beats, they will never be effaced or faded.”


[The following poem was written as an illustration of an engraving by R. Dagley, Esq., in the second edition of a work entitled Death's Doings." Death is represented as in the act of placing a helmet on the head of a young warrior, who is standing at the door of a tent, while a female is winding a scarf round

A horse caparisoned, military emblems, &c. are seen in the background.]

his arm.


The warrior's soul is kindling now

With wildly blending fires;
He fondly breathes each raptured vow

That faithful love inspires;
But not those soothing words alone

Arrest the maiden's ear,
For young ambition's loftier tone

Awakes the throb of fear !


They hear the war-notes on the gale,

Before the tent they stand ;
His form is clad in glittering mail,

The sword is in his hand ;
Her scarf around his arm is twined,

Love's silken chain and spell,
Ah! would that mortal skill could bind

The links of life as well!

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SONNET. LADY—when life is desolate and drear,

How sweet to weep, if charms like thine beguile Wild passion's strife and wake the soothing tear !

Benign consoler ! at thy pensive smile Calm piety and trusting faith prevail

O’er sorrow's madness ; Hope's rekindled beam The dull gloom cheers, and Peace, so wont to fail,

Steals o'er the troubled spirit like a dream ! A cloud is on my heart,—yet, fondly now

I gaze on thee, nor breathe one murmuring sigh ;There is a grace upon thy placid brow,

A soul of beauty in thine azure eye, Blent with a holy meekness in thine air, That speak not of the earth, and shame the fiend, Despair !

SONNET-TO POESY. Fair Ruler of the visionary hour!

Sweet idol of the passionate and wild !

Enchantress of the soul! Lo! Sorrow's child
Still haunts thy shrine, and invocates thy power!
Alas ! when Fortune and the false world lower,

Shall thy sad votary supplicate in vain ?
Wilt thou, too, scorn affliction's withered bower,

Nor lend thine ear to misery and pain ?
Spirit unkind! And yet thy charms controul

My fervent aspirations-worthless still,

And fitful visions, all undreamt at will,
With ungrasped glory mock my cheated soul!

Like beauteous forms of hope, that glimmer nigh,
But from Despair's approach for ever fly!


With the exception of the plays of Shakespeare, there is very little popularly known of the poetry of the time of Elizabeth and James. Many persons who affect a love of reading are apt to talk familiarly enough of the names of Marlowe, Massinger, Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, Shirley, Ford, Spenser, Warner, Drayton, and Daniel, while of the works of these authors they are perhaps as ignorant as of the literature in the moon. To those who are stirred with a true and deep affection for genuine poetry, the long buried and but lately resuscitated treasures of the past, are a source of the most exquisite enjoyment. It has been remarked, that if a man would know the magnitude of human genius, he should read the plays of Shakespeare ; but if he would know the littleness of human learning, he should study his commentators. Much cannot be said of the taste and sensi. bility evinced by such men as Warburton, Steevens, Malone and others in their criticisms upon our great dramatic bard; but they have undoubtedly been of some service to literature, by indirectly recalling the public attention to his contemporaries, whose pages they have studied to assist them in explaining the numerous archaisms and obscure allusions of their author's text. Cold and pedantic as they seem, they were amongst our earliest pioneers in clearing the way to the glorious past. If left to themselves, it must be confessed that little would have been gained by their industry and zeal; because their learning was without refinement, and their labours undirected by true taste. By reviving the claims of Shakespeare, and by referring so frequently to the

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