Bright Dian, who, Camilla-like, dost skim yon
Azure fields-Thou who once earthward bending
Didst loose thy virgin zone to young Endymion,

On dewy Latmos to his arms descending―
Thou whom the world of old on every shore
Type of thy sex, Triformis did adore-

Tell me where'er thy silver barque is steering,
By bright Italian or soft Persian lands,
Or, o'er those island-studded seas careering,

Whose pearl-charged waves dissolve on coral strands-
Tell if thou visitest, thou heavenly rover,

A lovelier spot than this the wide world over?

Doth Archelous or Araxes flowing

Twin-born, from Pindus, but ne'er-meeting brothers-
Doth Tagus o'er his golden pavement glowing,

Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of mothers,
The storied Rhine, or far-famed Guadalquivir,
Match they in beauty my own glorious river?

What though no turret gray or ivied column
Along these cliffs their sombre ruins rear?
What though no frowning tower or temple solemn,
Of despots tell and superstition here-

What though that mouldering fort's fast-crumbling walls
Did ne'er enclose a baron's bannered halls-

Its sinking arches once gave back as proud
An echo to the war-blown clarion's peal-
As gallant hearts its battlements did crowd,
As ever beat beneath a vest of steel,
When herald's trump on knighthood's haughtiest day
Called forth chivalric host to battle fray.

For here amid these woods did he keep court,

Before whose mighty soul the common crowd

Of heroes, who alone for Fame have fought,

Are like the Patriarch's sheaves to Heav'n's chos'n bowed;

He who his country's eagle taught to soar

And fired those stars which shine o'er every shore.

And sights and sounds, at which the world have wondered,
Within these wild ravines have had their birth-

Young Freedom's cannon from these glens have thundered,
And sent their startling echoes o'er the earth;
And not a verdant glade or mountain hoary
But treasures up within the glorious story.

And yet not rich in high souled memories only,

Is every moon-touched headland round me gleaming, Each cavernous glen and leafy valley lonely,

And silver torrent o'er the bald rock streaming; But such soft fancies here may breathe around, As make Vaucluse and Clarens hallow'd ground.

Where, tell me where, pale Watcher of the Night
Thou that to love so oft hast lent its soul,
Since the lorn Lesbian languished 'neath thy light,
Or fiery Montague to his Juliet stole-
Where dost thou find a fitter place on earth,
To nurse young love in hearts like theirs to birth?

But now, bright Peri of the skies, descending,
Thy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain's crest,
While night more nearly now each step attending,
As if to hide thy envied place of rest,
Closes at last thy very couch beside,
A matron curtaining a virgin bride.

Farewell! Though tears on every leaf are starting,

While thy last glances through the green boughs quiver, As of the good, when heavenward hence departing

Shines thy last smile upon the placid river. So could I fling o'er glory's tide one rayWould I too steal from this dark world away.

C. F. H.

EXAMINATION OF

BURKE'S THEORY OF THE SUBLIME.

The following article was promised a place in our pages some months since, and is now inserted, in justice to the author, as containing a well-sustained dissent from the popular doctrine of a very celebrated work, without the Editor at all pledging himself to its view of the subject.

It is usually with little respect that advances are received, which strike at the foundation of opinions established in popular belief, in any of the innumerable subjects on which that belief may be exercised. Nor is there less jealousy of innovation, or more liberality extended to scepticism in regard to any, the least, of the articles that constitute the confession of faith among literary and cultivated men. It is, therefore, not without some diffidence, that we would record our unqualified dissent, and enter our "solemn protest" to the popular doctrine of Mr. Burke, concerning the foundation of our emotions of the sublime, as being sustained in contradiction of the laws of the human mind, and the familiar experience of every individual.

That we may perceive clearly the whole scope of this doctrine, we recite one or two expressions from his treatise "concerning the sublime," which are so clearly and strongly marked, as to preclude the slightest ambiguity, or possibility of misinterpretation. "Terror," he remarks, "is the common stock of every thing that is sublime." Again, he says, "Whatever is fitted, in any sort, to excite the ideas of pain and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the sublime."

So extravagant, and so contradictory of its common experience, does this doctrine, when first enunciated, strike a mind accustomed to notice its own operations, that a thousand circumstances of pain and danger immediately suggest themselves, which do not in the least degree excite emotions of sublimity. Whoever experienced such emotions from the view of a reptile? Is there anything savouring of the sublime in that crawling sensation of mingled horror and aversion? We must doubt if the culprit at the whipping-post feels his mind expanding with the sublime; and yet perhaps he has the experience of as much "pain," as under other circumstances attends, or is attended with the highest emotions of that nature. In objects of still greater dimensions, which we know, under certain modifications, are associated and combined, more or less intimately, in occasions for such emotions. If we are exposed to a horse running wildly with a vehicle; or, still stronger, if we are in danger of being swallowed up in a wreck; is it possible to experience these sensations? Nature at once answers, no! The idea of sublimity is lost in that of extreme horror.

We have an instance, whether true or fabulous, of an artist, in a season of danger, at sea, having himself lashed to the mast of the ship, and who, while the crew were lost in despair, burst forth in exclamations at the sublimity of the Here the feelings of the man were lost in the habits of the artist. Being accustomed to study the sublime in every object; this being his ruling passion, we may conceive it possible that he should so far forget his own danger for the moment.

scene.

At the first enunciation, therefore, of Mr. Burke's theory, we are ready so far to restrict its comprehension, that to be susceptible of sublime emotions we must feel a degree of comparative safety and upon a moment's further reflection, we are ready to say, that the idea of terror, or danger, may be subservient to sublimity, only as we are impressed with the belief of the object being terrible, or dangerous, to anything which may be exposed to it. And we hope, presently, to show that in any object it is not any terribleness, as such, or any idea of danger that conduces in any degree to the impression of sublimity.

The several instances which Mr. Burke adduces, in illustration and confirmation of his theory, are strongly marked by circumstances of terror. But we imagine he attributes to them this effect from a proximity, or other mode of association, with other circumstances, which are the real and efficient causes. Thus, in the passage of Job, which he justly terms "amazingly sublime:" :” “In thoughts, from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, fear came upon me, and trembling, which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit passed before my face. The hair of my head stood up. It stood still, but I could not discern the form thereof; an image was before mine eyes: there was silence; and I heard a voice, Shall mortal man be more just than God?" "Here," he observes, "we are first terrified before we are let into the obscure cause of the emotion." To this we reply, the fear is but one particular in the image. This passion is not excited in ourselves, any more than in receiving the description of an execution, we may claim to experience the funicular sensation on the culprit's neck, and the awful trepidation easily supposed to accompany it. We do not experience the shaking of the bones, and the erection of the hair. If, while we are dwelling on the picture, any terror enter into our emotions, it is such a modified existence, as no longer to deserve the name. As we understand Mr. Burke's notion, Eliphas should have experienced the highest condition of the sublime; because he had an immediate perception of those terrible circumstances, and may be supposed to have been affected with a high degree of fear. But no one can be so ignorant of his own nature, and the paralyzing influence of this sensation, as to suppose there was a possibility of his being sublimely affected; unless we understand the agitation and shrinking of our whole being, that is, the operation of terror, to be one and the same with the calming, expanding, and glowing emotion of sublimity.

What is the efficient cause of the affection excited in us, as we study the scene? Is it the condition of terror, as pictured in Job's friend? Is it the same passion existing in ourselves, as excited by the objects and circumstances made present to our mind by the peculiar power of the imagination? Undoubtedly the objects are first realized by a wonderful power of the mind; but as a landscape viewed in the Camera Obscura, where every thing is distinct in deed and in motion, but mellowed and equalised by the softness of reflected light. The

mysterious immateriality we have, as it were, materialized before our eyes; but the agitation, the alarm, which the obscure uncertainty produces, by passing before and acting upon our senses, of this we have none. However highly incorporated and animated the picture may be to the mind, we must refer our emotions to the awfully mysterious operations of an invisible agent, wonderfully heightened by a knowledge that it is the agency of the Omnipotent. We are answered here. According to Burke's views, these may be the ultimate causes, but they produce the emotions under contemplation, only as they first inspire terror, which is the immediate and efficient cause. But the reply is, we may view a thousand exhibitions of terror, and experience the sensation in infinitely higher degrees, without this effect, as we have already given instances. Again, if imbued with the superstitions of darker times, we could suppose this scene to have been produced by the incantation of some witch, our emotions would be different in degree, and we think also in kind. Fear would predomi nate-fear for the man exposed to the machinations of the evil woman; while all the sublime of the mystery would be lost in a certain abhorrence of the agent.

Burke, as we think, was deceived into adopting the opinion, that terror is essential to sublimity, from observing in many objects, universally considered sublime, a connexion, likewise, with terror. His mind being thus prepared, such further objects, as were associated in any considerable degree with the sensation of fear, were naturally, and almost unavoidably suggested, and too exclusively insisted upon; while other objects were wholly neglected, or slightly regarded, which, in fact, are equally productive of the sublime, but do not so readily manifest any connexion with terror. Thus, too, are his readers, by a very simple process, persuaded to concur in his suggestions. We are told that pain, or terror, as producing pain, is the exciting and sustaining cause in our emotions of the sublime. But pain is the most vivid and impressive of all our sensations. An instance is proposed, and we immediately recognise the object as having often been the occasion of pain, or a high degree of terror to us. We then acknowledge the same object, singly, or in combination with other objects, either as immediately presented to the senses, or glowing in the imaginative arts of poetry and painting, to have been the occasion, and exciting cause of high and delightful emotions of sublimity. We are prepared, then, upon the first suggestion, to recognise the identity of the two principles, or their relation as cause and effect. The idea that the same object can occasion the emotions of sublimity and the emotions of terror; and that these emotions are not only different in kind, but utterly incompatible, or so far destructive of each other, that a strong influx of fear must necessarily stifle every thing of the sublime. Such an idea does not readily occur, but must be the result only of deliberate analytical reflection.

Thus, we have the following instances: an ox is an animal of amazing strength; but he is a harmless animal, and is never introduced in sublime descriptions. The bull, on the contrary, without more strength, is fierce and violent, and dangerous. He is sublime. So likewise the horse, for all purposes of the plough, the road, and draft, is powerful, and of great strength; but he is tame and innoxious. He is contemptible for all purposes of poetry. It is