cannot really love Wordsworth; nor can to them "the simplest flower" bring "thoughts that lie too deep for tears." Happy his pupils; they are gentle, they are calm, and they must always be progressing in our knowledge; for, to a mind which can sympathize with his, no hour, no scene can possibly be barren. The contents of the lately published little volume* accord perfectly, in essentials, with those of the preceding four. The sonnets are like those he has previously written-equally unfinished as sonnets, equally full of meaning as poems. If it be the case with all his poems, that scarcely one forms a perfect whole by itself, but is valuable as a leaf out of his mind, it is peculiarly so with his sonnets. I presume he only makes use of this difficult mode of writing because it is a concise one for the expression of a single thought or a single mood. I know not that one of his sonnets is polished and wrought to a point, as this most artistical of all poems should be; but neither do I know one which does not contain something we would not willingly lose. As the beautiful sonnet which I shall give presently, whose import is so wide and yet so easily understood, contains in the motto, what Messer Petrarca would have said in the two concluding lines. (Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take Across the harp, with soul-engrossing speed; * Yarrow Revisited, and other poems. Forced from that voice so lately tuned to a strain Of harmony!--a shriek of terror, pain, And self-reproach!-for from aloft a kite Pounced, and the dove, which from its ruthless beak She could not rescue, perished in her sight!" Even the Sonnet upon Sonnets, so perfect in the details, is not perfect as a whole. However, I am not so fastidious as some persons about the dress of a thought. These sonnets are so replete with sweetness and spirit, that we can excuse their want of symmetry; and probably should not feel it, except from comparison with more highly-finished works of the same kind. One more let me extract, which should be laid to heart: "Desponding father! mark this altered bough To hope-in parents sinful above all." "Yarrow Revisited" is a beautiful reverie. It ought to be read as such, for it has no determined aim. These are fine verses. "And what for this frail world were all That mortals do or suffer, Did no responsive harp, no pen, Memorial tribute offer? Yea, what were mighty Nature's self? Her features, could they win us, Unhelped by the poetic voice That hourly speaks within us? "Nor deem that localized romance Plays false with our affections; Ah, no! the visions of the past and this stanza, "Eternal blessings on the Muse, And her divine employment! The blameless Muse, who trains her sons Albeit sickness, lingering yet, Has o'er their pillow brooded; And care waylay their steps-a sprite Not easily eluded." reminds us of what Scott says in his farewell to the Harp of the North: "Much have I owed thy strains, on life's long way, Through secret woes the world has never known, That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress, is thine own." "The Egyptian Maid" is distinguished by a soft visionary style of painting, and a stealthy alluring movement, like the rippling of advancing waters, which, I do not remember elsewhere in Wordsworth's writings. "The Armenian Lady's love" is a fine balled. The following verses are admirable for delicacy of sentiment and musical sweet Foes might hang upon their path, snakes rustle near, "Thought infirm ne'er came between them, Forest fruit with social hands; Or whispering like two reeds that in the cold moonbeam The Evening Voluntaries are very beautiful in manner, and full of suggestions. The second is worth extracting as a forcible exhibition of one of Wordsworth's leading opinions. "Not in the lucid intervals of life That come but as a curse to party strife; Of languor, puts his rosy garland by; Not in the breathing times of that poor slave Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon's cave, Is nature felt, or can be; nor do words Which practised talent readily affords Prove that her hands have touched responsive chords. Nor has her gentle beauty power to move With genuine rapture and with fervent love The soul of genius, if he dares to take Life's rule from passion craved for passion's sake, Of all the truly great and all the innocent; To all that earth from pensive hearts is stealing, Vain is the pleasure, a false calm the peace, His gracious help, or give what we abuse." But nothing in this volume better deserves attention than "Lines suggested by a Portrait from the pencil of F. Stone," and "Stanzas on the Power of Sound." The first for a refinement and justness of thought rarely surpassed, and the second for a lyric flow, a swelling inspiration, and a width of range, which Wordsworth has never equalled, except in the "Ode on the Intimations of Immortality," and the noble ode, or rather hymn, to Duty. It should be read entire, and I shall not quote a line. By a singular naiveté the poet has prefixed to these stanzas a table of contents. This distrust of his reader seems to prove that he had risen above his usual level. What more to the purpose can we say about Wordsworth, except—read him. Like his beloved Nature, to be known he must be loved. His thoughts may be transfused, but never adequately interpreted. Verily, "To paint his being to a grovelling mind, Were like describing pictures to the blind. But no one, in whose bosom there yet lives a spark of nature or feeling, need despair of some time sympathizing with him; since one of the most brilliantly factitious writers of the day, one I should have singled out as seven-fold shielded against his gentle influence, has paid him so feeling a tribute: "How must thy lone and lofty soul have gone |