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It were “a curious piece of work enough," to run a parallel between the Sklark or Shelley and that of Wordsworth, and thus illustrate mental processes so similar in dissimilitude. The mood of mind, the ideas, are not unlike in the two. Hear Words. worth.

" Up with me, up with me, into the clouds," de.

O'er which clouds are bright’ning,

Thou dost float and run Liko an unbodial joy, whose race is just begun

The pale purple cven

Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven,

In the broad daylight,
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

Keen as are the arrows

or that silver sphere,
Whose intensc lamp narrows

In the white dawn clcar,
Until we hardly sce, we feel that it is thero.

All the carth and air

With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beans, and beaven is overtioned

"Lift me, guide me, till I find

The spot which scems so to thy mind,
I have walked through wildernesser dreary,

And today my heart is weary,
Had I now the wings of a Fairy

Up to thce would I ny;
There is madness about thoe, and joy divino

In that song of thino:
Joyous as morning, thou art laughing and scorning;

And though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark, thou would'st be loth
To be such a traveller as Il

Happy, happy liver,
With a soul as strong as a mountain river,
Pouring out praise to tho Almighty Giver,

Joy and jollity bo with us both." • Hear Shelley

Hail to thee, blithe spirit !

Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven or near it,

Pourest thy full heart
La profuse strains of unpremcdilated arh

What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it hooded not

Higher still and higher,

From the carth thou springent,
Like a cloud of fire

The blue decp thou wingest,
And singing still dost sour, and soaring over singest

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace lower,
Soothing her love-laden

Soul in secret bour,
With music swoet as love which overflows ber bower.

In the golden lightning

of the sunken sun,

Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dow

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ley, in melody and exuberance of fancy, was incalculably supe. rior to Wordsworth? But mark their mferences. Shelley.

" Teach me half the gladnoss

That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness

From my lips would tlow
The world should listen, then, as I am listening now."

Wordsworth.

Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened Nowers,

All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpasu.

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thino:
I have never heard

Praise of love or wine
Thot nanted forth a flood of rapture so diving

"What though my course be rugged and uneven,
To prickly moors and dusty ways confinal,
Yet, hearing thee and others of thy kind
As full of gladness and as free of heaven,

I o'er the carth will go plodding on
By myself, cheerfully, till the day is done."

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Chorus hymencal,

Or triumphant chaunt,
Matched with thinc would be all

But an empty vaunt-
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains

or thy happy strain ?
What fields, or waves, or mountains ?

What shapes of sky or plain ?
What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of pain ?

If Wordsworth have superiority then, it consists in greater matii. rity and dignity of sentiment.

While reading Shelley, we must surrender ourselves without reserve to the magnetic power of genius; we must not expect to be satisfied, but rest content with being stimulated. He alone who can resign his soul in unquestioning simplicity to the des. cant of the nightingale or the absorption of the sea-side, may hope to receive from the mind of a Shelley the suggestions which, to those who know how to receive, he can so liberally impart.

I cannot leave Shelley without quoting two or threo stanzas, in which he speaks of himself, and which are full of his peculiar teauties and peculiar faults.

With thy clear keen joyance

Languor cannot be ;
Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee:
Thou lovest; but nc'er knew love's sad satiety.”

"A frail form, A phantom among men, companionless, As the last cloud of an expiring storm, Whose thunder is its knell, he, as I guese, Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness Actacon-like, and now he fled astray

I do not like to omit a word of it: but it is taking too much room. Should we not say from the samples before us that Shel.

Win feeble steps n'or the world's wilderness,
And his own thoughts, along that rugged way,
Pursued like raginy hounds their father and their prey.
A pard-like Spirit, beautiful and swift-
A lovo in desolation masked; a power
Girt round with weak nens; it can scarce uplift
The weight of the superincumbent hour;
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,
A breaking billow; even whilst we speak
Is it not broken? On the withering flower
The killing sun smilcs brightly; on a check
The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break.

and they are beginning to find their proper level. Their value is two-fold—immortal and eternal, as records of thoughts and ( feelings which must be immortally and eternally interesting to the mind of individual man; historical, because they are the most complete chronicle of a particular set of impulses in the public mind.

How much of the first sort of value the poems of Byron pos. sess, posterity must decide, and the verdict can only be ascer. tained by degrees ; I, for one, should say not much. There are many beautiful pictures ; infinite wit, but too local and teinpo. 1 rary in its range to be greatly prized beyond his own time ; lit. tlo originality ; but much vigor, both of thought and expression; with a deep, even a passionate love of the beautiful and grand. I have of'en thought, in relation to him, of Wordsworth's desoription of

His head was bound with pansics overblown,
And failed violets, white, and pied, and blue;
And a light spear, topped with a cypress cone,
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew
Yet dripping with the forest's noon-day dow,
Vibrate as the ever-beating heart
Shook the weak hand that grasped it; of that crew
Ho came the last, neglected and apart;
A herd-abandoned dcer, struck by the hunter's dart."

A youth to whom was given So much of Earth, so much of Heaven,

And such impetuous blood.”

" Whatever in those climes he found, Irregular in sight or sound,

Did to his mind impart
A kindred impulsc, sccmed allied
To his own powers, and justified

The workings of his heart.

Shelley is no longer "neglected," but I believe his works have never been republished in this country, and therefore these ex. Iracls may be new to most readers.

Byron naturally in our hall of imagery takes place next his Ifriend. Both are noble poetio shapes, both mournful in their beauty. The radiant gentleness of Shelley's brow and eye delight us, but there are maiks of suffering on that delicate cheek and about that sweet mouth; whilo a sorrowful indignation curls too strongly the lip, lightens too fiercely in the eye, of Byron.

The unfortunate Byron, (unfortunate I call him, because "mind and destiny are but two names for one idea,”') has long been at rest ; the adoration and the hatred of which he was the object, are both dying out. His poems have done their work; a strong personal interest no longer gives them a factitious charm,

Nor less to feed voluptuous thought
The beautcous forms of nature wrought,

Fair trccs and lovely flowers;
The breczes their own languor lent,
The stars had feelings which they sent

Into those gorgeous bowers.

And in his worst pursuits, I woen, That sometimes there did interveno

Pare hopes of high intent;

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