To blend with knowledge of the years to come, Human, or such as lie beyond the grave.'-p. 24. Contemplating this portraiture, we would ask,- Was there ever such a man formed under such circumstances? and we have no hesitation in answering-There was not. Mr. Wordsworth's Wanderer is a character as ideal as Homer's Achilles. The Poet indeed speaks of him as as a being made of many beings;' and assuredly he is one made of two-a man of toil, endowed with the sensibilities, and made wise by the experience, ascribed to the Wanderer, with the learning and refinement of the Author, a man of leisure, superadded: for Mr. Wordsworth himself, had he been born in the same sphere, and passed through the same probation, could never have been more than half the magnificent and venerable being, which his fine imagination has here conceived and bodied forth. But if this paragon have no prototype in individual man, it has perfect ideal existence, and therefore poetical reality. It resembles Nature as the Belvidere Apollo, and the Venus de Medici resemble her, being defective only in wanting the defects of every model of living excellence."

With this, companion the Author proceeds on The Excursion;' and, by the way, the Wanderer relates the history of the former tenant of the ruined cottage;-one instance of that slow and heart-consuming misery which thousands have. suffered, during the last twenty years of war, and, in many cases, with aggravated horrors; for though a more pathetic tale than this before us was never told, the effect is produced by innumerable little touches, which imperceptibly work up the picture to the consummation of wretchedness.

The pleasure and independence of walking, were perhaps never more worthily celebrated than in the subjoined clause.

The Wealthy, the Luxurious, by the stress

Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their time,

May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs

Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise,

From earth the dust of morning, slow to rise;

And They, if blessed with health and hearts at ease,
Shall lack not their enjoyment:-but how faint
Compared with our's! who, pacing side by side,
Could with an eye of leisure look on all
That we beheld; and lend the listening sense
To every grateful sound of earth and air,

Pausing at will; our spirits braced, our thoughts

Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown,

And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves.-p. 56.

On the last two of these lines we may remark, that some similes have only an abstract affinity to the things with which

they may be combined. These are rarely used by secondary poets, and little understood by careless readers, for they include the most refined and spiritual resemblances. They may be classed with the ideas of the blind concerning objects of vision:-thus one compared the colour of scarlet to the sound of a trumpet; and another supposed the splendour of the sun .to be like the intense smoothness of a convex mirror. To feel the propriety of these curious conceptions, we must imagine,-what indeed we can very imperfectly imagine,-the exquisite sense of hearing and delicacy of touch, which almost compensate the loss of sight to persons born blind. He must have a dull spirit, who, on these things being pointed out, cannot perceive their correspondence; but to discover them is one of the transcendent prerogatives of genius..

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In the adjacent glen the Wanderer introduces the Poet to another personage, who is designated. The Solitary.' He also is a North Briton, and had been engaged in the Christian ministry; but having lost an amiable wife, and both his children, he became a prey to melancholy, from which he was roused into a temporary frenzy of political zeal for the rights of man, by the shock of the French Revolution. Discovering his error in the disappointment of his hopes, he renounced his sacred function, and with it his faith and after seeking rest but finding none, either at home or abroad, he has abandoned himself to misanthropy and scepticism, and lives in sullen retirement from the world, with a single family, consisting of four persons, the sole inhabitants of a secluded valley. This unhappy mortal tells his own distressing tale, and gives bitter vent to his despondency: the Wanderer reproves that despondency, and holds out to him motives and means of felicity. Here the Author has put forth all his strength, and it was to this conversation especially, that we alluded in the preamble to this article. The Sceptic twice asks questions concerning the way of salvation revealed in the Scriptures, and in neither case does he receive a direct answer. Describing his unappeasable anguish of spirit during a voyage to America, he says,

within the cabin stood
That Volume-as a compass for the soul-
Revered among the Nations. I implored
Its guidance; but the infallible support
Of faith was wanting. Tell me, why refused
To One by storms annoyed and adverse winds,
Perplexed with currents, of his weakness sick,
Of vain endeavours tired, and by his own,
And by his Nature's ignorance, dismayed.—p. 134.

Another time, in rueful tone, with some impatience in his mien,' he demands,

shall the groaning Spirit cast her load,

At the Redeemer's feet?"

The sum of all the prodigality of eloquent arguments, poured forth by the Wanderer, in reply to the Solitary, comprehending reproof, instruction, and exhortation, amounts to little more than a prescription of air and exercise, and the contemplation of nature, whereby health of body and peace of mind may be restored! If the patient were a mere hypochondriac, devoured by spleen, or overwhelmed with temporal calamity, this advice might perhaps be sufficient; but a "wounded spirit," a guilty conscience, "an evil heart of unbelief," cannot be healed by the breezes, purified by the streams, or regenerated by the light of the morning. Our limits absolutely preclude us from entering upon any analysis of this most animated division of the poem, which wants nothing but an honest exposition of the Christian faith, in addition to accounts of the Jewish, Persian, Babylonian, Chaldean, and Grecian modes of belief,' to constitute it the most perfect strain of moral poetry in the English, or perhaps in any language. But wanting this "one thing,"-this "one thing needful,”—all the glories of philosophy, though displayed with unparalleled splendour, vanish like a florid sunset, leaving the forlorn and disconsolate sinner wandering in darkness, and still crying, "What shall I do to be saved?"

The following delineation of the contrasted griefs of the Solitary and his Wife, on the sudden loss of their children, may disdain, eulogy, and defy censure,

Calm as a frozen Lake when ruthless Winds
Blow fiercely, agitating earth and sky,
The Mother now remained; as if in her,
Who, to the lowest region of the soul,

Had been erewhile unsettled and disturbed,

This second visitation had no power

To shake; but only to bind up and seal;
And to establish thankfulness of heart
In Heaven's determinations, ever just.
The eminence on which her spirit stood,
Mine was unable to attain.

Immense

The space that severed us! But, as the sight
Communicates with heaven's etherial orbs
Incalculably distant; so, I felt

That consolation may descend from far;
(And that is intercourse, and union, too,)
While, overcome with speechless gratitude,
And with a holier love inspired, I looked

On her at once superior to my woes
And Partner of my loss.-O heavy change!
Dimness o'er this clear Luminary crept
Insensibly; the immortal and divine
Yielded to mortal reflux; her pure Glory,
As from the pinnacle of worldly state
Wretched Ambition drops astounded, fell
Into a gulph obscure of silent grief,

And keen heart-anguish-of itself ashamed,
Yet obstinately cherishing itself:

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And, so consumed, She melted from my arms;
And left me, on this earth, disconsolate.

• What followed cannot be reviewed in thougnt ;
Much less, retraced in words. If She of life
Blameless; so intimate with love and joy,
And all the tender motions of the Soul,
Had been supplanted, could I hope to stand?
Infirm, dependant, and now destitute!

I called on dreams and visions, to disclose
That which is veiled from waking thought; conjured
Eternity, as men constrain a Ghost

To appear and answer; to the Grave I spake
Imploringly-looked up, and asked the Heavens
If Angels traversed their cerulean floors,

If fixed or wandering Star could tidings yield
Of the departed Spirit-what Abode

It occupies what consciousness retains

Of former loves and interests. Then my Soul
Turned inward,-to examine of what stuff
Time's fetters are composed; and Life was put
To inquisition, long and profitless!

By pain of heart-now checked-and now impelled-
The intellectual Power, through words and things,
Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way!
And from those transports, and these toils abstruse,
Some trace am I enabled to retain

Of time, else lost;-existing unto me

Only by records in myself not found.'-pp. 125, 126, 127. The origin of Grecian fables is thus elegantly imagined. In that fair Clime, the lonely Herdsman, stretched On the soft grass through half a summer's day, With music lulled his indolent repose:

And, in some fit of weariness, if he

When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear
A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds
Which his poor skill could make, his Fancy fetched,
Even from the blazing Chariot of the Sun,
A beardless Youth, who touched a golden lute,
And filled the illumined groves with ravishment.

The nightly Hunter, lifting up his eyes
Towards the crescent Moon, with grateful heart
Called on the lovely wanderer who bestowed
That timely light, to share his joyous sport:
And hence, a beaming Goddess with her Nymphs,
Across the lawn and through the darksome grove,
(Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes

By echo multiplied from rock or cave)

Swept in the storm of chase, as Moon and Stars
Glance rapidly along the clouded heavens,

When winds are blowing strong. The Traveller slaked
His thirst from Rill or gushing Fount, and thanked
The Naiad.-Sunbeams, upon distant Hills
Gliding apace, with Shadows in their train,
Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed
Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly.

The Zephyrs, fanning as they passed, their wings,
Lacked not, for Love, fair Objects, whom they wooed
With gentle whisper. Withered Boughs grotesque,
Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age,
From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth
In the low vale, or on steep mountain side;
And, sometimes, intermixed with stirring horns
Of the live Deer, or Goat's depending beard;
These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood
Of gamesome Deities! or Pan himself,

The simple Shepherd's awe-inspiring God.'—pp. 179, 180. The Poet and his two companions afterwards visit a Church Yard among the mountains,' where meeting with 'the Pastor,' he, at their request, records the names and worth of several persons, who lie buried there. These short and simple annals of the poor,'-short in detail, and simple in occurrence,-are rendered exceedingly attractive, as well as dignified, by the rich and harmonious style in which they are told; and by many readers they will undoubtedly be deemed the most delightful portions of the work. We must be sparing of quotation. The subsequent remarks on contemplating the epitaphs in a Church yard, though sufficiently obvious, may claim the merit of novelty.

I, for my part,

Though with the silence pleased which here prevails,
Among those fair recitals also range

Soothed by the natural spirit which they breathe.

And, in the centre of a world whose soil

Is rank with all unkindness, compassed round

With such Memorials, I have sometimes felt

That 'twas no momentary happiness

To have one enclosure where the voice that speaks
In envy or detraction is not heard;

VOL. III. N. S.

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