When he comes back; you demy-puppets, that

By moon-shine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime
Is it to make midnight mushrooms; that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew by whose aid
(Weak masters though ye be.) I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire, and rifled Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong-bas'd promontory
Have I made shake: and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command,
Have wak'd their sleepers; op'd, and let them forth,
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure and when I have requir'd
Some heavenly music, (which even now I do,)
To work mine end upon their senses, that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And, deeper than did ever plummet sound,
I'll drown my book."

with storm and tempest, pouring the waters of bitternes upon the pleasant paths of earth, and calling upon the troubled elements to bring their tribute of despair.

What then is imagination to the good or to the evil? An angel whose protecting wings are stretched out above the pathway to the gates of heaven-a demon whose ghastly image beckons from precipice to gulf-down, down into the fathomless abyss of endless night: a gentle visitant, who brings a tribute of sweet flowers-a fearful harbinger of storms and darkness: a voice of melody that sings before us as we journey on a cry that tells of horrors yet to come: a wreath of beauty shadowing our upward gaze-a crown of thorns encircling It is easy to bring proofs of the existence a bleeding brow: a wilderness of verdure of imagination-more easy from the pen of spread beneath our wandering steps-an Shakespeare than from that of any other adder in that verdure lurking to destroy: writer; but what language shall describe its a comforter whose smile diffuses light—an power! what hand shall reach to the utmost enemy whose envenomed arrow rankles in boundary of space and time-from the the heart: a joyful messenger going forth source of light to the centre of darkness-upon an embassy of love-a hideous monfrom the heights of heaven, to the depths of hell, to draw forth the attributes of imagination, and embody them in a visible sign? Countless as the varieties of human character are those of the nature and office of this active principle; and whatever is the tendency of the mind-to happiness or misery -to good or evil, imagination, faithful to the impulse of the feelings, ranges through creation, collecting sweets or bitters-delicious food, or deadly poison.

ster howling at the gates of hell.

True to the impulse of nature, imagination rushes forth with certain aim, and never brings home sweets to the malevolent, or poison to the pure heart; but penetrating into paths unknown, gathers riches for the supply of confidence and hope, or collecting its evidence from "trifles light as air," sharpens the pangs of envy and mistrust.

Ask the

There are who treat imagination as a light to be extinguished-a power to be This faculty, more than any other, beovercome-a demon to be exorcised. But speaks the progress, or the declension of the ask the child who sits with sullen brow heimmortal soul. Like the dove of peace, it neath unnatural discipline, whether imagisoars with the spirit in its upward flight-nation is not pointing to flowery paths, and like the ominous raven it goes before it in its stimulating his unbroken will to seek them downward fall. To those who seek for in despite of stripes and tears. beauty and happiness, imagination lifts the self-isolated misanthrope, when lonely and veil of nature, and discloses all her charms, unloved he broods over the dark future and unfolds the rosebud to the morning sun, the joyless past, whether imagination does wakens the lark to sing his matins to the not call up images of social comfort, of purple dawn, or folds back the mantle of friendly intercourse, and "homefelt delight," never know. misty clouds, and calls upon the day-beam which his sad solitude can to arise; while those who close their eyes Ask the pale monk whose daily penance upon the loveliness that smiles around them, drags him to an early grave, whether imit darkens with a tenfold gloom, sharpening agination steals not with the moonbeams the thorns that lie beneath their feet, stun- into his silent cell, whispering of another ning the ear with the harsh tumult of dis-heaven than that of which he reads-a heacordant sounds, rousing the bellowing deep ven even upon earth, to which a broken vow,

impression, there is a tide of feeling which flows through the mind of man, in different degrees of velocity and depth, awakening his imagination, stimulating his energies, and supporting him under every intellectual effort. This tide of natural feeling obtains the character of enthusiasm, or power, according to the concomitants with which it operates. If connected with great sensibility, and liveliness of imagination, without clear perceptions, sound judgment, or habits of deep reasoning, it is with strict propriety called enthusiasm ; and as such works wonders amongst mankind. Indeed we are indebted to enthusiasm for a great proportion of what is new in theory, and experimental in practice; as well as for most of the astonishing instances of valour, enterprize, and

a church in arms, a name struck out from the community of saints, are in comparison as nothing. Ask the criminal at the gallow's foot, when chains, and judges, and penitence and priests, have done their utmost to fortify his soul for its last mortal struggle, whether imagination does not paint the picture of his cottage in the wood, with her whose prayers he has neglected, fondly watching for his return, and whether the voices of his children come not on the wandering gale, as they lift their innocent hands to heaven, and bless their father in their evening hymns. Yes; and the stern moralist, who would strike out imagination from the soul of man, must first extinguish the principle of life. What then remains? That those who have the conduct of the infant mind, should seek to stamp it with a living impress of the loveli-zeal with which the page of history is enlivness of virtue, and the deformity of vice; and that the passions and affections should be so disciplined, that imagination, the busy faculty which must, and will exist, and act, either for happiness or misery, for good or evil, may bring home to the hungry soul food fit for the nourishment of an immortal being, and dispense from out the fulness of a grateful heart, the richest tribute man can offer at the throne of God.

POWER.

POWER, in connexion with the art of writing poetry, admits of two distinctions-as it relates to language and to mind. The former, however, is always dependent upon and subservient to the latter; but the power of mind may exist where there is little or no facility in the use of appropriate words. Were it possible that powerful language could proceed from an imbecile mind, the effect would be, that of heaping together ponderous words, and incongruous images, to extend and magnify confusion, without rendering any single thought impressive.

so as

That the force of our ideas must depend in great measure upon the strength of our impressions, is as clear, as that the vividness of a picture must depend upon the colours in which it is painted; but in addition to

ened and adorned. But enthusiasm, while it partakes of the nature of power in its first impulse, is essentially different in its operation. Enthusiasm in action aims at one point of ardent desire, and regards neither time, nor space, nor difficulty, nor absurdity, in attaining it; while true mental power, in strict alliance with the highest faculties of the mind, is the impetus which forces them into action, so as to accomplish its purpose by the concentrated strength of human intellect directed to an attainable object.

When this principle is diffused through the medium of language, it imparts a portion of its own nature, commanding conviction, stimulating ardour, and rousing determined action; or, bursting upon the poetic soul like sunshine through the clouds of morning, it opens the book of nature, and reveals a new world of light and loveliness, and glory. It creates not only conviction and approval, but actual sensation; and thrills through the awakened feelings, like those tremendous manifestations of physical force, which by the combined agency of different elements produce the most wonderful, and sometimes the most calamitous results.

Were it possible that in any human mind, its faculties could have a complete and evident existence and yet lie dormant, we should say of such a mind that power alone was wanting; but since there must be some power to stimulate the slightest voluntary

not be the case. There must to every individual, liable to human weakness and infirmity, be seasons when merely to think definitely requires an effort-when desire fails, and the grasshopper becomes a burden; but when the poet speaks of the blissful moment of inspiration, we suppose it to be that in which all his highest faculties are

act, we must speak of this faculty as being always present, and existing in a greater or a less degree. Persons deficient in this faculty and no other, are always content to imitate; and as a proof that they possess the other requisites for successful exertion, they sometimes imitate with great ability and exactness, while they shrink from the very thought of attempting any thing with-in agreeable exercise, at the same time that out a model, from an internal consciousness the operations of mental power are unof inability. That many venture to strike impeded. out into new paths without attaining any thing like excellence, is owing to the want of some other mental quality; and that some continue to pursue such paths to their own shame, and the annoyance of their fellow creatures, arises from their enthusiasm, not from their power. Yet while many wander on in this eccentric course, without ever being aware of their inability to succeed, we believe that no man ever yet voluntarily commenced a deliberate undertaking, without some internal evidence of power, where it really did exist. A sudden effort is no test, because time is not allowed for the mind to examine its own resources; but the man who has this evidence, will work out his determined way, though all the world should pronounce him incompetent, and exclaim at his absurdity.

It may be asked, if this evidence always accompanies the possession of power, how is it that certain individuals have not been aware of its existence until circumstances have called forth their energies? I answer, it is the test alone which brings this confidence to light; but even these individuals, for any thing which history tells us to the contrary, may have had in their private walk precisely the same sensations on commencing any trifling undertaking, as afterwards accompanied their more public and splendid career. We are not told with what energy or skill Cincinnatus cultivated his farm, but we have no proof that he did not feel the same consciousness of power in conducting his agricultural pursuits, as in regulating the affairs of the commonwealth of Rome. Still it would be absurd to maintain that power always exists in the same mind in an equal degree. There are physical as well as other causes why this should

Amongst our poets, those who display the greatest power of mind, are Milton, Pope, and Young. Had Young possessed the requisite of taste, he would perhaps have rivalled even Milton in power; but such is his choice of images and words, that by the frequent and sudden introduction of heterogeneous and inferior ideas, he nullifies what would otherwise be sublime, and by breaking the chain of association, strikes out, as it were, the key-stone of the arch. Nor is this all. The ponderous magnitude of his images, heaped together without room for adjustment in the mind, resembles rather the accumulation of loose masses of uncemented granite, than the majestic mountain, of which each separate portion helps to constitute a mighty whole. Still we must acknowledge of this immortal poet, that his path was in the heavens, and that his soul was suited to the celestial sphere in which it seemed to live and expand as in its native element. We can feel no doubt that his own conceptions were magnificent as the stars amongst which his spirit wandered, and had his mode of conveying these conceptions to the minds of others been equal to their own original sublimity, he would have stood pre-eminent amongst our poets in the region of power.

In order to prove that the poetry of Young is too massive and complex in its imagery to be within the compass of natural and ordinary association, it is unnecessary to quote many instances. Those who are most familiar with his writings-even his greatest admirers, must acknowledge, that in one line of his works, they often meet with matter, which if diffused and poetically enlarged upon, would fill pages, better calculated to please, as well as to instruct.