artist-like and correct nomenclature of the phenomena of Nature. For the most part the " Seasons" is a narrative of physical facts, familiar to every one. This explains the attractiveness of the poem. We are ever delighted with a true representation of whatever interests us. It requires an introspective mind to appreciate the grand portraitures of human passion and experience; but the graphic delineation of sensible objects appeals to universal observation. Hence the popularity of Thomson. He has faithfully traced the various changes consequent upon the varying Year. The alternate vocations of husbandry, the successive sports which beguile the monotony of country life, the drought and the freshet, the snow-storm and the spring morning, the midsummer noon and the winter night, have found in him a graceful chronicler. His pages recall at once and with singular life the associations of the Seasons. Beyond this, they have no very strong hold upon the feelings. We derive from them few powerful impressions. Their influence is pleasing, but vague. There is a remarkable repose in the strain. It is more like the agreeable lassitude of a summer afternoon, than the clear excitement of an autumn morning. The tasteful diction is often cold; and were it not for the digressions which the poet makes to express occasionally some cherished feeling, we should often find him rather tame and business-like. But the amiable and excellent sentiments he displays, the overflowing kindness of his heart, and the pensive morality scattered among his descriptions, serve to enliven them with something of a personal, tender and attractive hue.

I cannot go

Where universal Love smiles not around,
Sustaining all yon orbs and all their sons;
From seeming evil still educing good;
And better thence again, and better still.
In infinite progression.

The curiosity of The most universal symCervantes rose

The scholar, the friend and the idle dreamer, appear as conspicuously as the bard. The very familiarity of the scenes and circumstances, to which the poem is devoted, is attractive. It is worthy of note, that we are as easily interested by what is exceedingly familiar, as by the novel and extraordinary. If a writer does not " o'erstep the modesty of nature," we like him all the better for treating of what is very near to us. the multitude is not extensive. pathy is that devoted to what is adjacent. to fame by describing the manners of his own country. There are hundreds who follow Thomson with delight over the every-day scenes of the earth, to one who soars with Milton beyond its confines. Hence it has been said that "the Seasons look best a little torn and dog's-eared;" and a man of genius who saw a copy in this condition on the window-seat of an ale-house, exclaimed-" this is fame!" Paul Jones was a devoted lover of this poem. What a contrast must its peaceful beauty have presented to the scenes of violence and danger in which he delighted!

The varying popularity of celebrated works is to be accounted for principally by their distance or vicinity to the associations of each age. We sometimes yawn over Ariosto's battles and knights, while we are often kindled and charmed by Childe Harold. Chivalric enterprises belong to the past; but a tour through Switzerland and Italy, is among the common achievements of the day. And thus Thomson is indebted to his faithful pictures of Nature's annual decay and renovation, for his continued estimation as a poet.

"Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,
When Thames in summer-wreaths is drest,
And oft suspend the dripping oar,

To bid his gentle spirit rest."

YOUNG.

THE associations connected with Young, are quite incongruous. His very name is out of place as applied to his productions; it would be difficult to discover an equal quantity of verse less coloured and warmed by genuine youthful feeling. We can hardly realize that Young was ever young. Where, we are ready to ask, is that confidence in good, that buoyant hope, that ardent recognition of the true delights of being, which throw such a charm around the effusions of youth?

Nor does the discrepancy end here. Two of the best known anecdotes of Young, are in direct contradiction to the spirit of his muse. The first is that gallant reply to two ladies, who forced him to leave them in a garden, to receive a visitor :

Thus Adam looked when from the garden driven,
And thus disputed orders sent from Heaven;
Like him I go; but yet to go am loth,
Like him I go, for angels drove us both;
Hard was his fate, but mine still more unkind,

His Eve went with him but mine stays behind.

The other incident occurred while he was with a gay party in a pleasure-boat. A gentleman rather pertinaciously insisted that he should play on his flute, and to revenge himself, Young is said to have challenged him, and then with a pistol aimed at his head, forced him to dance a hornpipe by way of retaliation.

Other poets have sung with spontaneous joy of the loveliness of earth and .the sweetness of affection, and seem to have found in their fresh hearts, an antidote for outward evil. This man gathers up the shadows, and seldom inweaves amid them, either sunbeams or starlight. Other bards have first struck the lyre to celebrate the merits of one beloved, or reflect scenes of natural beauty; this one, chose for his first theme, "The Last Day." Life, with its mysterious experience, its stirring incidents, its warm hopes and lofty aspirations, has inspired the early efforts of most poets; but to Young, death was a subject more congenial and attractive. The burden of his lays is contempt of earthly grandeur, and yet he sought preferment all his life. His poems advocate a competency, as the only just desire of a reasonable being, in this world; but he has left behind him a reputation for parsimony. No one has set forth in stronger language the dangers of social life; yet in his retirement, the gloomy bard pined at the world's neglect, and welcomed every stray visitor, in such a manner as to belie his recorded opinions of human nature. He counselled Lorenzo in strains of solemn warning, against Court subserviency; while every book of the poem is dedicated to some noble friend, and the sage counsellor was indebted to patronage for his chief privileges, and would fain have increased the obligations!

The true office of the minstrel is to cheer. We do not turn to poetry to aggravate, but to lighten the sorrows of our lot. Its office should be consoling. The genuine poet is an optimist. He instinctively seizes the redeeming feature in a landscape, a circumstance or a face. He fondly dwells on better moments. He loves to reconcile man to life. The blessing and not the bane, gives excitement to his thoughts. Indeed, what the phrenologists call ideality, appears to be a quality beneficently provided,

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for the very purpose of meliorating the aspects of existence to the consciousness of man. Hence the unclouded brightness of many a reminiscence, and the joyous excitement of many a hope. Hence those blended pictures which sometimes rise to the fancy, in which the shades of life only serve to illustrate its sunny portions. Poetry should not haunt the unwholesome mine, unless with a safety-lamp of sunshine. It is her vocation to collect to a focus, the scattered rays of happiness; to gather the flowers in our path, and twine them into wreaths to deck the brow of care; to lead us beside waters that go softly," and not to the barren shores of the Dead Sea; to lift our gaze to the mountains and the stars; and waft to our ears, "the music of humanity," rather than her groans. Let every man beware how he gives`expression in verse or prose, to morbid feeling. Let him suffer in silence. If he have nothing hopeful to communicate, let him hold his peace. We see and hear and feel enough of gloomy import, for all purposes of discipline. If any one strike the lyre, we pray it be to a strain which shall elevate us above "the smoke and stir of this dim spot." Let the problem of human suffering be approached only by those, who carry balm for the wounded, and solace for the mourner.

Young did not thus regard the art he cultivated. His early life is said to have been rather unprincipled. Perhaps be drank so intemperately of the cup of pleasure while a youth, that little but the dregs remained for after life. Certain it is, that he took no little satisfaction in setting forth the miseries of life in gloomy array; and no discriminating mind can fail to perceive, that the Complaint" is infinitely more effective than the "Consolation." The former appears to have been written con amore; the latter has a forced and formal air. As a picture of life, Young's Night Thoughts are partial and

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