to rouse men on an abstract theme, fervid appeals are unavoidable, but in view of the marvels of art or the sublimities of nature, what call is there for exaggeration ? To the true soul is not the fact sufficient? Can expletives and strained metaphors add to the native interest of such objects? Are they not themselves poetry? Is not the poet's office in relation to them, to give us as true a picture as may be, that we too may thrill with wonder or revel in beauty? Even in portraying deep emotion our great dramatist was satisfied to place in Macduff's mouth He has no children!" And it is equally true to human nature, for Rogers to speak of Ginevra's bereaved father as . An old man wandering in quest of something, Something he could not find-he knew not what. Another evidence of the good judgment of Rogers may be found in the fact that he has published so little. It is the fashion to chide the authors of a few successful poems for their idleness. Some deem it a very pretty compliment to say of a poet that his only fault is that he has not written more. But such praise is equivocal, to say the least. It betrays a singular ignorance of the very nature of poetry, which may be defined as an art above the will. Doubtless if fine poems were as easily produced as fine rail-roads, it would be incumbent on the makers thereof to be very industrious in their vocation. But as the activity of the fancy and the flow of thought are but occasionally felicitous, some degree of reverence should be accorded the poet who having once struck the lyre to a masterly strain, thenceforth meekly refrains from any rash meddling with its chords, without that authority which his own heart can alone vouchsafe. Occasional witticisms have been indulged in reference to the coyness and care with which the bard of Memory woos the Mu ses. To a delicate and considerate mind such a course approves itself far more than the opposite. How many desirable reputations have been sacrificed to the morbid vanity of unceasing authorship! The creative power of every intellect is limited, its peculiar vein is soon exhausted, and its most ethereal powers may not be too frequently invoked without vapid results. We have heard of an old lady who had a celebrated bishop to dine with her every Sunday, and invariably on these occasions, his worship inquired how her ladyship would have the punch made; to which polite query, the good woman always gave the same judicious reply-" Make a little, bishop, but make it good." Such a rule would often serve as well for poetry as for punch. poe Rogers, in point of execution, belongs to the same category as Goldsmith. He has the requisite insight to copy from nature what is really adapted to poetical objects, to harmonize and enliven his pencilings with genial sentiment, and finally to present them in a form that charms the ear and imagination. The spirit of his try is not of the highest order. His talent is artistical rather than inventive. He is a clear delineator rather than a creative genius. A remarkable contrast is presented by his " Italy" and the fourth canto of Childe Harold. The former gives us a just and sweet picture of the graces and griefs of that beautiful land, as they were reflected in the mind of an amiable man of taste; the latter displays the same country, seen through the medium of an impassioned and self-occupied soul. Rogers looked upon the vale and river, the palace and the statue, the past and present associations of Italy, from the calm watch-tower of a serene consciousness; Byron surveyed those scenes as a restless seeker for peace, with a mind too excited and unsatisfied not to mingle with and colour every fact and object with which it came in contact. There is a wild and melancholy beauty in Harold's musings that appeals to our deepest sympathy; a repose and pleasurable calm in those of Rogers, that soothes and diverts us. Something of tragic impression and strong personal interest carries us along with Byron in his pilgrimage, while a quiet attachment and agreeable fellowship win us to follow the steps of Rogers. ure. The blank verse of "Italy" is of a somewhat uncommon description. In English poetry, this species of metre has generally been written in a sustained and dignified manner, and some passages of Shakspere and Milton prove that there is no style so fitted for sublime effect. Rogers essayed to give a more easy and familiar construction to blank verse, and the attempt was remarkably successful. Occasionally the lines are prosaic, and scarcely elevated to the tone of legitimate verse; but often there is a natural and sweet cadence which is worthy of the most harmonious bard. The example, too, has obviously tended to chasten and render more simple the management of this kind of verse. In this respect, Rogers has illustrated blank verse as Hunt has the heroic measThey have exemplified a less stilted and artificial use of poetic language. The poem of the former has, indeed, an epistolary character. It is precisely such a series of genial sketches as an artist might send his friends from a foreign country-light, graceful and true to nature, but pretending to no great or elaborate conceptions. In this, as in his other efforts, Rogers is often somewhat tame, and frequently lacks fire and point; but the mass of what he has published is conceived and executed in such an unassuming and tasteful spirit, that the reader has no disposition to magnify his defects. His minor poems have a very unpretending air, and remind us somewhat of the " copies of verses" that cavaliers were accustomed to indite for the gratification of friend or misThe prettiest and most characteristic of these oc casional poems is, perhaps, that entitled " A Wish." tress. Mine be a cot beside the hill, A bee-hive's hum to soothe my ear; The village church among the trees, To Rogers we must accord a true moral feeling. The cordial friend, the man of native literary sympathies and domestic tastes, are ever reflected in his pages. He has a kindly and liberal hcart as well as an intellectual spirit. There are more imposing names on the scroll of poetic fame, but few who have a better claim to love and respect He is not without a poet's ambition Oh could my mind, unfolded in my page, The latter aspiration has already met its fulfilment. The clearness and elegance, the quiet ardour and urbane sentiment that appear in his verse, are too candid and winning not to excite interest. Our attachment to the higher and more affecting species of poetry does not militate with, but rather enhances our sympathy with the quiet graces of his muse. The delight with which we tread the sea-shore and listen to the dashing billows, does not prevent us from reposing with pleasure beside the calm lake, to watch the clouds reflected in its bosom, or the flowers that hang their fragrant urns around its brink. BURNS. THERE are certain sentiments which "give the world assurance of a man." They are inborn, not acquired. Before them fade away the trophies of scholarship and the badges of authority. They are the most endearing of human attractions. No process of culture, no mere grace of manner, no intellectual endowments, can atone for their absence, or successfully imitate their charms. These sentiments redeem our nature; their indulgence constitutes the better moments of life. Without them we grow mechanical in action, formal in manner, pedantic in mind. With them in freshness and vigour, we are true, spontaneous, morally alive. We reciprocate affection, we luxuriate in the embrace of nature, we breathe an atmosphere of love, and glow in the light of beauty. Frankness, manly independence, deep sensibility and pure enthusiasm are the characteristics of the true man. Against these fashion, trade and the whole train of petty interests wage an unceasing war. In few hearts do they survive; but wherever recognized, they carry every unperverted soul back to childhood and up to God. They vindicate human nature with irresistible eloquence, and like the air of mountains and the verdure of valleys, allure us from the thoroughfare of routine and the thorny path of destiny. When combined with genius, they utter an appeal to the world, and their possessor becomes a priest of humanity, whose oracles send forth an echo even from |