And

on many of those who have become familiar with Words-
worth in youth, such impressions must have been perma-
nent and invaluable, greatly influencing their observation
of life and nature, and touching "to finer issues" their
unpledged sympathies. It is with the eye of a medita-
tive poet that Wordsworth surveys life and nature.
thus iuspired, a new elevation is imparted to "ordinary
moral sensations," and it is the sentiment rather than the
subject which gives interest to the song. Hence it is ab-
solutely necessary that the reader should sympathize with
the feelings of the poet, to enjoy or understand him. He
appeals to that contemplative spirit which does not belong
to all, and visits even its votaries but occasionally; to "a
sadness that has its seat in the depths of reason;" he pro-
fesses to " follow the fluxes and refluxes of the mind
when agitated by the great and simple affections of our
nature." To enter into purposes like these, there must
exist a delicate sympathy with human nature, a reflec-
tive habit, a mingling of reason and fancy, an imagina-
tion active but not impassioned. The frame of mind
which he labours to induce, and in which he must be
read, is

"That sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay
Tribute to ease: and, of its jov secure,
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
And on the vacant air;"

*

that serene and blessed mood,

In which the affections gently lead us on,
Until the breath of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood,
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul.
While, with an eve made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things."

This calm and holy musing, this deep and intimate communion with Nature, this spirit of peace, should sometimes visit us. There are periods when passionate poetry wearies, and a lively measure is discordant. There are times when we are calmed and softened, and it is a luxury to pause and forget the promptings of desire and the cares of life; when it is a relief to leave the crowd and wander into solitude, when, faint and disappointed, we seek, like tired children, the neglected bosom of Nature, and in the serenity of her maternal smile, find rest and solace. Such moments redeem existence from its monotony, and refesh the human heart with dew from the urns of Peace. Then it is that the bard of Rydal Mount is like a brother, and we deeply feel that it is good for us to have known him.

COLERIDGE.

COLERIDGE appears to have excelled all his cotemporaries in personal impressiveness. Men of the highest talent and cultivation have recorded, in the most enthusiastic terms, the intellectual treat his conversation afforded. The fancy is captivated by the mere description of his fluent and emphatic, yet gentle and inspired language. We are haunted with these vivid pictures of the old man eloquent,' as by those of the sages of antiquity, and the renowned improvisatores of modern times. Hazlitt and Lamb seem never weary of the theme. They make us realize, as far as description can, the affectionate temper, the simple bearing, and earnest intelligence of their friend. We feel the might and interest of a living soul, and sigh that it was not our lot to partake directly of its overflowing gifts.

Though so invaluable as a friend and companion, unfortunately for posterity, Coleridge loved to talk and read far more than to write. Hence the records of his mind bear no proportion to its endowments and activity. Illhealth early drew him from "life in motion, to life in thought and sensation." Necessity drove him to literary labour. He was too unambitious, and found too much enjoyment in the spontaneous exercise of his mind, to assume willingly the toils of authorship. His mental tastes were not of a popular cast. In boyhood he “ ed not pale at philosophic draughts," and there was in his

wax

soul an aspiration after truth—an interest in the deep things of life-a 'hungering for eternity,' essentially opposed to success as a miscellaneous writer. One of the

most irrational complaints against Coleridge, was his dislike of the French. Never was there a more honest prejudice. In literature, he deemed that nation responsible for having introduced the artificial school of poetry, which he detested; in politics, their inhuman atrocities, during the revolution, blighted his dearest theory of man ; in life, their frivolity could not but awaken disgust in a mind so serious, and a heart so tender, where faith and love were cherished in the very depths of reflection and sensibility. It is, indeed, easy to discover in his works ample confirmation of the testimony of his friends, but they afford but an unfinished monument to his genius. We must be content with the few memorials he has left of a powerful imagination and a good heart. Of these his poems furnish the most beautiful. They are the sweetest echo of his marvellous spirit ;

A song divine, of high and passionate thoughts,

To their own music chaunted.

The eye of the ancient Mariner holds us, in its wild spell, as it did the wedding guest, while we feel the truth that

He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small.;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.

The charm of regretful tenderness is upon us with as sweet a mystery, as the beauty of the "lady of a far countrie," when we read these among other musical lines of Christabel :

Alas! they had been friends in youth;

But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;

And life is thorny; and youth is vain
And to be wroth with one we love,

Doth work like madness in the brain.

man was ever yet a great poet, without being at the same time a profound philosopher." True as this may be in one sense, we hold it an unfortunate rule for a poetical mind to act upon. It was part of the creed of Coleridge, and his works illustrate its unfavourable influence. His prose, generally speaking, is truly satisfactory only when it is poetical. The human mind is so constituted as to desire completeness. The desultory character of Coleridge's prose writings is often wearisome and disturbing. He does not carry us on to a given point by a regular road, but is ever wandering from the end proposed. We are provoked at this waywardness the more, because, ever and anon, we catch glimpses of beautiful localities, and look down most inviting vistas. At these promising fields of thought, and vestibules of truth, we are only permitted to glance, and then are unceremoniously hurried off in the direction that happens to please our guide's vagrant humour. This desultory style essentially mars the interest of nearly all the prose of this distinguished man. Not only the compositions, but the opinions, habits, and experience of Coleridge, partake of the same erratic character. His classical studies at Christ's hospital were interwoven with the reading of a circulating library. He proposed to become a shoemaker while he was studying medicine. He excited the wonder of every casual acquaintance by his schoolboy discourse, while he provoked his masters by starting an argument instead of repeating a rule. He incurred a chronic rheumatism by swimming with his clothes on, and left the sick ward to enlist in a regiment of dragoons. He laid magnificent plans of primitive felicity to be realized on the banks of the Susquehanna, while he wandered pen