living and true verses in our language, have been written
in youth. It is the divine peculiarity of the art that it
demands not, but rather repudiates the lessons of life that
prudence extols. The young poet sometimes executes
what the old philosopher cannot appreciate. In the fresh-
ness of the soul are often taken its noblest flights. The
dreams of youth are sometimes the most truly glorious
efforts of the human mind. The poetry of Keats is not
all a
"feverish attempt;" it is often a mature result.
He has at least left one poem, which, for invention, struc-
ture, imagery, and all the elements of the art, is as fault-
less and as rare a gem as can be found in English litera-
ture. Judged by its own law, it is a production of itself
sufficient to stamp its author with the name of a poet.
If it does not live, it will be because taste and the love of
the beautiful have died. The "Eve of St. Agnes" is a
delightful and original performance. What an idea of
cold the first stanza conveys:

St. Agnes' Eve-Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:

Numb were the Beadman's fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,

Like pious incense from a censer old,

Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,

Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.
This description of moonlight streaming through a
stained glass-window, is acknowledged to be unrivalled:
Full on the casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon:
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,

And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven.

What poet ever described a maiden unrobing in terms of such delicate yet graphic beauty as these? Anon her heart revives: her vespers done, Of all its wreathéd pearls her hair she frees; Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,

Pensive awhile she dreams awake, &c.

Nor is this all. The poet follows the fair creature to her couch, and describes her soul in sleep, as

Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,

As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. With this last exquisite metaphor, I take leave of Keats. His genius was a flower of uncommon richness; and, although he meekly laments that it had "no depth to strike in," its bloom and perfume will never cease to charm-for he has truly said, that

A thing of beauty is a joy forever.

BARRY CORNWALL.

WHEN the smiles of the muse brighten the intervals of a professional life, when she scatters flowers along the path of toilsome duty, and proffers a refreshing cup to the wayfarer, how pleasant and cheering is her aspect! Then we forget the annals of privation and despondency with which the idea of a poet is too often associated. We bless the art that keeps alive, in the midst of worldly influences, the original beauty of the soul. We hail as divine the inspiration that, from time to time, woos the busy denizen of a crowded metropolis to the altar of a sweet and high communion. Thus the ideal redeems the actual. Thus the mind casts off its work-day vestments, and is arrayed anew in the white robe of childhood and the heart is freed from the harsh fetters of care and custom, to grow brave and fresh again in the holy air of song. Of the many aspects which the poetic life exhibits, there is none more benign than this; and perhaps in no country is it more frequently presented than our own. Some of the noblest effusions, which we read with a glow of pride at the thought of their American origin, sprung earnestly from musings that intervals of leisure afforded. Like wild flowers that shed a delicate odour from the interstices of a rocky cliff, they come forth in the holiday moments of a toilsome life. And for this very cause are they often more vigorous and lovely. It is erroneous to commiserate too strongly the ungenial

existence to which many poets are doomed. Perhaps there are no warmer lovers of the muse than those who are only permitted occasionally to gain her favours. The shrine is more reverently approached by the pilgrim from afar than the familiar worshipper. Poetry is often more beloved by one whose daily vocation is amid the bustle of the world. We read of a fountain in Arabia upon whose basin is inscribed "drink and away;" but how delicious is that hasty draught, and how long and brightly the thought of its transient refreshment dwells in the memory! Contrast is a great element of mental activity. The mind of the scholar often becomes dull and morbid from the very monotony of his impressions; while the man of ideal spirit, whose lot is cast amid stern realities, turns with a passionate interest and the keenest relish to intellectual pastime and poetic freedom. His productions often have a glow and life which men of ampler opportunities vainly strive to attain; and the spirit of love in which he labours makes bright and moving the graces of Thus, although Mr. Procter tells us that

his song.

-the spirit languishes and lies

At mercy of life's dull realities;

Yet again he exclaims

Oh! never shall thy name, sweet Poesy,
Be flung away or trampled by the crowd,
As a thing of little worth, while I aloud
May (with a feeble voice indeed,) proclaim
The sanctity, the beauty of thy name.
Thy grateful servant am I, for thy power
Has solaced me through many a wretched hour;
In sickness, ay, when frame and spirit sank,
I turned me to thy crystal cup and drank
Intoxicating draughts

And again:

-although the muse and I have parted, She to her airy height and I to toil,

Not discontent, nor wroth, nor gloomy-hearted,
Because I now must till a rugged soil.

With learned Milton, Steele, and Shakspere sage
I commune when the labouring day is over,
Filled with a deep delight, like some true lover
Whom frowning fate may not entirely sever
From her whose love, perhaps, is lost forever.

Procter was at Harrow, with Byron, and while his noble classmate was enjoying the leisure that fortune secures, gave his youthful hours to the dry tasks of a conveyancer. At the town of Calne, in Wiltshire, where he was placed in the office of a solicitor, his social advantages were great, for among the residents were Crabbc, Moore and Bowles. The early diversity in the circumstances of Byron and Procter marked their subsequent career. Of the noble poet about as much is known as it is possible to communicate. The most minute details of his life have become public property. His path has been traced in all its windings, the particulars of his daily conduct" set in a note-book," and his most casual talk chronícled. Within a very few years, a play was duly represented in the north of Italy, entitled "Lord Byron at Venice," in which fact and fiction were ludicrously blended. If Procter has no claim to such genius as his juvenile companion-if, as he says,

At Harrow, where, as here he has a name,
I-I'm not even on the list of fame;

There remains to the humbler bard rich consolation in the thought of having escaped that microscopic inspection and universal comment which marred the peace, and profaned the reputation of Byron. Even when the young solicitor chose to emerge from obscurity, and present his meek appeal for a place in the English Parnassus, he came before the public under the assumed name of Barry Cornwall. This title has now become endeared to the