Yes, I was happier once, and fondly sung
Of comforts not dissembled of my cot,
And sweet amusements which attract no more.
Methought my song should ever be content,
Placed by my God where I was richly blessed,
In such a nook of life, that I nor wished
Nor fancied aught could have pleased me more.
So sings the summer linnet on the bough;
And, pleased with the warm sun-beam, half asleep,
The feeble sonnet of supine content

Let thy bow

To his Creator warbles; warbles sweet,
And not condemned, till some unfeeling boy
His piece unheeded levels, and with shower
Of leaden mischief his ill uttered song
Suddenly closes; pines the songster then,
Wounded and scared, flutters from bough to bough,
Complains and dies, or lingers life away
In silent anguish, and is heard no more.
My God, have I arraigned thee?
Ten thousand arrows in this bosom fix,
Yet will I own thee just; take all away,
Leave me no friend, but let me weep alone
At mute affliction's solitary board:
Summon Cecilia to an early grave,
And let her tribe of cheerful graces fade,
Fast as the flower she gathers; let the worm
Prey on the roses of Eliza's cheek,

Yet will I bless thee; for to this harsh world
I came a beggar, but sufficient bread
Have never needed; thy indulgent hand
Fed and sustained me, and sustains me still;
Nor feel I hardship which thy partial rod
To me alone dispenses; bitter loss,
Sorrow and misery, o'erflow the cup
Of many a soul more innocent than mine.
Thou bounteous Author of all human bliss,
Give me whatever lot thy wisdom deems
Meet and convenient-pleasure, if thou wilt—
If not, then pain-and be it sharp as this-

My heart, though wounded, shall adore thee still.

From these specimens, and numberless others which might easily be adduced, we think with Southey, that Hurdis ought to have a place in every collection of the British poets. He wrote in the cause of truth; and his life furnished the best commentary on his works.

If his talents were not brilliant, they were far superior to many whose names are still mentioned with honour; but with this world he himself has done; his spirit has entered that vast and gigantic fabric where a thousand lyres breathe out their harmonies to the Invisible; there, exulting in the everlasting gush of song, and in the presence of unclouded Deity, he rolls out his anthem of all-delicious and purest sounds.

CHRISTOPHER SMART.

"Oh, what a cry has gone up from thousands and ten thousands of souls! and this the burden of the cry-I desire to be one in the deep centre of my being, to be one, and not many; to be able to reduce my life to one law; to be able to explain it to myself in the master-light of one idea; to be no longer rent, torn, and distracted, as I am now. And whence shall this oneness come? Where shall we find, amid all the chances and changes of the world, this law of our life, this centre of our being, this key-note to which, setting our lives, their seeming discords shall appear as their deepest harmonies? Only in God, only in the Son of God, only in the faith, that what scripture makes the end and purpose of God's dealing with his race, is only the end and purpose of his dealing with each one of us—namely, that his Son should be manifested in us; that we, with all things which are in heaven, and all things which are in earth, may be gathered together in Christ, even in Him."-TRENCH.

GENIUS, it would seem, from past and present experience, is subject to manifold changes: to-day prosperous, to-morrow in adversity, appears to be the dower of great intellectual power. While moral worth triumphs over every sullen circumstance, and bends it to its own advantage, intellectual is the sport and prey of every passing breath; it has not in itself the might to quell each storm, and to disperse each tempestcloud; nor can it endure for any length of time the bright radiant sunshine of favour, without suffering for it in the loss of strength and power.

Moral greatness renders exalted the man, and gives

him that whereby he is able to bend all things to his will; intellectual, raises, but gives no such talisman. Moral greatness ennobles the creature, assimilates him to the Supreme, places him in a region where the sky is never clouded, and the heavens never dark; intellectual, makes the spirit like some majestic vessel upon a tossing, surging ocean, without ballast, and without pilot.

Great intellect requires greater moral principle, and this has rarely been found in our gigantic men; subject to more than ordinary temptations, they necessarily need more than ordinary piety. What wonder, then, that so many have been guilty of excesses which sully their glorious names?

Christopher Smart does not, in any degree, lessen the truth of these remarks; his history tends rather to confirm them: he was born at Shipbourne, in Kent, on the 11th of April, 1722; during his boyhood, his father died, but, through the kind assistance of some influential friends, he was entered at Pembroke College, Cambridge: ah, how often do we think of his perturbed and broken spirit when pacing its venerable courts. In his twenty-third year he obtained a fellowship, and soon afterwards became a candidate for the Seatonian prize, in which he was five times successful.

The poems thus produced would not have bestowed immortality on Smart; though there are a few striking lines, yet, upon the whole, they are anything but true poetry.

It is a strange circumstance, that all the productions of this class, with but one or two exceptions, are dull and lifeless things. It is of no use to make as an objection the youth of the parties: White, and Rogers,

It

and Campbell, and John Keats, published their immortal poems before the age of twenty-three. would require no little thought to go deeply into the cause of this. A few apparent reasons we may, however, mention, as likely to operate powerfully against these academical honours. First-the subject is given: now genius naturally likes to choose its own theme; it is its lawful and solemn birthright; it hates to be shackled; it cannot be chained; you dare not fetter it; it abhors the swaddling bands of others; it rends them asunder; "God, the purely free," as Richter has nobly said, "educates only the free; the devil, purely servile, educates only his like;" bondage is terrible; a prison is awful; it breaks up the fountain of song; it runs away in broken streams; there is no mighty and tremendous outpouring; it brings the mildew of heaviness upon the spirit; it overloads the heart; its pulsations are stayed; its throbbings cease; and hence few men of after celebrity ever composed for a college or university prize with success; generally, such men are too wise to attempt it; they would not succeed if they did. True, Cowper wrote his Task at the wish of a lady, but he soon escapes the given subject, and runs along the country-lane to pick once more the haws and hips, and look upwards into the face of heaven; the distinction may be sweet, and sweet the smile of vice-chancellor and learned fellows, but not so sweet, not so delicious, as unbounded and unshackled freedom!

Man is the child of revelation; revelations have not ceased; to the true soul they come ever and anon; the influx of the Deity is perceived; the spirit is radiated with glory; illumined with a light brighter than the orb of day;