and were the perceptions of man so quick and clear as to carry the same principle along with him through all the transactions of his life, he would always act rightly. But, beyond the surface of things, man is unable to judge at sight. Reflection requires time and effort, often more of both than he is willing to bestow, and even when he is willing, the right period of action is lost before he has decided upon the right means.

By contemplating the character and operation of taste, we arrive at a dim and distant perception of one of the attributes of the Divine nature; and even this imperfect view reveals a world of wonder in which imagination is bewildered, and understanding lost. We know the rapidity of thought with which we decide in a moment, even during an instantaneous movement, which is the most graceful, the most effective, or the best mode of acting; and it may not perhaps be derogating from the supreme majesty to suppose that the same effort of omnipotent mind, created out of Chaos a universe of worlds, not only designing their form and regulating their movements, in the centre of infinity; but also designing and regulating their internal constitution, down to the slightest impulse of an infant's will, the meanest weed that lurks within the forest glade, or the minutest insect that skims along the surface of the summer lake. The power of judging when limited to a narrow sphere of operation constitutes the superiority of man above the brutes; the power of judging universally, instantaneously and infallibly, belongs to God alone.

taste is sacrificed: consequently, as our mental and material world is constituted, the dominon of taste must extend over a very limited and narrow sphere.

The difference of taste to be found amongst mankind, and the want of a universal standard of reference, have excited almost as many arguments in the sphere of poetry and the arts, as the difference of creeds in the religious world. This subject seems to be most satisfactorily decided, by attaching to the majority the same importance in taste as in politics. The exercise of taste being to find the medium between all objectionable extremes-the centre of eccentricity-it follows of necessity, that whatever is admired by the greatest number, must possess the greatest share of intrinsic excellence. But here, as in other cases, it is highly important to make a distinction between mere numbers, and numbers qualified to judge; for how should that judgment be a test of merit, to which merit is neither apparent nor intelligible? The gallery audience in a theatre may be well qualified to pronounce upon the height, the breadth, the complexion, or the agility of a favourite actor; but who would appeal to them to know whether he had exhibited to the life the workings of deep-seated feeling, or entered into the mental mysteries of an intellectual character? When, therefore, we speak of the majority of opinions being the strongest proof of the presence of good taste, we would confine those opinions, not merely to a few learned men, the established critics and censors of the day, but to the whole of the enlightened public, who constitute a community too numerous for long continued prejudice, and too intelligent for egregious

error.

Why then, it may be asked, does a false taste sometimes prevail, even amongst this community, as in the case of Byron,* whose poetry so powerfully affected men's minds, as to leave behind it a disrelish for all other? A false taste may exist amongst the few, from partial impressions, and local preju

The inequalities of Byron's style, naturally lead the writer to speak of his poetry in a manner that may at times appear paradoxical: this remark of course can

to which his eccentric genius sometimes descended.

Ana when the poet exclaims,

"Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind,

But leave-Oh! leave the light of Hope behind! What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between,”—

we feel that to such a mind, hope would come as a blessed messenger, whose tidings would be of things sublime, and pure, and elevated above the low wants and wishes of a material existence.

We know of but one word in the whole of this beautiful poem which is at variance with good taste, and we quote the line, not from the pleasure of pointing out a single fault in the midst of a thousand merits, but for the purpose of showing how forcibly an error in taste strikes upon the attention and the feelings of the reader.

"The living lumber of his kindred earth." We are ready to imagine from this line, that the author has scarcely been aware of the high degree of beauty and refinement which pervades his work. "Lumber," in the poetical writings of Pope, "might have occurred without any breach of taste, because his concise and forcible style is more characterised by power, than elegance; and lumber might, therefore, have been in keeping with the general tone of his expressions. But here, where all is music to the ear, and harmony to the mind, this uncouth word is decidedly out of place; and while longing to exchange it for another, we can only wonder that there should be but one small blemish in so many fair and beautiful pages of genuine poetry, adorned throughout with the most tender, refined, and elevated thoughts.

Gertrude of Wyoming is another poem strikingly illustrative of the influence of taste. In the death-song of the Indian chief, we observe how skilfully the poet has blendea the indignant spirit of an injured man, with the strong affections, wild metaphors, and wilder visions, of that interesting and dignified people.

"And I could weep ;-th' Oneyda chief

His descant wildly thus began;

But that I may not stain with grief

The death-song of my father's son !

Or bow this head in wo;

For by my wrongs, and by my wrath!
To-morrow Areouski's breath,

(That fires yon heaven with storms and death,)
Shall light us to the foe:

But hark, the trump-to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shall dry thy tears:
Even from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears,
Amidst the clouds that round us roll
He bids my soul for battle thirst-
He bids me dry the last-the first—
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul;
Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief."

Bavaria," full of the deep pathos of poetic Campbell's "lines on leaving a scene in feeling, afford one of the most splendid instances of the power of that faculty, which can strike with the rapidity of thought the chords of true harmony, and waken the genuine music of the soul-the echo of its deep, but secret passions. We cannot read these lines without feeling that there is a language for the wounded spirit-a voice amidst the solitudes of that

"Unknown, unploughed, untrodden shore,"

whose melancholy cadence is in unison with the feelings which we may not, dare not, utter; and we inwardly bless the mournful minstrel for the wild sweet melody of his most harmonious lyre. Were we to attempt to quote passages from these lines, the temptation would extend to the whole of this inimitable poem, we can only recommend it to the reader as one of the finest specimens of poetic taste, as well as poetic feeling, which our language affords.

After all that has been said on the subject, we feel that taste is something to be felt, rather than defined, yet of such unparalleled importance to the poet, that wanting this requisite, he may sing for ever, and yet sing in vain. As well might the musician expect to charm his audience, by playing what he assures them is the finest music, on a broken or defective instrument, as the poet hope to please without making himself thoroughly acquainted with the principles of taste-perhaps we should rather say, with what is, or is not in accordance with its rules, for as a principle, taste has not yet arrived at a definite state of existence; and if the young poet should read "The pleasures of Hope" with reference to this subject, and not feel in his very soul the

presence and the power of taste, he might bid adieu to the worship of the muses, and devote his genius to objects less elevated and sublime.

CONCLUSION.

We have now examined the four requisites for writing poetry, to none of which it would be wise to assign a station of preeminence, because they are equally necessary to the success of the poet's art-impression to furnish lasting ideas, imagination to create images from such ideas, power to strike them out with emphasis and truth, and taste to recommend such as are worthy of approbation, and to dismiss such as are not. We have also been daring enough to maintain that poetry, as a principle, pervades all nature, and if the fact be acknowledged that poetry is neither written with that ardour, nor read with that delight, which characterised an earlier era in our history, it becomes an important and interesting inquiry, What is the cause?

That imagination should be exhausted, is a moral impossibility; because the creation of a thousand images in no way disqualifies for the creation of a thousand more; any one quality extracted from a former image, and added to the whole or a part of another, being sufficient for the creation of one, that shall appear to the world entirely original or new. That power should be expended, is no less an absurdity in thought; because that being the vital principle by which thoughts are generated, man can only cease to think when he ceases to feel, and only cease to feel when he ceases to exist. And that taste should have lost its influence over the human mind, is equally at variance with common sense; because with increased facility in collecting and comparing evidence for the establishment of true excellence, taste must unavoidably become more definite in its nature, and more determinate in its operations. Beyond this, we may ask, is there any thing in the customs, occupations, or mode of education peculiar to the present day, which hinders the

exercise of imagination? We should rather say, that its sphere of action is widened to an incalculable extent. Is there any thing that weakens the mind, or destroys its native power? No. The habits of the present race of men are distinguished by indefatigable industry, and general application, and regulated by those laws of strict and unremitting discipline, which are universally acknowledged to strengthen the understanding, and invigorate the mental faculties. Is there any thing to warp the public taste, and establish a false standard of merit? Never since the world began, were mankind more penetrating, and at the same time more extensive in their observations, more universally free from the shackles of tyranny and superstition, as well as from all uniformly prevailing prejudice, than now. It is clear then, that the deficiency in our poetical enjoyments arises from a want of the due proportion of clear and deep impressions. We have not stored up the necessary materials for imagination, power, and taste to work with, and therefore the machinery of the mind, so far as relates to poetry, remains inactive. We possess not the key to its secret harmonies, and therefore the language of poetry is unintelligible to our ears.

The silence of our ablest poets, and the want of any leading or distinguished poem to fill up the present vacuum in our literature, sufficiently prove the fact to which we allude. The last popular work of this kind that issued from our press, was "The Course of Time;" but its popularity rather resembled an instantaneous flash, than a steady and lasting light. It forced its way in the flush of the moment to every respectable library in the kingdom-was read with wonder-closed with satisfaction-and, what is very remarkable, affords no quotations. Since this time we have had none to awaken a general interest. We see many noticed by the reviewers-kindly and encouragingly noticed, and we doubt not their title to such approbation; but we do not deny ourselves one ordinary indulgence that we may buy them, or when they are bought, look upon them as a solid mass of substantial happiness set apart for our private and insatiable enjoyment. We do not reverence the authors

of our felicity, as if they were beings of a gifted order, endowed with a superhuman capacity of penetrating into the souls of men. We do not listen when they tell us of our own secret passions, as if we heard the music of an inspired minstrel, nor when they sing of the revolutions of time, as if a potent and oracular voice dealt out the destiny of mankind. Either we have grown indifferent, and heedless, and almost deaf to the language of poetry, or the spirit of the art has ceased to operate in producing those harmonious numbers that were wont to charm the world.

Yet when the facilities for acquiring know ledge are multiplying every day, when it has become almost as difficult to remain unlearned, as to learn, when the infant mind is trained up to the continual application of its faculties in all the different branches of art and science, when the memory is stored with a fund of information which at one time would have been deemed incredible, when not only the ordinary and beaten track of learning is thrown open to the multitude, but flowery and meandering paths are devised to entice, and woo, and charm into the bowers of academic lore, is it possible there can be any defect or disadvantage in the general system upon which youth is trained?

If it be the ultimate aim of mankind to ascertain of what materials the world is made, and out of these materials to construct new facilities for bodily enjoyment, that we may eat more luxuriously, move more rapidly, repose more softly, clothe more sumptuously, and in short, live more exempt from mental, as well as bodily exertion, I should answer, that the present system of education, and the general tone of thought and conversation, was the best that could possibly be devised. But in looking at the means, we are too apt to disregard the end. In devoting our endeavours to the attainment of knowledge, to forget the attainment of wisdom; and take credit to ourselves for having spent an active life, when it has been wholly unproductive of any increase in the means of happiness, except what mere activity affords. We know that nature is no less capable of producing poetical ideas, than it was when gifted men were inspired by the cool shade, the glowing sunshine, or the radiance of the

moon. We have attempted to prove, that the same beauty, and the same connexion with refined and elevated thought may still be found in the external world, and that the soul of man is still animated by the same passions and affections, as when genius kindled the fire of poetry, and, lighting up the charms and the wonders of creation, stimulated the enthusiasm of him who deems himself "creation's heir." It follows then as a necessary consequence, that the connexion between man and nature, is not the same; that he holds no longer the spiritual converse with all things sweet and lovely, solemn and sublime, in the external world, that was wont to fill his soul with admiration and love, and to instruct his heart in the feeling of the presence of an invisible intelligence, connected with his own being by the indissoluble bond of sympathy, real or imaginary. Man now studies nature as a map, rather than a picture-with reference to locality, rather than beauty. He sees the whole, but he studies only the separate parts, and to his systematic mind, the vegetable, animal, and mineral kingdoms, are distinct subjects of consideration, scarcely to be thought of in the same day. He looks around him with microscopic eye, and if his attention fixes upon the rich and varied foliage of the ancient forest, it is to single out particular specimens of trees and plants, and to class them according to Linnæus ; while from the musical inhabitants of these woods, he selects his victims, and applies the same minute examination to the organs from whence the sweetest melody of nature flows. The idle butterfly, fluttering above his woodland path, or resting upon the unsullied petals of the delicate wild rose, has neither charm nor beauty in his eye, unless he counts the spots upon its wing. The mountain rises in the distance, and he hastens to examine the strata of which it is composed. The vapours roll beneath him, and he ponders upon the means of their production. The stars are shining above in all the ma- ! jesty of cloudless night, and he counts the number, and calculates the distance of the worlds of light.

All these we freely grant are right and fitting occupations for a rational and intellectual being; but when pursuits of this