predominant characteristic, and though full of exquisite fancies, it has no grand imaginations. "Hyperion" is altogether his noblest work, and contains passages of uncommon excellence. But through the whole of his poetry we think there is seen, in a greater or less degree, the qualities we have previously indicated. In the classification of poets, we have to take the general rule, and not the exceptions. That the poetry of Keats is full of beauties, that it evinces a most remarkable richness and sensitiveness of fancy and suggestiveness of imagination, that it contains passages of a certain rough sublimity seemingly above its general tone, and that it occasionally makes the "sense of satisfaction ache with the unreachable delicacy of its epithets," is cheerfully acknowledged by every one who reads poetry without having his fancy and imagination shut by prejudice; but that it evinces the force and fire, the depth, the grandeur, or the comprehensiveness, of a great nature, that it displays powers, - we will not say, like those of Milton, — but like those of either of the great poets of the nineteenth century, is a dogma to which neither the life nor the writings of Keats afford any adequate support. EBENEZER ELLIOTT, the Corn Law Rhymer, is one of the most characteristic of poets. The inspiration of his verse is a fiery hatred of injustice. Without possessing much creative power, he almost places himself beside men of genius by the singular intensity and might of his sensibility. He understands very well the art of condensing passion. Spread out the thunder," says Schiller, "into its single tones, and it becomes a lullaby for children; pour it forth together, in one quick peal, and the royal sound shall move the heavens." The great ambition of Elliott is to thunder. 66 He is a brawny man, of nature's own make, with more than the usual portion of the ancient Adam stirring within him; and he says, "I do well to be angry." The mere sight of tyranny, bigotry, meanness, prompts his smiting invective. His poetry could hardly have been written by a man who was not physically strong. You can hear the ring of his anvil, and see the sparks fly off from his furnace, as you read his verse. He stoutly wrestles with the difficulties of utterance, and expresses himself by main force. His muscles seem made of iron. He has no fear and little mercy; and not only obeys the hot impulses of his sensibility, but takes a grim pleasure in piling fuel on the flame. He points the artillery of the devil against the devil's own legions. His element is a moral diabolism, compounded of wrath and conscience. When an abuse of government eats into his soul, he feels like Samson in the temple of the Philistines. There is a wonderful energy in many of his vituperative Corn Law Lyrics. In those poems in which the price of bread does not intrude, we see the nature of the man in a more orderly development; poems, which Mr. Griswold correctly describes as giving "simple, earnest, and true echoes of the affections," and as breathing the spirit of "a kind of primitive life, unperverted, unhackneyed, and fresh as the dews on his own hawthorn." The spirit of his other style may be partially seen in the following passionate "Corn Law Hymn." "CORN LAW HYMN. "Lord! call thy pallid angel The tamer of the strong! And bid him whip with want and woe O say not thou to ruin's flood, The lowest of the low; And basely beg the bread they curse "No; wake not thou the giant Who drinks hot blood for wine; While he raves over waves That need no whirlwind then ; Through Elliott's poems the vast mass of English wretchedness and misery has found eloquent and piercing utterance. He speaks what thousands feel. Never was there a more terrible offering of hatred made by the squalor of a nation to its splendor- by the faminewasted to the feast-fattened. When THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY appeared as a poet, it might have been expected that his muse would have been roughly treated by contemporary reviewers. As a critic, he had scattered numberless sarcasms, which could have appeared to their objects only in the light of gratuitous insults. No reviewer ever excelled him in adding to the torture of grave condemnation a sharper epigrammatic sting. The quick sagacity with which he detected faults was equalled only by his independence in lashing them—an independence which, always free from the impulses of fear, was sometimes superior to those of benevolence. His scorn had been launched at many authors, whose connection with influential jour nals gave them the means of anonymous retort. Yet we have seen no critiques of his Roman lays bearing the signs of malice or revenge. A few parodies and buffooneries, of the most harmless nature, were all that he had to bear. The merits of Macaulay's poetry are similar to his prose, except that his verse is characterized by more imagination. The same living energy animates both. He is a man of the most extensive acquirements, possessing the power of representing his knowledge in magnificent pictures. He has a quick sympathy with whatever addresses the passions and the fancy, and a truly masculine mind. His style alternates between copiousness and condensation, and the transitions are contrived with consummate skill. The most brilliant and rapid of all contemporary writers, his poetry is an array of strong thoughts and glittering fancies bounding along on a rushing stream of feeling. It has almost the appearance of splendid impromptu composition. The "Lay" of "Virginia" contains some exquisite delineations of the affections, full of natural pathos and a certain serene beauty, somewhat different from Macaulay's usual martial tone. From Mr. Griswold's volume we select a piece, which has never been included in the editions of his writings. It shows not only a most minute knowledge of history, but an insight into the very spirit of the time to which it refers. The verse has a dashing, reckless, godless march, entirely in character with the feeling expressed. Prince Rupert's fiery dragoons would have sung it con amore. "THE CAVALIER'S MARCH TO LONDON. "To horse! to horse! brave cavaliers ! To horse for church and crown! Strike, strike your tents! snatch up your spears! And ho for London town! The imperial harlot, doomed a prey To our avenging fires, Sends up the voice of her dismay From all her hundred spires. "The Strand resounds with maidens' shrieks, And, pale with fasting and with fright, Hath summoned forth to prayer and fight "Where next? In sooth, there lacks no witch, Brave lads, to tell us where, Sure London's sons be passing rich, Her daughters wondrous fair: And let that dastard be the theme Of many a board's derision, Who quails for sermon, cuff, or scream, |