able than it is possible. As the intervention of sorrow is necessary to give us a full zest of joy; or, to apply Gray's inimitable language, as

"The hues of Bliss more brightly glow,

Chastis'd by sabler tints of Woe:"

So the coarse intercourse of actual life is occasionally necessary, to shew off in full brightness the visions of a radiant and exalted fancy. All the intellectual enjoyments of my past days, that dwell the longest on my imagination, and leave the most refined and satisfactory remembrances in my bosom, are of this mixed kind: they have their foundation in real incidents and scenery, associated with those deepening and creative colours which the mind supplies in it's moments of felicitous emotion.

If there are Demons in the world, there are good Spirits as well as bad. If we are surrounded by Grief and Malice, and Envy and Falsehood, and Cruelty, and Poverty, and Disease; the opposing Virtues and Pleasures look more attractive when arrayed by the side of them.

What is the degree of misfortune, which human fortitude can bear, without endangering or

utterly oppressing the springs of action in the mind, cannot be precisely calculated, because the variation of the qualities both of head and heart of individuals is infinite. Thus the degree of communication with the rudeness of society, which is inconsistent with our uncontaminated taste for the higher enjoyments of the fancy, differs according to the intellectual and moral constitution of those who put it in practice.

Lord Byron says nobly in the Third Canto of Childe Harold, (with which he has gratified the world in the present month,)

St. LXIX.

"To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind;

All are not fit with them to stir and toil,

Nor is it discontent, to keep the mind

Deep in it's fountain, lest it overboil

In the hot throng, where we become the spoil

Of our infection, till too late and long

We may deplore and struggle with the coil,

In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong

'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong."

*

St. LXXII.

*

"I live not in myself, but I become

*

Portion of that around me; and to me
High mountains are a feeling; but the hum

Of human cities torture: I can see

Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain,

Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee,
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain."

These are probably the great Poet's genuine sentiments. To others of calmer and more sluggish feelings, the influence of society is less dangerous. To some it's animation is even necessary: while there are those whose vapoury fancies would wander "in endless mazes lost," without the correction of it's more distinct and substantial images.

An able account of the lives of Poets, founded on intimate knowledge, and drawn with an union of sagacity, eloquence, and truth, would perhaps illustrate with nicety the contrasted consequences of this position.

In looking back on the past, or forward to the future, some moderate mingling with the haunts of men, and the business of life, forms involuntarily a part of the picture. If we could regulate our thoughts and passions, if we felt only those subdued desires, which are tempered by moderate afflictions, earth might be a Paradise to those, who would refine by cultivation a native fancy

ཉྩ་ཉྩ་མ་མ

If we

and sensibility. The scenery of Nature in all it's wonderful and incessant changes is ever new, and ever full of enchantment to the eye which intellect has brightened. The moral associations, which habit renders permanent in minds where virtue and innocence govern a regular and equable activity, add a wealth of such serene splendor, that it's charms neither exhaust nor fatigue. could be entirely free from the touch of human misfortune, if we could know neither disappointment nor anxiety, we should lose more than half the interest with which the bursting verdure of Spring, the blaze of Summer, the fading colours of Autumn, or the storms of Winter impress us. Every sight and every sound is now linked with some tender emotion of the bosom, which springs up with it like an attendant Spirit.

But, alas! the miseries of life are in many cases too violent to be softened by the smiles of Patience, or the intervention of short and faint gleams of Comfort! This seems to have been the case with Kirke White, if we judge not only from the history of his life, but from the whole tenor of his writings, which, virtuous and simple as he was,

I cannot but believe to have been the transcripts of

his mind.

Take for instance the two first Stanzas

of his ODE, entitled Genius.

Many there be, who through the vale of life
With velvet pace unnoticed softly go,
While jarring Discord's inharmonious strife
Awakes them not to woe.

By them unheeded carking Care,
Green-eyed Grief, and dull Despair,

Smoothly they pursue their way,

With even tenor, and with equal breath,

Alike through cloudy, and through sunny day;
Then sink in peace to death.

"But ah! a few there be, whom Griefs devour,
And weeping Woe, and Disappointment keen,
Repining Penury, and Sorrow sour,

And self-consuming Spleen.

And these are Genius' favourites: these
Know the thought-throned Mind to please,
And from her fleshy seat to draw

To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll,
Disdaining all but wildering Rapture's law,
The captivated soul!"

This young Poet's sensations were unquestionably, like those of too many sons of Genius, morbidly acute. His love of praise was too intense; his pride was too indignant; he beheld the sorrows of life with too keen a sympathy; and his raptures