ON AN INFANT SMILING AS IT AWOKE.

AFTER the sleep of night, as some still Lake
Displays the cloudless Heavens in reflection,
And, dimpled by the breezes, seems to break
Into a waking smile of recollection,

As if from its calm depths the morning light
Call'd up the pleasant dreams that gladden'd night:-
So does the azure of those laughing eyes

Reflect a mental Heaven of thine own;

In that illumined smile I recognize

The sunlight of a sphere to us unknown; Thou hast been dreaming of some previous bliss In other worlds, for thou art new to this.

Hast thou been wafted to Elysian bowers,

In some blest star where thou hast pre-existed;
Inhaled th' ecstatic fragrancy of flowers

Around the golden harps of Seraphs twisted,
Or heard those nightingales of Paradise
Pour thrilling songs and choral harmonies ?

Perchance all breathing life is but an essence

From the great Fountain Spirit in the sky,
And thou hast dreamt of that transcendant presence
Whence thou hast fall'n, a dew-drop from on high,
Destined to lose, as thou shalt mix with earth,
Those bright recallings of thy heavenly birth.
We deem thy mortal memory not begun,-

But hast thou no remembrance of the past;
No lingering twilight of a former sun,

Which o'er thy slumbering faculties hath cast Shadows of unimaginable things,

Too high or deep for human fathomings?

Perchance, while reason's earliest flush is brightening
Athwart thy brain, celestial sights are given;
As skies that open to let out the lightning

Disclose a transitory glimpse of Heaven;
And thou art wrapt in visions, all too bright
For aught but Cherubim, and Infant's sight.
Emblem of heavenly purity and bliss,—

Mysterious type which none can understand,
Let me with reverence approach to kiss

Limbs lately touch'd by the Creator's hand:-
So awful art thou, that I feel more prone
To claim thy blessing than bestow mine own.

H.

FAMILIAR TRANSLATION OF HORACE AND LYDIA

Horace. Lydia, whilst thou wert only mine,

Lydia.

Nor any younger favourite cull
Toy'd with that soft white neck of thine,
I envied not the Great Mogul!

Ere Chloe had thy heart estranged,

And Lydia held thee all her own;
She would not bliss like this have changed,
To mount the Queen of Sheba's throne!

Horace. To Chloe, now my bosom's queen,
My life, nay e'en my death I vow,
Her dearer life from harm to screen,
Would Fate the substitute allow!

Lydia. Young Calais woos me, nothing loth
To share in all his amorous joy :—-
Had I two lives, I'd give them both,
Would Fate but spare my darling boy!

Horace. What if, this folly just worn out,

I'd buckle on my ancient chain?
Turn Chloe to the right-about,
And beckon Lydia back again?

Lydia. Though he were fair as any star,
Thou, rough and fickle as the sea;
Yet be it still my constant prayer,
To live, and love, and die with thee!

SONNET.

ON A LANDSCAPE BY MR. HOFLAND.

YOUNG world of peace and loveliness, farewell!
Farewell to the clear lake; the mountains blue;
The grove, whose tufted paths our eyes pursue
Delighted; the white cottage in the dell
By yon old church; the smoke from that small cell
Amid the hills slow rising; and the hue
Of summer air, fresh, delicate, and true,
Breathing of light and life, the master spell.
Work of the poet's eye, the painter's hand,
How close to nature art thou, yet how free
From earthly stain! The beautiful, the bland,
The rose, the nightingale resemble thee;
Thou art most like the blissful fairy-land
Of Spenser, or Mozart's fine melody.

H. M.

ON GERMAN CRITICISM.

IT was our lot, when we entered the world some five-andtwenty years ago, to have brought with us a little code of taste in matters of literature, collected from the perusal of models that we were then taught to believe had been formed upon the true and undeviating principles of human nature. We allude to the compositions of the best eras of antiquity, and to those productions of the last two or three centuries, by which the authors, in the spirit of noble composition, have rescued the genius of their respective times, and countries, from the imputation of degeneracy. Whenever those works proposed to us examples of what was instructive, or affecting, or admirable, in the form of fictitious representations, we followed the fortunes of the heroes of the story with the deepest interest, because we could, without an effort, comprehend the full measure of their claims upon our sympathy. All the finer passages of the epic narratives of antiquity are appeals to the natural emotions of the human breast. The love of country-the anguish of exile-the vicissi tudes of great dynasties-heroic intrepidity in battle and in council the instincts of natural piety-the endearments of friendship-and the sorrow that can never weep enough, when the objects are no more;-these, and the long train of the other social and political affections, are the elements of poetic excitement, which those masterly productions bring in happy combination before us and as long as man retains that mysterious faculty of delighting to identify himself in imagination with the fortunes and feelings of others, no matter how far removed by time and space, or how strong his assurance that the whole is but an unsubstantial fable, he will lend himself to the illusion, he will take pleasure in accompanying the personages of Grecian and Roman story, through every variety of sentiment and situation; and, adopting all their emotions, because he recognizes them as his own, feel as intensely for the fictitious events of twenty or thirty centuries ago, as for the joys or calamities of the passing hour. Nor is it merely in such passages of those immortal works, as present us with scenes, to which we might be ourselves exposed, that we fully apprehend, and participate in, the passions of the actors. In the recital of scenes of wonder, as of ordinary occurrences, the foundation still is human nature, operating according to principles, known and authenticated, from time immemorial. The Sixth Eneid, for instance, is a beautiful and scientific illustration of the forms, which the ordinary phenomena of our nature would assume, if submitted to new, and, in point of fact, impossible modes of excitement. In the conduct and language of the Trojan adventurer, during his passage through the realms of eternity, and still more in that of the

departed beings, with whom this noble episode brings him into contact, we feel the spirit of genuine humanity dictating every movement: once admitting the mythological creed, by which the fiction is justified---allowing the possibility of such particular modifications of existence, as form and feature without organic life-as moving, sentient, visible, but unpalpable images of what was once a breathing substance-having ideas without sensespassions untamed by death-and conspicuously among the latter, a sad retrospective attachment to the "glorious light," which is never to visit their dreary situations-once admitting this, we enter, without scruple, into their habitation-and, informed by the genius of Virgil, can give our sympathy as strongly and distinctly to the fleeting groups that throng the banks of the Styx and the Elysian fields, as if their interests and condition were commensurate with our own. It is, in fact, amidst those beings, over whom the grave has closed, that the pathetic fancy of the bard displays some of its tenderest inspirations. His description of the futile efforts to embrace of the pious son and the disembodied parent-and the prophetic elegy of the latter on the short-lived virtues of the yet unborn Marcellus, are lasting evidences of the consummate power, that he possessed, and never failed to exercise, of making the hearts of his readers keep pace with the boldest excursions of his inventive imagination. This is a single example (every classical reader will recall others without number,) of the principles, on which the great writers of antiquity proceeded, and by adhering to which, they have so well succeeded in imparting to their creations an imperishable interest. Notwithstanding the lapse of ages, and the strange vicissitudes of opinion, and of social forms that have ensued, we still find our heads and hearts as much at home in the midst of the scenes they record, as if they related to the daily routine of our familiar occupations. The secret of this fascination (we repeat it) is, that they present us with human beings, in whose nature we recognize a perfect identity with our own. In the characters of ancient fiction, there is consistency and adaptation. They act from assignable motives. They speak as becomes their condition. They have no fantastic incongruities to startle and perplex us. There are no slaves discoursing like demigods-no pedlars hawking about quintessential sentimentality, and haranguing mendicants by the way-side on the soul of the universe, and the fall of empires. So of the moral attributes of their personageswe can comprehend them at a glance. The question of their merits does not come before us in the form of an intellectual puzzle. Homer and Virgil had no skill in constructing models of inscrutable heroism, whom the reader is called upon at once to venerate and abhor. They present us with none of those dark and dubious beings, endowed with courage, generosity, dis

interestedness, exalted enthusiasm, and all the other qualifications of a perfect character, except that they have betrayed a friend, or stained their hands in blood, or committed some other crime, for which they ought long since to have fallen under the stroke of the common executioner. But this old and simple method of engaging our interest, by appealing directly to our social and moral instincts, has of late years been falling into disuse, and some new and very equivocal expedients have been invented to supply its place. Among these, the theories of the German school hold a distinguished rank; and, as we understand that the general adoption of the principles of that school, by English writers, is ardently looked forward to by many as the millennium of our literature, we feel induced to offer a few remarks upon some of its doctrines, as far as we can comprehend them; and their tendencies, which are not quite so unintelligible. Upon a subject, embracing so wide a range, it will, we fear, be inconsistent with our limits to enter upon minute details, and we expect to have many future occasions of returning to it; we shall therefore, at present, content ourselves with submitting our observations in rather a general form. One of the leading peculiarities of the German school, is an incessant effort to produce effect by the introduction of some high-wrought passion, claiming, upon special grounds, an exemption from ordinary restraints, and seeking to engage our sympathy, in defiance of our moral convictions. The germ of this principle, if we mistake not, may be traced to a celebrated author of the last century-not a German-but who may be fairly classed with the writers of that nation—we allude to the productions of Jean-Jaques Rousseau, and in particular to his Nouvelle Heloise. In speaking of this performance, we heartily concur with those, who protest against its indelicacies and its perilous tendencies; but in spite of these and numerous other objections to it, as a mere work of fiction, we cannot help pronouncing it to bear the stamp throughout of a most singularly subtle, profound, and imaginative mind. But to praise, or blame it, is not so much to our present purpose, as to point out one of its prominent peculiarities, which appears to have had a very extensive influence upon the literature of modern Germany.

In the composition of this novel, the author's aim, as he informs us himself, was to discard the common artifices of external incident and situation, and to supply their place by sentiment. For this purpose, ordinary sentiment would have been insufficient. To produce a continued interest, he saw the necessity of inflaming the imaginations of his readers, by exhibiting the workings of some impetuous passion, and his own temperament decided that that passion should be love :-" Je me figurai l'amour, l'amitié, les deux idoles de mon cœur, sous les plus ra