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the most profligate principles and manners, that the latter are excused and even sanctioned by the former. The impression which so powerfully seizes all the sympathies, is one; and the ardent youth becomes almost ambitious of a character he ought to abhor. So, too, sentiments from which, in their plain form, delicacy would revolt, are insinuated with the charms of poetical imagery and expression; and even the coarseness of Fielding is probably less pernicious than the seducing refinement of writers like Moore, whose voluptuous sensibility steals upon the heart, and corrupts its purity, as the moon-beams, in some climates, are believed to poison the substances on which they fall.
But in no productions of modern genius is the recipro cal influence of morals and literature more distinctly seen than in those of the author of Childe Harold. His character produced the poems, and it cannot be doubted that his poems are adapted to produce such a character. His heroes speak a language supplied not more by imagination than consciousness. They are not those machines, that, by a contrivance of the artist, send forth a music of their own; but instruments, through which he breathes his very soul, in tones of agonized sensibility, that cannot but give a sympathetic impulse to those who hear.
The desolate misanthropy of his mind rises and throws its dark shade over his poetry, like one of his ruined castles; we feel it to be sublime, but we forget that it is a sublimity it cannot have, till it is abandoned by every thing that is kind, and peaceful, and happy, and its halls are ready to become the haunts of outlaws and assassins. Nor are his more tender and affectionate passages those to which we can yield ourselves without a feeling of uneasiness. It is not that we can, here and there, select a proposition false or pernicious, but that he leaves an impression unfavorable to a healthful state of thought and feeling, peculiarly dangerous to the finest minds and most susceptible hearts. They are the scene of a summer
evening, where all is tender, and beautiful, and grand; but the damps of disease descend with the dews of heaven, and the pestilent vapors of night are breathed in with the fragrance and balm, and the delicate and fair are the surest victims of its exposure.
Verses on receiving his Mother's Picture.-CowPER.
O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed
O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own:
A momentary dream that thou art she.
My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch, even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
I learned, at last, submission to my lot,
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble-coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capped, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness therę, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed ;-
Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
I pricked them into paper with a pin
(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou-with sails how swift !-hast reached the shore, "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,"*
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
Value of Classical Learning.-PROFESSOR FRISBIE..
In our opinion there are many and great advantages to be derived from a study of the classics. It must be allowed, that even the commentators have not been without their use; they have often thrown much light upon history, as well as their author; and afforded great facilities to those who would seek, with higher views, what is really