cockle-shells, or an imitation of them; but the These were, besides those already mentioned, name renders their vegetable descent unequivo- the Tattler, a daily paper of four folio pacal. It is pleasant to observe the simple origin of pleasant things. Some loving peasants, time im-ges, which he wrote entirely; the True memorial, fall dancing under the trees: they pick Sun, to which he contributed, as also to the up the nuts, rattle them in their hands; and be- Edinburgh and Westminster Reviews; the hold (as the Frenchman says) the birth of the ac- Monthly Repository, a Unitarian magazine; companiment of the fandango." the London Journal, and the Seer, which now stands as a companion to the Indicator. His dramatic productions were, The Legend of Florence, The Secret Marriage, Lover's Amazements, The Double, and Look to your Morals,—all of which were failures. In addition to these and his volumes of essays, poems, &c., "I have written," he says, one more book, small, and still in manuscript, which I can take no pride in, which I desire to take no pride in, and yet which I hold dearer than all the rest." This volume, it appears, is upon the subject of religion, and has appended to it his "Christianism, or Belief and Unbelief Reconciled," and is promised to be shortly published.

Settled once again at his beloved Hampstead, our poet found amid English scenery his "old friend Pastoral, still more pastoral." He now strolled about the meadows, with a "Parnaso," or a Spenser under his arm, and wondered that he met nobody who seemed to love the fields as he did. Toryism was at this time in the ascendant, and Hunt's literary productions were not popular. It was not until the rise of Louis Philippe and the decline of Toryism, that the signature of the quondam editor of the Examiner was greeted with its former favor. "It is not the best trait," he says, " in the character of the public, that they incline to believe whatever is said of a man by the prosperous. I have since been lauded to the skies for productions which at that period fell dead from the press."

แ

We cannot better take leave of our old friend than by quoting a few characteristic words of his own, descriptive of his present life

"With the occasional growth of this book, with

elude

We will not go with Mr. Hunt into the critical analysis of his own poetical produc- the production of others from necessity, with the solace of verse, and with my usual experience of tions, though many of his remarks thereon sorrows and enjoyments, of sanguine hopes and are as racy as the poems themselves. This bitter disappointments, of bad health and almost method of commenting upon one's own pro- unconquerable spirits, (for though my old hypoductions is not altogether unauthorized. Mr. chondria never returns, I sometimes undergo pangs Hunt gives for it the example of the old of unspeakable will and longing, on matters which Italian poets, with Dante at their head. He tered tenor of life, almost the whole lapse of my grasp,) I have now passed, in one sequesregrets that Shakspeare had not been his years since I lost my friend in Italy. The same own commentator, and Spenser given eluci-unvaried day sees me reading or writing, ailing, dations respecting his Platonic mysticisms on the nature of man. He would have enjoyed "a divine gossip with him about his woods, and his solitudes, and his nymphs, his oceans, and his heaven."

jesting, reflecting, rarely stirring from home but to walk, interested in public events, in the progress of society, in the 'New Reformation,' (most deeply,) in things great and small, in a print, in a plastercast, in a hand-organ, in the stars, in the scene to which the sun is hastening, in the flower on my table, in the fly on my paper while I write. (He crosses words, of which he knows nothing; and perhaps we all do as much every moment, over divinest meanings.)"

Quick at the fount the living waters play,

Then laughing down the verdurous grade they run, Like troops of children, of a holiday,

On a grassed playground, sloping to the sun; The roguish ripples, dancing with delight, Twinkle and glow like diamonds in the light.

Then gentlier flow they among isles of grass,
And promontories green, till calm and wide
They move reluctant, swaying as they pass

The anchored lilies, that companioned ride
With fleets of floating foliage broad and green,
And cups of flowery gold that glow between.

The scythe-ripe meadows greenly stretched afar, Where the long waters wound, obscurely shining; The wakening airs kept up a breezy war

With grass and trees their sudden flights confining; The broad hills billowed in the windy chase Down their green sides, from brow to gloomy base.

Soft came the airs, with leafy murmurs sweet,
And sensuous trill of insects in the grass;
Mild whispers, heard when day and darkness meet,
That move an inborn music as they pass,
Tuned by the wheel-strokes of a distant mill,
Now plashing loud, and now a moment still.

Gradual, o'er all, the mountain sent his shade,Though yet, from western clouds, a ruddy beam Glowed on the waters, playfully delayed

By shallow ripples on th' impatient stream, That would not let the troubled splendor lie In the deep hollow of the nether sky.

Still at each windy lull it sought its rest

In the calm bosom of the blue profound,Like Faith's clear vision in a peaceful breast,

Then broke in passion; when with hasty sound The wind awoke, and stirred the leaves, and flew, Trailing his skirt along the trembling blue.

The far wheel ceased, the swelling sluices roared,
The mill-bell tinkled in the twilight air;
Sweet sounds that o'er the dewy landscape poured
Remission blest of industry and care;

Vespers of labor, when with merriment
The sons of toil all smiling homeward went.

Their children meet them half the pleasant way,
And hand in hand the sons and fathers walk;
The happy mothers chide their long delay,

While on the grassy lane they, lingering, talk:
Young swains and hoary tillers, how the State
Should be advanced, and who are truly great.

Nay, worship God alone: be thou a man,

And not man's worshipper, nor Nature's. Show The power of freedom. What young Freedom can, Were it not worth a martyrdom to know?

If thou wilt rhyme, then be thy manly verse
Made for a patriot's praise,-a traitor's curse.

PART II.

MANHOOD.

Has the New World no passion fit to move
Heroic numbers? Must the liberal air
Still ring with verse that girls and boys approve,
Melodious lust and musical despair?

Then be despised the idle rhyming art,
Unfit for themes that move a patriot's heart!

Look where the modern epic Manhood stands Among the people !-mark him, you who deem Heroes a growth of other times and lands,

Or a mere fiction of the poet's dream;
Up! to his grandeur, rhymster, if you can!
And future times will deem you too a man.

Seest not the noble front,-the shoulders large,-
And majesty of motion, that declare

The hero born, not made; on whom the charge
Of empire, inevitable, rests? He goes,
Unconscious, toward his fame, and powerful state,
By character, God's mark, alone made great.

Clad in the dress of toil, he moves a king

Of Nature's crowning: his deep voice more feared, His smile more valued, than the beckoning

Of law-made monarchs; and, penurious reared, He laughs at wealth, and with rich eloquence Unlocks all hoards and takes his liking thence.

For all men love him,-aye, all women too;
And every native beauty he will scan
With a moist eye, and tender; and were you
Before him, every mark in you of man
He would discern, and on the instant trace
The strength, or weakness, written in your face.

Trust him, and he will love you; do him wrong,
His anger blasts you like a desert wind:
Oppose him, he is courteous, and will long
Contend with bloodless weapons of the mind;
Force him to fight you, not the raging sea
More terrible or pitiless than he.