lished measures of a Sophocles. There the spirit was either soothed by the melting tones from the lyre of an Orpheus, or aroused by the all-kindling and irresistible eloquence of a Demosthenes. And yet, in this land of philosophy, and patriotism, and eloquence and song-in the midst of Athens, that metropolitan city of all that was refined and elegant, we find an altar to the "Unknown God." So likewise it is with individuals. However refined and learned a man may be-however vast his intellect-however extensively and accurately he may acquaint himself with nature and her manifold operations; yet, if his heart be not prepared by a process of a different character, to look through all these things up to nature's God, he will invariably stop at the laws of these operations, and setting them up as gods, will bow down himself unto them and worship them. It is not right to charge this or any other branch of science with the infidelity of its votaries. They are such, not because of philosophy, but in spite of philoso phy and revelation too. Let but the religious affections be properly cultivated-let Christ but lay the hand of his healing power upon the human heart, then will the understanding be prepared to see in all things the finger of God, and to praise him not only in the "firmament of his power," but in the " tints and texture of every petal that drinks the dew, and in the wings and antennæ of every gnat that hums in the evening air:" or as the inimitable Shakspeare has it, to

Find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

SOMETHING ON SONNETS.

"Scorn not the Sonnet! Critic, you have frown'd
Mindless of its just honors: with this key,
Shakspeare unlocked his heart: the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound:
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound:
Camoens soothed with it an exile's grief.
The Sonnet glittered, a gay myrtle leaf,
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned

His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,

It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land

To struggle through dark ways: and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand

The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew
Soul-animating strains-alas, too few!"

Wordsworth.

A most admirable review of the poetry of William Wordsworth, in the first pages of the December Messenger, contains some reflections upon the Sonnet, which have set me upon the whim-wham of weaving a chaplet of those delightful poems for the pages of the February number. I do not mean to prove, or disprove anything in this undertaking, more than to prove my own love of that species of verse, and to disprove, if I can, the validity of the arguments which critics are too much in the habit of using, while attempting to decry it. The remark, for instance, of the Wordsworth critic in the Messenger, in relation to Milton, that his sonnets "have been nobly redeemed from oblivion by a few happy ideas, grand thoughts, and eminently poetical lines: but-not wrought with the fine polish and artist-like finish which become the Sonnet;"-is one to which I must begin this (anything but critical) article, with taking a decided exception. And I shall transcribe one of the great poet's Sonnets to bear me out.

"ON MY BLINDNESS.

"When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent, which is death to hide,
Lodged with me, useless, though my soul were bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he, returning, chide :
'Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?'
I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies,-'God does not need
Either man's work, or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke,-they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean, without rest.
They also serve, who only stand and wait.'"

Nor can I quite agree with the critic when he describes the merits of Shakspeare's sonnets as "independent, if not in despite, of their form." I had occasion to turn over Steevens the other day to find some clue to one of Shakspeare's disputed passages, while preparing an article upon the Text of Shakspeare for the Messenger, and I remember to have met, among the notes of that critic, this same idea, in a more extended form: and I could not help turning to the following, as pregnant proofs of the invalidity of the criticism. He is addressing an imaginary mistress, the eidolon of nearly all his sonnetizing.

"Oh how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem,
For that sweet odor which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,-
Hang on such thorns,-and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their masked bud discloses:
But, (for their virtue only is their show,)
They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade,―
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so:

Of their sweet deaths are sweelest odors made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distils your truth."

But if that be all a Sonnet should be, what degree of
worth shall this be measured by, that follows?
"When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh for lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste.
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long-since-cancelled woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I now pay, as if not paid before.
But if, the while, I think on thee, my friend,
All losses are restored, all sorrows end."

I have in my possession a beautiful edition of "Specimens of English Sonnets," dedicated to Mr. Wordsworth, in the notes of the editor of which, the Rev. Mr. Dyce, I observe the Sonnets of Wordsworth clas

"With this key

Shakspeare unlocked his heart:"

And, again, that,

-when a damp

Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew
Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few!"

But all this is apart from the main object of this paper. I have only indulged in this seeming controversial strain, by way of claiming for those two noble poets that justice in comparison, which the otherwise very discriminating critic of the Messenger is willing to allow them, by themselves considered. With every word he says of the Sonnet, per se, the writer I have mentioned will find me fully and deeply sympathising; and as to Wordsworth's sonnets, he has but deepened the admiration I have always felt while poring over those richest gems of modern poetry. He has copied many of the best of these in his sparkling article. Yet there is one, he omits, but which, from its very resemblance to those of his two illustrious exemplars in Sonnet-writing, has ever been supreme upon my list of favorites. I mean that which he addressed "To the Lady Beaumont."

"Lady! the songs of spring were in the grove
While I was shaping beds for winter flowers:
While I was planting green unfading bowers,
And shrubs to hang upon the warm alcove,
And sheltering wall; and still, as fancy wove
The dream, to time and nature's blended powers
I gave this paradise for winter-hours

A labyrinth, Lady! which your feet shall rove.
Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines,
Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom,
Or of high gladness, you shall hither bring:
And these perennial bowers, and murmuring pines,
Be gracious as the music and the bloom,
And all the mighty ravishment of spring!"

The Lord Surrey first introduced the Sonnet into the English language, about the middle of the sixteenth century. He published his "Songes and Sonnettes" in the year 1557. But it is the most ancient form of Italian poetry: and at a still earlier period was in use by the Provençals. In Italy it was first cultivated by the poet Fra Guittone, and was nearly a century in attaining the perfection, (for so it must be considered,) to which Petrarch elevated it. In France, the Sonnet has never gained a worthy celebrity, being, in that country, a mere vehicle for that sportive kind of verse which we call crambo,—(or something like it,)—a de

"To bend the iron bow of Cœur de Lion,

And wield the club of Hercules."

These "climbers upon Richmond, fancying it Parnassus," to borrow a quaint conceit of Charles Lamb, (dear Elia !) look at the Sonnet, and, finding it mathematically described in the books, as consisting of so many lines, and so many parts, and so many syllables, and so many rhymes, take comfort to themselves that they know their Cocker, and can count their fingers and thumbs, and form capital letters, in round Italian hand; and so they settle themselves to write Sonnets: and"hinc illa lachrymæ !"

Lieber very tersely defines the Sonnet thus: (after according to the rules, q. v.) "it generally contains one describing the proper construction of the lines, &c. principal idea, pursued through the various antitheses of the different strophes, and adorned with the charm of rhyme."

«The Form of Poetry," says, "There is not a popular Montgomery (the elder) in his beautiful Lecture on the Italian." This is true, yet deceptive. It is true, one in the English language: there are hundreds in just as it is to say that poetry is popular in Italy, but than to any other verse, it is only because that, in not in England; and if it applies to the Sonnet more Italy, there is no verse so commonly in vogue. Yet the English Sonnet is as popular, perhaps, as any other form of English poetry, if we except the Ballad; and the preference given to that form arises more from the story of which it is usually the vehicle, than from the verse itself. The native language of the Italian is Music-Poetry, and he

"Lisps in numbers, and the numbers come."

Yet even our rigid critic, just quoted, agrees that there are some specimens extant, which "have redeemed the English language from the opprobrium of not admitting the legitimate Sonnet, in its severest, as well as its most elegant construction." And here is one in proof, by Wordsworth, which the critic of the Messenger and myself have both as yet left unquoted. It is the Answer of the Men of Tyrol to the French foe, who has demanded the surrender of their Alpine homes.

"This land we, from our fathers, had in trust,-
And to our children will transmit,--or die !
This is our maxim: this our piety!
And God and Nature say that it is just!
That which we would perform in arms, we must!
We read the dictate in the infant's eye,—
In the wife's smile,-and in the placid sky,
And at our feet, amid the silent dust
Of them that were before us. Sing aloud
OLD SONGS, the precious music of the heart!
Give, herds and flocks! your voices to the wind,

While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd,
With weapons in the fearless hand, to assert
Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind."

This is beyond, above, and out of all reach of comparison or of criticism. It is THE SONNET, par excel lence. Yet, reader, stay one moment longer for this jewel of John Leyden's; and those of you who do not remember who John Leyden is, read Lockhart's Life of Walter Scott.

"ON THE SABBATH MORNING.

"With silent awe I hail the sacred morn,
That slowly wakes while all the fields are still!
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne;
A graver murmur gurgles from the rill;
And echo answers softer from the hill;
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn;
The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill.
Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn!
The rooks float silent by, in airy drove;
The sun a placid yellow lustre throws;
The gales, that lately sighed along the grove,
Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose;
The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move.-
So smiled the day when the first morn arose!"
Who says that this is not a genuine Sonnet?
But I have detained my patient (perhaps I should
say my sleepy) reader, too long, and must even now
let go his button; but this I will not do without again
repeating the refrain of my droning song about Son-
nets in his ear:

"Scorn not the Sonnet!"

J. F. O.

SPECIMEN OF CAUSTICITY.

In an old Edinburg Review (No. 31), is an article in reply to an abusive pamphlet written against the Review by some tutor or Fellow in the University of Oxford. Judging merely by the article itself, without seeing aught on the other side of the controversy, it is one of the most overwhelming in power of ridicule, satire, and argument, that the annals of controversy afford. The following is among the strongest concentrations of bitterness:

"This Oxford gentleman is always burning candles by daylight; proving what no human being ever called in question, and making the most pompous display of the most trite and insignificant truths. In p. 106, is a long dissertation to shew, that some general Literature is useful in all professions. In p. 126, he praises Locke and Milton; and soon after informs us, that Adam Smith is a writer of merit. In p. 127, he proves that composition is useful. He then demonstrates, that a man's abilities depend a good deal upon what nature has made him, and a good deal also upon how he has been taught. He convinces us, moreover, that not the wealth only, of nations, is to be attended to, but their happiness; and makes it quite clear to the most skeptical mind, that all human institutions are liable to error. And all this is not done carelessly, or despatched in a

'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But, of the two, less dangerous is the offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our sense.
Some few in that, but numbers err in this,
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss.
Essay on Criticism.

The Grecian drama, until the days of Shakspeare, surpassed in dignity and excellence that of any other people, ancient or modern. And it owed this supremacy to its inherent strength and vigor, borrowing no meretricious graces from abroad, but gradually developing its innate energy and resources. The tragic Muse of Greece, like its own infant Hercules, soon seized upon the snakes; and in the darker, and wilder, and more terrific explosions of passion, in the drama of the better days of that gifted people, she is yet unimitated, perhaps inimitable. When the Grecian arts and sciences were led in captivity to Rome, they failed to impart to the conqueror their creative spirit; and the lyre of the Muses, like the harp of the Children of Captivity, seemed to have lost its powers. The efforts of the Roman dramatists appear to have been confined to a servile copy of Grecian models; and with them, superlative excellence consisted in the perfection of that copy. So, among the European nations of the continent, their dramatic genius has been fettered by learned and critical rules deduced from writings of the master-spirits of the Grecian stage. But neither nations nor individuals can attain excellence in this department of literature by the imitation of ancient models. Bursting through their fetters, such writers display occasional beauties, but the general character of their productions scarcely transcends mediocrity. Addison, in his Cato, bowed to the rigor of this rule, and although in many passages he is touchingly eloquent, and always chaste, yet the tragedy, as a whole, is cold and formal. But the divine Shakspeare, in the true spirit of Anglo-Saxon freedom, surrendering himself to the glowing inspirations of the Muse, and "of imagination all compact," soars at once to sublimity, and wins for himself, his language, his country and his age, imperishable renown.

The English, like the Grecian drama, attained its highest perfection by the development of its own plenteous and inexhaustible resources. Original in its inception, and essentially national in its character, it steadily progressed in its own peculiar path, until, in