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ably, than any thing else, appears to us the most clumsy, inconsistent, inadequate, and unelevated portion of the Iliad. Where, then, are the tokens, in this work, of a great creative imagination? Dr. Johnson's assertion, that "nation after nation and century after century, has been able to do little more than transpose Homer's incidents, new-name his characters, and paraphrase his sentiments," is, of all the monstrosities, uttered by that monstrous man, the worst. Who, that is in the least familiar with the range of modern poetry and romance, does not know that they are full of incidents, sentiments, and characters, between which and those of Homer not an analogy can be traced-which it is preposterous to believe his imagination ever gave him a glimpse of?

From what has been said, it may readily be conceived, that we have no great faith in the circumstance of a work's being ancient, or even being Greek, as certain evidence of its originality. We think Paradise Lost more original than the Iliad ;-Manfred, than Edipus Tyrannus. In all the particulars, for which we have arraigned Homer, Milton is greatly his superior, farther above the common thoughts of common men ; and in his unearthly scenes, where he must depend most on himself, at once bolder in attempt, and more successful in accomplishment-far grander, and more intense in his coloring more adequate to his subject, and consistent with himself. His pages, we can sometimes hardly help regarding as an inspired revelation; Homer's, as a loquacious record broken into verse.

The Dramas, which have been mentioned, are similar in plan: both heroes are exhibited to us, made utterly wretched and finally meeting their fates, in consequence of similar past circumstances. Yet who will pretend to compare, for the grandeur of the conception, for depth of passion, for absorbing poetry, in short for genuine originality, the Theban monarch, conducting like, the judge of a criminal court a long series of minute and anxious investigations, and tearing his eyes out, when evidence finally weighs against him-with Manfred, seeking in vain, in bodily vigil and mental toil, amid Nature's wild sanctuaries, oblivion of his crime-demanding it, in his desperation, of spirits whom he has spell-bound, but who cannot give it him-seeking it in death, but withheld by fateand, in the last sickening gasps of exhausted being, at once

rejecting the consolation of a religion to which he could lay no claim, and spurning from him the importunate fiend whom he had made his vassal, and who, he felt, could never be his master or companion.

O.

OCTOSYLLABICS.

A GENTLE eve! the earth and air,
As fainting from the noontide glare,
Are stealing slowly from the light,
Beneath the raven wings of night;
Yet see beyond their half-shut fold
One long, bright lance of burning gold;
And glancing in the yellow ray,
The banners of retreating day.
I hear the trembling ripples creep
Along the bosom of the deep;
As ocean curls its silver sheet,
To kiss the zephyr's flying feet.
-Yes, all is fair, and I could deem

That truth was in the ancient's dream-
Hark! was there not a voice that came,
From yonder rolling orbs of flame,
Soft stealing with its solemn chime,
Through all the din of earth and time?
-There may be moments when the sound
We hear not, though 't is ever round-
The anthem of the ringing spheres,
Can stir the sense of mortal ears.
The infant sleeps and smiles-who knows
What music lulls his light repose?
The martyr smiles while demons drain
The life-blood from the shrinking vein,
The flame may scorch, the steel may tear,
The quivering source of life lie bare;
Why starts he from his bed of fire
As if he heard an angel's lyre?
O who can tell what heavenly strain
Sheds rapture on the couch of pain?
-And will no mermaid from her cave,
Lift her soft bosom through the wave?
Was all the wild Achaian told,
Of silken hair and scaly fold,
Of lonely wanderers to the shore

Who saw, and heard, and came no more,

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An idle poet's empty tale,

To make the shepherd's cheek turn pale?
-A vanished dream! the time has been,
When spirits trod the nightly green,

When rocks, and waves, and hills, and plains,
Were vocal with aërial strains-

And are they gone who poured the breath
Of life, upon the lips of death;

Who peopled earth, and sea, and sky,
With things that were too fair to die?
All, all, are gone; creation's prime,
Unsullied by the touch of time,

The earth's first transient morning flush,
The star's first glow, the flower's first blush,
They saw; but all has past away,
All save the legend and the lay.
—And though Philosophy has rent
The gorgeous veil which fancy lent—
Though now no more its mystic shroud
Floats round us like a purple cloud-
Though the cold sages of the schools
Have swathed all earth in laws and rules,
And Nature like an athlete stands,
Bound in the web of subtle hands-
Who does not love to think of hours,
When every limb was robed in flowers?
-But now, with long and sullen sweep,
The wind is rising on the deep;
And Ocean flings his hoary locks
In ringlets on the broken rocks.
Is there no Nautilus to guide
His pearly skiff along the tide
With varnished beak and snowy sail,
To cut the wave, and court the gale?
-Not on those chill and frozen seas
Spreads he his wings before the breeze,
Where winds that howl and waves that roar
Clash onward to the frozen shore-
Go to the ice-bound Alps and seek
The myrtle on the glacier's peak,
But think not vainly here to find
The shapes that woo the spicy wind
Where one eternal summer smiles
On crystal seas and emerald isles.
Where Spring sits shuddering as she wears
The belt of buds that winter tears,
Think not that Nature binds with pearls
Her iron brow and sable curls.

-Farewell, wide Ocean-where I stand
Soon shall thy billows sweep the sand—

Where late the noiseless sea-bird crept,
Where insects shut their wings and slept,
Thy beating surge and dashing spray
Shall rend the living rocks away.

SKETCHES FROM MY JOURNAL.

Far from the madding croud's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.'

He who weekly observes the splendid parade and stately pomp, which but too often characterize the devotion of the fashionable world; who beholds the day of prayer spent by so many in the ceremonies of dress, in listless idleness, and moody abstraction, may well wonder, whither the virtuous spirit of the "good old times" has fled, where now dwells the humble and sincere piety of the Pilgrim Fathers.

But though the true spirit of devotion delights not to reside within the close walls and amid the crowded streets of a city, we may be able to discover it still blooming in perfection in some out-of-the-way valley or secluded hamlet, where fashion has not yet usurped the place of rural simplicity, nor city manners become a criterion of gentility.

In one of my rambling excursions, by the breaking down of my vehicle, I was detained a Sunday in one of the prettiest little places I ever saw, and one which I shall ever remember for the sweet simplicity and unaffected religion which I there witnessed.

Not being able to have my chaise repaired Saturday evening, I with pleasure accepted the invitation of an honest, burly farmer, who with a very bustling air and good-humored grin, solicited the honor of the gentleman's company until his vehicle could be mended.'-For he, being the richest and, after the parson the most important man in the place, conceived it his duty, while there was no inn there, to entertain all strangers. I returned home therefore with the good old farmer, and was in process of time introduced to his worthy consort, who received me with all the dignity and complacency that belong to a happy matron and successful housewife.

His three spinster daughters, Nancy, Tabby, and Fanny, gave me a no less gracious reception, so that before night I had quite insinuated myself into the good graces of all this worthy family.

The next morning I had a seat in the family vehicle, "to go to meeting," as it was at some distance.

As we approached we could see the villagers coming from all quarters in their gay Sunday clothes and with merry smiling faces-some trudging, others on horseback, and in conveyances of all kinds-while here and there you might see troops of boys, gathering berries, or chasing the striped squirrel along the fences, in their course.

The meeting-house, a time-worn and rude, but venerable structure, crowned the summit of a sloping and moderate hillock; it was shaded and adorned by some huge oaks and beautiful, and, according to the good old English custom, surrounded by the tombs of the dead, which I have ever thought impart such a becoming awe and such a mournful but proper reverence to the house of God.

When we arrived at the door, the females entered the house while the men waited the arrival of the Pastor. Now the gray-haired veterans gather in a group near the door, revive past recollections, and discuss the last week's performances, and their future plans and expectations; while the sturdy youths attend to the voice of age, or, under some great-trunked oak, boast of their peerless mistresses and plan merry adventures and hunting excursions. Now too the little urchins, feeling released from the strict supervision of a mother's eye, indulge the lively spirit of boyhood, and

"In gay, unthinking childhood blest,"

sport lightly over the mouldering relics of their ancestors, or listen with attentive ears and open mouths to the edifying blunders of some youthful scholar, as he tries to decipher the timeworn lines and moss-filled letters which cover the antiquated tomb-stones. But soon a low murmur ran through the crowd, the voice of the aged counsellor was hushed and the boys ceased, their gayeties: the Parson, having been cordially welcomed by all, preceded them into meeting. Here there was no useless parade, nor idle ceremony, but every thing breathed the spirit of virtuous simplicity and unaffected devotion. The fool might have smiled at the huge and naked