tender spirit, finding in poetry the language of virtue and of truth. Most ardently would we advise him to go on his way rejoicing. Poetry is, above all other intellectual gifts, its own reward; it elevates, soothes, and refines the understanding, and communicates its richness and fragrancy to the innermost thoughts. "The summer flower is to the summer sweet, Though to itself it only live and die." Never may the day arrive when the youthful aspirant after glory shall take his farewell of the haunts of the Muses and the springs of beauty undefiled Νῦν δ' ὦ κρῆναι, γλύκιόν τε πόντον, Λείπομεν ὑμᾶς, λείπομεν ἤδη. SOPHOC. PHILOCT. Among the poems which have recently issued from the press, Mr. Heraud's "Descent into Hell" affords one of the most pleasing exceptions from our strictures; and we coincide with Mr. Lockhart in believing that, although essentially destitute of the elements of ephemeral popularity, it will always obtain the suffrages of those who have proved, by their ability to perform, their title to judge. The Descent is written in the terza rima of Dante, a metre attempted by no English writer of eminence, except Milton, in the "Second Psalm," and Byron, in the "Prophecy of Dante." Metrical experiments have never been received with much favour. Southey's attempt to revive in the "Vision of Judgment" the hexameter of Sir Philip Sidney, proved signally unsuccessful; and the rare beauty and luxuriant fancy of "Thalaba" and the "Curse of Kehama" have not succeeded in reconciling the public ear to their unaccustomed melody. It is surprising to observe how miserably the art of versification is neglected in our day, by youthful writers in particular: the science of metre seems a thing unknown. Mr. Coleridge's advice. to Alfred Tennyson, in whom he discovered traces of genuine. talent, was to write for the next two or three years only in wellknown and strictly defined metres, such as the heroic couplet, the octave stanza, or the octo-syllabic measure of the Allegro and Penseroso. The author of " Kubla Khan" possessed the most delicate ear of any modern poet; and his practice, in this instance, corresponded with his theory. Blank verse, the heroic couplet, and the Spenserian stanza, are the noblest, the sweetest, the most flexible, and the most comprehensive forms of verse in our language. Blank verse, from its variety, its naturalness, and its facility, seems to be appropriated to the business and the pleasures of life; it is emphatically the dialect of the theatre. In the purity and dramatic ease of Massinger, the ever-varying richness of Shakspeare, the gorgeous declamation of Beaumont, or the grave stateliness of Ben Jonson, its happy versatility is displayed; the smile of merriment, the sneer of ridicule, the start of passion, the gasp of sorrow, are each represented with a vivid reality. Such is the pliability of the measure, that the skill of the artist is alone wanting to construct out of it a mask which shall preserve the faintest play of feature in the face of the tragic or comic Muse. Coleridge thought the rhythm of Shakspeare so perfect, that when a line did not run well as he read it, he was convinced that its real force had escaped him. Milton, Young, Akenside, Cowper, Wordsworth, and Southey, have all furnished specimens of the same measure in narrative and didactic poems of peculiar beauty; but in the two epics of Paradise only do we find the inherent difficulties of the metre overcome; the resplendent structures of Milton's imagination seem to rise in noiseless glory at the sound of those full organnotes;—the assembly of the powers of darkness, the unfurling of the blazing standard, the glare of unnumbered spears, the thunder of the arming legions, the tumult of angelic warfare, the roar of the living chariots, the fearful hardihood of Satan, and the mild majesty of Raphael; the loveliness and the agony of Eve, the seraphic minstrelsy and the flaming swords of Paradise-all that is terrible, combined with all that is beautiful, find a correspondent expression in the rhythm of Milton. The veins of his diction were enriched with the choicest blood of Greece and Italy, and imparted an intenser vitality to the entire frame. Exquisite specimens of energetic and mellifluous verse may be found in the Task, the Excursion, the Roderic, and Madoc, the last of which a kindred spirit has declared to be the noblest narrative poem since the "Fairie Queen" and "Paradise Lost;" but instances of prolixity running into feebleness continually occur; the stream overflows its banks, decreasing at once in depth and rapidity. The humorous remark which obtained the applause of Johnson, that blank verse was verse only to the eye, begins under these circumstances to lose the appearance of a paradox. of a paradox. The heroic couplet, on the other hand, while it retains in the works of the Elizabethian poets no inconsiderable share of the flexibility and capacity of blank verse, confines the sense with a narrower channel, and gives to the sentiments of the writer a terser vigour : hence it is especially adapted to the expression of indignation, or to the unwinding of a didactic argument; nor is it less susceptible of the delicate graces of description, the violent outbreaks of feeling, or the graceful flashes of irony. Of the three first qualities Dryden, in his Satires, and translations from Chaucer and Boccacio, has given ample proof; and the reader who desires evidence of the second, will find it in the " Rape of the Lock" and the "Epistle to Abelard." Lastly, the Spenserian stanza demands our attention. If blank verse be appropriated to the theatre, and the loftiest strain of epic song, the heroic couplet to satire, argument, and agreeable narrative, the stanza named after its greatest cultivator belongs especially to Faery Land and romance; it unites the fluency and amplitude of the first to the majestic sweetness of the second, and surpasses both in its resounding march and the imposing swell of harmony at the conclusion. All the delights of nature, of beauty, and of love, have their echoes in it; the murmur of the fountain, the rustling of the leaves, the music of the bird, the wailing of the lute, the whispers of affection, the sighs of tenderness-who has uttered these like Spenser? But he never sounded this exquisite measure to the bottom: employing it as a mirror to reflect his conceptions of loveliness and grace, he was probably unconscious of its hidden spells of sublimity, eloquence, and invective: it was reserved for Lord Byron to open these mighty powers, and to task them to the uttermost. In his hand the stanza, no longer serene and unruffled, as it flowed from the lyre of Spenser, assumed a rhetorical force and earnestness of passion; he put muscles into its delicate members, and made every line heave with a nervous animation. It was Juvenal breathing his fire into Virgil; South agitating the tranquil fancy of Bishop Hall. The "Faerie Queen" might have doubted her own language. For majesty, and all the delights of a linked music long drawn out, the Spenserian measure must ever be preeminent. The "Descent into Hell" is divided into seven parts; the Captivity; Hades; Earth; Chaos; the Restoration; the Preaching; the Judgment. Without entering into a minute analysis of its construction, we shall be able to afford the reader an idea of the general merit of the composition, and of the measure in which it is written, by a single quotation: it is from the fourth part, and cannot fail to impress every one with a very high opinion of the author's talents. We have, however, met with few passages in the "Descent" of such transcendent merit, both in sentiment, harmony, and diction. We need not point out the happy introduction of this celestial light into the Valley of the Shadow of Death. It is a Rembrandt effect. "Say, have the gates of Death been oped to thee? Beyond that boundless gulf they stand between Gardens of hope, where happy spirits dwell, And that dark bourne of terror where the bad Lo, there the gate of Paradise makes glad Keeps guard; fair form and lovely in the grace An amaranthine crown is on her head, Of countenance, and lovely though severe- And Death is multiform, and comes with speed Or slackness, and in terrors or in smiles, As men with fear or faith his coming heed. They call her Death whom still the flesh beguiles; Who placid dwell within those pleasant isles." If we might venture to hint a fault, or hesitate dislike, to any thing in a passage so impregnated with genius as the preceding, it would be against the epithet paly, and the concluding line of the ninth stanza, which reads like an interpolation, and only fills up the stanza without strengthening it. The fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth stanzas are particularly admirable; although in the fifth Mr. Heraud was evidently thinking of Spenser. In the writer's just and eloquent vindication of religious poetry we cordially and entirely agree. "Poetry," he says briefly and well," is the most ancient form of literature, and religion the most ancient form of poetry." Antiquity testifies to the assertion, and modern experience confirms it; it was in honour of an Olympian Jupiter or Aphrodite, that the marble started into life beneath the chisel of Phidias, or palpitated with softer emotions under the patient hand of Praxiteles; the enthusiasm of religion lighted up the canvass of Raphael, brought Guido faces from Paradise, and diffused ambrosial lustre over the revelations of Correggio. Let the reader turn to the treatise upon Christian Art (L'Art Chrêtien) by M. Rio, for the development of these remarks. The Italian school was deeply imbued with this delicious mysticism; Michael Angelo's every statues embody the very soul of Dante. Under the pervading influence of this inspiration, the humble was exalted, the sensual purified, the earthly kindled into immortality. In poetry the result is the same. What productions have outlived the wrecks of time, or retained their beauty undimmed through the lapse of ages? Those into which the breath of this heavenly Soul has been infused; which grew up, as it were, into stature and majesty beneath the favour of Him from whom descends good and every perfect gift. Thus the "Jerusalem Delivered," the "Comedy Divine," the "Paradise Lost" and "Regained," not to mention other works of christianized genius, are, if we may so speak, the costly columns upon which the temple of European song is supported. And even where this mighty breath of life has been bestowed in a small measure, still, in whatever degree it exists, it preserves the body in which it resides from dissolution or decay. Well does a celebrated American writer remark, that religion, when rightly considered, surpasses every other principle in giving freedom and variety of action to the human intellect; recognising in every faculty and sentiment the workmanship of God, and assigning to each its sphere of agency. Religion, he continues, is of all principles most fruitful, multiform, and unconfined. It does not chain us to a few essential duties, or express itself in a few unchanging modes of writing. It has the liberality and munificence of nature. A beautiful literature springs from the depth and fulness of intellectual and moral life, from an energy of thought and feeling to which nothing ministers so largely as enlightened religion. Such are the sentiments of Dr. Channing, and such must be the feelings of every person who has thought upon the subject. Genius baptized in the waters of Sion must be immortal here: what will it be hereafter? Whether that happy period will ever arrive when the whole mass of our literature shall be impregnated with this precious influence, it would be idle to inquire. We must not expect a system of optimism in learning, any more than in nature, or in life. One cheering proof, however, of the force of an active religious principle in shaping and animating compositions not avowedly sacred, presents itself to us in the poetry of Mr. Wordsworth. How many sensations rush upon the mind at the mention of that honoured name! During a quarter of a century his fame has been struggling along like a subterraneous current; not often heard in the stir and bustle of ephemeral rivalry; but still keeping the tenor of its way, widening and deepening every hour, until at length it begins to issue forth into light again, a broad, rapid, and glittering river. All our readers must be familiar with the history of that Scottish school of criticism, which sprang into notoriety under the auspices of a few clever but, we fear, unprincipled men. A certain smartness and vivacity of expression, a novelty and poignancy of illustra |