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Haste, oh, haste!
As shades are chased, Trembling, by day, from heaven's blue waste,
We melt away,
Like dissolving spray, From the children of a diviner day,
With the lullaby
Of winds that die
Ione.-What dark forms were they?
Panthea.- The past Hlours weak and grey,
Ione.-Have they past ?
Panthea.—They have past ;
Ione.-Whither, oh, whither?
Voice of Unseen Spirits.
Waves assemble on ocean,
They are gathered and driven
They shake with emotion,
But where are ye?
Fresh music are flinging,
The storms mock the mountains
But where are ye?
Semichorus of Hours.
A Voice.--In the deep?
Semichorus I.-An hundred ages we have been kept
Semichorus II.Worse than his visions were !
Semichorus I.-We have heard the lute of Hope in sleep ;
Semichorns II.-As the billows leap in the morning beams!
Pierce with song heaven's silent light,
To check its flight ere the cave of night. Once the hungry Hours were hounds
Which chased the day like a bleeding deer, And it limped and stumbled with many wounds
Through the nightly dells of the desert year.
But now, oh weave the mystic measure
Of music, and dance, and shapes of light,
Like the clouds and sunbeams, unite.
Panthea.-See, where the Spirits of the human mind Wrapt in sweet sounds, as in bright veils, approach.
Chorus of Spirits.
Of the dance and the song.
As the flying-fish leap
From the Indian deep,
Chorus of Hours.
Chorus of Spirits.
Of human kind
Now 'tis an ocean
Of clear emotion,
From that deep abyss
Of wonder and bliss, Whose caverns are crystal palaces ;
From those skiey towers
Where Thought's crowned powerg Sit watching your dance, ye happy Hours !
From the dim recesses
Of woven caresses,
From the azure isles,
Where sweet Wisdom smiles, Delaying your ships with her syren wiles.
From the temples high
Of Man's ear and eye, Roofed over Sculpture and Poesy;
From the murmurings
Of the unsealed springs Where Science bedews his Dædal wings.
Years after years
Through blood, and tears,
We waded and flew,
And the islets were few
Our feet now, every palm,
Are sandalled with calm, And the dew of our wings is a rain of balm;
And, beyond our eyes,
The human love lies Which makes all it gazes on Paradise.
Chorus of Spirits and Hours. Then weave the web of the mystic measure; From the depths of the sky and the ends of the earth,
Come, swift Spirits of might and of pleasure,
As the waves of a thousand streams rush by
Chorus of Spirits.
Our task is done,
Beyond and around,
Or within the bound
We'll pass the eyes
Of the starry skies
Death, Chaos, and Night,
From the sound of our flight,
And Earth, Air, and Light,
And the Spirit of Might,
And Love, Thought, and Breath,
The powers that quell Death,
And our singing shall build
In the void's loose field
We will take our plan
From the new world of man,
Chorus of Hours.
Let some depart, and some remain.
Semichorus 1.–Ceaseless, and rapid, and fierce, and free,
Semichorus II.--Solemn, and slow, and serene, and bright,
Semichorus I.--We whirl, singing loud, round the gathering sphere,
Semichorus II.-We encircle the ocean and mountains of earth,
Chorus of Hours and Spirits.
Let some depart, and some remain,
The clouds that are heavy with love's sweet rain.
Ione. Yet feel you no delight
Panthea.-As the bare green hill
We close our review of Shelley's writings here. Many have been passed over unnoticed ; and of those which have been adverted to, the merits have been canvassed hurriedly and incompletely. Our limits forbade a more exhaustive scrutiny. Something we would have said on Shelley's beautiful prose style-a rare quality in a poet-but, for the same reason, this topic must pass undiscussed. Our object has been to
criticise the poems of a real poet as such ; to banish out of view, when doing this, all reference to his moral conduct, or to his speculative opi. nions. The intrusion of personal feelings, the attempt to insinuate un. popular opinions, under the disguise of poetry, are a fair object of remark for the critic, when they, in any way, blemish the poem as such ; not otherwise. A poem is an object of contemplation; it addresses itself to our passive imagination ; it is not intended, nor, in well-regulated minds, is it calculated to influence the opinion or the will. It is a babyish notion, that of acting in emulation of the heroes of a favourite poem, and unworthy of a mind sufficiently developed to taste the beauties of poetry. Human beings, worthy of the name, act from motives of justice or utility, not of vain theatrical parade. If those, who are so ready to cry out about the danger of corrupting youth, and to add, as a corollary, the propriety of misrepresenting all works which they fancy likely to have such a tendency, in order to frighten children from them, would train up the young in the light of truth, and in the habit of self-control, they might expose them fearlessly to all influences. Thus educated, the beauties of poetry would attract them, while any alloy of impurer metal would repel. This is a matter of no slight importance. The cultivation of the faculty which finds a pleasure in the simple contemplation of the beautiful is an object of no mean importance, and is only effectual by exercise. The wider the range of beautiful objects that can be subjected to its examination the better. No one dreams now that a young man may be turned to idolatry by the perusal of Homer. Why must he necessarily adopt Shelley's abstract opinions, because he admires his poetry? We repeat it, train the mind aright, then let it loose, to range among the world of books, as you must, to range through all the varieties of society. It may stagger, but it will steady at last. It is almost ludicrous to think, that, at this time of day, it should be necessary to insist upon such a truism, in order to procure a fair hearing for Shelley—for the subtlest, sweetest, most etherial, veriest poet of our age.
THE ROVER'S SONG,
Hurraa! hurrah! my ocean bird,
The sun's broad rays are flung Across the cliff's majestic brow,
Where eagles oft have swung : Spread thy white pinions to the gale,
Dash through the foaming spray That sparkles with a thousand hues,
My bark-away-away! Hurrah! the monarch of the wild
May climb the mountain side, And gaze upon his fairest home
With freedom's conscious pride.
But liberty upon the waste
Of waters seems more free:
Thou bright and glorious sea !
The whirling of the wave,
The reckless and the brave.
I ask no more than this;
My grave the blue abyss !
AUSTIN'S LECTURES ON JURISPRUDENCE.*
If we could anticipate early a brilliant success for this work, we should think more highly of the wisdom of the book-buying public than we fear there are grounds for. This is a reading age; and precisely because it is so reading an age, any book which is the result of profound meditation, is perhaps less likely to be duly and profitably read than at a former period. The world reads too much, and too quickly, to read well. When books were few, to get through one was a work of time and labour: what was written with thought was read with thought, and with a desire to extract from it as much of the materials of knowledge as possible. But when almost every person who can spell, can and will write, what is to be done? It is difficult to know what to read, except by reading every thing; and so much of the world's business is now transacted through the press, that it is necessary to know what is printed if we desire to know what is going on. Op veighs with so vast a weight in the balance of events, that ideas of no value in themselves, are of importance from the mere circumstance that they are ideas, and have a bona fide existence as such anywhere out of Bedlam. The world, in consequence, gorges itself with intellectual food of all qualities, and in order to swallow the more, bolts it. Nothing is now read slowly, or twice over.
Books are run through with no less rapidity, and scarcely leave a more durable impression than a newspaper article. It is for this, among other causes, that so few books are produced of any
value. The lioness in the fable boasted that though she produced only one at a birth, that one was a lion. But if each lion only counted for one, and each leveret for one, the advantage would all be on the side of the hare. When every unit is individually weak, it is only multitude that tells. Who wonders that the newspapers should carry all before them? A book produces no greater effect than an article, and there can be three hundred and sixty-five of these in one year. He, therefore, who should and would write a book, and write it in the proper manner of writing a book, now dashes down his first hasty thoughts, or what he mistakes for thoughts, in a periodical. And the public is in the predicament of an indolent man, who cannot bring himself to apply his mind vigorously to his own affairs; and over whom, therefore, not he who speaks most wisely, but he who speaks most frequently, obtains the influence.
At such a period, any person who once more gives to mankind a phi. losophical work, which he has conscientiously endeavoured to make as good as he could, by unsparing labour and meditation, make it, performs an act the more meritorious, as it is the less likely to meet with any reward ; and if, like Mr. Austin, he is qualified for the more successful and profitable kinds of literary composition, yet deliberately prefers the more instructive, the greater is his deserving. There are passages in the volume before us, which shew that if the author chose, he could excel as a popular writer; and the mere clippings and parings of a work like this, would be material enough to be wrought up into more than one popular book. But Mr. Austin knows, that in order to make an impression upon careless, rapid, and impatient readers, it is necessary
* The Province of Jurisprudence Determined. By John Austin, Esq., Barrister at Law.