guardian of the aborigines, and were drawn for, in the best discernment, promiscuously with the allotments of the European settlers, amongst which, consequently, they are interspersed. As their money-value must rise in equal proportion with that of the rest, it followed that from former valueless, and to them waste-continuing lands, the aborigines now acquired, in full right of ownership, a considerable landed property. In the course of two years (middle of 1841), this property, namely, the tenth part of the 110,000 acres constituting the Port Nicholson settlement, had already acquired, at the market-place of London, an increased value of 34,000%., which, in equal progression with the growth of the colony, must continue to augment, and might at no distant period reach 100,000l. Such prospective value, together with the goods and money actually delivered to the aborigines immediately on the conclusion of the negotiations, was considered by the Company as the proper price of purchase which should be assigned to them as the equivalent for their ceded possessions, and also as a compensation for their claims devolved, though unconsciously, yet in effect, to the crown of England by the declaration of sovereignty. This important landed property, which, if at once surrendered to the control of the native chiefs, on behalf of the tribes, would undoubtedly have been immediately alienated by those still thoughtless, ignorant beings, below its actual value, for very trifles, was preserved by a provident foresight, as a means of their future advancement in the path of civilization, and especially for the succeeding generation, prepared for its enjoyment by a greater share of Europeanism and general instruction. By their high susceptibility and mental endowments, no less the women than the men, and the happy development of the qualities of the fine-formed New Zealand youth, the most sanguine hope is to be entertained that the common man, who has already shown himself so quick and active, will continue as promisingly as he has begun, and materially aid in strengthening, as a labouring class, the lower ranks of the colony. Also the chiefs and princes (to whom, as is known, at present appertains the prerogative of the enforcement of Tabú, and the right of life and death over their retainers), amongst whom many estimable characters and mentally gifted individuals already claim regard, will then, in their conjunction with the British gentry, form a wealthy, coloured, it is true, but equal-born native upper class of the New Zealand community. This indeed will be a necessary consummation, in order to the advancement and preservation of their present native bondsmen, the coloured fellow-labourer of the working class. Their own wealthy endowment will, with time, operate their affinity with the colonists; and, if their cultivation be preserved, will transfer them from the raw, compact, threatening mass whereof they form a part, into the circle of civilization, and into the ranks humanely organised for its promotion. May such hopes speedily, under our observation, meet fulfilment ! VOL. II. (1842.) No. II. U 270 ART. XIV.-Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years; including "The No one now speaks of William Wordsworth's poems in other than terms of the highest admiration. The time was, however, as every reader of poetry knows, when the case was very different with the critics and with the popular mind. The Lake school was in those days a subject of general derision; while the poet of Rydal was regarded as its type. But a change has come over the spirit of the age, and the gentlemen who dispense critical judgment. It would be unfashionable not to declaim, if you open your lips at all on the theme, about the purity of diction and the elevation of thought which distinguish William Wordsworth's productions. And yet we feel full sure that many who have never read his most celebrated pieces, and also that at least an equally large number of persons who have read them, but not with a cordial relish, join in the laudatory chorus. We therefore, although it be but repeating established opinions and oft-expressed sentiments, shall, before speaking of the new poems, endeavour to excite a preliminary interest in behalf of the author and his former works, on the part of those of our readers who may have been either hitherto ignorant of, or partially blind to, their peculiarities. Much of the poetry of Wordsworth is of a calm, severe, and finished character. He lays a tax on the patience, the judgment, the religious reflection of the reader. He requires honesty of purpose, earnestness, and a mind open to new impressions. The careless votary has nothing to do at the altar of this poet. Moore and Byron will excite and arrest any reader; vulgar, as well as refined and meditative minds, can easily appreciate the noble and the Irish bards, and be readily moved by them. Action, vehement passion, or some immediate effect, is everywhere to be met with in their effusions; and the soul requires little or no training to relish them. But with Wordsworth it is not so. He has thought deeply and long. Although his poetic temperament and his intellect are of a lofty order, yet beyond any other poet in modern, and perhaps in ancient times, has he bestowed patient attention and indefatigable meditation upon his art, its purposes, ends, and capabilities. He has consecrated himself to his undertaking with uncomplaining and unexampled diligence. His has been a hard work of thinking, which many may suppose is incompatible with the outpourings of genius and imagination. Consequently his poems are not made to please, in the common use of the word. They require what few readers are accustomed to yield. A passage from his prose will show how deeply he has meditated and how well he has thought on the nature and objects of his vocation. He is contrasting Science and Poetry :-"The man of Science," he thus expresses himself, "seeks truth as a remote and unknown benefactor; he cherishes and loves it in his solitude; the Poet, singing a song in which all human beings join with him, rejoices in the presence of truth as our visible friend and hourly companion. Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all science. Emphatically may it be said of the Poet, as Shakspeare hath said of man, that he looks before and after.' He is the rock of defence of human nature; an upholder and preserver, carrying everywhere with him relationship and love. In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed-the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time. The objects of the Poet's thoughts are everywhere; though the eyes and senses of men are, it is true, his favourite guides, yet he will follow wheresoever he can find an atmosphere of sensation in which to move his wings. Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge-it is as immortal as the heart of man. If the labours of men of science should ever create any material revolution, direct or indirect, in our condition, and in the impressions which we habitually receive, the Poet will sleep then no more than at present, but he will be ready to follow the steps of the man of science not only in those general indirect effects, but he will be at his side, carrying sensation into the midst of the objects of the science itself." Can the reader suppose that he who has been thus educated and initiated in the mysteries of his calling will write poetry which is not worthy of attention,-a man too who, in addition to a large measure of natural sensibility has qualified himself by a patient study of nature, and of many branches of knowledge? Does he not treat wisely of human sympathies? Does he not speak an universal language? Has he not shed a benign light on the truth which is never to perish,-on questions interesting to man in all states and stages of our being? He is indeed a great benefactor of the race. And is he not worthy of our confidence as well as of our gravest attention? Wordsworth is a philosopher and a poet, and also a poetic philosopher. His poems are constructed on fixed principles. He does not write at random, or woo fits of poesy without a well considered plan, or any determinate object. He has higher ideas of his calling than to trust to some lucky moment for inspiration, or to ring changes on a few set phrases. But let no one be deterred from reading his works, thinking that nothing will be found in them to please and to elevate without long study. Even to those who cannot conceive how meditation on a poetic passage can ever be repaid either in respect of pleasure or instruction, we should say, fly to the bard of Rydal. Many are the detached passages of singular power and beauty which occur in his works, and which are open at once to the comprehension and love of all. The deep pathos and perfect nature of nearly the whole of the first two books of "The Excursion" will find a response in every heart which is not utterly selfish and dead. But a deeper meaning frequently pervades a poem, that will also please the careless and unreflecting reader. Fine trains of thought intertwine themselves in the texture of numbers of Wordsworth's pieces, which are outwardly unassuming and simple. These therefore may not only immediately please, but allure to reflection. This is eminently the case in the poems where imagination and reflection combine. Independently of the depth of reflection and the soarings of imagination which characterize Mr. Wordsworth's poems, and therefore requiring, before they can be adequately appreciated, a well trained mind, and a finely toned soul, his language frequently interposes a bar to popular favour. We do not mean that his phraseology is too learned, his sentences too intricate or involved, for ordinary understandings. Why, his composition and stye are often plain to a degree which many would regard as being colloquially familiar and bald. What we intend is, that without an understanding of the powers of the English language, the mastery of the poetry of Wordsworth cannot be obtained. It has been remarked that the history of some of our words is worth more than the history of a campaign; and many of those in our poet's works, just as in Milton's, are so absolutely unsusceptible of exchange, as to afford curious matter for investigation. In some of Wordsworth's Sonnets, the removal of one word would greatly impair the beauty of the stanza; there being a perfect adaptation between the word and the sentiment. In other cases a knowledge of the etymology of a word, or of a phrase, is needed, in order to the full appreciation of a passage; and in this respect Wordsworth cannot be properly understood, and therefore cannot be the bard that will be chosen and relished by such persons as are indifferent to the nice beauties of language,-who do not know or believe that a word may be placed like an apple of gold in a net-work of silver. We proceed now to give specimens from works that are cherished with an ever increasing admiration by every real lover and enlightened judge of poetry; and begin with a specimen or two, where the adaptation of the words may be said to be perfect, to refuse being exchanged, except at the risk of the destruction of a special beauty, Some of the expressions are not simply the costume of his thoughts, but form an integral part of those thoughts. Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1803. Who could attempt to displace one word in that sweet sonnet? How thoroughly Saxon, yet how select its terms. How distinct is every picture; how appropriate and descriptive its points, and how compact the whole effect. Listen now to a noble apostrophe: 1802. Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea; Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, Who that has read "Meek Walton" will not answer to the perfect truth of the following? Walton's Book of " Lives." There are no colours in the fairest sky So fair as these. The feather whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, In statesman, priest, and humble citizen. O could we copy their mild virtues, then |