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hearing of the coarse yet powerful strains of Byron, a school at once pure in sentiment, elevated in thought, and harmonious in diction; that it should be said of him, within the limits of these same few years, and be found recorded in the pages of the same journal, “Mr. Wordsworth is a weak, puny dresser-up of prosy thoughts, and one of the master spirits of the age;” that he should have created a home for himself in the hearts of thousands on both sides of the Atlantic, opened to the mind of man an entire new world of thought, taught him to look upon this broad inanimate world, as a bright animate

“dwelling place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies;”

and by his matchless intellect alone, have succeeded in chaining poetry and philosophy together, until poetry's eagle wing, listing her more sluggish sister, they have both soared untrodden heights, and tracked their bright way to the very throne of God. The man unread in Wordsworth, cannot imagine the force and depth of his philosophy, the amazing power of his imagination, or the full sounding harmony of his language. He has flung a new life over every seature of nature; new beauties and new associations are linked with the most common every-day objects; nothing has seemed to escape the magic wand of the enchanter. The merest leaf of the sorest, or the bald and rugged mountain rock, alike furnish thoughts for him; the stream as you pass it has a truth for you, the torrent and the flood have a voice, and you cannot look upon the ocean but its thunder is a moral. Thus he has not only linked with nature a song and a sentiment, but he has made her the oracle of truth, and the representative and counterfeit of all that is beautiful and pure in christian charity; and no man, imbued with the deep and solemn spirit of his narrative, can look upon the face of nature or of human society, but there is a breathing in his heart of kindness to all men, and a love which can never die. And the fact that he possesses this power over others, this power of moulding young minds into his own peculiarities, and chaining them to him with a love little short of idolatry, is at once the proudest testimony of his colossal genius. If there was nothing else to judge by, if he had been convicted of every possible error both of feeling and philosophy, and when called up to the bar of criticism, found himself obliged to answer to every fault in the vocabulary of Aristotle, there would need no other proof of his great and profound mind than is afforded by this. It is the province of great minds to make minds, and Mr. Wordsworth can#. in his claims here beyond those of any of his contemporaries. He can claim to have affected the thinking mind of Europe beyond that of any other poet whatever; to have laid a deeper and broader foundation for a true fame, that is, on the understanding rather than the opinions of men, to have exerted, notwithstanding the ridicule heaped upon him, a silent yet powerful interest; to have opened new sources of feeling in the human bosom, and won the love of thousands. ‘The still sad music of humanity’ is the cry which is ever ringing in his ears, and he has learned to look upon himself and every other creature, as individuals of one mighty brotherhood, moulded and banded together by the hand of the Almighty; to feel it incumbent upon every man, alike the poet and the peasant, the man of taste and the philosopher, to consecrate himself in his individual station to the advancement of truth; and thus, lightening each other's burdens and smoothing down the rough pathway of life, we may go on our way rejoicing together, looking by the eye of faith through the misery that surrounds us, up to that other world of glory inapproachable, where we shall all be united to our common Father, and join in one bursting hymn of hallelujahs to the Lord God Almighty And in this day of filth and corruption, when guilt grows barefaced, and great minds are grown panders of corruption, there should be a loud call of thanks to every such man, as, despising the polluted paths of his predecessors, dares make poetry the vehicle of virtuous sentiments, and the handmaid of religion. This has Wordsworth done, and this not an enemy can deny ; he has in the face of all opposition, kept his eye to the mark, and nerved himself for conflict; and in after years, when envy hides her head and adventitious circumstances are forgotten, when the bubble popularity has been blown away by the very breath which created it, and posterity shall select those of this age who shall be thought worthy to be immortal, the name of Wordsworth shall be found by that of Milton, each reflecting the other's glory, and brightening down the pathway of time. We propose to discuss in some of our subsequent papers, and in the following order, 1. The Lake School of Poetry. 2. The poetic theory of Wordsworth. 3. His poetry; when, so far as we can, we shall set forth his philosophy. And though we cannot hope to be always edifying, or that we are not writing for many who understand the matter as well or better than we do, yet we may trust that our efforts will throw a little light into some minds, where, owing to circumstances, Mr. Wordsworth is receiving something less than that high admiration which his great genius demands.

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F. R. A. G. M. E. NT
Fito M.
THE FATAL C U R SE,
(AN UNFiNished tragedy.)
Act 1.
SCENE I. Before Pedro's cottage.

Enter PELRo AND wife.

PEDRo. But, wise, I say it is four years, five months and five days, come next Michaelmas, exact, since he left us; for that day, wife, we were to celebrate our marriage, and Sancho—poor boy—(wipes his eyes)—going from us spoil'd it all. So I know I'm right. WIFE. But I tell you Michaelmas comes Friday fortnight—so there's a mistake of a week. Pedro. Well, but wife— Wife. Well, but husband, I say it is so. Did'nt father Aselmo say so when he came here Thursday se’night 1 and hav’nt I a better memory than you? and hav’nt I remember'd it because I got me a new gown 3 and hav’nt I– Pedro. Well, well, wife, have it as you will. But it was a very sad time though for us, wife. Ah, poor boy—(wipes his eyes.) Wife. Heigho! and we loved him so, Pedro. (Wipes her eyes.) Pedro. And then to think he should run from us. (Cries.) WIFE. Heigho! and our only boy too. (Cries.) Pedro. Well, well, wife, cheer up. Sancho was a good boy, and wherever he is I know't he's honest, and he loves us. He'll come back to us some day or other, and we shall be happy again. Come, cheer up ! Wife. I hope he may. If we'd only kept that orphan now, we should’nt be lonely even if he did go. By the by, why did’nt we keep her ? PEDRo. Why, wife, the poor child was a gentlewoman—you would’nt have me wrong her Wife. Ah, but I doubt if we did"nt wrong her, sending her up to the Castle here aster all. I don't like Father Aselmo. PEDRo. Don't like him ' And why, pray : Wife. Why, I—I don't like him because—because—why, because I don't like him, that's why. PEDRo. Aha! a woman's reason after all, and I thought so. But he's a good Inan. Wife. But he scowls so, husband. O, mercy! when I see him, I always think of the devil. And his voice is sometimes so loud and so fierce—I don't think he's much better than he should be. PEDRo. Wife, wife, you're always full of your suspicions. I tell you, we had no business to keep the poor girl. When we found her at our door that stormy night, was’nt there a letter and some jewels; and think you, when good Don Guzman here offered to take her and bring her up as his daughter, we ought to bring her up a poor peasant : Nonsense, wife' you were wont to think wiser. For my part, I'm glad I did so—glad I gave up basket, letter, jewels, all—all up to him. My sleep has been always sweet for it, and I'd do it again. WiFE. But you kept the picture. PEDRo. Aye, so I did—but you know it was’nt for money. I've got it now where I always keep it, and mean to find out her parents by it one of these days; (takes a picture out of his rest) see, wife. WIFE. O, my what a beauty little body it is, ai’nt it 2 just such eyes as the girl herself—and when Donna Inez (that's her name, now, you know) was here the other day and smiled, she had just such a mouth exactly. PEDRo. It was her mother doubtless. Poor lady, she was murder'd probably, or some such thing; and they did`nt dare to kill the daughter, and so they carried her off and lest her at our door—poor, poor girl. WIFE. How many years is it, husband? PEDRo. Thirteen last spring. But she's well off. Don Guzman's son–Don Juan—who's gone to the wars, is betrothed to her, and they'll be married when he comes home. Wife. Indeed! that'll be soon then, for father Aselmo told me, they expected him every day. PEDRo. He's been gone ever since—since— WIFE. Ever since our Sancho—O if our boy could come home too— Pedro. Well, well, wife, let's hope for the best. Providence always takes care of the honest; and if we are so it will take care of us. But come, I'm to cut sticks in the forest to-day, so I should’nt stand talking here—the sun will be up before me—come— (Exit into the cottage.)

SCENE II. Streets of Madrid.
(Enter Juan and Raymond.)

JUAN, (speaking as he enters.)
And yet it follows not, good Raymond, no!
It follows not that I should love the camp;
Tis not my passion. True, as you have said,
I've borne me as became my father's son,
Rising with ease where others, but in thought,
Periled their greatness. Yet it follows not,
That I should tie my heart unto a feather,
The Duke can give me.

RAY Mond.
When that feather is
A thing the world asks—thirsts for—fights for—aye,
E’en to the death ! A thing will buy thee—
JUAN.
Smiles |

Smiles, and no more, good Raymond, nothing more:
The man who stands in favor of his king
May find the crowd will bow—aye, let him plant
His foot upon their necks; for 'tis his smile
Stamps their vile dross and gives it currency,
Which else were dross. Yes 'tis submission
Which selfishness lays upon men, where each word
Sohonied now, shall be a dagger for thee,
Thy star left the ascendant. Power, away with t!

Fools seek it, and it crushes them. So clowns Climb rocks, and pull them down on their own heads. RAYMond. Yet all men seek it. JUAN. -True, the love of power's A passion, and so deeply interfused In our vile natures, we can scarcely separate them— But not with all. It has not slipt thee, Raymond, Our entry into Madrid 2 RAY Mon D. What, thy triumph! JUAN. Well, call it as you will. RAY Mon D. The day Braganza, The nobles all assembled, publicly thank'd thee, As bravest knight and true ! JUAN. Well, do not sing of it. RAY Mon D. Call'd thee his own right arm, and bade thee ride Nearest his person 1 JUAN. Well, upon that day High as my station was—the noble duke His face of savor on me—even there, As my proud steed bore me so gallantly, Mid shouts, and tossing helms, and spears and plumes, Of Madrid's proudest—would'st thou think it, Raymond From all that pageantry and pomp and roar, .. My heart went off unto my father's castle, And to my native hills; and their sweet melodies, Heard but in fancy—the soft soul-like sounds Of winds, and woods, and waters, sweeter seemed, Than the hoarse plaudits of that mighty crowd. RAY Mon D. My dearest lord, you know your character A strange one ever seemed. JUAN. Raymond, a question: In all my moods, the wise ones and the foolish, In all my hours of passion, pride, or wrath, Moments of triumph, glory, and success, Of disappointment, sorrow, sullenness— Has not my heart kept its firm faith to thee, And beat to truth 2 RAY Mon D. My dearest lord, I prithee Speak not of that. The honor of your friendship Had better fallen on nobler than on me. My birth, though 'twas not mean was most obscure; You sought me out, and something in me found vo L. II. 25

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