tian to his Soul,' was written with a view to other effusions of a similar nature. The Translations and Imitations of Pope, greatly outweigh his original pieces-a sufficient proof that poetry was to him more of an art than an impulse. The Iliad, however little it may credit his scholarship and fidelity to the original, is truly an extraor dinary evidence of his facility in versifying, and of his patient industry. Pope's ideal lay almost wholly in language. He thought that

'True expression like the unchanging sun,

Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon,
It gilds all objects, but it alters none.'

To him we are mainly indebted for a new revelation of

the capabilities of English heroic verse. He gave the most striking examples of his favorite theory, that sound should seem an echo to the sense.' He carried out the improvement in diction which Dryden commenced; and while Addison was producing beautiful specimens of reformed prose, Pope gave a polish and point to verse before unknown. When the vast number of his couplets are considered, their fastidious correctness is truly astonishing. How many examples occur to the memory of his correct and musical rhymes, ringing like the clear chimes of a favorite bell through a frosty atmosphere! How often do we forget the poverty of the thought-the familiarity of the image-the triteness of the truths they convey, in the fascinating precision of the verse! It becomes, indeed, wearisome at length from sameness; and to be truly enjoyed must be only resorted to occasionally.

The poetical diction of Pope resembles mosaic.work. His words, like the materials of that art, are fitted together with a marvellous nicety. The pictures formed are vivid, exact, and skilful. The consummate tact thus displayed charms the fancy, and suggests a degree of patient and tasteful labor which excites admiration. The best mosaic paintings have a fresh vivacity of hue, and a dis. tinctness of outline, which gratifies the eye; but we yield a higher tribute to the less formal and more spiritual products of the pencil. And such is the distinction between Pope and more imaginative poets. The bright enamel of his rhymes, is like a frozen lake over which we glide, as a skaiter before the wind, surrounded by a glittering landscape of snow. There is a pleasing exhilaration in our course, but little glow of heart or exultation of soul. The poetry of a deeper and less artificial school is like that lake on a summer evening, upon whose tide we float in a pleasure-boat, looking upon the flowering banks, the warm sunset, and the coming forth of the stars. To appreciate justly the perfection to which Pope carried the heroic verse, it is only necessary to consider how few subsequent rhymers have equalled him. He created a standard in this department which is not likely soon to be superseded. Other and less studied metres have since come into vogue, but this still occupies and must retain an important place. It is doubtless the best for an occasional poem intended for oral delivery. Few can manage the Spenserian stanza with effect, and blank verse often wearies an audience. There is a directness in the heroic metre admirably adapted for immediate impression.

The thought is converged to bright sallies within its brief limits, and the quickly succeeding rhymes sweeten the sentiment to the ear. Finely chosen words are very ef. fective in the heroic measure, and images have a striking relievo. For bold appeal, and keen satire, this medium is unsurpassed; and it is equally susceptible of touching melody. Witness Byron's description of the dead Me. dora, and Campbell's protest against scepticism. Rogers and our own Sprague have won their fairest laurels in heroic verse. With this school of poetry, Pope is wholly identified. He most signally exhibited its resources, and to him is justly ascribable the honor of having made it the occasion of refining the English language. He illus. trates the power of correctness-the effect of precision. His example has done much to put to shame careless habits of expression. He was a metrical essayist of excellent sense, rare fancy, and bright wit. He is the apostle of legitimate rhyme, and one of the true masters of the art of verse,

In the gallery of the English poets, we linger with peculiar emotion before the portrait of Cowper. We think of him as a youth, 'gigling and making giggle' at his uncle's house in London, and indulging an attachment destined to be sadly disappointed; made wretched by the idea of a peculiar destiny; transferred from a circle of literary roysterers to the gloomy precincts of an Insane Asylum; partially restored, yet shrinking from the re sponsibilities incident to his age; restless, undecided, desponding even to suicidal wretchedness, and finally abandoning a world for the excitement and struggles of which he was wholly unfit. We follow him into the bosom of a devoted family; witness with admiration the facility he exhibits in deriving amusements from trifling employments-gathering every way-side flower even in the valley of despair, finding no comfort but in selfdeception,' and finding this in' self-discipline.' We behold his singular re-appearance in the world in the capacity of an author,-genius reviving the ties that misfortune had broken. We trace with delight his intellectual

career in his charming correspondence with Hayley, Hill, and his cousin, the vividness of his affections in his poem to his mother's picture, the play of his fancy in John Gilpin, his reflective ingenuity in the Task. We recall the closing scene-the failing faculties of his faithful companion,* his removal from endeared scenes, his sad walks by the sea-shore, his patient, but profound melancholy and peaceful death-with the solemn relief that ensues from the termination of a tragedy. And when

we are told that an expression of "holy surprise" settled on the face of the departed, we are tempted to exclaim with honest Kent

O, let him pass! he hates him

That would upon the rack of this rude world,

Stretch him out longer.

At an age when most of his countrymen are confirmed in prosaic habits, William Cowper sat down to versify. No darling theory of the art, no restless thirst for fame, no bardic frenzy prompted his devotion. He sought in poetic labor oblivion of consciousness. He strove to make a Lethe of the waters of Helicon. beautiful mind was maried by an unhappy temperament ; the chords of a tender heart proved too delicate for the winds of life; and the unfortunate youth became an intellectual hypochondriac. In early manhood, when the

* Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language uttered in a dream,

Yet me they charm, whate'er their theme,

My Mary.

The gift of a