PROFESSOR WILSON, long the distinguished occupant of the chair of moral philosopy in the university of Edinburgh, earned his first laurels by his poetry. He was born on the 18th of May, 1785, in the town of Paisley, where his father had carried on business, and attained to opulence as a manufacturer. At the age of thirteen, the poet was entered of Glasgow University, whence in 1804, he was transferred to Magdalen College, Oxford. Here he carried off the Newdigate prize from a vast number of competitors for the best English poem of fifty lines. Mr. Wilson was distinguished in these youthful years by his fine athletic frame, and a face at once handsome and expressive of genius. A noted capacity for knowledge and remarkable literary powers were at the same time united to a predilection for gymnastic exercises and rural sports. After four years' residence at Oxford, the poet purchased a small but beautiful estate, named Elleray, on the banks of the lake Windermere, where he went to reside. He married-built a house-kept a yacht-enjoyed himself among the magnificent scenery of the lakes-wrote poetry-and cultivated the society of Wordsworth. These must have been happy days. With youth, robust health, fortune, and an exhaustless imagination, Wilson must, in such a spot, have been blest even up to the dreams of a poet. Some reverses, however, came, and, after entering himself of the Scottish bar he sought and obtained his moral philosophy chair. He connected himself also with 'Blackwood's Magazine,' and in this miscellany poured forth the riches of his fancy, learning, and taste-displaying also the peculiarities of his sanguine and impetuous temperament. The most valuable of these contributions were collected and published (1842) in three volumes, under the title of 'The Recreations of Christopher North.' The criticisms on poetry from the pen of Wilson are often highly eloquent, and conceived in a truly kindred spirit. A series of papers on Spenser and Homer are equally remarkable for their discrimination and imaginative luxuriance. In reference to these 'golden spoils' of criticism, Mr. Hallam characterised the professor as a living writer of the most ardent and enthusiastic genius, whose eloquence is as the rush mighty waters.' The poetical works of Wilson consist of the 'Isle of Palms' (1812), the City of the Plague' (1816), and several smaller pieces. The broad humour and satire of some of his prose papers form a contrast to the delicacy and tenderness of his acknowledged writings particularly his poetry. He has an outer and an inner mar. -one shrewd, bitter, observant, and full of untamed energy; the other calm, graceful, and meditative-'all conscience and tender heart.' He deals generally in extremes, and the prevailing defect of his poetry is its uniform sweetness and feminine softness of character. ́ Almost the only passions,' says Jeffrey, 'with which his poetry is conversant, are the gentler sympathies of our nature-tender com
passion, confiding affection, and guiltless sorrow. From all these there results, along with most touching and tranquillising sweet- ness, a certain monotony and languor, which, to those who read poetry for amusement merely, will be apt to appear like dullness, and must be felt as a defect by all who have been used to the variety, rapidity, and energy of the popular poetry of the day.' Some of the scenes in the City of the Plague' are, however, exquisitely drawn, and his descriptions of lake and mountain scenery, though idealised by his imagination, are not unworthy of Wordsworth. The prose descriptions of Wilson have obscured his poetical, because in the former he gives the reins to his fancy, and, while preserving the general outline and distinctive features of the landscape, adds a number of subsidiary charms and attractions. In 1851, Mr. Wilson was granted a pension of £300 per annum; his health had then failed, and he died in Edinburgh on the 3d of April 1854. A com- plete collection of his works was published by his son-in-law, Pro- fessor Ferrier, of St. Andrews, in twelve volumes (1855-58).
A Home Among the Mountains.—From 'City of the Plague.' MAGDALENE and ISABEL.
MAGDALENE. How bright and fair that afternoon returns When last we parted! Even now I feel
Its dewy freshness in my soul! Sweet breeze!
That hymning like a spirit up the lake, Came through the tall pines on yon little isle Across to us upon the vernal shore
With a kind friendly greeting. Frankfort blest The unseen musician floating through the air, And, smiling, said: Wild harper of the hill! So mayst thou play thy ditty when once more This lake I do revisit.' As he spoke
Away died the music in the firmament, And unto silence left our parting hour. No breeze will ever steal from nature's heart So sweet again to me.
What'er my doom God hath given me
The boon of resignation: I could die,
Though doubtless human fears would cross my soul, Calmly even now; yet if it be ordained
That I return unto my native valley,
And live with Frankfort there, why should I fear
To say I might be happy-happier far
Than I deserve to be. Sweet Rydal Lake!
Am I again to visit thee? to hear
Thy glad waves murmuring all around my soul? ISABEL. Methinks I see us in a cheerful group Walking along the margin of the bay,
Where our lone summer-house
MAGD. Sweet mossy cell!
So cool-so shady-silent and composed! A constant evening full of gentle dreams! Where joy was felt like sadness, and our grief A melancholy pleasant to be borne.
Hath the green linnet built her nest this spring
In her own rose-bush near the quiet door? Bright solitary bird! she oft will miss
Her human friends: our orchard now must be
A wilderness of sweets, by none beloved.
ISA. One blessed week would soon restore its beauty, Were we at home. Nature can work no wrong.
The very weeds how lovely! the confusion
Doth speak of breezes, sunshine, and the dew.
MAGD. I hear the murmuring of a thousand bees In that bright odorous honeysuckle wall That once inclosed the happiest family That ever lived beneath the blessed skies. Where is that family now? O Isabel, I feel my soul descending to the grave, And all these loveliest rural images
Fade, like waves breaking on a dreary shore!
ISA. Even now I see a stream of sunshine bathing The bright moss-roses round our parlour window ! Oh, were we sitting in that room once more!
MAGD. "Twould seem inhuman to be happy there, And both my parents dead. How could I walk On what I used to call my father's walk, He in his grave! or look upon that tree, Each year so full of blossoms or of fruit, Planted by my mother, and her holy name Graven on its stem by mine own infant hands! To a Sleeping Child.'
From Lines, Art thou a thing of mortal birth, Whose happy home is on our earth? Does human blood with life imbue Those wandering veins of heavenly blue That stray along thy forehead fair, Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair? Oh, can that light and airy breath Steal from a being doomed to death; Those features to the grave be sent In sleep thus mutely eloquent? Or art thou, what thy form would seem, The phantom of a blessed dream? Oh that my spirit's eye could see Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy! That light of dreaming soul appears To play from thoughts above thy years. Thou smil'st as if thy soul were soaring To heaven, and heaven's God adoring! And who can tell what visions high May bless an infant's sleeping eye! What brighter throne can brightness find To reign on than an infant's mind, Ere sin destroy or error dim The glory of the seraphim? Oh, vision fair, that I could be Again as young, as pure as thee!
Vain wish! the rainbow's radiant form May view, but cannot brave the storm: Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes That paint the bird of Paradise. And years, so fate hath ordered, roll Clouds o'er the summer of the soul...
Fair was that face as break of dawn, When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn Like a thin veil that half-concealed The light of soul, and half-revealed. While thy hushed heart with visions wrought,
Each trembling eyelash moved with thought,
And things we dream, but ne'er can speak,
Like clouds came floating o'er thy cheek, Such summer-clouds as travel light, When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright;
Till thou awok'st-then to thine eye Thy whole heart leapt in ecstacy! And lovely is that heart of thine, Or sure these eyes could never shine With such a wild, yet bashful glee, Gay, half-o'ercome timidity!
From Address to a Wild Deer.'
Magnificent creature! so stately and bright! In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight; For what hath the child of the desert to dread, Wafting up his own mountains that far-beaming head;
Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale? Hail! king of the wild and the beautiful!-hail! Hail! idol divine!-whom nature hath borne
O'er a hundred hill-tops since the mists of the morn,
Whom the pilgrim lone wandering on mountain and moor, As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore: For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free, Are spread in a garment of glory o'er thee.
Up! up to yon cliff! like a king to his throne ! O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone- A throne which the eagle is glad to resign Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine. There the bright heather springs up in love of thy breast. Lo! the clouds in the depths of the sky are at rest; And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill! In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers, lie still!— Though your branches now toss in the storm of delight, Like the arms of the pine on yon shelterless height, One moment-thou bright apparition-delay! Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun from the day.
His voyage is c'er-as if struck by a spell, He motionless stands in the hush of the dell; There softly and slowly sinks down on his breast, In the midst of his pastime enamoured of rest. A stream in a clear pool that endeth its race— A dancing ray chained to one sunshiny place- A cloud by the winds to calm solitude driven- A hurricane dead in the silence of heaven.
Fit couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee: Magnificent prison inclosing the free; With rock wall-encircled-with precipice crowned- Which, awoke by the sun, thou canst clear at a bound. 'Mid the fern and the heather kind nature doth keep One bright spot of green for her favourite's sleep; And close to that covert, as clear to the skies When their blue depths are cloudless, a little lake lies, Where the creature at rest can his image behold, Loking up through the radiance as bright and as bold."
Yes! fierce looks thy nature e'en hushed in repose- In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes, Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar, With a haughty defiance to come to the war. No outrage is war to a creature like thee; The bugle-horn fills thy wild spirit with glee, As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the wind, And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind. In the beams of thy forehead, that glitter with death- In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath- In the wide raging torrent that lends thee its roar- In the cliff that, once trod, must be trodden no more- Thy trust-mid the dangers that threaten thy reign: But what if the stag on the mountain be slain? On the brink of the rock-lo! he standeth at bay, Like a victor that falls at the close of the day- While the hunter and hound in their terror retreat From the death that is sparned from his furious feet; And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies, As nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies.
Lines written in a lonely
Burial-ground in the Highlands.
How mournfully this burial-ground Sleeps 'mid old Ocean's solemn sound, Who rolls his bright and sunny waves All round these deaf and silent graves! The cold wan light that glimmers here, The sickly wild-flowers may not cheer; If here, with solitary hum,
The wandering mountain-bee doth come, 'Mid the pale blossoms short his stay, To brighter leaves he booms away.
The sea-bird, with a wailing sound, Alighteth softly on a mound, And, like an image, sitting there For hours amid the doleful air, Seemeth to tell of some dim union, Some wild and mystical communion, Connecting with his parent sea This lonesome stoneless cemetery. This may not be the burial-place Of some extinguished kingly race, Whose name on earth no longer known, Hath mouldered with the mouldering stone,
That nearest grave, yet brown with mold, Seems but one summer-twilight old; Both late and frequent hath the bier Been on its mournful visit here; And yon green spot of sunny rest Is waiting for its destined guest.
I see no little kirk-no bell
On Sabbath tinkleth through this dell; How beautiful those graves and fair, That, lying round the house of prayer, Sleep in the shadow of its grace! But death hath chosen this rueful place For his own undivided reign! And nothing tells that e'er again The sleepers will forsake their bed- Now, and for everlasting dead, For Hope with Memory seems fle"!
Wild-screaming bird! unto the sea Winging thy flight reluctantly, Slow floating o'er these grassy tombs So ghost-like, with thy snow-white plumes
At once from thy wild shriek I know What means this place so steeped in woe! Here, they who perished on the deep Enjoy at last unrocking sleep;
For Ocean, from his wrathful breast, Flung them into this haven of rest, Where shroudless, coffinless, they lie- "Tis the shipwrecked seamen's cemetery. Here seamen old, with grizzled locks, Shipwrecked before on desert rocks, And by some wandering vessel taken From sorrows that seem God-forsaken, Home-bound, here have met the blast That wrecked them on death's shore at last!
Old friendless men, who had no tears To shed, nor any place for fears, In hearts by misery fortified, And, without terror, sternly died. Here many a creature moving bright- And glorious in full manhood's might, Who dared with an untroubled eye The tempest brooding in the sky, And loved to hear that music rave, And danced above the mountain-wave, Hath quaked on this terrific strand, All flung like sea-weeds to the land; A whole crew lying side by side, Death-dashed at once in all their pride. And here the bright-haired, fair-faced boy,
Who took with him all earthly joy, From one who weeps both night and day For her sweet son borne far away, Escaped at last the cruel deep, In all his beauty lies asleep; While she would yield all hopes of grace For one kiss of his pale cold face!
Oh, I could wail in lonely fear, For many a woful ghost sits here, All weeping with their fixed eyes! And what a dismal sound of sighs Is mingling with the gentle roar Of small waves breaking on the shore; While ocean seems to sport and play In mockery of its wretched prey!
MRS. HEMANS (Felicia Dorothea Browne) was born at Liverpool on the 25th September 1793. Her father was a merchant; but, experiencing some reverses, he removed with his family to Wales, and there the young poetess imbibed that love of nature which is displayed in all her works. In her fifteenth year she ventured on publication. Her first volume was far from successful; but she persevered, and in 1812 published another, entitled 'The Domestic
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