Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freeze, In his right hand a tipped staff he held, For he was faint with cold, and weak with eld; That scarce his loosed limbs he able was to weld.-SPENSER. Winter sets the poetical observer to his natural descriptions:- And fair Flora's wealth was geason *. Had tawny veils; cold had scanted When I saw a shepherd fold "Love is folly, when astray."-Greene. The wrathful winter, hast'ning on apace, And old Saturnus, with his frosty face, *Geason, rare, uncommon. . With chilling cold had pierced the tender green; The gladsome groves that now lay overthrown, Was all despoiled of her beauties' hue; And soot fresh flowers (wherewith the summer's Queen The winter's wrath, wherewith each thing defaced, Hawthorn had lost his motley livery; Each thing (methought) with weeping eye me told Myself within, for I was gotten out Into the fields, whereas I walk'd about.-SACKVILLE. The modern bard moralizes on Winter in unrhymed lyrics : Though now no more the musing ear Delights to listen to the breeze, That lingers o'er the green-wood shade, I love thee, Winter! well. Sweet are the harmonies of Spring, Sweet is the Summer's evening gale, And sweet the autumnal winds that shake The many-colour'd grove. And pleasant to the sober'd soul The silence of the wintry scene, When Nature shrouds herself, entranced In deep tranquillity. Not undelightful now to roam The wild heath sparkling on the sight; Not undelightful now to pace The forest's ample rounds. And see the spangled branches shine Nor void of beauties now the spring, The green moss shines with icy glare; When faint the sun-beams smile. Reflection too may love the hour For Nature soon in Spring's best charms And bid the flower rebloom.-SOUTHEY. The contrasts of Summer and Winter were never more harmoniously put than by the great master of metrical harmony : It was a bright and cheerful afternoon, From the horizon-and the stainless sky All things rejoiced beneath the sun, the weeds, It was a winter such as when birds die Gather about great fires, and yet feel cold: Alas! then for the homeless beggar old!-SHELLEY. Even the homely song of the Ayrshire ploughman, engrafted upon an old melody, is beautiful and true: Up in the morning 's no for me, Up in the morning early; When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, I'm sure it's winter fairly. Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, The drift is driving sairly; Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, The birds sit chittering in the thorn, Up in the morning, &c.-BURNS. (7) 264.-HOGARTH. CHARLES LAMB. Ir is the fashion with those who cry up the great Historical School in this country, at the head of which Sir Joshua Reynolds is placed, to exclude Hogarth from that school, as an artist of an inferior and vulgar class. Those persons seem to me to confound the painting of subjects in common or vulgar life with the being a vulgar artist. The quantity of thought which Hogarth crowds into every picture would alone unvulgarize every subject which he might choose. Let us take the lowest of his subjects, the print called Gin Lane. Here is plenty of poverty and low stuff to disgust upon a superficial view, and accordingly a cold, spectator feels himself immediately disgusted and repelled. I have seen many turn away from it not being able to bear it. The same persons would, perhaps, have looked with great complacency upon Poussin's celebrated picture of the Plague at Athens. Disease and death and bewildering terror, in Athenian garments, are endurable, and come, as the delicate critics express it, within the "limits of pleasurable sensation." But the scenes of their own St. Giles's, delineated by their own countrymen, are too shocking to think of. Yet if we could abstract our minds from the fascinating colours of the picture, and forget the coarse execution (in some respects) of the print, intended as it was to be a cheap plate, accessible to the poorer sort of people, for whose instruction it was done, I think we could have no hesitation in conferring the palm of superior genius upon Hogarth, comparing this work of his with Poussin's picture. There is more of imagination in it—that power which draws all things to one-which makes things animate and inanimate, beings with their attributes, subjects and their accessories, take one colour, and serve to one effect. Every thing in the print, to use a vulgar expression, tells. Every part is full of "strange images of death." It is perfectly amazing and astounding to look at. Not only the two prominent figures, the woman and the half-dead man, which are as terrible as any thing which Michael Angelo ever drew, but every thing else in the print contributes to bewilder and stupefy, the very houses, as I heard a friend of mine express it, tumbling all about in various directions, seem drunk-seem absolutely reeling from the ef |