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impression of order and design in na- design, as you call it, does not seem ture which the mind, I believe, is ori- quite infallible. I wish there were ginally prepared to receive, and which some force in the argument a priori, it cannot continue long in "existence or that it were more level to my unwithout receiving, is that very, prin- derstanding, ciple of which we are in search, and * There is, in fact, no great need for from which all the different reason- it, (replied Philo.) Slight indicaings of experience and analogy flow tions of design may not produce per. with the most natural precision. How fect assurance; but where they are soon do we perceive that the regular accumulated without all bounds or rising of the sun is a part of the plan measure,' I see not that there can be of nature ! and with what firm de- room for a doubt. I have said, that pendance and assurance do we look even the atoms of Epicurus would for the daily appearance of that glo- suggest to the mind some notion of rious luminary ! In like manner, intentions how then can we hesitate whatever we see constantly happen, in the conclusion, where the object of and of which, too, we see the uses, our contemplation is a world ? lol the purposes, the intention, that we The fact is, Pamphilus, that the expect will happen again. It is like immensity of the object somewhat looking at a clock. As it has shown embarrasses us. I cannot hesitate a the hours to-day, we reason that the moment in the belief that you are artist intended it should show the possessed of intelligence, because there hours to-morrow, When we have is here a rapid sympathy between us, not an opportunity of knowing facts, and I form a quick conception of the we then oform probable conjectures. similarity between your mind and In different parts of the same plan, my own. But the Mind which I read probably the designer carries through in nature surpasses all my thoughts something of the same mind. to This and apprehensions, and while I can is reasoning from Analogy, which may have no doubt of its existence, ram be more or less strong, according to lost in admiration and astonishment cireumstances. Reasoning from known when I contemplate it. - This kind of facts, again, we call reasoning from feeling, perhaps, sometimes re-acts Experience done to cool
upon our perception of the evidence, But as I have tired you, Cleanthes, and produces a species of confusion ana with these speculations, I will only uncertainty. Let us then, Pamphi. remark farther,—that the proof of lus, contract the dimensions of this the existence of God must rest on a prodigious object. Let us suppose much firmer basis, than on any analo- the World to be a magnificent house, gical argument from a similarity in and that we have, from the first ino, the works of nature to the works of ments of our recollection, been the man, if all argumerts from analogy inmates of a splendid palace. Let us rest on the previous supposition of a suppose that we have found the rooms plan or design in nature, which is, in sumptuously adorned, clothes profact, presupposing the existence of vided for us, beds in our apartments, God. It would be more philosophi- and every useful or elegant article of cal to suppose, that our belief of the furniture. At a certain hour of the existence of reason and intelligence in day a table is introduced by invisible other men is derived from an analogi- hands, supplied with every costly kind cal argument, because ourselves and of food. Lamps, suspended from the others are parts, and similar parts, of ceilings," burn with perpetual fire, one plan of nature, and therefore, Every thing is conducted with the therepein fact, does lie ran analogy same order, as if the master of the here,e-although, I doubt not, our house were to appear, and the servants perception or knowledge of the exist- were visibly employed. Is it possible, ence of intelligence in each other is an on this supposition, that we should original perception of the human un- doubt there was a master of the house, derstanding,
some one who had prepared it for us, I am much gratified, Philo, (said 1,) and who, unknown to us, superin, with the lights which you have thrown tended it? O Pamphilus, is not the upon this argument; yet I think World such a house, and can it be there is some degree of certainty still without a Master? ..---- -wanting, and your manner of reading
(To be continued.),
CONTINUATION OF REMARKS ON THE A whole long month of May in this sad POETRY OF KEATS. *
Made their cheeks paler by the break of Lamia is the poem in which, in June Mr Keats's second volume, the great- , est fancy is displayed. It is more in The brothers of Isabella discover the style of the 'Endymion, and we that their sister loves Lorenzo : they shall therefore forbear quoting from entice him to a forest, and murder it, excepting only three lines, which, and bury him: his ghost appears to for the imagination contained in them, Isabella, who seeks the body, and and the beauty with which they are cutting off the head, buries it beneath executed, have seldom been equalled: a pot of Basil, which she waters with the poet is speaking of a palace built her tears. There are some terms in by the magic power of Lamia.
this poem which Mr Keats inflicts
upon the brothers of Isabella, which A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone
we think in bad taste. He calls them Supportress of the faery-roof, made moan Throughout, as fearful the whole charm
* money-bags,” “ ledger-men,” &c. might fade. p. 34.
which injures, in some respect, this
delightful story. Mr K. indeed, him" Isabella, or the Pot of Basil," is self seems to have some doubts of this, a story from Boccaccio, and is the and in the following beautiful stanzas same as was given to the public some intreats the forgiveness of his master. time ago by Mr Barry Cornwall, un- They are enough, to say the least, to der the title of “ A Sicilian Story." wipe away the sin committed. We can safely recommend " Isabella" as eminently beautiful. What can O eloquent and fam'd Boccaccio ! . be sweeter than this? The days pass. Of thee we now should ask forgiving
And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow, Until sweet Isabella's untouched cheek And of thy roses amorous of the moon, Fell sick within the rose's just domain, And of thy lilies, that do paler grow Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth Now they can no more hear thy ghitseek
tern's tune, By every lull to cool hér infant's pain.'* For venturing syllables that ill beseem
p. 51. The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme. " The progress of the love of Loren- Grant thou a pardon here, and then the zo and Isabella is told in this delight tale . ful manner.
Shall move on soberly, as it is meet;
There is no other crime, no mad assaili With every morn their love grew tenderer,
To make old prose in modern rhyme « With every eve deeper and tenderer still; He might not in house, field, or garden
more sweet :
But it is done--succeed the verse or failstir,
To honour thee, and thy gone spirit greet; But her full shape would all his seeing to stead thee as a verse in English tongue,
fill; And his continual voice was pleasanter
An echo of thee in the north-wind sung. To her, than noise of trees or hidden
pp. 58, 59. rill :
What a beautiful picture might not Her lute-string gave an echo of his name, Stothard make from the following exShe spoilt her half-done broidery with the quisite stanza? same.
And as he to the court-yard pass'd along, He knew whose gentle hand was at the Each third step did he pause, and lislatch,
ten'd oft Before the door had given her to his eyes; If he could hear his lady's matin-song, And from her chamber-window he would
ould Or the light whisper of her footstep soft ; catch .
And as he thus over his passion hung, Her beauty farther than the falcon spies; su
spies ; He heard a laugh full musical aloft ; And constant as her vespers would he watch, when
tch, When, looking up, he saw her features
looki Because her face was turn'd to the same bright skies ;
Smile through an in-door lattice, all 'de. And with sick longing all the night out
light. p. 61. wear, To hear her morning-step upon the stair. Isabella, as we have said, buries the
head of the lover in the pot of Basil, * See our Number for last August. and weeps over it continually.. VOL. VII.
And she forgot the stars, the moon, and And twilight saints, and dim emblazonsun,
ings, And she forgot the blue above the trees, A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of And she forgot the dells where water run, queens and kings. And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;
Full on this casement shone the wintry She had no knowledge when the day was
moon, And the new morn she saw not : but in
And threw warm gules on Madeline's
· fair breast, peace Hung over her sweet Basil evermore.
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and
boon; And moisten'd it with tears unto the core.
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together
logo p. 75. Pro piso . Si
prest, The brothers, discovering at last
And on her silver cross soft amethyst, the cause of her grief, take the Basil
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, pot away: she having nothing then Save wings, for heaven :-Porphyro left to console her, pines and dies.
.: She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless mortal taint.
things, new, Asking for her lost Basil ámorously; Anon, his heart revives : her vespers And with melodious chuckle in the strings
done, Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would
. Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she cry.
frees; After the Pilgrim in his wanderings,
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; To ask him where her Basil was; and
Loosens her fragrant boddice; by de1why 91 bis :
grees 'Twas hid from her: “ For cruel 'tis,” . Her rich attire creeps rustling to her - said she,
knees : “ To steal my Basil-pót away from me.”
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and And so she pined, and so she died forlorn,
sees, - Imploring for her Basil to the last.
In fancy, fair St Agnes in her bed, No heart was there in Florence but did But dares not look behind, or all the charm A to mourn i s
is fled. ' In pity of her love, so overcast. And a sad ditty of this story born,
Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly From mouth to mouth through all the oth
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she 2 U country pass'd::.
lay, Still is the burthen sung"O cruelty,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep opTo steal my Basil-pot away from me!”
pressid .." p. 80.
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued aThe “Eve of St Agnes” consists way; merely of one scene. Porphyro, a
Flown, like a thought, until the morrowyoung cavalier, is in love with, and
Blissfully haven'd both from beloved by Madeline; he enters her
joy and chamber on the eve of St Agnes, when
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynshe is dreaming of him under the súp
ims pray ; posed influence of the Saint. He per- Blinded alike from sunshine and from suades her to fly with him. We have
rain, only room for the following stanzas, As though a rose should shut, and be a which will speak for themselves suf
bud again. ficiently.
Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, A casement high and triple-arch'd there Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, was,..
And listend to her breathing, if it All garlanded with carven imag'ries
'chancedir Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of To wake into a slumberous tenderness; i knot-grass,
Which when he heard, that minute did And diamonded with panes of quaint he bless, device,
And breath'd himself: then from the Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, closet crept, As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 14,1° wings ;
And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, And in the midst, 'mong thousand he. And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo! raldries,
how fast she slept. pp. 95–97.
Amongst the minor poems we pre- The grass, the thicket, and the fruit tree fer the to Ode to the Nightingale.” wild ; Indeed, we are inclined to prefer it White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglanbeyond every other poem in the book;
tine ; but let the reader judge. The third
Fast fading violets coyer'd up in leaves
And mid-May's eldest child, and seyenth stanzas have a charm for
The coming musk-rose, full 'of dewy us which we should find it difficult to
wine, explain. We have read this ode over The murmurous haunt of flies on and over again, and every time with
summer eves. increased delight.
Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time, Q for a draught of vintage! that hath been I have been half in love with easeful Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved Death, earth,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused Tasting of Flora and the country green,
rhyme, Dance, and Provençal song, and sun. To take into the air my quiet breath; burnt mirth!
Now more than ever seems it rich to Q for a beaker full of the warm South,
die, Full of the true, the blushful Hippo. To cease upon the midnight with no pain, crene,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul With beaded bubbles winking at the abroad brim,
In such an ecstasy!, And purple-stained mouth; Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in That I might drink, and leave the world
To thy high requiem become a spd. And with thee fade away into the fo- Thou wast not born for death, immortal rest dim:
Bird ! Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget No hungry generations tread thee down; What thou among the leaves hast never The voice I hear this passing night was known,
heard The weariness, the fever, and the fret In ancient days by emperor and clown : Here, where men sit and hear each other Perhaps the self-same song that found a groan;
path Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, hairs,
sick for home,
got Where youth grows pale, and spectre. She stood in tears amid the alien corn; thin, and dies;
The same that oft-times hath ... Where but to think is to be full of Charm'd magic casements, opening on
the foam And leaden-eyed despairs,
of perilous seas, in faery lands forWhere Beauty cannot keep her lustrous lorn. pp. 108.lll. i ,
eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to As our object is rather to let Mr morrow.
Keats's verses be seen in justification
of themselves, than to insist upon their Away! away! for I will fly to thee, - Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
positive beauty, we shall quote part But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
us, of another of the minor poems. It is • Though the dull brain perplexes and re
entitled “ Robin Hood," whose days, tards :
the poet says, “are gone away." Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her
Gone, the merry morris din ; throne,
"Gone, the song of Gamelyn'; ? Cluster'd around by all her starry
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw • Fays;
Idling in the grenà, shawe;"
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave, a
And if Marian should have .. ing mossy ways.
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze : I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, He would swear, for all his oaks, Nor what, soft incense hangs upon the Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes, boughs,
Have rotted on the briny seas; But, in embalmed darkness, guess each She would weep that her wild bees sweet
Sang not to her strange! that honey Wherewith the seasonable month endows, Can't be got without hard money!
dlound on cloud.
So it is : yet let us sing,
works of almost any contemporary Honour to the old bow-string
writer. .. .. .. Honour to the bugle-horn!
DIAN AND ENDYMION."
« I knozo a bank whereon the wild thyme
intrat in ; The ode to “ Fancy," and the ode'
ancy, and the ode Facing the rough and frozen north, a wood"} to C Autumn," also have great merit. Of ancient oaks, which seem as they hadi'. " Hyperion,' we confess, we do not stood' like quite so well, on the whole, as For ages there like forest kings, some others; yet there is an air of Branch out above the shrubs and meaners grandeur about it, and it opens in a
things ; striking manner.!?,
10. Yet, when the wind waves their brown More to vidit ,
id * locks, they sigh Deep in the shady sadness of a vale is Methinks over their own antiquity.. Far sunken from the healthy breath of Below, and fronting the sweet south, alise worn, gu ' No til scene. T
ill Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star, Opens upon the sun and softer skies, et soos Sat grey-haird Saturn, quiet as a stone, Like that love-haunted place of paradise, 11 799 Still as the silence round about his lair ;. Which Milton painted, with its slopes of vod Forest on forest hung about his head,
And Aower-enamelled sward, and lofty 1931
1994 19H0 One expression here reminds us of Fruits, bowers, and brooks, gentle varie a line in the old poem called the ? ties. “Mirror for Magistratés,” ste ' 'Tis there pale Dian comes to watch her
boy By him lay heavie sleep, cosen of death, By night, and with á melancholy joy, ?taining Flat on the ground, and still as any stone; Stooping from her bright home amidst the
visit to 99 and also of another line in Chaucer. She kisses
She kisses tremblingly his closed eyes, 28 lik The picture of Thea, in p. 147, is His small vermilion mouth, and forehead very beautiful, and the effect of a fair. word (it is where Saturn is deploring And dives amidst the tangles of his hair ; the loss of his kingdom) is given with But he, the senseless youth, lies still the exceeding power and simplicity. Sa- _ while, turn speaks,
Tho' now and then a faint--the faintest :
Tesla smileWhere is another chaos ? ; where? That Shines forth, as tho' the queen had power word.
to bless , Found way unto Olympus. ii i The sleeper with a distant consciousness,
That then the radiant Dian deigned to sip .. The description, too, of Hyperion, Love and show'r sweets nectarean on his 6 a vast shade in midst of his own
. brightness," is very fine; though the --Oh! for that life of sleep-that placid.ero, preceding part of it, ..
. Oost 1 : Full of divinest dreams and fancies deep, Golden his hair of short Numidian curl, With sights of love floating before our eyes, Regal his shape majestic,
i 20. And prospects opening to the eternal skies, is not like Mr Keats, but like Milton. With sounds, likegentlemusic in our ears Upon the whole, we have felt great
Low songs, like those we heard in earlier pleasure from the perusal of Mr Keats's With just enough of life to dream, and
years, volumes, and we can safely commend them to our readers, as not faultless The heart from withering in the cold colas books indeed, but as containing, perhaps, as much absolute poetry as the :
a losa to R. ;