Didst gladden: while upon th' accustom'd
chair

I look, it seems as if Thou wert still there
Kirtled in snowy apron thy dear knees,
Propt on the fender'd hearth my fancy sees,
O'er which exchanging souls we wont to
bend!

And as I lift my head, thy features send
A cheering smile to me-but, in its flight
O'er my rain-pelted sash, a blast of night
Sweeps surlily! starting, my fancy creeps
To the bleak dwelling where thy cold
corse sleeps!

SONNET VI. When Thou that agonized Saint dost see Worn out, and trembling on the verge of death,

Murmur meek praises with convulsed
breath,

And sanctify each rending agony,
Deeming it a dim Minister of Grace

Medicinal, and stealing her from all
That subtly might her ling'ring spirit
thrall;

When Thou dost read in her unearthly face, How She doth keep in thankful quietness Her patient soul, dar'st Thou thy best Friend deem

As One deceiv'd by a most idle dream? Ah, surely no! if Thou at all possess A humanized heart; e'en if thy mind Hate not the only hopes of humankind!

We should have to give many more quotations, before we could convey to our readers a complete or faithful character of these interesting poems. But we have shewn them enough, to make them desire to see more; and if they really love poetry, they will not be satisfied till they peruse the volume. It contains much description of external nature; and description, too, everywhere full of intelligence and feeling, of all her beauties and sublimities.

There is at all times, too, a deep,-or a delicate or a tender moral feeling, blended with the mere joyfulness communicated through senses keenly alive to impressions from without-and such feeling, though always true to nature, is, at the same time, almost always characteristic of the very original mind of this poet. There are few or no common-place things in Mr Lloyd's verses, certainly none in his sentiment,and if in description some do occur, they are in general saved from our dislike, by something ingenious in thought, or tender in emotion, being unexpectedly connected with them.

Sometimes there occurs an unam bitious, unpretending sonnet, which seems breathed out in a happy moment, from a heart filled with de VOL. VI.

view,

My o'ercharg'd heart is troubled with delight.

We conclude our extracts with a few lines from a little poem quite of a different character from almost any other of Mr Lloyd's productions. In it, he escapes from himself, and turns on a friend every way worthy of them, all the kindly regards of his kindly nature awakened, by one of those little incidents in the intercourse of life, which genius enables sensibility to remember for ever. The poem is entitled, "Lines on an Hour-glass, addressed to Miss H- W

X

same as in those venerable Establish

ments.

It is not possible for any person to speak decidedly of the spirit with which such Institutions have hitherto been conducted, with respect to this very important part of their plan-for they are yet all in their infancy. But the very first question which a friend to such Institutions puts to himself is, what ought to be the character of their public lecturers? and then he looks around him, and judges for himself, whether or not that character be realized in the persons elevated-for it is a great elevation-to situations of such high duties, and such sacred trust. On the spirit of those who found and support such Institutions, will depend that of the men whom they bring there to listen to; and if purposes of worth and importance are undertaken without the spirit which is adequate to carry them into effect, the good cause itself will be injured and degraded with the public, and the high objects which they professed will cast something of ridicule and scorn upon their failure. Let us consider with ourselves for a little what should be the character, for example, of a Lecturer on poetry and literature at such an Institution. The man who stands up to instruct his countrymen on such subjects-not in books, which are open to all consideration-but by a public appointment as a half-professor, ought especially to be a sound teacher. His hearers are not, at least ought not, to be assembled to hear speculations and fancies however acute and amusing not to hear him, but to hear truth. He stands there as a sort of literary representative of his lettered countrymen, and ought, therefore, to speak authentic knowledge and belief, that which is held, and avouched, and avowed by literary and intellectual authorities. There is no necessity for his being a mere repeater; he will mark the strength and character of his own mind upon what he says, though he does not assume to make the substance of it, and consents to speak the feelings and thoughts of a thousand minds as wise as his own. The national character of our literature imperiously demands this, a literature comprehending that spirit of thought, feeling, and moral sentiment, which makes it English, and England the better for it. Himself, his language, his opinions, must all be classical Eng

lish. The land is ancient, calm, and good, and that which is of the land, which is old and hereditary, has the deep power of the land breathing in every word. Nothing, we conceive, can be so hurtful to the public mind as an innovating and rebellious temper in literature, not arising from conviction of the intellect meditating on the grand sweep of its past course, but from a diseased love of novelty, or a base and mean love of reputation for originality and genius. Such a spirit of hazarding and propagating paradoxes teaches, to all infected with it, dislike and disregard for antiquities presumption and self-confidence to the ignorant, who would fain attempt to think before they know, and to know before they feel-and who, in the midst of their imagined independence of opinion, are in truth the veriest slaves of other men, who impose upon them at will the fetters and the stripes of their own reckless and capricious tyranny. The great feelings and opinions of men are strong by their universality. That is evidence for, not against them. We are not required to be all original inventors of thought. It is no dishonour or condemnation of our opinions, that they are simply those of every body else; nor will any devout and ardent lover of truth, either in literature or morals, start back from principles or feelings, because their universal acknowledgement has deprived them of all air of originality, and because, while he promulgates them once more to young minds, the world can give him credit only for the love, the discernment, and the enunciation of what has been long believed to be important, and will confer on him the praise only of being a wise expositor of wisdom.

But the great and important question is, what kind of instruction can reasonably be expected to be communicated, by even the very best teacher, to such an audience as is gathered together in the lecture-room of a literary institution? It cannot, we should think, be intellectual discipline to the mind on which future important science may be built up. What can be expected from him? That to men whose occupations of life have been different from those of the studious, men of active and intelligent minds, but unstored with philosophic knowledge, or the wealth of literature, he should give-what? The know

ledge they want? That is utterly impossible, from the very nature of his lectures, few, detached, and coming, in their own unassisted strength or weakness, into the midst of the ardent avocations of life. But it will be said, they may shew people what that knowledge is they may open up access to it-they may give them a taste of the pleasures with which it is accompanied. And something of this they probably will do; but a little consideration may, perhaps, serve to shew that it cannot be to a great degree-certainly not to such a degree as to make amends for many evils that must spring out of so very imperfect a method either of communicating knowledge or inspiring the love of it, at least in poetry or literature. The subject of lectures at such Institutions should not be the works of imagination. Are books inaccessible or rare? Is it to make an English audience acquainted with the contents of the volumes of Shakspeare or Milton, that they are to be lectured upon? Why, it is probable that, of such an audience, many have little poetical delight in those works. It is probable, that with the works of many poets they are not acquainted at all, and that the poetry of Chaucer, and Spenser, and Fletcher, &c. may, then, for the very first time, be laid open to them. Is it, then, to dictate a taste to men, that such lectures are given? If so, then we are led to inquire what is the real natural process by which the works of imagination diffuse themselves among a people, and establish their hold in their minds. They are propagated from one to another by delight. They are universally accessible, and are brought to the hand of all. It is true that works of great interest lie dormant among a people-and why? because the present temper of their minds does not bear them. But the mind of society changes, and that which it demands, it will bring forth. It will call buried writers from the dust, as it will call into life writers that shall minister to its delight. If a man does not know what is in the pages of Milton, it is because his mind does not desire poetry. It is, of all the desires a man can have in this country, the one most easily and cheaply administered to, and therefore it would be quite idle to talk of grounding lectures on poetry, on the sole object of introucing poetry to unacquainted minds.

But let us suppose that the lecturer is appointed to instruct and guide the public taste in poetry. And this, no doubt, is the purpose seriously proposed-to cultivate taste to preserve men's minds from running riot in delight-to teach them how to admireto be wise in their enjoyment. The audience of such a lecturer is one we shall suppose acquainted, but imperfectly so, with poetry, so that his object is to chastise, to guide, to enlighten a beginning taste. But this is to confound the nature and the uses of things. Nature herself instructs us in poetry, by taking strong hold on our imagination, by opening up our feelings, by preparing and kindling our passions. Men are led into poetry, as into all other courses of natural delight, by the tenderness and powers of their own minds. The works of great poets are before them, as the fields, the woods, the rivers, the vales, and the mountains of their native land. If desire leads their steps abroad, delight once finding them, will lead them on. They are in the midst of nature, and impressions are showered upon their hearts, which deepen their desires, continually recurring upon them with finer and more ethereal enjoyment. It is because a man has imagination of his own, that, when the objects of imagination are presented to him, he knows and rejoices in them. The processes of nature are both sudden and slow. Objects are presented for the first time to the mind, and are received with impassioned transport, which never passes away; or they awaken a gentle pleasure, and still, with the renewed impression, the pleasure grows more vivid, till at last it infuses a vital delight through the whole frame of the soul. But in either case, the principle of nature's operation is the same; it is the natural action of the object on the mind, and which takes effect, because the mind has faculties that answer to the object. Such is the natural love of poetry. Upon some minds it comes with rapture, from the first work of true poetry that is opened to them; on others it gradually grows, as they are led on with increasing delight through successive years. But in none of these processes do we recognize the artificial skill of human instruction. Means there may be of engendering a false seeming of the love, and of producing an imitative

taste. But this is the growth of the genuine native love, which may be wild and erring to be sure, though, as we conceive, no more to be set right than produced by men lecturing upon it-for the only kind of cure lies in all instruction, in every association that teaches self-suspicion, self-government, and sobriety of mind-in short, in all mental discipline.

We may, in farther prosecution of this view of the subject, remark, that instruction in poetry must be intended either to impart a taste for poetry, or to correct it. Now, as to giving, implanting, diffusing, a taste for poetry, such a taste is a feeling, an affection of the imagination, and of the passions; an application of natural sensibility to its peculiar object. Knowledge and skill may be imparted by instruction; but emotion, enjoyment, fervour, seem by their very nature, excluded from its province. The love of poetry, in truth, belongs to sensibility, not to intellect. The only legitimate object then, we might say, the only intelligible object of instruction in poetry, is to rectify the taste. How then is this to be done? In the first place, it supposes a taste to be rectified, it presumes a love of poetry, and a very considerable acquaintance with its productions. It not only supposes a love, but that such love has grown up into too wild luxuriance. To correct all this will be important, only in as far as poetry itself is an object of importance to the mind. Now poetry may have an undue and dangerous importance, by taking too much of a practical hold on the sensibilities; by entering into, exciting, and disturbing, the feelings that belong to real life. This is a danger, that does, beyond all doubt, attend poetry, with young and susceptible minds. Most surely it is not to be guarded against by instruction in poetry,-by any developement of canons of criticism,-by leading the over-excited mind to blend more of its power, and its more subtle faculties with an object already too dear, not surely by heightening the dignity and importance of poetry,-by calling the reason itself to its study, and setting the chief faculty of life to minister to the play of fancy, and the cravings of distempered sensibility. Much rather is it to be done, by closing the volumes altogether, and recalling the distempered mind to the discipline

of severer studies,-to simpler,healthier pleasures, and to the service of real life.

But poetry may have importance to the mind also, as the character of that mind, and the external circumstances of its condition, permit the study of the arts of imagination lawfully to be made an important pursuit. To such a mind it is evident, that a just regulation of taste does become important; because so much of its powers is given to the pursuit, that no less is therein implied, than a just regulation of the intellectual faculties. By what means then, is a youthful or more advancing mind, to which the just study of poetry, and the just regulation of the action of so many powers, is an object of real importance,-by what means is such a mind to get the benefit of such regulation? By instruction in poetry, as a part of systematic education? Rather by universal instruction. As far as the mind itself is to be formed and governed,-by all those serious and dignified studies which call the higher faculties into strenuous and ardent exertions; and as far as poetry itself is concerned,by setting before it the highest models, and leaving them to work their own effect. The study of poetry will itself receive the influence of such general high intellectual instruction. For the light which is in the mind, will fall upon all its works. It will itself turn thought, intelligence, knowledge, upon that which is to itself an important and cherished pursuit. In every mind, the love of poetry, in whatever degree it exist, is of the nature of feeling and passion. It is of the things therefore, which belong, we might almost say, to the privacy of the mind; to the things which it keeps to itself, and into which another cannot penetrate. To intrude upon it,-to interrogate it, to lay it out in public examination,-is not to rectify but to destroy it. It is lowering the dignity of the mind, and weakening its self-dependence, to bring the inquisition of instruction into such parts of it. The mind that is ardent in these pursuits, must in youth be wrong by enthusiasm,-it can only get right by the self-correction of its maturer years.

It sufficiently appears, then, that the principle on which all public instruction in poetry is founded, is in nature false; and the lectures which,