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strued as extending to that pursuit which not only implies the most vigorous exercise of the intellectual faculties, but may be truly defined to be the art of recommending moral truth, and making virtue attractive. Poetry has been commonly supposed, indeed, to aim more at the gratification than the instruction of its votaries, and to have for its end rather delight than improvement; but it has not, we think, been sufficiently considered, that its power of delighting is founded chiefly on its moral energies, and that the highest interest it excites has always rested on the representation of noble sentiments and amiable affections, or on deterring pictures of the agonies arising from ungoverned passions. The gifts of imagination may no doubt be abused and misapplied, like other gifts; but their legitimate application is not, for this, less laudable or blameless ;--and much of the finest poetry in our language may unquestionably be read by the most rigid moralist, not only with safety, but advantage.

To a Quaker poet, it is perhaps true that the principles or prejudices of his sect would oppose some restraints, from which other adventurers are free; and that the whole range of Parnassus could not be considered as quite open to his excursions-some of its loftiest, as well as some of its gayest recesses, being interdicted to his muse. The sober-mindedness which it is the great distinction and aim of the Society to inculcate and maintain, will scarcely permit him to deal very freely with the stronger passions: and the mere play of lively and sportive imagination, the whole department of witty and comic invention, would, we suspect, be looked upon as equally heterodox and suspicious. They have no reason, however, to complain of the scantiness of what remains at their disposal;--all the solemnity, warmth, and sublimity of devotion-all the weight and sanctity of moral precept all that is tender in sorrow-all that is gentle in affection-all that is elegant and touching in description, is as open to them as to poets of any other persuasion; and may certainly afford scope for the most varied as well as the most exalted Song. When employed upon such themes, and consecrated to such objects, it is impossible, we should think, for the most austere sectary, to consider poetry as a vain or unprofitable occupation, or to deem amiss of an attempt to recommend the purest sentiments, and enforce the noblest practice, by all the beauty of diction, and all the attractions of style. The Society was for a good while confined to the lower classes; and when it first became numerous and respectable, the revolting corruptions of poetry which took place after the Restoration, afforded but too good an apology for the prejudices which were conceived against it; and as the Quakers are pe

culiarly tenacious of all the maxims that have been handed down from the patriarchal times of their institution, it is easy to understand how this prejudice should have outlived the causes that produced it. It should not however be forgotten, that W. Penn amused himself with verses, and that Elwood the Quaker is remembered as the friend and admirer of Milton, and the man to whose suggestion the world is indebted for the Paradise Regained. In later times, we only remember Mr Scott of Aimwell as a poetical writer of the Society.

The volume before us has all the purity, the piety and gentleness, of the Sect to which its author belongs-with something too much perhaps of their sobriety. The style is rather diffuse and wordy, though generally graceful, flowing, and easy; and though it cannot be said to contain many bright thoughts or original images, it is recommended throughout by a truth of feeling and an unstudied earnestness of manner, that wins both upon the heart and the attention. In these qualities, as well as in the copiousness of the diction and the facility of the versification, it frequently reminds us of the smaller pieces of Cowper, the author, like that eminent and most amiable writer, never disdaining ordinary words and sentiments when they come in his way, and combining, with his most solemn and contemplative strains, a certain air of homeliness and simplicity, which seems to show that the matter was more in his thoughts than the manner, and that the glory of fine writing was less considered than the clear and complete expression of the sentiments, for the sake of which alone he was induced to become a writer.— Though the volume contains sixty or seventy different pieces, and almost every variety of versification, there is something of uniformity in the strain and tenor of the poetry. There is no story, and of course no incident, nor any characters shown in action. The staple of the whole is description and meditationdescription of quiet, home scenery, sweetly and feelingly wrought out-and meditation overshaded with tenderness, and exalted by devotion-but all terminating in soothing and even cheerful views of the condition and prospects of mortality. The book, in short, is evidently the work of a man of a fine and cultivated, rather than of a bold and original mind-of a man who prefers following out the suggestions of his own mild and contemplative spirit, to counterfeiting the raptures of more vehement natures, and thinks it better to work up the genuine though less splendid materials of his actual experience and observation, than to distract himself and his readers with more ambitious and less manageable imaginations. His thoughts and reflections, accordingly, have not only the merit of truth and consistency, but bear

the distinct impress of individual character-and of a character with which no reader can thus become acquainted without loving and wishing to share in its virtues.

We open the volume almost at random for a few specimens. The first piece consists of Verses written in a Quaker Burialground; and contains, among other things, this justification of their disallowance of sepulchral monuments.

• Could we conceive Death was indeed the close
Of our existence, Nature might demand
That, where the reliques of our friends repose,
Some record to their memory should stand,
To keep them unforgotten in the land :-

Then, then indeed, urn, tomb, or marble bust,
By sculptor's art elaborately plann'd,

Would seem a debt due to their mouldering dust,
Though time would soon efface the perishable trust.
But hoping, and believing; yea, through Faith,
Knowing, because His word has told us so,
That Christ, our Captain, triumph'd over Death,
And is the first fruits of the dead below;—
That he has trod for man this path of woe,

Dying-to rise again!-we would not grace
Death's transitory spell with trophied show;

As if that "shadowy vale" supply'd no trace
To prove the grave is not our final dwelling-place.
Then, be our burial-grounds, as should become
A simple, but a not unfeeling race:
Let them appear, to outward semblance, dumb
As best befits the quiet dwelling-place
Appointed for the prisoners of Grace,

Who wait the promise by the Gospel given,-
When the last trump shall sound,-the trembling base
Of tombs, of temples, pyramids be riven,

And all the dead arise before the hosts of Heaven!

Oh! in that awful hour, of what avail

Unto the "spiritual body" will be found

The costliest canopy, or proudest tale
Recorded on it?-what avail the bound
Of holy, or unconsecrated ground?
As freely will the unencumber'd sod
Be cleft asunder at that trumpet's sound,
As Royalty's magnificent abode :

As pure its inmate rise, and stand before his GOD. pp.2-8.

The following extract from Verses on the Death of a Youth of great promise, will remind the admirers of Cowper of some of that author's smaller pieces.

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'We had hopes it was pleasure to nourish,
(Then how shall our sorrow be mute?)
That those bright buds of genius would flourish,
And burst into blossoms and fruit.

But our hopes and our prospects are shaded,
For the plant which inspir'd them hath shed
Its foliage, all green and unfaded,

Ere the beauty of spring-time hath fled.
Like foam on the crest of the billow,
Which sparkles, and sinks from the sight;
Like leaf of the wind-shaken willow,
Though transiently, beauteously bright;-
Like dew-drops, exhal'd as they glisten;
Like perfume, which dies soon as shed
Like melody, hush'd while we listen

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Is Memory's dream of the dead. ' p. 70.

The following, inscribed To the Memory of Mary Fletcher," are nearly of the same character.

Enthusiast, fanatic, and fool,

Many who read thy life' will style thee;

And others, more sedate and cool,

Will pity, who dare not revile thee.

For me, I feel, on laying down

The volume, neither power nor will
To ape the critic's frigid frown:
To flatter thee were idler still.

While living, praise of man to thee

Was nothing o'er thy mouldering earth,
Its empty echo now would be

But mockery of thy Christian worth!

Yet there are those, with whom the test
Of truth is not the Gospel creed;
To whom thy life will be a jest,
Thy path-a parable indeed!"

And these, perchance, to show their wit,
Will heap thy name with obloquy;
And o'er thy hallow'd pages sit,
"Drest up in brief authority.'

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To thee it matters not; but those
Who honour and revere thy name,
May be allow'd to interpose,

And vindicate thy well-earn'd fame.

Not for thy sake alone, but theirs

Who tread the path which thou hast trod;' &c. pp. 76-78.

And the same model may be traced in the following lines to Bonaparte in his island prison.

Far from the battle's shock,

Fate hath fast bound thee;
Chain'd to the rugged rock,
Waves warring round thee.
Instead of the trumpet's sound,
Sea-birds are shrieking;
Hoarse on thy rampart's bound,
Billows are breaking.

For ensigns unfurling,

Like sunbeams in brightness;

Are crested waves curling,

Like snow-wreaths in whiteness.

No sycophants mock thee

With dreams of dominion;

But rude tempests rock thee,

And ruffle thy pinion.' pp. 122, 123.

This stanza shows, that the author's dislike to tombstones is not altogether insuperable.

'Onward the queen of night advances: slow

Through fleecy clouds with majesty she wheels:
Yon tower's indented outline, tombstones low,
And mossy grey, her silver light reveals :

Now quivering through the lime-trees' foliage steals;
And now each humble, narrow, nameless bed,

Whose grassy hillock not in vain appeals

To eyes that pass by epitaphs unread,

Rise to the view. How still the dwelling of the dead!' p. 88 And the same image is brought still more prominently for ward in the following.

How lonely and lovely their resting-place seem'd!

An enclosure which care could not enter:
And how sweetly the grey lights of evening gleam'd,
On the solitary tomb in its centre !

When at morn, or at eve, I have wander'd near,
And in various lights have view'd it,

With what differing forms, unto friendship dear,
Has the magic of fancy endued it!

Sometimes it has seem'd like a lonely sail,
A white spot on the emerald billow;
Sometimes like a lamb, in a low grassy vale,
Stretch'd in peace on its verdant pillow.
But no image of gloom, or of care, or strife,
Has it ever given birth to one minute;

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