1845.]

Poetical Contributions.

The moorland hunter homeward hies;
Beneath the hedge the partridge flies;
And I, oppressed with grief and care,
Gae, lonesome, by the banks of Ayr.

His ripening corn old Autumn wails,
So early shook by wintry gales;
He sees the storm in evening skies,
And wildly moaning, southward flies.
Cold in my bosom grows the blood,
When musing on the troubled flood,
Whose waves so soon my bark must bear
Far, far from you, sweet banks of Ayr!

'Tis not the surf that beats the land,
So wild and stern, nor yet yon strand,
With spars of many a wreck o'erspread,
Nor the chill storm-wind, fills with dread
The son of sorrow; but my heart,
Must it not feel the cruel smart,
And beat fu' fast, and bleed fu' sair,
To break its chains, and leave thee, Ayr?

Fareweel, ye cairns, and hou's, and lakes,
Ye heathy hills, and glens, and brakes!
Thou silent path, thou valley green,
That oft my pangs of love have seen!
Friend! foe! farewell! Alike be blest!
My love, my peace upon you rest!
But ah! this rush of tears tells mair

Than words can speak! farewell, my Ayr!

193

This was done purely as a translation, without any recollection of the original English, and some of your readers may be curious enough to compare the piece thus brought round through the German, with what it was in its original state. I would remark that the only thing which makes it impossible for the Germans to give the characteristic beauties of Burns is, that they have no dialect which bears the same relation to a German ear, that the Scottish does to an English ear, unless a sprinkling of Tyrolese might serve. Bonny Doon" and "My jo, John" cannot be translated into German.

66

C. T. B.

17

III. LIFE.

I would not live always in bondage to fear,
Where joy has divided dominion with sorrow,

Where smiles, as they rise, are oft checked by a tear,
And suns, shining brightly, breed clouds for the morrow.

Where pleasure seduces, adversity tries,

And reason and passion alternately sway,

Where doubt jostles faith as she struggles to rise,
And follows her footsteps as night follows day.

Where nothing can satisfy, nothing secure
From change and decay and disorder and strife,
No beauty is perfect, no virtue is pure,
And evil and good are companions for life.

Where finding no rest, like the patriarch's dove,
Which flew to the ark when the flood was abroad,
O'erwearied we seek in the mansions above
The rest that remains for the people of God.

Oh there would I dwell above life's stormy ocean,
Delivered from fear and temptation and sorrow,
There nothing disturbs the calm flow of devotion,
The sky has no clouds and the day no to-morrow.

But hush! 'tis more manly to strive than repine,
A resolute spirit brings good out of ill,

And though the ore's rough which we have to refine,
It yields a rich treasure to patience and skill.

The heat of the furnace turns iron to steel,
The fruit of long training is vigor and grace,
And virtue is noblest when stamped with the seal
Of sufferings that perfect, and struggles that brace.

Then murmur no more at the evils of life,
But use them as helpers its true good to win,

The good that goes with us where sorrow and strife
And sin and uncertainty enter not in.

1845.]

Blanco White - Rationalism.

We toil up a steep, but it leads to the skies;
'Tis rough, but its roughness assists us to climb;
The labor is great, but far greater the prize,
Eternity's joys for the trials of time.

E. W.

195

ART. V.-BLANCO WHITE-RATIONALISM.*

MR. THOм has given to the world the autobiography of his friend Mr. White, with a modesty about the most remarkable that we remember to have seen in any biographer, or editor of biography. A beautiful Introduction of ten pages excepted, he has not inserted, in three volumes, three pages of his own writing. Only when the pen dropped from the invalid's hand, does he take it up to add a record of the last hours. He appears, only to close the eyes of his friend in death, and then retires. From what he has said. and can so well say, we could wish that he had said more. We cannot help saying in fact that the Editor, with his opinions, must have been tempted to annotate and explain, to qualify and sometimes to disclaim; but he has done nothing of the sort. And certainly Blanco White had fairly earned the right to speak for himself. Our business is with the Memoirs, and we take leave of the Editor, simply commending the fidelity, dignity and calmness with which he has committed to the judgment and verdict of reflecting men, a book of no little import and likely to excite no little interest.

In speaking of Mr. White commonly known as Blanco White, and author of Doblado's Letters we must distinguish between his character and his opinions. With the latter we do not agree; but for the former we have the highest veneration and regard; nay, we will confess it, an affectionate and tender feeling. In his revolt against prevailing opinions he was a better man than most men are in their conformity. He was a better man, we believe, than many are who stand, in their sects, as bright and shining

The Life of the Rev. Joseph Blanco White, written by Himself, with portions of his Correspondence. Edited by JOHN HAMILTON THOM. In 3 vols. London. 1845.

Christians. He was a man of a most affectionate nature, and of an unconquerable love of truth. No man ever loved good men more, or ever loved truth more. These tendencies coming into conflict, made the bitter struggle of his life. In this struggle, in many pains and sicknesses and sorrows, he bore himself nobly. We do feel a little demurring, we confess, on one point. He did say hard things of Church and Clergy. We are sometimes pained by his language. But we believe that the high-minded and generous in the Church and Priesthood will be able to see, that these outbreaks upon them arose from circumstances, and not from bad impulses. Nay, they may be high-minded enough to acknowledge, that among the provocations are some serious faults of their own. Let them call these outbreaks, if they please, "the infirmities of a noble mind." It was a noble mind. This was a good We freely pay him this homage. We render to him that charity, justice and true regard which his affectionate spirit demanded.

man.

But with this good and noble-minded Blanco White must we agree in all his opinions? He would as little have asked, as he conceded anything of this nature. In the course of his life, he passed from the extreme of Romanism to the extreme of Rationalism. He died believing in God, but without any belief in a future life. Had he lived long enough, we believe that, but for his affectionate nature, he would have arrived at the extreme of German Pantheism.

From this double view of his character and opinions, some may regret that this book was ever published. We do not. We welcome it on this very account. We have no fear for truth, but we have much for charity. This book is a powerful appeal to Christian candor. It may do something to soften that cruel and unchristian rancor against unbelievers, which, we deem, is one of the greatest wrongs that is done in Christendom. It shows that there may be good and devout men under the greatest diversities of honest conviction. Our charity, we freely say, goes fully to this length. We do not believe that the all-wise and perfect God has made the happiness, present or future, of imperfect and erring minds to depend upon the accuracy or correctness of their conclusions.

1845.]

Belief in God. .

197

In the processes of mind through which he passed, Mr. White conceived himself to have reached the very foundations of religion and the only tenable faith in it. We propose then to inquire, with reference to his speculations, into the grounds of our great religious beliefs; that is to say, of our belief in God and of our belief in Christianity.

In the first place, what is the foundation of our belief in God? Why is it, or how is it, that we come to entertain this great conviction? What is it that justifies us in this belief that there is a God?

We say then, that this belief is a matter neither of intuition nor of revelation. Revelation presupposes it. It could not have spoken to man of God, unless it had found in his mind some idea of God and some faith in him. Neither is our conviction that there is a God, intuitive. It is a faith, not an intuition. "My certainty that I exist," says Baxter, "is greater than my certainty that there is a God." This is true as to the meaning, though the language is not exact. For the second is not a certainty. If it were, Baxter could not have doubted, as he did at some moments on his death-bed, whether there is a God. We are certain that we exist. We cannot doubt the essential distinction that exists in our minds between the true and the false, between right and wrong. These are intuitions. Again; the field of intuition is the field of consciousness or of what consciousness necessarily implies, and does not extend beyond it. We are conscious of what passes within us, and of nothing more. We are conscious of our own being, but not of God's being. We believe in God; in popular language we may say, we know that he exists; our assurance on this point rises to the highest degree of which moral demonstration is capable; but in strict philosophical accuracy we cannot say that by intuition we know it. If we could, books would not have been written to prove it. None were ever written to demonstrate to us that we exist. The being of God is not given to our passive nature or consciousness as an inevitable, intuitive truth. Man, uneducated, uninfluenced, unreasoning, would not have arrived at this great conviction. Some indeed deny it. Many actually escape all real impression of it. The notion of a Supreme Power, which comes only in the form of an occasional fear, which seldom or never goes so