stances, and by internal emotions. There is more of genius than art in it; and more of the true spirit of poetry than characterizes many of the popular poems of the day.

The preface to this volume is worth perusing, were it merely for the bold ness and independence of thought which it displays. A few extracts from it may not prove uninteresting. "I have but little to say," remarks our author, "by way of preface. An independent mind ought not to beg an excuse; and an author ought not to publish, unless he be lieves he needs none. This second part of Prometheus is entirely new. It is, like the first, discursive, but not entirely destitute of a plan to those who can detect it. It must stand or fall by its own merits, and therefore needs no farther apology. It was written hastily, in a very few days. This is no apology, if it is bad. If it is good it needs none." We know not how strictly the opi nions of our readers will coincide with those, which the author advances on the subject of poetry. To allow fair op portunity for judgment to be passed, they are here subjoined. "I do not like that poetry, which bears the marks of the file and the burnisher. I like to see it in the full ebullition of feeling and fancy, foaming up with the spirit of life, and glowing with the rainbows of a glad inspiration. It would be a mournful task to distil off the vivida vis that comes out only in the moments of happy excitement, and reduce the living materials to a capat mortuum of chaste and sober reason. When there is a quick swell of passion, and an ever coming and going of beauty, as the light of the soul glances over it, I would not have the heart to press it down to its solid quintessence. This would do, if poetry was meant to be a string of proverbs, moving on, in the rank and file of couplets, with the regular slowstep of a Prussian army. But I like to see something savage and luxuriant in works of imagination, throwing itself out like the wild vines of the forest, rambling and climbing over the branches, and twining themselves into a maze of windings."

"Again, I contend that this free and careless style is the natural one of a

dawning national literature."—"Authors, here, cannot afford to trim the lamp much. If they would live by their pens, they must write by the job, and take long ones too. They cannot af ford to exhibit such a multitude of variæ lectiones as Pope could."-"But our correctest poets are not our greatest. (We say our's, when we talk of England.) The master spirits, who rise, like the Dii majores, above the herd of the correct, the polished, the decent, and the pretty, have never been too lavish of their corrections, and yet their fame will live the longest. Is not Chaucer the most immortal of our poets? He has certainly been the longest lived, and has now all the freshness of a green old age. But he wrote much, very much indeed, and one would think rather rapidly and negligently; yet his readers love him none the less for that. Did Shakespeare and Spencer correct much? I trow not. Even Milton seems often to have left his finest passages, as they came fresh from the overflowing riches of his mind; at least, one would think he did not blot much, when he sent cowls and hoods, beads and reliques, flying over the back side of the world into limbo."

All this is very fine, and apparently very plausible. But we think some queries might be put to the author, the correct answers to which would subvert, in a great degree, the hypothesis he has assumed. In fact, all his remarks on the old writers are merely hypothetical. If Milton does not show us the marks of the labor lime in some of his most admired passages, then, it may be safely said, there is nothing of the kind proved by the varia lectiones of Pope." And who can tell us whether Chaucer, or Spencer, or Shakespeare, did not apply to his verses "the file and the burnisher?" Granting they did not, will this justify an individual, at the present advanced age of the world, in running counter to the rules of criticism handed down to us from time immemorial ? The judicious critic, says Horace, wilt order you to blot, and to re-write any ill-formed verses.

Write much, if you please, but keep it long, and prune it well," saith the old rule of criticism. "Corrige, sodes, hoc, et hoc." One remark more, and then to the poem. We have so many authors at the present day, in every department of polite literature, that he, who wishes his productions to descend to posterity stamped with the seal of approbation, must bring his taste as well as his genius to bear upon them. Taste is now the grand requisite in works of imagination: with it much may be done as to acquiring fame; with out it, little.

The introductory stanzas of this continuation of "Prometheus" are (though there are some few exceptions) chargeable with an apparent obscurity, that renders them, if not altogether uninteresting, yet certainly unnatural. This is perhaps to be attributed to the excited state of mind under which the author wrote; for he had given us warning in his first volume, that, as the poen had been written thus far under the influence of excited feelings, so it should be continued. This is, in no small manner, compensated by the brilliancy and perspicuity of other parts of the work. We commence our extracts by way of specimen.

"The world, that is, seems Eden to the child,
The rainbows on a bubble are a spell
To chain him in sweet wonder. O how wild
Do the first waken'd throbs of feeling swell!
There is no music like the village bell,
That o'er the far hill sends its silver sound,

There is no beauty like the forms, that dwell In flower and bud, and shell and insect, found, When through the water'd vale we take our infant round." XII.

"The world imagined, to the world we feel, Is glory and magnificence; we turn From earth in sated weariness, but kneel

Before the pomp we dream of-when the urn Holds all that now has form and life, we spurn The shackles, that debase us and confine;

Deep in its central fountain mind will burn Brighter in darkness, like the gems that shine With a fix'd eye of fire, the stars of cave and mine.

"When the gay visions once so fair are fled, When time has dropp'd his rose-wreaths, and his brow

4

Hath only snows to shade it; hearts have bled
And heal'd themselves to be all callous; now
In the cold years of vanish'd hope we plough
And sow in barrenness to reap in blight-
Then the soul in its solitude doth bow
To its own grandeur, and from outer night
Turns to the world within, and finds all love and
light."
XIV. XV.

Speaking of the splendour of ancient times, their glory and renown, their advancement in arts and refinement, and the records of their fame which have been preserved to our times, the poet exclaims

"We gaze on them, and on the ancient page, Through the expanding haziness of age, And read its mystic characters, which seem,

The fading forms of a majestic dream;Cold is the heart, that not on such a theme Feels the warm spirit kindle 't is the sound Of a gone trumpet rolling on the stream Of Time, and catching still at each rebound Deeper and clearer tones to bear its warning

round," &c.

XXXVI.

CLXVIII.

Excepting the last line, the whole stanza is quite beautiful.

The faults of Dr. P. arise chiefly from the hasty manner in which many of the pieces appear to have been written. Indeed, for so young an author, he has published far too much. It is worse than useless for an individual to give to the world every thing he writes, especially when his productions are confessedly written in haste. The public will scarcely tolerate it; nor in fact will the author advance his own reputation by it. Haste in the composition, and rapidity in the publication of an author's works, are inconsistent with that deference for public opinion which every literary adventurer ought to entertain.

There is one light in which, as Christian journalists, it is our duty to notice these volumes. We refer to the moral character of the productions, and to the influence they are calculated to exercise over the minds of our people. And although we have been drawn to a greater length than we had intended, in our observations on the literary merits of our author; we shall detain our readers a

few moments longer by some brief remarks on this more important topic.

We hold it as an indisputable truth, that an author is, in an essential degree, responsible for the writings he publishes. If they produce good effects, he is to be praised; if evil, he is to be censured. To decide this matter, it is the privilege of the public to call him before their tribunal, and then to bestow In thus bringupon him his deserts. ing our author to pass the ordeal of criticism, far be it from us to wound unnecessarily the delicate and susceptible feelings of Dr. P. He stands too high in our estimation as a man and as a poet, to admit for a moment a suspicion of such a design. But there are things in his volumes which deserve severe censure from the Christian moralist; nor should we esteem our duty dis charged were we not to notice them. In fact, the unsettled state of the moral and religious principles of the author, as displayed in his poems, was the chief cause that led us to think of noticing them at all; and-we repeat it-we think we should be doing injustice to ourselves, and to the cause which we profess to serve, did we pass them over in silence.

There is a species of moody scepticism prevalent in several portions of these volumes which destroys, in many instances, their moral beauty; and there seems to be something like a contempt cast upon the religion we profess, that can not fail to wound the feelings of true Christian piety. The author had announced to his readers in his first volume, that although he "expressed opinions" in that volume, "opposed to the commonly received opinions of society," he trusted he should

never become the advocate or the pander of vice." It is certainly to be hoped that his productions never may. Now, though a persuasion of the truth of his own opinions might lead Dr. P. to differ from the majority of his countrymen, still a deference for public opinion, and a just sense of the claims which the public have upon his talents, should have led him to omit such portions of his works as are so grossly exceptionable. One stanza in the first part of "Prometheus" is almost without a parallel in the coarseness of its

infidelity, though if there can be any sort of palliation for it, it may be ascribed to the extraordinary excitement of mind under which the author wrote. One of his critics has termed it "nothing less than an effusion of madness.” "I ask not pity," says our author,

nor will I incline Weakly before the cross, nor in the blood Of others wash away my erimes-I stood Alone, wrapp'd in suspicion and despair, For they did goad me early to that moodI hate not men, but yet I will not share Again their follies, hopes, their toils and fears,

nor wear

"The mantle of the Hypocrite, nor bow
Before a fancied Power, nor lisp the creed,
Which offers them new life, they know not how,
A blind belief, whose ministers will lead,
Even as a hireling slave the shackled steed,
The many, who to nature's laws are blind."
CLVIII. CLIX.

This evinces, in a striking manner, the morbidness of his feelings. To do justice to the author, we give some counterbalancing stanzas, which will show the vacillating state of his religious opinions; or, rather, the varying tone of his excited feelings, (for he seems to have no settled opinions, or fixed principles on the subject of religion.)

"I am not to the hope of Heaven a foe: It comforts, lifts, and widens all, who share In the pure streams, that from its fountain flow: We must be pure ourselves, if we would dare Take of the holy fire, that wells and gushes there," &c.

Part II-XCI. XCII. "There is a mourner, and her heart is broken-She is a widow, she is old and poorHer only hope is in that sacred token Of peaceful happiness, when life is o'er: She asks nor wealth, nor pleasure, begs no more Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight Of her Redeemer.-Sceptics! would you pour Your blasting vials on her head, and blight

Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her being's night?

Softly pour
The breathings of her bosom, when she prays
Low-bow'd before her Maker, then no more
She muses on the griefs of former days,
Her full heart melts and flows in Heaven's dis-
solving rays.

"And faith can see a new world, and the eyes
Of saints look pity on her: Death will come-
A few short moments over, and the prize
Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb
Becomes her fondest pillow, all its gloom
Is scatter'd. What a meeting there will be
To her and all she loved here, and the bloom

Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee
Theirs is the health, which lasts through all
eternity."
Part I-ÇIX. CXI, CXII.

These specimens will show the struggle that seems to be going on in the author's mind. At one time, he is ready to reject religion; and, at another, he is almost persuaded to be a Christian. To us, there is in this indecision something of favourable aspect; it allows us still to hope for the better.

The influence which poetry exerts over the minds of men is so unbounded, that it ought always to be the aim of the poet, to disseminate correct moral principles amongst his admirers. Otherwise much evil may be propagated, and much injury consequently done to society through his instrumentality. It is perhaps unfortunate for the present age that our best poet is also our worst: we mean Lord Byron. There are some fore us, which bear a striking analogy things in sentiment in the volumes beto some of the opinions expressed by this noble author. It is to be hoped, that many of his productions are only however, for the honour of humanity, the effusions of those hours of insanity, which, we have too much reason to be

lieve, are often the lot of men that feel deeply the ills of life, and yet waste many of its hours in idleness and debauchery. Against Dr. P. charges of the latter kind cannot be brought: his character stands unimpeached. And it is only with regard to the sentiments advanced in his poetry, that we have made these observations. To be free from the charge, that he is "the advocate or the pander of vice," is not enough for the poet. He should be the herald of virtue. Was it merely poetry, without any respect to moral sentiment, that raised Milton, and Young, and Cowper, to so high a station among the bards in our language? Did not religion add a grace to their strains which the cold principles of philosophy could never reach?

Let our author consider candidly the remarks we have now made, and we think he will be convinced of the impropriety of permitting "even the appearance of evil" to deface his otherwise admirable poetry.

With these remarks, we close our protracted notice of these interesting volumes. "My work is ended," closes the author in a most beautiful strain

On the contending waters: Youth's quick swell Is sunk in manhood's calm, and now my feet Must take a weary pilgrimage, and tell,

a moment, they would condemn in others, and correct in themselves. The whispering, and smiling, and staring, which are sometimes noticed during di vine service, are, to say the least of them, ill suited to the place; and may, it is to be feared, be considered as ab

Farewell."

L. J.

DEVOTION, even in appearance,ought always to characterize our attendance on public worship. The formularies of the church possess so much intrinsic value themselves, and breathe so much of the true spirit of piety, that it seems very inconsistent, that those, who use them, should not realize that value, and should not be influenced by that spirit. If the clergyman who officiates performs all the offices of devotion with pious fervour, it will tend but little to the edification and improvement of the people, unless they themselves unite with him in the same fervour.

There are several things, which have particularly struck me as being ill calculated to advance the spirit of religion, so intimately connected, as it is, with the very existence and prosperity of the church. They may indeed to some seem unimportant; but, as they exercise considerable influence, they will be looked upon in a different light by the observing portion of community.

The inattention to the exercises, and the impropriety of conduct, of some, who attend church morning and evening of a Sunday, are always cause of regret to the pious and devotional part of the congregation. The very fact of one's being in the house of God, ought to banish improper thoughts from the mind: and the reflection, that we come professedly to worship him, ought to render us attentive to the exercises.

There are many individuals whose attention is so palpably diverted to other objects than those which ought to occupy it, that they are guilty of many improprieties which, did they reflect for

is the place for worship-for prayer and praise-not for amusement or idle curiosity. He that attends should remember the place which he enters, and the feelings and conduct that are required of him as a professed worshipper. The idle gaze and the unmeaning stare are ill suited to any place and any occasion: how much more so to the house of God, and the hour of worship!"

Even the serious and devotional part of the congregation are sometimes erroneous in their conduct. It has always appeared to me a great mistake among pious people, that, when they have once become so familiar with the formularies of the church as to have them committed by heart, they may therefore set aside the use of their Prayer Books, and trust solely to their memory. I doubt not it is through inadvertency: they do not reflect upon the example they place before others.

It might reasonably be asked, Why have we our Prayer Books? That we may commit the service to memory? or, that they may be such a help to us, that we may, with the more devotion, join in the responses and the prayers, and that we may have in them a constant motive to attention? Certainly the latter. Is it not wrong, then, to neglect this constant use of the Prayer Book?

There is another impropriety which, it is to be presumed, arises from a want of reflection rather than from any other cause, that ought to be corrected. It is that of turning the back upon the altar during the time of singing. The chancel in our churches is a sort of substitution for the more holy place of the Jewish temple; and it would therefore seem most proper, that our looks should be bent in that direction. The habit of thus turning from the altar has always appeared to me more like worshipping the choir and the organist than the God we profess to serve. Our