most cordial emotion that has been experienced on board during the long interval. "This is my dear, my native land!"-" Yonder's my home, my own sweet home!" Meanwhile, as the vessel nears the harbour, the coast itself almost seems to advance upon the waves to receive it—enlarging, brightening, swelling into loveliness and grandeur, while still in aërial perspective, with the hues of heaven and the sea upon it, and hardly appearing of the earth earthy.

Now, in the middle distance between the first glimpse and the landing-place, that self-same scene, which we have shown to be so humble and unpretending in detail, shines out in fair proportions, without one flaw in colour, form, or grouping that could displease the most fastidious painter: without one mean, revolting, or even ordinary object to break the spell which holds the eye of the indifferent beholder himself in charmed gaze. What seems it, then, to the homereturning mariner? His mind dwells solely on what is most dear and precious to his sweetest affections. And these are awakened by every symbol that meets his view; every slight undulation of the outline on shore; every scattered tree, familiar and endeared by old recollections,-the ruined castle on the low hill, the church-tower at its foot, the small lighthouse on the jutting pier; while among the red-tiled roofs and black chimneys, jammed into mass, each one on board strains to single out that for which all the rest are beloved-that which enshrines his soul's treasure, which holds his partner who is his crown, and the children who are their jewels. At this point, this middle distance, the poetry of the scene, both to the eye, the imagination, and the heart, is complete; for but a little beyond it, a furlong or two nearer the spot, reality becomes too potent; the unconcerned spectator finds himself there in the vicinity, here in the midst, of a miserable every-day town; while the transported seaman, first on the shore, the moment

he leaps from the boat, and afterward at his own fireside, in the embraces of his wife, and the caresses of his offspring-the tears of the one, and the shouts of the other-forgets every thing but present, positive, overwhelming bliss..

In the foregoing sketch, the poetry of real life has been exemplified; for, with all its sorrows, and pains, and sordid anxieties, there is much poetry in real life. All is not "vanity and vexation of spirit under the sun" to him who can honestly and innocently enjoy the commonest blessings of Providence. Who can behold this beautiful world, and imagine for a moment that it was designed to be the abode of miserable beings? The earth, arrayed in verdure, adorned with flowers, diversified with hill and dale, forest and glade, fountains and running streams, engirdled with the ocean, over-canopied with heaven; this earth, so smiling and fruitful, so commodious and magnificent, is altogether worthy of its Maker; and not only a fit habitation for man, created in the image of God, but a place which angels might delight to visit on embassies of love. All nature, through all her forms of existence, calls on man to rejoice with her in the goodness of the universal Parent. The stars in their courses, the sun in his circuit, and the moon through her changes, by day and by night display his glory; the seasons in succession, the land and the waters, reciprocally distribute his bounty. Every plant in its growth is pleasing to the eye, or wholesome for food; every animal in health is happy in the exercise of its ordinary functions; life itself is enjoyment.

Yet in the heart of man there is something which disqualifies him from the full fruition of the blessings thus abundantly dealt around him; something which has introduced disorder into his mind, and disease into his frame; darkening and bewildering his intellect; corrupting and inflaming his passions; and hurrying him, by a fatality of impulse, to that excess

in every indulgence which turns aliment into poison; and from the perversion of the social feelings produces strife, misery, and confusion to families, to nations, to the world. That enemy, that destroyer, what is it?-Sin! Yet so mysteriously and merci, fully does God, in his providence, out of evil educe good, that much of the felicity of life, as it is, arises out of the misery with which it is beset on every hand. This I may have a future opportunity of showing; but, to return to our immediate subject, it is sufficient to state the fact that poetry finds inexhaustible materials for its most gorgeous and beauful compositions in "the ills that flesh is heir to."

The Poetical Aspect of Visible Nature.

"Ye stars, which are the poetry of heaven!"

This is one of those rapturous apostrophes of the author of Childe Harold which occasionally burst, in fine phrensy, from the impassioned poet, like oracles from the lips of the Pythoness; unconsciously uttered, and seeming, from their very boldness and obscurity, to convey, more meaning than intelligible words could express. Had the noble bard been asked what he himself intended by this extraordinary phrase, to make it clear might have cost him more labour in vain than he was wont to expend, who seldom did labour in vain (though he often did worse), for he generally achieved what he attempted, whether it were good or evil. Without inquiring what prompted the idea to that wayward mind, which, in the context, is about consulting them as the rulers of human destinies, there is a sense in which, I think, "the stars" may truly and intelligibly be styled "the poetry of heaven." How?-Not, certainly, on account of their visible splendour; for the gas-lamps of a single street of this metropolis outshine the whole hemisphere on the clearest winter

evening: nor on account of their beautiful configurations; for the devices chalked on the floor of a fashionable ball-room, to the mere animal eye, would be more captivating. It is from causes having affinity to mind, not matter,-to truth, not semblance,that the stars may indeed be called the poetry of heaven. Among these may be mentioned the time of their appearance, in the solitude, silence, and darkness of night; their motion, with one consent, from east to west, each kept in its place; so slow as not to be perceptible, except by comparison, at intervals, yet accomplishing an annual revolution of the heavens, by points actually gained on their apparent nocturnal journeys: again, by our knowledge that they have had existence from the foundation of the world, when "the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy;" by their use in the firmament,-being placed there "for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and for years" to man. "Knowest thou the ordinances of Heaven ?" said the Lord, speaking out of the whirlwind to Job: "Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion? Canst thou bring forth Mazzaroth in his season? Or canst thou guide Arcturus with his sons ?"-Here shines out, indeed, "the poetry of heaven;" and here we may hearken to the true "music of the spheres:"

"For though no real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found,
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing, as they shine,

"The hand that made us is divine.""

But in a peculiar and, to myself at least, an intensely interesting view, the stars are "the poetry of heaven." In common with the sun and moon, they are the only unchanging and actual objects which all eyes that were ever opened to the light,

and lifted to the sky, have seen precisely as we see them, and precisely as they shall be seen by posterity to the end of time. Rivers stray from their channels; mountains are shattered by earthquakes; undermined by waters, or worn by the stress of elements; forests disappear, and cities rise upon their place; cities, again, are tumbled into ruins; all the works of man perish like their framer; and on those of nature herself, throughout the habitable globe, is written Mutability. The entire aspect of the earth, whether waste or cultivated, peopled or solitary, is perpetually undergoing transformation. Shakspeare says, "No man ever bathed twice in the same river." It may as truly be said, though the process is slower, that no two generations dwelling successively on one spot, however marked its general features might be, ever beheld the same local objects, in the same colour, shape, and character. heavenly bodies alone appear to us the identical luminaries, in size, lustre, movement, and relative position which they appeared to Adam and Eve in Paradise, when,

"at their shady lodge arrived, both stood,

Both turn'd, and under open sky adored

The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heaven.
Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent globe,
And starry pole."

Paradise Lost, book iv.

The

They appear to us the same as they did to Noah and his family, when they descended from the ark into the silence of an unpeopled world; and as they did to the builders of Babel, when the latter projected a tower whose top should reach heaven. They appear to us in the same battle-array as they were seen by Deborah and Barak, when "the stars in their courses fought against Sisera;" in the same sparkling constellations as they were seen by the Psalmist, compelling him to exclaim, "When I