that the knowledge we accepted in transmission from others, has no application to our own life, till our life itself has, by reproducing it, made the application-yielding to it evidence, and clothing it with power which it could no otherwise possess.

Poetry of this character, filled with the self-experiences of a pure and high nature, will be cherished as a sacred possession, in every heart that is not afraid to look life in the face. There is not a man breathing, whose faculties and affections have been expanded and tried, that has not images and emotions in the secret chambers of his bosom, dim, threatening, and terrible. Few poets have had the courage, perhaps the power, to grapple with such thoughts, and subject them to the fetters of words-to the power of their art. Mr Lloyd, we have said, has dared to do this-while we peruse his passionate communings with his soul, we are thereby made more distinct ly acquainted with our own; yet at times we cannot help feeling regret that such a mind should have known miserable thoughts so well as to be enabled thus agitatingly to paint them-and our hearts leap with delight within us whenever the poet comes before us in his gladness, and shews that, acquainted as he is with grief, he equally well understands the beauty and delight, both of the natural and moral world.

We rejoice, therefore, to conclude our notice of Mr Lloyd's poetry, with some specimens of a mild. er-a happier character. There is a great deal of happiness in this volume, and much tender and profound enjoyment of human life. We may guess what joy all the best affections of our nature, must yield this most amiable poet, from some of those pious strains, in which he mourns over the passing away from earth of those he had loved and honoured. The sonnets on the death of his mother's mother,-written in youth, are all of them exceedingly beautiful. No relation between human beings in this life, is more solemn and affecting to a young heart, than that which prompted these effusions. To a young and happy child, there is felt, unknown perhaps to itself, a reverential awe, for the stillness, the purity, and the sanctity of Old Age sitting solemnly before it like a being scarcely belonging to its bright and gladsome

A

world, and yet looking down upon it from morning to night, with a countenance of benignity and love. child feels in the gray hairs, and saintly calm of her whom its own mother reverences, a power that tempers mirth,-deepens happiness, and calms the overflowing of tears. These are feelings which from a good heart will never pass away-and he whose own head may be getting gray, will think on the aged saint long buried in the grave, with all the undiminished reverence that filled his boyish heart, when he knelt in prayer at the feet of the breathing image, or heard from her pale lips the words of eternal life.

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 unambitious, unpretending sonnet, which seems breathed out in a happy moment, from a heart filled with de VOL. VI.

light inspired by the sweet aspect of earth and heaven;-and which awakens, in a moment, in the reader's mind, trains of imagery without end, and sad though delightful dreams of the days gone by. Of this character is the following composition.

SONNET XIX.

26th March 1803.

Thou cottage gleaming near the tuft of trees, Thou tell'st of joy more than I dare believe Falls to the lot of man; where Fancy sees (For credulous Fancy still her dreams will weave)

Him whose low fate no restless cares deceive,

Blest by your smiles, pure as the mountain breeze;

Love, Peace, Humility, whose ministries

Give all that happiest mortals can receive. Yon sun-tipt grove's embosom'd harmony,

As fades the splendour of departing day, Swells on my ear most like the minstrelsy Which from thy inmate's pipe shall bear

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 some thing 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 country men, 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 antiquitiespresumption 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? beeause 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 introducing 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