cultivated garden, it sees only the blighted blossom, the broken stem, or the fatal ravages of the cankerworm; in the heavens, it beholds only the setting sun, the waning moon, or the feeble star that glitters in a world of gloom; in the animal kingdom, it selects those species which prey upon each other, and turns from the sportive gambols of the lamb, to the kite that hovers over the feathery brood, or the tiger and the cat that torture ere they devour their victims; in the city, it is sensible only of poverty, disease, and accumulated crime; and in the social circle, it sees only the lip of scorn, the pale cheek, or the averted eye. Over the calendar of births, marriages, and deaths, the melancholy hold themselves peculiarly privileged to mourn, because, in the first instance, another sentient and responsible being is added to the dark catalogue of those who come into the world to sin and suffer; in the second, an additional proof is about to be exhibited before the world of the fallacy of human hopes, and the disappointment which inevitably attends our pursuit of earthly happiness; and the third is an awful evidence of that fatal doom to which we are all hastening. In short, there is nothing natural or familiar, sweet or soothing, good or great, which does not set the gloomy and morbid imagination afloat upon "a sea of troubles" and it is this exuberance of fancy, this illimitable range of thought, this fertility of the mind in producing objects of mournful association, which constitutes the poetry of melancholy.

"I have of late," says Hamlet, "(but wherefore I know not,) lost all my mirth, foregone all custom of exercises: and, indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition, that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof, fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me, than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form, and moving, how express, and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! The beauty of the world, the para

gon of animals! and yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me-nor woman neither."

We now come to the consideration of grief as a passion, under which character there is one peculiarity to be remarked, tending powerfully to invest it with the poetical charm it unquestionably possesses-it is the peculiar force and vividness of some of our perceptions while the mind is under the immediate influence of grief. It is true we cannot reason, nor calculate, nor detect the weakness of sophistry, because the mind in this state is incapable of action. The only faculty awakened in it, is that of receiving impressions; a power considerably heightened and increased by the total suspension of its active operations. But it is to trifles alone that this power is applied-to things of no importance, and such as hold no relative connexion with the cause of grief. Thus the criminal at the bar, though wholly incapacitated for taking into consideration the nature of the laws by which he is tried, looks round upon the judge, the witnesses, and the whole court; and with an acuteness and vividness of perception which seem actually to be the means of forcing every unwelcome object upon his sight, he beholds the breathless and expectant multitude around him, from amongst whom he is able to distinguish, and single out particular faces, which, if he is happy enough to escape the dreaded doom, will remain impressed upon his memory till his latest day. The messenger who brings us evil tidings, is, for any thought or interest that we bestow upon him individually, a mere intelligence, a voice, a breath of air; and yet we find afterwards that we have involuntarily noted down in characters never to be obliterated, his countenance, his dress, his manner, and the tones in which his errand was delivered. We watch by the bedside of the dying, our very souls absorbed by the near prospect of that fearful dissolution which is about to deprive us of a

child, a parent, a friend, or a brother, unconscious that our thoughts have wandered for one moment from what was most important or impressive in that awful scene; yet in after life, even when the heavy wheels of time have rolled over us, laden with other accidents and other griefs, we are able to recall, with a distinctness almost incredible to those who have never known it, the particular aspect of that sick chamber-the folded curtains-the pillow without rest--the wild delirious wanderings-the countenance of the nurse-the voice of the physician-and all the other minutiae of that mournful scene.

It is with the tide of feeling as with a swollen river. The violent and overwhelming force of the torrent bears along with it innumerable fragments from the desolated shore. While the stream rushes on, swollen and tumultuous, these fragments are scarcely distinguishable amongst the whirlpools, and rapids, and roaring falls; but when it subsides and again glides calmly within its natural boundaries, they rise to the surface and afford clear and palpable evidence of the tremendous strength and violence of the overwhelming flood.

Lord Byron has described with his wonted power and pathos this capability of the mind, when under the influence of grief, in that most affecting (I might almost say most beautiful) of his poems "The Dream." In the melancholy scene so forcibly exhibiting the deep but silent anguish of plighting the hand without the heart, how naturally do the thoughts of the gloomy being he has chosen to represent, rush back to the season of his first-his only love, and settle upon the last agonizing moment of separation, which life has now no power to equal by any future suffering. A minor poet, or a less experienced reasoner, would have centred all the recollections of the heart-stricken bridegroom in the person of the lady herself; but Lord Byron, who could at his own pleasure make use of expressions as delicate as poetical-as poetical as true, co

louring the whole scene with those ethereal tints which belong to the highest genius, merely alludes to the sacred object of such deep, and fervent, and forbidding thoughts as a "destiny;" while he gives us the minor parts of the picture, clear, and distinct as they would be in the memory of one who could feel and suffer like himself.

"He could see

Not that which was, but that which should have been
But the remembered chambers and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,—
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny, came back

And thrust themselves between him and the light.
What business had they there at such an hour?"

We might add to what has already been said of grief, the pleasure which it is supposed to afford in recollection; a subject much sung and celebrated by the poets, but one to which I confess myself too ignorant, or too obtuse to be able to do justice. Still we all know there are those who can linger over the grave recently closed over their heart's treasure, who love to revisit scenes of former suffering, and dwell in lengthened detail upon the sorrows they have endured; and I am inclined to believe that such are the individuals best qualified to describe the poetry of grief; rather than those who shrink from all retrospection of their own experience, and hurry on through life to find in the future what has failed them in the past.

We turn from this subject to the consideration of grief under that peculiar character which appears to claim more than its due share of interest, and which by the world is called first grief.

The first grief generally arises from disappointment in love, death of parents, change of fortune, or neglect of friends; all sufficient causes of sorrow, yet by no means so powerful or durable in their effects, as the

accumulated cares, crosses, and afflictions, which beset us in after life. This grief is comparatively without association, and therefore, though touching and pathetic in the extreme, because it falls upon the young, and often upon the beautiful, cannot in the experience of the mourner be comparable to those in which are combined the accumulated sufferings that arise from memory, and anticipation-the recollection of happiness that never can return-the fear of future evil yet more intolerable than the present.

The first grief is unquestionably a fertile subject for the poet, because it supplies all the interest arising from strong contrast; as a sudden blight falling upon the luxurious vegetation of a productive soil, affords more matter for affecting and melancholy description, than the leafless desert stretched out in its perpetual sterility beneath a burning sun.

The first grief comes to the young heart like the rough wind to the blossom-like the early frost to the full blown flower-like the gathering vapours to the smiling sun-like the dark cloud to the silver moon-like the storm to the summer sea-like the sudden influence of all those fatal accidents which deface the lovely and verdant aspect of nature; not like that dull monotony of constant care which experience proves to be far more intolerable, but which the poet rejects for its very weariness. The tears which dim the eye of youthful beauty are wholesome, natural, and refreshing, compared with those which wear away the waning sight. When youthful beauty weeps, what heart so callous as not to be touched with pity? What benevolence so limited as not to extend to the fair sufferer the consolation of love, and the comfort of protection? There is something in our very nature which makes us yearn with peculiar tenderness over those who mourn for their first grief. They have never troubled us with their complaints before. We have been wont to see them light and