the faculties of the mind; and Lord Byron, scarcely less intimate than this quaint old writer with the different mental maladies to which our nature is liable, describes the "glance of melancholy" as "a fearful gift."

"What is it but the telescope of truth

"Which strips the distance of its phantasies,

"And brings life near in utter nakedness,

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Making the cold reality too real?"

When melancholy takes possession of the soul, we lose as it were the perspective of our mental vision. We forget the relative proportions of things, and mistaking the small for the great, or the distant for the near, magnify their importance, examine their particular parts, and fill our imaginations with their nature and essence. This is in fact "making the cold reality too real;" for though there is much of truth in the vivid perceptions of melancholy, it is truth misplaced, truth with which the wise man has little to do, but which ministers powerfully to the wretchedness of the "mind diseased."

Being in our nature as liable to pain as we are susceptible of pleasure; and by the neglect of our privileges, and abuse of our faculties, subjected to the experience of even greater suf

fering than enjoyment; it necessarily follows, that those views of the condition of man which are tinctured with the sombre hues of melancholy, should be regarded as the most natural as well as the most interesting. There is little poetry in mirth, or even in perfect happiness, except as it is contrasted with misery; and thus all attempts to describe the perfection of heavenly beatitude fail to interest our feelings. The joys of heaven are, according to the writers who have ventured upon these descriptions, chiefly made up of luxuries which in this world. money alone can purchase, and money is connected in our ideas with toil and strife, with envy, and jealousy, and never-ending vexation; or they consist of fountains always pure, flowers that never fade, and skies which no cloud has ever obscured-things which we find it difficult to conceive; or of perpetual praises sung by an innumerable host of saints-an employment which we are not yet able to separate from ideas of monotony and weariness. Far more touching and more descriptive of that state to which the experienced soul learns to aspire as to its greatest bliss, are those descriptions and allusions abounding in the Holy Scriptures, and particularly in the Book of Revelations, where a

great multitude which no man could number, are seen standing around the throne arrayed in white robes, and with palms in their hands: and when the question is asked, who are these, and whence came they? it is answered, "these are they which came out of great tribulation -they shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." Here the allusion to the sufferings and wants of our mortal nature is continued throughout, forming that natural and necessary contrast with perfect happiness, which is the very essence of poetry. Such expressions as these come home to the heart that has known tribulation, and therefore can conceive the blessedness of eternal repose-which has known the anguish of mortal sorrow, and therefore can appreciate the healing of the heavenly Comforter.

Every thing that deeply interests our feelings has some connection with our own condition, or some accordance with our own tastes. All who experience a healthy state of mind have a

keen relish for happiness; but all are not so free from envy or selfishness as fully to enjoy the happiness of others; and that which falls to our own share is so absorbing in its nature, that we feel little inclination to pour it forth in poetical descriptions, at least while its influence lasts; and when it is over, it can only be alluded to with a certain degree of sadness and regret. It has been justly observed, that it requires a more amiable temper of mind to laugh with those who laugh, than to weep with those who weep; and experience must have taught all who have made the experiment, that it is less difficult to excite interest by detailing our sorrows, than our joys. Our friends weep with us, but for themselves; and perhaps at the bottom of their hearts are not grieved to find that they do not suffer alone. But when we fly to them, full of our own individual hopes and joys, they often unconsciously throw some damp upon our ecstatic emotions, or coldly turn away, deeming us selfish and inconsiderate to have wholly forgotten their situation in the enjoyment of our own.

Lord Byron, the most melancholy of all our poets, found a home in every heart. The lovelorn maiden fed upon his pages, well pleased to

read expressions which described a passion hopeless and irremediable as her own; the disappointed and the dissolute discovered there the language of a sympathy, which they sought in vain of the giddy world around them; but above all, the misanthrope curled his contemptuous lip, and gloried in having found a high and titled bard who scorned mankind as he did. It would be difficult to point out the productions of any light and joyous poet, which have been equally popular, and equally penetrating to the soul of the reader. Some there are which have been great favourites with the public; but such for the most part have been recommended by the force of their satire, and the poignancy of their jests, rather than for the pure stream of rational happiness flowing through their strains.

It is scarcely necessary to repeat, that poetry, in order to meet with a welcome in the world, must address itself to the feelings of mankind as they are, not as they should be. It may be, and unquestionably has been, the means of raising in the soul a high tone of moral feeling— of purifying what is gross, and subduing what is harsh; but this can only be effected by establishing a chain of connection between our