above the low condition of mortality, and which, not only on this account, but on account of its novelty, we are disposed to admire. But Goldsmith describes nothing but what strikes us at once; for even when he describes feelings which, perhaps, we never felt before, we are so constituted by nature, that the moment they are described, they appear feelings with which we are long and intimately conversant. The heart recognizes at once, as something belonging to itself, whatever is congenial to it, whatever it would feel if placed in the same situation with him by whom it is felt. Hence it is, that Goldsmith is a favourite with all men, while Gray is only admired by the learned few, because it is the business of a scholar to know and be able to talk of whatever is considered admirable, and of a superior order. For the same reason, Milton is read only by scholars, while Homer pleases the bulk of mankind. We doubt not, therefore, if Mr. Butler drew his information from a more general acquaintance with society, and rested not his opinion.on the learned by profession, he would find that Goldsmith is more generally known, and more generally quoted, than Gray, though we doubt not that those who become, like Gray himself, more fastidious than natural in subjects of literature, study only what they consider placed above the ordinary grasp of mankind. These observations have been suggested by the three following Poems. As the offspring of imagination, we think they possess considerable merit, but, like all other productions of mere imagination, they are more calculated to create our admiration than to secure our esteem, or gain upon our sympathies. We make the observations, however, not to find fault with them, but to draw a distinction between works of feeling and those of imagination. We must add, at the same time, that the latter should always be short, for the imagination will not endure to be exercised long, unless occasionally relieved by those tender and affecting scenes which appeal only to the heart, and on which, consequently, we could dwell for ever. However highly we admire, or profess to admire Milton, we soon tire of reading him, but we can give our days and nights to works of feeling and sensibility. The structure and cadence of the versification in the MIDNIGHT is an evident imitation of the Allegro and Penseroso; but there is an obscurity in the diction, which can never impart the pleasure arising from the perspicuity and distinct individuality of the images with which Milton has peopled the creations of his joyous and melancholy feelings. We do not mean to say there is any real obscurity in the Midnight; we only mean to say that the sense does not strike us as fast as we read, the images being mingled rather confusedly with each other.-ED. MIDNIGHT, Written on the sea-shore, in Norfolk, near a Lighthouse. By the Rev. GEORGE CROLY, A. M. It is the witching hour! The Night And the starry troops are seen, Now the hamlot sounds are o'er, Silent leaves the sea-beach wide; Pondering with no unpleased fear, As if a spirit bore them by : Drowsy sheep-bells, and the chime, Singing, his slow team to cheer; Then afar the beam is thrown, Sail and shroud, and pennant slight; Now around me, and beneath, On his Mantuan lilies flung: And see in his enchanted glass, Tomb'd in bold, bewilder'd rhyme, Oracles of elder time! How the mighty Sigel tamed The Spirit, while he raved and flamed; Oft with curious vision mazed, Kneeling saints, and prelates old, Thus bewitch'd the moments sweep, Till the honey-pinion'd sleep, |