When young, I loved, at that delicious age Age comes at length, and livelier joys depart, THE LIBERAL. ROUSSEAU'S RETREAT. Moore's damning sin, according to the critics, is levity; but surely if he were even cursed or blessed with greater frailties and weaknesses than other men, the following lines should be more than a sufficient atonement for all his transgressions. We have no hesitation to say, that the sentiments are conceived with a delicacy of feeling and a chastity of imagination, and that the terms of the language in which they are expressed, are selected with a nicety and accuracy of discrimination, which not only places the poet beyond the vulgar bounds of the critic, but to the beauties, of which no critic can do adequate justice. There is a beauty in sentiment and fine feeling, which can neither be analysed nor explained, while the faults of writers lie always on the surface, and consequently can be laid hold on, and held up to public derision. Deformity is always a protuberance which lies on the exterior of bodies, but beauty is a gem which retires from the public gaze, and modestly conceals itself from the stupid stare of those who can neither discriminate its perceptions, nor become sensible of its charms. No wonder, then, that critics should eternally dwell on the faults of writers, and be eternally blind to their re deeming beauties, because the former are gross and palpable, the latter visible only to the eye of genius. The Edinburgh Review professed, at its commencement, to review only works of merit; and yet who could imagine from its system of reviewing, that a work of merit ever fell into the hands of its conductor?.-ED. "I may be cold-may want that glow Of high romance, which bards should know, In treading where the great have dwelt- I fear, I feel, I have it not, The charms of this delightful spot-- Tranquil and tame as they were once Of man disturbed their orisons! Through weeping willows like the snatches Of far off scenes of light, which hope Ev'n through the shade of sadness catches!- All this, which could I once but lose With filth of fens o'er which they play- Twixt quiet mirth and wise employ- But for those hateful memories near, Those sordid truths, that cross the track Of each sweet thought, and drive them back Full into all the mire and strife, And vanities of that man's life, Who more than all that e'er have glow'd, With fancy's flame (and it was his, If ever given to mortal) show'd What an imposter genius is How, with that strong, mimetic art, O'er the dark path, by mortals trod, As crawls along the sullying sod— From its false lip, what plans to bless, From colouring up such scenes of love And beauty, as make young hearts sigh, And dream, and think through heaven they rove, They who can thus describe and move, The very workers of these charms, Nor seek, nor ask a heaven above, Some Mamau's or Theresa's arms! As ever Lord or Patron made, Like stunted brushwood, in his shade! Out on the craft!-I'd rather be One of those hinds that round me tread, With just enough of sense to see The noon-day sun that's o'er my head, THOS. MOORE. THE ENCHANTED FLUTE, With other Poems, and Fables from La Fontaine. By E. P. Wolferstan. A CRITIC, commenting on the following beautiful lines, professes to admire the image conveyed by The play Of moonlight on the wave. We should admire it also if we did not know it to be a copy of a still more beautiful image. How sweet the moonbeam sleeps on yonder bank. The imitation is so obvious that we could not profess to admire it without becoming imitators ourselves, for this image has been admired over and over by the critics. At the same time, we do not find fault with its introduction here in a new dress, and we consider the entire passage exceedingly tender and poetic. ED. Beats there a heart no care is near No sorrow dare invade ? Glows there a cheek where never tear |