g the air with sweet harmonies, which are
unheard save by the inspired ear of the poet.

We have now, we think, sufficiently answered the question, why so many who
read descriptive poetry with pleasure, look with indifference upon what is
beautiful or sublime in nature. The poet is to them like one who gives
sight to the blind. The landscape which formerly lay before their eyes
unregarded, almost unseen, is now 'beautiful exceedingly.' Nature has not
changed; they themselves have not changed; yet there _is_ a change. There
is a glory unseen before, cast over the earth. It is, as it were,
transfigured before them, and made radiant with celestial light. This is
the poet's work. With a keener perception of the beautiful and sublime
than other men; with a greater facility of association, and with the power
to give to language the hue and intensity of his own feelings, he clothes
lifeless nature with the attributes of humanity, making it instinct with
human sentiment and passion. Like Burns, he pours forth his lament over
the mountain-daisy cut down in its bloom, in a few simple words that find
a response in the hearts of all men; and henceforth it is embalmed in our
memories, and shall be as immortal as the star that shines in the far
depths of the heavens. Like Wordsworth, he wanders upon the banks of his
native lakes, and mingles his song with the noise of their waters, until
the faintest whisper of the rippling waves seems but the echo of his
voice. Wherever he goes fruits, flowers, and herbage spring up in his
footsteps. A divine Presence goes with him; Nature speaks to him with her
thousand voices, and he hears, and answers, making sweet music in the joy
of his heart. Nothing is so inconsiderable as to be without the pale of
his sympathy; nothing too humble to stir the fountains of love in his
breast. The solitary flower that blossoms by the way-side, the rivulet far
away amid the hills, is but the starting point of that wondrous chain of
thick-coming fancies, that fill his eyes with light, and his ear with
harmony; as if multitudes of angels were hovering around, and he heard on
every side the rustling of their wings.

Such are the gifts of the poet. They are God's gifts, and are indeed
'wonderful in our eyes.'

VICISSITUDES.

Hast thou not been where wild winds, freshly blowing,
Brought odorous gladness on each passing gale;
Hast thou not been where the pure streamlet flowing,
In each soft mur