mistaken if Mr. Burns be not a genuine
poet, skilled, as becomes a scholar and a student of classic lore, in
giving to his verse the true artistic form, but not the less born to
inherit the 'vision and the faculty' which cannot be acquired. Most
men of great talent have their poetic age: it is very much
restricted, however, to the first five years of full bodily
development, also particularly then a sterner and more prosaic mood
follows. But recollections of the time survive; and it is mainly
through the medium of these recollections that in the colder periods
the feelings and visions of the poets continue to be appreciated and
felt. It was said of Thomson the poet by Samuel Johnson, that he could
not look at two candles burning other than poetically. The phrase was
employed in conversation by _old_ Johnson; but it must have been the
experience of _young_ Johnson, derived from a time long gone by, that
suggested it. It is characteristic of the poetic age, that objects
which in later life become commonplace in the mind, are then
surrounded as if by a halo of poetic feeling. The candles were, no
doubt, an extreme illustration; but there is scarce any object in
nature, and there are very few in art, especially if etherealized by
the adjuncts of antiquity or association, that are not capable of
being thus, as it were, embathed in sentiment. With the true poet, the
ability of investing every object with a poetic atmosphere remains
undiminished throughout life; and we find it strikingly manifested in
the volume before us. In almost every line in some of the pieces we
find a distinct bit of picture steeped in poetic feeling. The
following piece, peculiarly appropriate to the present time, we adduce
as an illustration of our meaning:--

DISCOVERY OF THE NORTH-WEST PASSAGE.

'Strait of Ill Hope! thy frozen lips at last
Unclose, to teach our seamen how to sift
A passage where blue icebergs clash and drift,
And the shore loosely rattles in the blast.
We hold the secret thou hast clench'd so fast
For ages,--our best blood has earned the gift.--
Blood spilt, or hoarded up in patient thrift,
Through sunless months in ceaseless peril passed.
But what of daring Franklin? who may know
The pangs that wrung that heart so proud and brave,
In secret wrestling with its deadly woe,
And no kind voice to reach him o'er the wave?
Now he sleeps fast bene