only accompaniment to the poetry of Milton being the singing of birds and the rustling of trees.

Dr. Smith has two daughters by his first wife, and a son by his second marriage; the latter union was not fortunate; the dissentients had, however, the good taste to separate amicably, and preserve for each other a mutual respect, although the incompatibility of their tempers prevented their living together in a state of domestic happiness.

In person he is short, and somewhat thickly made; but his head is very fine, and has a striking resemblance to Napoleon's. His eyes are gray, and deeply set-his brow massive and lofty. He is passionately fond of music and poetry. He occasionally preaches in Finsbury Chapel. He is approaching his sixtieth year, and from his temperate habits and strong constitution, seems likely to have a long life to benefit mankind by his labors. It is somewhat surprising that there is no reprint of his works in America.

COVENTRY PATMORE. .

One evening at Mr. Moxon's, the publisher, some six years ago, a number of poets and writers were gathered together, canvassing the literary news. The "Poet of Publishers, and the Publisher of the Poets," handed to them some of the proof sheets of a volume which he was about to give to the public.

It was read by one of the company present, and so well read, that it was the opinion of most present, that a great poet was about to rise upon the world. This volume was Coventry Patmore's. It appeared, and, although evidencing many gleams of poetical sentiment and felicitous language, was considered a promise rather than a performance.

Since then we have heard nothing of the young bard; we must therefore consider him by his solitary volume of one hundred and fifty pages.

The longest poems are those entitled, The River, Julien, The Woodman's Daughter, and Sir Hubert; the latter taken from Boccaccio.

The first poem commences with so fine a stanza that it adds to the disappointment of the reader as he progresses.

"It is a venerable place,

An old ancestral ground,

So wide, the rainbow wholly stands

Within its lordly bound,

And all about that large expanse,

A river runneth round."

The third and fourth lines are very bold and expressive.

"Upon a rise, where single oaks

And clumps of beeches tall,

Drip pleasantly their shade beneath,

Half hidden 'midst them all,

Resteth in quiet dignity

An ancient manor hall.

Around its many gable ends

The swallows wheel their flight,

Its huge fantastic weather vanes
Look happy in the light.

Its warm face through the foliage gleams,

A comfortable sight.

The ivied turrets seem to love

The murmer of the bees

And though this manor hall hath seen

The snow of centuries,

How freshly still it stands amid

Its wealth of swelling trees.

Look where the merry butterflies
Float beside yonder tower:
There amid starry jessamine,

And clasping passion flower,
The lady of this peaceful place

Is seated in her bower.

The lady loves the pale Witchaire,
Who loves too much to sue,
He came this morning hurriedly,
Then out her young blood flew,
But he talked of common things, and so

Her eyes are steeped in dew!"

The lady after a time promises to wed another, under the impression that Witchaire (what a name!) does not love her. The

marriage takes place! while the guest are toasting the bride and bridegroom.

"In the silent park a fignre stands
That's darker than the night-Witchaire,
Leaning against an aged tree,

By thunder stricken bare!—

He mindeth neither warmth nor cold,
Nor marketh he the dull moonshine,
And yet he crieth, Chill, oh Chill,
Is this lonely heart of mine,
And yet he crieth "Misery,"
Cold is the dull moonshine.

The moonshine shineth in his eye,
From which no tear doth fall;
Full of vacuity as death

Its slaty, parched ball

Fixedly, though expressionless

Gleams on the distant hall!

Thence tinged by colossal fingers quaint
Of nun and saint devout,
Broad bars of red and purple light

Stand in the mist without,

Mournfully through the muffled air,

Cometh the laughter shout."

It is amusing to remark in this the confused jumble of Tennyson, Coleridge and Keats!

"His forehead cleareth suddenly!

Some thought brings pleasant balm,
He straighteneth up, and now he stands
Great as any palm.

Hath he some soothing plan of life?

No-for he looks too calm!"

The two last lines are well thrown out to indicate the difference

between the repose of hope and the calm of despair

"He turneth from the bridal hall;
His bare breast scarcely heaves,
He paceth towards the gloomy woods,
Through which he breaks and cleaves.
His measured footfall dies away

Upon the withered leaves."

Then follows six stanzas of sickly description of the moon and stars-we give one stanza to justify our remark:

"The weak stars swoon: the jagged moon

Is lost in the cloudy air;

No thought of light! save where the wave

Sporteth a fitful glare.

The world in breathless impotence

Seems choking with nightmare."

It is a perilous thing for a young poet to mimic Coleridge: let us show the reader the passage, which, from the force of contrast, seems to have suggested the "swooning stars," &c.

"Amid the jagged shadows

Of many leafless boughs,
Kneeling in the moonlight,

To make her gentle vows."

Christabel.

To return to Mr. Patmore. He says again, in the next stanza,

"The turmoils o'er-the waves once more
Resume their silent swell."

It is Witchaire and not the faithless lady who has tried the Water Cure" for sorrow.