possess his own existence ?" No. Does the man who racks his brain for expedients to pass away the time and plunges into the giddy whirlpool of dissipation for no other reason than to free himself from the toil of counting the moments as they pass, possess his? Or does the girl who dreams away the fairest portion of her days amidst the unsubstantial scenes which have been presented to her mind by the trash she has obtained at a penny per week, from some circulating library, possess hers? This is not the possession of existence. It is when the man has learned what a power he has within him; when he is conscious of his dignity as a being endowed with mind; when he devotes the vast energies of that mind to purposes worthy of its nature; and when every moment is made to tell upon his character, that he may be said to possess his existence. It then becomes, in truth, his own. He enjoys it; ay, (though the expression may be somewhat of a sordid character), he trades with it. He employs one moment for increasing the value of the next, and thus his mental wealth is ever on the increase. Thus did our youthful herdsman possess his existence. He possessed it in communion with the God of nature through the medium of His glorious works.

"O then how beautiful, how bright appeared
The written promise! Early had he learned
To reverence the volume that displays
The mystery, the life which cannot die;
But in the mountains did he feel his faith."

Away with the mistaken piety which would unduly depreciate natural religion! The transcendant preciousness of the written volume is not enhanced by such depreciation. The sceptical philosopher may fancy, in the pride of his intellect, that he can find in the book of nature facts which contradict the doctrines of Revelation; but the enlightened Christian who has attentively studied both, sees nothing but the most perfect harmony. He finds that the one throws light upon the other; that he can catch more of the spirit of nature when his mind is embued with the principles of Revelation, and that he can more fully comprehend the fullness and the richness of the doctrines which are to be found in the page of Inspiration, when he has learned to track the footsteps of the Godhead in the stupendousness of nature, and when he has studied the attributes of Deity in the glories of creation. Who then can wonder that the youth of whom the poet speaks should have learned, amid the mountains of his native land, "to feel his faith," for

"All things, responsive to the writing, there
Breathed immortality, revolving life,

And greatness still revolving; infinite;
There littleness was not; the least of things
Seemed infinite; and there his spirit shaped
Her prospects, nor did he believe,—he saw.'

Who does not recognize here the philosopher as well as the poet? None but an individual who had often mused in solitude

"On man, on nature, and on human life;"

whose powers of mind had been matured by a long course of mental discipline of the noblest character, who had been accustomed to look within upon the workings of his own mind, and had himself communed with nature, till he had been "taught to feel intensely," could have penned such a passage as this. As we read it we feel confident that the poet is representing his own experience, and we refer to Words. worth himself, the exclamation which he uttered with regard to the youth

"What wonder if his being thus became
Sublime and comprehensive!"

It could not be otherwise, for who that has looked abroad through the universe of God and has studied the beautiful adaptation of every individual part to the great and infinite whole, has not perceived, has not felt

"How exquisitely the individual mind
(And the progressive power perhaps no less
Of the whole species) to the external world
Is fitted: and how exquisitely, too—
Theme this but little heard of among men-
The external world is fitted to the mind."

A youth endowed with such powers and feelings could not be proud, for though

"Low desires,

Low thoughts had there no place;"

by reason of the greatness which surrounded him,

"Yet was his heart

Lowly; for he was meek in gratitude,

Oft as he called those ectasies to mind,

And whence they flowed; and from them he acquired
Wisdom, which works thro' patience; thence he learned

In oft-recurring hours of sober thought

To look on Nature with a humble heart,

Self-questioned where it did not understand,
And with a superstitious eye of love."

At the commencement of our paper we spoke of our affection for Wordsworth, and is he not indeed a worthy object? Well do we remember that when a boy at school we were wont to take Wordsworth in our hand, and in some solitary spot, read with thirsty eagerness his lofty poetry: so that we may say of him, as he has so beautiful sung of his venerable " Wanderer,"

66

Many a time,

On holidays, we rambled through the woods:

We sate-we walked; he pleased me with report
Of things which he had seen; and often touched
Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind
Turned inward."

With such feelings in boyhood,

"How precious when in riper days I learned
To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice
In the plain presence of his dignity."

But we must have done. We had almost forgotten the reader's patience, and the possibility of defeating our object, by the length of the remarks penned to secure it. We cannot, however, close without making another application of what Wordsworth has written, to himself. We have already spoken of him as a philosopher as well as a poet, and no one who reads "The Excursion" can fail to mark the acuteness of mind and the niceness of observation which he has brought to bear upon his work. He has studied nature, and has studied man, with the eye and the mind of a philosopher. That he has done it with success none, we believe, will deny, and hence we may apply to him his own beautiful words:

"Happy is he who lives to understand,
Not human nature only, but explores
All natures, to the end that he may find
The law that governs each; and where begins
The union, the partition where, that makes
Kind and degree, among all visible Beings;
The constitutions, powers, and faculties,
Which they inherit, cannot step beyond,
And cannot fall beneath; that do assign
To every class its station and its office,

Through all the mighty commonwealth of things;
Up from the creeping plant to sovereign Man.
Such converse, if directed by a meek,

Sincere, and humble spirit, teaches love:
For knowledge is delight; and such delight
Breeds love: yet, suited as it rather is
To thought and to the climbing intellect,
It teaches less to love than to adore;
If that be not indeed the highest love!"

Yes! adoration is the highest kind of love. Beholding excellencies in a creature, who, though beautiful and virtuous, is at best imperfect, we love; but when we raise our minds in contemplation to the unbounded perfections of that stupendous Being who made and who sustains the universe, but to whom, in all his majesty, we are permitted to approach with the freedom of children to a kind parent, we adore. In attempting to grasp Infinity, we find our minds overpowered. We feel that there is a something which the strongest intellect cannot grasp. We find ourselves compelled to obtain our knowledge "by degrees and steps :" but at every point we become increasingly sensible of the presence of Infinity, and though we are permitted to behold

"The faint reflections only of His face-
Are yet exalted, and in soul adored."

And now we close the book.

We have taken but a peep at a garden filled with the choicest flowers. We have hastily plucked a rose whose fragrance may perchance delight in this wintry season. Let those who wish for further gratification, and who have not done so, enter these fruitful precincts, and we promise them a treat of the choicest kind.

Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope,
And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith;

Of blessed consolations in distress;

Of moral strength, and intellectual Power;
Of joy in widest commonalty spread;

Of the individual Mind that keeps her own
Inviolate retirement, subject there

To Conscience only, and the law supreme
Of that Intelligence which governs all—

He has sung in numbers exquisitely melodious. Read, admire, and love!

GLASGOW :—Printed by george richardson, 35, miller street.

I, WHO have been Vindex, must here be Censor; and, if I have enjoyed the approbation of any reader in my former attempts, I may expect additional sympathy in this, for there are not a few whom a cowardice of nature predisposes to acquiesce in the condemnation of any character that has once been impugned.-But, leaving such readers to sympathy or opposition as the tendency of constitution may incline them, I anticipate with true satisfaction the concurrence of philanthropic hearts in my estimate of a man who had too much vanity to think well of the rest of his species, and too little heart to love them ;-who was by no means indifferent to the applause of the world, but who never deserved, and will never be honoured with its love.

In commencing my review of Byron, I do not hesitate to say that I have left Burns, as a poetical genius, above. The inequality of his Lordship's flights does a little perplex one in deciding this point; but the effort with which he soars is sufficient proof that the natural strength of his wing should not be measured by its extraordinary exertions. The most of his writings are inferior to those of the untitled bard; and, although a few of the far-famed pieces for which he will be longest remembered seem to be equal in poetical excellence to the best productions of the other, they are still deficient in that fervour which surprises the reader of Burns into an ecstasy of admiration, and which is not only poetical in its nature but an evidence of the highest poetry in the heart from which it is breathed.