impression of order and design in na-design, as you call it, does not seem ture which the mind, I believe, is ori- quite infallible. I wish there were "ginally prepared to receive, and which some force in the argument a priori, it cannot continue long in existence or that it were more level to my unwithout receiving, is that very prin- derstanding ciple which we are in search, and There is, in fact, no great need for from which all the different reason- it, (replied Philo.) Slight indicaings of experience and analogy flow tions of design may not produce perwith the most natural precision. How fect assurance; but where they are soon do we perceive that the regular accumulated without all bounds or rising of the sun is a part of the plan measure, I see not that there can be of nature and with what firm de- room for a doubt. I have said, that pendance and assurance do we look even the atoms of Epicurus would for the daily appearance of that glo- suggest to the mind some notion of rious luminary! In like manner, intentions how then can we shesitate whatever we see constantly happen, in the conclusion, where the object of and of which, too, we see the uses, our contemplation is a world? the purposes, , the intention, that we expect will happen again. It is like looking at a clock. As it has shown the hours to-day, we reason that the artist intended it should show the hours to-morrow. When we have not an opportunity of knowing facts, we then form probable conjectures. In different parts of the same plan, probably the designer carries through something of the same mind. This is reasoning from Analogy, which may The fact is, Pamphilus, that the immensity of the object somewhat embarrasses us. I cannot hesitate a moment in the belief that you are possessed of intelligence, because there is here a rapid sympathy between us, and I form a quick conception of the similarity between your mind and my own. But the Mind which I read in nature surpasses all my thoughts and apprehensions, and while I can have no doubt of be more or less strong, according to lost in admirat its existence, Tam circumstances. Reasoning from known facts, again, we call reasoning from Experience. But as I have tired you, Cleanthes, with these speculations, I will only remark farther, that the proof of the existence of God must rest on a much firmer basis, than on any analogical argument from a similarity in the works of nature to the works of man, if all arguments from analogy rest on the previous supposition of a plan or design in nature, which is, in fact, presupposing the existence of God. It would be more philosophical to suppose, that our belief of the existence of reason and intelligence in other men is derived from an analogical argument; because ourselves and others are parts, and similar parts, of one plan of nature, and, therefore, there, in fact, does lie an analogy here, although, I doubt not, our perception or knowledge of the exist ence of intelligence in each other is an original perception of the human understanding, I am much gratified, Philo, (said I,) with the lights which you have thrown upon this argument; yet I think there is some degree of certainty still wanting, and your manner of reading and astonishment when I contemplate it. This kind of feeling, perhaps, sometimes re-acts upon our perception of the evidence, and produces a species of confusion and uncertainty. Let us then, Pamphilus, contract the dimensions of this prodigious object. Let us suppose the World to be a magnificent house, and that we have, from the first ano¬ ments of our recollection, been the inmates of a splendid palace. Let us suppose that we have found the rooms sumptuously adorned, clothes provided for us, beds in our apartments, and every useful or elegant article of furniture. At a certain hour of the day a table is introduced by invisible hands, supplied with every costly kind of food. Lamps, suspended from the ceilings, burn with perpetual fire. Every thing is conducted with the same order, as if the master of t house were to appear, and the servants were visibly employed. Is it possible, on this supposition, that we should doubt there was a master of the house, some one who had prepared it for us, and who, unknown to us, superintended it? O Pamphilus, is not the World such a house, and can it be without a Master? (To be continued.) the LAMIA is the poem in which, in Mr Keats's second volume, the greatest fancy is displayed. It is more in the style of the Endymion, and we shall therefore forbear quoting from it, excepting only three lines, which, for the imagination contained in them, and the beauty with which they are executed, have seldom been equalled: the poet is speaking of a palace built by the magic power of Lamia. A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone Supportress of the faery-roof, made moan Throughout, as fearful the whole charm might fade. p. 34. ❝Isabella, or the Pot of Basil," is a story from Boccaccio, and is the same as was given to the public sometime ago by Mr Barry Cornwall, under the title of " A Sicilian Story." We can safely recommend " Isabella" as eminently beautiful. What can be sweeter than this? The days pass sadly, Until sweet Isabella's untouched cheek By every lull to cool her infant's puin. p. 51. h: The progress of the love of Loren zo and Isabella is told in this delightful manner. With every morn their love grew tenderer, With every eve deeper and tenderer still; He might not in house, field, or garden stir, But her full shape would all his seeing fill; And his continual voice was pleasanter To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill; Her lute-string gave an echo of his name, She spoilt her half-done broidery with the A whole long month of May in this sad plight Made their cheeks paler by the break of The brothers of Isabella discover that their sister loves Lorenzo: they entice him to a forest, and murder and bury him: his ghost appears to Isabella, who seeks the body, and cutting off the head, buries it beneath a pot of Basil, which she waters with her tears. There are some terms in this poem which Mr Keats inflicts upon the brothers of Isabella, which we think in bad taste. He calls them cr money-bags," " ledger-men," &c. which injures, in some respect, this delightful story. Mr K. indeed, himself seems to have some doubts of this, and in the following beautiful stanzas intreats the forgiveness of his master. They are enough, to say the least, to wipe away the sin committed. O eloquent and fam'd Boccaccio ! Of thee we now should ask forgiving What a beautiful picture might not Stothard make from the following exquisite stanza? And as he to the court-yard pass'd along, Or the light whisper of her footstep soft; And as he thus over his passion hung, He heard a laugh full musical aloft; When, looking up, he saw her features bright Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight. p. 61. Isabella, as we have said, buries the head of the lover in the pot of Basil, and weeps over it continually. Rr The "Eve of St Agnes" consists merely of one scene. Porphyro, a young cavalier, is in love with, and beloved by Madeline; he enters her chamber on the eve of St Agnes, when she is dreaming of him under the supposed influence of the Saint. He persuades her to fly with him. We have only room for the following stanzas, As which will speak for themselves sufficiently. A casement high and triple-arch'd there Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued a way; Flown, like a thought, until the morrowday; Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain; Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, though a rose should shut, and be a Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, To wake into a slumberous tenderness; And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept, Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo! how fast she slept. pp. 95-97. Amongst the minor poems we prefer the Ode to the Nightingale." Indeed, we are inclined to prefer it beyond every other poem in the book but let the reader judge. The third and seventh stanzas have a charm for us which we should find it difficult to explain. We have read this ode over and over again, and every time with increased delight. O for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! I O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippo Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry But here there is no light, Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 1 cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what, soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess cach sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. pp. 108-111. As our object is rather to let Mr Keats's verses be seen in justification of themselves, than to insist upon their of another of the minor poems. It is positive beauty, we shall quote part entitled "Robin Hood," whose days, the poet says, are gone away." Gone, the merry morris din; Gone, the song of Gamelyn; Gone, the tough-belted outlaw Idling in the grene shawe;" All are gone away and past! And if Robin should be cast Sudden from his turfed grave, And if Marian should have Once again her forest days, She would weep, and he would craze : He would swear, for all his oaks, Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes, Have rotted on the briny seas; She would weep that her wild bees Sang not to her strange! that honey Can't be got without hard money! And dives amidst the tangles of his hair bood But he, the senseless youth, lies still the while, Tho' now and then a faint-the faintest smile Where is another chaos? where? That Shines forth, as tho' the queen had power word Found way unto Olympus. The description, too, of Hyperion, a vast shade in midst of his own brightness," is very fine; though the preceding part of it, Golden his hair of short Numidian curl, is not like Mr Keats, but like Milton. Upon the whole, we have felt great pleasure from the perusal of Mr Keats's volumes, and we can safely commend them to our readers, as-not faultless books indeed, but as containing, perhaps, as much absolute poetry as the to bless 128 ་་ |