I PERCEIVED, in several of these pieces, a considerable play of imagination, and something approaching to the elevation of poetry; and often said to his mother, 'There is here and there something like a poet in our dear boy.' Yet I more frequently said, 'William, you will make a very good metaphysician, perhaps, a good mathematician; but never a poet. How can you become one? for neither father nor mother have a particle of imagination to give you.' This, I conceive, determined him to try. He did not write, I believe, "bccause the numbers came;" but because he wished to see what he could do. This was no unusual thing with him. Feeling, I suppose, the strength of his powers, he always attempted what was represented to be, or what was in reality, the most difficult of its kind.

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In April, 1817, while I was in London, his mother, to my great surprise, sent me a few verses written by him. He happened to see the plays of Crebillon at a shop in the town, and begged his mother to purchase them for

him. On the following Friday, intent as usual, upon his new volumes, he said, "Let me write a translation of the Idomeneus.”

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"By all means." But shall I give you an elegant translation ?”She smiling, said, “ As elegant as you please." In two or three hours, he brought her ninety lines, from which she sent me the following extract :

Back to the shores of Crete, I haste, I fly,
Nor think of danger, though 'twas now so nigh.
I will not tell thee all the tale obscene,
The direful vengeance of the Paphian queen.
Her hatred, strengthen'd by the loss of Troy,
Still strives unwearied till it shall destroy.
Nor does her arm alone the vengeance sway,
But all the gods are seen, in proud array,
Combined to blast my peace, my hope, my all,
Until beneath almighty power I fall.

Old Crete appear'd, and all my wishes flew
Towards Cidonia, which was now in view ;
When sudden o'er the heavens a dark'ning cloud
Obscured their brightness with its sable shroud:
The rattling hailstorm rush'd along the sea,
A flaming ocean in the sky we see ;

The gaping waves a thousand dangers show,
Dread as the gates of everlasting wo

The north wind groans not, but it roars, it flies, And rends the sea, and shakes the burning skies : Above, around, below, 'tis all the same,

One universal sheet of hillowy flame.

For several successive weeks, he continued and completed that translation; and never wrote, till he went to College, another prose essay. Some time before this, I had picked up in his study a scrap of paper on which some rhymes were rather illegibly written. I asked him what it was, without dreaming that it was a production of his he looked at it, took it out of my hand, said, it was not worth reading, and put it into the fire. When I returned from London, I found accidentally lying upon his desk a similar piece; and, after decyphering his almost hieroglyphical writing, made out a spirited address to a noble poet, whose very name,-connected with all that is transcendant in talent, and base in morals,produces a strange and painful mixture of admiration, pity, horror, and indignation. Oh!

"What is thy poetic fame?
"What is thy melodious lyre?"

Passing over this address, I will here offer a few other specimens of poetry, written when he was between fourteen and fifteen :—

ON THE SETTING SUN. (July, 1817.)

1.

OH! have ye ever seen the orb of light,
When rolling clouds obscure his evening ray—
No longer dazzling your astonish'd sight,
But softly sinking in the western wave,

Which proudly swells to meet the Lord of Day,
And seeks the flaming chariot wheels to lave?

2.

:

Proudly he sets, and gilds the ocean's breast,
Possess'd of beauty's mildest, softest charms :
The rising ocean greets the royal guest :-
Just as the charger knows his rider bold,
Laughs at the battle and the din of arms,
Proud of the purple and the splendid gold.

3.

That globe of flame is not so dazzling bright,
As when he blaz'd amid the azure sky;
Dispensing universal heat and light,

While every part of nature seem'd to smile,
And ev'ry flow'ret rais'd its head on high,
As if 'twould bless the king of light the while.

4.

What tho' less glorious its evening gleam,
Yet will he not a double splendor pour,
When soft Aurora shall disclose his beam,
Opening the gates of day with roseate hand,
Refulgent with immortal brightness soar,
And roll a flood of brilliance o'er the land?

Soon shall he shine, illuming happier skies; No cloud shall darken then his golden ray: From spicy groves a thousand odours rise, The flow'ret blushing at his warm embrace, The rivers glittering, while the zephyrs play, And jubilee is kept in ev'ry place!

IMITATION OF HORACE,---ODE 4, BOOK 3.
(July, 1817.)

"Descende cælo, et dic age tibia," &c.

1.

DESCEND from heav'n, and tune thy golden lyre,
And nobly teach thy suppliant bard to sing,
Sweetly to chaunt the grand immortal strain,
Or wake the harp's mellifluous tones again;
Inflame the poet's soul with heavenly fire,
Till softly warbles every trembling string,
And the bold chords with thund'ring music ring.