in the retired closet of a diary, and in the sober raiment of prose.  They do not clutch hold of the memory with the drowning pertinacity of Watts; neither have they the interest of his occasional simple, lucky beauty.  Burns, having fortunately been rescued by his humble station from the contaminating society of the “best models” wrote well and naturally from the first.  Had he been unfortunate enough to have had an educated taste, we should have had a series of poems from which, as from his letters, we could sift here and there a kernel from the mass of chaff.  Coleridge’s youthful efforts give no promise whatever of that poetical genius which produced at once the wildest, tenderest, most original and most purely imaginative poems of modern times.  Byron’s “Hours of Idleness” would never find a reader except from an intrepid and indefatigable curiosity.  In Wordsworth’s first preludings there is but a dim foreboding of the creator of an era.  From Southey’s early poems, a safer augury might have been drawn.  They show the patient investigator, the close student of history, and the unwearied explorer of the beauties of predecessors, but they give no assurances of a man who should add aught to stock of household words, or to the rarer and more sacred delights of the fireside or the arbor.  The earliest specimens of Shelley’s poetic mind already, also, give tokens of that ethereal sublimation in which the spirit seems to soar above the regions of words, but leaves its body, the verse, to be entombed, without hope of resurrection, in a mass of them.  Cowley is generally instanced as a wonder of precocity.  But his early insipidities show only a capacity for rhyming and for the metrical arrangement of certain conventional combinations of words, a capacity wholly dependent on a delicate physical organization, and an unhappy memory.  An early poem is only remarkable when it displays an effort of reason, and the rudest verses in which we can trace some conception of the ends of poetry, are worth all the miracles of smooth juvenile versification.  A schoolboy, one would say, might acquire the regular see-saw of Pope merely by an association with the motion of the play-ground tilt.

Mr. Poe’s early productions show that he could see through the verse to the spirit beneath, and that he already had a feeling that all the life and grace of the one must depend on and be modulated by the will of the other.  We call them the most remarkable boyish poems that we have ever read.  We know of none that can compare with them for maturity of purpose, and a nice understanding of the effects of language and metre.  Such pieces are only valuable when they display what we can only express by the contradictory phrase of innate experience.  We copy one of the shorter poems, written when the author was only fourteen.  There is a little dimness in the filling up, but the grace and symmetry of the outline are such as few poets ever attain.  There is a smack of ambrosia about it.