SWAINS POEMS.

MR. SWAIN is an eloquent writer : whether he is a poet or not, may, perhaps, not be so decidedly said. He possesses considerable facility of versification, a gentle train of thought, has pleasing images at command, and is altogether amiable, if not original. His poem called The Mind, is impassioned, or intended, to be so; and not a little resembles the manner and tone of AKENSIDE in his Pleasures of Imagination. It is a rapturous expression of the 'beauty of the human intellect, and the wonderfulness of its works. Painting naturally comes in for its share of praise ; and it is thus prettily that the author speaks of portrait-painting- 'Tis not alone the poesy of form—

The melody of aspect—the fine hue Of lips half blushing, odorous and warm, Of eyes like heaven's own paradise of blue ; Nor all the graces that encharm the view, And render beauty still more beautiful; But the resemblances that can renew Past youth, past hopes, past loves, no shade may dull; Affections, years may dim—but never quite annul !

Wresting from death and darkness, undecayed, The kindred lineaments we honoured here • The breast on which our infant brow had laid,

The lips that kissed away our first brief tear—

The all we lost, ere yet the funeral bier

Conveyed to our young souls how great a blow

Laid desolate the homes we loved so dear ;- Oh, heart !—too early wert thou doomed to know The grave that held thy sire, held all thy hopes below !

Then, all !—for ever sacred be the art

Which gave me all the grave had left of mine! I-gaze upon this portrait till my heart Remembers every touch and every line; And almost do I deem the gift divine, Direct fromheaven, and not from human skill :

Instinct with love, those noble features shine— The eyes some new expression seems to fill— And half I know thee dead, half hope thee living still !

• The Minor -or Miscellaneous Poems occupy a principal part of the volume; and ring the changes on the ordinary commonplaces of verse agreeably enough. In the poem on "First Love," there is something more than this: there is a tasteful ingenuity— Love 2—I will tell thee what it is to love! It is to build with human thoughts a shrine, Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove; Vi7here Time seems young, and Life a thing divine. All tastes, all pleasures, all desires cOmbine To consecrate this sanctuary of brisai. Above—the stars in shroudless beauty shine; Around—the streams their flowery margins kiss ; And if there's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this

Yes, this is Love,—the steadfast and the true The immortal glory which kith never set— The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew- " Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet! Oh! who but can meal the eve they met

To breathe, in some green walk, their first young vow, While summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet, And winds sighed soft around the mountain's brow,— And all was rapture then—which is but memory now !

Honour may wreath the victor's brow with bays,

And Glory pour her treasures at his feet— The Statesman win his country's honest praise—

Fortune and Commerce in our cities meet: But when—ah ! when were earth's possessions sweet- Unblest with one fond friend those gifts to share?

The lowliest peasant, in his calm retreat, Finds more of happiness, and less of care,

Than hearts unwarmed by LOVE 'mid palace halls must bear !