These Sonnets and his early Poems, although almost lost sight of in the blaze of his after fame, manifest the germs of a poetical genius which belongs to Shakspeare alone. They may be compared for strength and harmony of thought, although, indeed, we rarely hear of them, with the very best efforts of the works of those poets whose precocity has astounded the world.

Chatterton, it is true, was younger than Shakspeare, and truly a wonderful boy. But there's nothing of that sterling bullion, in his imitations of Rowley, which is possessed by these earlier efforts of Shakspeare.

Pope may be another supposed competitor for early renown; but there is a deficiency in thought, in his famous Essay upon criticism, which totally disqualifies it for any comparison with Shakspeare. I shall not pause, therefore, to examine into the relative merits of our author, and those writers to whom I have adverted, but will test him, even at this period of life, with Virgil the Prince of Roman poets, when in his maturity. And that too in reference to a matter of description, which did not constitute, what may be considered, the forte of Shakspeare. Take, for instance, the description of the horse: in which certainly both of them are sur

passed, by this most sublime passage from the Book of Job, which is indeed worthy of Divine inspiration, and distances all human effort:

Hast thou given the horse strength?

Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?

Canst thou make him afraid as a grass-hopper?

The glory of his nostrils is terrible.

He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength.

He goeth on to meet the armed men.

He mocketh at fear, and is not affrigted, neither turneth he back from the sword.

The quiver rattleth against him,

The glittering spear and the shield.

He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage, neither believeth he that it is the sound of the trumpet.

He saith among the trumpets ha-ha, and he smelleth the battle afar off. The thunder of the captains, and the shouting.

Virgil

Upright he walks, on pasterns firm and straight;

His motions easy; prancing in his gait ;

The first to lead the way to tempt the flood,

To pass the bridge unknown, nor fear the trembling wood.
Dauntless at empty noises; lofty necked;

Sharp headed, barrel-belly'd, broadly backed;
Brawny his chest, and deep; his color gray;
For beauty, dappled, or the brightest bay :
Faint white and dun, will scarce the rearing pay.

The fiery courser, when he hears from far
The sprightly trumpets, and the shouts of war,
Pricks up his ears; and, trembling with delight,
Shifts place, and paws, and hopes the promis'd fight.
On his right shoulder his thick mane reclin'd,
Ruffles at speed, and dances in the wind.
His horny hoofs are jetty black and round;

His chine is double. Startling, with a bound,
He turns the turf, and shakes the solid ground.
Fire from his eyes, clouds from his nostrils flow;
He bears his rider headlong on the foe.

Shakspeare

Imperiously he leaps-he neighs-he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The heaving earth with his hard hoofs he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder.
His ears up prick'd; his braided hanging mane
Upon his compass'd crest, now stands on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapors doth he send.
Sometimes he trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majesty and modest pride;
Anon, he rears upright, curvettes and leaps,
As who should say lo! thus my strength is tried.
Look when a painter would surpass the life,
In limning out a well proportioned steed,
His art with nature's workmanship at strife,
As if the dead, the living should exceed.
So did this horse excel a common one,
In shape, in courage, color, pace and bone;
Round hoofed, short jointed, fetlock shag and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs, and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide;
Look, what a horse should have, he did not lack,
Save a proud rider, on so proud a back.

It will be observed, although certainly this description has no merit, comparable to that in Job, it is by no means inferior to that of the Roman Poet. And when it is remembered that Shakspeare, at the time of writing Venus and Adonis, was little more than twenty years of age, that it

was the first of his productions, and no doubt written under the coercion of poverty, it is not easy to conceive a more precocious poetical talent than it exhibits. Still its great treasure, as is the case in all his works, is in its rich vein of thought. There are no expletives about it. Every word seems to tend directly to its object; and it is much to be doubted whether the same powerful description could, in the same number of words, be furnished in prose, even by the most sententious and powerful of the prose writers. Innumerable instances of this characteristic of Shakspeare, even in early life, could be supplied from his works. I shall content myself with one written at about the same period of time, and with which, perhaps, most of you are familiar, upon the subject of beauty. Somewhat quaint to be sure, but not the less striking on that

account,

"Beauty is but a vain, a fleeting good,
A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly,
A flower that dies when almost in the bud,
A brittle glass that breaketh presently.
A fleeting good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.
As goods when lost we know are seldom found,
As faded gloss no rubbing can excite,

As flowers when dead are trampled on the ground,

As broken glass no cement can unite,

So Beauty, blemished once, is ever lost,

In spite of physic, painting, pains, and cost.

I think it is to be gathered from all Shakspeare's works, and from every thing that we can learn in relation to him, that he was blesed with a most even and amiable temperament. He held the world but as the world. The whole course of his sentiments is of the nobler order. Nothing of envy, vindictiveness, revenge, avarice, seems to have belonged to him. He describes them all, but it is obvious that that description is the result of observation alone. It is also remarkable, that with afflictions enough to have crushed any ordinary man, he shows no irratibility, no peevishness, no despondency. And it is still more remarkable, that when, by his unassisted efforts, he had elevated himself into moderate competency, not to say affluence, he was the same man; having never been obsequious in his adversity, never became arrogant from prosperity.

I have been anxious to disabuse the minds of a portion of the public, and a most respectable portion too, in regard to the character and works of Shakspeare. From the age in which he lived, which was undoubtedly an age of great licentiousness, as well as learning, it is not to be denied that he has occasionally adopted a freedom of expression, which, in the course of improved morality, might be deemed reprehensible. But these blemishes are, like the spots upon the Sun, lost in his general splendor.