The technicalities introduced are fewer; and are handled with greater force, and made to tell more on the general effect. You marvel, too, at the versatility of the writer, who seems this moment to be looking at the scene with the eye of the melancholy Jacques; the next, with the philosophical aspect of the moralizing Hamlet; the next, with the rage of a misanthropical Timon; and the next, with the bitter sneer of a malignant Iago: and yet, who, amidst all these disguises, leaves on you the impression that he is throughout acting the part, and displaying the spirit, of a demon--a deep current of mockery at man's miseries, and at God's providence, running under all his moods and imitations. We read it once, when recovering from an illness, and shall never forget the withering horror, and the shock of disgust and loathing, which it gave to our weakened nerves. Since Falconer's time, besides Byron, Scott, in the Pirate, and Cooper, there has not, as we hinted, been much of the poetical extracted from the sea. The subject suggested in Boswell's Johnson, by General Oglethorpe, as a noble theme for a poem--namely, "The Mediterranean," is still unsung, at least by any competent bard. Mrs Hemans has one sweet strain on the "Treasures of the Deep." Allan Cunningham's "Wet Sheet and Flowing Sea," and Barry Cornwall's "The Sea, the Sea," are in everybody's mouth. We remember a young student at Glasgow College, long since dead--George Gray by name--a thin lame lad, with dark mild eyes, and a fine spiritual expression on his pale face, handing in to Professor Milne of the Moral Philosophy class, some lines which he read to his class, and by which they, as well as the old, arid, although profound and ingenious philosopher, were perfectly electrified. We shall quote all we remember of them, and it will be thought much, when we state that twenty-five years have elapsed since we read them. They began-- "The storm is up; the anchor spring, And man the sails, my merry men; I must not lose the carolling Of ocean in a hurricane; My soul mates with the mountain storm, The cooing gale disdains. Bring Ocean in his wildest form, All booming thunder-strains; I'll bid him welcome, clap his mane; I'll dip my temples in his yeast, And hug his breakers to my breast; And bid them hail! all hail, I cry, My younger brethren hail! The sea shall be my cemetery Unto eternity. How glorious 'tis to have the wave For ever dashing o'er thee;-- Besides that dull and lonesome grave, Where worms and earth devour thee. My messmates, when ye drink my dirge, Go, fill the cup from ocean's surge; And when ye drain the beverage up, Remember Neptune in the cup. For he has been my _brawling host_, Since first I roam'd from coast to coast; And he my _brawling_ host shall be-- I love his ocean courtesy-- His _boisterous_ hospitality."