might very probably never have been led to think of pneumatic chemistry, had he not lived in the vicinity of a great brewery; still, however, such men could not have shone dimly, if true genius be correctly defined by Dr. Johnson as "a mind of large general powers accidentally determined to some particular direction." *-So with Davy; his mind was as vigorous as it was original, and no less logical and precise than it was daring and comprehensive; nothing was too mighty for its grasp, nothing too minute for its observation; like the trunk of the elephant, it could tear up the oak of the forest, or gently pluck the acorn from its branch.

That circumstances in early life should have directed such energies to a science, which requires for its advancement all the aids of novel and bold, and yet patient and accurate research, is one of those fortunate events which every unprejudiced mind will view with triumph.

It is surely not difficult to understand how it happened that a mind endowed with the genius and sensibilities of Davy, should have been directed to the study of Chemistry and Mineralogy, when we consider the nature and scenery of the country in which accident had placed him. Many of his friends and associates must have been connected with mining speculations : Shafts," "Cross Courses," and "Lodes," were words familiarised to his ears; and his native love of enquiry could not have long suffered them to remain strangers to his understanding. Nor could he have wandered along the rocky coast, nor have reposed for a moment to contemplate its wild scenery, without being invited to geological enquiry by the genius of the place; for were we to personify the science, where could we find a more appropriate spot for her "local habitation?" "How often when a boy," said Davy to me, on my showing him a drawing of the wild rock scenery of Botallack Mine, “have I wandered about those rocks in search of new minerals, and, when fatigued, sat down upon the turf, and exercised my fancy in anticipations of scientific

renown!"

M. de Bourrienne, in his "Private Memoirs of Napoleon Bonaparte," appears to have justly appreciated the influence of circumstances upon the destinies of great men. In speaking of Buonaparte at the Military College of Brienne, he says, "If the monks, to whom the superintendence of the establishment was confided, had engaged more able mathematical professors, or if we had had any excitement to the study of Chemistry, or Natural Philosophy, I am convinced that Buonaparte would have pursued those sciences with all the genius and spirit of investigation, which he displayed in a career more brilliant, it is true, but far less useful to mankind."

Such scenery, also, in one who possessed a quick sensibility to the sublime forms of Nature, was well calculated to kindle that enthusiasm which is so essential to poetical genius; and we accordingly learn, that he became enamoured of the Muses at a very early age, and evinced his passion by several poetical productions. I am assured by Dr. Batten that, at the age of twelve years, he had finished an epic poem, which he entitled the "Tydidiad,” from its celebrating the adventures of Diomede on his return from the Trojan war. It is much to be regretted that not even a fragment of this poem should have been preserved; but Dr. Batten well remembers that it was characterised by great freedom of invention, vigour of description, and wildness of execution.

At the age of seventeen he became desperately enamoured of a young French lady, at that time resident at Penzance, to whom he addressed numerous sonnets, but these, like the passion that produced them, have long since been extinct.

Several of his minor productions were printed in a work entitled the “Annual Anthology," published in three volumes at Bristol, in 1799; two of which were edited by Southey, and one by James Tobin ;-a work of some curiosity, independent of its merits, as the first attempt in this country to establish an "Annual," a species of literary composition which has lately been made very popular and amusing.

These volumes have now become extremely scarce, for which, and other reasons, I have thought it right to place Davy's productions on record in these memoirs; for although they are marked by the common faults of youthful poets, they still bear the stamp of lofty genius. There is, besides, a vein of philosophical contemplation running through their composition, which may be considered as indicating the future character and pursuit of their author; an ardent aspiration after fame seems, even at this early period, to have been felt in all its force, and is expressed in many striking and beautiful passages.

There is still a higher motive by which I am induced to introduce these specimens into my memoir, that of showing the bias of his genius at this early period, with a view to compare it with that which displayed itself in the “last days of the philosopher." We shall find that the bright and rosy hues of fancy which gilded the morning of his life, and were subdued or chased away by the more resplendent light of maturer age, again glowed forth in the evening of his days, and illumined the setting, as it had the dawning of his genius. His first production bears the date of 1795, and is entitled

THE SONS OF GENIUS.

BRIGHT bursting through the awful veil of night
The lunar beams upon the Ocean play,
The watery billows shine with trembling light,
Where the swift breezes skim along the sea.
The glimmering stars in yon ethereal plain

Grow pale, and fade before the lucid beams,
Save where fair Venus, shining o'er the main
Conspicuous, still with fainter radiance gleams.

Clear is the azure firmament above,

Save where the white cloud floats upon the breeze,All tranquil is the bosom of the grove,

Save where the Zephyr warbles through the trees.

Now the poor shepherd wandering to his home
Surveys the darkening scene with fearful eye,
On every green sees little elfins roam,

And haggard sprites along the moonbeams fly.

While Superstition rules the vulgar soul,

Forbids the energies of man to rise,
Rais'd far above her low, her mean controul,
Aspiring Genius seeks her native skies.

She loves the silent solitary hours,

She loves the stillness of the starry night, When o'er the brightening view Selene pours The soft effulgence of her pensive light.

'Tis then disturb'd not by the glare of day; To mild tranquillity alone resign'd, Reason extends her animating sway

O'er the calm empire of the peaceful mind.

Before her lucid, all-enlightening ray,

The pallid spectres of the Night retire, She drives the gloomy terrors far away,

And fills the bosom with celestial fire.

Inspired by her, the Sons of Genius rise

Above all earthly thoughts, all vulgar care; Wealth, power, and grandeur they alike despise, Enraptured by the good, the great, the fair.

A thousand varying joys to them belong-
The charms of nature and her changeful scenes;
Their's is the music of the vernal

song,
And their's the colours of the vernal plains.
Their's is the purple-tinged evening ray,
With all the radiance of the morning sky;
Their's is the splendour of the risen day,
Enshrined in glory by the sun's bright eye.
For them the Zephyr fans the odorous dale,
For them the warbling streamlet softly flows,
For them the Dryads shade the verdant vale,
To them sweet Philomel attunes her woes.
To them no wakeful moonbeam shines in vain
On the dark bosom of the trackless wood,
Sheds its mild radiance o'er the desert plain,
Or softly glides along the chrystal flood.
Yet not alone delight the soft and fair,

Alike the grander scenes of Nature move; Yet not alone her beauties claim their care, The great, sublime, and terrible, they love.

The Sons of Nature, they alike delight

In the rough precipice's broken steep, In the black terrors of the stormy night,

And in the thunders of the threatening deep.

D

When the red lightnings through the ether fly, And the white foaming billows lash the shores; When to the rattling thunders of the sky

The angry Demon of the waters roars ;

And when, untouch'd by Nature's living fires,
No native rapture fills the drowsy soul;
Then former ages, with their tuneful lyres,
Can bid the fury of the passions fall.

By the blue taper's melancholy light,

Whilst all around the midnight torrents pour,
And awful glooms beset the face of Night,
They wear the silent solitary hour.

Ah, then, how sweet to pass the night away
In silent converse with the Grecian page!
Whilst Homer tunes his ever-living lay,

Or reason listens to th' Athenian sage;

To scan the laws of Nature, to explore
The tranquil reign of mild philosophy;
Or on Newtonian wings sublime to soar
Through the bright regions of the starry sky.
Ah! who can paint what raptures fill the soul
When Attic Freedom rises to the war,

Bids the loud thunders of the battle roll,

And drives the tyrant trembling from her shore! From these pursuits the Sons of Genius scan The end of their creation; hence they know The fair, sublime, immortal hopes of man, From whence alone undying pleasures glow. By Science calm'd, over the peaceful soul, Bright with eternal Wisdom's lucid ray, Peace, meek of eye, extends her soft control, And drives the fury Passions far away.