Though not an enthusiast in anything, Mr Haven was very ardent in the pursuit of his profession,—the law. But in his character every part kept its just proportion. His delicate taste was not suffered to disgust him with the practical details of his profession. He knew that there was no real inconsistency between professional eminence and literary taste; the former was not an object which he permitted to swallow up every other; nor was it necessary for him, as for the Ephesian sorcerers, to burn his books of enchantment;—for, though strictly faithful to the interests confided to his care, he kept up his acquaintance with classical studies and general literature, without what the merest slave of the profession could have called a waste of time. He found opportunity to suggest and mature various plans of public improvement;—the moment his mind was at liberty, it seemed to turn of itself to the general welfare. His biographer speaks of Lord Mansfield as the model for a lawyer; we think Mr Haven would have been more ambitious to resemble Sir Matthew Hale, the Angel of the English law. For religion, deep, sincere, and fervent, entered into all his pursuits and feelings. It was not worn as a garment, but was a part of himself; it appeared, because it could not help appearing in his words, deeds, and even his manner.

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The specimens of Mr Haven's poetry deserve notice, not so much on account of its originality, as the beautiful tone of its feeling. The world, just come to a sense of its own importance, is too busy to attend to poetry, and there are certainly things more important; but the sweet and thoughtful views of nature, the lonely musings of a poetical imagination, are required to believe this perpetual and often needless bustle; and a cultivated mind will neither despise, nor be wholly without them. The lines on Autumn, are the most poetical.

     I love the dews of night
     I love the howling of the wind
I love to hear the tempest sweep
O'er the billows of the deep!
For nature's saddest scenes delight
     The melancholy mind.

     Autumn ! I love thy bower
     With faded garlands drest:
How sweet, alone to linger there
When tempests ride the midnight air,
To snatch from mirth a fleeting hour,
     The sabbath of the breast.

     Autumn ! I love thee well;
     Though bleak thy breeze blow,
I love to see the vapors rise,
And clouds roll wildly round the skies,
Where from the plain the mountains swell
     And foaming torrents flow.

     Autumn ! thy fading flowers
     Droop but to bloom again;
So man, though doomed to grief awhile,
To hand on fortune's fickle smile,
Shall glow in heaven with nobler powers,
     Nor sigh for peace in vain.