1 n3 HIT 183 8 (Cornell Uniuetaity SItbtarg Jlt^aca. Ncm ^nrk WORDSWORTH COLLECTION MADE BY CYNTHIA MORGAN ST. JOHN ITHACA, N. Y. THE GIFT OF VICTOR EMANUEL CLASS OF 1919 1925 THE BOOK OF GEMS. MODERN POETS AND ARTISTS OF GREAT BRITAIN. EDITED BY S. C. HALL LONDON WHITTAKER AND CO. AVE MARIA LANE 1838 !\^yUp' TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF EGREMONT, THE BENEFICENT PATRON OF I'ROFESSORS OF LITERATURE AND ART IN GREAT BRITAIN, THIS VOLUME IS GRATEFULLY AND RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THE EDITOR. PREFACE. The Book of Gems of Modern Poets is published under difficulties with which the Editor had not to contend in the two preceding volumes of the Work. However fearlessly a critic may write of those who are beyond the influence of his opinions, it must be other- wise in regard to those who are present to detect and ex- pose such as are erroneous. The anonymous in literature Vlll PREFACE. may not be beneficial to it ; — at least it gives a freer tone : of this screen it has been impossible for the Editor to avail himself; and he must, consequently, rest his hopes of satisfying the Poets and the Public on the consciousness that, while he has laboured to avoid the semblance of presumption, he has expressed of the Poets and their productions exactly what he thought. If to have worked with the full knov/Iedge that he had a delicate and an arduous task to perform, may have gone far in enabling him to discharge it adequately, he can have but little apprehension of the result. With scarcely an exception, he has been favoured by the living Poets with memoranda for his brief bio- graphies ; and, with most of them, he has the honour to be personally acquainted. As regards facts, there- fore, he has gone upon sure ground ; and, as it was his duty to introduce into the volume only such as have achieved and merited fame, he trusts that his criticisms will be neither displeasing to them, nor unsatisfactory to the Public. He feels it necessary to apologize for havino- omitted from the list many who may be justly considered deserv- ing of introduction into it ; but the nature of his plan, and the immense expenditure necessary to complete it confined him to narrower limits than he desired. He trusts that his Selection will not be judged in reference to those he has been compelled to pass over ; and that he will be considered as having classed amono- " British Poets" none who have doubtful claims to the distinction PREFACE. ix In selecting the Poems, he may not always have met the taste of his readers : upon this point he can only ob- serve, that he has endeavoured to extract such examples as might best exhibit the genius of the Poet ; and has taken complete poems, though short, in preference to detached passages from more extensive works. The Editor earnestly, and with some degree of con- fidence, hopes that his Selections from the Modern Poets may have the effect of directing attention to the sources whence they are drawn, — of increasing that taste for Poetry which the " scientific spirit of the age" has lessened, — and of adding to the circulation of the " Works," by showing the enjoyment and instruction that may be derived from them. The Editor has now performed the duty he undertook three years ago : he has been gratified to find that his labours have been neither unappreciated nor unrecom- pensed. For the compliments he has received through public channels, and in private communications, from those whose praise is a liberal reward, he feels duly grateful ; and trusts that at the conclusion of his arduous task, they will be continued to him. TABLE OF CONTENTS. WORDSWORTH. PACE Sonnet 3 Ode. Intimations of Immortality, from Recollections of early Child- hood 4 Lucy 9 Sonnets: — • Scorn not the Sonnet .... 10 It is a Beauteous Evening . . ib. The World is too much with us . 11 London, 1802 ib. Composed upon Westminster- Bridge ib. Great Men 12 To a Skylark ib. She Dwelt among the untrodden Ways = . 13 BYRON. Inscription on the Monument of a Dog 15 The Dream 16 Farewell 21 SOUTHEY. Sunrise , 23 Remembrance 2i Hannah 25 The Ebb Tide 26 The Victory 27 The Battle of Blenheim .... 29 To a Bee 30 Sonnet 31 MOORE. Written in an Album 33 1 saw thy Form in Youthful Prime 35 I saw from the Beach 86 This Life is all chequered with Pleasures and Woes .... ib. St. Jerome's Love 37 Oft, in the Stilly Night .... 38 When 'midst the Gay I meet . . 89 SHELLEY. Venice 41 The Cloud 42 An Exhortation 44 Mutability 45 To Night 46 To a Skylark 47 b 2 CONTENTS. COLERIDGE. PACK Tlie Garden of Boccaccio .... r) 1 Love .52 The Nightingale 55 Lilies, written in the Album at El- bingerode, in the Hartz Forest . 58 Recollections of Love 69 MILMAN. Hymn 61 The Merry Heart 62 The Love of God 63 ELLIOTT. The Wonders of the Lane ... 65 The Dying Boy to the Sloe Blos- som 68 A Poet's Epitaph 70 To the Bramble Flower .... 71 LAMB. The Gipsy's Malison 73 Hester 74 Sonnets 75 On an Infant Dying as soon as Born 76 MONTGOMERY. The Grave 79 Friends 83 Hannah jj. WHITE. Description of a Summer's Eve . 87 The Savoyard's Return .... 89 WILSON. From Edith and Nora 91 Lines written in a Highland Glen . 92 A Churchyard Dream 93 The Widowed Mother 95 The Three Seasons of Lovo ... 96 CRABBE. The Sands 99 Roger Cuff 101 Stanzas 102 Woman 104 Farewell to the Muse 107 Hunting Song 108 Lochinvar 109 Lullaby on an Infant Chief . . .110 Hellvellyn Ill Jock of Hazeldean 112 Nora's Vow ib. SOTHEBY. Salvator 115 Rome 116 The Grotto of Egeria 118 KEATS. Madeline ; from " Isabella." . . 121 Ode to a Nightingale 122 Ode on a Grecian Urn 124 Sonnets 125 Stanzas 126 To Autumn 127 HOGG. The Stranded Ship 129 The Wee Housie 130 The Broken Heart 131 Mary Gray 132 The Skylark 133 An Arabian Song ib. HEMANS. Cathedral Hymn 135 The Song of Night 137 The Hebrew Mother 138 The Captive Knight 141 The Trumpet ib. The Retiurn to Poetry 142 The Treasures of the Deep . . .143 CUNNINGHAM. The Town and Country Child. . . 145 Awake, my Love 14s The Lass of Gleneslan Mill . . . ib. The Poet's Bridal Day Song . . .149 A wet Sheet and a flowing Sea . 151 HUNT. Songs and Chorus of the Flowers . 153 To a Child, during Sickness . . . ]58 The Glove and the Lions . . . . 159 The Fish, the Man, and the Spirit . 160 Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel . 161 CONTENTS. CLARR. PAGR JiiTie 1G3 The Quiet Mind 164 Mary Lee 166 NORTON. The Mourners 169 The Mother's Heart 170 The Child of Earth 172 ROGERS. An Italian Song 175 On a Tear 176 To an Old Oak 177 LANDON. Little Red Riding Hood . . . . 179 The First Grave, in the new Churchyard at Brompton . . .181 The Moon 183 Venice ib. CROLY. The Tuileries, from " Paris in 1815" ,. . 187 Pericles and Aspasia 188 Lines Written at Spithead . . .189 Leonidas 190 The Death of Leonidas . . . .191 WOLFE. The Burial of Sir John Moore . . 195 Song 196 LANDOR. Clifton 199 The Dragon Fly 200 To lanthe ib. Faesulan Idyl 201 The Maid's Lament 202 To Corinth 203 The Briar 204 Sixteen 205 CAMPBELL. PACK To the Evening Star 2()7 To the Rainhow 208 Ye Mariners of England . . . .210 Exile of Erin 211 Hohenlinden 212 The Last Man 213 The Soldier's Dream 215 PROCTER. The Fisherman 217 Song 218 Woman ib. Stanzas 219 The Blood Horse 220 King Death ib. Dirge 221 Serenade 222 Life 223 To a Wounded Singing Bird . . 224 An Invocation to Birds .... 225 BOWLES. St. Michael's Mount 227 Chantrey's Sleeping Children . . 228 Restoration of Malmesbury Ahbey 229 Summer Evening, at Home . . . 230 Winter Evening, at Home . . . ib. Sonnets : — Time 231 Dover Cliffs ib, April 232 May ib. Netley Abhey 233 Remembrance ib. TIGHE. Hagar in the Desert 235 From " Psyche" 237 On Receiving a Branch of Me- zereon, which flowered at Wood- stock, December, 1809 . . . . 240 WOLCOT. Fighting Dogs 243 To Julia 244 Song ib. Madrigal 245 A Pastoral Song ib. Song 246 Economy 247 CONTENTS. POLLOK. Maternal Love 219 The Resurrection 250 HOOD. To a Cold Beauty 255 Ruth 256 Ballad 257 I Remember, I Remember . . . ib. Ode 258 Ballad 201 DIBDIN. I Sailed from the Downs .... 263 Tom Bowling 265 Lovely Nan ih. Blow High, Blow Low 266 Bold Jack 207 BAILLIE. To a Child 269 The Kitten 270 Welcome Bat and Owlet Gray . . 273 TENNYSON. Buonaparte 275 vKfariana 276 The Merman 278 The Mermaid 279 Lilian 280 Love and Death 281 HOWITT. An Old Man's Story 283 Mountain Children 290 HERVEY. A Twilight Landscape .... 293 The Convict Ship 294 I am all Alone 295 She Sleeps, that Still and Placid Sleep 296 BAYLY. The Gipsies' Haunt ..... 299 The First Grey Hair 300 The Neglected Child 301 Upon thy Truth Reljing .... 303 Oh say not 'twere a keener Blow . ib. LIST OF THE PLATES. SUBJECTS. AltTISTS. ENGRAVEBS. PAGE 1. Vignette Title Page E. T. Parris W.H.Simmons i iii 2. Allegorical F. W. Topham C. Rolls vii 3. The Poet Wordsworth H. W. Pickersgill, E.A.... C. Rolls 3 4. The Dog E. Landseer, R.A L. Stocks 15 5. Sunrise J. M. W. Turner, R.A W.Miller 23 0. Love Teaching Innocence. T Uwins, A.R.A E. J. Portbury 33 7. Venice R. P. Bonington W.Miller 41 8. The Garden E. T. Parris F.Bacon 51 9. Angels Appearing to^ !■ J.Martin J. R. Wilmore 61 THE Shepherds J 10. The Lane T. Holland J. R. Wilmore 05 11. The GipSEY R. Westmacott, R.A A. R. Freebairn 73 (Tlie drawing by H. CorbouM.) 12. The Village Churchyard. T. Creswick R. Cousins 79 13. Coming Home E.Barrett J.Hinchliff 87 14. The Peasant Child A. Cooper, R.A J. Brain 91 15. The Sands D. Cox E. Radcliffe 99 16. Scott IN Melrose Abbey ... S.Hart, A.R.A C. Rolls 107 17. Salvator D. M'Clise, A.R.A L. Stocks 115 18. The Maid at Prayer G. Jones, R.A W. H. Simmons 121 19. The Stranded Ship J.Wilson W.J.Cooke 129 20. The Cathedral D.Roberts J. Sands 135 XVI LIST OF THE PLATES. SUBJliOTS. AIITJSTS. ENOUAVEllS. PAGE 21. TheCountryChild W. Collins, R. A L. Stocks 145 22. Floba W. Wyon, A.R.A J.Thomson 153 (The drawing by H. Corbould.) 23. The Way-side Inn W. Mulready, R.A A. J. Freebalrn 163 24. The Mouhnebs T. Stothard, R.A J. Bull 169 25. The Italian Cottage P.Williams E. J. Portbury 175 26. Little Red Riding Hood... J. Inskipp W.H.Simmons 170 27. The Tuileries J.Salmon E.Roberts 187 28. The Burial of Sir John) 5- W.Harvey J. Brain 195 Moore ) 29. Clifton W. Mliller W.J.Cooke 199 30. Evening R. Reinagle, R.A J. Hinchliif 207 31. The Fisherman's Return .. C. Stanfield, R.A C. Rolls 217 32. St. Michael's Mount J. C. Bentley W.Miller 227 33. Hagar IN the Desert J. Robson J. Hinchliif 235 34. The Fighting Dogs C.Hancock R. Parr , 243 35. Maternal Affection R. Edmonstone C. Rolls 249 36. The Cold Beauty T. Y. Huilstone W. H. Watt 255 37. The Shipwrecked S. Prout E. Kemot 203 38. The Merry Imp J. Boaden J. Wagstaff 269 39. Buonaparte B. R. Haydon J. Brain 275 40. The Wreck W.Chambers W. Wallis 283 41. Windsor. Evening R. B. Pyne A. R. Freebaim 293 42. Tub Gipsies' Tent T. S. Cooper H. Rolls 299 43. Vignette F. W. Topham F. W. Topliam 304 POETS AND ARTISTS GREAT BRITAIN. 2 WORDSWORTH, Willi ^m Wordswoiitii, who is descended from a family of liigh respectability lu Cumberland, was born at Cockermouth, on the 7th of April, 1770. He was educated with his almost equally distinguished brother,— Dr. Christopher Wordsworth.—at Hawkesworth School, in Lancashire; and was entered at St. John's, Cambridge, m 178/, where he took his degree. Since the beginning of the year 1800, he has "had his home," either at his present residence, Rydal Mount, Westmoreland, or withm two miles of it,— though, as appears from his writings, he has made excursions both on the Continent and on our own island. We can afford but small space to a Memoir of the Poet ;— small as it is, however, it will suflice. His life has been retired and uniform : he has been subjected to few trials ;— possessed of " health, peace, and competence," his course has been as smooth, even, and tranquil, as that of a " silent river." Mr. Wordsworth is above the middle size. His features are strongly marked ; but their expression is, like his poetry, contemplative rather than energetic. He has a calm look, and a gentle manner; his action is persuasive, and the tones of his voice peculiarly so. We have known him only amid the uncongenial scenes of a great city ; but have been told that, among the hills and valleys of his native Westmoreland, his society is as a mildly healthful breeze, and his conversation as a delicious melody. He has ever beeji " a Poet for Poets :" from the beginning of his career, he " fit aud- ience found though few ;" but his reception as a Poet for universal man, is of very recent date. His lack of popularity was owing, partly to that taste for the French school of poetry — which was still lingering among us from the times of Dryden and Pope — and partly to the excess to which Mr. Wordsworth pushed his simplicity, as if in scorn of that school, which naturally enough irritated the wits and others who had been bred up in its conventional elegancies. He. has since given indications of a con- sciousness of having gone a little too far ; and they, on the other hand, have grown complimentary : meanwhile, he waited patiently for the turn of the tide that was to bear him into a crowd of devoted admirers. He knew it would come at last ; and went on writing, in spite of the sneers of those who either could not, or would not, understand him. He has lived to enjoy a large portion of his anticipated triumph ; and — for he is not an aged man — will probably continue with us until he finds himself the most popular Poet of the existing age, and second only to him who is " for all time." The style of Wordsworth is essentially vernacular, — at once vigorous and simple. He is ever true to nature ; and, therefore, if we except Shakspeare, no writer is so often quoted : passages from his poems have become familiar as household words, and are perpetually called into use to give strong and apt expression to the thoughts and feel- ings of others. This is, perhaps, the highest compliment a Poet can receive ; it has been liberally paid to him even by those who know little of the rich mine of which they are but specimens. With him the commonest objects, — " B.are trees, and mountains bare, The grass, and the green fields," are things sacred: he has an alchymy of his own, by which he draws from them " a kind of quintessence ;" and, rejecting the " gross matter," presents to us the purest ore. " He sees nothing loftier than human hopes,— nothing deeper than the human heart ;" and while he worships nature, he so paints her aspect to others, that he mav succeed in " linking to her fair works the human soul." His poems are' fuU of beau- ties peculiarly their own,— of original thoughts, of tine sympathies, and of grave yet cheerful wisdom. '' No man has received finer compliments from his contemporaries ■ the most recent and not the least worthy, was paid to him by the author of " Ion " in the course of a speech on the subject of copyright, delivered in the House of Commons on the 18th of May, 1837. " He has supplied the noblest antidote to the freezing etTects of the scientific spirit of the age ; and, while he has done justice to the poetry of greatness has cast a glory around the lowest conditions of humanity, and traced out the subtle links by which they are connected with the highest." The foDowing passage is from a poem addressed to him, by Mrs. Heraans. ^ " True bard and holy ! Thou art even as one Who, by some secret gU't of soul, or eye. In every spot beneath the smiling sun Sees where the springs of living waters lie." WORDSWORTH. Adieu, Rydalian laurels I that have grown And spread as if ye knew that days might come When ye would shelter in a happy home. On this fair mount, a Poet of your own. One who ne'er ventured for a Delphic crown To sue the God ; hut, haunting your green shade All seasons through, is humbly pleased to braid Ground-flowers, beneath your guardianship, self sown. Farewell ! no minstrels now with harp new-strung For summer wandering quit their household bowers ; Yet not for this wants Poesy a tongue To cheer the itinerant on whom she pours Her spirit, Avhile he crosses lonely moors, Or, musing, sits forsaken halls among. B 2 AVORDSWORTH. IMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY, FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. " The cliild is I'atlier of the man ; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety." There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream. The earth, and every common sight. To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light. The. glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — Turn wheresoe'er I may. By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. The rainbow comes and goes. And lovely is the rose ; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare : Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair ; The sunshine is a glorious birth, — But yet I know, where'er I go. That there hath past away a glory from the earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound ! To me alone there came a thought of grief ; A timely utterance gave that thought relief. And I again am strong : The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; I hear the echoes through the mountains throng. The winds come to me from the fields of sleep. And all the earth is gay : Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity. And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday • — Thou child of joy. Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd- boy ! WORDSWORTH. Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make ; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; My heart is at your festival. My head hath its coronal. The fulness of your bliss 1 feel — I feel it all. Oh, evil day ! if I were sullen While earth herself is adorning This sweet May-morning, And the children are culling On every side. In a thousand valleys far and wide. Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm. And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm ; — I hear, I hear — with joy I hear ! But there's a tree, of many one, A single field which I have looked upon. Both of them speak of something that is gone The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat : Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? Where is it now, the glory and the dream } Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : The soul that rises with us, our life's star. Hath had elsewhere its setting. And Cometh from afar ; Not in entire forgetfulness. And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home : Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy ; But he beholds the light, and whence it flows. He sees it in his joy : The youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's priest. And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended ; At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day. WORDSWORTH. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. And, even with something of a mother's mind. And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the child among his new-born blisses,— A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! See, where 'mid work of his own hand, he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes ! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life. Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral ; And this hath now his heart. And unto this he frames his song : Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside. And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part, — Filling from time to time his ' humorous stage" With all the persons, down to palsied age. That life brings with her in her equipage ; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity ; Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind. That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind ; — Mighty prophet ! Seer blest ! On whom those truths do rest. Which we are toihng all our lives to find. WORDSWORTH. la darkness^ lost, the darkness of the grave ; Thou, over whom thy immortahty Broods hke the day, — a master o'er a slave, — A presence which is not to be put by ; Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke. Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! O joy ! that in our embers Is something that doth live. That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive ! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction : not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest ; Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest. With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast :- Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise ; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings fi'om us, vanishings ; Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized. High instincts before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : But for those flrst afifections. Those shadowy recollections. Which, be they what they may. Are yet the fountain light of all our day. Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence : truths that wake. To perish never ; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour. Nor man nor boy. Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Gan utterly abolish or destroy ! "WORDSWORTH. Hence in a season of calm weather. Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither. Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore. And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then sing, ye birds ! sing, sing a joyous song ! And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound ! We in thought will join your throng ; Ye that pipe, and ve that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May ! What though the radiance which was once so bright, Be now for ever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ; We will grieve not, — rather find Strength in what remains behind ; In the primal sympathy Which having been, must ever be ; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering ; In the faith that looks through death, — In years that bring the philosophic mind. And O, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves ! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual swav. I love the brooks, which down their channels fret. Even more than when I tripped lightly as thev ; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet ; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortahty : Another race hath been, and other palms "are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live. Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. WORDSWORTH, Three years she grew in sun and shower. Then Nature said, " A loveher flower On earth was never sown ; This child I to myself will take, — She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own. ft Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse ; and with me The girl, in rock and plain. In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power. To kindle or restrain. She shall be sportive as the fawn. That wild with glee across the lawn. Or up the mountain springs ; And hers shall be the breathing balm, — And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things. The floating clouds their state shall lend To her, — for her the willow bend ; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm, Grace that shall mould the maiden's form. By silent sympathy. The stars of midnight shall be dear To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place. Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty, born of murmuring sound. Shall pass into her face. And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height. Her virgin bosom swell ; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give, "While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." 10 WORDSWORTH. Thus Nature spake, — the work was done ; How soon my Lucy's race was run ! She died, — and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; The memory of what has been. And never more will be ! SCOllN NOT THE SONNET. Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours ; with this key Shakspeare unlocked his heart ; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle-leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow ; a glow-worm lamp. It cheered mild Spenser, called from faery-land To struggle through dark ways ; and when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet, whence he blew Soul-animating strains, — alas, too few. IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING. It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; The gentleness of heaven is on the sea ; Listen ! — the mighty Being is awake. And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder — everlastingly. Dear child ! dear girl ! that walkest with me here. If thou appear'st untouch'd by solenm thought, Thy nature is not, therefore, less divine ; Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year. And worship'st at the temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. WORDSWORTH. 11 THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH DS, The world is too much with us ; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; I^ittle we see in Nature that is ours ; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; The winds that will be howling at all hours. And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; For this, for every thing, we are out of tune ; It moves us not. Great God ! I'd rather be A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn ; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn : Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. LONDON, IS Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour ; England hath need of thee ; she is a fen Of stagnant waters ; altar, sword, and pen. Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men : Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart ; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea; Pure as the naked heavens — majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. Earth has not any thing to show more fair Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty : This City now doth, like a garment, wear c 2 12 AVORDSWORTIl, The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare. Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky, — All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill ; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! The river glideth at his own sweet will : Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; And all that mighty heart is lying still ! GREAT MEN. Great men have been among us ; hands that penned And tongues that uttered wisdom — better none : The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. These moralists could act and comprehend : They knew how genuine glory was put on ; Taught us how rightfully a nation shone In splendour ; what strength was, that would not bend But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange, Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change \ No single volume paramount, no code. No master spirit, no determined road ; But equally a want of books and men ! TO A SKY-LAllK. Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground .? Thy nest, which thou canst drop into at will. Those quivering wings composed, that music still WORDSWORTH. 13 To the last point of vision, and beyond. Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted strain ('Twixt thee and thine a never -failing bond) Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing All independent of the leafy spring. Leave to the nightingale her shady wood,— A privacy of glorious light is thine ; whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine : Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home ! SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS. She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid, whom there were none to praise. And very few to love : A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye ! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, — and few could know When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and, oh. The difference to me ! 14 BYRON. Gkorge Gordon Byron was born in Holies Street, London, on the 22nd of Janu- ary, 1788. He was the grandson of the celebrated Admiral, and succeeded his great uncle, William Lord Byron, in 1798. On his elevation to the peerage, he was re- moved from the care of his mother, and placed at Harrow, by his guardian, — the Earl of Carlisle. In 1805, he was entered at Trinity College, Cambridge ; and took up his permanent residence at Newstead Abbey, the family seat. In 1807, he published at Newark, his " Hours of Idleness :" they were attacked with considerable bitterness in the " Edinburgh Review," and his memorable " Satire" followed. His various " Works" succeeded with wonderful rapidity. In 1815, he married the daughter of Sir Ralph Milbank Noel : a separation took place soon afterwards, and the Poet went abroad, — residing at Geneva, and in various cities of Italy. In August, 1823, ^e em- barked in the cause of Greece ; and died at Missolonghi, on the 19th of April, 1824. Lord Byron was, thus, a young man when he died. Personal descriptions of the Poet are abundant. In 1823, Lady Blessington was intimately acquainted with him, at Genoa. According to her account, his appearance was highly prepossessing; "his head," she says, " is finely shaped, and the forehead open, high, and noble; his eyes are grey, and full of expression, but one is visibly larger than the other ; his mouth is the most remarkable feature in his face — the upper lip of Grecian shortness, and the corners descending; the lips full and finely cut : his chin is large and well shaped; his face is peculiarly pale." She adds, that, " although slightly lame, the deformity of his foot is but little remarkable." The biographies of Lord Byron are almost as numerous as his Works. The wonder- ful genius of the Poet procured for him an extent of popularity unparalleled in his age ; and the public sought eagerly for every anecdote that could aiford the smallest insight into his character. Few men could have borne so searching a test. His biographers, without exception, have arrived at conclusions prejudicial to his character, it is, there- fore, impossible for an Editor who would sum up their evidence, to recommend any other verdict, than that which has been given. It is time to discard the old supersti- tion, NIL NISI BONUM, as at once unpliilosophical and derogatory to the character of any man, who seeks to live " for aye, in Fame's eternal temple." Nil nisi verum, should be the motto of the dead. It may be ungracious to disobey the mandate, " Lift not thy spear against the ]\Iuse's bower ;*' but the warning cannot have reference to the spear of Ithuriel. Truth is so precious, that it never costs too much. We protest at the outset of our labours against all re- ference to PRIVATE character, and comment upon private life ; but we must always except cases where they are mixed up with published writings which influence, and are designed to influence, the universal mind. Many of the Poems of Lord Byron have a dangerous tendency : they are calculated to remove the hideous features of Vice, and present it, if not in a tempting, at least in a natural and pardonable light. Whether it was a genuine sentiment, or a gross atfectation, it matters not ; but it was the fre- quent boast of the Poet, that he scorned and hated human kind ; and out of this feel- ing, or this pretension, grew his labours to corrupt it. It was not alone against things held sacred by society, that his spleen and venom were directed ; he strove to render odious some of the best and purest men that have ever lived ; and his attacks were not the momentary ebullitions of dislike, but the produce of deep and settled hatred,— the more bitter in proportion as the cause was small. To the various circumstances that are said to have warped his mind, we cannot here refer. We perform an im- perative duty, in a work which must find its way among the young and enthusiastic, when we warn the reader of his exquisite poetry, that danger lurks under the leaves. The Poems of Byron will live, as he had a right to anticipate they would, " with his land's language." The amazing power he possessed of searching into and pourtraying character,— his prodigious skill in versification,— his fine perception of the sublime and beautiful in nature,— his graceful and unforced wit,— his deep readings of human passion,— his accurate knowledge of the secret movements of the heart,— were so many keys to his wonderful and universal success *. * Of the many beautiful editions of Byron's works which Mr. Murray has published, the last in line volume, is the most complete and admirable. It is an exquisite specimen of typography. ' BYRON. INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A DOG. When some proud son of man returns to earthy Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth. The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe. And storied urns record who rests below ; When all is done, upon the tomb is seen. Not what he was, but what he should have been : But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend. The first to welcome, foremost to defend. Whose honest heart is still his master's own. Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth. Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 16 Oh, man ! thou feehle tenant of an hour, Dehas'd by slavery, or corrupt by power. Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust. Degraded mass of animated dust ! Tliy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat. Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! By nature vile, ennobled but by name. Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn, Pass on, — it honours none you wish to mourn : To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; I never knew but one, — and here he lies. THE DREAM. Our life is twofold : sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence; sleep hath its own world. And a wide realm of wild reality. And dreams in their development have breath. And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy : They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts. They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being ; they become A portion of ourselves as of our time. And look like heralds of eternity : They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak Like sybils of the future ; they have povv'er — The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; They make us what we were not — what they will. And shake us with the vision that's gone by, — The dread of vanish'd shadows. Are they so ? Is not the past all shadow ? What are thev ? Creations of the mind ? The mind can make Substance, and people planets of its own With beings brighter than have been, — and give A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. I would recal a vision which I dream'd Perchance in sleep, — for in itaclf a thought, A slumbering thought, is capable of years, And curdles a lon^ life into one hour. 17 I saw two beings in the hues of youth Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, Green and of mild declivity, — the last As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such. Save that there was no sea to lave its base, But a most living landscape, and the wave Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke Arising from such rustic roofs ; the hill Was crown' d with a peculiar diadem Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, — Not by the sport of nature, but of man : These two, a maiden and a youth, were there Gazing ; the one, on all that was beneath — Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her : And both were young, and one was beautiful ; And both were young, yet not alike in youth. As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; — The boy had fewer summers, but his heart Had far outgrown his years ; and, to his eye. There was but one beloved face on earth — And that was shining on him : he had look'd Upon it till it could not pass away ; He had no breath, no being, but in hers : She was his voice ; — he did not speak to her. But trembled on her words : she was his sight. For his eye foUow'd hers, and saw with hers, Which colour'd all his objects ; — he had ceased To live within himself : slae was his life, — The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all ! upon a tone, A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow. And his cheek change tempestuously ; — his heart Unknowing of its cause of agony. But she in these fond feelings had no share : Her sighs were not for him ! to her he was Even as a brother, — but no more : 'twas much. For brotherless she was, save in the name Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ; Herself the solitary scion left Of a time-honour'd race. It was a name Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not, — and why ? Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 18 Another ! even now she loved another ; And on the summit of that hill she stood Looking afar, if yet her lover's steed Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. There was an ancient mansion, and before Its walls there was a steed caparison'd : Within an antique oratory stood The boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone, And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere With a convulsion, — then arose again. And, with his teeth and quivering hands, did tear What he had written ; but he shed no tears. And he did calm himself, and fix his brow Into a kind of quiet : as he paused The lady of his love re-entered there ; She was serene and smiling then, — and yet She knew she was by him beloved ! she knew. For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart Was darken'd with her shadow ; and she saw That he was wretched,' — but she saw not all. He rose, and, with a cold and gentle grasp. He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face A tablet of unutterable thoughts Was traced, — and then it faded as it came : He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps Retired, — but not as bidding her adieu ; For they did part with mutual smiles : he pass'd From out the massy gate of that old hall. And mounting on his steed he went his way. And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more ! A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds Of fiery cUmes he made himself a home. And his soul drank their sunbeams ; he was girt With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not Himself like what he had been : on the sea And on the shore he was a wanderer ! There was a mass of many images 19 Crowded like waves upon me ; but he was A part of all, — and in the last he lay Reposing from the noontide sultriness, Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names Of those who rear'd them : by his sleeping side Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man. Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while. While many of his tribe slumber'd around ; And they were canopied by the blue sky — So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful. That God alone was to be seen in heaven. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The lady of his love was wed with one Who did not love her better : in her home, A thousand leagues from his, — her native home. She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy. Daughters and sons of beauty, — but, behold ! Upon her face there was the tint of grief. The settled shadow of an inward strife. And an unquiet drooping of the eye. As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. What could her grief be ? — she had all she loved ; And he who had so loved her was not there To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish. Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. What could her grief be ? — she had loved him not. Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved ; Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd Upon her mind, — a spectre of the past. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The wanderer was return'd. I saw him stand Before an altar, with a gentle bride : Her face was fair, — but was not that which made The starlight of his boyhood ! as he stood Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock That in the antique oratory shook His bosom in its solitude ; and then. As in that hour, a moment o'er his face The tablet of unutterable thoughts 20 Was traced, — and then it faded as it came ; And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke The fitting vows, — but heard not his own words ; And all things reel'd around him ! he could see Not that which was, nor that which should have been But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, And the remember'd chambers, and the place, The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, — All things pertaining to that place and hour, And her who was his destiny came back. And thrust themselves between him and the light : What business had they there at such a time ? A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The lady of his love, — oh ! she was changed As by the sickness of the soul : her mind Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes, — They had not their own lustre, but the look Which is not of the earth : she was become The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things ; And forms — impalpable and unperceived Of others' sight — familiar were to hers. And this the world calls frenzy ! but the wise Have a far deeper madness ; and the glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift : What is it but the telescope of truth ? Which strips the distance of its phantasies. And brings life near in utter nakedness. Making the cold reality too real ! A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The wanderer was alone as heretofore ; The beings which surrounded him were gone. Or were at war with him ! he was a mark For blight and desolation, — compass' d round With hatred and contention : pain was mix'd In all which was served up to him, until. Like to the Pontic monarch of old days. He fed on poisons, and they had no power, — But were a kind of nutriment : he lived Through that which had been death to many men, And made him friends of mountains ! with the stars And the quick spirit of the universe BYRON. 21 He held his dialogues ; and they did teach To him the magic of their mysteries : To him the book of night was open'd wide. And voices from the deep abyss reveal' d A marvel and a secret, — Be it so. My dream was past : it had no further change. It was of a strange order, that the doom Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality : the one To end in madness, — both in misery ! FAREWELL ! Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer For others' weal avail'd on high. Mine will not all be lost in air — But waft tby name beyond the sky. 'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell. When wrung from guilt's expiring eye. Are in that word — Farewell ! Farewell ! These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; But in my breast, and in my brain. Awake the pangs that pass not by. The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns, nor dares complain. Though grief and passion there rebel ; T only know we loved in vain, — I only feel — Farewell ! Farewell ! 22 SOUTHEY. Robert Southey was born in Bristol, on the 12th of August, 1774. Having given early tokens of that genius which has since placed his name foremost among British Worthies, his friends resolved that the advantages of a liberal education should be added to those which Nature had bestowed upon him, and sent him in 1788, to Westminster School. In 1792, he was entered at Baliol College, Oxford. During his residence in the University, he became infected with Jacobinical principles ; but if some of his earlier productions contributed to disseminate pernicious doctrines, he has amply com- pensated mankind by the labours of a long life in the cause of Virtue. In 1796, his first great poem, " Joan of Arc," appeared; and his fame was completely established, when, in 1801, the romance of " Thalaba" issued from the press. He has since been con- tinually before the world ; and there is scarcely a branch of literature to which he has not contributed, — a list of his publications would fill this page. In 1813, Southey ac- cepted the office of Poet Laureat, on the death of Pye, — and for nearly the first time, during at least a century, the office, instead of conferring, received dignity. Southey is tall and handsome, with a clear and noble forehead ; an aquiline nose; a profusion of hair; and uncommonly bright eyes : his voice is musical, full of gentle- ness and persuasion, and his smile is as winning as it is sweet. His hair, once a curl- ing and glossy black, curls still, but is white as snow ; and his step has lost some of its elasticity, — but his eyes are as bright, and his smile as winning, as ever. He is rarely seen in the great world. His distaste of the turmoils of life induced him to decline the offer of a seat in the House of Commons, to which he had been elected ; — apart from the bustle and feverish excitement of a city, he pursues his gentle and useful course from year to year : " And to his mountains and his forests rude Chaunts in sweet melody his classic song." He has led the life of a scholar with as much steadiness of purpose and devotion, as if he had bound himself to his books by a religious vow. His works are sufficient to form a library ; they are proofs of his amazing industry, not less than his vast and com- prehensive learning. His wonderful genius may excite our admiration ; but the ex- tent of his " profitable labour" is, indeed, prodigious. There is nothing like it we believe in the history of the human mind. His character is as unspotted as that of any public man — living or dead. The world is aware that he has had some enemies : no one ever deserved them less. His friends are numerous, devoted, and firm. No one ever earned them better, or merited them more : *' We soon live down Evil or good report, if undeseo'ed." His political opponents have tendered evidence to the estimable character of both his head and heart. One of the harshest arraigners of what he calls the inconsistency of Dr. Southey — as if that were inconsistency which induces to leave a path after it is known to be the wrong one — states, that " in all the relations and charities of private life, he is correct, exemplary, generous, just." He is one of the leading critics of the age ; and, although there is abundant proof of his generous zeal in aiding young talent, there has never attached to him the suspicion of depressing it. The career of Southey is the best answer to the absurd, but too generally received opinion, that a critic is of necessity acrimonious or unjust. Of late years, the prose of Southey has been preferred to his poetry. It rarely hap- pens that there is a preference without a disparagement. No Poet in the present or the past century, has written three such poems as Thalaba, Kehama, and Roderic. Others have more excelled in delineating what they find before them in life; but none have given such proofs of extraordinary power in creating. He has been called diffuse, because there is a spaciousness and amplitude about his poetry— as if concen- tration was the highest quality of a writer. He lays all his thoughts before us ; but they never rush forth tumultuously. He excels in unity of design and cougruity of character ; and never did Poet more adequately express heroic fortitude, and generous _ affections. He has not, however, limited his pen to grand paintings of epic character. Among his shorter productions will be found some light and graceful sketches, full of beauty and feeling, and not the less valuable because they invariably aim at promoting SOUTKEY. I MARVEL not, O Sun ! that unto thee In adoration man should bow the knee. And pour his prayers of mingled awe and love ; For like a God thou art, and on thy way Of glory sheddest with benignant ray. Beauty, and life, and joyance from above. No longer let these mists thy radiance shroud, — These cold raw mists that chill the comfortless day ; But shed thy splendour through the opening cloud And cheer the earth once more. The languid flowers Lie odourless, bent down with heavy rain. Earth asks thy presence, saturate with showers ! O lord of light ! put forth thy beams again. For damp and cheerless are the gloomy hours. 1 24 SOUTHEY. REMEMBRANCE. Man hath a weary pilgrimage As through the world he wends, On every stage from youth to age Still discontent attends ; With heaviness he casts his eye Upon the road before. And still remembers with a sigh The days that are no more. To school the little exile goes. Torn from his mother's arms, — What then shall soothe his earliest woes. When novelty hath lost its charms ? Condemn'd to suffer through the day Restraints which no rewards repay. And cares where love has no concern : Hope lengthens as she counts the hours Before his wish'd return. From hard controul and tyrant rules, The unfeeling discipline of schools. In thought he loves to roam. And tears will struggle in his eye While he remembers with a sigh The comforts of his home. Youth comes ; the toils and cares of life Torment the restless mind ; Where shall the tired and harass'd heart Its consolation find ? Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells. Life's summer prime of joy ? Ah no ! for hopes too long delav'd. And feelings blasted or betrav'd. The fabled bliss destroy ; And Youth remembers with a sigh The careless days of Infancy. Maturer Manhood now arrives. And other thoughts come on. But with the baseless hopes of Youth Its generous warmth is gone ; SOUTHEY. 25 Cold calculating cares succeed. The timid thought, the wary deed. The dull realities of truth ; Back on the past he turns his eye ; Remembering with an envious sigh The happy dreams of Youth. So reaches he the latter stage Of this our mortal pilgrimage. With feeble step and slow ; New ills that latter stage await. And old Experience learns too late That all is vanity below. Life's vain delusions are gone by, Its idle hopes are o'er, Yet Age remembers with a sigh The days that are no more. Passing across a green and lonely lane A funeral met our view. It was not here A sight of every day, as in the streets Of some great city, and we stopt and ask'd Whom they were bearing to the grave. A girl. They answer'd, of the village, who had pined Through the long course of eighteen painful months With such slow wasting, that the hour of death Came welcome to her. We pursued our way To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk Which passes o'er the mind and is forgot. We wore away the time. But it was eve When homewardly I went, and in the air Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade Which makes the eye turn inward : hearing then Over the vale the heavy toll of death Sound slow, it made me think upon the dead ; I question'd more, and learnt her mournful tale. She bore unhusbanded a mother's pains, And he who should have cherish'd her, far off Sail'd on the seas. Left thus a wretched one, Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues 26 SOUTHEY. Were busy with her name. She had to bear The sharper sorrow of neglect from him Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote, But only once that drop of comfort came To mingle with her cup of wretchedness ; And when his parents had some tidings from him, There was no mention of poor Hannah there. Or 'twas the cold inquiry, more unkind Than silence. So she pined and pined away. And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd ; Nor did she, even on her death-bed, rest From labour, knitting there with lifted arms. Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother Omitted no kind office, working for her. Albeit her hardest labour barely earn'd Enough to keep life struggling, and prolong The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay On the sick bed of poverty, worn out With her long suffering and those painful thoughts Which at her heart were rankling, and so weak, That she could make no effort to express Affection for her infant ; and the child. Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her, Shunn'd her as one indifferent. But she too Had grown indifferent to all things of earth ; Finding her only comfort in the thought Of that cold bed wherein the wretched rest. There had she now, in that last home been laid. And all was over now, — sickness and grief. Her shame, her suffering, and her penitence : Their work was done. The school-boys as they sport In the church-yard, for awhile might turn away From the fresh grave till grass should cover it ; Nature would do that office soon ; and none Who trod upon the senseless turf would think Of what a world of woes lay buried there I THE EBB TIDE. Slowly thy flowing tide Came in, old Avon I scarcely did mine eyes. As watchfully I roam'd thy green- wood side. Behold the gentle rise. SOUTHEY. 27 With many a stroke and strong The labouring boatmen upward pUed their oars. And yet the eye beheld them labouring long Between thy winding shores. Now down thine ebbing tide The unlabour'd boat falls rapidly along ; The solitary helmsman sits to guide. And sings an idle song. Now o'er the rocks that lay So silent late the shallow current roars ; Fast flow thy waters on their sea- ward way. Through wider -spreading shores. Avon ! I gaze and know The lesson emblem'd in thy varying way ; It speaks of human joys that rise so slow. So rapidly decay. Kingdoms which long have stood. And slow to strength and power attain' d at last. Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood Ebb to their ruin fast. Thus like thy flow appears Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage ; Alas ! how hurryingly the ebbing years Then hasten to old age ! THE VICTORY. Hark, — how the church bells' thundering harmony Stuns the glad ear ! tidings of joy have come, — Good tidings of great joy ! two gallant ships Met on the element ; — they met, they fought A desperate fight ! — good tidings of great joy ! Old England triumph'd I — yet another day Of glory for the ruler of the waves ! E 2 28 SOUTHEY. For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause. They have their passing paragraphs of praise. And are forgotten ! There was one who died In that day's glory, whose obscurer name No proud historian's page will chronicle. Peace to his honest soul ! I read his name, — 'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God The sound was not familiar to mine ear. But it was told me, after, that this man Was one whom lawful violence had forced From his own home, and wife, and little ones. Who by his labour lived ; that he was one Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel A husband's love, — a father's anxiousness ; That, from the wages of his toil, he fed The distant dear ones, and would talk of them At midnight, when he trod the silent deck With him he valued ; — talk of them, of joys Which he had known, — oh God ! and of the hour When they should meet again, till his full heart. His manly heart, at last would overflow — Even like a child's — with very tenderness. Peace to his honest spirit ! suddenly It came, and merciful the ball of death, — For it came suddenly and shatter'd him. And left no moment's agonizing thought On those he loved so well. He, ocean deep. Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter Who art the widow's friend ! Man does not know What a cold sickness made her blood run back When first she heard the tidings of the fight : Man does not know with what a dreadful hope She listened to the names of those who died : Man does not know, — or, knowing, will not heed, — With what an agony of tenderness She gazed upon her children, and beheld His image who was gone. O God ! be Thou, Who art the widow's friend, her comforter ! 29 THE BATTLE OP BLENHEIM. It was a summer evening. Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun. And by him sported on the green His httle grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round. Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found ; He came to ask what he had found. That was so large, and smooth, and round. Old Kaspar took it from the boy. Who stood expectant by ; And then the old man shook his head. And with a natural sigh, " 'Tis some poor fellow's scull," said he, " Who fell in the great victory." " I find them in the garden, " For there's many here about ; " And often when I go to plough, " The ploughshare turns them out ! " For many thousand men," said he, " Were slain in that great victory." " Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries ; While little Wilhelmine looks up. With wonder- waiting eyes ; " Now tell us all about the war, " And what they kill'd each other for." " It was the English," Kaspar cried, " Who put the French to rout ; " But what they kill'd each other for, ■■' I could not well make out. " But every body said," quoth he, " That 'twas a famous victory. 30 SOUTHEY. My father lived at Blenlieim then, " Yon Uttle stream hard by ; They burnt his dweUing to the ground, " And he was forced to fly ; So with his wife and child he fled. Nor had he where to rest his head. With fire and sword the country round " Was wasted far and wide ; And many a childing mother then, " And new-born baby died ; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. They say it was a shocking sight " After the field was won ; For many thousand bodies here " Lay rotting in the sun ; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, " And our good prince Eugene." Why, 'twas a very wicked thing !" Said little WUhelmine. Nay — nay — my little girl," quoth he. It was a famous victory. And every body prais'd the Duke " Who this great fight did win." But what good came of it at last ?" Quoth little Peterkin. Why, that I cannot tell," said he. But 'twas a famous victory." Thou wert out betimes, thou busy, busy Bee ! As abroad I took my early way. Before the cow from her resting-place Had risen up and left her trace On the meadow, with dew so grey, Saw I thee, thou busy, busy Bee. SOUTHEY. 31 Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy Bee ! After the fall of the Cistus flower ; When the Primrose of evening was ready to burst, I heard thee last, as I saw thee first ; In the silence of the evening hour. Heard I thee, thou busy, busy Bee. Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy Bee ! Late and early at employ ; Still on thy golden stores intent. Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent What thy winter will never enjoy ; Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, busy Bee ! Little dost thou think, thou busy, busy Bee ! What is the end of thy toil. When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone. And all thy work for the year is done, Thy master comes for the spoil : Woe then for thee, thou busy, busy Bee ! O God ! have mercy in this dreadful hour On the poor mariner ! in comfort here Safe shelter'd as I am, I almost fear The blast that rages with resistless power. What were it now to toss upon the waves. The madden'd waves, and know no succour near : The howling of the storm alone to hear. And the wild sea that to the tempest raves : To gaze amid the horrors of the night. And only see the billow's gleaming light ; And in the dread of death to think of her. Who, as she listens, sleepless, to the gale, Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale } O God ! have mercy on the mariner ! 32 MOORE. Thomas Moore was born in Dublin, on the 28th of May, 1780. At the age of four- teen, he entered the University of his native city, where he took his degree. In 1799, he became a member of tlie Middle Temple, and was called to the bar. Before he had completed his twentieth year, he published his Translations of the Odes of Anaoreon ; and, at once, " became famous." The work was dedicated to the Prince of Wales, and led to an introduction to his royal highness, and a subsequent intimacy of which a variety of anecdotes are related ; but that it terminated disadvantageouslyforboth, we have unquestionable proof in the pages of some of the Poet's later writings. In 1803, Mr. Moore obtained an official situation at Bermuda ; he filled it but for a short period, and returned to England. In 1806, he published the " Odes and Epistles ;" in 1808, Poems, under the assumed name of Thomas Little; in 1817, Lallah Rookh; and in 1823, the Loves of the Angels. Besides these Poems, Mr. Moore has printed a variety of light political squibs, — the value of which naturally ceased with the topics that called them forth. Mr. Moore resides in the vicinity of Bowood, — the seat of his friend Lord Lans- downe, near Calne. He has preferred retirement to celebrity — except that which the Muses have so lavishly bestowed upon him ; and resists all attempts to lure him into the arena of public life. It will be readily believed that he is the idol of the circle in which he moves. A finer gentleman, in the better sense of the term, is no where to be found : his learning is not only extensive, but sound ; and he is pre-eminent for those qualities which attract and charm in society. His voice though not of large compass, is wonderfully sweet and effective, and he is a good musician ;— to hear him sing one of his own melodies, is, indeed, a rich treat. In person he is " Little," and the expres- sion of his countenance is rather joyous than dignified; there is, however, a peculiar kindliness in his look and manner which in no way detracts from the enthusiasm his presence cannot fail to excite. It is scarcely necessary to comment on the poetry of Thomas Moore. It has been more extensively read than that of any existing author ; those who might not have sought it otherwise, have become familiar with it through the medium of the delicious music to which it has been wedded ; and it would be difficult to find a single indivi- dual in Great Britain unable to repeat some of his verses. No writer, living or dead, has enjoyed a popularity so universal : and if an author's position is to depend on the delight he produces, we must class the author of " Lallah Rookh," and the " Irish Melodies," as " chiefest of the Bards" of modern times. His poetry, however, is defi- cient in those higher and more enduring materials which form the ground-work of imperishable fame. Its leading attribute is grace. The Poet rarely attempts, and more rarely succeeds, in fathoming the depths of the human heart, and laj'ing open the rich vein that has been hidden by the dull quarry : he is always brilliant, but sel- dom powerful ; he is an epicurean in poetry, and tm-ns away from all objects which do not yield enjoyment. His fancy is perpetually at play ; — things which please the senses are more contemplated than those which excite or controul the passions ; and while he " Lives in a bright little world of his own" — we must not mistake the dazzling and brUliant light which surrounds him, fpr the animating and invigorating sun. His poetry is exquisitely finished : we never encounter a line or even a word that grates upon the ear ; it is "harmony, delicious harmony," unbroken by a single jarring note. We are by no means singular in thinking that the " Irish Melodies" must be con- sidered as the most valuable and enduring of all his works; they " Circle his name wltli a charm against death ;" and as a writer of song he stands without a rival. Mr. Moore found the national music of his country, with very few exceptions, debased by a union with words that were either unseemly or unintelligible. It was, therefore, comparatively lost to the world ; and time was rapidly diminishing that which memory alone preserved. The attempt to combine it with appropriate language, was commenced in 1807. Its success is almost without parallel in the history of literature. The music of Ireland is now known and appreciated all over the world ;— and the songs of the Irish Poet will en- dure as long as the country,— the loves and glories of which they commemorate. MOORE. WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. They say that Love had once a boojv (The urchin likes to copy you), Where all who came the pencil took, And wrote, like us, a line or two. 'Twas Innocence, the maid divine, Who kept this volume bright and fair. And saw that no unhallow'd line, Or thought profane, should enter there. And sweetly did the pages fill With fond device and loving lore, And every leaf she turn'd was still More bright than that she turn'd before ! 34 Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft. How light the magic pencil ran ! Till Fear would come, alas ! as oft, And trembling close what Hope began. A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief, And Jealousy would, now and then. Ruffle in haste some snowy leaf. Which Love had still to smooth again I But, oh, there was a blooming boy. Who often turn'd the pages o'er. And wrote therein such words of joy. As all who read still sigh'd for more ! And Pleasure was this spirit's name. And though so soft his voice and look. Yet Innocence, whene'er he came. Would tremble for her spotless book ! For still she saw his playful fingers Fill'd with sweets and wanton tovs ; And well she knew the stain that lingers After sweets from wanton boys ! And so it chanced, one luckless night He let his honey goblet fall O'er the dear book so pure, so white, And sullied lines, and marge and all ! In vain he sought, with eager lip. The honey from the leaf to drink. For still the more the boy would sip. The deeper still the blot would sink ! Oh, it would make you weep, to see The traces of this honey flood Steal o'er a page, where Modesty Had freshly drawn a rose's bud ! And Fancy's emblems lost their glow. And Hope's sweet lines were all defaced. And Love himself could scarcely know What Love himself had lately traced ! 35 At length the urchin Pleasure fled, (For how, alas ! could Pleasure stay ?) And Love, while many a tear he shed. In blushes flung the book away ! The index now alone remains. Of all the pages spoil'd by Pleasure, And though it bears some honey stains. Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure ! And oft, they say, she scans it o'er. And oft, by this memorial aided. Brings back the pages, now no more. And thinks of lines that long have faded ! I know not if this tale be true. But thus the simple facts are stated ; And I refer their truth to you. Since Love and you are near related ! 1 SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME. I SAW thy form in youthful prime. Nor thought that pale decay Would steal before the steps of time. And waste its bloom away, Mary ! Yet still thy features wore that light Which fleets not with the breath ; And life ne'er look'd more truly bright Than in thy smile of death, Mary ! As streams that run o'er golden mines. Yet humbly, calmly glide. Nor seem to know the wealth that shines Within their gentle tide, Mary ! So, veil'd beneath the simplest guise. Thy radiant genius shone. And that which charm'd all other eyes, Seem'd worthless in thy own, Marv ! F 2 36 If souls could always dwell above, Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere ; Or, could we keep the souls we love. We ne'er had .lost thee here, Mary ! Though many a gifted mind we meet, Though fairest forms we see. To live with them is far less sweet Than to remember thee, Marv ! I SAW FKOM THE BEACH. I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining, A bark o'er the waters moved gloriously on ; I came, when the sun o'er that beach was declining, — The bark was still there, but the waters were gone ! Ah ! such is the fate of our life's early promise. So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known : Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone ! Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning The close of our day, the calm eve of our night ; — Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning. Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light. Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning, When passion first waked a new life through his frame. And his soul — like the wood that grows precious in burning- Gave out all its sweets to Love's exquisite flame ! THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUERED WITH PLEASURES AND WOES. This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes. That chase one another, like waves of the deep, — Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows. Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep. MOORE. 37 So closely our whims on our miseries tread. That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried , And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed. The goose-feathers of Folly can turn it aside. But pledge me the cup — if existence would cloy With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise. Be ours the light grief that is sister to Joy, And the short brilliant folly that flashes and dies ! When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount. Through fields full of sunshine, with heart full of play. Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount. And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and have tasted The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine. Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted. And left their light urns all as empty as mine ! But pledge me the goblet — while Idleness weaves Her flowerets together, if Wisdom can see One bright drop or two, that has fall'n on the leaves From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me ! ST. JEROME'S LOVE. Who is the maid my spirit seeks. Through cold reproof and slander's blight ? Has she Love's roses on her cheeks ? Is hers an eye of this world's light ? No, — wan and sunk with midnight prayer Are the pale looks of her I love ; Or if, at times, a light be there. Its beam is kindled from above. I chose not her, my soul's elect. From those who seek their Maker's shrine In gems and garlands proudly 'deck'd. As if themselves were things divine ! No — heaven but faintly warms the breast That beats beneath a broider'd veil ; And she who comes in glittering vest To mourn her frailty, still is frail. 38 Not so the faded form I prize And love, because its bloom is gone ; The glory in those sainted eyes Is all the grace her brow puts on. And ne'er was beauty's dawn so bright, So touching as that form's decay. Which, like the altar's trembling light, In holy lustre wastes away ! OI'T, IN THE STILLY NIGHT. Oft, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me ; The smiles, the tears. Of boyhood's years. The words of love then spoken ; The eyes that shone. Now dimm'd and gone. The cheerful hearts now broken ! Thus, in the stilly night. Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. "When I remember all The friends, so link'd together, I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather ; I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted. Whose lights are fled. Whose garland's dead. And all but he departed ! Thus in the stilly night. Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. MOORE. 39 WHEN 'MIDST THE GAY I MEET. When 'midst the gay I meet That blessed smile of thine, Though still on me it turns most sweet, I scarce can call it mine : But when to me alone Your secret tears you show. Oh ! then I feel those tears my own, And claim them as they flow. Then still with bright looks bless The gay, the cold, the free ; Give smiles to those who love you less, But keep your tears for me. The snow on Jura's steep Can smile with many a beam. Yet still in chains of coldness sleep, How bright soe'er it seem. But, when some deep-felt ray. Whose touch is fire, appears. Oh I then the smile is warm'd away, And, melting, turns to tears. Then still with bright looks bless The gay, the cold, the free ; Give smiles to those who love you less. But keep your tears for me. ^^' SHELLEY. Percy nvasiiE Shelley, eldest son of Sir Timothy Shelley, Bart, of Castle Goring, was born at Field Place, Sussex, on the 4th of August, 1792. He was educated at Eton, and at University College, Oxford, was twice married, and has left two children, a dauRhter by the first wife, and a son— who is heir to the title— by the second. His widow, the daughter of William Godwin, is well known as the author of Frankenstein and other novels. Mr. Shelley was cut off in the flower of his years and genius, on the 8th of July, 1K22; he was drowned in a storm on the Genoese coast, whither he was hastening, to his abode near the town of Lerici. It is within the Rcojie neither of the limits nor the object of this work, to enter upon those controversial points, which so occupied the attention, and coloured the exist- ence of this extraordinary man. Sullice it to say (for the man's nature can never he lett out, where the Poet is concerned), that whether his speculations were well or ill grounded, he is acknowledged on all hands to have been sincere in his pursuit of them ; and that Ids friends entertain the most enthusiastic regard for his memory. Mr. Shelley was tall, and slight of figure, with a singular union of general delicacy of organii;ation and muscular strength. His hair was brown, prematurely touched with grey; his complexion fair and glowing; his eyes grey and extremely vivid; his face small and delicately featured, especially about the lower part ; and he had an expres- sion of countenance, when he was talking in liis usual earnest fashion, which has been described elsewhere, as giving you the idea of something " seraphical." Mr. Shelley's poetry resembles that creation, for the moral harmony of which he was so anxious. It is wonderfully flowing and energetic, round and harmonious as the orb, — no less conversant with seas and mountains, than with flowers and the minutest beauty, — and it hungers and thirsts after a certain beauty of perfection, as the orb rolls in loving attraction round the sun. He is remarkable for mixing a scholarly grandiosity of style with the most unaflected feeling and the most impulsive expres- sion, and for being alike supernatural and human in his enthusiasm, — that is to say, he is equally fond of soaring away into the most ethereal abstractions, as if he were spirit ; and of sympathizing with every-day flesh and blood, as though he had done nothing but sulfer and enjoy with the most earth-bound of his fellow-creatures. Whether interrogating Nature in the icy solitudes of Chamouny, or thrilling with the lark in the sunshine, or shedding indignant tears with sorrow and poverty, or pulling flowers like a child in a field, or pitching himself back into the depths of time and space, and discoursing with the first forms and gigantic shadows of creation ; he is alike in earnest, and at home. His faults arise from the verj- excess of his sympa- thies with all things. He is sometimes obscure in the remoteness of his abstractions, and sometimes so impatient with the forms of error, as to seem contradictory to his own tolerant doctrine. He not only '* Relishes ail things sharply,^ Passioned as we" — He is far more passioned, and relishes them witli a sharpness that makes him cry out like one constituted almost too delicately for existence. The cry is useful, because it begets attention to what might be otherwise too dully endured ; but it leaves his genius with a certain charge of impatience and excess upon it, that hazards, meanwhile, that very enjoyment of the beautiful which he longed for, and which it is the more peculiar business of poetry to produce. The Editor is indebted for this Memoir of Shelley, and also for that of Keats, to the friend of both, Leigh Hunt. The dangerous tendency of Shelley's writings,— his mis- takes, theoretical and practical, acknowledged in some instances by himself, — will not find from others the excuse they have found from those who had personal regard for the man, as well as admiration of the Poet. Shelley may have been, as it is contended he was, sincere in his schemes for re-modelling society; but his doctrines are not, therefore, (he less pernicious. Unhappily he died before judgment had arrived to the aid of genius : it is impossible to doubt that a mind so naturally generous would have atoned for many of the errors he liad assisted to propagate, if he had lived to be con- vinced of them. He publicly disavowed (in the " Examiner") the republication of " Queen Mab;" and regretted that he had written it. It was the work of a youth exasperated by scholastic injustice. SHELLEY. Sea-girt City ! thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen ; Now is come a darker day. And thou soon must be his prey. If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier. A less drear ruin then than now, With thy conquest-branded brow Stooping to the slave of slaves From thy throne, among the waves Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew Flies, as once before it flew. O'er thine isles depopulate. And all is in its ancient state. 42 SHELLEY. Save where many a palace-gate With green sea-flowers overgrown Like a rock of ocean's own, Topples o'er the abandon'd sea As the tides change sullenly. The fisher on his watery way. Wandering at the close of day. Will spread his sail and seize his oar Till he pass the gloomy shore. Lest thy dead should, from their sleep Bursting o'er the starlit deep. Lead a rapid masque of death O'er the waters of his path. THE CLOUD. I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowert? From the seas and the streams ; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noon-day dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet birds every one. When I'ock'd to rest on their mother's breast. As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under ; And then again I dissolve it in rain. And laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below. And their great pines groan aghast ; And all the night 'tis my pillow white. While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,- Lightning, my pilot, sits. In a cavern under is fetter' d the thunder. It struggles and howls at fits ; Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion. This pilot is guiding me. Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea ; SHELLEY. 43 Over the lills, and the crags, and the hills. Over the lakes and the plams. Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. The Spirit he loves remains ; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile. Whilst he is dissolving in rains. The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack. When the morning star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag. Which an earthquake rocks and swings. An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardours of rest and of love. And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above. With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest. As still as a brooding dove. That orbed maiden, with white fire laden. Whom mortals call the moon. Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor. By the midnight breezes strewn ; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. Which only the angels hear. May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof. The stars peep behind her and peer ; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. Like a swarm of golden bees. When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent. Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. Are each paved with the moon and these. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone. And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim. When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bi'idge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, G 2 44 SHELLEY. Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof. The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow. When the powers of the air are chain'd to my chair. Is the million- colour' d bow ; The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove. While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of earth and water. And the nursling of the sky ; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when with never a stain. The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams. Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. And out of the caverns of rain. Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. AN EXHORTATION. Chameleons feed on light and air; Poets' food is love and fame : If in this wide world of care Poets could but find the same With as little toil as thev. Would they ever change their hue As the light chameleons do. Suiting it to every ray Twenty times a-dav ."^ Poets are on this cold earth. As chameleons might be. Hidden from their early birth In a cave beneath the sea. 45 Where light is, chameleons change ; Where love is not, poets do : Fame is love disguised — if few Find either, never think it strange That poets range. Yet dare not stain with wealth or power A poet's free and heavenly mind : If bright chameleons should devour Any food but beams and wind. They would grow as earthly soon As their brother lizards are. Children of a sunnier star, Spirits from beyond the moon, O, refuse the boon ! MUTABILITY. The flower that smiles to-day To-morrow dies ; All that we wish to stay. Tempts and then flies : What is this world's delight ? Lightning that mocks the night. Brief even as bright. Virtue, how frail it is ! Friendship too rare ! Love, how it sells poor bliss For proud despair ! But we, though soon they fall. Survive their joy and all Which ours we call. Whilst skies are blue and bright. Whilst flowers are gay. Whilst eyes that change ere night Make glad the day ; Whilst yet the calm hours creep. Dream thou — and from thy sleep Then wake to weep. 46 SHKLLEY. TO NIGHT. Swiftly walk over the western wave. Spirit of Night ! Out of the misty eastern cave. Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear. Which make thee terrible and dear, — Swift be thy flight ! Wrap thy form in a mantle grey. Star inwrought ! Blind with thine hair the eyes of day. Kiss her until she be wearied out. Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land. Touching all with thine opiate wand, — Come, long sought ! When I arose and saw the dawn, I sighed for thee ; When light rode high, and the dew was gone. And noon lay heavy on flower and tree. And the weary day turned to his rest. Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee ! Thy brother. Death, came, and cried, Wouldst thou me ? Thy sweet child. Sleep, thy filmy-eyed, Murdered like a noon-tide bee. Shall I nestle near thy side ? Wouldst thou me ? — And I replied. No, not thee ! Death will come when thou art dead. Soon, too soon ! Sleep will come when thou art fled ; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night ; Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon ! SHELLEY. 47 TO A SKYLARK, Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! Bird thou never wert. That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher. From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire ; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun. O'er which clouds are bright'niug. Thou dost float and run ; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight ; Like a star of heaven. In the broad day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight . Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere. Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear. Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. - All the earth and air With thy voice is loud. As, when night is bare. From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not ; What is most like thee ? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 48 SHELLEY. Like a poet hidden In the Hght of thought. Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower. Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower : Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awaken'd flowers. All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird. What sweet thoughts are thine : I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus Hymeneal, Or triumphal chaunt, Match'd with thine would be all But an empty vaunt — A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 49 What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain ? What fields, or waves, or mountains ? What shapes of sky or plain ? WTaat love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of pain ? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be : Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee : Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream. Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? We look before and after, And pine for what is not : Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught ; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear ; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound. Better than all treasures. That in books are found. Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, * Such harmonious madness. From my lips would flow. The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 50 COLERIDGE. Samuel Taylor Colehidge was born on the 20th of October 1772, at Ottery St. Mary, in Devonshire. His father was a learned clergyman ; and the Poet was tlie youngest of eleven children. In 1782, he was admitted into Christ's Hospital, London, where, according to his own account, he " enjoyed the inestimable advantage of a very sensible, though at the same time, a very severe master." At a premature age, even before his fifteenth year, he had " bewildered himself in metaphysical and theological controversy ;" yet he pursued his studies with so much zeal and perseverance, that in 1791 he became Grecian, or captain of the school, which entitled him to an exhi- bition at the University; he was entered at Jesus College, Cambridge. Three years afterwards, " in an inauspicious hour he left the friendly cloisters," without assigning any cause, and without taking his degree ; and again came to London. There, with- out the means of support, he wandered for some days about the streets, and enlisted in the 15th Dragoons. While doing duty at Reading, he wrote on the wall of the stable a Latin sentence, which chanced to meet the eye of one of the officers. The inquiry that followed led to his discharge. In 1794, he published a small volume of Poems. Subsequently, the taint of French republicanism fell upon him; and he lec- tured at Bristol in praise of the Daemon that had stolen, and was for a time welcomed in, the garb of liberty. In 1795, he married; and in 1798, he visited Germany. In 1800, he returned to England ; and although hehadformerly professed Unitarianism, and had preached to a congregation at Taunton, he became a firm adherent to the doctrines of Christianity ; or, to use his own expression, found a " reconversion." Afterwards, he " wasted the prime and manhood of his intellect," as the Editor of a Newspaper. Du- ring the last nineteen years of his life he resided with his faithful and devoted friends Mr. and Mrs. Gillman, at Highgate; lecturing occasionally, writing poetry and prose, and delighting and instructing all who had the good fortune to be admitted to his soci- ety. He died on the 25th of July, 1834. The friends who knew him best, and under the shelter of whose roof-tree the later and the happier years of his chequered life were passed, have recorded their opinion of his character on the tablet that marks his grave in the Church at Highgate ; and all who enjoyed the privilege of his acquaintance will bear testimony to its truth. It tells of his profound learning and discursive genius; his private worth; his social and Christian virtues; and adds, that his disposition was unalterably sweet and angelic : that he was an ever-enduring, ever-loving friend ; the gentlest and kindest teacher — the most engaging home companion. Hazlitt, who knew him in his youth, describes him as rather above the middle size, inclining to corpulency ; as having a dreamy countenance, a forehead broad and high, with large projecting eye- brows, and "eyes rolling like a sea with darkened lustre." The description applies with almost equal accuracy to the Poet in age. The wonder- ful eloquence of his conversation is a prominent theme with all who have written or spoken of him ; it was full of matter : his bookish lore, and his wide and intimate ac- quaintance with men and things were enlivened by a grace and sprightliness abso- lutely startling ; — his manner was singularly attractive, and the tones of his voice were perfect music. Few have obtained greater celebrity in the world of letters; yet few have so wasted the energies of a naturally great mind; few, in short, have done so little of the pur- posed and promised much. Some of the most perfect examples that our language can supply, are to be found among his Poems, full of the simplest and purest nature, yet pregnant with the deepest and most subtle philosophy*. His judgment and taste were sound and refined to a degree; and when he spoke of the " little he had published" as being of " little importance," it was because his conception of excellence exceeded even his power to convey it. Those who read his wildest productions — Christahel, and the Ancient Mariner — will readily appreciate the fertile imagination and prodigious strength of the writer ; and if they turn to the gentler eflforts of his genius, they will find so many illustrations of a passage which prefaces an edition of his Juvenile Verses : " Poetry has been to me its ' exceeding great reward ;' it has soothed my aflaictions ; it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude ; and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the good and the beautiful in all that meets and surrounds uie." * A compteto and beriiitifully printed edition of tlie Poems of S. T. Coleridge, in 3 vols, was published by ric-keiing, revised ami arranged by the Poet, sliortly before his death. vig^gatfsjtojijgh'^ "^j^ .^i^hI^hK' ^hh|^^^^^' ^g^M^^gBfi^™H^WKffi (:;|^ '"j'^^^^^^^^^^-T^^A ^ ^^^^^9^^^^' ' ' J^^pi8iBHIi^^^H^''iM^ ^^■.-.;^: ' '^^§JHH|^OT^M|^^K ^^^^s^^uc ''^^HEH^^^ra^SSE^^'^ ^^^^^^ ^^^B^^^^ff y ^^HBMJMiMMiK c "^'t ."^StJfflSSJEilS^ J^il^S^H^^Sfl^^nflH^^^S^^^'^ ^ nKms^^&^w^ji^^^^HBlK' ■^L^^H ^^MBBH^BK[^^|^^^y^P*^oi^j^^^ '^M ^hI^H^^hk^I^^^^^^^^^ I^'^ ^S ^^^^HnHBrSR^^^^^^^^- ^' ^s ^^^^m^^H^I^J^^^^^R^:' ' f^l^fM BB^B^^^ ^m^ ^^^fSSSSBS^tt^t^^^^amSf^v^SI^^S^StB^^^^'^ /l^ ^^MBt^H^^g- -iH-, ^^^~^^^HBtaj^^^2^^3P§^^l'rfS'?s*^ <# ^^^aWl^miSSB!^^'?^^^^ "■'*■■'-*,' p *"" '%;:k^^^^^^HBBB9iB|^^^S^w€-