CORNELL NIVERSITY LIBRARY hiiSA" M^prWi -a. a: 06 ' - v.' 8>L. €c*> C II ;>'f«d ". " J SO*** 0. C|OC kvm, 1 ■3- THE - ■•;• BEAUTIES OF MODERN BRITISH POETRY, SsgstemattcaUg ErrangeU* BY DAVID GRANT Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, The Poets, who on earth have made us heits Of truth, and pure delight, by heavenly Lays. WORDSWORTH. ABERDEEN : GEORGE KING, 36, St. NICHOLAS STREET; WAUGH & IKNES, EDINBURGH; W. COLLINS, GLASGOW : AND WHITTAKER, TREACHER, & CO. LONDON. 1831. * ABERDEEN : ['R*INTED BT G. CORNWALL, 22, BROAD STREET, TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. GRANT, OF GRANT, Whiz Volume IS, BY PERMISSION, GRATEFULLY AND RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED. INTRODUCTION. To the question — What is Poetry ? — various answers have been given. By some, its essence has been said to consist in imita- tion ; and, by others, in fiction. But these qualities, though very common and important, are neither necessary nor exclu- sive elements in its composition ; for, imitation properly be- longs only to one department of it — the Dramatic — and truth and reality may be the materials of the purest Poetry ; while the humblest Prose may, and frequently does, embrace fiction and imitation. The close affinity between Poetry and Elo- quence, or highly impassioned Prose, renders it difficult, if not impossible, to point out exactly the line of demarcation between them, or to give a definition of the former so comprehensive as to embrace all that really belongs to it, and at the same time so restrictive as to exclude what lies beyond its legitimate bounds. By Dr. Blair, it has been defined " the language of passion, or of enlivened imagination, formed, most commonly, into regular numbers." But whatever difficulty there may be in giving an abstract definition of Poetry, its difference from Prose is sufficiently marked to be felt and recognised by any one not void of judgment or sensibility. INTRODUCTION, It were a mistake to suppose that Poetry is the invention of a modern age, or a refined people. Originating in sentiments and passions which are inherent in human nature, and which belong equally to the savage and the civilized state, it has ex- isted, in some form or other, in all ages and countries. It is coeval with the human species and articulate language ; and seems to have been employed, by early and rude tribes, in ce- lebrating their religious rites, in extolling the heroic exploits of their warriors, in lamenting public and private calamities, and, in the absence of the better means now possessed, in transmit- ting the events of their histoiy to succeeding generations. In attempting to trace its origin, we are left without the guidance of authentic history, and carried, as becomes its own divine and ethereal spirit, into the remote ages of hoary anti- quity, and the boundless regions of the imagination. So far back, however, as authentic history does go, we find it existing in great perfection. The records of inspiration furnish us with specimens of Poetry, the most ancient which have come down to us. The greater part of the book of Job, unquestionably one of the most ancient compositions in the world, the Song of Moses and the Children of Israel on their deliverance from Pharaoh and the Red Sea, and the Song of Deborah, not to come farther down, exhibit specimens of Poetry which, inde- pendently of their divine inspiration, are unrivalled for their purity, beauty, and sublimity. " In the first ages of Greece, priests, philosophers, and states- men, all delivered their instructions in Poetry. Apollo, Or- pheus, and Amphion, their most ancient bards, are represented as the first tamers of mankind, the first founders of law and ci- INTRODUCTION. lii vilization. Minos and Thales sung to the lyre the laws which they composed ; and till the age immediately preceding that of Herodotus, history had appeared in no other form than that of poetical tales. " In the same manner, among all other nations, poets and songs are the first objects that make their appearance. Among the Scythian or Gothic nations many of their kings and leaders were scalders, or poets : and it is from their runic songs, that the most early writers of their history, such as Saxo-Grammati- cus, acknowledge, that they had derived their chief information . Among the Celtic tribes, in Gaul, Britain, and Ireland, we know, in what admiration their bards were held, and how great influence they possessed over the people. They were both poets and musicians, as all the first poets in every country were. They were always near the person of the chief or sovereign ; they recorded all his exploits; they were employed as the am- bassadors between contending tribes, and their persons were held sacred."* In the earliest ages of mankind, Poetry was employed to ex- press spontaneous emotions as they came warm from the heart. It was fettered by no law ; its spirit was, as yet, tamed by none of the rules and restrictions of the art, — from the chair of criti- cism it had neither to face nor to fear any challenge on points of mere technical propriety ; and if its freeness wears occasion- ally the air of caprice, there breathe a simplicity, a wildness, and a force, which lend more than a redeeming charm, and which may cause some of the productions of ancient times to be read with a fond and lingering enthusiasm, when not a few * Blair, a 2 IV INTRODUCTION. pieces of more refined ages, shaped and squared by rule, shall have sunk hopelessly into oblivion. It were idle, however, nor is it our purpose to contend that Poetry has not been improved, like other arts, in the progressive march of civilization. The taste and intelligence of succeeding times have reared for it a system of legislation, by which its irregularity has been disciplined, and its wildness subdued ; and, in place of the medley of va- rious sorts, common in the first ages, it has now assumed a dis- tinct shape — either the Didactic, Descriptive, Pastoral, Lyric, or Dramatic, according to the nature of its subject, and the form of its composition. Nor is its improvement less apparent in respect to unity of design — clearness of arrangement — con- nexion of parts — and variety and sweetness of versification. Perhaps in some cases, refinement has been pushed too far, so as to " o'erstep the modesty of nature f and, in others, the powers of original conception have not been tasked enough ; whilst, in order to meet the vast cravings of the age, or to se- cure wealth or reputation, much Poetry that is common-place, gaudy, and superficial, has been forced into a premature, ephemeral existence. Thus, Poetry, in the midst of civiliza- tion, is exposed to corruption from quarters that are indeed dif- ferent from those of a ruder age, but not less dangerous and fa- tal to its power ; and it is only, we conceive, when the advan- tages of the rude and civilized states are combined — when the sentiments and feelings of native genius are united with elegant language and harmonious numbers, that Poetry appears in its highest beauty and perfection. Respecting the value and importance of Poetry as an art, there is not room for much diversity of opinion. By some, TNTROIJUCTION. V however, it has been represented as frivolous, if not pernicious. Such persons are disposed to resolve all utility and excellence into mere facts and reasonings, and to make common cause with the mathematician, who, after having perused the immortal Iliad of Homer, coolly asked, — " What does it prove"! On persons of this phlegmatic temperament, who display such amazing insensibility to the influence of the purest and noblest Poetry itself, any attempt to illustrate its beauty, would be en- tirely thrown away. But there are others, who, though by no means so much alive to its importance as they should be, yet possess some taste and relish for it ; and on them its claims may be more successfully urged. It may be fairly put to those, then, who would depreciate its merits : — Can an art which has been cultivated in every age and every country; which has been adopted by men of the greatest intellect, as the medium for expressing their lofty con- templations ; and especially, which has been employed by Je- hovah himself, in revealing his will to mankind, and in recom- mending the lessons of piety to their attention- — can such an art be deemed useless or unimportant ? But its value will more fully appear if we consider the ends which Poetry seeks to ac- complish. By some of the admirers and advocates of Poetry, it has been denominated a mere superfluity and ornament; and by others, it has been said, that its primary design is to please, but that in order to its perfection, instruction is necessary, because it would not be perfectly agreeable without it. It would be more just, however, to say, that the object of all good Poetry, is threefold, — to delight the imagination, — to inform the under- VI INTRODUCTION. standing,— and to improve the heart; and on these several grounds, its importance may be strongly and safely maintained . Man requires pleasure, not merely for its own sake, but to fit and invigorate him for discharging the duties of life. Poetry opens up sources of pleasure, at once innocent, rational, and sublime. It not only throws a charm over the scenes of Nature and human life, but unlocks the golden stores of the imagina- tion. When the real world which we dwell in, and look upon, is wrapt in gloom, either to the corporeal or mental eye, it transports us into an imaginary world, where all is calmness, sunshine, and beauty, and which is as good as real, so long as the illusion can be fully sustained. But Poetry is no less va- luable, from the charm which it is capable of throwing over the visible and substantial creation by which we are surrounded. There is enough, and more than enough, in the aspect of exter- nal Nature, without resorting to the creations of the imagina- tion, to fill the mind with rapture, were we only to open our eyes, our ears, and our hearts, to its impressions. Yet, "it is strange to observe the callousness of some men, before whom all the glories of heaven and earth pass in daily succession, without touching their hearts, elevating their fancy, or leaving any durable remembrance. Even of those who pretend to sen- sibility, how many are there to whom the lustre of the rising or setting sun ; the sparkling concave of the midnight sky ; the mountain forest tossing and roaring to the storm, or warbling with all the melodies of a summer evening ; the sweet inter- change of hill and dale, shade and sunshine, grove, lawn, and water, which an extensive landscape offers to the view ■ the scenery of the ocean, so lovely, so majestic, and so tremen- INTRODUCTION, vii dous ; and the many pleasing varieties of the animal and vege- table kingdoms, could never afford so much real satisfaction, as the steams and noise of a ball-room, the insipid fiddling and squeaking of an opera, or the vexations and wranglings of a card-table !" * How many are there immured in the business and smoke of crowded cities, who are content to pass their lives without ever seeking to leave the scene of their daily occupa- tions, in order to feast their senses with the fragrance and beau- ty of rural objects ! And how many even of those who live in the country, with "brute, unconscious gaze," have looked a thousand times upon the fairest scenes of Nature, without feel- ing one throb of delight, or appearing conscious of their exist- ence ! Now, it is one of the great designs of Poetry, to present Nature in an attractive form to the mind, and to familiarize it with images of the grand and beautiful, until it becomes so cap- tivated with them as at length to delight in the realities which they represent. Nor can we fancy many pleasures more pure and ennobling than those of him who roams and expatiates among the wonderful works of God, endeared and exalted to his mind, by the graphic and glowing delineations of the Poet's imagina- tion. Such an individual may adopt the language of one of the best of all descriptive Poets, to express his feelings : — " I care not, Fortune, what you me deny : You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace ; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face ; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns by living stream at eve : Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their joys to the great Children leave ; Of Fancy, Reason, Virtue, nought can me bereave. '* * Beattie. V1J1 INTRODUCTION. But another aim of Poetry is instruction ; and this must great- ly enhance its value in the estimation of those who are not so willing to own its importance as an instrument of pleasure. No one will question the importance of the vocation of the Philo- sopher, the Mathematician, the Man of Science, or the Histo- rian : — And why should not that of the Poet be also acknow- ledged 1 Is there any province of Nature or of Art accessible to the former, from which the latter is debarred ? Or rather, is he not at liberty to range boundlessly through all ? It is readily allowed that their labours in evolving and establishing truths, which had previously been unknown, are of inestimable value, but does he perform a less acceptable service, by whom they are rescued from the technicalities and dryness of prose, and, " wedded to immortal verse," are brought home to " the busi- ness and the bosoms" of men 1 — " Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge — it is as immortal as the heart of man. If the labours of Men of Science should ever create any material re- volution, direct or indirect, in our condition, and in the impres- sions which we habitually receive, the Poet will sleep then no more than at present, but he will be ready to follow the steps of the Man of Science, not only in those general indirect effects, but he will be at his side, carrying sensation into the midst of the ob- jects of the Science itself. The remotest discoveries of the Chemist, the Botanist, or Mineralogist, will be as proper ob- jects of the Poet's art as any upon which it can be employed, if the time should ever come when these diings shall be familiar to us, and the relations under which they are contemplated by the followers of these respective Sciences shall be manifestly and palpably material to us as enjoying and sufferino; bein°s. INTRODUCTION. ix If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus familiarized to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus pro- duced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man." * The last design of Poetry is the improvement of the heart ; and this exalts it to the highest pitch of elevation among human arts and sciences. In conjunction with its sister art, Music, its power over the passions and affections is all but omnipotent ; and, even by itself, its sway is powerful and universal. It is eminently effectual in producing and cherishing love, benevo- lence, magnanimity, patriotism, and every other virtue, which can dignify and adorn the character. For example, the lines of Cowper, (page 41 of this volume) beginning, " I would not enter on my list of friends (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, Yet wanting Sensibility,) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm," &c. have perhaps frequently reminded the pedestrian of an act of humanity due to the meanest of the inferior creation, when he might otherwise have forgotten it ; or they may have been the means of awakening the principle itself in breasts, which had never previously owned its power. The materials of Poetry are boundless as the universe. All the glories of earth and sky — all the events and scenes which chequer human life — and all the passions and feelings which agitate the human bosom, — together with the endlessly-varied and richly-wrought pictures of the imagination, are its inalien- able inheritance. There is one subject, however, to which it * Wordsworth. X INTRODUCTION. lias been said, that it cannot properly and satisfactorily apply Religion. The authority of Dr. Johnson has perhaps con- tributed not a little to the propagation of this opinion. After all, the real meaning of his language on this point may have been misapprehended. But, if any one truly and seriously en- tertains such a sentiment, we hesitate not to condemn it as im- pious and absurd, and to declare, on the contrary, that if there be any one subject more congenial to the nature of Poetry than another, it is Religion. It is cordially admitted that on a sub- ject so unspeakably awful and momentous, the Poet must be- ware of indulging in any representations that would pervert its truth or tarnish its beauty ; but, under proper restrictions, there is no department in which he may be more appropriately or usefully employed. The being and perfections of God in his works and dispensations, must ever be regarded as the most pleasing, instructive, and improving objects of contemplation to rational natures, and as such, ought to call forth the highest ef- forts of the Poet's genius. The works of Nature are never con- templated with so high a zest, as when associated with their great Creator : — " His presence, who made all so fair, perceived, Makes all still fairer." The separation of God from his works would be of all di- vorces the most unnatural and pernicious, and would, in the view of every pious and enlightened mind, throw a gloom over the face of creation, infinitely more profound than the removal or annihilation of the Sun. The work of Redemption, and the peculiar features of Christianity are also suitable themes for the Poet's lays. It is perhaps in reference to these subjects INTRODUCTION. XI that the objection to Religious Poetry has been chiefly made. Put when it is remembered that a great proportion of the Holy Scriptures, both of the Old and New Testaments, is in the poeti- cal form, and that some of the finest and noblest Poems in our language are expressly founded on revealed truth, the objection, on this ground, loses all its force. The present age has been unusually prolific in poetical ge- nius. Although we cannot boast of any production in the highest department of the art — Epic Poetry — lhat can be put in competition with those of former periods, yet in the extent and variety of genuine Poetry which it has produced, it is undoubt- edly superior to them all. In proof of this, we have only to consider the depth and power of Byron, both in the delineation of natural objects and human passion — the romance, chivalry, and patriotism of Scott — the oriental magnificence and lyric sweetness of Moore — the combined philosophy and simplicity of Wordsworth — the lively fancy of Southey — the deep pathos of Wilson — the wildness and energy of Coleridge — the classic purity and correctness of Campbell and Rogers — the elegance and feeling of Moir, and Mrs. Hemans — the chastened piety and taste of Montgomery, Barton, and Heber — and the varied beauties of a host of other sons and daughters of the Muse, whom it would be tedious even to enumerate, but whose names are familiar, as " household words," to every reader of Poetry. Of the mass of Poetry which has, of late years, issued from the press, a considerable proportion is, almost necessarily, of inferior excellence ; and few have both the time and inclination necessary for selecting the passages of genuine merit which may occur, far less for transcribing them for future reference or per- Ml INTKODUCTION-. usal — and hence arises the necessity for compilations. Respect- ing the present Volume, the Editor may be permitted to say, that many of the pieces of which it is composed have never ap- peared in any collection — that most of them have already pass- ed the ordeal of criticism with approbation — and that they have all been selected on the principle of excluding every thing not directly calculated to inspire the mind with pious sentiments and feelings — to cherish a love for " Nature's wondrous scenery" — or to improve the benevolent and social affections. In re- gard to the arrangement, it will be observed, that the pieces on the same subject, by different authors, are placed in immediate succession ; and thus the reader is, as it were, conducted through a splendid gallery of Pictures, by the most celebrated masters, where he has an opportunity of comparing their different me- rits, and styles of execution. In conclusion, the Editor of this Volume ventures to express a hope, that it will be found a suitable Christmas Present or New Year's Gift — a useful manual for forming the taste, en- riching the mind, and improving the heart of the Young — and a permanent source of delight to the Lover of Nature, the Man of Sensibility, and the Christian. Abebdeen, Long-Acre, 16th December, 1830. CONTENTS. P^GE. Introduction, i The Poet, Miss Landon, 25 Pleasures Evanescent, Burns, 26 Unexpected Pleasure, Rogers, 26 Eminence, I. Byron, 26 Eminence, II. . Dale, 26 Heaven's Simple Plan, Cowper, 27 Lowliness of Mind, White, 28 Waste Not, Knight, 28 Reputation, Moore, 28 Interposition, . Miss Baillie, 29 Lights and Shades, F. H. 29 Virtue, I. Hogg, 29 Virtue, II. Wordsworth, 30 The Virtuous Peasant of the A ps, . . Byron, 30 Humble and Unnoticed Virtue, Mrs. More, 31 All Men Brethren, Southey, 31 Solitude, Byron, 31 Exercise, Wordsworth, 32 Liberty, Cowper, 32 Happiness Independent of Pros perity, Miss Baillie, 32 Happiness, Heber, 33 The Happy Man, Cowper, 34 True Happiness not Local, Pollok, 35 Fancied Happiness, Scott, 35 Paternal Affection, I. lb. 36 Paternal Affection, II. J. W. Cunningham, 36 xiv CONTENTS. PAGE. Paternal Affection, III. Rogers, 36 Friendship, . Pollok, 37 Friends, . Montgomery, 38 Duty Surviving Self-Love, a Soliloquy, Coleridge, 39 Charity, I. Bowles, 39 Charity, II. . . • J - W. Cunningham, 40 Charity, III. . Crabbe, 40 Benevolence, . Bcattie, 40 Sensibility, . Camper, 41 The Good Preacher, lb. 41 John the Baptist, declaring his Sacred M ission, Barton, 42 Saul the Persecutor, journeying to Dama scus, Roscoe, 42 Immortality of the Soul, I. Beattie, 42 Immortality of the Soul, II. . Campbell, 43 Immortality of the Soul, III. Sir JVi I Ham Drummond, 43 Figure of Mercy with the Bible, Pollok, 44 The Bible, I. Scott, U The Bible, II. ... Montgomery, 44 The Bible, III. Pollok, 45 The Nativity, I. Campbell, 45 The Nativity, II. . Hebcr, 46 The Nativity, III. Campbell, 47 The Nativity, IV. . Mi/man, 48 Our Blessed Saviour, Date, 49 Our Blessed Saviour, in the Garden of G ethsemane, lb. 51 The Crucifixion, I. . Montgomery, 52 The Crucifixion, II. . Milman, 52 The Love of God, Dale, 54 Blessed be Thy Name for Ever, Hogg, 54 The Glory of God in Creation, Moore, 55 Destruction of the Assyrians, Byron, 56 The Sabbath Bell, I. . Lamb, 56 The Sabbath Bell, II. . Mrs, C. B. Wilson, 57 Sabbath Morning, I. Graham e, 59 Sabbath Morning, II. . . J. IV. Cunningham, 59 Sabbath Morning, III. Bishop Mant. 60 CONTENTS. XV Sabbath Evening, PAGE. Edmcston, 61 Retirement, Cow per, 62 Silent Devotion, I. Miss Baillie, 63 Silent Devotion, II. . Moore, 63 Prayer, Montgomery, 63 Child's Evening Prayer, I. Hcber, 64 Child's Evening Prayer, II. . Quarterly Review, 65 Evening Prayer at a Girls' School Mrs. Hemans, 65 Cottage Prayers, Burns, 66 Advantages of Affliction, Soulhey, 66 Comfort in Affliction, I. Moore, 67 Comfort in Affliction, II. Robert Grant, 68 The Christian Conflict, Heber, 69 Ode to Enterprise, . Dr. E. D. Clarke, 70 Hope, Rev. Duncan Grant, 71 Disappointment, lb. 72 Enjoyment, lb. 73 Evanescence of Human Life, Milman, 74 The Voyage of Life, Wordsworth, 74 Human Life, I. Miss Raillie, 74 Human Life, II. Byron, 75 Human Life, III. Rogers, 75 Human Life, IV. Miss Emily Taylor, 76 Human Life, V. ... Wordsworth, 77 Human Life, VI. Barton, 78 Human Life, VII. Montgomery, 79 The Christian's Death, I. Milman, 80 The Christian's Death, II. Mrs. Hemans, 80 The Christian's Death, III. . Heber, 81 The Christian's Death, IV. . Milman, 81 Christian Hope at the Close of Life Campbell, 82 Weep not for Me, Dale, 83 The Christian's Grave, I. Rogers, 84 The Christian's Grave, II. Edmeston, 84 The Grave, . Montgomery, 85 The Graves of a Household, Mrs. Hemans, 87 XVJ CONTENTS. PAGE. Elegy for the Monument of a Friend, • Moore 88 Helvellyn* an Elegy, . . • Scott 89 Dirge, . Moir 90 Epitaph on an Infant, I. . . Anonymous 92 Epitaph on an Infant, II. . • • Coleridge 92 Dirge of Rachel, . Knox 92 Hebrew Hymn, . Sco ^ 93 Missionary Hymn, . Heber 94 The Millenium, I. . . - Moore 95 The Millenium, II. . . ■ • Edmeston, 96 Time, I. . Mist Baillie, 96 Time, II. . . ■ Wordsworth, 96 Time, III White, 97 Time, IV. ... . Scott, 97 Time, V. . . . . Barry Cornwall, 97 Time, VI. . . . . • Scott, 98 Time, VII. . . . Her. Joshua Marsden, 98 Time, VIII, .... Neele, 99 Time, IX. . . . . . Dale 101 The End of Time, .... lb. 102 The Eve of the Destruction of the World, . Pollok 103 The Last Day, I. . . . . Scott 105 The Last Day, II. . . . Milman 106 The Last Day, III. . . . Heber 106 The Last Day, IV. . . . . Milman 10T Destruction of the World, and Creation of a New One, .... Pollok 108 Heaven, I. . . . . . Moore 110 Heaven, II. ... Anonymous , 110 Heaven, III. . Knox 111 Heaven, IV. C>0t*Hjb2>d , ll/, . . ^^^jMtmmi^mmj , 112 t 113 Music, I. Hn " Wilson 114 Music ' IIJ Beattie 114 Music, IV. . . . Miss London 114 CONTENTS. ___._■_• XVll Music, V. Song of the Spirit of Music, PAGE • R^. W. B. Clarke, 115 Moore, 116 James P. Brown, 117 The Voice of a Dream, Love, I. Love, II. Scott, 120 • lb. 120 Love, III. Burns, 121 Love, IV. Southey, 121 Love, V. Pringle, 121 Love, VI. Hogg, 122 Love, VII. . Campbell, 123 Love, VIII. Pollok, 124 Love, IX. Montgomery, 125 Mutability of Love, Moore, 125 Domestic Love, Croly, 126 A Mother's Love, I. Mrs. Hemans, 127 A Mother's Love, II. Montgomery, 128 Maternal Hope, Campbell, 130 Childhood, I. Lloyd, 131 Childhood, II. Pollok, 131 Mother and Child, . Rogers, 132 Childhood's Tear, Scott, 133 Early Piety, Heber, 133 Maternal Consolation, Miss Baillie, 134 To my Mother, I. . Moore, 134 To my Mother, II. . White, 135 Woman, I. . Scott, 135 Woman, II. ... Byron, 135 Woman, III. Barret, 136 Woman, IV. Crabbe, 136 Home, I. Polwhele, 138 Home, II. . Rogers, 138 Home, III. . Knight, 139 The Homes of England, Mrs. Hemans, 140 Our Country and our Home, Montgomery, 141 The Love of Country, I. Coleridge, 142 The Love of Country, II. b Pringle, 142 xviii CONTENTS. PAGE The Love of Country, III. . : . Pollok, 143 The Love of Country, IV. . Scott, 143 The Love of Country, V. Burns, 144 The Love of Country, VI. . Lei/den, 144 The Love of Country, VII. Montgomery, 145 The Love of Country, VIII. Bowles, 146 The True Freeman, Cowper, 147 Farewell to England, Byron, 148 Mackrimmon's Lament, Scott, 151 The Emigrant's Farewell, Pringle, 151 Nature, I. Beattie, 152 Nature, II. . Pringle, 153 Nature, III. Byron, 153 Nature, IV. Grahame, 153 Nature, V. Richardson, 154 Nature, VI. Montgomery, 155 Nature, VII. Gillespie, 156 Mountains, Wilson, 157 Ben Nevis, . Rev. C. Hoyle, 158 Lochnagar, . Byron, 158 Mont Blanc, I. Leigh, 159 Mont Blanc, II. . . . Sheffield Iris, 160 Parnassus, Byron, 163 The Sun, I. Milman, 164 The Sun, II. ... Bynn, 165 The Sun, III. fViffen, 166 The Sun, IV. Barton, 167 Sunrise on Mont Blanc, Coleridge, 169 Sunset, I. . Carrington, 170 Sunset, II. . Moir, 172 Sunset and Sunrise, Sunset at Athens, Cowper, 173 Morning, I. Byron, 173 Morning, II. • lb. 174 Morning, III. Wordsworth, 175 Morning, IV. • Richardson, 176 Barton, 176 CONTEXTS. XIX PAGE Morning, V. . J. W. Cunningham, 177 Morning, VI. . Carrington, 178 Morning, VII. Wilson, 179 Morning, VIII. Moir, 179 A Winter Morning, Hogg, 181 Melodies of Morning, Beattie, 182 Evening, I. Miss Baillie, 183 Evening, II. Cowper, 183 Evening, III. Barton, 184 Evening, IV. Miss Taylor, 184 Evening, V. -*. Courier, 186 Evening, VI. . J. W. Cunningham, 187 Evening in Autumn, I. Pollok, 188 Evening in Autumn, II. Bowles, 189 A Still Winter Evening, Polwhele, 190 Evening in Judea, . Knox, 190 An Evening in Bengal, Heber, 191 Morning and Evening, Barton, 193 Twilight, I. Byron, 195 Twilight, II. Montgomery, 196 A Twilight Scene in Italy, Byron, 196 The Song of Night, Mrs. Hemans, 197 Night, I. . Grahame, 199 Night, II. . Barry Cornwall, 199 Night, III. Montgomery, 200 Night, IV. . Byron, 201 Night, V. . Barton, 202 A Winter Night, . . lb. 203 The Aurora Borealis, and Night, . Wordsworth, 204 The Rising Moon, I. Wilson, 205 The Rising Moon, II. Croly, 205 A Moon-Light Night, I. Southey, 205 A Moon-Light Night, II. . Neele, 206 A Moon-Light Night, III. Byron, 206 A Moon-Light Night, IV. Shelley, 206 A Moon-Light Night, V. . . Bloomfield, 207 b 2 XX CONTENTS. PAGE A Moon-Light Night, VI. Southey, 207 A Moon-Light Night, VII. Miss Campbell, 208 A Moon-Light Night at Sea, I. Wilson, 209 A Moon-Light Night at Sea, II. Montgomery, 209 A Moon-Light Night Scene in Italy Byron, 210 A Night Thought, I. Heber, 211 A Night Thought, II. Moore, 211 The Stars, I. Byron, 212 The Stars, II. Barton, 212 The Stars, III. Midler, 212 The Stars, IV. Barton, 213 Song of the Stars, United St ales Literary Gazette, 215 The Star of Bethlehem, White, 216 The Voice of Spring, Mrs. Hemans, 217 . Spring, I. Barton, 219 Spring, II. Barry Cornwall, 219 Spring, III. Barton, 219 Spring, IV. Wilson, 221 Spring, V. . , Burns, 221 Spring, VI. Malcolm, 222 Spring, VII. . * . Mrs. Hemans, 223 March, I. . Bryant, 225 March, II. Polwkele, 225 March, III. , . Moir, 227 The Sunbeam, Mrs. Hemans, 229 Summer Flies, Wordsworth, 230 The Midge, Craig, 231 The Butterfly, Rogers, 231 Summer, Barry Cornwall, 232 Summer in South America, Bowles, 232 The Skylark, I. . Hogg, 233 The Skylark, II. . Shelley, 234 The Skylark, III. . Wordsworth, 236 The Skylark, IV. . Barton, 237 The Nightingale, I. Keats, 238 The Nightingale, II. Coleridge, 240 CONTEXTS. XXI PAGE Bring Flowers, Mrs. Hemans, 243 The Wreath, Pringle, 244 The Rose, I. Anonymous, 245 The Rose, II. . Scott, 246 The Rose, III. C. J. Fox, 246 The Rose, IV. Cowper, 246 The Rose, V. • Mrs. Hemans, 247 The Lily, I. Keeble, 248 The Lily, II. Wiffen, 249 Field Flowers, Campbell, 250 The Daisy, I. . Montgomery, 251 The Daisy, II. . Wordsworth, 252 To a Mountain Da sy, on turning one down with the Ploug h, . Burns, 254 The Falling Leaf, I. Mrs. Hemans, 256 The Falling Leaf, II. . . . Barton, 256 The Falling Leaf, III. . . . Montgomery, 256 Autumn, I. - . Haven, 257 Autumn, II. Southey, 258 Autumn, III. Barry Cornwall, 259 Autumn, IV. . Keats, 260 A Bright Autumna 1 Day, . . Southey, 260 The End of Autum n, . . . . Scott, 261 Autumn's Farewell , . . James P. Brown, 262 Winter, I. Barry Cornwall, 264 Winter, II. Barton, 265 Winter, III. Cowper, 265 Winter, IV. Southey, 266 Winter, V. Campbell, 267 The Voice of the W r ind, . . . Mrs. Hemans, 269 The Winds, Barton, 271 A Storm, I. lb. 272 A Storm, II. Southey, 273 A Storm, III. Montgomery, 273 A Storm, IV. . Hogg, 274 A Storm, V. Barry Cornwall, 276 XXii CONTENTS. PAGE Midsummer Night Storm, on the Lake of Geneva, .... . Byron, 278 Midsummer Night Storm, on the Pyrenees, Malcolm, 279 The Sailor's Hope, Campbell, 279 A Boat Race — and Wreck of a Boat, Crabbe, 280 Shipwreck, I. . . Hogg, 281 Shipwreck, II. . Byron, 281 Shipwreck, III. Falconer, 282 Shipwreck, IV. Wilson, 283 Shipwreck, V. Mrs. Hemans, 284 Silence after Thunder, Scolt, 286 A Calm at Sea, Percival, 286 A Calm after a Storm in Asia, . Moore, 287 Evening Calm on the Lake of Geneva, Byron, 288 The Rainbow, .... Campbell, 289 The Evening Rainbow, . Southey, 291 The Clouds, I. . . Clare, 291 The Clouds, II. ... Barton, 291 The Clouds, IIT. Mellen, 293 The Cloud, .... . Shelley, 295 The Evening Cloud, . Wilson, 297 A Summer Cloud, Miss Baillie, 298 The Stream, .... . Rogers, 298 The Mountain Stream, Lloyd, 298 Power and Gentleness, or, the Cataract and Streamlet, Barton, 300 The Mohawk River, . Moore, 301 The Tay, • Hogg, 302 The Yarrow, .... Wordsworth, 303 The Falls of the Clyde, Bowring, 306 Loch Long, .... . Rogers, 307 Loch Katrine, .... Scott, 308 The Sea, I. Barton, 309 The Sea, II. . . . Ba rry Cornwall, 309 The Sea, III. .... Barton, 310 The Sea, IV. • Leigh, 311 CONTENTS. xxiii PAGE The Sea, V. . ... Barto?i, 312 The Sea, VI. Byron, 313 The Sea, VII. A Summer and Winter View, Crabbe, 315 The Sound of the Sea, . Mrs . Hemans, 317 The Treasures of the Deep, lb. 318 A Swell of the Sea, Polwhele, 319 Sea Prospect, . Hogg, 319 Sea-Shore Sketch, . Crabbe, 319 A First Sight of the Nautilus, and other Marine Animals, Montgomery, 320 A Reflection at Sea, I. . . Moore, 321 A Reflection at Sea, IJ. . Wordsworth, 322 The Deluge, I. Barry Cornwall, 322 The Deluge, II. . . Dale, 324 Vision of the Deluge, . Bowles, 327 Rome, I. ... ■ Wiffen, 329 Rome, II. Byron, 330 Rome, III. . Rogers, 331 Remains of Ancient Rome, . Byron, 335 Roman Girl's Song, . Mrs . Hemans, 336 Pompeii, . Rogers, 337 Tiyoli, Sotheby, 339 The Dying Gladiator, . Byron, 341 The Coliseum, Sotheby, 341 The Coliseum, by Moonlight, . Byron, 343 The Ruins of Pcestum, . Rogers, 344 Greece, I. . Byron, 345 Greece, II. . lb. 346 Greece, III. lb. 349 Thermopylffi, lb. 353 The Parthenon at Athens, . Mrs Hemans, 353 The Evening Star, Moir, 354 The Little Bird, . John Pringle, 356 Answer, . . . Rev. Duncan Grant, 356 The Light of Love, Percival, 357 Woman, V. Anonymous, 358 Xxiv CONTENTS. PAGE Woman, VI. Ea sib urn, 359 A Mother's Grief, Dale, 359 A Father's Grief, lb. 360 The Love of Country, IX. (Scotland,) James Gray, 361 Home, IV. Grahame, 362 The Highlands, Scott, 363 A Highland Glen, Wilson, 363 There is a Tongue in every Leaf, Miss Bowles, 365 The Voice of God, Mrs. Hemans, 366 An Evening Service, Bowring, 367 The Hour of Prayer, Mrs. Hemans, 368 Trust in the Saviour, Wordsworth, 369 The Saviour Weeping over Jerusalem, Dale, 369 The Flight of Faith, . Moore, 370 The Hour of Death, Mrs. Hemans, 371 Sacred Song, . . . . Moore, 372 I know Thou hast gone, T. K. Hervey, 372 The Happiest Time, Miss Browne, 374 Farewell, I. . Heber, 375 Farewell, II. . Barton, 375 Farewell, III. . Byron, 376 T THE BEAUTIES OF MODERN BRITISH POETRY. A Work of much utility." MOORE'S LIFE OF BYRON. The Editor of the present Volume has nearly ready for the Press the following Work, also mentioned in Moore's Life of Byron ; and which will be published next Season : BATTLES AND WAR PIECES ; IJrose antr Wtxst : BY THE MOST EMINENT MODERN AUTHORS. NOfV FIRST COLLECTED. WITH AN ESSAY ON WAR. BEAUTIES OF MODERN BRITISH POETRY ♦ THE POET. Oh say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre, That the minstrel will feign what he never has felt ; Oh say not his love is a fugitive fire, Thrown o'er the snow mountains, will sparkle, not melt. It is not the Alpine hills rich with the ray Of sunset can image the soul of the bard ; The light of the evening around them may play, But the frost-work beneath is, though bright,^ cold and hard. 'Tis the burning volcano, that ceaselessly glows, Where the minstrel may find his own semblance portrayed ; The red fires that gleam on the summit are those That first on his own inmost spirit have preyed. Ah, deeply the minstrel has felt all he sings, Every passion he paints his own bosom has known; No note of wild music is swept from the strings, But first his own feelings have echoed the lone. Then say not his love is a fugitive fire, That the heart can be ice while the lip is of flame ; Oh say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre ; For the pulse of the heart and the harp are the same. MISS LANDON. 26 THE BEAUTIES OF PLEASURES EVANESCENT. Pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower — its bloom is shed ! Or like the snow-falls in the river, A moment white — they melt for ever ; Or, like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point the place ; Or, like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. BURNS. UNEXPECTED PLEASURE. Pleasure, that comes unlooked-for, is thrice welcome; And, if it stir the heart, if aught be there, That may hereafter, in a thoughtful hour, Wake but a sigh, 'tis treasured up among The things most precious ; and the day it came Is noted as a white day in our lives. ROGERS. EMINENCE. r. He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow ; He who surpasses or subdues mankind, Must look down on the hate of those below. Though high above the sun of glory glow, And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow Contending tempests on his naked head, And thus reward the toils that to those summits led. EMINENCE. II. Oh, think, my son ! how wild and vain Are all the dreams of earthly pride ! Shouldst thou the height of glory gain, What countless ills the great betide ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 21 Superior pomp — superior pain — The madness of the insatiate brain That looks on earth with proud disdain, And sighs for worlds beside ! Where is the meteor flash that shone O'er Ecbatane and Babylon, And smote the Persian from his throne ? Where is the self-exalted god ? The hero of immortal birth — The lord of Macedon — and earth — Is now a vile and nameless clod. A few short hours — and they who bowed The meanest of the servile crowd, Had spurned the mass of lifeless clay, As on its kindred earth it lay, In loathsomeness of foul decay. Great Caesar rued the hour that gave The free-born Roman for his slave ; And who — for all his sated pride — Would wish to die as Marcus died ? Know — heroes were by Heaven designed, (If heroes, men like these we call,) To rise upon their country's fall, To glut the grave, and scourge mankind. And what their guilty toil repays ? That falsehood of dissembled praise Which Flattery's glozing tongue adorns, And Vice extols — white Virtue mourns. Yes — e'en the fame, for which was given The love of man — the bliss of Heaven — The tale of after times — nay — worse — Becomes a proverb and a curse. Ob, spurn, my son ! the hero's name, And shun the infamy of fame ; To thee, let nobler praise be given, The friend of man \ the loved of Heaven' ! HEAVEN'S SIMPLE PLAN. O now unlike the complex works of man, Heaven's easy, artless, unencumbered plan I No meretricious graces to beguile, No clustering ornaments to clog the pile ; b 2 28 THE BEAUTIES OF From ostentation as from weakness free, It stands like the cerulean arch we see, Majestic in its own simplicity. Inscribed above the portal, from afar Conspicuous as the brightness of a star, Legible only by the light they give, Stand the soul-quickening words — Believe, and live. COWPER. LOWLINESS OF MIND. O ! I would walk A weary journey, to the farthest verge Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand, Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art, Preserves a lowly mind ; and to his God, Feeling the sense of his own littleness, Is as a child in meek simplicity ! What is the pomp of learning ? the parade Of letters and of tongues ? even as the mists Of the grey morn before the rising sun, That pass away and perish. — Earthly things Are but the transient pageants of an hour ; And earthly pride is like the passing flower, That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die. WHITE. WASTE NOT. O ! waste not thou the smallest thing- Created by Divinity ; For grains of sand the mountains make, And atomies infinity. Waste thou not then the smallest time, 'Tis imbecile infirmity ; For well thou knowest, if aught thou knowest, That seconds form eternity. REPUTATION. Who, that surveys this span of- earth we press, This speck of life in Time's great wilderness, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 29 This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas, The past, the future, two eternities ! Would sully the bright spot, or leave it bare, When he might build him a proud temple there, A name, that long should hallow all its space, And be each purer soul's high resting place. MOORE. INTERPOSITION. When urged by strong temptation to the brink Of guilt and ruin, stands the virtuous mind, With scarce a step between; all-pitying Heaven, Severe in mercy, chastening in its love, Ofttimes, in dark and awful visitation, Doth interpose, and lead the wanderer back To the straight path, to be for ever after A firm, undaunted, onward-bearing traveller, Strong in humility, who swerves no more. MISS BAILLIE. LIGHTS AND SHADES. The gloomiest day hath gleams of light ; The darkest wave hath bright foam near it ; And twinkles through the cloudiest night Some solitary star to cheer it. The gloomiest soul is not all gloom ; The saddest heart is not all sadness ; And sweetly o'er the darkest doom There shines some lingering beam of gladness. Despair is never quite despair ; Nor life, nor death, the future closes ; And round the shadowy brow of Care Will Hope and Fancy twine their roses. VIRTUE. I. The heart, unaltered in its mood, That joys alone in doing good, 30 THE BEAUTIES OF And follows in the heavenly road, And steps where once an angel trod, — The joys within such heart that burn, No loss can quench, nor time o'erturn ! The Stars may from their orbits bend, The Mountains rock, the Heavens rend, The Sun's last ember cool and quiver, But Virtue still shall glow for ever. HOGG. VIRTUE. II. As the ample Moon, In the deep stillness of a summer even, Rising behind a thick and lofty grove, Burns like an unconsuming fire of light In the green trees ; and, kindling on all sides Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil Into a substance glorious as her own, Yea, with her own incorporated, by power Capacious and serene : — -like power abides In Man's celestial spirit ; Virtue thus Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire, From the encumbrances of mortal life, From error, disappointment, nay, from guilt; And sometimes, so relenting Justice wills, From palpable oppressions of despair. WORDSWORTH. THE VIRTUOUS PEASANT OF THE ALPS. What is it that thou see'st or look'st upon ? Myself and thee — a Peasant of the Alps. — Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free : Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts ; Thy days of health, and nights of sleep ; thy toils By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes Of cheerful old age, and a quiet grave, With cross and garland over its green turf, And thy grand-children's love for epitaph. — This do I see, — and then I look within. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 31 HUMBLE AND UNNOTICED VIRTUE. O my son ! The ostentatious Virtues which still press For notice and for praise ; the brilliant deeds Which live but in the eye of observation — These have their meed at once ; but there's a joy To the fond votaries of fame unknown, To hear the still small voice of conscience speak Its whispering plaudit to the silent soul. Heaven notes the sigh afflicted goodness heaves, Hears the low plaint by human ear unheard, And, from the cheek of patient Sorrow, wipes The tear, by mortal eye unseen, or scorned. MRS. MORE. ALL MEN BRETHREN. Children we are all Of one great Father, in whatever clime His providence hath cast the seed of life, All tongues, all colours : neither after death Shall we be sorted into languages And tints, — white, black and tawny, Greek and Goth, Northmen and offspring of hot Africa : The all-seeing Father, — He in whom we live and move, — He the impartial Judge of all, — regards Nations and hues, and dialects alike. According to their works shall they be judged, When even-handed Justice, in the scale, Their good and evil weighs. SOUTHEY. SOLITUDE. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar : I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. BYRON. 32 THE BEAUTIES OF EXERCISE. Rise with the Lark ! your Matins shall obtain Grace, be their composition what it may, If but with hers performed ; climb once again, Climb every day, those ramparts ; meet the breeze Upon their tops, — adventurous as a bee That from your garden thither soars, to feed On new-blown heath ; let yon commanding rock Be your frequented watch-tower ; roll the stone In thunder down the mountains ; with all your might Chase the wild goat ; and, if the bold red deer Fly to these harbours, driven by hound and horn Loud echoing, add your speed to the pursuit : So, weaned to your hut shall you return, And sink at evening- into sound repose. WORDSWORTH. LIBERTY. O could I worship aught beneath the skies, That earth has seen, or Fancy can devise, Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand, Built by no mercenary, vulgar hand, With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair As ever dressed a bank, or scented summer air. Duly, as ever on the mountain's height The peep of Morning shed a dawning light, Again, when Evening, in her sober vest, Drew the grey curtain of the fading west, My soul should yield thee willing thanks and praise, For the chief blessing of my fairest days : But that were sacrilege — praise is not thine, But His who gave thee, and preserves thee mine. COWPER. HAPPINESS INDEPENDENT OF PROSPERITY. All whom misfortune with her rudest blasts Hath buffeted, to gloomy wretchedness Are not therefore abandoned. Many souls From cloistered cells, from hermits' caves, from holds MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 33 Of lonely banishment, and from the dark And dreary prison-house, do raise their thoughts With humble cheerfulness to Heaven, and feel A hallowed quiet, almost akin to joy. MISS BAILLIE. HAPPINESS. One morning in the month of May I wandered o'er the hill ; Though Nature all around was gay, My heart was heavy still. Can God, I thought, the just, the great, These meaner creatures bless, And yet deny to Man's estate, The boon of happiness ? Tell me, ye woods, ye smiling plains, Ye blessed birds around, In which of Nature's wide domains Can bliss for Man be found ? The birds wild carolled over head, The breeze around me blew, And Nature's awful chorus said — No bliss for Man she knew. I questioned Love, whose early ray So rosy bright appears, And heard the timid genius say — His light was dimmed by tears. I questioned Friendship : Friendship sighed, And thus her answer gave — The few whom fortune never turned Were withered in the grave. I asked if Vice could bliss bestow ? Vice boasted loud and well, But fading from her withered brow, The borrowed roses fell. 34 THE BEAUTIES OF I sought of Feeling, if her skill Could soothe the wounded breast ; And found her mourning, faint, and still, For others' woes distressed. I questioned Virtue : Virtue sighed, No boon could she dispense — Nor Virtue was her name, she cried, But humble Penitence. I questioned Death — the grisly shade Relaxed his brow severe — And — " I am Happiness," he said, " If Virtue guides thee here." THE HAPPY MAN. He is the happy man, whose life e'en now Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state, Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, Would make his fate his choice ; whom peace, the fruit Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, Prepare for happiness ; bespeak him one Content indeed to sojourn while he must Below the skies, but having there his home. The world o'erlooks him in her busy search Of objects, more illustrious in her view; And, occupied as earnestly as she, Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world. She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not ; He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain. He cannot skim the ground like summer birds Pursuing gilded flies ; and such he deems Her honours, her emoluments, her joys. Therefore in contemplation is his bliss, Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth She makes familiar with a world unseen, And shows him glories yet to be revealed . COWPEE. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 35 TRUE HAPPINESS NOT LOCAL. True Happiness had no localities ; No tones provincial, no peculiar garb. Where Duty went, she went ; with Justice went ; And went with Meekness, Charity, and Love. Where'er a tear was dried ; a wounded heart Bound up ; a bruised spirit, with the dew Of sympathy anointed ; or a pang Of honest suffering soothed ; or injury, Repeated oft, as oft by Love forgiven ; Where'er an evil passion was subdued, Or Virtue's feeble embers fanned ; where'er A sin was heartily abjured and left ; Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish, — There was a high and holy place, a spot Of sacred light, a most religious fane, Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled. POLLOK. FANCIED HAPPINESS. Wo to the youth whom Fancy gains, Winning from Reason's hand the reins, Pity and wo ! for such a mind Is soft, contemplative, and kind ; And wo to those who train such youth, And spare to press the rights of truth, The mind to strengthen and anneal, While on the stithy glows the steel ; Oh ! teach him, while your lessons last, To judge the present by the past ; Remind him of each wish pursued, How rich it glowed with promised good : Remind him of each wish enjoyed, How soon his hopes possession cloyed ! Tell him we play unequal game, Whene'er we shoot by Fancy's aim ; And, ere he strip him for the race, * Show the conditions of the chase. Two sisters by the goal are set, Cold Disappointment and Regret ; 36 THE BEAUTIES OF One disenchants the winner's eyes, And strips of all its worth the prize, While one augments its gaudy show, More to enhance the loser's wo. The victor sees his fairy gold Transformed, when won, to drossy mould But still the vanquished mourns his loss, And rues, as gold, that glittering dross. PATERNAL AFFECTION. I. Some feelings are to mortals given, With less of earth in them than Heaven ; And, if there be a human tear From passion's dross refined and clear, A tear so limpid and so meek, It would not stain an angel's cheek, 'Tis that which pious Fathers shed Upon a duteous Daughter's head. SCOTT. PATERNAL AFFECTION. II. Of all the knots which Nature ties, The secret, sacred sympathies, That, as with viewless chains of gold, The heart a happy prisoner hold, — None is more chaste, more bright, more pure, Stronger stern trials to endure — None is more purged of earthly leaven, More like the love of highest Heaven — Than that which binds, in bonds how blest, A Daughter to a Father's breast ! J. W. CUNNINGHAM. , PATERNAL AFFECTION. III. The shepherd on Tornaro's misty brow, And the swart seaman, sailing far below, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 37 Not undelighted watch the morning ray Purpling the orient— till it breaks away, And burns and blazes into glorious day ! But happier still is he, who turns to trace The sun, the soul, just dawning in the face ; The burst, the glow, the animating strife, The thoughts and passions stirring into life ; The forming utterance, the enquiring glance, The giant waking from his tenfold trance, Till up he starts, as conscious when he came, And all is light within the trembling frame ! What then a Father's feelings ? Joy and Fear Prevail in turn, Joy most ; and through the year Tempering the ardent, urging night and day Him who shrinks back or wanders from the way, Praising each highly — -from a wish to raise Their merits to the level of his praise, Onward in their observing sight he moves, Fearful of wrong, in awe of whom he loves ! Their sacred presence who shall dare profane ? Who, when he slumbers, hope to fix a stain ? He lives a model in his life to show, That, when he dies, and through the world they go, Some men may pause and say, when some admire, " They are his sons, and worthy of their sire ! " ROGERS. FRIENDSHIP. Many sounds were sweet, Most ravishing, and pleasing to the ear ; But sweeter none than voice of faithful friend, — Sweet always, sweetest heard in loudest storm. Some I remember, and will ne'er forget, My early friends, friends of my chequered day ; Friends in my mirth, friends in my misery too ; Friends given by God in mercy and in love, My counsellors, my comforters, and guides ; My joy in grief, my second bliss in joy ; Companions of my young desires ; in doubt My oracles, my wings in high pursuit. Oh '. I remember, and will ne'er forget, 38 THE BEAUTIES OF Our meeting-spots, our chosen sacred hours ; Our burning words, that uttered all the soul ; Our faces beaming with unearthly love ; Sorrow with sorrow sighing, hope with hope Exulting, heart embracing heart entire. As birds of social feather helping each His fellow's flight, we soared into the skies, And cast the clouds beneath our feet, and earth With all her tardy, leaden-footed cares, And talked the speech, and ate the food of Heaven. FRIENDS. Friend after friend departs; Who hath not lost a friend ? There is no union here of hearts, That finds not here an end : Were this frail world our only rest, Living or dying none were blest. Beyond the flight of time, Beyond this vale of death, There surely is some blessed clime Where life is not a breath, Nor life's affections transient fire, Whose sparks fly upward and expire. There is a world above, Where parting is unknown ; A whole eternity of love, Formed for the good alone ; And Faith beholds the dying here Translated to that glorious sphere. Thus star by star declines, Till all are passed away, As morning high and higher shines To pure and perfect day ; Nor sink those stars in empty night, They hide themselves in Heaven's own light. MONTGOMERY MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 39 DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE. A Soliloquy. Unchanged within, to see all changed without, Is a blank lot, and hard to bear, no doubt ; Yet why at others' wanings shouldst thou fret ? Then only mightst thou feel a just regret, Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light In selfish forethought of neglect and slight. O wiselier then, from feeble yearnings freed, While, and on whom, thou mayst — shine on ! nor heed Whether the object by reflected light Return by radiance, or absorb it quite : And though thou notest from thy safe recess Old friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air, Love them for what they are : nor love them less, Because to thee they are not what they were. COLERIDGE. CHARITY. I. O Charity ! our helpless nature's pride ! Thou friend to him who knows no friend beside ! Is there in Morning's breath, or the sweet gale That steals o'er the tired pilgrim of the vale, Cheering with fragrance fresh his weary frame, Aught like the incense of thy holy flame ? Is aught in all the beauties that adorn The azure heaven, or purple lights of Morn ? Is aught so fair in Evening's lingering gleam, As from thine eye the meek and pensive beam, That falls, like saddest moonlight on the hill, And distant grove, when the wide world is still ? Thine are the ample views, that, unconfined, Stretch to the utmost walks of human kind : I Thine is the spirit, that, with widest plan, Brother to brother binds, and man to man. When the fleet vanities of Life's brief day Oblivion's hurrying wing shall sweep away, Each act by Charity and Mercy done, High o'er the wrecks of Time, shall live alone, Immortal as the Heavens, and beauteous bloom In other worlds, and realms beyond the tomb. BOWLES. 40 THE BEAUTIES OF CHARITY. II. Soft are the graces that adorn the maid — Softer than dew-drops to the sun-burnt glade ! She's gracious as an unpolluted stream, And tender as a fond young lover's dream ! Pity and Peace precede her as she flies, And Mercy beams benignant from her eyes ! From her high residence, from realms above, She comes, sweet Messenger of heavenly love ! The lofty pyramid shall cease to live ; Fleeting the praise such monuments can give ; But Charity, by tyrant Time revered, Sweet Charity, amidst his ruins spared, Secures her votaries unblasted fame, And in celestial annals 'graves their name. J. W. CUNNINGHAM. CHARITY. III. An ardent spirit dwells with Christian Love, The eagle's vigour in the pitying dove ; 'Tis not enough that we with Sorrow sigh, That we the wants of pleading man supply ; That we in sympathy with sufferers feel, Nor hear a grief without a wish to heal : Not these suffice — to sickness, pain, and wo, The Christian spirit loves with aid to go ; Will not be sought, waits not for Want to plead, But seeks the duty — nay, prevents the need ; Her utmost aid to every ill applies, And plants relief for coming miseries. CRABBE. BENEVOLENCE. From the low prayer of Want, and plaint of Wo, O never, never turn away thine ear ! Forlorn, in this bleak wilderness below, Ah ! what were man, should Heaven refuse to hear ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 41 To others do (the law is not severe,) What to thyself thou wishest to be done ; Forgive thy foes ; and love thy parents dear, And friends, and native land ; nor those alone ; All human weal and wo learn thou to make thine own. BEATT1E. SENSIBILITY. I would not enter on my list of friends (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, Yet wanting Sensibility) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. An inadvertent step may crush the snail, That crawls at evening in the public path ; But he that has humanity, forewarned, Will tread aside, and let the reptile live : For they are all — the meanest things that are, As free to live and to enjoy that life, As God was free to form them at the first, Who in his sovereign wisdom made them all. THE GOOD PREACHER. Would I describe a Preacher, sucn as Paul, Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own, Paul should himself direct me. I would trace His master-strokes, and draw from his design. I would express him simple, grave, sincere ; In doctrine uncorrupt ; in language plain, And plain in manner ; decent, solemn, chaste, And natural in gesture ; much impressed Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds May feel it too ; affectionate in look, And tender in address, as well becomes A messenger of grace to guilty men. COWPER. 42 THE BEAUTIES OF JOHN THE BAPTIST, DECLARING HIS SACRED MISSION. Not clothed in purple or fine linen— stood The Wilderness Apostle ! He was found O'ercanopied by wild rocks fringed with wood, Where nature's sternest scenery darkly frowned ; There stood the Seer, his loins begirt around, With outstretched hand, bare brow, and vocal eye ; His voice, with sad solemnity of sound, More thrilling than the eagle's startling cry, " Repent ! repent ! " exclaimed, " Christ's kingdom draweth nigh ! " SAUL THE PERSECUTOR, JOURNEYING TO DAMASCUS. Whose is that sword — that voice and eye of flame — That heart of unextinguishable ire ? Who bears the dungeon keys, and bonds of fire ? Along his dark and withering path he came — Death in his looks, and terror in his name, Tempting the might of heaven's Eternal Sire. Lo ! the light shone ! — the sun's veiled beams expire — A Saviour's self a Saviour's lips proclaim ! Who is yon form, stretched on the earth's cold bed, With smitten soul and tears of agony Mourning the past ? Bowed is the lofty head — Rayless the orbs that flashed with victory. Over the raging waves of human will The Saviour's spirit walked — and all was still ! ROSCOF.. IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. I. Shall we be left forgotten in the dust, When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive ? Shall Nature's voice, to Man alone unjust, Bid him, though doomed to perish, hope to live ? MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 43 Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive With disappointment, penury, and pain ? No ; Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive ; And Man's majestic beauty bloom again, Bright through the eternal year of Love's triumphant reign , IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. II. This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark : Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark ! No ! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By Him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of victory, — And took the sting from death. CAMPBELL. IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. III. That there is life beyond this mortal life, The willing world believes, and well believes. ' Annihilation ! ' at that awful sound I start and shudder. Can it be, that man, With all his mental energies, may die For ever ? Shall the tomb enclose alike The frame corporeal and the thinking power, That lifts the soul to science and to God ? Shall we have seen this living world in vain \ Have idly caught a glimpse of Love Divine, And Wisdom Infinite ; have counted links, But for no good, in Truth's eternal chain ? Calm Reason whispers hope, and answers — ' No.' SIR WILLIAM DRUMMOND, c 2 U THE BEAUTIES OF FIGURE OF MERCY WITH THE BIBLE. This Book — this holy Book, on every line Marked with the seal of high Divinity; On every leaf bedewed with drops of Love Divine, and with the eternal heraldry And signature of God Almighty stampt From first to last — this ray of sacred light, This lamp, from off the everlasting throne, Mercy took down, and, in the night of Time, Stood casting on the dark her gracious bow. POLLOK THE BIBLE. I. Within this awful volume lies The mystery of mysteries : Happiest they of human race, To whom their God has given grace To read, to fear, to hope, to pray, To lift the latch — to force the way ; But better had they ne'er been bora, Who read to doubt, or read to scorn. THE BIBLE. II. What is the world ? — A wildering maze, Where Sin has tracked ten thousand ways, Her victims to ensnare ; All broad, and winding, and aslope ; All tempting with perfidious hope, All ending in despair ; Millions of pilgrims throng these roads, Bearing their baubles, or their loads, Down to eternal night. One only path that never bends, Narrow, and rough, and steep, ascends From darkness into light. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 43 Is there no guide to show that path ? The Bible ! — He alone who hath The Bible, need not stray : Yet he who hath, and will not give That light of life to all who live, Himself shall lose the way. MONTGOMERY. THE BIBLE. III. Most wondrous Book ! bright candle of the Lord ! Star of Eternity ! The only star, By which the bark of man can navigate The sea of life, and gain the coast of bliss Securely : only star, which rose on Time, And, in its dark and troubled billows, still As generations, driving swiftly by, Succeeded generation, threw a ray Of Heaven's own light, and, to the hills of God,— The everlasting hills, — pointed the sinner's eye. By Prophets, Seers, and Priests, and sacred Bards Evangelists, Apostles, men inspired, And, by the Holy Ghost anointed, set Apart and consecrated, to declare On earth the counsels of the Eternal One, This Book — this holiest, this sublimest Book — Was sent. Heaven's will, Heaven's code of laws entire To man, this Book contained ; defined the bonds Of vice and virtue, and of life and death ; And what was shadow, — what was substance,' — taught. THE NATIVITY. I. A star appeared, and peaceful threw Around its holy ray ; It caught the faithful Magi's view, It led the wondrous way, From far-famed Persia's smiling bowersj Fair land of beauty, fruits, and flowers. 46 THE BEAUTIES OF Each heart throughout the gazing throng What anxious gladness fills, While slowly moved that star along O'er Judah's sacred hills ; And softly fixed its mellow light On distant Bethlehem's joyful night. There, unknown to rich and great, Or the perfumed halls of state, Where the golden lamps so bright Mock the silence of the night, And the strain of Music tender Rise and fall 'mid scenes of splendour, — The Prince of Peace, so young, so fair, In lowly state was sleeping ; While near, with kind parental cave, His mother watch was keeping. The Magi viewed the blessed of Heaven, Their joy was full — their gifts were given. Let the sound of the sweet harp of Judah arise ! Let the hymns of the Gentiles ascend to the skies ! CAMPBELL. THE NATIVITY. II. Brightest and best of the suns of the morning, Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid ! Star of the east, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid ! Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are shining, Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall ; Angels adore Him in slumber reclining, Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all ! Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, Odours of Edom, and orT'rings divine ; Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean, Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine '. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 47 Vainly we offer each ample oblation; Vainly with gifts would His favour secure : Richer by far is the heart's adoration ; Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor ! Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid ! Star of the east, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid ! HEBEIl. THE NATIVITY. III. When Jordon hushed his waters still, And silence slept on Zion hill ; When Bethlehem's shepherds through the night Watched o'er their flocks by starry light : Hark ! from the midnight hills around, A voice of more than mortal sound, In distant hallelujahs stole, Wild murmuring o'er the raptured soul. Then swift to every startled eye, New streams of glory light the sky ; Heaven bursts her azure gates to pour Her spirits to the midnight hour. On wheels of light, on wings of flame^ The glorious hosts of Zion came ; High Heaven with songs of triumph rang, While thus they struck their harps and sang : O Zion ! lift thy raptured eye, The long-expected hour is nigh ; The joys of nature rise again, The Prince of Salem comes to reign. See, Mercy from her golden urn Pours a rich stream to them that mourn ; Behold, she binds, with tender care, The bleeding bosom of Despair. 43 THE BEAUTIES OF He comes ! to cheer the trembling heart ; Bids Satan and his host depart : Again the Day-star gilds the gloom, Again the bowers of Eden bloom ! O Zion ! lift thy raptured eye, The long-expected hour is nigh ; The joys of nature rise again, The Prince of Salem comes to reign. THE NATIVITY. IV. Loud, Thou wert born of woman ! Thou didst come, () Holiest ! to this world of sin and gloom, Not in Thy dread omnipotent array ; And not by thunders strewed Was Thy tempestuous road ; Nor indignation burned before Thee on Thy way ; But Thee, a soft and naked child, Thy mother undented, In the rude manger laid to rest From off her virgin breast. The heavens were not commanded to prepare A gorgeous canopy of golden air ; Nor stooped their lamps the enthroned fire on high : A single silent star Came wandering from afar, Gliding unchecked and calm along die liquid sky ; The Eastern Sages leading on As at a kingly throne, To lay their gold and odours sweet Before Thy infant feet. The earth and ocean were not hushed to hear Bright harmony from every starry sphere : Nor at Thy presence brake the voice of song From all the cherub choirs, And seraphs' burning lyres Poured through the host of heaven the charmed clouds along. MODERN BRITISH POETRV. 49 One angel troop the strain began, Of all the race of man, By simple shepherds heard alone, That soft Hosannah's tone. And when Thou didst depart, no car of flame To bear Thee hence in lambent radiance came ; Nor visible angels mourned with drooping plumes : Nor didst Thou mount on high From fatal Calvary With all Thine own redeemed out-bursting from their tombs. For Thou didst bear away from earth But one of human birth, Thy dying felon, by Thy side, to be In Paradise with Thee. Nor o'er Thy cross the clouds of vengeance brake ; A little while the conscious earth did shake At that foul deed by her fierce children done ; A few dim hours of day The world in darkness lay ; Then basked in bright repose beneath the cloudless sun : While Thou didst sleep beneath the tomb, Consenting to Thy doom, Ere yet the white-robed angel shone Upon the sealed stone. And when Thou didst arise, Thou didst not stand With devastation in Thy red right hand, Plaguing the guilty city's murtherous crew ; But Thou didst haste to meet Thy mother's coming feet, And bear the words of peace unto the faithful few : Then calmly, slowly didst Thou rise Into Thy native skies. Thy human form dissolved on high In its own radiancy. MILMAN. OUR BLESSED SAVIOUR. The mourner* — speechless and amazed, On that mysterious Stranger gazed ; * The Widow of Nain. Lute vii. II. 50 THE BEAUTIES OF If young He were, 'twas only seen From lines that told what once had been ;— As if the withering hand of Time Had smote Him ere He reached His prime. The bright rose on His cheek was faded, His pale fair brow with sadness shaded — Yet through the settled sorrow there A conscious grandeur flashed — which told Unswayed by man, and uncontrolled, Himself had deigned their lot to share, And borne — because he willed to bear. Whate'er His being or His birth, His soul had never stooped to earth ; Nor mingled with the meaner race, Who shared or swayed His dwelling-place : But high — mysterious — and unknown, Held converse with itself alone : And yet the look that could depress Pride to its native nothingness ; And bid the specious boaster shun The eye he dared not gaze upon, Superior love did still reveal — Not such as man for man may feel — No — all was passionless and pure — That godlike majesty of wo, Which counts its glory to endure — And knows nor hope nor fear below ; Nor aught that still to earth can bind, But love and pity for mankind. And in His eye a radiance shone — Oh ! how shall mortal dare essay, On whom no prophet's vest is thrown, To paint that pure celestial ray ? Mercy, and tenderness, and love, And all that finite sense can deem Of Him who reigns enthroned above ; Light — such as blest Isaiah's dream, When to the awe-struck prophet's eyes, God bade the star of Judah rise — There Heaven in living lustre glowed — There shone the Saviour — there the God. Oh ye — to whom the dying Lord Your sorrows — not His own— deplored : MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 51 Thou, on whose guilt the Saviour cast A look of mercy — 'twas His last : Ye — who beheld when Jesus died, Say ye — for none can tell beside, How matchless grace, and love divine, In that immortal glance would shine. And she too felt and owned its power To soothe in that despairing hour ; Her pulse beat quick — and to her heart A ray of rapture seemed to dart : The cloud that hung upon her brow Wore off — and all was comfort now ; — And why ? she thought not on the dead — Her sight on Him was rivetted, Whose look such peace and glory shed : So the wan captive, o'er whose cell No solitary sunbeam fell, When years and years have lingered by, Restored to light and liberty, Fixes his first enraptured gaze Upon the bright sun's living rays. ' Short space he stood' — His lifted eyes To Heaven a moment raised — He spoke — These words the solemn silence broke : " Young man, I say to thee, arise ! " DALE. OUR BLESSED SAVIOUR, IN THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE. A wreath of glory circles still His head — And yet He kneels — and yet He seems to be Convulsed with more than human agony : On His pale brow the drops are large and red As victim's blood at votive altar shed — His hands are clasped, His eyes are raised in prayer ; Alas ! and is there strife He cannot bear, Who calmed the tempest, and who raised the dead ? There is ! there is ! for now the powers of Hell Are struggling for the mastery — 'tis the hour When Death exerts his last permitted power, THE BEAUTIES OF When the dread weight of sin, since Adam fell, Is visited on Him, who deigned to dwell A man with men — that He might bear the stroke Of wrath divine, and burst the captive's yoke — But O ! of that dread strife what words can tell ? Those — only those — which broke with many a groan From His full heart — " O Father take away The cup of vengeance I must drink to-day — Yet, Father, not my will, but thine be done ! " It could not pass away — for He alone Was mighty to endure, and strong to save ; Nor would Jehovah leave Him in the grave ; Nor could corruption taint his Holy One. THE CRUCIFIXION. Imitated from the Italian of Crescembini. I. I asked the Heavens; — " What foe to God hath done " This unexampled deed ? " — The Heavens exclaim, " 'Twas Man ; — and we in horror snatched the sun " From such a spectacle of guilt and shame." I asked the Sea; — the Sea in fury boiled, And answered with his voice of storms — " 'Twas Man, " My waves in panic at his crime recoiled, " Disclosed the abyss, and from the centre ran." I asked the Earth ; — the Earth replied aghast, " 'Twas Man ; — and such strange pangs my bosom rent, — ■ " That still I groan and shudder at the past." — To Man, gay, smiling, thoughtless Man, I went, And asked him next : — He turned a scornful eye, Shook his proud head, and deigned me no reply. MONTGOMERY. THE CRUCIFIXION. II. Bound upon die accursed tree, Faint and bleeding, who is He 1 MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 53 By the eyes so pale and dim, Streaming blood, and writhing limb, By the flesh with scourges torn, By the crown of twisted thorn, By the side so deeply pierced, By the baffled, burning thirst, By the drooping death-dewed brow, Son of Man ! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou ! Bound upon the accursed tree, Dread and awful, who is He ? By the sun at noon-day pale, Shivering rocks, and rending veil, By earth that trembles at His doom, By yonder saints who burst their tomb, By Eden, promised ere He died To the felon at His side, Lord ! our suppliant knees we bow, Son of God ! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou ! Bound upon the accursed tree, Sad and dying, who is He? By the last and bitter cry The ghost given up in agony ; By the lifeless body laid In the chambers of the dead ; By the mourners come to weep Where the bones of Jesus sleep ; Crucified ! we know Thee now ; Son of Man ! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou ! Bound upon the accursed tree, Dread and awful, who is He ? By the prayer of them that slew, " Lord ! they know not what they do !" By the spoiled and empty grave, By the souls he died to save, By the conquest he hath won, By the saints before his throne, By the rainbow round his brow, Son of God ! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou ! 54 THE BEAUTIES OP THE LOVE OF GOD. Oh ! never, never canst thou know What then for thee the Saviour bore ; The pangs of that mysterious wo That wrung His frame at every pore ; The weight that pressed upon His brow, The fever of His bosom's core ! Yes ! man for man perchance may brave The horrors of the yawning grave ; And friend for friend, or child for sire, Undaunted and unmoved expire, From love — or piety — or pride — But who can die as Jesus died ? — A sweet, but solitary beam, An emanation from above, Glimmers o'er life's uncertain dream, — We hail that beam, and call it Love ! But fainter than the pale star's ray Before the noontide blaze of day, And lighter than the viewless sand Beneath the wave that sweeps the strand, Is all of Love that man can know — All that in angel-breasts can glow — Compared, O Lord of Hosts ! with Thine — Eternal — fathomless — divine ! That Love — whose praise with quenchless fire, Inflames the blest seraphic choir ; Where perfect rapture reigns above, And Love is all — for Thou art Love ! BLESSED BE THY NAME FOR EVER. Blessed be Thy name for ever, Thou of life the guard and giver ! Thou canst guard thy creatures sleeping ; Heal the heart long broke with weeping. God of stillness and of motion, Of the desert and the ocean, Of the mountain, rock, and river, Blessed be Thy name for ever I MODERN BRITISH POETRY. Thou, who slumberest not, nor sleepest, Blest are they Thou kindly keepest, God of evening's parting ray, Of midnight's gloom, and dawning day, That rises from the azure sea, Like breathings of eternity. God of life ! that fade shall never, Blessed be Thy. name for ever ! THE GLORY OF GOD IN CREATION. Thou art, O God, the life and light Of all this wondrous world we see : Its glow by day, its smile by night, Are but reflections caught from Thee ! Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are Thine. When day with farewell beam delays, Among the opening clouds of even, And we can almost think we gaze Through golden vistas into heaven ; Those hues that mark the sun's decline, So soft, so radiant, Lord, are thine. When night, with wings of stormy gloom, O'ershadows all the earth and skies, Like some dark beauteous bird, whose plume Is sparkling with a thousand dyes, That sacred gloom, those fires divine, So grand, so countless, Lord, are thine. When youthful spring around us breathes, Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh, And every flower the summer wreathes, Is born beneath that kindling eye ; Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine. MOORE, 50 THE BEAUTIES OF DESTRUCTION OF THE ASSYRIANS. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the sheen of their spears were like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed on the face of the foe as he passed ; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still. And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride ; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord. BYRON. THE SABBATH BELL. I. The cheerful Sabbath Bells, wherever heard, Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims Tidings of good to Zion : chiefly when Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear Of the contemplant, solitary man, Whom thoughts abstruse on high have chanced to lure MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 57 Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft, And oft again, hard matter, which eludes And baffles his pursuit, thought-sick and tired Of controversy, where no end appears, No clue to his research, the lonely man Half wishes for society again : Him, thus engaged, the Sabbath Bells salute Sudden ! his heart awakes : his ears drink in The cheering music : his relenting soul Yearns after all the joys of social life ; And softens with the love of human kind . THE SABBATH BELL. II. Pilgrim, that hast meekly borne All the cold world's bitter scorn, Journeying through this vale of tears, Till the promised land appears, Where the pure in heart shall dwell — Thou dost bless the Sabbath Bell. Idler, following fashion's toys, Seeking, 'mid its empty joys, Pleasure that must end in pain ; Sunshine that will turn to rain ; What does whispering conscience tell, When thou hear'st the Sabbath Bell ? Poet, dreaming o'er thy lyre, Wasting health and youthful fire ; Wooing still the phantom fame, For, at best, a fleeting name ; Burst the chains of Fancy's spell — Listen — 'tis the Sabbath Bell ! Monarch, on thy regal throne ; Ruler, whom the nations own ; Captive, at thy prison grate, Sad in heart and desolate ; Bid earth's minor cares farewell — Hark ! it is the Sabbath Bell ! 58 THE BEAUTIES OP Statesman, toiling in the mart, Where ambition plays his part ; Peasant, bronzing 'neath the sun Till thy six days' work are done, Every thought of business quell When ye hear the Sabbath Bell . Maiden, with thy brow so fair, Blushing cheek, and shining hair ; Child, with bright and laughing eye, Chasing the winged butterfly ; Hasten, when o'er vale and dell Sounds the gathering Sabbath Bell ! Traveller, thou whom gain or taste Speedeth through earth's weary waste ; Wanderer from thy native land, Rest thy steed and slack thy hand When the seventh day's sunbeams tell : There they wake the Sabbath Bell ! Soldier, who, on battle-plain, Soon mayst mingle with the slain ; Sailor, on the dark blue sea, As thy bark rides gallantly ; Prayer and praise become ye well, Though ye hear no Sabbath Bell. Mother, with that tearful eye, Stand'st to watch thy first-born die, Bending o'er his cradle-bed, Till the last pure breath has fled ; What to thee of hope can tell Like the solemn Sabbath Bell ? " Mourner," thus it seems to say ; " Weeping o'er this fragile clay, Lift from earth thy streaming eyes, Seek thy treasure in the skies, Where the strains of angels swell One eternal Sabbath Bell ! " MRS. C. R. WILSON. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. SABBATH MORNING. I. How still the Morning of the hallowed Day ! Mute is the voice of rural labour, hushed The plough-boy's whistle, and the milk-maid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yester-mom bloomed waving in the breeze. The faintest sounds attract the ear, — the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating, midway up the hill. Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale ; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heaven-tuned song ; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen; While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals, The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. GRAHAME, SABBATH MORNING. II. Dear is the hallowed morn to me, When village bells awake the day ; And, by their sacred minstrelsy, Call me from earthly cares away. And dear to me the winged hour, Spent in thy hallowed courts, O Lord ! To feel devotion's soothing power, And catch the manna of Thy word. And dear to me, the loud Amen, Which echoes through the blest abode, Which swells and sinks, and swells again, Dies on the walls, but lives to God. And dear the rustic harmony, Sung with the pomp of village art ; That holy, heavenly melody, The music of a thankful heart. d 2 <>0 THE BEAUTIES OF In secret I have often prayed, And still the anxious tear would fall ; But, on thy sacred altar laid, The fire descends, and dries them all. Oft when the world, with iron hands, Has bound me in its six-days' chain, This bursts them, like the strong man's bands, And lets my spirit loose again. Then dear to me the Sabbath Morn ; The village bells, the shepherd's voice ; These oft have found my heart forlorn, And always bid that heart rejoice. Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre, Of broken Sabbaths, sing the charms, Ours be the prophet's car of fire, That bears us to a Father's arms. J. W. CUNNINGHAM. SABBATH MORNING. III. Welcome, thou peaceful dawn ! O'er field and wooded lawn The wonted sound of busy toil is laid. And hark, the village bell, Whose simple tinklings swell, Sweet as soft music on the straw-roofed shed ; And bids the pious cottager prepare, To keep the appointed rest, and seek the house of prayer. How goodly 'tis to see, The rustic family Duly along the church-way path repair ! The mother trim and plain, Leading her ruddy train, The father pacing slow with modest air ; With honest heart and humble guise they come To serve the Lord of Hosts, and bear His blessing home. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 61 O Sabbath Bell, thy voice Makes hearts like these rejoice ; Not so the child of vanity and power ; He the blest pavement treads, Perchance to gaze away a listless hour, Perchance as custom bids ; Then crowns the bowl, or scours along the road, Nor hides his shame from men, nor heeds the eye of God. O would the Eternal Spirit bless, With faith and holiness, The laggart people of our favoured isle ! But if, too deep and wide Have spread corruption's tide, O might He deign on me and mine to smile ! So shall we ne'er with due devotion fail The consecrated day of solemn rest to hail ; So shall we still resort To S ion's hallowed court, And lift the heart to Him who dwells above; Then, home returning, muse On sweet and solemn views, Or fill the void with acts of holy love ; Then lay us down in peace to think we've given Another precious day to fit our souls for Heaven ! BISHOP MANT. SABBATH EVENING. Is there a time when moments flow, More lovelily than all beside ? It is of all the times below, A Sabbath eve in summer tide. O then the setting sun smiles fair, And all below, and all above, The different forms of nature wear One universal garb of love. And then the peace that Jesus beams, The life of grace, the death of sin, With nature's placid woods and streams, Is peace without, and peace within. THE BEAUTIES OF Delightful scene ! a world at rest, A God all love, no grief nor fear, A heavenly hope, a peaceful breast, A smile unsullied by a tear. If Heaven be ever felt below, A scene so heavenly sure as this May cause a heart on earth to know, Some foretaste of celestial bliss. Delightful hour ! how soon will Night Spread her dark mantle o'er thy reign ; And morrow's quick returning light Must call us to the world again. Yet will there dawn at last a day — A Sun that never sets shall rise ; Night will not veil his ceaseless ray — The heavenly Sabbath never dies ! EDMESTON. RETIREMENT. Far from the world, O Lord, I flee, From strife and tumult far ; From scenes where Satan wages still His most successful war. The calm retreat, the silent shade, With prayer and praise agree ; And seem by Thy sweet bounty made For those who follow Thee. There, if Thy Spirit touch the soul, And grace her mean abode, Oh, with what peace, and joy, and love, She communes with her pod ! There, like the nightingale, she pours Her solitary lays, Nor asks a witness of her song, Nor thirsts fpr human praise. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 63 Author and Guardian of my life. Sweet source of light divine, And (all harmonious names in one) My Saviour, Thou art mine ! What thanks I owe Thee, and what love ! — A boundless, endless store, Shall echo through the realms above When time shall be no more. COWPER. SILENT DEVOTION. I. The inward sighs of humble Penitence, Rise to the ear of Heaven, when pealed hymns Are scattered with the sounds of common air. , MISS BAILLIE. SILENT DEVOTION. II. As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean Sweet flowers are springing no mortal may see, So deep in my bosom the prayer of devotion, Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee. As still to the star of its worship, though clouded, The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea, So, dark as I roam, in this wintry world shrouded, The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee. MOORE. PRAYER. Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, Uttered or unexpressed ; The motion of a hidden fire, That trembles in the breast. Prayer is the burthen of a sigh, The falling of a tear ; The upward glancing of an eye, When none but God is near. 64 THE BEAUTIES OF Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try ; Prayer the sublimest strains that reach The Majesty on high. Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air ; His watchword at the gates of death : He enters heaven by prayer. Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice, Returning from his ways ; While angels in their songs rejoice, And say, " Behold he prays ! " The saints in prayer appear as one, In word, and deed, and mind, When with the Father and his Son Their fellowship they find. Nor prayer is made on earth alone : The Holy Spirit pleads ; And Jesus, on the eternal throne, For sinners intercedes. O Thou, by whom we come to God, The Life, the Truth, the Way, The path of prayer Thyself hast trod : Lord, teach us how to pray ! MONTGOMERY. CHILD'S EVENING PRAYER. I. God, that madest earth and Heaven, Darkness and light ! Who the day for toil hast given, For rest the night ! May Thine angel-guards defend us, Slumber sweet Thy mercy send us, Holy dreams and hopes attend us, This livelong night ! HEBEE. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 65 CHILD'S EVENING PRAYER. II. Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, God grant me grace my prayers to say ! O God, preserve my mother dear In health and strength for many a year, And oh ! preserve my father too, And may I pay him reverence due ; And may I my best thoughts employ To be my parents' hope and joy ! My sisters and my brothers both From evil guard, and save from sloth, And may we always love each other, Our friends, our father, and our mother •' And still, O Lord, to me impart A contrite, pure, and grateful heart, That after my last sleep I may Awake to Thy eternal day '. Amen. QUARTERLY REVIEW. EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL. Hush ! 'tis a holy hour — the quiet room Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom And the sweet stillness, down on bright young heads, And all their clustering locks, untouched by care, And bowed — as flowers are bowed with night — in prayer. Gaze on, 'tis lovely ! — Childhood's lip and cheek, Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought ! Gaze, yet what seest thou in those fair and meek And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? — Thou seest what Grief must nurture for the sky, What death must fashion for eternity ! O joyous creatures ! that will sink to rest Lightly, when those pure Orisons are done, As birds with slumber's honey-dew oppressed, Midst the dim-folded leaves, at set of sun ; Lift up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. THE BEAUTIES OF Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs Of Hope make melody where'er ye tread, And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings Of Spirits visiting but youth, be spread ; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, Is woman's tenderness — how soon her wo ! O take the thought of this calm Vesper time, With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, On through the dark days fading from their prime, As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight ! Earth will forsake — oh ! happy to have given The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven ! MRS. HEMANS. COTTAGE PRAYERS. Then, kneeling down to heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays : Hope ' springs exulting on triumphant wing,' That thus they all shall meet in future days : There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear ; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Then homeward all take off their several way, The youngling cottagers retire to rest : The parent pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That He who stills the raven's clamorous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. BURNS. ADVANTAGES OF AFFLICTION. Behold this vine ! I found it a *ild tree, whose wanton strength MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 67 Had swollen into irregular twigs And bold excrescences, And spent itself in leaves and little rings ; So in the nourish of its outwardness, Wasting the sap and strength That should have given forth fruit ; But when I pruned the tree, Then it grew temperate in its vain expanse Of useless leaves, and knotted, as thou see'st, Into these full, clear clusters, to repay The hand that wisely wounded it. Repine not, O my son ! In wisdom and in mercy Heaven inflicts, Like a wise leech, its painful remedies.- — If ye would know How visitations of calamity Affect the pious soul, 'tis shown ye there ! Look yonder at that cloud, which, through the sky, Sailing alone, doth cross in her career The rolling Moon ! I watched it as it came, And deemed the deep opaque would blot her beams ; But, melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs In waves of silver round, and clothes The orb with richer beauties than her own ; Then, passing, leaves her in her light serene. SOUTHEY. COMFORT IN AFFLICTION. I. Oh ! Thou who driest the mourner's tear, How dark this world would be, If, when deceived and wounded here, We could not fly to Thee ! The friends who in our sunshine live, When winter comes, are flown ; And he who has but tears to give, Must weep those tears alone ; But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of wo. 68 THE BEAUTIES OF When Joy no longer soothes or cheers, And even the hope that threw A moment's sparkle o'er our tears Is dimmed and vanished too ! Oh ! who would bear life's stormy doom, Did not Thy wing of love Come brightly wafting through the gloom, One Peace-branch from above ! Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright With more than rapture's ray ; As darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day. COMFORT IN AFFLICTION. II. When gathering clouds around I view, And days are dark, and friends are few ; On Him, I lean, who, not in vain, Experienced every human pain ; He sees my wants, allays my fears, And counts and treasures up my tears. If aught should tempt my soul to stray From heavenly wisdom's narrow way ; To flee the good I would pursue, Or do the sin I would not do, Still He, who felt temptation's power, Shall guard me in that dangerous hour. If wounded love my bosom swell, Deceived by those I prized too well ; He shall His pitying aid bestow, Who felt on earth severer wo — At once betrayed, denied, or fled By those who shared His daily bread. When vexing thoughts within me rise, And, sore dismayed, my spirit dies ; Yet He, who once vouchsafed to bear The sickening anguish of despair, Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry The throbbing heart, the streaming eye MOORE. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 69 When mourning o'er some stone I bend, Which covers all that was a friend, And from his hand, his voice, his smile, Divides me for a little while ; Thou, Saviour, mark'st the tears I shed, For Thou didst weep o'er Lazarus dead . And O ! when I have safely passed Through every conflict but the last ; Still, still, unchanging, watch beside My dying bed — for Thou hast died ; Then point to realms of cloudless day, And wipe the latest tears away. ROBERT GRANT. THE CHRISTIAN CONFLICT. The Son of God goes forth to war, A kingly crown to gain : His blood-red banner streams afar ! Who follows in His train ? Who best can drink his cup of wo, Triumphant over pain, Who patient bear his cross below, He follows in His train ! The martyr first, whose eagle eye Could pierce beyond the grave ; Who saw his Master in the sky, And called on Him to save. Like Him, with pardon on his tongue In midst of mortal pain, He prayed for them that did him wrong ! Who follows in His train ? A glorious band, the chosen few On whom the Spirit came ; Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew, And mocked the cross and flame. 70 THE BEAUTIES OP They met the tyrant's brandished steel, The lion's gory mane : They bowed their necks, the death to feel ! Who follows in His train? A noble army— men and boys, The matron and the maid, Around the Saviour's throne rejoice, In robes of light arrayed. They climbed the steep ascent of Heaven, Through peril, toil, and pain ! Oh God ! to us may grace be given To follow in their train ! ODE TO ENTERPRISE. On lofty mountains roaming, O'er bleak perennial snow, Where cataracts are foaming, And raging north-winds blow : Where hungry wolves are prowling, And famished eagles cry ; Where tempests loud are howling, And lowering vapours fly : There, at the peep of morning, Bedecked with dewy tears, Wild weeds her brows adorning, Lo ! Enterprise appears : While keen-eyed Expectation Still points to objects new, See panting Emulation, Her fleeting steps pursue ! List, list Celestial Virgin ! And oh the vow record J From grovelling cares emerging, I pledge this solemn word : — By deserts, fields, or fountains, While health, while life remains, O'er Lapland's icy mountains, O'er Afric's burning plains ; MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 71 Or, 'midst the darksome wonders Which Earth's vast caves conceal, Where subterraneous thunders The miner's path reveal ; Where, bright in matchless lustre, The lithal flowers * unfold, And 'midst the beauteous cluster, Beams efflorescent gold • In every varied station, Whate'er my fate may be, My hope, my exultation Is still to follow thee. When age, with sickness blended, Shall check the gay career, And death, though long suspended, Begins to hover near; Then oft in visions fleeting, May thy fair form be nigh, And still thy votary greeting, Receive his parting sigh ; And tell a joyful story, Of some new world to come, Where kindred souls in glory, May call the wanderer home I DR. E. D. CLARKE. Know ye the time when hearts are light, And cares are flung behind us ; When witching Hope's creations bright In soft enchantment bind us ? When Fancy's daughters, gay and young, Their freshest flowers are wreathing; And Passion's soft and syren tongue Her tenderest tale is breathing ? * Crystals, the blossoms of the mineral world; disclosing the nature and properties of stones, as those of vegetables are made known by their flowers. 72 THE BEAUTIES OP When Nature shines before our eyes Attired in best adorning ; And suns career 'midst cloudless skies, And day has nought but morning : The year no season has but Spring, The Spring is crowned with roses, And they their choicest odours fling Wherever Hope reposes. Life now is life — 'tis bliss indeed — A scene of fascination ; And eyes that weep, and hearts that bleed, Seem spots in the creation. We think that every coming day Will still be calmer, brighter; That Hope's gay wing will grow more gay, And Life's light chain still lighter. We dream not of a rose with thorns— Of Hope by falsehood blighted — Of woman smiling — when she scorns — Or doting still — when slighted. We think that worth, with rose-buds crowned, Shall range through bowers of gladness ; Whilst vice, its brow with cypress bound, Shall drain the cup of sadness. REV. DUNCAN GRANT. DISAPPOINTMENT. Know ye the time when hearts are cold, And cares come trooping round us ; And Hope's creations cease to hold The spell in which they bound us ? When Fancy from her hand has flung The garlands she was weaving ; And Passion's lip, on which we hung, Seems hateful and deceiving ? The sun through clouds drags on its car, The heart its load, mid sorrow ; To-day, if gleams come from afar, They storm portend to-morrow : MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 73 No warbling minstrels charm the grove, No flowers spring up before us ; The thrilling glow of joy and love No longer mantles o'er us. The thorn is felt beneath the rose, 'Mongst flowers the reptile lurketh ; And in the smile which Beauty throws, Its deepest scorning worketh : Man shines in dazzling borrowed beams, A heartless, gay deceiver ; And woman feeds on empty dreams, That restless, joyless leave her. E'en worth is deemed a worthless thing, By man, the child of passion; And woman's wayward feelings cling To Folly dressed in fashion : — A truer light breaks on the soul — The heart is seen in motion; And Passion's crested billows roll In that deep restless ocean. REV. DUNCAN GRANT. ENJOYMENT. Know ye the time, the calm, brief hours, So rich in holiest feeling, When Hope, as once in Eden's bowers, Her peace and joy is sealing? Those hours refreshing as the spots That in dark wastes are vernal ; Or as the seraph strain that floats Around the Throne Eternal. They come to say that though this world Is selfish, dark, benighted — A sphere from its true orbit hurled — A scene which guilt has blighted ; There is a holier, lovelier home, As shown in sacred story ; Where hearts and hopes no more shall roam In quest of bliss and glory. 74 THE BEAUTIES OF They tinge with gold the darkest sky ; They brighten hope to vision ; They waft the raptured soul on high To streams of bliss elysian : They tell that life, though deemed a dream, Is Heaven's own sacred portal ; Where contrite hearts may catch a gleam Of light and joy immortal. They say 'midst Nature's heaviest gloom, Ye spirits immaterial ! Though earth-born Hope must shed its bloom, We waft you Hope ethereal : But not a soul, who there sojourns, Shall reap its fruit in Heaven, Unless its guilt it deeply mourns, Is ransomed, and forgiven. REV. BUNCAN GRANT. EVANESCENCE OF HUMAN LIFE. What are our ages, but a few brief waves From the vast ocean of eternity, That break upon the shores of this our world, And so ebb back into the immense profound. MILMAN, THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. We sail the sea of Life — a calm one finds, And one a tempest — and, the voyage o'er, Death is the quiet haven of us all. WORDSWORTH. HUMAN LIFE. I. Man's uncertain Life Is like a rain-drop hanging on the bough, Amongst ten thousand of its sparkling kindred, The remnants of some passing thunder shower, Which have their moments, dropping one by one, And which shall soonest lose its perilous hold We cannot guess. MISS BAILLIE MODERN BRITISH POETRY. HUMAN LIFE. II. Between two worlds, Life hovers like a star, Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge ; How little do we know that which we are ! How less what we may be ! The eternal surge Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, Lashed from the foam of ages, while the graves Of Empires heave but like some passing waves. HUMAN LIFE. III. The lark has sung his carol in the sky ; The bees have hummed their noon-tide lullaby. Still in the vale the village-bells ring round, Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound : For now the caudle-cup is circling there, Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire The babe, the sleeping image of his sire. A few short years — and then these sounds shall hail The day again, and gladness fill the vale ; So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, Eager to run the race his fathers ran. Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin ; The ale, now brewed, in floods of amber shine : And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, 'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days, The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, " 'Twas on these knees he sate so oft and smiled." And soon again shall music swell the breeze ; Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white ; and hymns be sung ; And violets scattered round ; and old and young, In every cottage-porch with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene ; While, her dark eyes declining, by his side Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride. e 2 76 THE BEAUTIES OP And once, alas ! nor in a distant hour, Another voice shall come from yonder tower ; When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, And weepings heard where only joy has been ; When by his children borne, and from his door Slowly departing to return no more, He rests in holy earth with them that went before. — And such is Human Life ; so gliding on, It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone ! ROGERS. HUMAN LIFE, IV. " What is the gift of Life ? " Speak thou, in young existence revelling ; To thee it is a glorious, god-like thing ; Love, Hope, and Fancy lead the joyous way; Ambition kindles up her living ray. There is a path of light marked out for thee, A thornless path, and there thy way shall be : A thousand spirits by thy side shall fall, But thou shalt live, and look beyond them all ; Yes, Life indeed may seem a joyous thing. " What is the gift of Life" To thee, subdued and taught by Wisdom's voice, Wisdom of stern necessity, not choice ? Whose cup of joy is ebbing out in haste, Who hast no fountain to supply the waste ; Whose spirit, like some traveller gazing round, Or broken columns in the desert ground, Sees but sad traces on a lonely scene, Of what Life was, and what it might have been ;■ Oh ! is not Life a sad and solemn thing ? "What is the gift of Life" To him who reads with Heaven-instructed eye ? • 'Tis the first dawning of eternity; The future Heaven just breaking on the sight ; The glimmering of a still increasing light ; Its cheering scenes foretastes of heavenly joy; Its storms and tempests sent to purify : Oh ! is not Life a bright inspiring thing ? MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 77 " What is the gift of Life" To him whose soul through this tempestuous road Hath past, and found its Home, its Heaven, its God ? Who sees the boundless page of knowledge spread, And years, as boundless, rolling o'er his head ; . No cloud to darken the celestial light ; No sin to sully, and no grief to blight ; Is not that better Life a glorious thing? MISS EMILY TAYLOR. HUMAN LIFE. W e safely may affirm that Human Life Is either fair or tempting ; a soft scene Grateful to sight, refreshing to the soul, Or a forbidding tract of cheerless views ; Even as the same is looked at, or approached. In changeful April, when, as he is wont, Winter has reassumed a short lived sway, And whitened all the surface of the fields, If from the sullen region of the North Towards the circuit of this holy ground Your walk conducts you, ere the vigorous sun, High climbing, hath attained his noon-tide height — ■ These Mounds traversely lying side by side From east to west, before you will appear A dreary plain of unillumined snow, With more than wintry cheerlessness and gloom Saddening the heart. Go forward, and look back ; On the same circuit of this churchyard ground Look : — from the quarter whence the lord of light, Of life, of love, and gladness, doth dispense His beams ; which, unexcluded in their fall, Upon the southern side of every grave Have gently exercised a melting power, Then will a vernal prospect greet your eye, All fresh and beautiful, and green and bright, Hopeful and cheerful : — vanished is the snow, Vanished or hidden ; and the whole domain, To some, too lightly minded, might appear A meadow carpet for the dancing hours. — THE BEAUTIES OF This contrast, not unsuitable to Life, Is to that other state more apposite, Death, and its twofold aspect ; wintry one, Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out ; The other, which the ray divine hath touched Replete with vivid promise, bright as Spring. WORDSWORTH. HUMAN LIFE. VI. In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up ; in the evening it is cut down, and withereth. — Psalm xc. 6. I walked the fields at morning's prime, The grass was ripe for mowing ; The skylark sang his matin chime, And all was brightly glowing. " And thus," I cried, " the ardent boy, " His pulse with rapture beating, " Deems life's inheritance is joy — " The future proudly greeting." I wandered forth at noon : — alas ! On earth's maternal bosom The scythe had left the withering grass And stretched the fading blossom. And thus, I thought with many a sigh, The hopes we fondly cherish, Like flowers which blossom but to die, Seem only born to perish. Once more, at eve, abroad I strayed, Through lonely hay-fields musing; While every breeze that round me played Rich fragrance was diffusing. The perfumed air, the hush of eve, To purer hopes appealing, O'er thoughts perchance too prone to grieve, Scattered the balm of healing. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 79 For thus the actions of the just, When Memory hath enshrined them, E'en from the dark and silent dust Their odour leave behind them. BARTON. HUMAN LIFE. VII. What is the mystery of Human Life ? In rude or civilized society, Alike, a pilgrim's progress through this world To that which is to come, by the same stages ; With infinite diversity of fortune To each distinct adventurer by the way ! Life is the transmigration of a soul Through various bodies, various states of being : New manners, passions, tastes, pursuits in each ; In nothing, save, in consciousness, the same. Infancy, adolescence, manhood, age, Are always moving onward, always losing Themselves in one another, lost at length, Like undulations, on the strand of death. The sage of threescore years and ten looks back, — With many a pang of lingering tenderness, And many a shuddering conscience-fit, — on what He hath been, is not, and cannot be again ; Nor trembles less with fear and hope, to think What he is now, but cannot long continue, And what he must be through uncounted ages. — The Child ; — we know no more of happy childhood Than happy childhood knows of wretched old ; And all our dreams of its felicity Are incoherent as its own crude visions : We but begin to live from that fine point Which memory dwells on, with the morning-star, The earliest note we heard the cuckoo sing, Or the first daisy that we ever plucked, When thoughts themselves were stars, and birds, and flowers, Pure brilliance, simplest music, wild perfume. Thenceforward, mark the metamorphoses ! The Boy, the Girl, when all was joy, hope, promise ; 80 THE BEAUTIES OF Yet who would be a Boy, a Girl again, To bear the yoke, to long for liberty, And dream of what will never come to pass ? The Youth, the Maiden ; living but for love, Yet learning soon that life hath other cares, And joys less rapturous, but more enduring : The Woman ; — in her offspring multiplied ; A tree of life, whose glory is her branches, Beneath whose shadow, she (both root and stem) Delights to dwell in meek obscurity, That they may be the pleasure of beholders : The Man ; — as father of a progeny, Whose birth requires his death to make them room ; Yet in whose lives he feels his resurrection, And grows immortal in his children's children : Then the gray Elder ; leaning on his staff, And bowed beneath a weight of years, that steal Upon him with the secrecy of sleep, (No snow falls lighter than the snow of age, None with more subtilty benumbs the frame) Till he forgets sensation, and lies down Dead in the lap of his primeval mother; She throws a shroud of turf and flowers around him, Then calls the worms, and bids them do their office. " Man giveth up the ghost, — and where is he ? " MONTGOMERY, THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH. I. It matters not at what hour of the day The righteous fall asleep ; Death cannot come To him untimely who is fit to die ; The less of this cold world, the more of Heaven ; The briefer life, the earlier immortality. MILMAN. THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH, II. Calm on the bosom of thy God, Fair spirit ! rest thee now .' E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod, His seal was on thy brow. MODERN BRITISH POETRY, 81 Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! Soul, to its place on high ! They that have seen thy look in death, No more may fear to die. MRS. HEMANS. THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH. III. Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb ; The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee, And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom. Thou art gone to the grave, — we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough paur of the world by thy side : But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may hope, since the sinless has died. Thou art gone to the grave, — and, its mansion forsaking, Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long ; But the sunshine of Heaven beamed bright on thy waking, And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphims' song. Thou art gone to the grave, — but 'twere wrong to deplore thee, When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide ; He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee, Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died. THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH. IV. Brother, thou art gone before, And thy saintly soul is flown Where tears are wiped from every eye, And sorrow is unknown ; From the burden of the flesh, And from care and fear released, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest. 82 THE BEAUTIES OF The toilsome way thou'st travelled o'er, And borne the heavy load, But Christ hath taught thy languid feet To reach his blest abode ; Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus, Upon his father's breast, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest. Sin can never taint thee now, Nor doubt thy faith assail, Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ And the Holy Spirit fail : And there thou'rt sure to meet the good, Whom on earth thou lovedst best, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest. " Earth to earth," and " dust to dust," The solemn priest hath said, So we lay the turf above thee now, And we seal thy narrow bed : But thy spirit, brother, soars away Among the faithful blest, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest. And when the Lord shall summon us, Whom thou hast left behind, May we, untainted by the world, As sure a welcome find : May each, like thee, depart in peace, To be a glorious guest, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest. MILMAN. CHRISTIAN HOPE AT THE CLOSE OF LIFE. Unfadikg Hope ! when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return ! Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour ! Oh ! then thy kingdom comes ! Immortal Power ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 83 What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye ! Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal day — Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin, And all the phoenix spirit burns within ! Oh ! deep-enchanting prelude to repose ! The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes ! Yet half I hear the parting spirit sigh, It is a dread and awful thing to die ! Mysterious worlds, untravelled by the sun, Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run ! From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres, A warning comes, unheard by other ears : 'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud, Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud ! While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust, The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust; And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod The roaring waves, and called upon his God, With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, And shrieks and hovers o'er the dark abyss ! Daughter of Faith ! awake, arise, illume The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb ! Melt and dispel, ye spectre-doubts that roll Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul ! Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay, Chased on his night-steed by the star of day ! The strife is o'er, — the pangs of Nature close, And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. CAMPBELL. WEEP NOT FOR ME. When the spark of life is waning, Weep not for me ; When the languid eye is straining, Weep not for me : When the feeble pulse is ceasing, Start not at its swift decreasing, 'Tis the fettered soul's releasing ; Weep not for me. THE BEAUTIES OF When the pangs of death assail me, Weep not for me ; Christ is mine — He cannot fail me, Weep not for me. Yes, though sin and doubt endeavour From His love my soul to sever, Jesus is my strength for ever — Weep not for me. THE CHRISTIAN'S GRAVE. I. When by a good man's Grave I muse alone, Methinks an angel sits upon the stone, Like those of old, on that thrice hallowed night, Who sate and watched in raiment heavenly bright ; And, with a voice inspiring joy, not fear, Says, pointing upward, that he is not here, That he is risen. THE CHRISTIAN'S GRAVE. II. There is a spot — a lovely spot, Embosomed in a valley's dell ; The eye of splendour marks it not, Nor travellers of its beauties tell. The hazel forms a green bower there ; Beneath, the grassy covering lies ; And forest flowers surpassing fair, Mingle their soft and lovely dyes. Morn decks the spot with many a gem, And the first break of eastern ray Lights up a spark in each of them, That seems to hail the opening day. When first that beam of morning breaks, The fancy here a smile may see, Like that when first the saint awakes At dawn of immortality. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. The free birds love to seek the shade, And here they sing their sweetest lays ; Meet requiem ! — He who there is laid, Breathed his last dying voice in praise. And here the villager will stray, What time his daily work is done, When Evening sheds the western ray Of sweet departing summer sun. On lovely lips his name is found , And simple hearts yet hold him dear ; The Patriarch of the village round, — The Pastor of the chapel near. The holy cautions that he gave, — The prayers he breathed — the tears he wept,- Yet linger here, though in his grave, Through many a year the saint has slept. And oft the villager has said, — "•O I remember, when a child, " He placed his hand upon my head, " And blessed me then, and sweetly smiled. " 'Twas he that led me to my God, " And taught me to obey His will ; " The holy path which he has trod, " Oh ! be it mine to follow still." Grave of the righteous ! surely there The sweetest bloom of beauty is : Oh ! may I sleep in couch as fair, And with a hope as bright as his ! EDMESTON THE GRAVE. There is a calm for those who weep; A rest for weary pilgrims found : They softly lie, and sweetly sleep, Low in the ground. 86 THE BEAUTIES OF The storm that wrecks the wintry sky, No more disturbs their deep repose, Than summer evening's latest sigh That shuts the rose. I long to lay this painful head, And aching heart, beneath the soil ; To slumber in that dreamless bed From all my toil. The Grave, that never spake before, Hath found at length a tongue to chide ; O listen ! — I will speak no more : — Be silent, pride ! Art thou a mourner ? hast thou known The joy of innocent delights, Endearing days for ever flown And tranquil nights ? O live ! and deeply cherish still The sweet remembrance of the past : Rely on Heaven's unchanging will For peace at last. Though long of winds and waves the sport, Condemned in wretchedness to roam ; Live ! thou shalt reach a sheltering port, A quiet home. Seek the true treasure, seldom found, Of power the fiercest griefs to calm, And soothe the bosom's deepest wound With heavenly balm. Whate'er thy lot — where'er thou be — Confess thy folly — kiss the rod ; And in thy chastening sorrows see The hand of God. A bruised reed He will not break ; Afflictions all His children feel ; He wounds them for His mercy's sake ; He wounds to heal ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 87 Humbled beneath His mighty hand, Prostrate, His providence adore : 'Tis done ! arise ! He bids thee stand, To fall no more. Now, traveller in the vale of tears ! To realms of everlasting light, Through Time's dark wilderness of years, Pursue thy flight. There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found : And while the mouldering ashes sleep Low in the ground, The soul, of origin divine, God's glorious image freed from clay, In Heaven's eternal sphere shall shine A star of day ! The sun is but a spark of fire, A transient meteor in the sky ; The soul, immortal as its Sire, Shall never die ! MONTGOMERY. THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. They grew in beauty, side by side, They filled one home with glee ; — Their graves are severed, far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea. The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow ; She had each folded flower in sight, — Where are those dreamers now ? One, 'midst the forests of the west, By a dark stream is laid — The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar shade. THE BEAUTIES OF The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, He lies where pearls lie deep ; He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep. One sleeps where southern vines are dressed Above the noble slain : He wrapt his colours round his breast, On a blood-red field of Spain. And one — o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ; She faded 'midst Italian flowers, — The last of that bright band. And parted thus they rest, who played Beneath the same green tree ; Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee .' They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheered with song the hearth, — Alas ! for love, if thou wert all, And nought beyond, on earth ! MRS. IIEMANS. ELEGY FOR THE MONUMENT OF A FRIEND. If ever lot was prosperously cast, If ever life was like the lengthened flow Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last, 'Twas his, who, mourned by many, sleeps below. The sunny temper, bright where all is strife, The simple heart, that mocks at worldly wiles, Light wit, that plays along the calm of life, And stirs its languid surface into smiles. Pure charity, that comes not in a shower Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds, But like the dew, with gradual silent power, Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. i The happy, grateful spirit that improves, And brightens every gift by fortune given ; That, wander where it will, with those it loves, Makes every place a home, and home a heaven . All these were his — Oh ! thou who read'st this stone, When for thyself, thy children, to the sky Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone, That ye, like him may live, like him may die. HELVELLYN. AN ELEGY.* I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide ; All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Cathedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. Darkgreen was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather, Where the pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast, abandoned to weather, Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, The much loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber ? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start ? How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? * In the spring of 1805, Charles Gough, a young gentleman of talent, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain of Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland. F 90 THE BEAUTIES OF And, oh ! was it meet, that no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him, Unhonoured the Pilgrim from life should depart ! When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim lighted hall ; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming ; In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming ; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb ; When, wildered, lie drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam : And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Iielvellyn and Cathedicam. DIRGE. Weep not for her ! — Oh she was far too fair, Too pure to dwell on this guilt-tainted earth ! The sinless glory, and the golden air Of Zion, seemed to claim her from her birth : A Spirit wandered from its native zone, Which, soon discovering, took her for its own : Weep not for her ! Weep not for her! — Her span was like the sky, Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright; Like flowers, that know not what it is to die ; Like long-linked, shadeless months of Polar light; Like music floating o'er a waveless lake, While echo answers from the flowery brake : Weep not for her ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 91 Weep not for her ! — She died in early youth, Ere Hope had lost its rich romantic hues ; When human bosoms seemed the homes of truth, And earth still gleamed with Beauty's radiant dews. Her summer-prime waned not to days that freeze ; Her wine of life was run not to the lees : Weep not for her ! Weep not for her ! — By fleet or slow decay, It never grieved her bosom's core to mark The playmates of her childhood wane away ; Her prospects wither; or her hopes grow dark ; Translated by her God, with spirit shriven, She passed as 'twere in smiles from earth to Heaven : Weep not for her ! Weep not for her ! — It was not hers to feel The miseries that corrode amassing years, 'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel, To wander sad down Age's vale of tears, As whirl the withered leaves from Friendship's tree, And on earth's wintry wold alone to be : Weep not for her ! Weep not for her ! — She is an angel now, And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise ; All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow, Sin, sorrow, suffering, banished from her eyes : Victorious over death, to her appear The vista'd joys of Heaven's eternal year : Weep not for her '. Weep not for her ! — Her memory is the shrine Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers, Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline, Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers, Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light, Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night : Weep not for her ! Weep not for her ! — There is no cause for wo ; But rather nerve the spirit, that it walk Unshrinking o'er the thorny paths below, And from earth's low defilements keep thee back : f 2 92 THE BEAUTIES OP So, when a few fleet severing years have flown, She'll meet thee at Heaven's gate — and lead thee on ! Weep not for her ! MOIR. EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. I. On Life's wild ocean, sorrowful and pained, How many voyagers their course perform ! This little bark a kinder fate obtained ; It reached the harbour, ere it met the storm. EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. II. Ere sun could blight, or sorrow fade, Death came with friendly care ; The opening bud to Heaven conveyed, And bade it blossom there. COLERIDGE. DIRGE OF RACHEL. Genesis xxxv. 19. And Rachel lies in Ephrath's land, Beneath her lonely oak of weeping ; With mouldering heart, and withering hand, The sleep of death for ever sleeping. The Spring comes smiling down the vale, The lilies and the roses bringing ; But Rachel never more shall hail The flowers that in the world are springing. The Summer gives his radiant day, And Jewish dames the dance are treading ; But Rachel on her couch of clay, Sleeps all unheeded and unheeding. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 93 The Autumn's ripening sunbeam shines, And reapers to the field is calling ; But Rachel's voice no longer joins The choral song at twilight's falling. The Winter sends his drenching shower, And sweeps his howling blast around her ; But earthly storms possess no power To break the slumber that hath bound her. Thus round and round the Seasons go, But joy or grief no more betide her; For Rachel's bosom could not know Though friends were housed in death beside her, Yet time shall come, as prophets say, "Whose dreams with glorious things are blended, When Seasons on their changeful way Shall wend not as they long have wended. Yes, time shall come, when flowers that bloom Shall meet no storm their bloom to wither — When friends, rejoicing from the tomb, Have gone to heavenly climes together. HEBREW HYfllN. - When Israel, of the Lord beloved, Out from the land of bondage came, Her father's God before her moved, An awful guide in smoke and flame. By day, along the astonished lands The cloudy pillar glided slow ; By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands Returned the fiery column's glow. There rose the choral hymn of praise, And tramp and timbrel answered keen ; And Zion's daughters poured their lays, With priest's and warrior's voice between. 94, THE BEAUTIES OF No portents now our foes amaze, Forsaken Israel wanders lone ; Our fathers would not know Thy ways, And Thou hast left them to their own. But, present still, though now unseen ! When brightly shines the prosperous day, Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen To temper the deceitful ray. And oh, when stoops on Judah's path In shade and storm the frequent night, Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, A burning and a shining light !• Our harps we left by Babel's streams, The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; No censer round our altar beams, And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn. But Thou hast said, the blood of goat, The flesh of rams, I will not prize ; A contrite heart, a humble thought, Are mine accepted sacrifice. SCOTT. MISSIONARY HYMN. From Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains, Roll down their golden sand ; From many an ancient river, From many a balmy plain, They call us to deliver Their land from error's chain. What though the spicy breezes Blow soft on Ceylon's isle ; Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile : In vain, with lavish kindness, The gifts of God are strown, The Heathen, in his blindness, Bows down to wood and stone ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 95 Shall we, whose souls are lighted With wisdom from on high ; Shall we to men benighted The lamp of life deny ? Salvation ! Oh, salvation ! The joyful sound proclaim, Till each remotest nation Has learned Messiah's name ! Waft, waft, ye winds, his story, And you, ye waters, roll, Till, like a sea of glory, It spreads from pole to pole ; Till o'er our ransomed nature, The Lamb for sinners slain, Redeemer, King, Creator, In bliss return to reign ! THE MILLENIUM. I. But who shall see the glorious day, When, throned on Zion's brow, The Lord shall rend that veil away Which blinds the nations now ? When earth no more beneath the fear Of His rebuke shall lie ; When pain shall cease, and every tear Be wiped from every eye ? Then Judah ! thou no more shalt mourn Beneath the heathen's chain ; Thy days of splendour shall return, And all be new again. The fount of life shall then be quaffed, In peace by all who come, And every wind that blows shall waft Some long-lost exile home. MOORE 96 THE BEAUTIES OF THE MILLENIUM. II. It seems as if the summer sky Assumed a purer blue ; It seems as if the floweret's dye Put on a brighter hue ; It seems as if rough Ocean's wave Could now the bark but gently lave ; A loveliness so soft, so fair, Pervades the earth, the sea, the air : Peace dwells below, and all above Bespeaks the heavenly reign of Love. Emmanuel ! thy sceptre bends O'er every land beneath the sun ; Where'er the track of man extends, Have Thy sweet victories been won. Thy cross has shone the cresset light To wandering men in storms of night ; And showed them, anxious and distrest, The haven of eternal rest. EDMESTOX. TIME. I. Time never bears such moments on his wing, As when he flies too swiftly to be marked. MISS BAIHIE. TIME. II. Time flies : it is his melancholy task To bring, and bear away, delusive hopes, And reproduce the troubles he destroys. But, while his blindness thus is occupied, Discerning mortal ! do thou serve the will Of Time's eternal Master, and that peace Which the world wants, shall be for thee confirmed. WORDSWORTH, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 97 TIME. III. Time moveth not ! our being 'tis that moves ; And we, swift-gliding down Life's rapid stream, Dream of swift ages, and revolving years, Ordained to chronicle our passing days : — So the young sailor, in the gallant bark, Scudding before the wind, beholds the coast Receding from his eyes, and thinks the while, Struck with amaze, that he is motionless, And that the land is sailing. WHITE. TIME. IV. Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore, Who danced our infancy upon their knee, And told our marvelling boyhood legend's store, Of their strange venture happed by land or sea, How are they blotted from the things that be ! How few, all weak and withered of their force, Wait on the verge of dark eternity, Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse, To sweep them from our sight ! Time rolls his ceaseless course. TIME. V. How slowly and how silently doth Time Float on his starry journey ! Still he goes, And goes, and goes, and doth not pass away. He rises with the golden morning, calmly, And with the moon at night. Methinks I see Him stretching wide abroad his mighty wings, Floating for ever o'er the crowds of men, Like a huge vulture with its prey beneath. — Lo ! I am here, and Time seems passing on — To-morrow I may be a breathless thing ; But he will still be here ; and the blue hours Will laugh as gaily on the busy world As if I were alive to welcome them. BARRY CORNWALL. 98 THE BEAUTIES OF TIME. VI. Why sitt'st thou by that ruined hall, Thou aged carle so stern and grey ? Dost thou its former pride recal, Or ponder how it passed away ? " Know'st thou not me ! " the deep voice cried, So long enjoyed, so oft misused — Alternate, in thy tickle pride, Desired, neglected, and accused ? " Before my breath, like blazing flax, Man and his marvels pass away ; And changing empires wane and wax, Are founded, flourish, and decay. " Redeem mine hours — the space is brief — While in my glass the sand-grains shiver, And measureless thy joy or grief, When Time and thou shalt part for ever ! " SCOTT. TIME. VII. I asked an aged man — a man of cares, Wrinkled and curved, and white with hoary hairs ; " Time is the warp of life," he said, " Oh, tell The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well." I asked the ancient venerable dead, Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled ; — From the cold grave a hollow murmur flowed, " Time sowed the seed we reap in this abode." I asked a dying sinner, ere the stroke Of ruthless death life's golden bowl had broke ; — I asked him, " What is Time ? " " Time," he replied, " I've lost it. Oh ! the treasure," — and he died. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 99 I asked the golden sun and silver spheres, Those bright chronometers of days and years ; They answered, — " Time is but a meteor's glare," And bade me for eternity prepare. I asked the seasons in their annual round, Which beautify or desolate the ground ; And they replied, — (no oracle more wise,) " 'Tis folly's blank, and wisdom's highest prize." I asked a spirit lost, — but, Oh, the shriek That pierced my soul, — I shudder while I speak ! It cried, — " A particle, a speck, a mite, Of endless years, duration infinite ! " Of things inanimate, my dial, I Consulted, and it made me this reply ; — " Time is the season fair of living well, The path to glory, or the road to hell." I asked my Bible, and methought it said, " Time is the present hour, — the past is fled ; Live, live, to-day ! to-morrow never yet On any human being rose or set ! " I asked old Father Time himself at last, But in a moment he flew swiftly past ; His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind His noiseless steeds, which left no track behind. I asked the Mighty Angel, * who shall stand, One foot on sea, and one on solid land, — " By Heaven's great King, I swear, the mystery's o'er, Time was," he said, " but Time shall be no more." REV. JOSHUA MARSDEN. TIME. VIII. I saw a Child whose youthful cheek Glowed with health's golden bloom, And light did from his young eyes break, And his sweet face illume : * Rev. x. 1—6. 100 THE BEAUTIES OF The Song he sang was " Dance ! prepare To tread a measure light ! " And his hand held a mirror, where The Sun was imaged bright : On wings as swift as Love's he flew, Blushing like morning's prime ; And flowers across his path he threw, And that Child's name was Time. I saw a Man, whose ample brow Was furrowed deep with care; And now despair, and rapture now, By turns were pictured there : The Song he sang was " Heap and hoard, And scale Ambition's height," And his hand grasped a keen-edged sword Of majesty and might. Around him thronged a numerous train, Wealth, Fame, and Power sublime : While his breast swelled with fancies vain, And his name too was Time. I saw an aged, shrivelled form, With hollow eyes and blind ; He crouched beneath the pelting storm, And shook with every wind. His Song was " Life's fair tree is felled, It yields before the blast," And his lean hand an hour-glass held, Whose sands were ebbing fast. Across his path dark phantoms roved, Of Age, and Want, and Crime, His wings seemed dipt, yet swift he moved, And still his name was Time. Oh ! how Time changes ! and Man too, Doth with the Wizard change ; Borrow his every form and hue, And in his footsteps range : And now his mirror, now his sword, And now his hour-glass seize : Thou fool ! why is thy mind still stored With trifles such as these ? MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 101 Spurn this world for a better home, Where his wings cannot soar ; Where chance and change shall never come, And Time shall be no more ! TIME. IX. Fugit Irrevocable Tempus. What is your life 1 It is even a vapour, which appeareth for a little time, and then — vanisheth away." Yes — all may grace one mortal day, That warms the heart and wins the eye, And gives each ardent sense to stray From rapture to satiety Wealth — glory — grandeur — throned on high— And that which melts the heart of stone, The magic beam of Beauty's eye — But Time glides on — and all are gone. And thou — whom Heaven's high will denies To soar above thy fellow-men, For thee as dear a home may rise In village cot — or mountain glen ; Where, loving and beloved again, Thy hopes — thy heart may rest on one : Oh ! what is life ? — Time flies — and then Death speeds his dart — and both are gone. And thou too, wretch — forbear to weep, Thy misery need not last for aye — Why feed the thought that else might sleep? Why waste in hopeless grief away ? Deserted in thy darker day, If friends are fled, and thou alone, Thy God will prove a firmer stay — Seek Him — Time flies — and thou art gone. Oh ! where are all the gauds of earth — Love's melting smile — young Beauty's bloom — The pomp of wealth — the pride of birth — Are these remembered in the tomb ? 102 THE BEAUTIES OF No — sunk in cold oblivion's gloom They lie — their very names unknown — The mouldering marble tells their doom — They lived — Time fled — and they are gone. So thou shalt fall — but dost thou deem To sleep in peace beneath the sod ? Dash from thy soul that empty dream, And know thyself — and know thy God . Nor earth, nor time restrains His rod ; And thou — a few short summers flown, Thou tread st the path thy fathers trod — Thy doom is fixed, and hope is gone. Chained to the dust from whence we spring, Why thus from yon bright skies be driven ; Oh ! turn to your eternal King — Believe — repent, and be forgiven. Haste— seize the proffered hope - of Heaven, While life and light are yet thine own ; Swift as the passing cloud of even, Time glides along — and thou art gone ! DALE. THE END OF TIME. Rev. X. 1 — 6. One foot on earth, and one on sea, A mighty Angel towers to heaven ; Before his glance the mountains flee ; Beneath his tread the depths are riven — Wreathed radiant round his brows divine The bright hues of the rainbow shine ; His aspect — like the broad red glare Of the fierce sun's meridian ray, Beams forth intolerable day — The glory of the Lord is there. Loud as the maddening lion's roar, Or as the wild surge beats the shore, He speaks ! — blue lightnings rend the sky, And heaven in thunder gives reply. — Ne'er be those sounds, in mystery sealed, To human ear on earth revealed . MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 103 And when that dreadful sign was given, He raised his dread right hand to heaven, And thus the oath he swore — " Ye spacious skies — thou rooted earth — " By Him who called you into birth " Your destined date is o'er ! " I swear by Him whose sovereign sway, " The bright angelic hosts obey — " By Him who died, and lives for aye, " That Time shall be no more ! " Earth trembled at the sound, but O What shrieks of wailing and of wo, What frantic yells of wild despair, Tumultuous rend the troubled air ! In vain — the day of grace is o'er, And Love and Pity plead no more ! Mark, where the rock-hewn cavern breaks, And to his doom the oppressor wakes ; Mark where the fear-struck Despot now Dashes the diadem from his brow — Beneath his foot the firm earth rends — The heavens are darkening o'er him ! The Judge — the Sovereign Judge descends — And who may stand before Him ? DALE. THE EVE OF THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD, Resume thy tone of wo, immortal Harp ! The song of mirth is past, the Jubilee Is ended, and the sun begins to fade ! Soon past, for Happiness counts not the hours. To her a thousand years seem as a day ; A day, a thousand years to Misery. Satan is loose, and Violence is heard, And Riot in the street, and R,evelry Intoxicate, and Murder, and Revenge. Put on your armour now, ye righteous ! put The helmet of salvation on, and gird Your loins about with truth, add righteousness, And add the shield of faith, and take the sword Of God — awake and watch ! — The day is near, Great day of God Almighty and the Lamb ! 104 THE BEAUTIES OP The harvest of the earth is fully ripe ; Vengeance begins to tread the great wine-press Of fierceness and of wrath ; and Mercy pleads, Mercy that pleaded long, she pleads — no more ! Whence comes that darkness ? whence those yells of wo ? What thunderings are these that shake the world ? Why fall the lamps from heaven as blasted figs ? Why tremble righteous men ? Why angels pale ? Why is all fear ? Wliat has become of hope ? God comes ! God in his car of vengeance comes ! — Hark ! louder on the blast, come hollow shrieks Of dissolution ! in the fitful scowl Of night, near and more near, angels of death Incessant flap their deadly wings, and roar Through all the fevered air ! the mountains rock, The moon is sick, and all the stars of heaven Burn feebly ! oft and sudden gleams the fire, Revealing awfully the brow of Wrath ! The Thunder, long and loud, utters his voice, Responsive to the Ocean's troubled growl ! Night comes, last night, the long, dark, dark, dark night, That has no morn beyond it, and no star ! No eye of man hath seen a night like this ! Heaven's trampled Justice girds itself for fight : Earth, to thy knees, and cry for mercy ! cry With earnest heart, for thou art growing old And hoary, unrepented, unforgiven ! And all thy glory mourns ! the vintage mourns ! Bashan and Carmel, mourn and weep ! and mourn, Thou Lebanon ! with all thy cedars, mourn ! Sun ! glorying in thy strength from age to age, So long observant of thy hour, put on Thy weeds of wo, and tell the Moon to weep ; Utter thy grief at midday, morn, and even ; Tell all the nations, tell the Clouds that sit About the portals of the east and west, And wanton with thy golden locks, to wait Thee not to-morrow, for no morrow comes ■ Tell men and women, tell the new-born child, And every eye that sees, to come, and see Thee set behind Eternity, for thou Shalt go to bed to-night, and ne'er awake ! Stars ! walking on the pavement of the sky, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 105 Out-sentinels of heaven, watching the earth, Cease dancing now ; your lamps are growing dim, Your graves are dug among the dismal clouds, And angels are assembling round your bier ! Orion, mourn ! and Mazzaroth, and thou, Arcturus ! mourn, with all thy northern sons, Daughters of Pleiades ! that nightly shed Sweet influence, and thou, fairest of stars J Eye of the morning, weep ! and weep at eve ; Weep setting, now to rise no more, " and flame On forehead of the dawn," as sung the bard, Great bard ! who used on earth a seraph's lyre ; Whose numbers wandered through eternity, And gave sweet foretaste of the heavenly harps ! Minstrel of sorrow ! native of the dark J Shrub-loving Philomel, that wooed the Dews, At midnight from their stany beds, and, charmed, Held them around thy song till dawn awoke, Sad bird ! pour through th« gloom thy weeping song, Pour all thy dying melody of grief, And with the turtle spread the wave of wo ! Spare not thy reed, for thou shalt sing no more ! THE LAST DAY. I. That day of wrath ! that dreadful day ! When heaven and earth shall pass away, What power shall be the sinner's stay ? How shall he meet the dreadful day ? When shrivelling, like a parched scroll, The flaming heavens together roll ; When louder yet, and yet more dread, Swells the loud Trump that wakes the dead ! O ! on that day, that wrathful day, When man to Judgment wakes from clay, Be Thou, O Lord ! the sinner's stay, Though heaven and earth shall flee away. SCOTT. IOC THE BEAUTIES OF THE LAST DAY. II. The chariot ! the chariot ! its wheels roll on fire, As the Lord cometh down in the pomp of His ire ; Self-moving, it drives on its pathway of cloud, And the Heavens with the burthen of Godhead are bowed. The glory ! the glory ! around Him are poured The myriads of Angels that wait on the Lord; And the glorified Saints, and the Martyrs are there, And all who the palm-wreath of victory wear. The trumpet ! the trumpet ! the dead have all heard, Lo, the depths of the stone-covered monuments stirred : From the ocean and earth, from the south pole and north, Lo, the vast generations of ages come forth ! The judgment ! the judgment ! the thrones are all set, Where the Lamb and the white-vested Elders are met ; All flesh is at once in the sight of the Lord, And the doom of eternity hangs on His word. Oh mercy ! oh mercy ! Look down from above, Redeemer, on us, thy sad children, with love ! When beneath to their darkness the wicked are driven, May our justified souls find a welcome in Heaven. THE LAST DAY. III. The Lord shall come ! the earth shall quake The mountains to their centre shake; And, withering from the vault of night, The stars shall pale their feeble light. The Lord shall come ! but not the same As once in lowliness He came ; A silent Lamb before His foes, A weary man, and full of woes. The Lord shall come ! a dreadful form, With rainbow-wreath, and robes of storm : MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 10; On cherub-wings, and wings of wind ! Appointed Judge of all mankind. Can this be He, who wont to stray As pilgrim on the world's highway, Oppressed by power, and mocked by pride, The Nazarene — the crucified ? While sinners in despair shall call, " Rocks, hide us ; mountains, on us fall ! " The saints, ascending from the tomb, Shall joyful sing, " The Lord is come ! " HEBER. THE LAST DAY. IV. Even thus amid thy pride and luxury, Oh Earth ! shall that last coming burst on thee, The secret coming of the Son of Man. When all the cherub-throning clouds shall shine, Irradiate with His bright advancing sign : When that Great Husbandman shall wave His fan, Sweeping, like chaff, thy wealth and pomp away : Still to the noontide of that nightless day, Shalt thou thy wonted dissolute course maintain. Along the busy mart and crowded street, The buyer and the seller still shall meet, And marriage feasts begin their jocund strain : Still to the pouring out the cup of wo ; Till Earth, a drunkard, reeling to and fro, And mountains molten by His burning feet, And Heaven His presence own, all red with furnace heat. The hundred-gated cities then, The towers and temples named of men Eternal, and the thrones of kings ; The gilded summer palaces, The courtly bowers of love and ease, Where still the bird of pleasure sings ; Ask ye the destiny of them ? Go — gaze on fallen Jerusalem I g 2 108 THE BEAUTIES OP Yea, mightier names are in the fatal roll ; 'Gainst earth and heaven God's standard is unfurled ; The skies are shrivelled like a burning scroll, And one, vast, common doom ensepulchres the world. Oh ! who shall then survive ? Oh ! who shall stand and live ? When all that hath been is no more : When for the round earth hung in air, With all its constellations fair, In the sky's azure canopy ; When for the breathing Earth, and sparkling Sea, Is but a fiery deluge without shore, Heaving along the abyss profound and dark, A fiery deluge, and without an Ark. Lord of all power, when Thou art there alone On Thy eternal fiery-wheeled throne, That in its high meridian noon Needs not the perished sun nor moon : When Thou art there in Thy presiding state, Wide-sceptred Monarch o'er the realms of doom : When from the sea depths, from Earth's darkest womb, The dead of all the ages round Thee wait ; And when the tribes of wickedness are strewn, Like forest leaves, in the autumn of Thine ire : Faithful and true ! Thou still shalt save Thine own ! The Saints shall dwell within the unharming fire ; Each white robe spotless, blooming every palm, Even safe as we, by this still fountain's side, So shall the Church, Thy bright and mystic Bride, Sit on the stormy gulf a halcyon bird of calm. Yes, 'mid yon angry and destroying signs, O'er us the rainbow of Thy mercy shines, We hail, we bless the covenant of its beam, Almighty to avenge, almightiest to redeem ! MILMAN. DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD, AND CREATION OF A NEW ONE. Nor yet had vengeance done. The guilty Earth, Inanimate, debased, and stained by sin, Seat of rebellion, of corruption, long, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 109 And tainted with mortality throughout,— God sentenced next ; and sent the final fires Of ruin forth, to burn and to destroy. The saints its burning saw, and thou mayst see. Look yonder round the lofty golden walls And galleries of New Jerusalem, Among the imagery of wonders past ; Look near the southern gate ; look and behold, On spacious canvass, touched with living hues, — The conflagration of the ancient Earth, The handywork of high archangel, drawn From memory of what he saw, that day. See ! how the mountains, how the valleys burn ; The Andes burn, the Alps, the Appenines, Taurus and Atlas ; all the islands burn ; The Ocean burns, and rolls her waves of flame. See how the lightnings, barbed, red with wrath, Sent from the quiver of Omnipotence, Cross and recross the fiery gloom, and burn Into the centre ! — burn without, within, And help the native fires, which God awoke, And kindled with the fury of His wrath. As inly troubled, now she seems to shake ; The flames, dividing, now a moment, fall ; And now in one conglomerated mass, Rising, they glow on high, prodigious blaze ! Then fall and sink again, as if within, The fuel, burnt to ashes, was consumed. So burned the Earth upon that dreadful day, Yet not to full annihilation burned. The essential particles of dust remained, Purged by the final, sanctifying fires, From all corruption ; from all stain of sin, Done there by man or devil, purified. The essential particles remained, of which God built the world again, renewed, improved, With fertile vale, and wood of fertile bough ; And streams of milk and honey, flowing song; And mountains cinctured with perpetual green ; In clime and season fruitful, as at first, When Adam woke, unfallen, in Paradise. And God, from out the fount of native light, A handful took of beams, and clad the sun 110 THE BEAUTIES OF Again in glory ; and sent forth the moon To borrow thence her wonted rays, and lead Her stars, the virgin daughters of the sky. And God revived the winds, revived the tides ; And touching her with His Almighty hand, With force centrifugal, she onward ran, Coursing her wonted path, to stop no more. TOLLOK. HEAVEN. I. This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given ; The smiles of Joy, the tears of Wo, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow ; There's nothing true but Heaven. And false the light on Glory's plume, As fading hues of even ; And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom, Are blossoms gathered for the tomb ; There's nothing bright but Heaven. Poor wanderers of a stormy day, From wave to wave we're driven ; And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way ; There's nothing calm but Heaven. HEAVEN. II. There is an hour of peaceful rest, To mourning wanderers given ; There is a tear for souls distrest, A balm for every wounded breast- 'Tis found above — in Heaven ! MODERN BRITISH POETRV. Ill There is a soft, a downy bed, 'Tis fair as breath of even ; A couch for weary mortals spread, Where they may rest the aching head, And find repose in Heaven ! There is a home for weary souls, By sin and sorrow driven ; When tossed on life's tempestuous shoals, Where storms arise, and ocean rolls, And all is drear but Heaven ! There Faith lifts up the tearful eye, The heart with anguish riven , And views the tempest passing by, The evening shadows quickly fly, And all serene, in Heaven ! There fragrant flowers immortal bloom, And joys supreme are given ; There rays divine disperse the gloom : Beyond the confines of the tomb Appears the dawn of Heaven ! ANON. HEAVEN. III. Weep, mourner, for the joys that fade Like evening lights away — For hopes, that, like the stars decayed, Have left thy mortal clay ; Yet clouds of sorrow will dispart, And brilliant skies be given ; And though on earth the tear may start, Yet bliss awaits the holy heart Amid the bowers of Heaven ; Where songs of praise are ever sung, To angel-harp, by angel-tongue. 112 THE BEAUTIES OF Weep, mourner, for the friends that pass Into the lonesome grave, As breezes sweep the withered grass Along the whelming wave ; Yet though thy pleasure may depart, And darksome days be given, And lonely though on earth thou art, Yet bliss awaits the holy heart, When friends rejoin in Heaven ; Where streams of joy glide ever on, Around the Lord's eternal throne. HEAVEN. IV. Hark ! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, The noon of Heaven, undazzled by the blaze, On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, Float the sweet tones of star-born melody ; Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, When Jordon hushed his waves, and midnight still Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill ! — Soul of the just ! companion of the dead ! Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled ? Back to its heavenly source thy being goes, Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose ; Doomed on his airy path a while to burn, And doomed, like thee, to travel, and return. — Hark ! from the world's exploding centre driven, With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven, Careers the fiery giant, fast and far, On bickering wheels, and adamantine car; From planet whirled to planet more remote, He visits realms beyond the reach of thought ; But, wheeling homeward, when his course is run, Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun ! So hath the traveller of earth unfurled Her trembling wings, emerging from the world ; And, o'er the path by mortal never trod, Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God ! CAMTBELL. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 113 THE BETTER LAND. " I hear thee speak of the better land, Thou callest its children a happy band ; Mother ! oh where is that radiant shore ? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs ? " " Not there, not there, my child ! " " -Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze ; And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ? " — " Not there, not there, my child ■ " " Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ? — Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand ? — Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ?" — " Not there, not there, my child ! " " Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair — Sorrow and death may not enter there ; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, — It is there, it is there, my child ! " MKS. HEMANS. MUSIC. I. Oj? all the arts beneath the Heaven, That man has found, or God has given, 114 THE BEAUTIES OF None draws the soul so sweet away, As Music's melting, mystic lay ; Slight emblem of the bliss above, It soothes the spirit all to love. MUSIC. II. Oh '. perfect is a plaintive tune When slowly sung at fall of even, In some wild glen beneath the moon, When silence binds the earth and heaven. Remembrance rises faint and dim, Of sorrows suffered long ago, And Joy delighteth in the hymn, Although it only breathe of wo. MUSIC. III. Is there a heart that Music cannot melt ? Alas ! how is that rugged heart forlorn ! Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt Of solitude and melancholy born ? He needs not woo the Muse ; he is her scorn. The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine ; Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page ; or mourn And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine ; Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine. MUSIC. IV. Amid the golden gifts which Heaven Has left, like portions of its light, on earth, None hath such influence as Music hath. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 115 The painter's hues stand visible before us In power and beauty ; we can trace the thoughts Which are the workings of the poet's mind : But Music is a mystery, and viewless Even when present, and is less man's act, And less within his order ; for the hand That can call forth the tones, yet cannot tell Whither they go, or if they live or die, When floated once beyond his feeble ear; And then, as if it were an unreal thing, The wind will sweep from the neglected strings As rich a swell as ever minstrel drew. MISS LANDON. MUSIC. V. Sweet charmer of the cottage and the throne — The desert and the crowded city's throngs — Oh ! let me hear thee, whilst I stand alone Among the green hills, captive to thy songs ! — Or when amid the world's unfeeling wrongs I dwell a prisoner — or when o'er me roll The mists of Fancy ; yet to thee belongs To chain to imaged scenes my gladdened soul, And to unbosom thoughts beyond the world's control ! For thou, oh Music ! canst assuage the pain, And heal the wound, which hath defied the skill Of sager comforters : — thou dost restrain Each wild emotion at thy wondrous will ; Thou dost the rage of fiercest passions chill, Or lightest up the flames of soft desire, As through the mind thy plaints harmonious thrill, And thus a magic doth surround the Lyre, A power divine doth dwell amid the sacred quire ! Thou call'st the soldier to the field of fame, When drum and trumpet peal the cry of war ; Thou bid'st him glory's meed ambitious claim, And spread est his unsullied name afar ; And when, beneath the Evening's placid star, 116 THE BEAUTIES OF The lover clasps the form of her he loves, Thou dost descend on Night's aerial car And hoverest o'er them in the vocal groves, And hear'st each whispered vow Affection's ear approves! Unto devotion thou dost furnish wings, Making it soar above the things of earth ; With thee, the soul unto the fountain springs, Which shall renew it with a second birth : God, and His power, and His unbounded worth Thou hallowedst, when light from chaos sprang, And Heaven's high host were jubilant in mirth, And the wide firmament with harping rang, And listening, Star to Star, in their staid courses, sang ! Nature is full of thee : — the summer bower Respond eth to the songster's morning lay ; The bee his concert keeps from flower to flower, As forth he sallies on his honied way ; Brook calls to brook as down the hill they stray ; The isles resound with song, from shore to shore ; Whilst viewless minstrels on the wings that play Consorted strains, in liquid measures, pour To Thunder's deep-toned voice, or Ocean's sullen roar. REV. W. B. CLARKE. SONG OF THE SPIRIT OF MUSIC. Mine is the lay that lightly floats, And mine are the murmuring, dying notes, That fall as soft as snow on the sea. And melt in the heart as instantly ! And the passionate strain that, deeply going, Refines the bosom it trembles through, As the musk-wind, over the water blowing, Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too ! Mine is the charm whose mystic sway The Spirits of past Delight obey ; — Let but the tuneful talisman sound, And they come, like Genii, hovering round. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. IVi And mine is the gentle song, that bears From soul to soul, the wishes of love, As a bird, that wafts through genial airs The cinnamon seed from grove to grove. * 'Tis I that mingle in sweet measure The past, the present, and future of pleasure ; When Memory links the tone that is gone With the blissful tone that's still in the ear ; And Hope from a heavenly note flies on To a note more heavenly still that is near ! The warrior's heart, when touched by me, Can as downy soft and as yielding be As his own white plume, that high amid death Through the field has shone — yet moves with a breath. And, oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten, When Music has reached her inward soul, Like the silent Stars, that wink and listen While Heaven's eternal Melodies roll ! THE VOICE OF A DREAM. And dream?, in their development, have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the tonch of joy ; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They make us what we were not — what they will, And shake us with the vision that's gone by. BVRON. It was a dream — a vision of the night — A shadow of the rest that doth await The weary Pilgrim, who, with doubting heart, O'erburdened with his heavy load of sin, Treads Zion-ward ; — a gleam of that bright world Where tears are things unknown — where sighs, Sounds so familiar to our ears on earth, In dire convulsion heave the breast no more, As ocean-billows sound in lonely caves, Mocking the quiet that else might have been there ! — Weary with wandering in the path of life — * " The Pompadour pigeon is the species, which, by carrying the fruit of the cinnamon to different places, is a great disseminator of this valuable tree." — See Brown's Illustr. Tab. 19. 118 THE BEAUTIES OF The thorny path in which 'tis mine to tread — I sought the silent and the soft repose Which plucks the poisoned stings from out the breast And gives, in dreams, the longed for happiness ! Sweet silent sleep ! — how beautiful it comes, Noiseless as are the wings of hoary Time — That fleeting shadow of Eternity ! — I slept, and o'er my dreaming spirit came Tones of celestial softness — sounds from harps Untouched by earthly fingers — sweeter far Than aught of music ever heard on earth, Save that by shepherds heard on Bethlehem's plain .' I turned my eyes to Heaven, to see from whence Had come that sudden burst of melody ; When, lo ! descending on a snowy cloud, A bright seraphic creature, robed in white, With palm in hand, and crown upon her head, Sailed 'midst the glories of the ancient sky, And bent, with smiles ineffably sweet, Her looks of loving-kindness upon me, Who, wonder-wrapt, in silent sadness lay ! The vision neared, and stood, in glory clad, Beside the humble couch whereon I slept ; ■» And sadness, like a shadow on a flower, O'erspread her bright tranquillity of face, As gazing earnestly on mine, she scanned The altered aspect of my cheeks, from whence Have fled the roses in the midst of youth ! And then, oh ! then, it was methought I saw, In that bright wanderer — brighter than the sun — A grave-hid sister — loved Elizabeth — A mortal clad in immortality ! Oh! the deep rush of feeling, love, and joy, That flowed in quick succession through my breast, Crowding into one moment years of thought, As I, in wonder, gazed upon her face. And then the heavenly strains again began As organ peals in Gothic Minster old, Pouring a tempest forth of melody ; And then abruptly ceased, as if the chords Of the celestial golden harps had burst From the excessive sweetness of their sound ! And the bright heavenly visitant began In tones of thrilling softness thus to sing : — MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 119 " Come, brother, come, to the heavenly land — The glorious land where I dwell — Where the gold harp tones of the angel band 'Mid the songs of the ransomed swell ! " I drink of the fount of eternal life Where its streams in their freshness flow, Unmixed with the grief and the sinful strife Which you drink in the life below. " And I wander amidst unfading flowers, And the glow of unshadowed light Shines soft in the depth of our holy bowers, That know not the gloom of a night. " I know that you mourned, when I left the earth, From the depths of your bosom's love, While I, in the life of the second birth, Adored in the regions above .' " And, oh ! if you heard the anthems of praise — If you knew the bliss that is mine When I join in the song which the ransomed raise, You would long in our land to shine ■ " I know that you pine for a place of rest, Where the soul from its grief is free ; I know, — for the sighs of your weary breast Have arisen from earth unto me ! " Oh ! then, be it thine in the path to tread Which leads to our sinless shore — There the thorns are plucked from the bleeding head, And sorrow is felt no more !" She ceased — the sound of heavenly harps again Fell in soft richness on my dreaming ear ; And, as if borne upon their melodies, I saw my sainted sister — her who taught My spirit first in poesy to breathe — Floating in glory lovingly away To that far happy land from whence she came ! In passion's agony I burst the chain, 120 THE BEAUTIES OF That binds our reason in the hour of sleep, In struggling to be free, — that I might fly From this bleak stormy sin-o'ershaded world, And all its vanities of pomp and power, With her who lured my spirit from its ways ; — But she was gone — and I was left to mourn That sight so fair so soon had pass'd away ! Then, oh ! my soul ! on eagle pinions soar Above the regions of the starry sky, And seek repose where rest alone is found— - Beneath the covert of His wings, whose throne, Encompassed round with holy men of old, Gives forth the mighty thundenngs of His power ! JAMES P. BROWN. LOVE. I. In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed ; In war, he mounts the warrior's steed ; In halls, in gay attire is seen ; In hamlets, dances on the green. Love rules the camp, the court, the grove, And men below, and saints above ; For Love is Heaven, and Heaven is Love , SCOTT. LOVE. II. True Love's the gift which God has given To man alone beneath the heaven. It is not fantasy's hot fire, Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly; It liveth not in fierce desire, With dead desire it doth not die. It is the secret sympathy, The silver link, the silken tie, Which heart to heart, and mind to mind, In body and in soul can bind. SCOTT. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 121 III. O happy Love ! where Love like this is found, O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare — If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In others' arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale. LOVE. IV. They sin who tell us Love can die. With life all other passions fly; All others are but vanity. In Heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ; Earthly these passions of the earth, They perish where they have their birth ; But Love is indestructible : Its holy flame for ever burnetii ; From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth : Too oft on earth a troubled guest, At times deceived, at times opprest, It here is tried and purified, Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest : It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest time of Love, is there. LOVE. V. Oh ! not when hopes are brightest, Is all Love's sweet enchantment known ; Oh ! not when hearts are lightest, Is all fond woman's fervour shown : 122 THE BEAUTIES OF But when life's clouds o'ertake us, And the cold world is clothed in gloom ; When summer friends forsake us, The Rose of Love is best in bloom. Love is no wandering vapour, That lures astray with treacherous spark ; Love is no transient taper, That lives an hour and leaves us dark : But like the lamp that lightens The Greenland hut beneath the snow, The bosom's home it brightens, When all beside is chill below. PItlNGLE. LOVE. VI. What art thou Love ? or who may thee define ? Where lies thy bourne of pleasure or of pain : No sceptre, graved by Reason's hand, is thine, Child of the moistened eye, and burning brain, Of glowing fancy, and the fervid vein, That soft on bed of roses loves to rest, And crop the flower where lurks the deadly bane ! O many a thorn those dear delights invest, Child of the rosy cheek, and heaving snow-white breast ! Thou art the genial balm of virtuous youth, And point'st where Honour waves her wreath on high, Like the sweet breeze that wanders from the south, Thou breath'st upon the soul, where embryos lie Of new delights, the treasures of the sky ! Who knows thy trembling watch in bower of Even? Thy earliest grateful tear and melting sigh '! O never was to yearning mortal given So dear delights as thine, thou habitant of Heaven! O I will worship even before thy bust, When my dimmed eye no more thy smile can see ! While this deserted bosom beats, it must Still beat in unison with hope and thee ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 123 For I have wept o'er perished ecstasy, And o'er the fall of Beauty's early prime ! But I will dream of new delights to be, When Moon and Stars have ceased their range sublime, And Angels rung the knell of all-consuming time. HOCG. VII. In joyous youth, what soul hath never known Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own ? Who bath not paused while Beauty's pensive eye Asked from his heart the homage of a sigh ? Who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name ? There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow, Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow ; There be, whose loveless wisdom never failed, In self-adoring pride securely mailed; — But triumph not, ye peace-enamoured few ! Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you ! For you no fancy consecrates the scene Where Rapture uttered vows, and wept between ; Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet ; No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet ! Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed, The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead ? No ; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy ! And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy ! And say, without our hopes, without our fears, Without the home that plighted love endears, Without the smile from partial Beauty won, Oh ! what were man ? — a world without a sun ! Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour, There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bower ! In vain the viewless seraph lingering there, At starry midnight charmed the silent air ; In vain the wild bird carolled on the steep, To hail the sun, slow-wheeling from the deep ; In vain, to soothe the solitary shade, Aerial notes in mingling measure played ; H 2 124, THE BEAUTIES OF The summer wind that shook the spangled tree, The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee ; — Still slowly passed the melancholy day, And still the stranger wist not where to stray, — The world was sad ! — the garden was a wild ! And Man, the hermit, sighed— till Woman smiled ! CAMPBELL. VIII. Hail, holy Love ! thou word that sums all bliss, Gives and receives all bliss, fullest when most Thou givest ! spring-head of all felicity, Deepest when most is drawn ! emblem of God ! Overflowing most when greatest numbers drink ! Essence that binds the uncreated Three, Chain that unites creation to its Lord, Centre to which all being gravitates, Eternal, ever-growing, happy Love ! Enduring all, hoping, forgiving all ; Instead of law, fulfilling every law ; Entirely blest, because thou seek'st no more, Hop'st not, nor fear'st ; but on the present liv'st, And hold'st perfection smiling in thy arms. Mysterious, infinite, exhaustless Love ! On earth mysterious, and mysterious still In Heaven ! sweet chord, that harmonizes all The harps of Paradise ! the spring, the well, That fills the bowl and banquet of the sky. — Hail, Love ! first Love, thou word that sums all bliss ! The sparkling cream of all Time's blessedness, The silken down of happiness complete ! Discerner of the ripest grapes of joy She gathereth, and selecteth with her hand, All finest relishes, all fairest sights, All rarest odours, all divinest sounds, All thoughts, all feelings dearest to the soul ; And brings the holy mixture home, and fills The heart with all superlatives of bliss. But who would that expound, which words transcend Must talk in vain. Behold a meeting scene Of early Love, and thence infer its worth. pollok. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 125 LOVE. IX. Round Love's Elysian bowers, The softest prospects rise ; There bloom the sweetest flowers, There shine the purest skies ; And joy and rapture gild a while The cloudless heaven of Beauty's smile. Round Love's deserted bowers Tremendous rocks arise ; Cold mildews blight the flowers, Tornadoes rend the skies ; And pleasure's waning moon goes down Amid the night of Beauty's frown. Then, youth, thou fond believer, The wily syren shun ; Who trusts the dear deceiver Will surely be undone : When Beauty triumphs, ah ! beware — Her smile is hope — her frown despair. MONTGOMERY. MUTABILITY OF LOVE. Alas J how light a cause may move Dissensions between hearts that love ! Hearts that the world in vain had tried, And sorrow but more closely tied ; That stood the storm, when waves were rough, Yet in a sunny hour fall off, Like ships that have gone down at sea, When heaven was all tranquillity ! A something, light as air — a look, A word unkind, or wrongly taken — Oh ! Love, that tempests never shook, A breath, a touch like this, hath shaken. And ruder words will soon rush in To spread the breach that words begin ; And eyes forget the gentle ray They wore in courtship's smiling day ; 126 THE BEAUTIES OF And voices lose the tone that shed A tenderness round all they said ; Till fast declining one by one, The sweetnesses of Love are gone, And hearts, so lately mingled, seem Like broken clouds, — or like the stream, That smiling left the mountain's brow, As though its waters ne'er could sever, Yet, ere it reach the plains below, Breaks into floods that part for ever. O you, that have the charge of Love, Keep him in rosy bondage bound, As in the fields of bliss above He sits, with flowerets fettered round : — Loose not a tie that round him clings, Nor ever let him use his wings ; For even an hour, a minute's flight Will rob the plumes of half their light, Like that celestial bird * — whose nest Is found below far eastern skies, — Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, Lose all their glory when he flies ! — Some difference of this dangerous kind, — By which, though light, the links that bind The fondest hearts may soon be riven ; Some shadow in Love's summer heaven, Which; though a fleecy speck at first, May yet in awful thunder burst. MOORE. DOMESTIC LOVE. Domestic Love ! not in proud palace halls Is often seen thy beauty to abide ; Thy dwelling is in lonely cottage walls, That in the thickets of the woodbine hide, With hum of bees around, and from the side * " Among the birds of Tonqnin is a species of goldfinch, which sings 50 melodiously, that it is called the celestial bird. Its wings, when it is perch- ed, appear variegated with beautiful colours, but when it flics, they lose all their splendour," — Grcsier. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 127 Of woody hills some little bubbling spring Shining along through banks with harebells dyed ; And many a bird to warble on the wing, When Morn her saffron robe o'er heaven and earth doth fling. O, Love of loves ! to thy white hand is given Of earthly happiness the golden key ! Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even, When the babes eling around their father's knee ; And thine the voice, that on the midnight sea, Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home, Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see. Spirit ! I've built a shrine, and thou hast come, And on its altar closed, for ever closed thy plume ! A MOTHER'S LOVE I. There is in all this cold and hollow world no fount Of deep, strong, deathless Love, save that within A Mother's heart. — It is but pride, wherewith To his fair son the father's eye doth turn, Watching his growth. Aye, on the boy he looks, The bright glad creature springing in his path, But as the heir of his great name, the young And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long Shall bear his trophies well. — And this is Love ! This is man's love ! What marvel 1 you ne'er made Your breast the pillow of his infancy ; While to the fulness of your heart's glad heavings His fair cheek rose and fell ; and his bright hair Waved softly to your breath ! You ne'er kept watch Beside him, till the last pale star had set, And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph broke On your dim weary eye ; not yours the face Which, early faded through fond care for him, . Hung o'er his sleep, and duly, as heaven's light, Was there to greet his wakening ! You ne'er smoothed His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest, Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours II si learned soft utterance; pressed your lip to his, 128 THE BEAUTIES OF When fever parched it ; hushed his wayward cries, With patient, vigilant, never-wearied Love ! No ! these are Woman's tasks ! in these her youth, And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart, Steal from her all unmarked ! MRS. 1IEMANS. A MOTHER'S LOVE. II. A Mother's Love — how sweet the name ! What is a Mother's Love ? — • A noble, purp, and tender flame, Enkindled from above, To bless a heart of earthly mould ; The warmest Love that can grow cold ; This is a Mother's Love. To bring a helpless babe to light, Then while it lies forlorn, To gaze upon that dearest sight, And feel herself new-born, In its existence lose her own, And live and breathe in it alone ; This is a Mother's Love. Its weakness in her arms to bear ; To cherish on her breast, Feed it from Love's own fountain there, And lull it there to rest : Then while it slumbers watch its breath, As if to guard from instant death ; This is a Mother's Love. To mark its growth from day to day, Its opening charms admire, Catch from its eye the earliest ray Of intellectual fire ; To smile and listen while it talks, And lend a finger when it walks ; This is a Mother's Love. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. ]29 And can a Mother's Love grow cold ? Can she forget her boy ? His pleading innocence behold, Nor weep for. grief — for joy ? A Mother may forget her child, While wolves devour it on the wild ; — Is this a Mother's Love 1 Ten thousand voices answer, " No ! " Ye clasp your babes and kiss ; Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o'erflow ; Yet ah ! remember this ; — The infant, reared alone for earth, May live, may die — to curse his birth ; — Is this a Mother's Love 1 A parent's heart may prove a snare ; The child she loves so well, Her hand may lead, with gentlest care, Down the smooth road to hell ; Nourish its frame — destroy its mind ; Thus do the blind mislead the blind, Even with a Mother's Love. Blest infant ! whom his Mother taught Early to seek the Lord, And poured upon his dawning thought The day-spring of the Word ; This was the lesson to her son, Time is eternity begun : Behold that Mother's Love. * Blest Mother ! who, in wisdom's path, By her own parent trod, Thus taught her son to flee the wrath, And know the fear of God : Ah ! youth, like him enjoy your prime, Begin Eternity in time, Taught by that Mother's Love. That Mother's Love ! — how sweet the name ! What was that Mother's Love ? The noblest, purest, tenderest flame, That kindles from above, , 2 Tim. i. 5. and iii. 1J, 15. 130 THE BEAUTIES OF Within a heart of earthly mould, As much of Heaven as heart can hold, Nor through eternity grows cold : This was that Mother's Love. MONTGOMERY. MATERNAL HOPE. Lo ! at the couch, where infant beauty sleeps, Her silent watch the mournful Mother keeps. She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes, And weaves a song of melancholy joy, — " Sleep, image of thy father, — sleep, my boy : No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine ; No sigh, that rends thy father's heart and mine. Bright, as his manly sire, the son shall be In form and soul ; but ah ! more blest than he^ Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last, Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past, — - With many a smile my solitude repay, And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. And say, when, summoned from this world and thee, I lay my head beneath the willow tree, Wilt thou, sweet mourner ! at my stone appear, And soothe my parted spirit lingering near ? Oh ! wilt thou come at evening hour, to shed The tears of memory o'er my narrow bed ; With aching temples on thy hand reclined, Muse on the last farewell I leave behind, Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low, And think on all my love and all my wo ? " So speaks affection, ere the infant eye Can look, regard, or brighten in reply : But, when the cherub lip hath learned to claim A Mother's ear by that endearing name, — Soon as the playful innocent can prove A tear of pity or a smile of love, Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care, Or lisps, with holy look, his evening prayer, Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear The mournful ballad warbled in his ear, — ■ MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 131 How fondly looks admiring Hope the while At every artless tear and every smile ! How glows the joyous parent to descry A guileless bosom true to sympathy ! CAMPBELL. CHILDHOOD. I. In a Child's voice is there not melody? In a Child's eye, is there not rapture seen 1 And rapture not of Passion's revelry ; Calm, though impassioned ; durable, though keen ! It is all fresh, like the young spring's first green .' Children seem spirits from above descended, To whom still cleaves Heaven's atmosphere serene ; Their very wildnesses with truth are blended ; Fresh from their skiey mould, they cannot be amended. Warm and uncalculating, they're more wise, — More sense that ecstasy of theirs denotes, — More of the stuff have they of Paradise, And more the music of the warbling throats Of choirs whose anthem round the Eternal floats, Than all that bards e'er feigned, or tuneful skill Has e'er struck forth from artificial notes : Theirs is that language, ignorant of ill, Born from a perfect harmony of power and will. LLOYD. CHILDHOOD. II. Not happy only, but the cause of joy, Which thou who never tasted always mourned. What tongue ? — no tongue shall tell what bliss o'erflowed The mother's tender heart, while round her hung The offspring of her love, and lisped her name ; As living jewels dropt unstained from heaven, That made her fairer far, and sweeter seem, Than every ornament of costlier hue. 132 THE BEAUTIES OF And who hath not been ravished as she passed, With all her playful band of little ones, Like Luna, with her daughters of the sky, Walking in matron majesty and grace ? — All who had hearts here pleasure found : and oft Have I, when tired with heavy task, relaxed My weary thoughts among their guiltless sports, And led them by their little hands, a-field ; And watched them run and crop the tender flower, Which oft, unasked, they brought me, and bestowed With smiling face, that waited for a look Of praise, — and answered curious questions, put In much simplicity, but ill to solve, And heard their observations, strange and new, And settled, whiles, their little quarrels, soon Ending in peace, and soon forgot in love. POLLOK. MOTHER AND CHILD. Her, by her smile, how soon the Infant know9 ! How soon, by his, the glad discovery shows ! As to her lips she lifts the lovely Boy, What answering looks of sympathy and joy ! He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word, His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard ; And ever, ever to her lap he flies, When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise, Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung, (That name most dear for ever on his tongue,) As with soft accents round her neck he clings, And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings ; How blest to feel the beatings of his heart, Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss to kiss impart ; Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove, And, if she can, exhaust a Mother's love ! But soon a nobler task demands her care ; Apart she joins his little hands in prayer, Telling of Him who sees in secret there. And now the volume on her knee has caught His wandering eye — now many a written thought, Never to die, with many a lisping sweet, His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 133 Released, he chases the bright butterfly ; Oft he would follow — follow through the sky ! Climbs the gaunt mastiff slumbering in his chain, And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane ; Then runs, and kneeling by the fountain side, Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide, A dangerous voyage ; or, if now he can, If now he wears the habit of a man, Flings off the coat so long his pride and pleasure, And, like a miser digging for his treasure, His tiny spade in his own garden plies, And in green letters sees his name arise ! Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight, She looks, and looks, and still with new delight. CHILDHOOD'S TEAR. The tear, down Childhood's cheek that flows, Is like the dew-drop on the rose ; When next the summer breeze comes by, And waves the bush, — the flower is dry. SCOTT. EARLY PIETY. By cool Siloam's shady rill How sweet the lily grows ? How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon's dewy rose ! Lo such the Child whose early feet The paths of peace have trod ; Whose secret heart, with influence sweet, Is upward drawn to God ! By cool Siloam's shady rill The lily must decay; The rose that blooms beneath the hill Must shortly fade away. 134 THE BEAUTIES OF And soon, too soon, the wintry hour Of man's maturer age Will shake the soul with sorrow's power, And stormy passion's rage ! O Thou, whose infant feet were found Within Thy Father's shrine ! Whose years, with changeless virtue crowned, Were all alike divine : Dependant on Thy bounteous breath, We seek Thy grace alone, In Childhood, manhood, age, and death, To keep us still Thine own ! MATERNAL CONSOLATION. When we are sick, where can we turn for succour, When we are wretched, where can we complain ; And when the world looks cold and surly on us, Where can we go to meet a warmer eye, With such sure confidence, as to a Mother ? MISS BAILLIE. TO MY MOTHER. I. They tell us of an Indian tree, Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky, May tempt its boughs to wander free, And shoot, and blossom, wide and high, Far better loves to bend its arms Downward again to that dear earth, From which the life that fills and warms Its grateful being, first had birth. 'Tis thus, though wooed by flattering friends, And fed with fame (if fame it be,) This heart, my own dear Mother, bends, With Love's true instinct, back to thee. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 135 TO MY MOTHER II. And canst thou, Mother, for a moment think, That we, thy children, when old age shall shed Its blanching honours on thy weary head, Could from our best of duties ever shrink ? Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day, To pine in solitude thy life away, Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. Banish the thought ! — where'er our steps may roam, O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree, Still will fond Memory point our hearts to thee, And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home ; While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage, And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age. WOMAN. I. O Woman '. in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and ill to please, And variable as the shade, By the light quivering aspen made : When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou. WOMAN. II. The very first Of human life must spring from Woman's breast ; Your first small words are taught you from her lips ; Your first tears quenched by her, and your last sighs Too often breathed out in a Woman's hearing, When men have shrunk from the ignoble care Of watching the last hour of him who led them. BYRON. 136 THE BEAUTIES OF WOMAN. III. Woman all exceeds In ardent sanctitude and pious deeds ; And chief in Woman charities prevail That soothe when sorrows and disease assail. As dropping balm medicinal instils Health when we pine, her tears alleviate ills ; And the moist emblems of her pity flow As heaven relented with the watery bow. Let pearls embellish tresses, dew the morn, But beauties more divine the maid adorn When mourning him she loved, her tender tear, That else had blest his bed, imbathes his bier. — Ask the poor pilgrim on this convex cast,- His grizzled locks distorted in the blast ; Ask him what accent soothes, what hand bestows The cordial beverage, garment, and repose; O he will dart a spark of ancient flame, And clasp his tremulous hands, and Woman name. Peruse the sacred volume — Him who died Her kiss betrayed not, nor her tongue denied, While even the Apostle left Him to His doom, She lingered round His cross and watched His tomb. WOMAN. IV. « To a Woman I never addressed myself in the language of decency and friendship, without receiving a decent and friendly answer. If I was hun- gry or thirsty, wet or sick, they did not hesitate, like Men, to perform a ge- nerous action : in so free and kind a manner did they contribute to my re- lief, that if I was diy, I drank the sweetest draught; and if hungry, 1 ate the coarsest morstl with a double relish." IiEDYARD. Place the white man on Afric's coast, Whose swarthy sons in blood delight, Who of their scorn to Europe boast, And paint their very demons white : There, while the sterner sex disdains To soothe the woes they cannot feel, Woman will strive to heal his pains, And weep for those she cannot heal : MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 137 Hers is warm Pity's sacred glow ; From all her stores, she bears a part, And bids the spring of hope reflow, That languished in the fainting heart. " What though so pale his haggart face, " So sunk and sad his looks" — she cries; " And far unlike our nobler race, " With crisped locks and rolling eyes; " Yet Misery marks him of our kind ; " We see him lost, alone, afraid ; " And pangs of body, griefs in mind " Pronounce him man, and ask our aid. " Perhaps in some far distant shore, " There are who in these forms delight ; " Whose milky features please them more, " Than ours of jet thus burnished bright ; " Of such may be his weeping wife, " Such children for their sire may call, " And if we spare his ebbing life, " Our kindness may preserve them all." Thus her compassion Woman shows, Beneath the line her acts are these; Nor the wide waste of Lapland-snows, Can her warm flow of pity freeze :— '• From some sad land the stranger comes, " Where joys, like ours, are never found ; " Let's soothe him in our happy homes, " Where Freedom sits, with Plenty crowned. " 'Tis good the fainting soul to cheer, " To see the famished stranger fed ; " To milk for him the mother-deer, " To smooth for him the furry bed. " The Powers above our Lapland bless " With good no other people know " To enlarge the joys that we possess, " By feeling those that we bestow ! " Thus in extremes of cold and heat, Where wandering man may trace his kind ; Wherever grief and want retreat, 138 THE BEAUTIES OP In Woman they Compassion find ; She makes the Female breast her seat, And dictates mercy to the mind. Man may the sterner virtues know, Determined justice, truth severe ; But Female hearts with pity glow, And Woman holds affliction dear : For guiltless woes her sorrows flow, And suffering vice compels her tear; 'Tis hers to soothe the ills below, And bid life's fairer views appear. To Woman's gentle kind we owe What comforts and delights us here; They its gay hopes on youth bestow, And care they soothe, and age they cheer. HOME. I. Yes, Home still charms, and he who clad in fur, His rapid rein-deer drives o'er plains of snow, Would rather to the same wild tracts recur, That various life had marked with joy or wo, Than wander, where the spicy breezes blow, To kiss the hyacinths of Azza's hair — Rather, than where luxuriant summers gl ow, To the white mosses of his hills repair, And bid his antler train the simple banquet share. HOME. II. The adventurous boy, that asks his little share, And hies from Home, with many a gossip's prayer, Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see The dear abode of peace and privacy ; And, as he turns, the thatch among the trees, The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the breeze, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 139 The village-common spotted with white sheep, The church-yard yews round which his fathers sleep ; All rouse Reflection's sadly-pleasing train, And oft he looks, and weeps, and looks again. So, when the mild Tupia dared explore Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before, And, with the sons of science, wooed the gale, That rising swelled their strange expanse of sail, — So, when he breathed his firm yet fond adieu, Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe, And all his soul best loved, such tears he shed, While each soft scene of summer-beauty fled : Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast, Long watched the streaming signal from the mast ; Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye, And fairy forests fringed the evening sky. So, Scotia's Queen, as slowly dawned the day, Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away. Her eyes had blessed the beacon's glimmering height, That faintly tipt the feathery surge with light ; But now the morn with orient hues portrayed Each castled cliff, and brown monastic shade : All touched the talisman's resistless spring, And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the wing ! HOME. III. The dearest spot of earth to me Is Home, sweet Home ! The fairy-land I long to see Is Home, sweet Home ! There, how charmed the sense of hearing ! There, where love is so endearing ! — All the world is not so cheering As Home, sweet Home ! I've taught my heart the way to prize My Home, sweet Home ! I've learned to look with lover's eyes On Home, sweet Home ! HO THE BEAUTIES OP There, where vows are truly plighted ! There, where hearts are so united ! — All the world besides I've slighted For Home, sweet Home ! THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. The stately Home3 of England, How beautiful they stand ! Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land. The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream. The merry Homes of England I Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Meet, in the ruddy light ! There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or childhood's tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old. The blessed Homes of England ! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath-hours ! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn ; All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born. The cottage Homes of England '. By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet-fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 141 The free, fair Homes of England ! Long, long, in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be reared To guard each hallowed wall ! And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God ! MRS. HEMANS. OUR COUNTRY AND OUR HOME. There is a land of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night ; A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth, Time-tutored age, and love-;exalted youth : The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air : In every clime, the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ; For in this land of Heaven's peculiar race, The heritage of Nature's noblest grace, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot, than all the rest ; Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend : Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife, Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life ; In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fire-side pleasures gambol at her feet. " Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ?" Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look around ; O thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy Country, and that spot thy Home. — 142 THE BEAUTIES OF Man through all ages of revolving time, Unchanging man, in every varying clime, Deems his own land of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; His Home the spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot, than all the rest. MONTGOMERY. THE LOVE OF COUNTRY. I. O Albion ! O my mother isle ! Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers, Glitter green with sunny showers ; Thy grassy uplands, gentle swells, Echo to the bleat of flocks ; (Those grassy hills, those glittering dells, Proudly ramparted with rocks ;) And Ocean, 'mid his uproar wild, Speaks safety to his Island-child. COLERIDGE. THE LOVE OF COUNTRY. II. My Country ! when I think of all I've lost, In leaving thee to seek a foreign home, I find more cause, the farther that I roam, To mourn the hour I left thy favoured coast ; For each high privilege, which is the boast And birth-right of thy sons, by patriots gained, Dishonoured dies, when Right and Truth are chained, And caitiffs rule — by sordid lusts engrossed, I may, perhaps, (each generous purpose crossed,) Forget the higher aims for which I've strained, Calmly resign the hopes I've prized the most, And learn cold cautions I have long disdained, But my heart must be calmer, colder yet, Ere Scotland and fair Freedom I forget. THING LE. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 143 THE LOVE OF COUNTRY. III. Of earthly sort I do not aught remember, — If partial feeling to my native place Lead not my lyre astray, — of fairer view, And eomelier walk, than the blue mountain-paths And snowy cliffs of Albion renowned ; Albion, an isle long blest with gracious laws, And gracious kings, and favoured much of Heaven, Though yielding oft penurious gratitude. Nor do I of that isle remember aught Of prospect more sublime and beautiful, Than Scotia's northern battlement of hills, Which first I from my father's house beheld At dawn of life ; beloved in memory still, And standard still of rural imagery. What most resembles them, the fairest seems, And stirs the eldest sentiments of bliss ; And, pictured on the tablet of my heart, Their distant shapes eternally remain, And in my dreams their cloudy tops arise. THE LOVE OF COUNTRY. IV. Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, — my Native Land ! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand ! If such there breathe, go, mark him well, For him no minstrel raptures swell. High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth, as wish can claim ; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung. — 114 THE BEAUTIES OF O Caledonia ! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child ! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires ! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand. THE LOVE OF COUNTRY. V. O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! And O ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and wile ! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Isle, O Thou ! who pour'dst the patriotic tide That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart ; Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) O never, never Scotia's realm desert, But still the patriot and the patriot band, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! BURNS. THE LOVE OF COUNTRY. VI. Land of my fathers, though no mangrove here O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear, Nor scaly palm her fingered scions shoot, Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 145 Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree ; Land of dark heaths and mountains, thou art free ! Free as his lord the peasant treads the plain, And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain ; Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right, And vain of Scotia's old unconquered might. Dear native valleys ! long may ye retain The chartered freedom of the mountain swain ; Long, 'mid your sounding glades, in union sweet, May rural innocence and beauty meet ; And still be duly heard, at twilight calm, Prom eveiy cot the peasant's chanted psalm ! EEYDEN. THE LOVE OF COUNTRY. VII. I love Thee, O my native Isle ! Dear as my mother's earliest smile, Sweet as my father's voice to me Is all I hear, and all I see ; When, glancing o'er thy beauteous land, In view thy public virtues stand, The guardian-angels of thy coast, To watch the dear domestic host, The heart's affections, pleased to roam Around the quiet heaven of Home. I love thee, — when I mark thy soil Flourish beneath the peasant's toil, And from its lap of verdure throw Treasures, which neither Indies know. I love thee, — when I hear around Thy looms, and wheels, and anvils sound, Thine engines heaving all their force, Thy waters labouring on their course, And arts, and industry, and wealth, Exulting in the joys of health. I love thee, — when I trace thy tale To the dim point where records fail ; Thy deeds of old renown inspire My bosom with our fathers' fire : 146 THE BEAUTIES OF A proud inheritance I claim In all their sufferings, all their fame : Nor less delighted, when I stray Down history's lengthening, widening way, And hail thee in thy present hour, From the meridian arch of power, Shedding the lustre of thy reign, Like sunshine, over land and main. I love thee, — when I read the lays Of British Bards, in elder days, Till, wrapt on visionary wings, High o'er thy cliffs my spirit sings ; For I, amidst thy living choir, I too, can touch the sacred lyre. I love thee, — when thy Sabbath dawns O'er woods and mountains, dales, and lawns, And streams, that sparkle while they run, As if their fountain were the sun : When, hand in hand, thy tribes repair, Each to their chosen house of prayer, And all in peace and freedom call On Him, who is the Lord of all. MONTGOMERY. THE LOVE OF COUNTRY. VIII. My heart has sighed in secret, when I thought That the dark tide of Time might one day close, England ! o'er thee, as long since it has closed On Egypt and on Tyre : that ages hence, From the Pacific's billowy loneliness, Whose tract thy daring search revealed, some isle Might rise in green-haired beauty eminent, And, like a goddess, glittering from the deep, Hereafter sway the sceptre of domain From pole to pole ; and such as now thou art, Perhaps New Holland be, for who shall say What the Omnipotent Eternal One That made the world hath purposed ? Thoughts like these, Though visionary, rise ; and sometimes move A moment's sadness, when I think of thee, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 147 My Country, of thy greatness, and thy name Among the nations ; and thy character (Though some few spots be on thy flowing robe,) Of loveliest beauty. I have never passed Through thy green hamlets on a summer's morn, Or heard thy sweet bells ring, or seen the youths And smiling maidens of the villagery, Gay in their Sunday 'tire, but I have said, With passing tenderness, " Live, happy land, Where the poor peasant feels his shed, though small, An independence and a pride, that fill His honest heart with joy — joy such as they Who crowd the mart of men may never feel." Such, England, is thy boast ; when I have heard The roar of Ocean bursting round thy rocks, Or seen a thousand thronging masts aspire, Far as the eye could reach, from every port Of every nation, streaming with their flags O'er the still mirror of the conscious Thames, — Yes, I have felt a proud emotion swell, That I was British-born ; that I had lived A witness of thy glory, my most loved And honoured Country ; and silent prayer Would rise to Heaven, that Fame, and Peace, and Love, And Liberty, would walk thy vales, and sing Their holy hymns ; whilst thy brave arm repelled Hostility, even as thy guardian rocks Repel the dash of Ocean. BOWLES. THE TRUE FREEMAN. He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain That hellish foes, confederate for his harm, Can wind around him, but he casts it off, With as much ease as Samson his green withes ; He looks abroad into the varied field Of Nature, and though poor, perhaps, compared With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his own. His are the mountains, and the valleys his, 148 THE BEAUTIES OP And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy With a propriety that none can feel, But who, with filial confidence inspired, Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye, And smiling say — " My Father made them all !" Are they not his by a peculiar right, And by an emphasis of interest his, Whose eyes they fill with tears of holy joy, Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind With worthy thoughts of that unwearied Love That planned, and built, and still upholds, a world, So clothed with beauty for rebellious man ? Yes — ye may fill your garners, ye that reap The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good In senseless riot; but ye will not find In feast, or in the chase, in song, or dance, A liberty like his, who, unimpeached Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, Appropriates Nature as his Father's work, And has a richer use of yours than you. He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth Of no mean city ; planned or ere the hills Were built, the fountains opened, or the sea With all his roaring multitude of waves. His freedom is the same in every state ; And no condition of this changeful life, So manifold in cares, whose every day Brings its own evil with it, makes it less : For he has wings, that neither sickness, pain, Nor penury, can cripple or confine. No nook so narrow but he spreads them there With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds His body bound ; but knows not what a range His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain ; And that to bind him is a vain attempt, Whom God delights in, and in whom He dwells. FAREWELL TO ENGLAND. Adieu, adieu ! my native shore, Fades o'er the waters blue ; The night-winds sigh — the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild seamew. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 149 Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native Land — Good Night ! A few short hours, and he will rise To give the morrow birth ; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate ; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; My dogs howl at the gate. Come hither, hither, my little page ! Why dost thou weep and wail? Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, Or tremble at the gale ? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; Our ship is swift and strong : Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along. Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind ; Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind ; For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend save these alone, But thee — and one above. My father blessed me fervently, Yet did not much complain ; But sorely will my mother sigh Till I come back again. — Enough, enough, my little lad ! Such tears become thine eye ; If I thy guileless bosom had Mine own would not be dry. Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, Why dost thou look so pale ? Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? Or shiver at the gale ? — 150 THE BEAUTIES OP Deem'st thou I tremble for my life ? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; But thinking on an absent wife Will blanch a faithful cheek. My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering lake, And when they on their father call, What answer shall she make ? — Enough, enough, my yeoman good. Thy grief let none gainsay ; But I, who am of lighter mood, Will laugh to flee away. For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or paramour ? Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes We late saw streaming o'er. For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near ; My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear. And now I'm in the world alone, Upon the wide, wide sea : But why should I for others groan, When none will sigh for me ? Perchance my dog will whine in vain, Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again, He'd tear me where he stands. With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine ; Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, So not again to mine. Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves ! And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! My native Land — good Night ! BYRON. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 151 MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT. Air—" Cha till mi tuille." * Mackrimmon, hereditary piper to the Laird of Macleod, is said to have composed this lament when the Clan was about to depart upon a distant and dangerous expedition. The Minstrel was impressed with a belief, which the event verified, that he was to be slain in the approaching fend ; and hence the Gaelic words, " Cha till mi tuille ; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Maerimmon," " I shall never return : although Macleod returns, yet Mack- rimmon shall never return ! " The piece is but too well known, from its being the strain with which the emigrants from the West Highlands and Isles usually take leave of their native shore. Macleod's wizard flag from the grey castle sallies, The rowers are seated, unmoored are the galleys ; Gleam war-axe and broad-sword, clang target and quiver, As Mackrimmon sings, " Farewell to Dunvegan for ever ! Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers are foaming ; Farewell each dark glen, in which red deer are roaming ; Farewell lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, and river ; Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon shall never ! " Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are sleeping ; Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that are weeping ; To each minstrel delusion, farewell ! — and for ever — Mackrimmon departs, to return to you never ! The Banshee's wild voice sings the death dirge before me, The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs o'er me ; But my heart shall not flag, and my nerves shall not shiver, Though devoted I go — to return again never ! " Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's bewailing Be heard when the Gael on their exile are sailing ; Dear land ! to the shores, whence unwilling we sever, Return — return — return we shall never ! Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille ! Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, Ged thillis Macleod, cha till Maerimmon ! SCOTT. THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL. Our native land, our native vale, A long and last adieu ! Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, And Cheviot mountains blue ! * " We return no more." 152 THE BEAUTIES OF Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, And streams renowned in song ; Farewell, ye blithesome braes and meads, Our hearts have loved so long. Farewell, ye broomy Elfin knowes, Where thyme and harebells grow ; Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes, O'erhung with birk and sloe. The battle mound — -the border tower, That Scotia's annals tell — The martyr's grave, the lover's bower, To each, to all — farewell ! Home of our hearts •' — our father's Home — ILand of the brave and free ! — The sail is flapping on the foam That bears us far from thee ! We seek a wild and distant shore Beyond the Atlantic main — We leave thee to return no more, Nor view thy cliffs again ! But may dishonour blight our fame, And quench our household fires; When we, or ours, forget thy name, Green island of our sires ! Our native land, our native vale, A long and last adieu ! Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, And Scotland's mountains blue ! NATURE. I. Oh ! how canst thou renounce the boundless store Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ! The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; All that the genial ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song of even, All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, And all the dread magnificence of heaven, Oh ! how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 153 NATURE. II. On Nature ! by impassioned hearts alone Thy genuine charms are felt. The vulgar mind Sees but the shadow of a Power unknown : Thy loftier beauties beam not to the blind And sensual throng, to grovelling hopes resigned : But they whom high and holy thoughts inspire Adore thee, in celestial glory shrined In that diviner fane where Love's pure fire Burns bright, and Genius tunes his loud immortal lyre ! PRINGLE. NATURE. III. To sit on rocks ; to muse o'er flood and fell ; To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things, that own not man's dominion, dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock, that never needs a fold ; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; — This is not solitude : 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled. IV. O Nature ! all thy seasons please the eye Of him who sees a Deity in all. It is His presence that diffuses charms Unspeakable, o'er mountain, wood, and stream. To think that He, who hears the heavenly choirs, Hearkens complacent to the woodland song ; To think that He, who rolls yon solar sphere, Uplifts the warbling songster to the sky ; To mark His presence in the mighty bow That spans the clouds as in the tints minute 154 THE BEAUTIES OF Of tiniest flower ; to hear His awful voice In thunder speak, and whisper in the gale ; To know, and feel His care for all that lives ; — 'Tis this that makes the barren waste appear A fruitful field, each grove a paradise. Yes ! place me 'mid far stretching woodless wilds, Where no sweet song is heard, the heath-bell there Would please my weary sight, and tell of Thee ! There would my gratefully uplifted eye Survey the heavenly vault, by day, by night, When glows the firmament from pole to pole ; 'fhere would my overflowing heart exclaim, " The heavens declare the glory of the Lord, The firmament shows forth His handy work ! NATURE. V. The fair smile of Morning, The glory of Noon, The bright Stars adorning The path of the Moon, The mist-covered Mountain, The Valley and Plain, The Lake and the Fountain, The River and Main, Their magic combining, Illume and control The care and repining That darken the soul. The timid Spring stealing Through light and perfume ; The Summer's revealing Of beauty and bloom ; The rich Antumn glowing, With fruit-treasures crowned The pale Winter throwing His snow-wreaths around, All widely diffusing A charm on the earth, Wake loftier musing, And holier mirth. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 155 There is not a sorrow, That hath not a balm From Nature to borrow, In Tempest or Calm ; There is not a season, There is not a scene, But Fancy and Reason May gaze on serene, And own it possessing A zest for the glad, A solace and blessing To comfort the sad. RICHARDSON. NATURE, VI. The God of Nature and of grace In all His works appears ; His goodness through the Earth we trace, His grandeur in the spheres. Behold this fair and fertile Globe, By Him in wisdom planned ; 'Twas He who girded, like a robe, The Ocean round the land. Lift to the firmament your eye, Thither His path pursue ; His glory, boundless as the sky, O'erwhelms the wondering view. He bows the Heavens — the Mountains stand A highway for their God ; He walks amidst the desert land, — 'Tis Eden where he trod. The Forests in His strength rejoice : Hark ! on the evening breeze, As one of old, the Lord God's voice Is heard among the trees. k 2 156 THE BEAUTIES OF Here on the hills He feeds His herds, His flocks on yonder plains ; His praise is warbled by the birds, O could we catch their strains ! Mount with the lark, and bear our song Up to the gates of light ; Or, with the nightingale, prolong Our numbers through the night ! In every stream His bounty flows, Diffusing joy and wealth ; In every breeze His spirit blows, The breath of life and health. His blessings fall in plenteous showers, Upon the lap of earth, That teems with foliage, fruit, and flowers, And rings with infant mirth. If God hath made this world so fair, Where sin and death abound, How beautiful, beyond compare, Will Paradise be found ! MONTGOMERY, NATURE. VII. How sweet at Summer's noon, to sit and muse Beneath the shadow of some ancient elm ! While at my feet the mazy streamlet flows In tuneful lapse, leaving the Flowers that bend To kiss its tide ; while sport the finny throng On the smooth surface of the crystal depths In silvery circlets, or in shallows leap, That sparkle to the sunbeam's trembling glare. Around the tiny jets, where humid bells Break as they form, the water-spiders weave, Brisk on the eddying pools, their ceaseless dance. The wild Bee winds her horn, lost in the cups Of honied flowers, or sweeps with ample curve, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 157 While o'er the Summer's lap is heard the hum Of countless insects sporting on the wing Inviting sleep. And from the leafy woods One various song of bursting joy ascends, While echo wafts the notes from grove to hill ; From hill to grove the grateful concert spreads, As borne on fluttering plumes, in circling maze, The happy Birds flit through the balmy air, Where plays the Gossamer ; and, as they feel The general joy, bright exhalations dance ; And shepherd's pipe, and song of blooming maid, Quick as she turns the odour-breathing swathes Of new-mown hay, and children playing round The ivy-clustered cot, and low of Herds, And bleat of Lambs, that crop the verdant sward With daisies pied, while smiles the heaven serene ; — All wake to ecstasy, or melt to love, And to the source of goodness raise the soul, — Raise it to Him, exhaustless source of bliss ! That like the sun, best emblem of Himself, For ever flowing, yet for ever full, Diffuses life and happiness to all. GILLESPIE. MOUNTAINS. What lonely magnificence stretches around ! Each sight how sublime ! and how awful each sound ! All hushed and serene, as a region of dreams, The Mountains repose 'mid the roar of the streams ; Their glens of black umbrage by cataracts riven, But calm their blue tops in the beauty of heaven. Here the glory of Nature hath nothing to fear — Aye ! Time the destroyer in power hath been here ; And the forest that hung on yon Mountain so high, Like a black thunder cloud on the arch of the sky, Hath gone, like a cloud, when the tempest came by. Deep sunk in the black moor, all worn and decayed, Where the floods have been raging, the limbs are displayed, Of the pine tree and oak, sleeping vast in the gloom, — The kings of the forest disturbed in their tomb. E'en now, in the pomp of their prime, I behold, O'erhanging the desert, the forests of old ! 158 THE BEAUTIES OF So gorgeous their verdure, so solemn their shade, Like the heavens above them, they never may fade, The sun-light is on them, in silence they sleep — A glimmering glow, like the breast of the deep, When the billows scarce heave in the calmness of morn. Down the pass of Glen-Etive the tempest is borne, — And the hill-side is swinging, and roars with a sound In the heart of the forest embosomed profound, Till all in a moment the tumult is o'er, And the Mountain of thunder is still as the shore ; When the sea is at ebb ; not a leaf nor a breath, To disturb the wild solitude, stedfast as death. WILSON. BEN NEVIS. We climb, we pant, we pause ; again we climb : Frown not, stern Mountain ! nor around thee throw Thy mist and storm, but look with cloudless brow O'er all thy giant progeny sublime ; While toiling up the immeasurable height, We climb, we pant, we pause : the thickening gloom Hath palled us in the darkness of the tomb ; And on the hard-won summit, sound nor sight Salutes us, save the snow and chilly blast, And all the guardian fiends of Winter's throne. Such too is life — ten thousand perils past, Our fame is vapour, and our mirth a groan. But patience, till the veil be rent away, And on our vision flash celestial day. rev. c. IIOYLE. LOCHNAGAR. Away, ye gay landscapes ! ye gardens of roses ! In you let the minions of luxury rove ; Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes, Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : Yet, Caledonia ! beloved are thy mountains, Round their white summits though elements war, Though cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Lochnagar. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 159 Ah ! there my young footsteps, in infancy, wandered, My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ; On chieftains long perished my memory pondered, As daily I strode through the pine-covered glade ; I sought not my home, till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; For Fancy was cheered by traditional story, Disclosed by the natives of dark Lochnagar. Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ? Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale : Round Lochnagar, while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car ; Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers, They dwell in the tempests of dark Lochnagar. Ill starred, though brave, did not visions foreboding, Tell you that Fate had forsaken your cause I Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden, Victory crowned not your fall with applause ; Still were you happy in death's early slumber, You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar, The Pibroch resounds to the piper's loud number, Your deeds on the echoes of dark Lochnagar. Years have rolled on, Lochnagar, since I left you ; Years must elapse ere I tread you again; Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, Yet still you are dearer than Albion's plain. England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic, To one who has roved on the mountains afar ; — Oh ! for the crags that are wild and majestic, The steep, frowning glories of dark Lochnagar. MONT BLANC. I. The world has seen strange change ; yet here art thou, Mont Blanc, while generations pass away ; Thy vast heights glistening with untrodden snow, On which the Sun at eve imprints his ray ; 160 THE BEAUTIES OF There lingers yet the mild farewell of day, The blue lake sleeps below in tranquil sheen ; Here, among Nature's miracles, I'll pray To Nature's Deity; — how vast the scene ! The loveliest works of God — the grandest too are seen. Here from our slumbers light we rise to feel The consciousness of being : fresh and free The soul pours forth its orisons with zeal To the great Spirit of Eternity, That was, and is, and shall for ever be. The fertile valleys, giant mountains, prove The omnipresence of the Deity ! Best emblems of His wisdom, power, and love, Pervading all things here around, below, above. The golden Sun has coloured all the woods ! Fresh views succeed ; each brighter than the last ! There barren rocks are channelled by the floods, Here Flora's beauties cannot be surpassed. Lausanne, a universe of charms thou hast : There Winter's fettered in his icy bed. — Steeps rise o'er steeps immeasurably vast ;- — While the rude crags, projecting overhead, Strike in the stoutest hearts a momentary dread. The ambitious rhododendron climbs the snow ; Pines darken round the mountain's sides ; — behold A thousand rills from icy caverns flow, Rushing o'er rocks irregularly bold, Where the tenacious sapling keeps its hold ; Below the dark stream with collected force Still rolling on, as it has ever rolled, Through the wide plains shapes its resistless course, As rude as Ocean's self; as grand as is its source. MONT BLANC. II. Mountain, — who reignest o'er thine Alpine peers Transcendency, and from that massive crown MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 161 Of arrowy brightness dartest down thy beams Upon their lesser coronets, — all hail ! Unto the souls in hallowed musing rapt, Spirits in which creation's glorious forms Do shadow forth and speak the Invisible, The Etherial, the Eternal, thou dost shine With emblematic brightness. Those untrod, And matchless domes, though many a weary league Beyond the gazer, when the misty veil Dies round them, start upon his dazzled sight In vastness almost tangible ; thy smooth And bold convexity of silent snows Raised on the still and dark blue firmament ! — Mountain, — thou image of eternity ! — Oh, let not foreign feet, inquisitive, Swift in untrained aspirings, proudly tempt Thy searchless waste ! — What half-taught fortitude Can balance unperturbed above the clefts Of yaWning and unfathomable ice That moat thee round ; or wind the giddy ledge Of thy sheer granite ! Hath he won his way, That young investigator? Yes; but now, Quick panting on superior snows, his frame Trembles in dizziness ; his wandering look Drinks pale confusion ; the wide scene is dim ; Its all of firm or fleeting, near or far, Deep rolling clouds beneath, and wavering mists That flit above him with their transient shades, And storm-deriding rocks, and treacherous snows, And blessed sunlight, in his dying eye, Float dubious ; and 'tis midnight at his heart ! — Mountain, — that firm and ardent Genevese, The enthusiast child of science, whose bold foot Bounded across thine ice rents, who disdained The frozen outworks of thy steep ravines, And through a labyrinth of crystal rocks Pressed his untired ascent, even he, and all His iron-band of native mountaineers, While scaling the aerial cupola Of Nature's Temple, owned a breathless pang. Thy most attenuate element is fit For angel roamings. True, his zealous mind Achieved its philosophic aim, and marked 162 THE BEAUTIES OF And measured thee ; but turned to earthly climes Full soon, and bent in gladness toward the vale.— Mountain, — the sons of science or of taste, Need not essay such triumph. 'Tis more wise And happier. — till a fiery chariot wait, — To scan from lesser heights thy glorious whole ; To climb above the deep though lofty plain That wrongs thee ; pass its line of envious peaks, And, stationed at thy cross, sublime Flegere ! Thence meditate the monarch's grandeur, while His host of subject Hills are spread beneath ; For scarce, till then, his own colossal might Seems disenthralled ; and mute astonishment, Unquenched by doubt or dread, at each new step, Shall own his aspect more celestial still. There, in some hollow rock reclining, whence The bright-eyed chamois sprang ; with tufted bells Of rhododendron blushing at my feet ; The unprofaned recess of Alpine life Were all my world that hour ; and the vast Mount In his lone majesty would picture Heaven. — Bright Mountain, — ah ! but volumed clouds enwrap Thy broad foundations, curtain all thy steeps, And, rising as the orb of day declines, Brood on the vassal chain that flank thee round, Then thy whole self involve — save, haply, when A quick and changing vista may reveal Some spotless portion of thy front, and show Thee not unstable, like the earth-born cloud, Brilliant, though hid, abiding if unseen. Then as the vale grows darker, and the sun Deserts unnumbered Hills, o'er that high zone Of gathered vapours thou dost sudden lift Thy silver brow, calm as the hour of eve, Clear as the morning, still as the midnight, More beautiful than noon ; for lo ! the Sun Lingers to greet thee with a roseate ray, And on thy silver brow his bright farewell Is gleaming : — Mountain, — thou art half divine ! Severed from earth ! Irradiate from Heaven ! — Thus even the taught of Heaven, with joyless eye Fixed on the sable clouds which fear hath cast O'er all the landscape of his destiny, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 1C3 May fail to pierce them ; but, though legioned shapes Of nether evil, though the deep array Of stern adversities, and murky hosts Of dark illusions blot his upper skies, Yet, as they change, through that incumbent gloom Shall he catch glimpses of the hallowed Mount, And weep that Heaven is bright. — And at the hour Of stillness, when even frightful shadows fade, When night seems closing o'er his latest hopes, And his sun set for ever, — then, behold, Emerging, in mid Heaven, thy glistening top O Zion ! and the God that ruled his day Hath not departed ; for He poureth now liis radiance on thy summits, glancing back A thrilling flood into His servant's soul ! " Joy full of glory ! " — Was the noon-day dark ? It was ; — but eve is cloudless ; night is peace ; Rapture shall gild the never-ending morn ! SHEFFIELD IRIS. PARNASSUS. Oh, thou Parnassus ! whom I now survey Not in the phrenzy of a dreamer's eye, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! What marvel if I thus essay to sing ? The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by, Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing. Oft have I dreamed of thee ! whose glorious name Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore : And now I view thee, 'tis, alas, with shame That I in feeblest accents must adore. When I recount thy worshippers of yore I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy, In silent joy, to think at last I look on thee ! 164 THE BEAUTIES OF Happier in this than mightiest barcls have been, Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene Which others rave of, though they know it not ? Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, Some gentle Spirit now pervades the spot, Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the grave, And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. Of thee hereafter — Even amidst my strain I turned aside to pay my homage here ; Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; Her fate, to every free-born bosom dear, And hailed thee, not perchance without a tear. Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, Nor let thy votary's hope be deemed an idle vaunt. But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount ! when Greece was young See round thy giant base a brighter choir, Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, Behold a train more fitting to inspire The song of love, than Andalusia's maids, Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire : Ah ! that to these were given such peaceful shades As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades. THE SUN I. Thou mightiest work of Him That launched thee forth, a golden-crowned bridegroom, To hang thy everlasting nuptial lamp In the exulting heavens. In thee the light, Creation's eldest-born, was tatumacled. To thee was given to quicken slumbering nature, And lead the seasons' slow vicissitude Over the fertile breast of mother earth ; MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 165 Till men began to stoop their grovelling prayers From the Almighty Sire of all to thee. And I will add, — Thou universal emblem Hung in the forehead of the all-seen heavens, Of Him, that with the light of righteousness Dawned on our latter days ; the visitant Dayspring Of the benighted world. Enduring splendour ! Giant refreshed ! that evermore renewest Thy flaming strength ; nor ever shalt thou cease, With time coeval, even till time itself Hath perished in eternity. Then thou Shalt own, from thy apparent deity Debased, thy mortal nature, from the sky Withering before the all-enlightening Lamb, Whose radiant throne shall quench all other fires. Mark how the purple clouds Throng to pavilion him : the officious winds Pant forth to purify his azure path From Night's dun vapours and fast-scattering mists. The glad earth wakes in adoration ; all The voices of all animated things lift up Tumultuous orisons ; the spacious world Lives but in him, that is its life. But he, Disdainful of the universal homage, Holds his proud way, and vindicates for his own The illimitable heavens, in solitude, Of peerless glory unapproachable. THE SUN. II. Glorious Orb ! the idol Of early nature, and the vigorous race Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons Of the embrace of angels, with a sex More beautiful than they, which did draw down The erring spirits who can ne'er return. Most glorious Orb ! that wert a worship, ere The mystery of thy making was revealed ! Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, Which gladdened, on their mountain tops, the hearts 166 THE BEAUTIES OF Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they poured Themselves in orisons ! Thou material god ! And representative of the Unknown — Who chose thee for His shadow ! Thou chief star ! Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth Endurable, and temperest the hues And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee, Even as our outward aspects, — thou dost rise, And shine, and set in glory ! BTROX. THE SUN. III. In wonder risest thou, material Orb ! And youthfulness — a symbol and a sign Change, revolution, age, decay, absorb All other essences, but harm not thine : In thy most awful face reflected shine Thy Maker's attributes, Celestial Child ! When shapelessness ruled chaos, the Divine Looked on the void, tumultuous mass, and smiled — Then startedst thou to birth, and trod'st the pathless wild. Girt like a giant for the speed, the flight, The toil of unsummed ages ; in thy zone, Charmed into motion by thy sacred light, The glad earth danced around thee with the tone Of music — for then Eden was her own, And all things breathed of beauty, — chiefly Man Drank of an angel's joy; where are ye flown, Too fleeting suns ? a mortal's thought may span Your course — for ye returned to whence your race began. And we became all shadow — in the abyss, The spirit's desolation, here we stand, Wrestling in darkness for a heavenly bliss, And an immortal's essence : brightly grand, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 167 How climbest thou the skies ? now lend'st a hand To help us to thy altitude ! away- Earth-born repinings — ye may not command A sparkle of that intellectual ray, Which yet from heaven descends, and communes with our clay. THE SUN. IV. Most glorious art thou ! when from thy pavilion Thou lookest forth at morning; flinging wide Its curtain clouds of purple and vermilion, Dispensing life and light on every side ; Brightening the mountain cataract, dimly spied Through glittering mist, opening each dew-gemmed flower, Or touching, in some hamlet, far descried, Its spiral wreaths of smoke that upward tower, While birds their matin sing from many a leafy bower. And more magnificent art thou, bright Sun ! Uprising from the ocean's billowy bed : W ho, that has seen thee thus, as I have done, Can e'er forget the effulgent splendours spread From thy emerging radiance ? Upwards sped E'en to the centre of the vaulted sky, Thy beams pervade the heavens, and o'er them shed Hues indescribable — of gorgeous dye, Making among the clouds mute glorious pageantry. Then, then how beautiful, across the deep The lustre of thy orient path of light ! Onward, still onward, o'er the waves that leap So lovelily, and show their crests of white, The eye, unsated in its own despite, Still up that vista gazes ; till thy way Over the waters seems a pathway bright For holiest thoughts to travel, there to pay Man's homage unto Him who bade thee " Rule the Day." And thou thyself, forgetting what thou art, Appear'st thy Maker's temple, in whose dome, The silent worship of the expanding heart May rise, and seek its own eternal home : 168 THE BEAUTIES OF The intervening billows' snowy foam, Rising successively, seem steps of light, Such as on Bethel's plain the angels clomb ; When, to the slumbering patriarch's ravished sight, Heaven's glories were revealed in visions of the night. Nor are thy evening splendours, mighty Orb ! Less beautiful : and oh ! more touching far, And of more power, thought, feeling to absorb In silent ecstasy, to me they are : When watchful of thy exit, one pale star Shines on the brow of summer's loveliest eve ; And breezes, softer than the soft guitar, Whose plaintive notes Castilian maids deceive, Among the foliage sigh, and take of thee their leave. O then it is delightful to behold Thy calm departure ; soothing to survey Through opening clouds, by thee all edged with gold, The milder pomp of thy declining sway : How beautiful, on church tower old and grey, Is shed thy parting smile ; how brightly glow Thy last beams on some tall tree's loftiest spray, While silvery mists half veil the trunk below, And hide the rippling stream that scarce is heard to flow. Majestic Orb ! when, at the tranquil close Of a long day in irksome durance spent, I've wandered forth, and seen thy disk repose Upon the vast horizon, while it lent Its glory to the kindling firmament, While clouds on clouds, in rich confusion rolled, Encompassed thee as with a gorgeous tent, Whose most magnificent curtains would unfold, And form a vista bright, through which I might behold Celestial visions — Then the wondrous story Of Bunyan's Pilgrims seemed a tale most true ; How he beheld their entrance into glory, And saw them pass the pearly portal through ; Catching, meanwhile, a beatific view Of that bright city, shining like the sun, Whose glittering streets appeared of golden hue, Where spirits of the just, their conflicts done, Walked in white robes, with palms and crowned every one. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 169 Past is that vision : — Views of heavenly things Rest not in glories palpable to sense ; To something dearer Hope exulting springs, With joy chastised by humble diffidence ; Not robes nor palms, give rapture so intense As thought of meeting, never more to part, Those we have loved on earth ; the influence Of whose affection o'er the subject heart, Was by mild virtue gained, and swayed with gentle art. SUNRISE ON MONT BLANC. Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. — Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale ! O struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink : Companion of the Morning-Star at dawn, Thyself Earth's Rosy-Star, and of the dawn Co-herald ! wake, O wake, and utter praise ! Who sank thy sunless pillows deep in Earth ? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? — And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! * Who called ye forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, For ever shattered, and the same for ever ? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fmy, and your joy, Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam ? And who commanded, (and the silence came,) Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest 1 — * Besides the rivers of Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the glaciers the gevtiana major grows in immense numbers, with its " flowers of loveliest blue." L 170 THE BEAUTIES OP Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain — Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the Sun Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest hue, spread garlands at your feet? God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations. Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! — God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice ! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! — Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! Ye wild-goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! Ye signs and wonders of the element ! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! — Once more, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet, the Avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast. — Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou That, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow-travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, To rise before me. — Rise, O ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth ! Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky. And tell the stars, and tell yon rising Sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. COLERIDGE. SUNSET. I. The zenith spreads Its canopy of sapphire, but the West MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 171 Has a magnificent array of clouds ; And, as the breeze plays on them, they assume The forms of mountains, castled cliffs, and hills, Deep-rifted glens, and groves, and beetling rocks ; And some that seem far off, are voyaging Their sun-bright path in folds of silver ; — some In golden masses float, and others have Edgings of burning crimson. — Isles are seen, All lovely, set within an emerald sea ; And there are dyes in the rich heavens, — such As sparkle in the grand and gorgeous plume Of Juno's favourite bird, or deck the scaled And wreathing serpent. — Never, from the birth Of time, were scattered o'er the glowing sky More splendid colourings. Every varying hue Of every beautiful thing on earth, — the tints Of Heaven's own Iris,— all are in the West On this delicious eve. — The eye discerns The mountain-ridges sweep away in vast And regular succession ; — wave on wave Rolling and glittering in the sun, — until They reach the utmost West. The lark is up Exulting in the bright blue heaven ; — the streams Leap wantonly adown the laughing slopes ; And on the ear the poetry of bells, Far borne by Auster's welcome gale, is heard ; All else is mute, — silently happy, — Earth Reposes in the Sunset. — Let me gaze At the great vision ere it pass ; for now The day-god hovers o'er the western hill, And sheds his last fond ray. Farewell ! farewell i Who givest beauty to the cloud, and light — Joy, music, to the earth ! And must yon tints And shapes divine which thou hast formed, decay : — The mountain, and the temple, and the tower, That float in yonder fields of air; — the isles Of all surpassing loveliness ; and seas Of glorious emerald, that seem to flow Around the gold-fringed reefs and rocks ; must all Vanish, with thee, at the remorseless touch Of the swift-eoming twilight !— They will fade, — Those hues and forms enchanting. See behind The billowy horizon once more sinks l 2 172 THE BEAUTIES OP The traveller of six thousand years. With him Depart the glories of the West. The tints Elysian change— the fiercely brilliant streaks Of crimson disappear ; but o'er the hills A flush of orange hovers, softening up Into harmonious union with the blue That comes a sweeping down ; for Twilight hastes To dash all other colours from the sky But this her favourite azure. Even now The East displays its palely-beaming stars, There is no end to all thy prodigies, O Nature ! CAERINGTON. SUNSET. II. How beautiful the setting Sun Reposes o'er the wave ! Like Virtue, life's drear warfare done, Descending to the grave ; Yet smiling with a brow of love, Benignant, pure, and kind, And blessing, ere she soars above, The realms she leaves behind. The cloudlets, edged with crimson light, Veil o'er the blue serene, While swift the legions of the night, Are shadowing o'er the scene ; The sea-gull, with a wailing moan, Up starting, turns to seek Its lonely dwelling-place upon The promontory's peak. The heaving sea, — the distant hill, — The waning sky, — the woods, — With melancholy musing fill The swelling heart that broods Upon the light of other days, Whose glories now are dull, And on the visions Hope could raise, Vacant, but beautiful. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 173 Where are the bright illusions vain, That Fancy boded forth ! Sunk to their silent caves again, Aurora of the North ! Oh ! who would live those visions o'er, All brilliant though they seem, Since Earth is but a desert shore, And life a weary dream ! SUNSET AND SUNRISE. Contemplate, when the Sun declines, Thy death, with deep reflection; And when again he rising shines, Thy day of resurrection. COWPER. SUNSET AT ATHENS. Slow sinks more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting Sun ; Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light ! O'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws, Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. On old JEgina's rock, and Idra's isle, The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, Though there his altars are no more divine. Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss Thy glorious gulf, unconquered Salamis .' Their azure arches through the long expanse More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven, Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, When, Athens •' here thy wisest looked his last. 174 THE BEAUTIES OF How watched thy better sons his farewell ray, That closed their murdered sage's latest day ! Not yet — not yet Sol pauses on the hill— The precious hour of parting lingers still ; But sad his light to agonizing eyes, And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes — Gloom o'er the lovely land he seemed to pour — The land where Phoebus never frowned before. But ere he sunk below Cithceron's head The cup of wo was quaffed — the spirit fled ; The soul of him who scorned to fear or fly — Who lived and died, as none can live or die. But lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain, The Queen of night asserts her silent reign. No murky vapour, herald of the storm, Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, There the white column greets her grateful ray, And bright, around with quivering beams beset, Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : The groves of olive scattered dark and wide Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk, And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye — And dull were his that passed them heedless by. MORNING. I. Night wanes— the vapours round the mountains curled Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. Man has another day to swell the past, And lead him near to little, but his last ; But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth, The Sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 175 Immortal man ! behold her glories shine, And cry, exulting inly, " They are thine ! " Gaze on, while yet thy gladdened eye may see ; A morrow comes when they are not for thee : And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all ; But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. BYRON. MORNING. II. 'Twas Summer, and the Sun had mounted high : Southward, the landscape indistinctly glared Through a pale steam ; but all the northern downs, In clearest air ascending, showed far off A surface dappled o'er with shadows, flung From many a brooding cloud ; far as the sight Could reach, those many shadows lay in spots Determined and unmoved, with steady beams Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed. Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss Extends his careless limbs along the front Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts A twilight of its own, an ample shade, Where the wren warbles ; while the dreaming Man, Half conscious of the soothing melody, With side-long eye looks out upon the scene, By that impending covert made more soft, More low and distant ! Other lot was mine ; Yet with good hope that soon I should obtain As grateful resting-place, and livelier joy. Across a bare wide common I was toiling With languid feet, which by the slippery ground Were baffled ; nor could my weak arm disperse The host of insects gathering round my face, And ever with me as I paced along. WORDSWORTH. 176 THE BEAUTIES OF MORNING. III. Behold glad Nature's triumph ! Lo, the Sun Hath burst the pall of Night, and o'er the earth Reviving radiance scattered ! Sleep hath done Her death-resembling reign, and thoughts have birth That thrill the grateful heart with sacred mirth ! Like glittering flowers that deck the dewy ground. How Fancy's bright-hued images abound, And mortals own the glory and the worth Of that proud boon — existence. All around Unnumbered charms arise in every sight and sound. The scene is steeped in beauty ; and my soul, No longer lingering in the gloom of care, Doth greet Creation's smile. The grey clouds roll, Even from the mountain peaks, and melt in air ! The landscape looks an Eden ! Who could wear The frown of sorrow now 1 This glorious hour Reveals the ruling God ! The heavens are bare ! Each sunny stream and blossom-mantled bower Breathes of pervading love, and shows the power That spoke him into life hath blessed man's earthly dower. RICHARDSON. MORNING. IV. It was a lovely Morning ; — all was calm, As if Creation, thankful for repose, In renovated beauty, breathing balm, And blessedness around, from slumber rose ; Joyful once more to see the East unclose Its gates of glory :— yet subdued and mild, Like the soft smile of Patience, amid woes By Hope and Resignation reconciled, Tliat Morning's beauty shone, that landscape's charm beguiled. The heavens were marked by many a filmy streak, Even in the orient ; and the Sun shone through Those lines, as Hope upon a mourner's cheek Sheds, meekly chastened, her delightful hue. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 177 From groves and meadows, all em pearled with dew, Rose silvery mists, — no eddying wind swept by, — The cottage chimneys, half concealed from view By their embowering foliage, sent on high Their pallid wreaths of smoke, unruffled to the sky. And every gentle sound which broke the hush Of Morning's still serenity, was sweet ; The skylark overhead ; the speckled thrush, Who now had taken with delight his seat Upon the slender larch, the day to greet ; The starling, chattering to her callow young; And that monotonous lay, which seems to fleet Like echo through the air, the cuckoo's song, Was heard at times far off the leafy woods among. BAKTOK. MORNING, V. Swiftly from the mountain's brow, Shadows, nursed by Night, retire ; And the peeping sunbeam, now Paints with gold the village spire. Philomel forsakes the thorn, Plaintive where she prates at night ; And the lark, to meet the Morn, Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. From the low-roofed cottage ridge, See the chattering swallow spring : Darting through the one-arched bridge, Quick she dips her dappled wing. Now the pine-tree's waving top Gently greets the Morning gale : Kidlings now begin to crop Daisies in the dewy dale. From the balmy sweets, uncloyed, (Restless till her task be done,) Now the busy bee's employed Sipping dew before the sun. 178 THE BEAUTIES OF Trickling through the creviced rock, Where the limpid stream distils, Sweet refreshment waits the flock When 'tis sun-drove from the hills. Colin, for the promised corn (Ere the harvest hopes are ripe) Anxious, hears the huntsman's horn, Boldly sounding, drown his pipe. Sweet, O sweet, the warbling throng, On the white emblossomed spray ! Nature's universal song Echoes to the rising day. J. AV. CUNNINGHAM. MORNING. VI. How beautiful is Morning, though it rise Upon a desert ! What though Spring refuse Her odours to the early gale that sweeps The highland solitude ; yet who can breathe That fresh, keen gale, nor feel the sanguine tide Of life flow buoyantly ! O who can look Upon the Sun, whose beam indulgent shines Impartial, or on moor or cultivated mead, And not feel gladness ? — Hard is that man's lot. Bleak is his journey through this vale of tears, Whose heart is not made lighter, and whose eye Is brightened not by Morning's glorious ray Wide glancing round. The meanest thing on earth Rejoices in the welcome warmth, and owns Its influence reviving. Hark ! the hum Of one who loves the Mom, — the bee who comes With overflow of happiness, to spend The sunny hour ; — and see ! across the waste The butterfly, his gay companion, floats ! A wanderer, haply, from yon Austral fields, Or from the bank of moorland stream that flows In music through the deep and sheltered vales. CARRINGTON. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 179 MORNING. VII. Hark. ! the martlet twittering by The crevice, where her twittering brood Beneath some shadowy wall-flower lie, In the high air of solitude! She alone, sky-loving bird, In that lofty clime is heard ; But loftier far from cliff remote Up springs the eagle, like a thought, And poised in heaven's resplendent zone. Gazes a thousand fathoms down, "While his wild and fitful cry Blends together sea and sky ; And a thousand songs, I trow, From the wakened world below, Are ringing through the Morning glow. Music is there on the shore, Softening sweet the billowy roar; For bold and fair in every weather, The seamews shrill now flock together, Or, wheeling off in lonely play, Carry their pastimes far away, To little isles and rocks of rest, Scattered o'er the ocean's breast, Where these glad creatures build their nest. Now hymns are heard at every fountain, Where the land birds trim their wings, And boldly booming up the mountain, Where the dewy heath-flower springs, Upon the freshening gales of Morn Showers of headlong bees are borne, Till far and wide with harp and horn The balmy desert rings ! WILSON, MORNING. VIII. The eyelids of the Morning are awake; The dews are disappearing from the grass; The Sun is o'er the mountains; and the trees, 180 THE BEAUTIES OF Moveless, are stretching through the blue of heaven, Exuberantly green. All noiseless The shadows of the Twilight fleet away, And draw their misty legion to the west, Seen for awhile, 'mid the salubrious air, Suspended in the silent atmosphere, As in Medina's mosque Mahomet's tomb. — Up from the coppice, on exulting wing, Mounts, mounts the Skylark through the clouds of dawn,- The clouds, whose snow-white canopy is spread Athwart, yet hiding not, at intervals, The azure beauty of the summer sky ; And, at far distance heard, a bodiless note Pours down, as if from cherub strayed from heaven ! — Maternal Nature ! all thy sights and sounds Now breathe repose, and peace, and harmony. The Lake's unruffled bosom, cold and clear, Expands beneath me, like a silver veil Thrown o'er the level of subjacent fields. Revealing, on its conscious countenance, The shadows of the clouds that float above : — Upon its central stone the Heron sits Stirless, — as in the wave its counterpart, — Looking, with quiet eye, towards the shore Of dark green copse-wood, dark, save, here and there, Where spangled with the broom's bright aureate flowers. And now the Wood engirds me, the tall stems Of birch and beech tree hemming me around, Like pillars of some natural temple vast ; And, here and there, some giant pines ascend, Briareus-like, amid the stirless air, High stretching ; like a good man's virtuous thoughts Forsaking earth for heaven. The Cushat stands Amid the topmost boughs, with azure vest, And neck aslant, listening the amorous coo Of her his mate, who, with maternal wing, Wide-spread, sits brooding on opponent tree. Why, from the rank grass underneath my feet, Aside on ruffled pinion dost thou start, Sweet minstrel of the Morn ? Behold her nest, Thatched o'er with cunning skill, and there, her young With sparkling eye, and thin-fledged russet wing; Younglings of air ! probationers of song ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 181 From lurking dangers may ye rest secure, Secure from prowling weazel, or the tread Of steed incautious, wandering 'mid the flowers ! Secure beneath the fostering care of her Who warmed you into life, and gave you birth ; Till, plumed and strong unto the buoyant air, Ye spread your equal wings, and to the Morn, Lifting your freckled bosoms, dew-besprent, Salute with spirit-stirring song, the man Wayfaring lonely. Hark ! the striderous neigh ! There, o'er his dogrose fence, the chesnut foal, Shaking his silver forelock, proudly stands, — To snuff the balmy fragrance of the Morn : — Up comes his ebon compeer, and, anon, Around the field in mimic chase they fly, Startling the echoes of the woodland gloom. — Farewell, ye placid scenes ! amid the land Ye smile, an inland solitude : the voice Of peace-destroying man is seldom heard Amid your landscapes. Beautiful ye raise Your green-embowering groves, and smoothly spread Your waters, glistening in a silver sheet. The Morning is a season of delight — The Morning is the self-possessioned hour — Tis then that feelings, sunk, but unsubdued, Feelings of purer thoughts, and happier days, Awake, and, like the sceptred images Of Banquo's mirror, in succession pass. A WINTER MORNING. The Night unweened had passed away, And dawning ushered in the Day, And lo, the Night in still profound, In fleece of heaven had clothed the ground ; And still her furs, so light and fair, Floated along the morning air. Low stooped the pine amid the wood, And the tall cliffs of Salisbury stood Like marble columns bent and riven, Propping a pale and frowning heaven. 182 THE BEAUTIES OF The lurid vapours, dense and stern, Unpierced save by the crusted cairn, In tenfold shroud the heavens deform ; While far within the moving storm, Travelled the Sun in lonely blue, And noontide wore a twilight hue. The pendent Clouds of deepest grain, Shed their dull twilight o'er the main. Each spire, each tower, and cliff sublime, Were hooded in the wreathy rime ; And all, ere fell the murk of Even, Were lost within the folds of heaven. It seemed as if the welkin's breast Had bowed upon the world to rest ; As heaven and earth to close began, And seal the destiny of man ! MELODIES OF MORNING. But who the Melodies of Morn can tell ? The wild brook babbling down the mountain side ; The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell ; The pipe of early shepherd, dim descried In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean tide ; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark ; Crowned with her pail the tripping milk-maid sings ; The whistling plowman stalks afield ; and, hark ! Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings ; Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs ; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ; Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tour. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 183 EVENING. O, welcome, bat and owlet grey, Thus winging low your airy way ; And welcome moth and drowsy fly, That to mine ear come humming by ; And welcome, shadows long and deep, And stars that from the blue sky peep ; O welcome all ! to me ye say, My woodland love is on her way ; Upon the swift wind floats her hair, Her breath is in the dewy air, Her steps are in the whispered sound That steals along the stilly ground. O, dawn of day, in rosy bower, What art thou to this witching hour ! O, noon of day, in sunshine bright, What art thou to this fall of night ! MISS BAILLIE. II. Come, Evening, once again, season of peace; Return, sweet Evening, and continue long ! Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, With matron step slow moving, while the Night Treads on thy sweeping train ; one hand employed In letting fall the curtain of repose On bird and beast, the other charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day : Not sumptuously adorned, nor needing aid, Like homely-featured Night, of clustering gems ; A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow, Suffices thee ; save that the Moon is thine, No less than hers, not worn indeed on high With ostentatious pageantry, but set With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. COV/PF.R 184 THE BEAUTIES OP EVENING. III. All round was still and calm ; the noon of night Was fast approaching : up the unclouded sky The glorious Moon pursued her path of light, And shed her silvery splendour far and nigh : No sound save of the night-wind's gentlest sigh Could reach the ear ; and that so softly blew, It scarcely stirred, in sweeping lightly by, The acacia's airy foliage ; faintly too It kissed the jasmine's stars which just below me grew. Before me, scattered here and there, some trees Whose massy outline of reposing shade, Ran broken by that faint and fitful breeze, With the clear sky a lovely contrast made : 'Twas Nature in her chastest charms arrayed ! How could I then abruptly leave such scene ? I could not ; for the beauties it displayed To me were dearer than the dazzling shene Of noon's effulgent hour, or Morning's sparkling mien. EVENING. IV. The hours have danced their joyous round Adorned in flowers of May ; Till each in turn, with mercy crowned, Has come and passed away. The constant Sun has run his race Athwart the boundless deep ; And ne'er amid that trackless space Has failed his path to keep. The earth has drunk the morning dew, And fed her flowery train ; The flowers have spread their charms to view, And decked the earth again. Now Evening's lengthened shadows spread To curtain them around , And each reclines her modest head, In gentle slumbers bound. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 185 Beasts, strong to labour, o'er the lea Have drawn the cumbrous plough ; And feed in pastures glad and free, Their toil accomplished now. Laborious man fulfils his task, And seeks repose ; but I — Is mine accomplished ? — let me ask — And conscience shall reply. Birds, beasts, and trees, unmoved by choice, Have each improved the day, Obedient still to Nature's voice : — But whose did I obey ? Were Christ's commands before my sight In all I thought and spoke ? And have I borne His burden light, And worn His easy yoke ? Has pride or wrath disturbed my breast, Or wishes wild and vain? Has sinful sloth my powers possessed And bound them in its chain ? Has not my resolution failed ? Lord, search, for Thou didst see ; And has not base self-love prevailed Instead of love to Thee ? Did I this day, for small or great, My own pursuits forego, To lighten by a feather's weight The mass of human wo ? 'Mid cares and hopes and pleasures mean, With eager fondness sought, Oh, has one glance at things unseen Sublimed my earthly thought ? Has grace, descending from above, This evil heart possessed ? In meekness, patience, truth, and love, To all around expressed ? 186 THE BEAUTIES OF Great is the peace such grace bestows 'Mid storms of earthly strife ; And calm and sweet is their repose Who live this hidden life. If thus my cheerful hours have sped, How blest the day's decline ! 'Tis past !— but though for ever fled, To-Morrovy still is mine. MISS TAYLOR. EVENING. V. There is an hour when leaves are still, And winds sleep on the wave ; When far beneath the closing clouds The Day hath found a grave ; And Stars, that at the note of dawn Begin their circling flight, Return, like sun-tired birds, to seek The sable boughs of Night. The curtains of the mind are closed, And slumber is most sweet, And visions to the heart of men Direct their fairy feet ; The wearied wing hath gained a tree, Pain sighs itself to rest, And Beauty's bridegroom lies upon The pillow of her breast. There is a feeling in that hour Which tumult ne'er hath known, Which Nature seems to dedicate To silent things alone ; The spirit of the lonely wakes As rising from the dead, And finds its shroud adorned with flowers, Its night-lamp newly fed. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 187 The mournful Moon her rainbows hath, And 'mid the blight of all That garlands life some blossoms live, Like lilies on a pall ; Thus while to lone Affliction's couch Some stranger-joy may come ; The bee that hoardeth sweets all day Hath sadness in its hum. Yet some there are whose fire of years Leaves no remembered spark, Whose summer-time itself is bleak, Whose very day-break dark. The stem though naked still may live, The leaves though perished cling, But if at first the root be cleft, It lies a branchless thing. And oh ! to such — long hallowed nights Their patient music send ; The hours like drooping angels walk, More graceful as they bend, And Stars emit a hope-like ray, That melts as it comes nigh, And nothing in that calm hath life, That doth not wish to die. EVENING. VI. O'er the heath the heifer strays Free, the furrowed task is done, Now the village windows blaze, Burnished by the setting sun. Now he hides behind a hill, Sinking from a golden sky Can the pencil's mimic skill Copy the refulgent dye ? m 2 188 THE BEAUTIES OF Trudging as the ploughmen go, (To the smoking hamlet bound ) Giant-like their shadows grow, Lengthened o'er the level ground. Where the rising forest spreads Shelter for the lordly dome, To their high-built airy beds See the rooks returning home ! As the lark, with varied tune, Carols to the Evening loud ; Mark the mild resplendent Moon Breaking through a parted cloud ! Now the hermit owlet peeps From the barn, or twisted brake ; And the blue mist slowly creeps, Curling on the silver lake. As the trout in speckled pride, Playful from its bosom springs, To the banks a ruffled tide Verges in successive rings. Tripping through the silken grass, O'er the path-divided dale ; Mark the rose-complexioned lass With her well-poised milking paif. Linnets, with unnumbered notes, And the Cuckoo bird with two, Tuning sweet their mellow throats, Bid the setting sun adieu ! J. W. CUNNINGHAM.. EVENING IN AUTUMN. I. It was an Eve of Autumn's holiest mood ; The corn fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light, Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand ; MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 189 And all the winds slept soundly ; Nature seemed In silent contemplation, to adore Its Maker : now and then the aged leaf Fell from its fellows, rustling to the ground ; And, as it fell, bade man think on his end. On vale and lake, on wood and mountain high, With pensive wing outspread, sat heavenly Thought, Conversing with itself. EVENING IN AUTUMN. II. Tranquil and clear the Autumnal day declined : The barks at anchor cast their lengthened shades On the grey bastioned walls ; airs from the deep Wandered, and touched the cordage as they passed, Then hovered with expiring breath, and stirred Scarce the quiescent pennant ; the bright sea Lay silent in its glorious amplitude, Without ; far up in the pale atmosphere, A white cloud, here and there, hung over-head, And some red freckles streaked the horizon's edge, Far as the sight could reach : beneath the rocks, That reared their dark brows beetling o'er the bay, The gulls and guillemots, with short, quaint cry, Just broke the sleeping stillness of the air, Or skimming, almost touched the level main, With wings far seen, and more intensely white, Opposed to the blue space ! whilst Panope Rolled in the offing. Humber's ocean-stream, Inland, went sounding on, by rocks, and sands, And castle, yet so sounding as it seemed A voice amidst the hushed and listening world That spoke of peace ; whilst from the bastion's point One piping red-breast might almost be heard. Such quiet all things hushed, so peaceable The hour : the very swallows, ere they left The coast to pass a long and weary way O'er ocean's solitude, seemed to renew Once more their summer feelings, as a light So sweet would last for ever, whilst they nocked In the brief sunshine of the turret-top. BOWLES. 190 THE BEAUTIES OF A STILL WINTER EVENING. The wintry sun had sunk to rest : A glow yet lingered in the west : And high amidst that western glow Brightened the crescent moon to throw, Through the glimmering of the day, A silver solitary ray. The air in dim transparence cold, A pause of stillness seemed to hold : And, as the horizon's frosty blue In crimson radiance flushed anew, The ivy, that its meshes flung O'er shafts and clustering panes, and clung To the chapel's northern wall, Fell, deepening like a funeral pall. POLWHELE. EVENING IN JUDEA. Psalm xcii. 2. The sun is set — and yet his light Is lingering in the crimson sky, Like memory beautiful and bright, Of holy men that die. O'er Tabor's hill, o'er Baca's dale, The shades of Evening softly creep — Softly as mother draws the veil To wrap her infant's sleep. The dews fall gently on the flower, Their freshening influence to impart — As Pity's tears of soothing power Revive the drooping heart. The twilight star from Hermon's peak Comes mildly o'er the glistening earth ; And weary hirelings joy to seek Their dear domestic hearth. Who sends the sun to Ocean's bed ? Who brings the nightshade from the west ? Who bids the balmy dews be shed ? Who gives the weary rest ? MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 191 Even He, who at the season due, Sends forth the sun's returning light, Whose mercies every morn are new, Whose faithfulness each night. AN EVENING IN BENGAL." Oua task is done ! on Gunga's breast The sun is sinking down to rest ; And, moored beneath the tamarind bough, Our bark has found its harbour now. With furled sail, and painted side, Behold the tiny frigate ride. Upon her deck, 'mid charcoal gleams, The Moslems' savoury supper steams, While all apart, beneath the wood, The Hindoo cooks his simpler food. Come walk with me the jungle through ; If yonder hunter told us true, Far off, in desert dark and rude, The tiger holds his solitude ; Nor (taught by recent harm to shun The thunders of the English gun,) A dreadful guest but rarely seen, Returns to scare the village green. Come boldly on ! no venomed snake Can shelter in so cool a brake. Child of the sun ! he loves to lie 'Mid Nature's embers, parched and dry, Where o'er some tower in ruin laid, The peepul spreads its haunted shade ; Or round a tomb, his scales to wreathe, Fit warder in the gate of death ! Come on ! yet pause ! behold us now Beneath the bamboo's arched bough, Where, gemming oft that sacred gloom, Glows the geranium's scarlet bloom.* And winds our path through many a bower Of fragrant tree and giant flower ; The ceiba's crimson pomp displayed * A shrub whose deep scarlet flowers very much resemble the geranium, and thence called the Indian geranium, 192 THE BEAUTIES OF O'er the broad plantain's humbler shade, And dusk anana's prickly blade ; While o'er the brake, so wild and fair, The betel waves his crest in air. With pendent train and rushing wings, Aloft the gorgeous peacock springs ; And he, the bird of hundred dyes, Whose plumes the dames of Ava prize. So rich a shade, so green a sod, Our English fairies never trod ; Yet who in Indian bower has stood, But thought on England's " good green wood ?' And blessed, beneath the palmy shade, Her hazel and her hawthorn glade, And breathed a prayer, (how oft in vain !) To gaze upon her oaks again ? A truce to thought! the jackall's ciy Resounds like sylvan revelry ; And through the trees, yon failing ray Will scantly serve to guide our way. Yet mark ! as fade the upper skies, Each thicket opes ten thousand eyes. Before, beside us, and above, The fire-fly lights his lamp of love, Retreating, chasing, sinking, soaring, The darkness of the copse exploring ; While to this cooler air confest, The broad Dhatura bares her breast, Of fragrant scent, and virgin white, A pearl around the locks of night ! Still' as we pass in softened hum, Along the breezy alleys come The village song, the horn, the drum. Still as we pass, from bush and briar, The shrill cigala strikes his lyre ; And, what is she whose liquid strain Thrills through yon copse of sugar-cane ? I know that soul-entrancing swell ! It is — it must be — Philomel ■' Enough, enough, the rustling trees Announce a shower upon the breeze, — The flashes of the summer sky Assume a deeper, ruddier dye ; MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 193 Yon lamp that trembles on the stream, From forth our cabin sheds its beam ; And we must early sleep, to find Betimes the morning's healthy wind. But oh '. with thankful hearts confess Even here there may be happiness ; And He, the bounteous Sire has given His peace on earth — His hope of Heaven ! MORNING AND EVENING. How beautiful is Morn ! When day-light, newly born, From the bright portals of the east is breaking, While songs of joy resound, From countless warblers round, To light and life from silent slumber waking. The parting clouds unfold Their edges tinged with gold ; Bright is the summit of the lofty mountain; The glistening tops of trees, Touched by the rustling breeze, Are bright and tuneful as the Muses' fountain. As upward mounts the Sun, The valleys , one by one, Ope their recesses to the living splendour; The mighty Ocean's breast Heaves upward to be blest, And bids its waves reflected light surrender. Each humble flower lifts up Its dewy bell or cup, Smiling through tears that know no tinge of sadness ; The insect tribes comes out, And, fluttering all about, Fill the fresh air with gentle sounds of gladness. Oh ! who can witness this, Nor feel the throb of bliss 194 THE BEAUTIES OF With which creation's every pulse seems beating ! Or who, 'mid such a store Of rapture flowing o'er, The tribute of the heart forbear repeating 1 Yet have I known an hour Of more subduing power Than this of beauty glowing — music gushing : An hour whose quiet calm Diffused a holier balm, Whose watch-word 's " peace, be still !" the inmost heart was hushing. It is the close of day, When Evening's hues array The western sky in all their radiant lustre ; When round the setting sun, His goal of glory won, Resplendent clouds in silent beauty muster. 'Tis when day's parting light, Dazzling no more the sight, Its chastening glory to the eye is granting, That " thoughts too deep for tears," Unearthly hopes and fears, And voiceless feelings in the heart are panting. While thus the western sky Delights the gazing eye, With thrilling beauty, touching, and endearing ; — What still of earth is fair Borrows its beauty there, Though every borrowed charm is disappearing. Ere yet those charms grow dim, Creation's vesper hymn, Grateful and lovely, is from earth ascending ; Till, with that song of praise, The hearts of those who gaze With solemn feelings of delight are blending. Then from those portals bright A farewell gleam of light MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 195 Breaks with unearthly glory on the vision ; And through the folding doors The eye of thought explores Seraphic forms and phantasies Elysian. These pass like thought away ! Yet may their hallowed sway Rest on the heart, — as dew-drops round adorning The drooping silent flowers. Feed them through night's dark hours, And keep them fresh and living till the morning. Thus should the sunset hour, With soul-absorbing power, Nurse by its glories the immortal spirit ; And plume its wings for flight To realms of cloudless light, Regions its God hath formed it to inherit. Fair, bright, and sweet is Morn ! . When day-light, newly born, In all its beauty is to sense appealing ; Yet Eve to me is fraught With more unearthly thought, And purer touches of immortal feeling ! TWILIGHT. It is the hour when from the boughs, The nightingale's high note is heard : It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whispered word ; And gentle winds, and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear. Each flower the dews have lightly wet, And in the sky the stars are met, And on the wave is deeper blue, And on the leaf a browner hue, And in the heaven that clear obscure, So softly dark, and darkly pure, I&6 THE BEAUTIES OF Which follows the decline of day, As Twilight melts beneath the moon away. TWILIGHT. II. I love thee, Twilight ! as thy shadows roll The calm of evening steals upon my soul, Sublimely tender, solemnly serene, Still as the hour, enchanting as the scene. I love thee, Twilight ! for thy gleams impart Their dear, their dying influence to my heart, When o'er the harp of thought, thy passing wind Awakens all the music of the mind, And Joy and Sorrow, as the spirit burns, And Hope and Memory sweep the chords by turns. Twilight ! I love thee ; let thy glooms increase, Till every feeling, eveiy pulse is peace ; Slow from the sky the light of day declines, Clearer within the dawn of glory shines, Revealing, in the hour of Nature's rest, A world of wonders in the poet's breast : Deeper, O Twilight ! then thy shadows roll • An awful vision opens on my soul. MONTGOMERY. A TWILIGHT SCENE IN ITALY. The Moon is up, and yet it is not night — Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Friuli's mountains ; heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seems to be Melted to one vast Iris of the West, Where the day joins the past eternity, While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest ! A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still Yon sunny sea heaves brightly and remains Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rhretian hill, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 197 As Day and Night contending were, until Nature proclaimed her order; — gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows, Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar, Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star, Their magical variety diffuse : And now they change ; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour, as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is grey. THE SONG OF NIGHT. I come to thee, O Earth .' With all my gifts : — for every flower sweet dew, In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew The glory of its birth. Not one which glimmering lies Far amidst folding hills or forest leaves, But, through its veins of beauty, so receives A spirit of fresh dyes. I come with every star : Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track Gave but the moss, the reed, the lily back, Mirrors of Worlds afar. I come with peace ; I shed Sleep through thy wood-walks o'er the honey-bee, The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee, The hyacinth's meek head. On my own heart I lay The weary babe, and, sealing with a breath Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath The shadowing lids to play. 198 THE BEAUTIES OF I come with mightier things ! W ho calls me silent ? I have many tones — The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans Borne on my sweeping wings. I waft them not alone From the deep organ of the forest shades, Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades, Till the bright day is done. But in the human breast A thousand still small voices I awake, Strong in their sweetness from the soul to shake The mantle of its rest. I bring them from the past : From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, From crushed affections, which, though long o'erborne, Make their tone heard at last. I bring them from the tomb : O'er the sad couch of late repentant love, They pass — though low as murmurs of a dove Like trumpets through the gloom. I come with all my train : Who calls me lonely ? — Hosts around me tread, The intensely Bright, the Beautiful, the Dread — Phantoms of heart and brain ! Looks from departed eyes, These are my lightnings ! — filled with anguish vain Or tenderness too piercing to sustain, They smite with agonies. I, that with soft control, Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, I am the Avenging One ! — the Armed, the Strong, The Searcher of the soul ! I, that shower dewy light Through slumbering leaves, bring storms ! — the tempest-birth Of Memory, Thought, Remorse : — be holy, Earth ! — I am the solemn Night ! MRS. HEMANS. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 199 NIGHT. I. Hail, Night ! pavilioned 'neath the rayless cope ; I love thy solemn state profoundly dark ; Thy sable pall ; thy lurid throne of clouds, Viewless, save by the lightning's flash ; thy crown, That boasts no starry gem ; thy various voice, That to the heart, with eloquence divine, Now in soft whispers, now in thunder speaks. Nor undelightful is thy reign to him Who wakeful gilds, with reveries bright, thy gloom, Or listens to the music of the storm, And meditates on Him who sways its course GRAIIAME. II. Tis Night ! 'tis Night ! the hour of hours, When Love lies down with folded wings, By Psyche in her starless bowers, And down his fatal arrows flings ; — Those bowers whence not a sound is heard, Save only from the bridal bird, Who, 'midst that utter darkness sings Sweet music, like the running springs ; This her burthen, soft and clear, " Love is here ! Love is here ! " 'Tis Night ! the Moon is on the stream, Bright spells are on the soothed sea, And Hope, the child, is gone to dream Of pleasures — which may never be ! And now is haggard Care asleep ; And now doth the widow Sorrow smile ; And slaves are hushed in slumber deep, Forgetting grief and toil awhile ! What sight can fiery Morning show To shame the Stars or pale Moonlight ? What bounty can the Day bestow Like that which falls with gentle Night? — Sweet Lady, sing I not aright ? 200 THE BEAUTIES OF Oh ! turn and tell me, — for the day Is faint and falling fast away ; And now comes back the hour of hours, When Love his lovelier mistress seeks, Sighing like winds 'mongst evening flowers, Until the maiden Silence speaks ! Fair girl, methinks — nay hither turn Those eyes, which 'midst their blushes burn ; — Methinks, at such a time one's heart Can better bear both sweet and smart : Love's look — 'the first — which never dieth : Or death — which comes when beauty flieth — And all, — save truth is lost at last ! BARRY CORNWALL. NIGHT. III. Night is the time to rest; How sweet when labours close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose : Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed ! Night is the time for dreams ; The gay romance of life, When truth that is and truth that seems Blend in fantastic strife ; Ah ! Visions less beguiling far Than waking dreams by daylight are ! Night is the time for toil ; To plough the classic field, Intent to find the buried spoil Its wealthy furrows yield ; Till all is ours that sages taught, That poets sang, or heroes wrought. Night is the time to weep ; To wet with unseen tears Those graves of memory, where sleep The joys of other years; Hopes that were angels in their birth, But perished young, like things on earth ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 201 Night is the time to watch ; On Ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, or catch The full Moon's earliest glance, That brings unto the home-sick mind All we have loved and left behind. Night is the time for care ; Brooding on hours mis-spent, To see the spectre of Despair Come to our lonely tent ; Like Brutus 'midst his slumbering host, Startled by Caesar's stalwart ghost. Night is the time to muse; Then from the eye the soul Takes flight, and with expanding views Beyond the starry Pole, Descries athwart the abyss of night The dawn of uncreated light. Night is the time to pray : Our Saviour oft withdrew To desert mountains far away ; So will his followers do ; Steal from the throng to haunts untrod And hold communion there with God. Night is the time for death ; When all around is peace, Calmly to yield ihe weary breath, From sin and suffering cease ; Think of Heaven's bliss and give the sign To parting friends. — Such death be mine ! MONTGOMERY. NIGHT. IV. The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest ; The courteous host, and all-approving guest, Again to that accustomed couch must creep Where Joy subsides, and Sorrow sighs to sleep ; 202 THE BEAUTIES OF And man, o'erlaboured with his being's strife, Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life : There lie Love's feverish hope, and Cunning's guile, Hate's working brain, and lulled Ambition's wile ; O'er each vain eye Oblivion's pinions wave, And quenched existence crouches in a grave. What better name may slumber's bed become ? Night's sepulchre, the universal home, Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine, Alike in naked helplessness recline : Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath, Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased, That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. NIGHT. V. Soul-soothing season ! period of repose, Or introverted thought, which day debars ; Can language paint, can poetry disclose, The magic of thy silence, dews, and Stars ? When the loud mirth of day no longer mars Our better feelings with its empty sound ; When we forget awhile the cruel jars Our souls in worldly intercourse have found, How welcome are thy shades, with peaceful quiet crowned ! They gather round us, from their silent wings Scattering kind blessings ; to the wretched, dear. Prosperity to gaudy day-light clings, But thou art Sorrow's chosen, meek compeer : Thou hidest her from the cold and heartless sneer Of wealth's sleek minions, pride's contemptuous crew ; Hushest her sigh, conceal'st her bitter tear, And, in thy healing influence, dost renew Her fortitude to bear, — her courage to subdue. And if thou didst not this, there is in thee Yet ample scope for Poetry's fair themes : For thou, O Night ! art guardian of the key That opes the portal of the land of dreams. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 203 Touched by thy spell our roving fancy teems With things to which Day has no parallel : Beings too beauteous far to brave its beams, Much too etherial upon earth to dwell ; And glories, dreams alone render accessible. Waving, however, these thy wilder nights, As joys ideal, unsubstantial, vain; And passing o'er thy soothing calm delights Administered to Sorrow's pallid train ; — Enough is left to bid us bless thy reign ; For thy revolving periods health renew Unto our wearied nature ; flush again Beauty's wan cheek, curtain her eye of blue, Or with fresh splendours fill its orb of darker hue. One topic more, still Night ! will yet intrude Upon my serious thought while hymning thee : — Thou art the emblem, type, similitude, Of silence yet more awful ; although we Are loath the approach of death's dark night to see ! Father of Mercies ! Thou whose goodness gave Thy Son Beloved, man's sacrifice to be, Grant that in life's last hour my soul may crave, Nor crave in vain, His love to light me through the grave. A WINTER NIGHT. A winter night ! the stormy wind is high, Rocking the leafless branches to and fro ; The sailor's wife shrinks as she hears it blow, And mournfully surveys the starless sky : The hardy shepherd turns out fearlessly To tend his fleecy charge in drifted snow ; And the poor homeless, houseless child of wo Sinks down, perchance, in dumb despair to die ! Happy the fire-side student ; happier still The social circle round the blazing hearth, — If, while these estimate aright the worth Of every blessing which their cup may fill, Their grateful hearts with sympathy can thrill For every form of wretchedness on earth. BARTON. N 2 204 THE BEAUTIES OF THE AURORA BOREALIS, AND NIGHT. 'Mid the dark steeps repose the shadowy streams, As touched with dawning Moon-light's hoary gleams, Long streaks of fairy light the wave illume, With bordering lines of intervening gloom, Soft o'er the surface creep the lustres pale, Tracking, with silvering path, the changeful gale. — 'Tis restless magic all ; at once the bright Breaks on the shade, the shade upon the light. Fair Spirits are abroad; in sportive chase Brushing with lucid wands the water's face ; "While music, stealing round the glimmering deeps, Charms the tall circle of the enchanted steeps. — As through the astonished woods the notes ascend, The mountain streams their rising song suspend ; Below Eve's listening star the sheep-walk stills Its drowsy tinklings on the attentive hills; The milkmaid stops her ballad, and her pail Stays its low murmur in the unbreathing vale ; No night-duck clamours for his wildered mate, Awed, while below the Genii hold their state. — The pomp is fled, and mute the wondrous strains, No wreck of all the pageant scene remains: So vanish those fair shadows, human joys, But death alone their vain regret destroys. Unheeded Night has overcome the vales, On the dark earth the baffled vision fails ; If peep between the clouds a Star on high, There turns for glad repose the weary eye ; The latest lingerer of the forest train, The long black fir, forsakes the faded plain ; Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no more, Lost in the deepened darkness, glimmers hoar ; High towering from the sullen, dark-brown mere, Like a black wall, the mountain steeps appear, Thence red, from different heights, with restless gleam, Small cottage lights across the water stream, Nought else of man or life remains behind To call from other worlds the wildered mind, Till pours the wakeful bird her solemn strains, Heard by the night-calm of the watery plains. — No purple prospects now the mind employ. Glowing in golden sunset tints- of joy; MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 205 But o'er the soothed accordant heart we feel A sympathetic twilight slowly steal, And ever as we fondly muse, we find The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind. WORDSWORTH. THE RISING MOON. I. Soon will the Moon and all her Stars be here ! A smiling light proclaims her o'er yon hill '. Slowly she raises up her radiant sphere, And stillness, at her smile, becomes more still. My heart forgets all thought of human ill, And man seems happy as his place of birth : All things that yield him joy my spirit fill With kindred joy ! and even his humblest mirth Seems at this peaceful hour to beautify the earth. WILSON. THE RISING MOON. II. How like a Queen comes forth the lovely Moon From the slow-opening curtains of the clouds, Walking in beauty to her midnight throne ! The Stars are veiled in light ; the ocean-floods, And the ten thousand streams — the boundless woods — The trackless wilderness — the mountain's brow, Where Winter on eternal pinions broods — All height, depth, wildness, grandeur, gloom, below, Touched by thy smile, lone Moon ! in one wild splendour glow. A MOON-LIGHT NIGHT. I. How beautiful is Night ! A dewy freshness fills the silent air ; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain, Breaks the serene of heaven : 206 THE BEAUTIES OF In full-orbed glory yonder Moon divine Rolls through the dark-blue depths. Beneath her steady ray The desert circle spreads, Like the round Ocean, girdled with the sky. How beautiful is Night ! SOUTHEY. A MOON-LIGHT NIGHT. II. How beautiful on yonder casement-panes The mild Moon gazes, — mark ! With what a lonely and majestic step She treads the heavenly hills ! And oh ! how soft, how silently she pours Her chastened radiance on the scene below ; And hill, and dale, and tower Drink the pure flood of light! Roll on — roll thus, Queen of the midnight hour, For ever beautiful ! A MOON-LIGHT NIGHT. III. 'Tis midnight; on the mountains brown, The cold round Moon shines deeply down ; Blue roll the waters, blue the sky Spreads like an Ocean hung on high, Bespangled with those isles of light, So wildly, spiritually bright ; Who ever gazed upon them shining, And turned to earth without repining, Nor wished for wings to flee away, And mix with their eternal ray ? BYRON. A MOON-LIGHT NIGHT. IV. How beautiful this Night ! The balmiest sigh Which vernal zephyrs breathe in Evening's ear, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 207 Were discord to the speaking quietude That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault, Studded with Stars unutterablybright, Through which the Moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, Seems like a canopy which Love had spread To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills, Robed in a garment of untrodden snow; Yon darksome walls, whence icicles depend So stainless, that their white and glittering spears Tinge not the Moon's pure beam ; yon castled steep, Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower So idly, that wrapt Fancy deemeth it A metaphor of Peace, — all form a scene Where musing Solitude might love to lift Her soul above this sphere of earthliness ; Where Silence undisturbed might watch alone, So cold, so bright, so still. A MOON-LIGHT NIGHT. V. Low on the utmost boundary of the sight, The rising vapours catch the silver light : Thence Fancy measures, as they parting fly, Which first will throw its shadow on the eye, Passing the source of light ; and thence away, Succeeded quick by brighter still than they. For yet above these wafted clouds are seen (In a remoter sky, still more serene,) Others, detached in ranges through the air, Spotless as snow, and countless as they 're fair, Scattered immensely wide from east to west, The beauteous semblance of a flock at rest. These, to the raptured mind, aloud proclaim Their Mighty Shepherd's everlasting name. BLOOMFIELD. A MOON-LIGHT NIGHT. VI. How calmly gliding through the dark blue sky The midnight Moon ascends ! Her placid beams, 208 THE BEAUTIES OF Through thinly scattered leaves and boughs grotesque, Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope : Here o'er the chesnut's fretted foliage grey And massy, motionless they spread ; here shine Upon the crags deepening with blacker night Their chasms ; and there the glittering argentry Hippies and glances on the confluent streams. A lovelier, purer light than that of day Rests on the hills ; and oh ! how awfully Into that deep and tranquil firmament The summits of Auseva rise serene l The watchman on the battlements partakes The stillness of the solemn hour ; he feels The silence of the earth ; the endless sound Of flowing water soothes him, and the Stars, Which, in that brightest Moon-light well-nigh quenched, Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen, Draw on, with elevating influence, Toward eternity the attempered mind. A MOON-LIGHT NIGHT VII. The winds of heaven are hushed, and mild, Even as the breath of slumbering child '■ The western breeze's balmy sigh Breaks not the mist-wreaths as they lie, Veiling the tall cliff's rugged brow, Nor dimples the green wave below. Such stillness round — such silence deep — That Nature seems herself to sleep ! The full Moon, mounted in the sky, Looks from her cloudless place on high, And trembling Stars, like fairy gleams, Twinkle their many-coloured beams, Spangling the world of waters o'er With mimic gems from shore to shore, Till Ocean, burning on the view, Glows like another heaven of blue, And its broad bosom, as a mirror bright, Reflects their lucid path, and all the fields of light. MISS CAMPBELL. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 209 A MOON-LIGHT NIGHT AT SKA. I. It is the midnight hour : — the beauteous Sea Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses, While many a sparkling Star, in quiet giee, Far down within the watery sky reposes. As if the Ocean's heart were stirred With inward life, a sound is heard, Like that of dreamer murmuring in his sleep ; ' Tis partly the billow, and partly the air, That lies like a garment floating fair Above the happy Deep. The Sea, I ween, cannot be fanned By evening freshness from the land, For the land is far away ; But God hath willed that the sky-born breeze In the centre of the loneliest seas, Should ever sport and play. The mighty Moon she sits above, Encircled with a zone of love, A zone of dim and tender light, That makes her wakeful eye more bright : She seems to shine with a sunny ray, And the night looks like a mellowed day ! The gracious Mistress of the Main Hath now an undisturbed reign ! And from her silent throne looks down, As upon children of her own, On the waves that lend their gentle breast In gladness for her couch of rest ! A MOON-IJGHT NIGHT AT SEA. II. The Moon is watching in the sky; the Stars Are swiftly wheeling on their golden cars ; Ocean, outstretched with infinite expanse, Serenely slumbers in a glorious trance ; The tide, o'er which no troubling spirits breathe, Reflects a cloudless firmament beneath ; 810 THE BEAUTIES OF Where, poised as in the centre of a sphere, A ship above, and ship below appear ; A double image pictured on the deep, The vessel o'er its shadow seems to sleep ; Yet, like the host of Heaven, that never rest, With evanescent motion to the west, The pageant glides through loveliness and night, And leaves behind a rippling wake of light. MONTGOMERY. A MOONLIGHT SCENE IN ITALY. The Stars are forth, the Moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! I linger yet with Nature, for the Night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man ; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learned the language of another world. I do remember me, that in my youth, When I was wandering, — upon such a Night I stood within the Coliseum's walk, 'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome; The trees which grew along the broken arches Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the Stars Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber ; and More near from out the Caesar's palace came The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, Of distant sentinels the fitful song Began and died upon the gentle wind. Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood Within a bowshot — where the Caesars dwelt, And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst A grove which springs through levelled battlements, And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; — But the gladiators' bloody circus stands, A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 2H And thou didst shine, thou rolling Moon, upon All this, and cast a wide and tender light, Which softened down the hoar austerity Of rugged desolation, and filled up, As 'twere, anew, the gap of centuries ; Leaving that beautiful which still was so, And making that which was not, till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old ! — The dead, but sceptered sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns. — 'Twas such a Night ! 'Tis strange that I recall it at this time ; But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight Even at the moment when they should array Themselves in pensive order. BYRON. A NIGHT THOUGHT. I. Reflected on the lake, I love To see the Stars of evening glow, So tranquil in the heavens above, So restless in the waves below. Thus heavenly Hope is all serene, But earthly Hope how bright soe'er, Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene, As false and fleeting as 'tis fair. HEBER. A NIGHT THOUGHT. II. How oft a cloud, with envious veil, Obscures yon bashful light, Which seems so modestly to steal Along the waste of Night ! 'Tis thus the world's obtrusive wrongs Obscure with malice keen Some timid heart, which only longs To live and die unseen. 21-2 THE BEAUTIES OF THE STARS. I. Ye Stars ! which are the poetry of Heaven ! If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great, Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a Star. THE STARS. II. Ye brightly beaming Stars ! Have ye no music as ye roll along ? Or is it that to us, earth's discord mars Your heavenly song ? The music of the spheres ! Was it a fiction of the olden time ? Or are there not who hear with wakeful ears That strain sublime ? Let thought still hear you raise The joyful anthem which ye sang of yore ; And as the sons of God then joined your praise, Let man adore ! THE STARS. III. Oh ! 'tis lovely to watch ye at twilight rise, When the last gleam fades in the distant skies, When the silver chime of the minster-bell, And the warbling fount in the woodland-dell, And the viewless sounds in the upper air, Proclaim the hour of prayer ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 213 Then ye shine in beauty above the sea, Bright wanderers over the blue sky free ! Catching the tone of each sighing breeze, And the whispering sound of the forest-trees, Or the far-off voice, through the quiet dim, Of some hamlet's hymn ! And the midnight too, all still and lone ! Ye guard in beauty, from many a throne ! In your silver silence throughout the hour, Watching the rest of each folded flower, Gladdening with visions each infant's sleep, Through the night-hour deep ! Yes, ye look over Nature's hushed repose, By the forest still where the streamlet flows, By the breezeless hush of many a plain, And the pearly flow of the silver main, Or sweetly far o'er some chapel-shrine Of the olden time ! Thus in shadeless glory ye onwards roll, Bright realms of beauty, from pole to pole ! 'Midst the vaulted space where your bright paths lie, In the hidden depths of the midnight sky, To some far-off land, — to some distant home, 'Neath the Ocean's foam ! But, hark ! the far voice of the waking Sea, And the dim dew rising o'er lawn and lea, And the first faint tinge of the early day, Shining afar o'er the ocean-spray ! Oh, ye that have been as a power and a spell, Through the dim midnight ! Farewell, THE STARS. IV. The Stars ! the Stars ! go forth by night, Lift up thine eyes on high, And view the countless orbs of light Which gem the vaulted sky : 214 THE BEAUTIES OP Go forth in silence and alone, This glorious sight to scan ; And bid thy humbled spirit own The littleness of man. The Stars ! the Stars ! thou canst not dream For thee alone they shine : That thus the heavens with splendour gleam, To glad those eyes of thine ; Each orb that decks yon vaulted dome, For aught thy pride can tell, May be the brighter, happier home Where deathless spirits dwell. The Stars ! the Stars ! Oh well may pride Confess the truths they preach : Yet to Devotion, eagle-eyed, Exalted thoughts they teach ; They tell not only of the might Of Him enthroned above, But trace, in characters of light, His mercy and His love. The Stars ! the Stars ! recall that one Which shone o'er Bethlehem's plains, When God sent down his glorious Son, To break our galling chains : To shed His blood ; upon the tree Our chastisement to bear ; Oh ! think of Him who died for thee, With gratitude and prayer. The Stars ! the Stars ! the silent Stars Unto the worldling's ear ; But he whose sense no passion mars, Their voice divine can hear ; To him they sing those heavenly songs Which seraph harps employ, And he in spirit joins the throngs Who with them " shout for joy ! " MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 215 SONG OF THE STARS. When the radiant morn of creation broke, And the world in the smile of God awoke, And the empty realms of darkness and death Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath, And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame, From the void abyss by myriads came, In the joy of youth as they darted away, Through the widening wastes of space to play, Their silver voices in chorus rang, And this was the song the bright ones sang : — " Away, away, through the wide, wide sky, The fair blue fields that before us lie ; Each Sun with the worlds that round us roll, Each planet poised on her turning pole, With her isles of green, and her clouds of white, And her waters that lie like fluid light. " For the Source of glory uncovers His face, And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space ; And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides In our ruddy air, and our blooming sides ; Lo, yonder the living splendours play ! Away, on our joyous path, away ! " Look, look through our glittering ranks afar, In the infinite azure, Star after Star, How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass ! How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass ! And the path of the gentle winds is seen, Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean. " And see where the brighter day-beams pour, How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower ; And the Morn and the Eve, with their pomp of hues,, Shift o'er the bright planets and shed their dews, And 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground, With her shadowy cone, the Night goes round. " Away ! away ! — In our blossoming towers, In the soft air wrapping these spheres of ours, In the seas and fountains that shine with morn, See, love is brooding, and life is born, 2W THE BEAUTIES OF And breathing myriads are breaking from night, To rejoice, like us, in motion and light." Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres ! To weave the dance that measures the years, Glide on in the glory and gladness sent To the farthest wall of the firmament, The boundless visible smile of Him, To the veil of whose brow our lamps are dim. UNITED STATES LITERARY GAZETTE. THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. When marshalled on the nightly plain, The glittering host bestud the sky; One Star alone, of all the train, Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. Hark ! hark! to God the chorus breaks, From every host, from every gem ; But one alone the Saviour speaks, It is the Star of Bethlehem. Once on the raging seas I rode, The storm was loud — the night was dark; The ocean yawned — and rudely blowed The wind that tossed my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze ; Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem ; When suddenly a Star arose, It was the Star of Bethlehem. It was my guide, my light, my all — It bade my dark forebodings cease ; And through the storm, and danger's thrall, It led me to the port of peace. Now safely moored — my perils o'er, I'll sing, first in night's diadem, For ever and for evermore, The Star '.—The Star of Bethlehem ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 217 THE VOICE OF SPRING. I come, I come ! ye have called me long, I come o'er the mountains with light and song ! Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass. I have breathed on the South, and the chesnut-flowers By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers, And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains. — But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, The fisher is out on the sunny sea, And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free, And the pine has a fringe of softer green, And the moss looks bright where my step has been. I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh, And called out each voice of the deep blue sky, From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, When the dark fir-boughs into verdure breaks. From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain ■ They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountain-brows, They are flinging spray on the forest boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves. Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come ! Where the violets lie may be now your home. Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye, And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly, With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay ! 218 THE BEAUTIES OF Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, The waters are sparkling in wood and glen, Away from the chamber and dusky hearth, The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth, Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, And youth is abroad in my green domains. But ye ! — ye are changed since ye met me last ; A shade of earth has been round you cast ! There is that come over your brow and eye Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die ! Ye smile ! — but your smile hath a dimness yet — Oh ! what have ye looked on since last we met ? Ye are changed, ye are changed ! — and I see not here All whom I saw in the vanished year ! There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright, Which tossed in the breeze with a play of light ; There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay, No faint remembrance of dull decay. There were steps, that flew o'er the cowslip's head, As if for a banquet all earth were spread ; There were voices that rung through the sapphire sky, And had not a sound of mortality ! — Are they gone ? — is their mirth from the green hills passed ?- Ye have looked on Death since ye met me last ! I know whence the shadow comes o'er ye now, Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow ! Ye have given the lovely to the earth's embrace, She hath taken the fairest of Beauty's race • With their laughing eyes and their festal crown, They are gone from amongst you in silence down. They are gone from amongst you, the bright and fair, Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair ! — But I know of a world where there falls no blight, I shall find them there, with their eyes of light ! Where Death 'midst the blooms of the morn may dwell, — I tarry no longer, — farewell, farewell ! The Summer is hastening, on soft winds borne, Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY 219 For me, I depart to a brighter shore ; — Ye are marked by care ; — ye are mine no more. I go where the loved who have left you dwell, And the flowers are not Death's ; — fare ye well, farewell ! MRS. IIEMANS. SPRING. I. The glad birds are singing, The gay flowerets springing O'er meadow and mountain, and down in the vale ; The green leaves are bursting ; My spirit is thirsting To bask in the sunbeams, and breathe the fresh gale. Sweet season ! appealing To fancy and feeling ; Be thy advent the emblem of all I would crave, Of light more than vernal, That Day-Spring eternal Which shall dawn on the dark wintry night of the grave ! SPRING. II. It is not that sweet herbs and flowers alone Start up, like spirits that have lain asleep In their great mother's iced bosom deep For months ; or that the birds, more joyous grown, Catch once again their silver summer tone, And they who late from bough to bough did creep, Now trim their plumes upon some sunny steep, And seem to sing of Winter overthrown : No — w ith an equal march the immortal mind, As though it never could be left behind, Keeps pace with every movement of the year, And (for high truths are born in happiness) As the warm heart expands, the eye grows clear, And sees beyond the slave's or bigot's guess. BARRY CORNWALL. o 2 220 THE BEAUTIES OF SPRING. III. The bleak winds of Winter are past The frost and the snow are both gone, And the trees are beginning at last To put their green leanness on. The snow-drop, like ivory white , The crocus, as yellow as gold, The hepatica, hardy and bright, Have ventured their bloom to unfold. And, sweeter than these, in the lane, On its warm, sheltered bank may be found, The violets in blossom again, Shedding Spring's richest odours around. The primrose and cowslip are out, And the fields are with daisies all gay; While the butterflies, flitting about, Seem glad in the sunshine to play. Not more glad than the bee is to gather New honey to store in his cell ; He too is abroad this fine weather, To rifle cup, blossom, and bell. The goldfinch, and blackbird, and thrush, Are brimful of music and glee ; They have each got a nest in some bush, And the rook has built his on a tree. The lark's home is hid in the corn, But he springs from his low nest — on high, And warbles his welcome to morn, Till he seems like a speck on the sky. Oh ! who would be sleeping in bed When the skies with such melody ring, And the bright earth beneath him is fed With the beauty and fragrance of Spring ? MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 221 SPRING. IV. The great Sun, Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile, Came forth to do thee homage ; a sweet hymn Was by the low winds chaunted in the sky ; And when thy feet descended on the earth, Scarce could they move amid the clustering flowers By Nature strewn o'er valley, hill, and field, To hail her blessed deliverer ! — Ye fair trees, How are ye changed, and changing while I gaze ! It seems as if some gleam of verdant light Fell on you from a rainbow ; but it lives Amid your tendrils, brightening every hour Into a deeper radiance. Ye sweet birds, Were you asleep through all the wintry hours, Beneath the waters, or in mossy caves ? — Yet are ye not Sporting in tree and air, more beautiful Than the young lambs, that, from the valley-side, Send a soft bleating like an infant's voice, Half happy, half afraid ! O blessed things ! At sight of this your perfect innocence, The sterner thoughts of manhood melt away Into a mood as mild as woman's dreams. SPRING. V. Now Spring has clad the grove in green, And strewed the lea wi' flowers : The furrowed, waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering showers. While ilka thing in Nature join Their sorrows to forego, O why thus all alone are mine The weaiy steps of wo ! The trout within yon wimpling burn Glides swift, a silver dart, And safe beneath the shady thorn Defies the angler's art: 222 THE BEAUTIES OF My life was ance that careless stream, That wanton trout was I ; But Love, wi' unrelenting beam, Has scorched my fountains dry. The little floweret's peaceful lot, In yonder cliff that grows, Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, Nae ruder visit knows, Was mine ; till Love has o'er me past, And blighted a' my bloom ; And now beneath the withering blast My youth and joy consume. The wakened laverock warbling springs, And climbs the early sky, Winnowing blithe her dewy wings In Morning's rosy eye : As little recked I sorrow's power, Until the flowery snare O' witching Love, in luckless hour, Made me the thrall o' care. O had my fate been Greenland snows, Or Afric's burning zone, Wi' man and nature leagued my foes, So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! The wretch whase doom is, "hope nae mair," What tongue his woes can tell ! Within whase bosom, save despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell. BURNS. SPRING. VI. Dear as the dove, whose wafting wing The green leaf ransomed from the main, Thy genial glow, returning Spring ! Comes to our shores again. For thou hast been a wanderer long, On many a fair and foreign strand ; In balm and beauty, sun and song, Passing from land to land. MODERN BRITISH POETRY 223 O'er vine-clad hills and classic plains, Of glowing climes beyond the deep ; And by the dim and mouldering fanes' Where the dead Csesars sleep : And o'er Sierras, brightly blue, Where rest our country's fallen brave ; Smiling through thy sweet tears, to strew Flower-offerings o'er each grave. Thou bring'st the blossom to the bee, To earth a robe of emerald dye, The leaflet to the naked tree, And rainbows to the sky : I feel the blest, benign control, The pulses of my youth restore, Opening the springs of sense and soul, To love and joy once more. Then, while the groves thy garlands twine, Thy spirit breathes in flower and tree, My heart shall kindle at thy shrine, And worship God in thee ; And in some calm, sequestered spot, Whilst listening to thy coral strain, Past griefs shall be a while forgot, And pleasures bloom again. MALCOLM. SPRING. VII. What wakest thou Spring ? — sweet voices in the woods, And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute; Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes, The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, Even as our hearts may be. And the leaves greet thee, Spring ! — the joyous leaves, Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade, Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, When thy south-wind hath pierced the whispering shade, And happy murmurs, running through the grass, Tell that thy footsteps pass. 224, THE BEAUTIES OF And the bright waters — they too hear thy call — Spring, the Awakener! thou hast burst their sleep; Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall Makes melody, and in the forests deep, Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray Their windings to the day. And flowers — the fairy-peopled world of flowers ! Thou from the dust has set that glory free, Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours, And pencilling the wood-anemone; Silent they seem — yet each to thoughtful eye Glows with mute poesy. But what awakest thou in the heart, O Spring? The human heart with all its dreams and sighs ? Thou that givest back so many a buried thing, Restorer of forgotten harmonies ! Fresh songs and scents break forth, where'er thou art — What wakest thou in the heart ? Too much, oh ! there too much .' — We know not well Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee, What fond strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell, Gush for the faces we no more shall see ! How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone, By voices that are gone ! Looks of familiar love, that never more, Never on earth our aching eyes shall meet, Past words of welcome to our household door, And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet — Spring ! 'midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, Why, why revivest thou these ? Vain longings for the Dead ! — why come they back With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms, Oh ! is it not, that fro7n thine earthly track, Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ? Yes ! gentle Spring ; no sorrow dims thine air, Breathed by our loved ones there. MRS. HEMANS. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 225 MARCH. I. The stormy March is come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies. Ah ! passing few are they who speak, Wild, stormy month ! in praise of thee ; Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, Thou art a welcome month to me. For thou, to northern lands again, The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast joined the gentle train. And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. And in thy reign of blast and storm, Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, When the changed winds are soft and warm, And heaven puts on the blue of May. Then sing aloud the gushing rills, And the full springs from frost set free, That brightly leaping down the hills, Are just set out to meet the sea. The year's departing beauty hides Of wintry storms the sullen threat; But, in thy sternest frown, abides A look of kindly promise yet. Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, And that soft time of sunny showers, When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, Seems of a brighter world than ours. bryant, (American.) MARCH. II. March ! how mild thy genial hours, Soft azure skies, and gilded showers, 22G THE BEAUTIES OF The blaze of lights, the deepening shade, Tints that flush the cloud, and fade ; Now the young wheat's transient gleam, Where sunfits, chasing shadows, stream ; Now, in quick effulgence seen, On yonder slope, its sparkling green ; And sprinkled o'er the mossy mould, Crocuses, like drops of gold, And the lent-lily's paler yellow, Where flower the asp and water-willow ; And the polyanthus, fair Its hues, as bathed in summer air; And the white violets, that just peep, And, sheltered by the rosemary, sleep; Bursting lilacs, and beneath Currant-buds that freshly breathe The first spring-scent, light gooseberry leaves With which the obtrusive ivy weaves Its verdure dark, (this day, though late Cut off, to meet a cruel fate.) The cherry, too, that purpling glows, And, full of leaf, the hedgerow rose ; On this south wall, the peach-bloom pale, Where huddles many a clustering snail ; And round the trunk of yon hoar tree, Here and there a humming bee That wanders to the sunny nook, Or seeks, hard by, the glittering brook ; The blackbird's trill, and every lay That, warbling wild-love, dies away ; And on each ash and elm's grey crest, Cawing rooks, that frame the nest Anew, or with paternal care Their cradles worn by time repair — > These, this moment, meet my eyes, Or my charmed ear surprise ; — Sounds that melt, and sights that seem To wave o'er winter like a dream. — Yet, ere in recent brightness born, The Moon shall fill each silver horn, Clear as now we hail its rays Where Evening's crimson vest decays, Yet shall thy storm, impetuous March ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 227 In blackness shroud the ethereal arch, Sweep those dewy meads serene, And rifle all this garden-scene ! Then shall we not, my Phebe ! seize Fleeting pleasures such as these ? Scared by winds, and rushing rain, Will Spring ne'er visit us again ? Are we sure when floods subside, This amber stream shall dimpling glide, And again so softly steal The pastoral tufts to yonder dale ? Haste, let us ravish, ere it fly, Bliss so fugitive and coy ; Muse on each colour's opening glow, Trace the blossoms as they blow ; listen to the choral grove, And drink the soul of life and love. POLWHEl.E. Ill, Come hither, come hither, and view the face Of Nature, enrobed in her vernal grace. — By the hedgerow way-side flowers are springing ; On the budding elms the birds are singing; And up — up — up to the gates of heaven Mounts the lark, on the wings of her rapture driven The voice of the streamlet is fresh and loud ; On the sky there is not a speck of cloud ; Come hither, come hither, and join with me In the season's delightful jubilee ! Haste out of doors — from the pastoral mount The isles of ocean thine eye may count — From coastto coast, and from town to town, You can see the white sails gleaming down, Like monstrous water-birds, which fling The golden light from each snowy wing ; And the chimnied steam-boat tossing high Its volumed smoke to the waste of sky : While you note, in foam, on the yellow beach, The tiny billows, each chasing each, 228 THE BEAUTIES OF Then melting like cloudlets in the sky, Or Time in the sea of eternity ! Why tarry at home 1 — the swarms of air Are about— and o'erhead — and every where — The little moth opens its silken wings, And from right to left like a blossom flings, And from side to side, like a thistle seed, Uplifted by winds from September mead : The midge and the fly from their long dull sleep Venture again on the light to peep, Over lake and land abroad they flee, Filling air with their murmuring ecstasy : The hare leaps up from his brushwood bed, And limps, and turns its timid head ; The partridge whirrs from the glade ; the mole Pops out from the earth of its wintry hole ; And the perking squirrel's small nose you see From the fungous nook of its own beech tree. Come, hasten ye hither — our garden bowers Are green with the promise of budding flowers — The crocus, and, Spring's first messenger, The fairy snow-drop, are blooming here ; The taper-leafed tulip is sprouting up ; The hyacinth speaks of its purple cup ; The jonquil boasteth, " Ere few weeks run, My golden sunlet I'll show the sun ;" The gilly-flower shoots its stem on high, And peeps on heaven with its pinky eye ; Primroses, an Iris-hued multitude, By the kissing winds are wooing and wooed ; While the wall-flower threatens, with bursting bud, To darken its blossoms with winter's blood. Come hither, come hither, and mark how swell The fruit-buds of the jargonelle; On its yet but leaflet greening boughs The apricot open its blossom throws ; The delicate peach-tree's branches run O'er the warm wall, glad to feel the sun ; And the cherry proclaims of cloudless weather, When its fruit and the blackbirds will toy together : See, the gooseberry bushes their riches show, And the currant bush hangs its leaves below, And the damp-loving rasp saith, "I'll win your praise With my grateful coolness on harvest days." MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 229 Come along, come along, and guess with me How fair and how fruitful the year shall be '. Look into the pasture grounds o'er the pale, And behold the foal with its switching tail ; About and abroad in its mirth it flies, With its long black forelocks about its eyes, Or bends its neck down with a stretch, The daisy's earliest flower to reach. See, as on by the hawthorn fence we pass, How the sheep are nibbling the tender grass, Or holding their heads to the sunny ray, As if their hearts, like its smile, were gay ; While the chattering sparrows, in and out, Fly the shrubs, and trees, and roofs about ; And sooty rooks, loudly cawing, roam With sticks and straws to their woodland home. — Out upon in-door cares — rejoice In the thrill of Nature's bewitching voice ! The finger of God hath touched the sky, And the clouds, like a vanquished army, fly, Leaving a rich, wide, azure bow, O'erspanning the works of His hand below : — The finger of God hath touched the earth, And it starts from slumber in smiling mirth ; Behold it awake in the bird and bee, In the springing flower, and the sprouting tree, And the leaping trout, and the lapsing stream, And the south wind soft, and the warm sunbeam : — From the sward beneath, and the boughs above, Come the scent of flowers, and the sounds of love ; Then haste thee hither, and join thy voice With a world's which shouts "Rejoice ! Rejoice !" THE SUNBEAM. Thou art no lingerer in monarchs' hall; A joy thou art, and a wealth to all — A bearer of hope unto land and sea; Sunbeam ! what gift has the world like thee ? Thou art walking the billows, and Ocean smiles— Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles ! 230 THE BEAUTIES OF Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam, And gladdened the sailor, like words from home. To the solemn depths of the forest shades, Thou art streaming on through their green arcades, And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow, Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. I looked on the mountains — a vapour lay, Folding their heights in its dark array ; Thou brokest forth — and the mist became A crown and a mantle of living flame. I looked on the peasant's lowly cot — Something of sadness had wrapt the spot ; But a gleam of thee on its casement fell, And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell. To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, Flushing the waste like the rose's heart ; And thou scornest not, from thy pomp, to shed A tender light on the Ruin's head. Thou takest through the dim church-aisle thy way, And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, And its high, pale tombs, with their trophies old, Are bathed in a flood as of burning gold. And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave ; Thou scatter'st its gloom like the dreams of rest, Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. Sunbeam of Summer ! oh ! what is like thee ? Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea ! — One thing is like thee, to mortals given, The Faith, touching all things with hues of Heaven. MRS. HEMANS. SUMMER FLIES. Nor wanting here to entertain the thought, Creatures that in communities exist, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 231 Less, as might seem, for general guardianship Or through dependence upon mutual aid, Than by participation of delight, And a strict love of fellowship combined. What other spirit can it be that prompts The gilded Summer Flies to mix and weave Their sports together in the solar beam, Or in the gloom of twilight hum their joy 1 WORDSWORTH. THE MIDGE. Thou tiny insect, why sitt'st thou upon That leaf, when all thy tribe are merry dancing, And the red ray of yonder setting sun Upon their mirth so mildly sweet is glancing ? Art thou, like me, of melancholy mood, And rather than amid thy giddy race, Choosest that withering leaf's brown solitude, To live retired from Folly's dwelling-place ? I love thee, Midge ! methinks in thee I view A worthy emblem of what Man should be, And what men are who Wisdom's path pursue ; As in thy race man's thoughtless herd I see, The sons of Mirth and Folly, soon to fall In the same gulf that swallows Midges — Men — and All. THE BUTTERFLY. Child of the Sun ! pursue thy rapturous flight, Mingling with her thou lovest in fields of light ; And where the flowers of Paradise unfold, Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky, Expand and shut with silent ecstasy ! — Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept ! ( And such is Man : soon from his cell of clay To burst a Seraph in the blaze of day ! ROGERS. 232 THE BEAUTIES OF SUMMER. Now have young April and the blue-eyed May Vanished awhile, and lo ! the glorious June (While nature ripens in his burning noon,) Comes like a young inheritor ; and gay, Although his parent months have passed away : But his green crown shall wither, and the tune That ushered in his birth be silent soon, And in the strength of youth shall he decay. What matters this — so long as in the past And in the days to come we live, and feel The present nothing worth, until it steal Away, and, like a disappointment, die ? For Joy, dim child of Hope and Memory, Flies ever on before or follows fast. BARRY CORNWALL. SUMMER IN SOUTH AMERICA. Summer was in its prime; — the parrot flocks Darkened the passing sunshine on the rocks; The chrysomel and purple butterfly Amid the clear blue light are wandering by ; The humming-bird, along the myrtle bowers, With twinkling wing, is spinning o'er the flowers ; The woodpecker is heard with busy bill, The mock-bird sings — and all beside is still. And look ! the cataract that bursts so high, As not to mar the deep tranquillity, The tumult of its dashing fall suspends, And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends ; Through whose illumined spray, and sprinkling dews, Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues, Chequering, with partial shade, the beams of noon, And arching the grey rock with wild festoon, Here, its gay net-work, and fantastic twine, The purple cogul threads from pine to pine, And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe, Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath. There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white, The sunshine darts its interrupted light, And, 'mid the cedar's darksome bough, illumes With instant touch, the lori's scarlet plumes. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 233 Just heard to trickle through a covert near, And soothing, with perpetual lapse, the ear, A fount, like rain-drops, filtered through the stone, And, bright as amber, on the shallows shone. Intent his fairy pastime to pursue, And gem-like, hovering o'er the violets blue, The humming-bird, here, its unceasing song Heedlessly murmured all the Summer long ; And when the winter came, retired to rest, And from the myrtles hung its trembling nest. No sounds of a conflicting world were near ; The noise of Ocean faintly met the ear, That seemed, as sunk to rest the noontide blast, But dying sounds of passion that were past; Or closing anthems, when, far off expire The lessening echoes of the distant choir. THE SKYLARK. I. Bird of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Light be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! Emblem of happiness ! Blessed is thy dwelling-place ! O to abide in the desert with thee ! Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud ; Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in Heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day ; Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, hie, hie thee away ! 234 THE BEAUTIES OF Then when the gloaming conies, Low in the heather-blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! Emblem of happiness ! Blessed is thy dwelling-place ! O to abide in the desert with thee ! THE SKYLARK. II. 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 brightening, 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 daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy thrill delight. 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. MODERN BRITISH POETRV. 235 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. Like a poet hidden In the light 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-awakened 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, p 2 THE BEAUTIES OF Chorus Hymeneal, Or triumphant chant, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt, A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 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 ? 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 would listen then, as I am listening now. THE SKYLARK, III. 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 ! To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler ! that love-prompted strain MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 237 ('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 rapture more divine ; Type of the wise who soar — but never roam, — True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home. WORDSWORTH, , THE SKYLARK. IV. Bird of the free and fearless wing ! Up ! up ! and greet the sun's first ray, Until the spacious welkin ring With thy enlivening matin lay ! I love to track thy heavenward way Till thou art lost to aching sight, And hear thy song, as blithe and gay As heaven above looks pure and bright. Songster of sky and cloud ! to thee Has heaven a joyous lot assigned ; And thou, to hear these notes of glee, Wouldst seem therein thy bliss to find ; Thou art the first to leave behind, At day's return, this lower earth ; And, soaring as on wings of wind, To spring whence light and life have birth, Bird of the sweet and taintless hour ! When dew-drops spangle o'er the lea, Ere yet upon the bending flower Has lit the busy humming bee; Pure as all nature is to thee, Thou with an instinct half divine, W ingest thy fearless flight so free Up toward a still more glorious shrine, 238 THE BEAUTIES OF Bird of the morn ! from thee might Man, Creation's lord a lesson take : If thou, whose instinct ill may scorn The glories that around thee break, Thou bid'st a sleeping world awake To joy and praise. — O ! how much more Should Mind immortal, earth forsake, And Man look upward to adore. Bird of the happy heavenward song ! Could but the poet act thy part, This soul, upborne on wings as strong As thought can give, from earth might start; And he with far diviner art Than genius ever can supply, As thou the ear, might glad the heart, And bring down music from the sky ! THE NIGHTINGALE. I. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Ledie-wards had sunk : 7 Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, — That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of s\unmer in full-throated ease. O, for a draught of vintage ! that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved -earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth ! O for a breaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim : MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 23!) Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; Where Palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs; Where Youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs ; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : Already with thee ! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry fays ; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown, Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; Fast fading violets covered up in leaves ; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves, Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath ; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy ! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- ■ To thy high requiem become a sod. 240 THE BEAUTIES OF Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown : Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in fairylands forlorn. Forlorn ! the very sound is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill side ; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley glades : Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? Fled is that music : — Do I wake or sleep ! KEATS. THE NIGHTINGALE. II. No cloud, no relique of the sunken day Distinguishes the west, no long thin slip Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge ! You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, But hear no murmuring : it flows silently O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim, Yet let us think upon the vernal showers That gladden the green earth, and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song, " Most musical, most melancholy bird !" A melancholy bird ? Oh ! idle thought ! In nature there is nothing melancholy, But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierced MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 241 With the resemblance of a grievous wrong, Or slow distemper, or neglected love, (And so, poor wretch ! filled all things with himself, And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he, First named these notes a melancholy strain : And many a poet echoes the conceit ; Poet who hath been building up the rhyme When he had better far have stretched his limbs Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, By sun or moon-light, to the influxes Of shapes, and sounds, and shifting elements Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song And of his name forgetful ! So his fame Should share in Nature's immortality, A venerable thing ! and so his song Should make all Nature lovelier., and itself Be loved like Nature ! But 'twill not be so ; And youths and maidens most poetical, Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. My Friend, and thou, our Sister ! we have learnt A different lore : we may not thus profane Nature's sweet voices, always full of love And joyance ! Tis the merry Nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburden his full soul Of all its music ! — And I know a grove Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so This grove is wild with tangling underwood, And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. But never elsewhere in one place I knew So many Nightingales ; and far and near In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, They answer and provoke each other's songs, With skirmish and capricious passagings, 242 THE BEAUTIES OF And murmurs musical and swift jug jug, And one, low piping, sounds more sweet than all, Stirring the air with such an harmony, That should you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day ! On moon-light bushes, Whose dewy leafits are but half disclosed, You may perchance behold them on the twigs, Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full, Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade Lights up her love-torch. — A most gentle Maid, Who dwelleth in her hospitable home Hard by the castle, and at latest eve (Even like a lady vowed and dedicate To something more than Nature in the grove) Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes, That gentle Maid ! and oft a moment's space What time the Moon was lost behind a cloud, Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the Moon Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky With one sensation, and these wakeful Birds Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, As if one quick and sudden gale had swept An hundred airy harps ! And she hath watched Many a Nightingale perch giddily, On bloss'my twig till swinging from the breeze, And to that motion tune his wanton song Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. — Farewell, O Warbler ! till to-morrow eve, And you, my friends, farewell, a short farewell ! We have been loitering long and pleasantly, And now for our dear homes. — That strain again ? Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe, Who, capable of no articulate sound, Mars all things with his imitative lisp, How he would place his hand beside his ear, His little hand, the small forefinger up, And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise To make him Nature's play-mate. He knows well The evening-star ; and once, when he awoke In most distressful mood, (some inward pain Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream) I hurried with him to our orchard-plot, And he beheld the Moon, and, hushed at once, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 843 Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, While his fair eyes, that swam with undropt tears, Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam ! Well ! It is a father's tale : But if that Heaven Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up Familiar with these songs, that with the night He may associate joy ! Once more farewell, Sweet Nightingale ! Once more, my friends, farewell ! COLERIDGE. BRING FLOWERS. Bring Flowers, young Flowers, for the festal board, To wreathe the cup ere the wine is poured ; Bring Flowers ! — they are springing in wood and vale, Their breath floats out in the southern gale, And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the Rose, To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. Bring Flowers to strew in the conqueror's path — He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath ! He comes with the spoils of nations back, The vines lie crushed in his chariot's track, The turf looks red where he won the day — Bring Flowers to die in the conqueror's way ! Bring Flowers to the captive's lonely cell, They have tales of the joyous woods to tell; Of the free blue streams and the glowing sky, And the bright world shut from his languid eye ; They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours, And a dream of his youth — bring him Flowers, wild Flowers ! Bring Flowers, fresh Flowers, for the bride to wear ! They were born to blush in her shining hair. She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth, She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth. Her place is now by another's side — Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride ! Bring Flowers, pale Flowers, on the bier to shed A crown for the brow of the early dead; For this through its leaves hath the white Rose burst ; For this in the woods was the Violet nursed ; 244 THE BEAUTIES OF Though they smile in vain for what once was ours ; They are Love's last gift — bring ye Flowers — pale Flowers ! Bring Flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer, They are Nature's offering, their place is there ! They speak of hope to the fainting heart, With a voice of promise they come and part, They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, They break forth in glory — bring Flowers, bright Flowers ! MRS. HEMANS. THE WREATH. I sought the garden's gay Parterre To cull a wreath for Mary's hair ; And thought I surely here might find Some emblem of her lovely mind, Where Taste displays the varied bloom Of Flora's beauteous drawing-room. And, first of peerless form and hue, The stately Lily caught my view, Fair bending from her graceful stem Like queen with regal diadem : But though I viewed her with delight, She seemed too much to woo the sight, — A fashionable belle — to shine In some more courtly wreath than mine. I turned and saw a tempting row Of flaunting Tulips full in blow — But left them with their gaudy dyes To Nature's beaux — the butterflies. Bewildered 'mid a thousand hues, Still harder grew the task to choose : Here, delicate Carnations bent Their heads in lovely languishment,— Much as a pensive Miss expresses, With neck declined, her soft distresses ! There gay Jonquilles in foppish pride Stood by the Painted-Lady's side, And Hollyhocks superbly tall Beside the Crown-Imperial ; MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 245 But still 'midst all this gorgeous glow Seemed less of sweetness than of show ; While close beside in warning grew The allegoric Thyme and Hue. There, too, stood that fair weather Flower, Which, faithful still in sunshine hour, With fervent adoration turns Its breast where golden Phoebus burns — Base symbol (which I scorned to lift) Of friends that change as fortunes shift ! Tired of the search I bent my way Where Teviot's haunted waters stray ; And from the Wild-Flowers of the grove I framed a garland for my Love : The slender circlet first to twine I plucked the rambling Eglantine, That decked the cliff in clusters free, As sportive and as sweet as she : I stole the Violet from the brook, Though hid like her in shady nook, And wove it with the Mountain-Thyme — The myrtle of our stormy clime : The Hare-Bell looked like Mary's eye, The Blush-Rose breathed her tender sigh, And Daisies, bathed in dew, exprest Her innocent and gentle breast. And, now, my Mary's brow to braid, This chaplet in her bower is laid, A fragrant emblem fresh and wild Of simple Nature's sweetest child. THE ROSE. I. As the Rose of the valley, when dripping with dew, Is the sweetest in odour, and brightest in hue ; So the glance of dear Woman most lovely appears, When it beams from her eloquent eye through her tears ! ANONYMOUS. 240 THE BEAUTIES OF THE ROSE. II. The Rose is fairest when 'tis budding new, And Hope is brightest when it dawns from fears ; The Rose is sweetest washed with morning dew, And Love is loveliest when embalmed in tears. THE ROSE. III. The Rose, the sweetly-blooming Rose, Ere from the tree 'tis torn, Is like the charms which Beauty shows, In life's exulting morn. But, oh ! how soon its sweets are gone, How soon it withering lies ! So, when the eve of life comes on, Sweet Beauty fades and dies. Then since the fairest form that's made Soon withering we shall find, Let us possess what ne'er will fade, The beauties of the mind. THE ROSE. IV. The Rose had been washed, just washed in a shower, Which Mary to Anna conveyed ; The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower, And weighed down its beautiful head. The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet, And it seemed to a fanciful view To weep for the buds it had left with regret, On the flourishing bush where it grew. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 247 I hastily seized it, unfit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! I snapped it — it fell to the ground. And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind, Regardless of wronging and breaking a heart, Already to sorrow resigned. This elegant Rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloomed with its owner a while ; And the tear, that is wiped with a little address, May be followed perhaps by a smile. THE ROSE. V. How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom, Rose ! ever wearing beauty for thy dower ! The Bridal day — the Festival — the Tomb — Thou hast thy part in each, — thou stateliest flower ! Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by A thousand images of Love and Grief, Dreams, filled with tokens of mortality, Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief. Not such thy spells o'er those that hailed thee first In the clear light of Eden's golden day ; There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst, Linked with no dim remembrance of decay. Rose ! for the banquet gathered, and the bier; Rose ! coloured now by human hope or pain ; Surely where death is not — nor change nor fear, Yet may we meet thee, Joy's own Flower, again ! MRS. HEMANS. 248 THE BEAUTIES OE THE LILY. I. " Consider the Lilies of the field, how they grow." — Matth. vi. 26. Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies, Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew ; What more than magic in you lies, To fill the heart's fond view ? In childhood's sports, companions gay, In sorrow, on life's downward way, How soothing ! in our last decay, Memorials prompt and true. Relics ye are of Eden's bowers, As pure, as fragrant, and as fair, As when ye crowned the sunshine hours Of happy wanderers there. Fallen all beside — the world of life How is it stained with fear and strife ! In Reason's world what storms are rife, What passions rage and glare • But changeful and unchanged the while Your first and perfect form ye show, The same that won Eve's matron smile In the world's opening glow. The Stars of Heaven a course are taught Too high above our common thought ; — Ye may be found if ye are sought, And as we gaze, we know. Ye dwell beside our paths and homes, Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow, And guilty man, where'er he roams, Your innocent mirth may borrow. The birds of air before us fleet, They cannot brook our shame to meet — But we may taste your solace sweet, And come again to-morrow. Ye fearless in your nests abide — Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise, Your silent lessons undescried By all but lowly eyes : MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 249 For ye could draw the admiring gaze Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys : Your order wild, your fragrant maze, He taught us how to prize. Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour, As when He paused and owned you good ; His blessing on earth's primal bower, Ye feel it all renewed. What care ye now, if Winter's storm Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form ? Christ's blessing at your heart is warm, Ye fear no vexing mood. Alas ! of thousand bosoms kind, That daily court you and caress, How few the happy secret find Of your calm loveliness ! Live for to-day ! to-morrow's light To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight ; Go, sleep like closing Flowers at night, And Heaven thy morn will bless. THE LILY. II. Look on that Flower — the daughter of the vale, The Medicean statue of the shade ! Her limbs of modest beauty, aspect pale, Are but by her ambrosial breath betrayed. There, half in elegant relief displayed, She standeth to our gaze, half shrinking shuns ; Folding her green scarf, like a bashful maid, Around, to screen her from her suitor suns ; Not all her many sweets she lavisheth at once. Locked in the twilight of depending boughs, Where Night and Day commingle, she doth shoot Where nightingales repeat their marriage vows ; First by retiring wins our curious foot, Q 250 THE BEAUTIES OF Then charms us by her loveliness to suit Our contemplation to her lonely lot ; Her gloom, leaf, blossom, fragrance, form dispute Which shall attract most belgards to the spot, And loveliest her array who fain would rest unsought. Her gloom the aisle of heavenly solitude ; Her Flower the vestal nun who there abideth ; Her breath, that of celestials meekly wooed From Heaven ; her leaf the holy veil which hideth ; Her form the shrine where purity resideth ; Spring's darling, Nature's pride, the Sylvan's queen — To her, at eve, enamoured Zephyr glideth, Trembling, she bids him waft aside her screen, And to his kisses wakes — the Flora of the scene. FIELD FLOWERS. Ye Field Flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet wildings of Nature, I doat upon you, For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teemed around me with faiiy delight, And when Daisies and Buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of broken glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note Made music that sweetened the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June; Of old ruinous castles ye tell, Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell. Even now what affections the Violet awakes ; What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 251 Can the wild Water-Lily restore : What landscapes I read in the Primrose's looks, And what pictures of pebbled and rainnowy brooks In the Vetches that tangled their shore. Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear, Had scathed my existence's bloom ; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age, And I wish you to grow on my tomb. CAMPBELL. THE DAISY. I. There is a Flower, a little Flower, With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky. The prouder beauties of the field In gay but quick succession shine, Race after race their honours yield, They flourish and decline. But this small Flower, to Nature dear, While moons and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year, Companion of the sun. It smiles upon the lap of May, To sultry August spreads its charms, Lights pale October on his way, And twines December's arms. The purple heath, and golden broom, On moory mountains catch the gale, O'er lawns the Lily sheds perfume, The Violet in the vale ; <3 2 252 THE BEAUTIES OF But this bold Floweret climbs the hill, Hides in the forests, haunts the glen, Plays on the margin of the rill, Peeps round the fox's den. Within the garden's cultured round, It shares the sweet Carnation's bed ; And blooms on consecrated ground In honour of the dead. The lambkin crops its crimson gem, The wild bee murmurs on its breast, The blue fly blends its pensile stem Light o'er the skylark s nest. 'Tis Flora's page : — in every place, In every season, fresh and fair, It opens with perennial grace, And blossoms every where. On waste and woodland, rock and plain, Its humble buds unheeded rise; The Rose has but a summer reign, The Daisy never dies. MONTGOMERY THE DAISY. II. In youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill, in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent, Most pleased when most uneasy ; But now my own delights I make, — My thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly Nature's love partake Of thee, sweet Daisy ! When soothed a while by milder airs, Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly shades his few grey hairs ; MODERN BRITISH POETRY 253 Spring cannot shun thee ; Whole Summer fields are thine by right ; And Autumn, melancholy Wight ! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee. Be Violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose ; Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling ; Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; Thou art indeed by many a claim The Poet's darling. If to a rock from rains he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky, Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie Near the green holly, And wearily at length should fare ; He needs but look about, and there Thou art ! — a Friend at hand, to scare His melancholy. A hundred times, by rock or bower, Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension; Some steady love ; some brief delight ; Some memory that had taken flight ; Some chime of fancy wrong or right ; Or stray invention. If stately passions in me burn, And one chance look to Thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn A lowlier pleasure ; The homely sympathy that heeds The common life, our nature breeds ; A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure. 254 THE BEAUTIES OF When, smitten by the morning ray, I see thee rise alert and gay, Then, cheerful Flower ! my spirits play With kindred gladness : And when, at dusk, by dews oppressed Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness. Child of the year ! that round dost run Thy course, bold lover of the sun, And cheerful when the day's begun As morning leveret, * Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ; Dear shalt thou be to future men As in old time ; — thou, not in vain, Art Nature's favourite. WORDSWORTH. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, On turning one down with the Plough, in April, 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou's met me in an evil hour, For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem ; To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonnie gem ! Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie Lark, companion meet ! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! Wi' spreckled breast — When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth ; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender form. * Sue, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly paid to this flower. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 255 The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield ; But thou beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lift'sAby unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless Maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! By love's simplicity betrayed, And guileless tiust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple Bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starred, Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er ! Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven To misery's brink, Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He ruined sink ! Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine — no distant date ; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom ! BURKS 256 THE BEAUTIES OF THE FALLING LEAF. I. As the light Leaf, whose fall to ruin bears Some trembling insect's little world of cares, Descends in silence, while around waves on The mighty Forest, reckless what is gone ! Such is Man's doom — and ere an hour be flown Reflect, thou trifler, such may be thine own ! MRS. HEMANS. THE FALLING LEAF. II. The bright sun threw his glory all around, And then the balmy, mild, autumnal breeze Swept, with a musical, and fitful sound, Among the fading foliage of the trees ; And now and then, a playful gust would seize Some falling Leaf, and, like a living thing, Which flits about wherever it may please, It floated round in many an airy ring^ Till on the dewy grass it lost its transient wing. THE FALLING LEAF. III. Were I a trembling Leaf On yonder stately tree, After a season gay and brief, Condemned to fade and flee, — I should be loath to fall Beside the common-way, Weltering in mire, and spurned by all, Till trodden down to clay. I would not choose to die All on a bed of grass, Where thousands of my kindred lie, And idly rot in mass. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 257 Nor would I like to spread My thin and withered face, In kortus siccus, pale and dead, A mummy of my race. No, — on the wings of air Might I be left to fly, I know not, and I heed not where, A waif of earth and sky ! Or, cast upon the stream, Curled like a fairy-boat, As through the changes of a dream, To the world's end I 'd float. Who,, that hath ever been, Could bear to be no more ? Yet who would tread again the scene He trod through life before ? On, with intense desire, Man's spirit will move on ; It seems to die, yet like heaven's fire, It is not quenched, but gone. MONTGOMERY. AUTUMN. I. Autumn, I love thy bower With faded garlands drest ; How sweet, alone to linger there When tempests ride the midnight air, To snatch from mirth a fleeting hour, The sabbath of the breast ! Autumn, I love thee well ; Though bleak thy breezes blow, I love to see the vapours rise, And clouds roll wildly round the skies, Where from the plain the mountains swell, And foaming torrents flow. 258 THE BEAUTIES OF Autumn, thy fading flowers Droop but to bloom again ; So man, though doomed to grief awhile, To hang on Fortune's fickle smile, Shall glow in Heaven with nobler powers, Nor sigh for peace in vain. haven. (American.) II. Nay, William, nay, not so ; the changeful year In all its due successions to my sight Presents but varied beauties, transient all, All in their season good . These fading leaves, That with their rich variety of hues Make yonder forest in the slanting sun So beautiful, in you awake the thought Of winter, cold, drear winter ; when these trees, Each like a fleshless skeleton, shall stretch Its bare brown boughs ; when not a flower shall spread Its colours to the day, and not a bird Carol its joyance, — but all nature wear One sullen aspect, bleak and desolate, To eye, ear, feeling, comfortless alike. To me their many-coloured beauties speak Of times of merriment and festival, The year's best holiday : I call to mind The school-boy days, when, in the falling leaves, I saw with eager hope the pleasant sign Of coming Christmas, when at morn I took My wooden kalendar, and, counting up Once more its often-told account, smoothed off Each day with more delight the daily notch. To you the beauties of the autumnal year Make mournful emblems, and you think of man Doomed to the grave's long winter, spirit-broke, Bending beneath the burden of his years, Sense-dulled, and fretful, " full of aches and pains," Yet clinging still to life. To me they show The calm decay of nature, when the mind MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 259 Retains its strength, and in the languid eye Religion's holy hopes kindle a joy That makes old age look lovely. All to you Is dark and cheerless ; you in this fair world See some destroying principle abroad, Air, earth, and water full of living things Each on the other preying; and the ways Of man, a strange, perplexing labyrinth, Where crimes and miseries, each producing each, Render life loathsome, and destroy the hope That should in death bring comfort. Oh, my friend, That thy faith were as mine ! that thou couldst see Death still producing life, and evil still Working its own destruction ; couldst behold The strifes and tumults of this troubled world With the strong eye that sees the promised day Dawn through this night of tempest ! all things then Would minister to joy ; then should thine heart Be healed and harmonized, and thou shouldst feel God, always, every-where, and all in all. AUTUMN. III. There is a fearful spirit busy now ; Already have the elements unfurled Their banners : the great sea-wave is upcurled : The cloud comes : the fierce winds begin to blow About, and blindly on their errands go ; And quickly will the pale red leaves be hurled From their dry boughs, and all the forest world, Stripped of its pride, be like a desert show. I love that moaning music which I hear In the bleak gusts of Autumn, for the soul Seems gathering tidings from another sphere, And, in sublime mysterious sympathy, Man's bounding spirit ebbs, and swells more high. Accordant to the billow's loftier roll. BARRY CORNWALL. 260 THE BEAUTIES OF AUTUMN. IV. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; Or in a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers : And sometimes, like a gleaner, thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook ; Or by a cyder press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring ? Aye, where are they ? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue ; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourne ; Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft ; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. KEATS. A BRIGHT AUTUMNAL DAY. There was not, on that day, a speck to stain The azure heaven ; the blessed sun alone, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 261 In unapproachable divinity, Careered, rejoicing in his fields of light. How beautiful, beneath the bright blue sky, The billows heave ! one glowing green expanse, Save where along the bending line of shore Such hue is thrown, as when the peacock's neck Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst, Embathed in emerald glory. All the flocks Of Ocean are abroad : like floating foam, The sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves ; With long-protruded neck the cormorants Wing their far flight aloft, and round and round The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy. It was a day that sent into the heart A summer feeling : even the insect swarms, From their dark nooks and coverts issued forth, To sport through one day of existence more ; The solitary primrose on the bank Seemed now as though it had no cause to mourn Its bleak autumnal birth ; the rocks and shores, The forest and the everlasting hills, Smiled in that joyful sunshine — they partook The universal blessing. THE END OF AUTUMN. Autumn departs — but still his mantle's fold Rests on the groves of noble Somerville, Beneath a shroud of russet dropped with gold Tweed and his tributaries mingle still; Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds the rill, Yet lingering notes of sylvan music swell, The deep-toned cushat, and the red-breast shrill ; And yet some tints of summer splendour tell When the broad sun sinks down on Ettrick's western fell. Autumn departs — from Gala's fields no more Come rural sounds our kindred banks to cheer; Blent with the stream, and gale that wafts it o'er, No more the distant reaper's mirth we hear. 262 THE BEAUTIES OF The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear 7 And harvest-home hath hushed the clanging wain, On the waste hill no forms of life appear, Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal train, Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scattered grain. Deem'st thou these saddened scenes have pleasure still, Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray, To see the heath-flower withered on the hill, To listen to the wood's expiring lay, To note the red leaf shivering on the spray, To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain, On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way, And moralize on mortal joy and pain ? O ! if such scenes thou lovest, scorn not the minstrel strain. No ! do not scorn although its hoarser note Scarce with the cushat's homely song can vie, Though faint its beauties as the tints remote That gleam through mist on Autumn's evening sky, And few as leaves that tremble, sear and dry, When wild November hath his bugle wound ; Nor mock my toil — a lonely gleaner I, Through fields time-wasted, on sad inquest bound, Where happier bards of yore have richer harvest found. AUTUMN'S FAREWELL. I'm passing hence, the yellow wreath Is twined around my head, And withered flowers and faded leaves Are o'er my path-way spread : I'm passing to another land, Where summer-sweets are seen — I'll only leave the sapless stem To tell of brightness been I I came when Summer's loveliness Had decked the fairy bowers With all the fragrance of her breath, And beauty of her flowers ; MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 263 When Nature's melody broke forth, The lonely woods among, In one ecstatic joyous thrill Of rapture-giving song ! When brightly shone the clear blue sky, Fanned by the balmy air, With clouds whose forms you well might deem Were pictures hanging there ; When all that's beautiful on earth Lay smiling 'neath the light Of that great glorious golden orb That's shorn of half its might ! The richness of the Summer's glow I've shadowed with my gloom, And crushed the flower whose sweetness gave The air its rich perfume ; And seared the leaf whose melody Flowed as the breeze passed by, And flung a veil of vapour o'er The brightness of the sky. But for the bloom I give the fruit, I only take away What would in sullen Winter's reign Soon sink into decay. I give the fruit that there may be A lightness in the heart Of those who mourn, when, 'midst their bloom, The summer flowers depart. I'm passing hence — yet not unloved — There are who love to gaze, With eyes prophetic of their doom, Upon the light that plays So tremblingly upon the flower That yet may rear its head Above the cold damp earth that once Its richest blossoms fed ! To look upon my yellow fields, And list the reaper's song, Rising in deep-toned melody The happy band among; 264 THE BEAUTIES OP To watch the brown leaf sailing on The bosom of the stream, That fieeteth past as mortal bliss, In likeness of a dream ! To look upon the glorious sun Slow-sinking in the west, When pink and purple tints are thrown Upon the ocean's breast, O'ercanopied with burning clouds, Magnificently bright, The golden robed attendants on The mighty lord of light ! I'm passing hence — and there are some That will not look again Upon the richness of the earth, Nor list the reaper's strain ; — As those dead flowers, whose fate they mourn, On earth's cold breast they '11 lie, Ere the first beams of Summer's sun Have gilt the azure sky ! Farewell, farewell .' I'll come again, Amidst young Summer's bloom, And break her flowers of loveliness, And strew them o'er her tomb ! Farewell ! — I hear wild Winter's voice In every tree-clad dell, And in the chill wind's stormy tones : — My reign is o'er — Farewell ! JAMES P. BI WINTER. I. This is the eldest of the seasons : he Moves not like Spring with gradual step, nor grows From bud to beauty, but with all his snows Comes down at once in hoar antiquity. * This piece and another, " The Voice of a Dream," page 117, were pub- lished anonymously, but it is understood that they are the productions of Mr. James P. li'own, a young man of much merit and modesty, in this city, who, it is hoped, will soon favour the public with a volume of his Poetry. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 265 No rains nor loud proclaiming tempests flee Before him, nor unto his time belong The suns of summer, nor the charms of song, That with May's gentle smiles so well agree. But he, made perfect in his birth-day cloud, Starts into sudden life with scarce a sound, And with a tender footstep prints the ground, As though to cheat man's ear : yet while he stays He seems as 'twere to prompt our merriest days, And bid the dance and joke be long and loud. BAKRY CORNWALL. WINTER. Thou hast thy beauties : sterner ones I own, Than those of thy precursors ; yet to thee Belong the charms of solemn majesty And naked grandeur. Awful is the tone Of thy tempestuous nights, when clouds are blown By hurrying winds across the troubled sky ; Pensive, when softer breezes faintly sigh Through leafless boughs, with ivy overgrown. Thou hast thy decorations too ; although Thou art austere : thy studded mantle, gay With icy brilliants, which as proudly glow As erst Golconda's ; and thy pure array Of regal ermine, when the drifted snow Envelopes Nature ; till her features seem Like pale, but lovely ones, seen when we dream. WINTER. III. O Winter ! ruler of the inverted year Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes filled, Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fringed with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne THE BEAUTIES OF A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, But urged by storms along its slippery way, I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, And dreaded as thou art ! — Thou hold'st the sun A prisoner in the yet undawning east, Shortening his journey between morn and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy west ; but kindly still Compensating his loss with added hours Of social converse, and instructive ease, And gathering, at short notice, in one group, The family dispersed, and fixing thought, Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts, that the lowly roof Of undisturbed Retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted Evening, know. WINTER. IV. Though now no more the musing ear Delights to listen to the breeze, That lingers o'er the green wood shade, I love thee, Winter ! well. Sweet are the harmonies of Spring, Sweet is the Summer's evening gale, Pleasant the Autumnal winds that shake The many-coloured grove. And pleasant to the sobered soul The silence of the wintry scene, When Nature shrouds her in a trance In deep tranquillity. Not undelightful now to roam The wild heath sparkling on the sight; Not undelightful now to pace The forest's ample rounds; MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 267 And see the spangled branches shine, And mark the moss of many a hue That varies the old tree's brown bark, Or o'er the grey stone spreads. The clustered berries claim the eye O'er the bright holly's gay green leaves : The ivy round the leafless oak Clasps its full foliage close. So Virtue, diffident of strength, Clings to Religion's firmer aid, And, by Religion's aid upheld, Endures calamity. Nor void of beauties now the spring, Whose waters, hid from Summer sun, Have soothed the thirsty pilgrim's ear With more than melody. The green moss shines with icy glare ; The long grass bends in spear-like form ; And lovely is the silvery scene When faint the sunbeams smile. Reflection too may love the hour When Nature, hid in Winter's grave, No more expands the bursting bud, Or bids the floweret bloom. For Nature, soon in Spring's best charms, Shall rise revived from Winter's grave, Again expand the bursting bud, And bid the floweret bloom. SOUTHEY. WINTER. V. When first the fiery-mantled sun His heavenly race began to run ; Round the earth and ocean blue, His children four the Seasons flew. E 2 2fiS THE BEAUTIES OP First, in green apparel dancing, The young Spring smiled with angel grace ; Rosy Summer next advancing, Rushed into her sire's embrace — Her bright-haired sire, who bade her keep For ever nearest to his smiles, On Calpe's olive-shaded steep, On India's citron-covered isles : More remote and buxom-brown, The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne ; A rich pomegranate gemmed her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone ! — But howling Winter fled afar, To hills that prop the polar star, And loves on deer-borne car to ride, With barren darkness by his side. Round the shore where loud Lofoden Whirls to death the roaring whale ! Round the hall where Runic Odin Howls his war-song to the gale ! — Save when adown the ravaged globe He travels on his native storm, Deflowering Nature's grassy robe, And trampling on her faded form : — Till light's returning lord assume The shaft that drives him to his polar field, Of power to pierce his raven plume, And crystal-covered shield ! — O sire of storms ! — whose savage ear The Lapland drum delights to hear, When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye Implores thy dreadful deity — Archangel ! power of desolation ! Fast descending as thou art, Say, hath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart ? Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer, And gently rule the ruined year ; Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare, Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear; — To shuddering Want's unmantled bed, Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead ; A.nd gently on the orphan head MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 269 Of Innocence descend ! But chiefly spare, O king of clouds ! The sailor on his airy shrouds ; When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,. And spectres walk along the deep ! Milder yet thy snowy breezes Pour on yonder tented shores,. Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,. Or the dark-brown Danube roars. O winds of Winter ! list ye there To many a deep and dying groan ; Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, At shrieks and thunders louder than your own ! Alas ! even your unhallowed breath May spare the victim, fallen low — But man will ask no truce to death, — No bounds to human wo. * CAMPBELL. THE VOICE OF THE WIND. " There is nothing in the wide world so like the voice of a Spirit." Oh ! many a voice is thine, thou Wind ! Full many a voice is thine ; From every scene thy wing o'ersweeps, Thou bear'st a sound and sign. A minstrel wild, and strong thou art, With a mastery all thine own ; And the Spirit is thy harp, O Wind ! That gives the answering tone. Thou hast been across red fields of war, Where shivered helmets lie, And thou bringest thence the thrilling note Of a clarion in the sky; A rustling of proud banner-folds, A peal of stormy drums — All these are in thy music met, As when a leader comes. * This ode was wiitten in Germany, at the close of 1800, before the conclusion of hostilities. 270 THE BEAUTIES OP Thou hast been o'er solitary seas, And from their wastes brought back Each noise of waters that awoke In the mystery of thy track ; The chime of low soft southern waves On some green palmy shore, The hollow roll of distant surge, The gathered billows' roar. Thou art come from forests dark and deep, Thou mighty rushing Wind ! And thou bearest all their unisons In one full swell combined ; The restless pines, the moaning stream, All hidden things and free, Of the dim old sounding wilderness, Have lent their soul to thee. Thou art come from cities lighted up For the conqueror passing by, Thou art wafting from their streets a sound Of haughty revelry ; The rolling of triumphant wheels, The harpings in the hall, The far-off shouts of multitudes, Are in thy rise and fall. Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, From ancient minsters vast, Through the dark aisles of a thousand years Thy lonely wing hath passed ; Thou hast caught the Anthem's billowy swell, The stately Dirge's tone, For a Chief with sword, and shield, and helm, To his place of slumber gone. Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, Wherein our young days flew, Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, The loved, the kind, the true ; Thou callest back those melodies, Though now all changed and fled — Be still, be still, and haunt us not With music from the dead J MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 271 Are all these notes in thee, wild Wind ? These many notes in thee ? For in our own unfathomed souls Their fount must surely be ; Yes ! buried but unsleeping there, Thought watches, Memory lies, From whose deep Urn the tones are poured Through all earth's harmonies ! MRS. HEMANS. THE WINDS. Ye viewless Minstrels of the sky I I marvel not, in times gone by, That ye were deified : For, even in this later day, To me oft has your power, or play, Unearthly thoughts supplied. Awful your power ! when, by your might, You heave the wild waves, crested white, Like mountains in your wrath ; Ploughing between them valleys deep, Which, to the seaman roused from sleep, Yawn like death's opening path ! Graceful your play ! when, round the bower Where Beauty culls Spring's loveliest flower, To wreathe her dark locks there, Your gentlest whispers lightly breathe The leaves between, flit round that wreath, And stir her silken hair. Still thoughts like these are but of earth, And you can give far loftier birth : — Ye come ! — we know not whence • Ye go ! — can mortals trace your flight ? All imperceptible to sight, Though audible to sense. The Sun — his rise and set we know ; The Sea — we mark its ebb and flow ; 272 THE BEAUTIES OF The Moon — her wax and wane ; The Stars — man knows their courses well, The Comets' vagrant paths can tell ; — But You his search disdain. Ye restless, homeless, shapeless things ! Who mock all our imaginings, Like Spirits in a dream ; What epithet can words supply Unto the Bard who takes such high Unmanageable theme ? But one : — to me, when Fancy stirs My thoughts, ye seem Heaven's Messengers, Who leave no path untrod ; And when, as now, at midnight's hour, I hear your voice in all its power, It seems the Voice of God. BARTON. A STORM. I. Dazzling may seem the noon-tide sky, Its arch of azure showing ; And lovely to the gazer's eye The west at sunset glowing, Splendid the east, at morning bright, Fair — moonlight on the ocean, But glorious is the hushed delight Born in the Storm's commotion. To see the dark and lowering cloud By vivid lightning riven, To hear the answer, stern and proud, By echoing thunders given. To feel, in such a scene and hour, 'Mid all that each discloses, Tlie presence of that viewless Power On whom the world reposes : MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 273 This to the heart, is more than all Mere beauty can bring o'er it ; Thought, feeling, fancy — own its thrall, And Joy is hushed before it. A STORM. II. 'Tis pleasant, by the cheerful hearth, to hear Of Tempests, and the dangers of the deep, And pause at times, and feel that we are safe, Then listen to the perilous tale again, And, with an eager and suspended soul, Woo Terror to delight us.— But to hear The roaring of the raging elements ; — To know all human skill, all human strength, Avail not; — to look round and only see The mountain-wave incumbent with its weight Of bursting waters o'er the reeling bark, — This is indeed a dread and awful thing ! And he who hath endured the horror, once, Of such an hour, doth never hear the Storm Howl round his home, but he remembers it, And thinks upon the suffering mariner •' SGUTHEY A STORM. in. Okce, at high noon, amidst a sultry calm, Looking around for comfort, I descried, Far on the green horizon's utmost verge, A wreath of cloud ; to me a glad discovery, For each new image sprang a new idea, The germ of thoughts to come, that could not die. The little vapour rapidly expanded, Lowering and thickening till it hid the sun, And threw a starless night upon the sea. Eagerly, tremblingly, I watched the end. 274 THE BEAUTIES OF Faint gleamed the lightning, followed by no peal ; Dreary and hollow moans foretold a gale ; Nor long the issue tarried ; then the wind, Unprisoned, blew its trumpet loud and shrill ; Out flashed the lightnings gloriously; the rain Came down like music, and the full-toned thunder Rolled in grand harmony throughout high heaven, Till Ocean, breaking from his black supineness, Drowned in his own stupendous uproar all The voices of the Storm beside ; meanwhile A war of mountains raged upon his surface ; Mountains each other swallowing, and again New Alps and Andes, from unfathomed valleys Upstarting, joined the battle ; like those sons Of earth, — giants, rebounding as new-born From every fall on their unwearied mother. I glowed with all the rapture of the strife : Beneath was one wide whirl of foaming surges ; Above the array of lightnings, like the swords Of cherubim, wide brandished, to repel Aggression from Heaven's gates ; their flaming strokes Quenched momentarily in the vast abyss. •MONTGOMERY. A STORM. IV. The hour that told the morning was advanced, But Heaven said, No. Methought the sun had stood Still o'er the valley of Jehoshaphat, Or that the night of Egypt had returned. — It was a hideous twilight. No bird sung ; The flocks forgot to feed, and stood and gazed, Nor wist they what to dread. Sometimes I heard A tremulous bleat come from the hills, and then It came in such a tone, it frightened me. Still darker grew the morn, the brooding cloud Leaned its grim bosom deeper o'er the glen ; The heavens and earth were mingled, closed around, And here was I, an old and trembling thing, Immured between them. For my hills I looked ; I looked to heaven, and for the blessed sun, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 275 But all were lost — all curtained in together In one impervious veil. I prayed to God, And waited the event. Forthwith arose A rushing sound somewhere above my head, Whether in earth or heaven, in rock or cloud, I could not tell ; but nearer still it came, And louder and more furious was the sound, Like many torrents rushing on the wind. Anon I saw the bosom of the cloud Begin to heave and work with boiling motion, And on its murky breast strange hues arose Of dull and pallid blue, or muffled red, While frightful openings yawned and closed again. Nature lay on a bed of travailing ; Now strong convulsions, throes, and wrestlings, Showed that with serpent-birth her breast would rend : Short then the pause and troubled, ere I saw The heaven's slow, swarthy bosom burst asunder, And rain, and hail, and bolts of liquid flame Issued at once. No sooner had the blaze Dazzled my sight, than from the inmost cloud The voice of the Eternal God came forth As if in tenfold wrath ; while every cave, And every echo of these frowning cliffs Shouted and jabbered as in mockery. How my heart trembled ! and a dullness crept O'er all my frame ; for such a rending crash, So loud and so prolonged, ne'er stunned the ear Of sinful worm. Fain would I have rebuked The hills for such unholy mimicry, For every rock, ravine, and yawning bourn, Nay every tiny clough, sent forth its thunder, Jarring it proudly : thus with every peal Ten thousand thunders issued forth their voices. First the hail Burst through its sable shroud, and strewed the land With whitened desolation ; then the doors, The flood-gates of that dark impending tide, Were all let loose, and on the prostrate earth The mighty cataracts of the heaven descended; From these proud mountains, poured a thousand streams., Where streams before ne'er ran, and every one Pelting and foaming 'gainst all opposition 276 THE BEAUTIES OF With upstart insolence, as who should say Here am I ; who dare bar my mighty course ? Then, ever and on, the rending peal Made the rocks chatter, rolled from bill to hill, And boomed along the sky. A STORM. V. The sun went down in beauty ; — not a cloud Darkened its radiance, — yet there might be seen A few fantastic vapours scattered o'er The face of the blue heavens ; some fair and slight As the pure lawn that shields the maiden's breast, — Some shone like silver, — some did stream afar — Faint and dispersed — like the Pale Horse's mane, Which Death shall stride hereafter, — some were glittering Like dolphin's scales, touched out with varying hues Of beautiful light — outvying some the rose, And some the violet, yellow, white, and blue, Scarlet and purpling red. — One small lone ship Was seen with outstretched sails, keeping its way In quiet o'er the deep ; all nature seemed Fond of tranquillity ; the glassy sea Scarce rippled — the halcyon slept upon the wave ; The winds were all at rest, — and in the east The crescent moon, then seen imperfectly, Came onwards, with the vesper star, to see A summer day's decline. — The sun went down in beauty ; — but the eyes Of ancient seamen trembled, when they saw A small black ominous spot far in the distance : — It spread, and spread — larger and dark — and came O'ershadowing the skies; — the ocean rose; The gathering waves grew large, and broke in hoarse And hollow sounds ; the mighty winds awoke, And screamed and whistled through the cordage ; birds, That seemed to have no home, flocked there in terror, And sat with quivering plumage on the mast. Flashes were seen, and distant sounds were heard — Presages of a Storm. — MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 277 The sun went down in beauty ; — but the skies Were wildly changed. — It was a dreadful night — No moon was seen in all the heavens, to aid Or cheer the lone and sea-beat mariner : — Planet nor guiding star broke through the gloom ; — But the blue lightnings glared along the waters, As if the Fiend had fired his torch to light Some wretches to their graves. — The tempest winds Raving came next, and in deep hollow sounds — Like those the spirits of the dead do use When they would speak their evil prophecies — Muttered of death to come ; — then came the thunder, Deepening and crashing, as 'twould rend the world ; Or, as the Deity passed aloft in anger And spoke to man — despair ! — The ship was tossed And now stood poised upon the curling billows, And now 'midst deep and watery chasms — that yawned As 'twere in hunger — sank. — Behind there came Mountains of moving water, — with a rush And sound of gathering power, that did appal The heart to look on ; — terrible cries were heard ; Sounds of despair, — some like a mother's anguish — Some of intemperate, dark, and dissolute joy — Music and horrid mirth — but unallied To joy ; — and madness might be heard amidst The pauses of the Storm — and when the glare Was strong, rude savage men were seen to dance In frantic exultation on the deck, Though all was hopeless — Hark ! — the ship has struck, And the forked lightning seeks the arsenal ! — 'Tis fired — and mirth and madness are no more ! 'Midst columned smoke, deep red, the fragments fly In fierce confusion — splinters and scorched limbs, And burning masts, and showers of gold, — torn from The heart that hugged it even till death. Thus doth Sicilian Etna in her angry moods, Or Hecla 'mid her wilderness of snows, Shoot up its burning entrails, with a sound Louder than e'er the Titans uttered from Their subterranean caves, when Jove enchained Them, daring and rebellious. The black skies, Shocked at the excess of light, returned the sound In frightful echoes, — as if an alarm 273 THE BEAUTIES OF Had spread through all the elements : — then came A horrid silence — deep — unnatural — like The quiet of the grave ! — ASCRIBED TO BARRY CORNWALL. MIDSUMMER NIGHT STORM On the Lake of Geneva. The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! U night And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder ! — not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! And this is in the night : — Most glorious night •' Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — A portion of the tempest and of thee ! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! And now again 'tis black,— and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted ! Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed : Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage. Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 279 Flashing and cast around : of all the band, The brightest through these parted hills hath forked His lightnings, — as if he did understand, That in such gaps as desolation worked, There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked. MIDSUMMER NIGHT STORM On the Pyrenees. 'Tis night, and all around is deadly still, Save the far torrent sunk into a sigh, And the low wailing of the mountain-rill, Through deepest solitude that wanders by. Amid the wastes of darkness, soaring high, The giant hills their midnight conclave hold, Far in the secret chambers of the sky, With clouds and forest-mantles round them rolled But, hark ! a heavy sound, as if a death-bell tolled ! Again, again, it breaks upon the gloom, Fitful, and far, like billows on the shore ; Anon, with voice like what shall wake the tomb, At once it bursts into a boundless roar ! Of fire and flood the mingled torrents pour Down blazing cones, that red volcanoes seem : Like rush of armies falls the thunder shower ; The mighty mountains leap amid the gleam, And from his eyrie soars the eagle with wild scream ! And as the thunder, swathed in purple pall, Peals o'er sierra high and central vale, A thousand echoes, starting at the call, Adown the darksome Roncesvalles sail, — Till Fancy hears, upon the hollow gale, Its phantom-knights above the battle-plain Charge on the Storm, that to a feeble wail Dies o'er the spectre-night : the thunders wane To murmurs down the skies, and all is hushed again. THE SAILOR'S HOPE. Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm, Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form ! 280 THE BEAUTIES OF Rocks, waves, and winds, the shattered bark delay; Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep, And sing to charm the spirit of the deep. Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole, Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul. His native hills that rise in happier climes, The grot that heard his song of other times, His cottage home, his bark of slender sail, His glassy lake, and brownwood blossomed vale, Rush on his thought: he sweeps before the wind, Treads the loved shore he sighed to leave behind ; Meets, at each step, a friend's familiar face, And flies, at last, to Helen's long embrace ; Wipes from her eye the rapture-speaking tear, And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear ! While, long neglected, but at length caressed, His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest, Points to the master's eyes, (where'er they roam,) His wistful face, and whines a welcome home. CAMPBELL. A BOAT RACE— AND WRECK OF A BOAT. One gusty day, now stormy and now still, I stood apart upon the western hill, And saw a race at sea : a gun was heard, And two contending Boats at length appeared : Equal awhile; then one was left behind, And for a moment had her chance resigned, When in that moment, up a sail they drew — Not used before — their rivals to pursue. Strong was the gale ! in hurry now there came Men from the town, their thoughts, their fears the same, And women too ! affrighted maids and wives, All deeply feeling for their sailors' lives. The strife continued : in a glass we saw The desperate efforts, and we stood in awe, When the last Boat shot suddenly before, Then filled, and sank — and could be seen no more ! Then were those piercing shrieks, that frantic flight, All hurried ! all in tumult and affright ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 281 A gathering crowd from different streets drew near, All ask, all answer — none attend, none hear ! One Boat is safe ; and see ! she backs her sail To save the sinking — Will her aid avail 1 — Oh ! how impatient on the sands we tread, And the winds roaring and the women led, As up and down they pace with frantic air, And scorn a comforter, and will despair ; They know not who in either Boat is gone, But think the father, husband, lover, one. And who is she apart ? She dares not come To join the crowd, yet cannot rest at home : With what strong interest looks she at the waves, Meeting and clashing o'er the seamen's graves ! 'Tis a poor girl betrothed — a few hours more, And he will be a corpse upon the shore. SHIPWRECK. Then a sound arose, they knew not where, It came from the sea, or it came from the air, 'Twas louder than tempest that ever blew, And the sea-fowls screamed, and in terror flew ; Some ran to the cords, some kneeled at the shrine, But all the wild elements seemed to combine : 'Twas just but one moment of stir and commotion, And down went the Ship like a bird of the ocean. HOGG. SHIPWRECK. II. Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell, Then shrieked the timid and stood still the brave, Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave ; And the sea yawned around her like a hell, And down she sucked with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And strives to strangle him before he die. 282 THE BEAUTIES OF And first one universal shriek there rushed, Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hushed, Save the wild wind, and the remorseless dash Of billows : but at intervals there gushed, Accompanied with a convulsive splash, A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony. BYRON. SHIPWRECK. III. And now, lashed on by destiny severe, With horror fraught the dreadful scene draws near ! The Ship hangs hovering on the verge of death, Hell yawns, rocks rise, and breakers roar beneath ! Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies, Her shattered top half buried in the skies; Then, headlong plunging, thunders on the ground : Earth groans ! air trembles ! and the deeps resound ! Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels, And, quivering with the wound, in torment reels. Again she plunges ! hark ! a second shock Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock ! Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries, The fated victims shuddering roll their eyes In wild despair, while yet another stroke, With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak ; Till, like the mine, in whose infernal cell The lurking demons of destruction dwell, At length asunder torn, her frame divides, And, crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides. — As o'er the surge the stooping main-mast hung, Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung. Some, struggling, on a broken crag were cast, And there by oozy tangles grappled fast : Awhile they bore the o'erwhelming billows' rage, Unequal combat with their fate to wage ; Till all benumbed and feeble they forego Their slippery hold, and sink to shades below. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 283 Some, from the main-yard-arm impetuous thrown On marble ridges, die without a groan. Three with Palemon on their skill depend, And from the wreck on oars and shafts descend. Now on the mountain-wave on high they ride, Then downward plunge beneath the involving tide : Till one, who seems in agony to strive, The whirling breakers heave on shore alive. The rest a speedier end of anguish knew, And pressed the stony beach, a lifeless crew ! FALCONER. SHIPWRECK. IV. Her giant-form O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm, Majestically calm, would go 'Mid the deep darkness white as snow But gently now the small waves glide Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side. So stately her bearing, so proud her array, The main she will traverse for ever and aye. Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast ! — Hush ! hush ! thou vain dreamer ! this hour is her last. Five hundred souls in one instant of dread Are hurried o'er the deck ; And fast the miserable Ship Becomes a lifeless wreck. Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock, Her planks are torn asunder, And down come her masts with a reeling shock, And a hideous crash like thunder. Her sails are draggled in the brine That gladdened late the skies, And her pendant that kissed the fair moonshine Down many a fathom lies. Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues Gleamed softly from below, And flung a warm and sunny flash O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow, s 2 2U THE BEAUTIES OF To the coral rocks are hurrying down To sleep amid colours as bright as their own. Oh ! many a dream was in the Ship An hour before her death ; And sights of home with sighs disturbed The sleepers' long-drawn breath. Instead of the murmur of the sea The sailor heard the humming tree Alive through all its leaves, The hum of the spreading sycamore That grows before his cottage-door, And the swallow's song in the eaves. His arms enclosed a blooming boy, Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy To the dangers his father had passed ; And his wife, — by turns she wept and smiled, As she looked on the father of her child Returned to her at last, — He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll, And the rush of waters is in his soul. — Now is the Ocean's bosom bare, Unbroken as the floating air ; The Ship hath melted quite away, Like a struggling dream at break of day. No image meets my wandering eye But the new-risen sun, and the sunny sky. Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapour dull Bedims the waves so beautiful ; While a low and melancholy moan Mourns for the glory that hath flown. SHIPWRECK. V. All night the booming minute-gun Had pealed along the deep, And mournfully the rising sun Looked o'er the tide-worn steep. A bark, from India's coral strand, Before the rushing blast, Had vailed her topsails to the sand, And bowed her noble mast. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 285 The queenly Ship ! — brave hearts had striven, And true ones died with her! We saw her mighty cable riven, Like floating gossamer ! We saw her proud flag struck that morn, A star once o'er the seas, Her helm beat down, her deck uptorn, — And sadder things than these ! We saw her treasures cast away; The rocks with pearls were sown ; And, strangely sad, the ruby's ray Flashed out o'er fretted stone ; And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er, Like ashes by a breeze, And gorgeous robes, — but oh ! that shore Had sadder sights than these ! We saw the strong man, still and low, A crushed reed thrown aside ! Yet, by that rigid lip and brow, Not without strife he died ! And near him on the sea-weed lay, Till then we had not wept, But well our gushing hearts might say, That there a Mother slept ; For her pale arms a babe had pressed * With such a wreathing grasp, Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast, Yet not undone the clasp ! Her very tresses had been flung To wrap the child's fair form, Where still their wet, long streamers clung, All tangled by the storm. And beautiful, 'midst that wild scene, Gleamed up the boy's dead face, Like Slumber's, trustingly serene, In melancholy grace. * This circumstance is related of Mrs. Cargill, an actress of some cele- brity, who was shipwrecked on the rocks of Scilly, when returning from India. 286 THE BEAUTIES OF Deep in her bosom lay his head, With half-shut violet eye ; — He had known little of her dread, Nought of her agony ! Oh, human love ! whose yearning heart Through all things vainly true, So stamps upon thy mortal part, Its passionate adieu ! Surely thou hast another lot, There is some home for thee, Where thou shalt rest, remembering not The moaning of the sea ! MJtS. HEMANS. SILENCE AFTER THUNDER. Hast thou not marked, when, o'er thy startled head, Sudden and deep the thunder peal has rolled, How, when its echoes fell, a silence dead Sunk on the wood, the meadow, and the wold ? The rye-grass shakes not on the sod-built fold, The rustling aspen's leaves are mute and still, The wall-flower waves not on the ruined hold, Till, murmuring distant first, then near and shrill, The savage whirlwind wakes, and sweeps the groaning hill. A CALM AT SEA. The night is clear, The sky is fair, The wave is resting on the Ocean ; And far and near, The silent air, Just lifts the flag with faintest motion. There is no gale To fill the sail, No wind to heave the curling billow ; The streamers droop, And, humbling, stoop, Like boughs that crown the weeping willow. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 287 From off the shore, Is heard the roar Of waves in softest motion rolling ; The twinkling Stars And whispering airs, Are all to peace the heart controlling. The Moon is bright, Her ray of light, In silver, pales the blue of heaven ; Or tints with gold, "Where lightly rolled, Like fleecy snow, the rack is driven. How calm and clear The silent air ! How smooth and still the glassy Ocean ; While Stars above, Seem lamps of love, To light the temple of devotion. percival. (American.) A CALM After a Storm in Asia. How calm, how beautiful comes on The stilly hour, when storms are gone ! When warring winds have died away, And clouds, beneath the glancing ray, Melt off, and leave the land and sea Sleeping in bright tranquillity, — Fresh as if Day again were born Again upon the lap of Morn ! When the light blossoms, rudely torn And scattered at the whirlwind's will, Hang floating in the pure air, still, Filling it all with precious balm, In gratitude for this sweet calm ; — And every drop the thunder-showers Have left upon the grass and flowers 288 THE BEAUTIES OF Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem * Whose liquid flame is born of them ! When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze, There blow a thousand gentle airs, And each a different perfume bears, — As if the loveliest plants and trees Had vassal breezes of their own, To watch and wait on them alone, And waft no other breath than theirs ! When the blue waters rise and. fall, In sleepy sunshine mantling - all ; And even that swell the tempest leaves Is like the full and silent heaves Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest — Too newly to be quite at rest ! MOORE. EVENING CALM On the Lake of Geneva. Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, With the wide world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction ; once I loved Tom ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ; * A precious stone of the Indies, called by the ancients Ceraunium, be- cause it was supposed to be found in places where thunder had fallen. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 289 He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill, But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil, Weeping themselves away till they infuse Deep into- Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — All heaven and earth are still : from the high host Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain-coast, All is concentered in a life intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and defence. THE RAINBOW. Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud philosophy To teach me what thou art. Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given, For happy spirits to alight, Betwixt the earth and heaven. Can all that optics teach, unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamt of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow ? When Science, from Creation's face Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws ! 290 THE BEAUTIES OF And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky. When, o'er the green undeluged earth, Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's grey fathers forth, To watch thy sacred sign ! And when its yellow lustre smiled O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child, To bless the bow of God. Methinks thy jubilee to keep, The first-made anthem rang On earth delivered from the deep, And the first poet sang. Nor ever shall the Muse's eye, Unraptured, greet thy beam : Theme of primeval prophecy, Be still the poet's theme. The earth to thee its incense yields, The lark thy welcome sings, When, glittering in the freshened fields, The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious is thy girdle cast O'er mountain, tower, and town ! Or mirrored in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down ! As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam. For faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man. CAMPBELL. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 291 THE EVENING RAINBOW. Mild arch of promise ! on the evening sky Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray Each in the other melting. Much mine eye Delights to linger on thee ; for the day, Changeful and many-weathered, seemed to smile, Flashing brief splendour through its clouds a while, That deepened dark anon, and fell in rain : But pleasant it is now to pause, and view Thy various tints of frail and watery hue, And think the storm shall not return again. Such is the smile that Piety bestows On the good man's pale cheek, when he in peace, Departing gently from a world of woes, Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease. THE CLOUDS. I. O painted Clouds ! sweet beauties of the sky ! How have I viewed your motion and your rest, When, like fleet hunters, ye have left mine eye, In your thin gauze of woolly-fleecing drest ; Or in your threatened thunder's grave black vest, Like black deep waters slowly moving by; Awfully striking the spectator's breast With your Creator's dread sublimity, As admiration mutely views your storms. And I do love to see you idly lie, Painted by heaven as various as your forms, Pausing upon an eastern mountain high. THE CLOUDS. II. Ye glorious pageants ! hung in air To greet our raptured view ; What in creation can compare, For loveliness, with you ? 292 THE BEAUTIES OF This earth is beautiful, indeed, And in itself appeals To eyes that have been taught to read The beauties it reveals. Its giant mountains, which ascend To your exalted sphere, And seem at times with you to blend In majesty austere: Its lovely valleys, forests vast ; Its rivers, lakes, and seas ; With every glance upon them cast, The sight, the sense must please. When through the eastern gates of heaven The sun's first glories shine ; Or when his gentlest beams are given To gild the day's decline ; All glorious as that orb appears, His radiance still would lose Each gentle charm, that most endears, Without your softening hues. When these, with his refulgent rays, Harmoniously unite, Who on your splendid pomp can gaze, Nor feel a hushed delight? 'Tis then, if to the raptured eye Her aid the fancy brings, In you our vision can descry Unutterable things ! Not merely mountains, cliffs, and caves, Domes, battlements, and towers, Torrents of light, that fling their waves O'er coral rocks and bowers ; Not only what to man is known In nature, or in art ; But objects which on earth can own No seeming counterpart. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 293 As once the Seer in Patmos saw Heaven's opening door revealed, And scenes inspiring love and awe To his rapt sight unsealed ; So, in a faint and low degree, Through your unfoldings bright, Phantoms of glory yet to be Dawn on the wondering sight. BARTON. THE CLOUDS. III. O Clouds ! ye ancient messengers, Old couriers of the sky, Treading, as in primeval years, Yon still immensity ! In march how wildly beautiful Along the deep ye tower, Begirt, as when from chaos dull Ye loomed in pride and power, To crown creation's morning hour. Ye perish not, ye passing Clouds ! But, with the speed of Time, Ye flit your shadowy shapes, like shrouds, O'er each emerging clime ; And thus on broad and furlless wings Ye float in light along, Where every jewelled planet sings Its clear eternal song, Over the path our friends have gone ! Against that deep and peerless blue Ye hold your journeying— That silent birth-place of the dew, Where life and lustre spring. And then, how goldenly ye shine On your immortal way, Sailing through realms so near divine, Under the Fount of Day ! O'er ye concentered glories play. 29 * THE BEAUTIES OF Ye posters of the wakeless air ! How silently ye glide Down the unfathomed atmosphere, That deep — deep, azure tide ! And thus in giant pomp ye go, On high and reachless range, Above earth's gladness and its wo, Through centuries of change. Your destiny how lone and strange ! Ye bear the Bow of Beauty— flung On your triumphal path, Splendid as first in joy it hung O'er God's retiring wrath. The promise and the covenant Are written on your brow — The mercy to the sinful sent Is bending o'er them now. Ye bear the memory of the Vow. Ye linger with the silver stars, Ye pass before the sun — Ye marshal elements to wars, And when the roar is done, Ye lift your volumed robes in light, And wave them to the world, Like victory flags o'er scattered fight, Brave banners all unfurled — Still there, though rent and tempest-hurled. Ye bear the living thunder out, Ye pageants of the sky ! Answering with trumpets' brattling shout The lightning's scorching eye. Pale faces cluster under ye, Beneath your withering look, And shaking hearts bow fearfully At your sublime rebuke. Has man his mockery forsook ! And then, in still and summer hours, When men sit weary down, Ye come o'er heated fields and flowers, With shadowy pinions on — MODERN BRITISH POETRY 295 Ye hover where the fervent earth A saddened silence fills, And, mourning o'er its strickened mirth, Ye weep along the hills. Then how the wakening landscape thrills ! And thus ye circle countless spheres, Old spirits of the skies ! The same through Nature's smiles and tears, Ye rose on Paradise. I hear a voice from out your shrouds, That tells me of decay — For though ye stay not, hurtling Clouds ! Till the last gathering day, Ye pass like life's dim dreams away. mellen. (American.) THE CLOUD. I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 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 rocked 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 fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits ; Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me, 296 THE BEAUTIES OF * Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes and plains, 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 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 clove. 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 volcanos are dim, and the stars reel and swim, When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 297 From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its column be. The triumphal arch through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-coloured 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. THE EVENING CLOUD. A Cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow : Long had I watched the glory moving on, O'er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow ! Even in its very motion there was rest ; While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul ! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given; And by the breath of Mercy made to roll Right onward to the golden gates of heaven, Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies. 298 THE BEAUTIES OF A SUMMER CLOUD. As though an Angel, in his upward flight, Had left his mantle floating in mid air. MISS BAILLIE. THE STREAM. Emblem of life ! which, still as we survey, Seems motionless, yet ever glides away. EOGERS. THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. I had a cottage in a paradise ! 'Twere hard to enumerate the charms combined Within the little space, greeting the eyes, Its unpretending precincts that confined. Onward, in front, a Mountain Stream did rise Up, whose long course the fascinated mind (So apt the scene to awaken wildest themes) Might localize the most romantic dreams. When winter torrents by the rain and snow, Surlily dashing down the hills, were fed, Its mighty mass of waters seemed to flow With deafening course precipitous : its bed Rocky, such deep declivities did show That towards us with a rapid course it sped, Broken by frequent falls ; thus did it roam In whirlpools eddying, and convulsed with foam . Flanked were its banks with perpendicular rocks, Whose scars enormous, sometimes grey and bare, And sometimes clad with ash and gnarled oaks, The birch, the hazel, pine, and holly were. Their tawny leaves, the sport of winter's shocks, Oft o'er its channel circled in the air; While, on their tops, and midway up them, seen, Lowered cone-like firs, and yews in gloomiest green. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 299 So many voices from this River came In summer, winter, autumn, or the spring; So many sounds accordant to each frame Of Nature's aspect, (whether the storm's wing Brooded on it, or, pantingly and tame, The low breeze crisped its waters,) that, to sing Halt of their tones, impossible ! or tell The listener's feelings from their viewless spell. When fires gleamed bright, and when the curtained room, Well stocked with books, and music's implements, When children's faces, dressed in all the bloom Of innocent enjoyments, deep content's Deepest delights inspired ; when Nature's gloom To the domesticated heart presents (By consummate tranquillity possessed) Contrast, that might have stirred the dullest breast. Yes, in such hour as that, thy voice I've known, Oh, hallowed Stream ! fitly so named, since tones Of deepest melancholy swelled upon The breeze that bore it ; fearful as the groans Of fierce night spirits. Yes, when tapers shone A-thwart the room, when, from their skiey thrones Of ice-piled height abrupt, rushed rudely forth, Riding the blast, the tempest of the north, — Thy voice I've known to wake a dream of wonder ! For, though 'twas loud, and wild with turbulence, And absolute as is the deep-voiced thunder, Such fine gradations marked its difference Of audibility, one scarce could sunder Its gradual swellings from the influence Of harp Eolian, when upon the breeze Float in a stream its plaintive harmonies. One might have thought, that spirits of the air Warbled amid it in an undersong ; And oft one might have thought, that shrieks were there Of spirits, driven for chastisement along The invisible regions that above earth are . All species seemed of intonation, strong To bind the soul — imagination rouse, Conjured from preternatural prison-house. t2 % 300 THE BEAUTIES OF But when the heavens are blue, and summer skies Are pictured in the wave's cerulean glances, Then thy crisp stream its course so gaily plies, Trips on so merrily in endless dances, Such low, sweet tone, fit for the tune, does rise From thy swift course, methinks, that it enhances The hue of flowers which decorate thy banks, While each one's freshness seems to pay thee thanks. POWER AND GENTLENESS; OR, The Cataract and the Streamlet. Noble the Mountain Stream, Bursting in grandeur from its vantage-ground ; Glory is in its gleam Of brightness ; — thunder in its deafening sound ! Mark, how its foamy spray, Tinged by the sunbeams with reflected dyes, Mimics the bow of day Arching in majesty the vaulted skies ; — Thence, in a summer-shower, Steeping the rocks around : — O ! tell me where Could majesty and power Be clothed in forms more beautifully fair ? Yet lovelier, in my view, The Streamlet, flowing silently serene ; Traced by the brighter hue, And livelier growth it gives ; — itself unseen ! It flows through flowery meads, Gladdening the herds which on its margin browse ; Its quiet beauty feeds" The alders that o'ershade it with their boughs. Gently it murmurs by The village churchyard : — its low, plaintive tone A dirge-like melody ^For worth and beauty modest as its own. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 301 More gaily now it sweeps By the small school-house, in the sunshine bright ; And o'er the pebbles leaps, Like happy hearts by holiday made light. May not its course express, In characters which they who run may read, The charms of gentleness, Were but its still small voice allowed to plead ? What are the trophies gained By power, alone, with all its noise and strife, To that meek wreath, unstained, Won by the charities that gladden life ? Niagara's streams might fail, And human happiness be undisturbed : But Egypt would turn pale, Were her still Nile's o'erfiowing bounty curbed ! THE MOHAWK RIVER. From rise of morn till set of sun, I've seen the mighty Mohawk run : And as I marked the woods of pine, Along his mirror darkly shine, Like tall and gloomy forms that pass Before the wizard's midnight glass ; And as I viewed the hurrying pace With which he ran his turbid race, Bushing, alike untired and wild, Through shades that frowned, and flowers that smiled, Flying by every green recess, That wooed him to its calm caress; Yet sometimes turning with the wind, As if to leave one look behind. Oh ! I have thought, and, thinking, sighed, How like to thee, thou restless tide ! May be the lot, the life of him Who roams along the water's brim ! 302 THE BEAUTIES OF Through what alternate shades of wo, And flowers of joy my path may go : How many an humble, still retreat May rise to court my weary feet, While still pursuing, still unblest, I wander on, nor dare to rest ! But urgent, as the doom that calls Thy water to its destined falls, I see the world's bewildering force Hurry my heart's devoted course From lapse to lapse, till life be done, And the lost current cease to run ! O may my falls be bright as thine ! May Heaven's forgiving rainbow shine Upon the mist that circles me, As soft, as now it hangs on thee ! THE TAY. Thou Queen of Caledonia's mountain floods, Theme of a thousand gifted bards of yore, Majestic wanderer of the wilds and woods, That lov'st to circle cliff and mountain hoar, And with the winds to mix thy kindred roar, Startling the shepherd of the Grampian glen ! Rich are the vales that bound thy eastern shore, And fair thy upland dales to human ken ; But scarcely are thy springs known to the sons of men. O that some spirit at the midnight noon, Aloft would bear me, middle space, to see Thy thousand branches gleaming to the moon, By shadowy hill, grey rock, and fairy lea ; Thy gleesome elves disporting merrily In glimmering circles by the lonely dell, Or by the sacred fount, or haunted tree, Where bowed the saint, as hoary legends tell, And Superstition's last, wild, thrilling visions dwell ! To Fancy's eye the ample scene is spread; The yellow moonbeam sleeps on hills of dew, On many an everlasting pyramid That bathes its grey head in celestial blue, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 303 These o'er thy cradle stand the guardians true, The eternal bulwarks of the land and thee, And evermore thy lullaby renew To howling winds and storms that o'er thee flee : All hail, ye battlements of ancient liberty ! There the dark raven builds his dreary home ; The eagle o'er his eyrie raves aloud ; The brindled fox around thee loves to roam, And ptarmigans, the inmates of the cloud ; And when the Summer flings her dappled shroud O'er reddening moors, and wilds of softened grey, The youthful swain, unfashioned, unendowed, The brocket and the lamb, may round thee play : These thy first guests alone, thou fair, majestic Tay ! But bear me, spirit of the gifted eye, Far on thy pinions eastward to the main, O'er garish glens and straths of every dye, Where oxen low, and waves the yellow grain ; Where beetling cliffs o'erhang the belted plain ; In spiral forms, fantastic, wild, and riven ; Where swell the woodland choir and maiden's strain, As forests bend unto the breeze of even, And in the floods beneath wave o'er a downward heaven. THE YARROW. And is this — Yarrow? — This the Stream Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully, a waking dream ? An image that hath perished ! O that some Minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes of gladness, And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness. Yet why ? — a silvery current flows With uncontrolled meanderings ; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 304 THE BEAUTIES OF And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted ; For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused, A tender, hazy brightness ; Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes All profitless dejection ; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection. Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding : And haply from this crystal pool, Now peaceful as the morning, The Water-wraith ascended thrice — And gave his doleful warning. Delicious is the Lay that sings The haunts of happy Lovers, The path that leads them to the grove, The leafy grove that covers : And Pity sanctifies the verse That paints, by strength gf sorrow, The unconquerable strength of love ; Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation : Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still and holy; The grace of forest charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy. That Region left, the Vale unfolds Rich groves of lofty stature, With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated nature ; MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 305 And, rising from those lofty groves, Behold a Ruin hoary ! The shattered front of Newark's Towers, Renowned in Border story. Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For sportive youth to stray in ; For manhood to enjoy his strength ; And age to wear away in ! Yon Cottage seems a bower of bliss : It promises protection To studious ease, and generous cares, And every chaste affection ! How sweet, on this autumnal day, The wild wood's fruits to gather, And on my True-love's forehead plant A crest of blooming heather ! And what if I enwreathed my own ! 'Twere no offence to reason ; The sober Hills thus deck their brows To meet the wintry season. I see — but not by sight alone, Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; A ray of Fancy still survives — Her sunshine plays upon thee ! Thy ever-youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasure; And gladsome notes my lips can breathe. Accordant to the measure. The vapours linger round the Heights, They melt — and soon must vanish ; One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — Sad thought, which I would banish, But that I know, where'er I go, Thy genuine image, Yarrow, Will dwell with me — to heighten joy, And cheer my mind in sorrow. WORDSWORTH 306 THE BEAUTIES OF THE FALLS OF THE CLYDE. O ! I have seen the Falls of Clyde, And never can forget them ; For Memory, in her hours of pride, 'Midst gems of thought will set them, With every loving thing allied — I will not now regret them ! And I have stood by Bonniton, And watched the sparkling current Come, like a smiling wood-nymph, on — And then — a mighty torrent ! With power to rend the cliffs anon, Had they not been before rent. And I have been in Balfour's cave ; But why hath chissel wrought it, Since he, the brutal — but the brave, In sore constraining sought it ? Dark days ! when savage fought with slave, Heroically fought it. And I have hung o'er Burley's leap, And watched the streams all blending, As down that chasm so dark and steep, The torrents were descending ; How awful is the chaos deep — Those rocks so high impending ! And I have worshipped Corra Linn, Clyde's most majestic daughter ; And those eternal rainbows seen, That arch the foaming water ; And I have owned that lovely Queen, And cheerful fealty brought her. And I have wandered in the glen, Where Stone-byres rolls so proudly ; And watched, and mused, and watched again, Where cliff, and chasm, and cloud lie, Listening, while Nature's denizen Talks to the woods so loudly. MODERN BRITISH POETRY, Yes ! I have seen the Falls of Clyde, And never can forget them ; For Memory, in her hours of pride, 'Midst gems of thought will set them, With life's most lovely scenes allied — I will not now rearret them ! 307 LOCH LONG. Upon another shore I stood, And looked upon another flood, * Great Ocean's self! ('tis He, who fills That vast and awful depth of hills ;) Where many an elf was playing round, Who treads unshod his classic ground ; And speaks, his native rocks among, As Fingal spoke, and Ossian sung. Night fell ; and dark and darker grew That narrow sea, that narrow sky, As o'er the glimmering waves we flew, The sea-bird rustling, wailing by. And now the grampus, half descried, Black and huge above the tide ; The cliffs and promontories there, Front to front, and broad and bare, Each beyond each, with giant-feet Advancing as in haste to meet ; The shattered fortress, whence the Dane Blew his shrill blast, nor rushed in vain, Tyrant of the drear domain ; All into midnight-shadow sweep — When day springs upward from the deep ! f Kindling the waters in its flight, The prow wakes splendour ; and the oar, That rose and fell unseen before, Flashes in a sea of light ' Glad sign and sure ! for now we hail Thy flowers, Glenfinart, in the gale ; And bright indeed the path should be, That leads to Friendship and to Thee ! * Loch Long. f A phenomenon described by many navigator? 308 THE BEAUTIES OF Oh blest retreat, and sacred too -' Sacred as when the bell of prayer Tolled duly on the desert air, And crosses decked thy summits blue. Oft, like some loved romantic tale, Oft shall my weary mind recal, Amid the hum and stir of men, Thy beechen grove and waterfall, Thy ferry with its gliding sail, And Her the Lady of the Glen ! LOCH KATRINE. One burnished sheet of living gold, Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled ; In all her length far winding lay, With promontory, creek, and bay, And islands that, empurpled bright, Floated amid the livelier light ; And mountains that, like giants, stand, To sentinel enchanted land. High on the south, huge Benvenue Down to the lake in masses threw Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled, The fragments of an earlier world ; A wildering forest feathered o'er His ruined sides and summit hoar, While on the north, through middle air, Ben-awn heaved high his forehead bare. — The summer dawn's reflected hue To purple changed Loch Katrine blue; Mildly and soft the western breeze Just kissed the Lake, just stirred the trees, And the pleased Lake, like maiden coy, Trembled, but dimpled not for joy; The mountain-shadows on her breast Were neither broken nor at rest ; In bright uncertainty they lie, Like future joys to Fancy's eye. The water-lily to the light Her chalice reared of silver bright, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 309 The doe awoke, and to the lawn, Begemmed with dew-drops, led her fawn ; The grey mist left the mountain side, The torrent showed its glistening pride ; Invisible on flecked sky, The lark sent down her revelry ; The blackbird and the speckled thrush Good-morrow gave from brake to bush ; In answer cooed the cushat dove, Her notes of peace, and rest, and love. THE SEA. I. Oh ! I shall not forget, until memory depart, When first I beheld it, the glow of my heart ; The wonder, the awe, the delight that stole o'er me, When its billowy boundlessness opened before me ! As I stood on its margin, or roamed on its strand, I felt new ideas within me expand, Of glory and grandeur, unknown till that hour, And my spirit was mute in the presence of Power ! In the surf-beaten sands that encircled it round, In the billow's retreat, and the breaker's rebound, In its white-drifted foam, and its dark-heaving green, Each moment I gazed some fresh beauty was seen. And thus, while I wandered on Ocean's bleak shore, And surveyed its vast suiface, and heard its waves roar, I seemed wrapt in a dream of romantic delight, And haunted by majesty, glory, and might ! THE SEA. II. O thou vast Ocean ! Ever-sounding Sea ! Thou symbol of a drear immensity! 310 THE BEAUTIES OF Thou thing that windest round the solid world Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone, Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone. Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep. Thou speakest in the East and in the West At once, and on thy heavily-laden breast Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife. The earth hath nought of this : no chance nor change Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare Give answer to the tempest-wakened air ; But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range At will, and wound its bosom as they go : Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow ; But in their stated rounds the seasons come, And pass like visions to their viewless home, And come again, and vanish : the young Spring Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming, And Winter always winds his sullen horn When the wild Autumn with a look forlorn Dies in his stormy manhood ; and the skies Weep, and flowers sicken when the Summer flies. Oh ! wonderful thou art, great element, And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent, And lovely in repose : the summer form Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves Make music in earth's dark and winding caves, I love to wander on thy pebbled beach, Marking the sunlight at the evening hour, And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach — Eternity, Eternity, and Power. BARRY CORNWALL. THE SEA. III. Beautiful, sublime, and glorious ; Mild, majestic, foaming, free ; — Over time itself victorious, Image of eternity. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 311 Epithet-exhausting Ocean ! 'Twere as easy to control, In the storm, thy billowy motion, As thy wonders to enrol. Sun, and moon, and stars shine o'er thee, See thy surface ebb and flow ; Yet attempt not to explore thee, In thy soundless depths below. Whether morning's splendours steep thee With the rainbow's glowing grace, Tempests rouse, or navies sweep thee, 'Tis but for a moment's space. Earth — her valleys, and her mountains, Mortal man's behests obey ; Thy unfathomable fountains Scoff his search and scorn his sway. Such art thou, stupendous Ocean • But, if overwhelmed by thee, Can we think without emotion What must thy Creator be ? BARTON. THE SEA. IV. Thou vasty deep, what treasures lie concealed Within thy caverns, coral-paved, below The plummet's reach, that ne'er shall be revealed Till the dread Angel his last trump shall blow. Then all will Nature's secret wonders know ; But they, beheld, must disappear, and melt Away with fervent heat, nor ebb, nor flow Of mighty waters shall be seen or felt : No vestige will remain of lands where man hath dwelt. And shall this Ocean, that compared might be (If aught this perishable world can have Likened unto it) with eternity, Be lost at once, as is a single wave, 312 THE BEAUTIES OP That breaks upon the beach ? this greedy grave Of shattered navies, shall it ever cease To gorge its victims while fierce tempests rave ? THE SEA. V. The Sea! the Sea! its lonely shore; Its billows, crested wide ; The clouds which flit its bosom o'er ; Or sunbeams dancing bright : The breakers bursting on the strand, In thunder to the ear ; The frowning cliff, the silvery sand, Each, all to me are dear. The Sea ! the Sea ! oh, tell me not Of Art's triumphant power ! Its proudest trophies are forgot In one lone sea-side hour : Yon giant bark that breasts the tide, Though beautiful and brave, Beats not the curlew in its pride, Which mounts the stormiest wave. The Sea ! the Sea ! the moonlit Sea ! How calm its slumbering tides ! A weather-shore upon her lee, The bark in safety glides : The steersman keeps his watch alone, What time his messmates sleep, While to the strand, in gentlest tone, The murmuring billows creep. The Sea ! the Sea ! the stormy Sea ! How dreadful in its wrath ! When, bounding o'er the billows free, The bark pursues her path : A hidden rock arrests her keel ; She founders in the surge ; Her seamen's knell the thunder peal, The howling winds their dirge. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 313 The Sea ! the Sea ! the treasured Sea ! What mines of wealth untold ! Could human art but set them free, Thy hidden coffers hold : The spoil of navies in their might, The young, the fair, the brave ; With pearls and gems of lustre bright, All sleep beneath thy wave. The Sea ! the Sea ! the glorious Sea ! What has the earth so fair, Of hill or valley, grove or lea, Which may with it compare ? Oh ! I could sit for hours to look Upon its wide expanse ; And read in its unwritten book, Fresh charms at every glance. The Sea ! the Sea ! the solemn Sea ! It has a voice for all ; And e'en to hearts of happiest glee May sober thoughts recall. To me it speaks of distant days, Of vanished hopes and fears ; — Who silently can on it gaze With eyes undimmed by tears ? The Sea ! the Sea ! the changeless Sea ! Of tears I take my leave ; It half recalls a smile from me To think for what I grieve : The hopes and fears I sorrowed o'er Were hopes and fears of time ; Thou art the type of something more Unchanging and sublime. BARTON. THE SEA. VI. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 314 THE BEAUTIES OF The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime — The image of Eternity — the throne Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. MODERN BRITISH POETRV. 315 And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : — from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me Were a delight ; and if the freshening Sea Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. THE SEA. VII. A Summer and Winter View. Turn to the Watery World ! but who to thee (A wonder yet unviewed) shall paint — the Sea ? Various and vast, sublime in all its forms, When lulled by zephyrs, or when roused by storms, Its colours changing, when from clouds and sun, Shades after shades upon the surface run ; Embrowned and horrid now, and now serene, In limpid blue and evanescent green ; And oft the foggy banks on Ocean lie, Lift the fair sail, and cheat the experienced eye. — Be it the Summer-noon : a sandy space The ebbing tide has left upon its place ; Then just the hot and stony beach above, Like twinkling streams in bright confusion move ; (For heated thus, the warmer air ascends, And with the cooler in its fall contends) — Then the broad bosom of the Ocean keeps An equal motion ; swelling as it sleeps, Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand, Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the ridgy sand, Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow, And back return in silence, smooth and slow. Ships in the calm seem anchored ; for they glide On the still Sea, urged solely by the tide ; Art thou not present, this calm scene before, Where all beside is pebbly length of shore, And far as eye can reach, it can discern no more 1 v 2 316 THE BEAUTIES OF Yet sometimes comes a ruffling cloud to make The quiet surface of the Ocean shake ; As an awakened giant with a frown, Might show his wrath, and then to sleep sink down. — View now the Winter-storm ! above, one cloud, Black and unbroken all the skies o'ershrowd ; The unwieldy porpoise through the day before, Had rolled in view of boding men on shore ; And sometimes hid, and sometimes showed his form, Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm. All where the eye delights, yet dreads to roam, The breaking billows cast the flying foam Upon the billows rising — all the deep Is restless change ; the waves so swelled and steep, Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells, Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells ; But nearer land you may the billows trace, As if contending in their watery chase ; May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach, Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch ; Curled as they come, they strike with furious force, And then re-flowing, take their grating course, Raking the rounded flints, which ages past Rolled by their rage, and shall to ages last. — The Ocean too has Winter-views serene, When all you see through densest fog is seen ; When you can hear the Fishers near at hand Distinctly speak, yet see not where they stand ; Or sometimes them and not their boat discern, Or, half-concealed, some figure at the stern ; The view's all bounded, and from side to side Your utmost prospect but a few ells wide ; Boys who, on shore, to sea the pebble cast, Will hear it strike against the viewless mast ; While the stern Boatman growls his fierce disdain, At whom he knows not, whom he threats in vain. — 'Tis pleasant then to see the nets float past, JVet after net till you have seen the last ; And as you wait till all beyond you slip, A boat comes gliding from an anchored ship, Breaking the silence with the dipping oar, And their own tones, as labouring for the shore ; Those measured tones which with the scene agree, And give a sadness to serenity. CP.AUBE MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 317 THE SOUND OF THE SEA. Thou art sounding on, thou mighty Sea, For ever and the same ! The ancient rocks yet ring to thee, Whose thunders nought can lame. Oh ! many a glorious voice is gone From the rich bowers of earth, And hushed is many a lovely one Of mournfulness, or mirth. The Dorian flute, that sighed of yore Along thy wave, is still ; The harp of Judah peals no more On Zion's awful hill : And Memnon's, too, hath lost the chord That breathed the mystic tone, And the songs, at Rome's high triumphs poured, Are with her eagles flown : And mute the Moorish horn, that rang O'er stream and mountain free, And the hymn the learned Crusaders sang Hath died in Galilee. But thou art swelling on, thou Deep, Through many an olden clime, Thy billowy anthem ne'er to sleep Until the close of time. Thou liftest up thy solemn voice To every wind and sky, And all our Earth's green shores rejoice In that one harmony ! It fills the noontide's calm profound, The sunset's heaven of gold ; And the still midnight hears the sound E'en as when first it rolled. Let there be silence, deep and strange, Where crowning cities rose ! Thou speak'st of One that doth not change — So may our hearts repose. MRS. HEMANS. 318 THE BEAUTIES OF THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. What hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells '( Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious Main ! Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells, Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy Sea ! We ask not such from thee. Yet more, the Depths have more ! — What wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies ! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal Argosies. Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful Main ! Earth claims not these again ! Yet more, the Depths have more ! — Thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by ! Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry ! Dash o'er them, Ocean ! in thy scornful play, Man yields them to decay .' Yet more ! the Billows and the Depths have more ! High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! They hear not now the booming waters roar, — The battle-thunders will not break their rest. Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave '■ — Give back the true and brave ! Give back the lost and lovely ! — Those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long; The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song ! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown, — But all is not thine own ! To thee the love of woman hath gone down ; Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown -' Yet must thou hear a voice — Restore the Dead ! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ! — Restore the Dead, thou Sea .' MRS. HEMARS. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 319 A SWELL OF THE SEA. Nearer now the labouring deep Arose, as one enormous wave ! Then would another billow heave, Vast and unbroken ! — Without foam It seemed one mass of steely gloom ; Till, swelling to a haughtier height, With shuddering sweep, It burst against a bellowing rock : And a long ridge of white Rushed o'er the Sea, like furnace-smoke ; Or like the high-maned troop of horse That, in their headlong course, All iron-black, toss fiery froth Amidst the sabres' wrath ! FOLWHELE. SEA PROSPECT. The clouds were journeying east the sky, The wind was low, and the swell was high, And the glossy Sea was heaving bright Like ridges and hills of liquid light ; While far on her lubric bosom were seen The magic dyes of purple and green : — How joyed the bark her sides to lave ! She leaned to the lee, and she girdled the wave ; Aloft on the stayless verge she hung, Light on the steep wave veered and swung, And the crests of the billows before her flung. Loud murmured the Ocean with gulf and with growl, The Sea swam aloof and the dark sea fowl ; And behind her, far to the southward, shone A pathway of snow on the waste alone. HOGG. SEA-SHORE SKETCH. I loved to walk where none had walked before, About the rocks that ran along the shore ; 320 THE BEAUTIES OF Or far beyond the sight of men to stray, And take my pleasure when I lost my way. For then 'twas mine to trace the hilly heath, And all the mossy moor that lies beneath. Here had I favourite stations where I stood, And heard the murmurs of the Ocean-flood, With not a sound beside, except when flew Aloft the lapwing, or the grey curlew, Who with wild notes my fancied power defied, And mocked the dreams of solitary pride. I loved to stop at every creek and bay Made by the river in its winding way, And call to memory — not by marks they bare, But by the thoughts that were created there. Pleasant it was to view the sea-gulls strive Against the storm, or in the Ocean dive, With eager scream ; or when they dropping gave Their closing wings to sail upon the wave : Then as the winds and waters raged around, And breaking billows mixed their deafening sound ; They on the rolling deep securely hung, And calmly rode the restless waves among. Nor pleased it less around me to behold Far up the beach, the yesty sea-foam rolled ; Or from the shore upborne, to see on high Its frothy flakes in wild confusion fly : While the salt spray that clashing billows form, Gave to the taste a feeling of the storm. A FIRST SIGHT OF THE NAUTILUS, AND OTHER MARINE ANIMALS. Light as a flake of foam upon the wind, Keel upward from the deep emerged a shell, Shaped like the moon ere half her horn is filled ; Fraught with young life, it righted as it rose, And moved at will along the yielding water. The native pilot of this little bark Put out a tier of oars on either side, Spread to the wafting breeze a two-fold sail, And mounted up and glided down the billow In happy freedom, pleased to feel the air, And wander in the luxury of light. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 321 Worth all the dead creation, in that hour, To me appeared this lonely Nautilus, My fellow-being, like myself alive. Entranced in contemplation vague yet sweet, I watched its vagrant course and rippling wake, Till I forgot the sun amidst the heavens. It closed, sunk, dwindled to a point, then nothing ; While the last bubble crowned the dimpling eddy, Through which mine eye still giddily pursued it, A joyous creature vaulted through the air, — The aspiring fish that fain would be a bird, On long light wings, that flung a diamond shower Of dew-drops round its evanescent form, Sprang into light, and instantly descended. Ere I could greet the stranger as a friend, Or mourn his quick departure, — on the surge, A shoal of Dolphins, tumbling in wild glee, Glowed with such orient tints, they might have been The rainbow's offspring, when it met the ocean In that resplendent vision I had seen. While yet in ecstasy I hung o'er these, With every motion pouring out fresh beauties, As though the conscious colours came and went At pleasure, glorying in their subtile changes, — Enormous o'er the flood, Leviathan Looked forth, and from his roaring nostrils sent Two fountains to the sky, then plunged amain In headlong pastime through the closing gulf. MONTGOMERY. A REFLECTION AT SEA. I. See how beneath the moonbeam's smile Yon little billow heaves its breast ; And foams and sparkles for a while, And murmuring then subsides to rest 1 Thus Man, the sport of bliss and care, Rises on Time's eventful sea ; And, having swelled a moment there, Thus melts into eternitv. 322 THE BEAUTIES OF A REFLECTION AT SEA. II. How rich the wave, in front imprest With evening twilight's summer hues. While, facing thus the crimson west, The boat her silent path pursues ! And see how dark the backward stream ! A little moment past, so smiling ! And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, Some other loiterer beguiling. Such views the youthful Bard allure, But, heedless of the following gloom, He deems their colours shall endure Till peace go with him to the tomb. WORDSWORTH. THE DELUGE. Morn came : but that broad light which hung so long In heaven forsook the showering firmament. The clouds went floating on their fatal way. Rivers had grown to seas : the great Sea swollen, Too mighty for his bound, broke on the land, Roaring and rushing, and each flat and plain Devoured. — Upon the mountains now were seen Gaunt men and women hungering with their babes, Eying each other, or, with marble looks, Measuring the space beneath swift-lessening. At times a swimmer, from some distant rock, Less high, came struggling with the waves, but sank Back from the slippery soil. Pale mothers then Wept without hope, and aged heads struck cold By agues, trembled like autumnal leaves ; And infants moaned, and young boys shrieked with fear. Stout men grew white with famine. Beautiful girls, Whom once the day languished to look on, lay On the wet earth, and wrung their drenched hair ; And fathers saw them there, dying, and stole Their scanty fare, and, while they perished, thrived. Then Terror died, and Grief, and proud Despair, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 82.*} Rage, and Remorse, infinite Agony, Love in its thousand shapes, weak and sublime, Birth-strangled; and strong Passion perished. The young, the old, weak, wise, the bad, the good Fell on their faces, struck, — whilst over them Washed the wild waters in their clamorous march. — Still fell the flooding rains. Great Ossa stood Lone, like a peering Alp, when vapours shroud Its sides, unshaken in the restless waves : But from the weltering deeps Pelion arose And shook his piny forehead at the clouds, Moaning ; and crowned Olympus all his snows Lost from his hundred heads, and shrank aghast. Day, Eve, Night, Morning came and passed away. No Sun was known to rise and none to set : 'Stead of its glorious beams a sickly light Paled the broad East what time the day is born : At others a thick mass, vaporous and black, And form like solid marble, roofed the sky, Yet gave no shelter. — Still the ravenous wolf Howled, and wild foxes, and the household dog, Grown wild, upon the mountains fought and fed Each on the other. The great Eagle still In his home brooded, inaccessible ; Or, when the gloomy morning seemed to break, Floated in silence on the shoreless seas. Still the quick snake unclasped its glittering eyes, Or shivering hung about the roots of pines ; And still all round the vultures flew, and watched The tumbling waters thick with bird and beast; Or, dashing in the midst their ravenous beaks, Plundered the screaming billows of their dead. Beneath the headlong torrents, towns and towers Fell down, temples all stone, and brazen shrines ; And piles of marble, palace, and pyramid (Kings' homes or towering graves) in a breath were swept Crumbling away. Masses of ground and trees Uptorn and floating, hollow rocks brute-crammed, Vast herds, and bleating flocks, reptiles, and beasts Bellowing, and vainly with the choaking waves Struggling, were hurried out, — but none returned : All on the altar of the giant Sea Offered, like twice ten thousand hecatombs. — 321 THE BEAUTIES OF Still fell the flooding rains. Still the Earth shrank; And Ruin held his strait terrific way. Fierce lightnings burnt the sky, and the loud thunder (Beast of the fiery air) howled from his cloud, Exulting, towards the storm-eclipsed moon. Below, the Ocean rose boiling and black, And flung its monstrous billows far and wide, Crumbling the mountain joints and summit hills : Then its dark throat it bared, and rocky tusks, Where, with enormous waves on their broad backs, The demons of the deep were raging loud : And the sea-lion and the whale were swung Like atoms round and round. — Mankind was dead : And birds, whose active wings once cut the air, And beasts, that spurned the waters, — all were dead : And every reptile of the woods had died, Which crawled or stung, and every curling worm : The untamed tiger in his den, the mole In his dark home — were choked : the darting ounce, And the blind adder, and the stork fell down Dead, and the stifled mammoth, a vast bulk, Was washed far out amongst the populous foam : And there the serpent, which, few hours ago, Could crack the panther in his scaly arms, Lay lifeless, like a weed, beside his prey. And now, all o'er the deeps corses were strewn, Wide-floating millions, like the rubbish flung Forth when a plague prevails ; the rest, down-sucked, Sank, buried in the world-destroying seas. BARRY CORNWALL. THE DELUGE. II. It comes ! it comes ! the clouds concentring swell, And, like a rushing cataract, downward pour Their mass of prisoned waters ; as it fell, A whirlwind swept the sea, and shook the shore ; While Ocean rose, and with reverbering roar Dashed its high billows o'er the rocky strand, Responsive to the thunder-peal, that tore The boundless Firmament, while Death's dark band, Storm, Fire, Wind, Hail, went forth to work their Lord's command , MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 325 O then what prayers, and shrieks, and blasphemies Rung 'mid the din of waters ! while the glare Of broad blue lightnings cleft the clouded skies, And answering thunders seemed to crush the prayer, And bid the conscious criminal despair ; Bowed in the dust, they dared not gaze on high : They said, the angel of Destruction there Urged his red car ; around his presence fly The arrows of his wrath ; to mark him were to die. 'Midst the wild scene of darkness and dismay, A moment seek we for that maiden fair, Who left her God for love's delusive ray, And found too late it led but to despair — Where too is he, whose proffered heart to share She madly gave her hope — her heaven — her all — In yon proud fane, while myriads mingle there Seeking brief refuse, do they vainly call On its unheeding Lord to aid them ere they fall ? Love was not changed to hatred, though in gloom Its fairy dreams had vanished ; for he knew Himself the author of his hastening doom ; Not that unhappy Maid ! to him most true, Though to her God most faithless. And she too In that wild hour of anguish, deeply proved On her own head the cup of wrath she drew ; Nor keen remorse her shuddering bosom moved, Him to arraign, whom yet, if love remained, she loved. Away ! away ! the fatal word is given ! Flames flash — rocks quiver — earth and skies are blent In strange confusion. If yon spacious heaven Were one vast thunder-cloud, it had not rent With shock like this the boundless firmament; Yea, if the struggling mass of smouldering fire From Nature's dawn in iEtna's caverns pent, Had rent the rock to atoms in its ire, It had not wrought a wreck so desperate and so dire. With that stupendous crash his footstep reeled, And to a crag with maniac-gripe he clung Like drowning seamen to their mast — congealed The life-blood in his heart — deep echoes rung 326 THE BEAUTIES OF In his stunned ear, as if some spirit sung His dirge of death — then strangely stu pined, He sank the shattered shivering rocks among, Himself a thing as lifeless, and his bride Torn from his straining arms, lay senseless by his side. Long, long he slept, till, starting with a gasp To consciousness of life and agony, From that rude rock he scarce could loose his grasp Bound as by grappling gyve — his vacant eye Fell first on Adah, dull and dizzily, As on a form unknown — but Love's true ray, Though dimmed, was not extinct — it could not die While the fond heart yet beat — clouds passed away— He saw where pale and cold his best beloved lay : And hung distracted o'er her, till her breast Heaved with faint nutter, and her wan cheek glowed With passing hectic, while the hand he pressed Feebly returned his pressure. Strange tears flowed, And horror ceased an instant to forbode Death's darker consummation, till the roar Of waters smote his ear — he looked abroad — The City of the Plain was seen no more— Beneath him rolled alone a sea without a shore. Now it is done. The swelling floods may rise — ■ None live to perish in the gulf profound ; Devouring flames may dazzle o'er the skies — None hear to startle at the thunder-sound — There are but clouds above and waves around ! The universe is ocean. One wide sea Appears, without a barrier or a bound, As though it ever was, and aye shall be Ascending upward, through infinity. Oh ! there was terror in the storm's deep gloom, And wrath and vengeance in the lightning-glare, And in the thunder-peal the voice of doom : And death in ocean, and o'er earth despair ! These, human eye and human heart might bear — But the cold silence of that drear abyss — Methinks the very Angels shudder there — And pause an instant 'mid their songs of bliss To weep — if Seraphs can — and mourn a scene like this •' MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 327 VISION OF THE DELUGE. The Vision of the Deluge ! Hark — a trump ! It was the trump of the Archangel ! Stern He stands, while the awakening thunder rolls Beneath his feet ! Stern, and alone, he stands Upon Irnmaus' height — No voice is heard Of revelry or blasphemy so high ! He sounds again his trumpet ; and the clouds Come deepening o'er the world ! — Why art thou pale ? A strange and fearful stillness is on earth, As if the shadow of the Almighty passed O'er the abodes of man, and hushed, at once, The song, the shout, the cries of violence, The groan of the oppressed, and the deep curse Of Blasphemy, that scowls upon the clouds, And mocks the deeper thunder ! — Hark ! a voice — ' Perish !' Again the thunder rolls — the Earth Answers — from North to South, from East to West— 1 Perish V the fountains of the mighty deep Are broken up — the rushing rains descend, Like night — deep night, while momentary seen, Through blacker clouds, on his pale phantom-horse, Death, a gigantic skeleton, rides on, Rejoicing, where the millions of mankind (Visible, where his lightning-arrows glared) — Welter, beneath the shadow of his horse ! Now, dismally, through all her caverns, Hell Sends forth a horrid laugh, that dies away, And then a loud voice answers — ' Victory ! ' Victory, to the rider and his horse ! ' Victory, to the rider and his horse !' Ride on; — the Ark majestic and alone On the wide waste of the careering deep, Its hull scarce peering through the night of clouds, Is seen. But lo ! the mighty deep has shrunk ! The Ark, from its terrific voyage, rests On Ararat. The Raven is sent forth, — Sent out the Dove, and as her wings far off Shine in the light, that streaks the severing clouds, Bid her speed on, and greet her with a song : — Go, beautiful and gentle Dove, — But whither wilt thou go ? For though the clouds ride high above, How sad and waste is all below ! 328 THE BEAUTIES OP The wife of Shem, a moment to her breast Held the poor bird, and kissed it. Many a night When she was listening to the hollow wind, She pressed it to her bosom, with a tear ; Or when it murmured in her hand, forgot ^ The long, loud tumult of the storm without.— She kisses it, and at her father's word, Bids it go forth. The dove flies on ! In lonely flight She flies from dawn to dark ; And now, amid the gloom of night, Comes weary to the ark. Oh ! let me in, she seems to say, For long and lone hath been my way : Oh ! once more, gentle mistress, let me rest, And dry my dripping plumage on thy breast. — So the bird flew to her who cherished it. She sent it- forth again out of the ark ; Again it came at evening-fall, and lo ! An olive-leaf plucked off, and in its bill. And Shem's wife took the green leaf from its bill, And kissed its wings again, and smilingly Dropped on its neck one silent tear for joy. She sent it forth once more ; and watched its flight, Till it was lost amid the clouds of heaven : Then gazing on the clouds where it was lost, Its mournful mistress sung this last farewell : — ' Go, beautiful and gentle Dove, And greet the morning ray ; For lo ! the sun shines bright above, And night and storm are passed away. No longer drooping, here confined, In this cold prison dwell ; Go, free to sunshine and to wind, Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well. Oh ! beautiful and gentle Dove, Thy welcome sad will be, When thou shalt hear no voice of love, In murmurs from the leafy tree : Yet freedom, freedom shalt thou find, From this cold prison's cell : Go, then, to sunshine and the wind, Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well.' MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 329 And never more she saw it ; for the Earth Was dry, and now, upon the mountain's van, Again the great Archangel stands ! the light Of the moist rainbow glitters on his hair ; He to the bow uplifts his hands, whose arch Spans the whole Heaven; and whilst, far off, in light, The ascending dove is for a moment seen, The last rain falls — falls gently and unheard, Amid the silent sunshine ! Oh ! look up ! Above the clouds, borne up the depth of light, Behold a Cross ! — and round about the Cross, Lo ! Angels and Archangels jubilant, Till the ascending pomp in light is lost, Lift their acclaiming voice, — ' Glory to Thee, Glory, and praise, and honour be to Thee, Lord God of Hosts ; we laud and magnify Thy glorious name, praising Thee evermore, For the great Dragon is cast down, and hell Vanquished beneath thy cross, Lord Jesus Christ.' ROME. r. Time has but touched, not sealed in gloom The turrets of almighty Rome ; The same deep stream which tossed of yore The infants in their ark ashore,* Whose power, since deified, has piled This seven-hilled city in the wild, Yet in its yellow lustre roves By marble halls and holy groves. Yet on its mount, the pillared shrine August, of Jove Capitoline, Rich with the spoils which war translates, The plunder of a thousand states, Though grey with age or thunder's scars, Looks in proud triumph to the stars. Its portals passed, its threshold trod By white-robed Flamens of the god. * Romulus and Remus. — See Plutarch. X 330 THE BEAUTIES OF Ascended by its hundred stairs, The rough Tarpeian yet declares His fate who freed its fane too well, Who vainly watched and sternly fell. Structures of piety and prayer, Domes towering over temples, there The busy Forum overlook, — The scene when Junius Brutus shook Fiercely his imprecating sword, And smiled on liberty restored, And here the Rostrum, at whose foot Grief rose to rage, and rage grew mute, As Pity dropt, or Passion flung Honey or gall from Tully's tongue. There, where the great and glorified On marble pedestals abide, With gods that make the skies their home, The vast Pantheon's pillared dome Heaves into heaven. With shout and song, As rushing cars urge cars along, There the live circus hums, and spreads Its gladness o'er ten thousand heads, — Sons of a race once armed with power Omnipotent in danger's day, And still commanding, though their hour Of earlier worth has passed away : Though wronged Camillus wars not now, Nor Cincinnatus leaves the plough, Mutius a tyrant's wrath disarms, Fabricius awes, nor Scipio charms, Nor Regulus his pangs defies, Looks back on Rome, and grandly dies. ROME. II. Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 331 What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye ! Whose agonies are evils of a day — A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. The Niobe of nations ! there she stands, Childless and crownless, in her voiceless wo ; An empty urn within her withered hands, Whose holy dust was scattered long ago ; The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, Have dealt upon the seven-hilled city's pride ; She saw her glories star by star expire, And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, Where the car climbed the Capitol ; far and wide Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : — Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say, " here was, or is," where all is doubly night ? Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas ! The trebly hundred triumphs ! and the day When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, And Livy's pictured page ! — but these shall be Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free. BYRON. ROME. III. I am in Rome ! Oft as the morning-ray Visits these eyes, waking at once I cry, x 2 332 THE BEAUTIES OF Whence this excess of joy ? What has befallen me ? And from within a thrilling voice replies, Thou art in Ptome ! A thousand busy thoughts Rush on my mind, a thousand images ; And I spring up as girt to run a race ! Thou art in Rome ! the City that so long Reigned absolute, the mistress of the world ; The mighty vision that the prophets saw, And trembled ; that from nothing, from the least The lowliest village (What but here and there A reed-roofed cabin by a river side ?) Grew into every thing ; and, year by year, Patiently, fearlessly working her way O'er brook and field, o'er continent and sea, Not like the merchant with his merchandize, Or traveller with staff and scrip exploring, But hand to hand and foot to foot, through hosts. Through nations numberless in battle-array, Each behind each, each, when the other fell, Up and in arms, at length subdued them all. Thou art in Rome, the City where the Gauls, Entering at sunrise through her open gates, And, through her streets silent and desolate, Marching to slay, thought they saw gods, not men ; The City, that, by temperance, fortitude, And love of glory, towered above the clouds, Then fell — but, falling, kept the highest seat, And in her loneliness, her pomp of wo, Where now she dwells, withdrawn into the wild, Still o'er the mind maintains, from age to age, Her empire undiminished. — There, as though Grandeur attracted Grandeur, are beheld All things that strike, ennoble — from the depths Of Egypt, from the classic fields of Greece, Her groves, her temples — all things that inspire Wonder, delight ! Who would not say the Forms Most perfect, most divine, had by consent Flocked thither to abide eternally, Within those silent chambers where they dwell, In happy intercourse ? — And I am there ! Ah, little thought I, when in school I sate, A school-boy on his bench, at early dawn Glowing with Roman story, I should live MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 333 To tread the Appian, once an avenue Of monuments most glorious, palaces, Their doors sealed up and silent as the night, The dwellings of the illustrious dead — to turn Toward Tibur, and, beyond the City-gate, Pour out my unpremeditated verse, Where on his mule I might have met so oft Horace himself — or climb the Palatine, Dreaming of old Evander and his guest, Dreamingjand lost on that proud eminence, Long while the seat of Rome, hereafter found Less than enough (so monstrous was the brood Engendered there, so Titan-like) to lodge One in his madness ; * and, the summit gained, Inscribe my name on some broad aloe-leaf, That shoots and spreads within those very walls Where Virgil read aloud his tale divine, Where his voice faltered and a mother wept Tears of delight ! — But what the narrow space Just underneath ? In many a heap the ground Heaves, as though Ruin in a frantic mood Had done his utmost. Here and there appears, As left to show his handiwork not ours, An idle column, a half-buried arch, A wall of some great temple. It was once, And long, the centre of their Universe, The Forum — whence a mandate, eagle-winged, Went to the ends of the earth. Let us descend Slowly. At every step much may be lost. The very dust we tread, stirs as with life ; And not the lightest breath that sends not up Something of human grandeur. We are come, Are now where once the mightiest spirits met In terrible conflict ; this, while Rome was free, The noblest theatre on this side Heaven ! Here the first Brutus stood, when o'er the corse Of her so chaste all mourned, and from his cloud Burst like a god. Here, holding up the knife That ran with blood, the blood of his own child, Virginius called down vengeance. — But whence spoke They who harangued the people ; turning now * Nero. 334 THE BEAUTIES OF To the twelve tables, now with lifted hands To the Capitoline Jove, whose fulgent shape In the unclouded azure shone far off, And to the shepherd on the Alban mount Seemed like a star new-risen ? Where were ranged In rough array as in their element, The beaks of those old galleys, destined still * To brave the brunt of war — at last to know A calm far worse, a silence as in death 1 All spiritless ; from that disastrous hour *, When he, the bravest, gentlest of them all, f Scorning the chains he could not hope to break, Fell on his sword ! — Along the Sacred Way Hither the Triumph came, and, winding round With acclamation, and the martial clang Of instruments, and cars laden with spoil, Stopt at the sacred stair that then appeared, Then through the darkness broke, ample, star-bright, As though it led to Heaven. 'Twas night; but now A thousand torches, turning night to day, Blazed, and the victor, springing from his seat, Went up, and, kneeling as in fervent prayer, Entered the Capitol. But what are they Who at the foot withdraw, a mournful train In fetters ? And who, yet incredulous, Now gazing wildly round, now on his sons, On those so young, well-pleased with all they see, Staggers along, the last ? — They are the fallen, Those who were spared to grace the chariot-wheels ; And there they parted, where the road divides, The victor and the vanquished — there withdrew ; He to the festal board, and they to die. Well might the great, the mighty of the world, They who were wont to fare deliriously, And war but for a kingdom more or less, Shrink back, nor from their thrones endure to look, To think that way ! Well might they in their state Humble themselves, and kneel and supplicate To be delivered from a dream like this ! Here Cincinnatus passed, his plough the while Left in the furrow ; and how many more, * The Rostra, f Marcus Junius Brntiif MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 335 Whose laurels fade not, who still walk the earth, Consuls, Dictators, still in Curule pomp Sit and decide ; and, as of old in Rome, Name but their names, set every heart on fire ! Here, in his bonds, he whom the phalanx saved not, * The last on Philip's throne ; and the Numidean, f So soon to say, stript of his cumbrous robe, Stript to the skin, and in his nakedness Thrust under ground, ' How cold this bath of yours ! ' And thy proud queen, Palmyra, through the sands J Pursued, o'ertaken on her dromedary; Whose temples, palaces, a wondrous dream That passes not away, for many a league Illumine yet the desert. Some invoked Death, and escaped ; the Egyptian, when her asp Came from his covert under the green leaf; § And Hannibal himself; and she who said, Taking the fatal cup between her hands, || * Tell him I would it had come yesterday ; For then it had not been his nuptial gift/ Now all is changed ; and here, as in the wild, The day is silent, dreary as the night ; None stirring, save the herdsman and his herd, Savage alike ; or they that would explore, Discuss and learnedly ; or they that come, (And there are many who have crossed the earth) That they may give the hours to meditation, And wander, often saying to themselves, * This was the Roman. Forum ' ' REMAINS OF ANCIENT ROME. Cypress and ivy, weed and wall-flower grown Matted and massed together, hillocks heaped On what were chambers, arch-crushed columns strown In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos steeped In subterranean damps, where the owl peeped, Deeming it midnight: — temples, baths, or halls? Pronounce who can ; for all that learning reaped From her research hath been, that these are walls — Behold the Imperial Mount ! 'tis thus the mighty falls. * Perseus, t Jflgurtha. t Zenobia. § Cleopatra. || Sophonisba. 336 THE BEAUTIES OF Tully was not so eloquent as thou, Thou nameless column with the buried base ! What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow ? Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, Titus, or Trajan's ? — No — 'tis that of Time : Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace Scoffing ; and apostolic statues * climb, To crush the imperial urn whose ashes slept sublime. ROMAN GIRL'S SONG. Roma, Roma, Roma ! Non & piii come era prima. Rome, Rome ! thou art no more As thou hast been ! On thy seven hills of yore Thou satst a queen. Thou hadst thy triumphs then Purpling the street, Leaders and sceptred men Bowed at thy feet. They that thy mantle wore, As gods were seen — Rome, Rome ! thou art no more As thou hast been ! Rome ! thine imperial brow Never shall rise : What hast thou left thee now ? — Thou hast thy skies ! Blue, deeply blue, they are, Gloriously bright ! Veiling thy wastes afar With coloured light. * The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter; that of Aurelius bv St. Pa-il. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 337 Thou hast the sunset's glow, Rome, for thy dower, Flushing tall cypress-bough, Temple and tower ! And all sweet sounds are thine, Lovely to hear, While night, o'er tomb and shrine, Rests darkly clear. Many a solemn hymn, By starlight sung, Sweeps through the arches dim, Thy wrecks among. Many a flute's low swell On thy soft air Lingers, and loves to dwell With summer there. Thou hast the South's rich gift Of sudden song, A charmed fountain, swift, Joyous, and strong. Thou hast fair forms that move With queenly tread ; Thou hast proud fanes above Thy mighty dead. Yet wears thy Tiber's shore A mournful mien ; — Rome, Rome ! thou art no more As thou hast been ! MRS. HEMANS. POMPEir. Let us turn the prow. And in the track of him who went to die, * Traverse this valley of waters, landing where * The Elder Pliny. 338 THE BEAUTIES OF A waking dream awaits us. At a step Two thousand years roll backward, and we stand, Like those so long within that awful place, Immoveable, nor asking, Can it be ? — Once did I linger there alone, till day Closed, and at length the calm of twilight came, So grateful, yet so solemn ! At the fount, Just where the three ways meet, I stood and looked, ('Twas near a noble house, the house of Pansa) And all was still as in the long, long night That followed, when the shower of ashes fell When they that sought Pompeii, sought in vain ; It was not to be found. But now a ray, Bright and yet brighter, on the pavement glanced, And on the wheel-track worn for centuries, And on the stepping-stones from side to side, O'er which the maidens, with their water-urns, Were wont to trip so lightly. Full and clear, The moon was rising, and at once revealed The name of every dweller, and his craft ; Shining throughout with an unusual lustre, And lighting up this City of the Dead, — Here lived a Miller; silent and at rest His mill-stones now. In old companionship Still do they stand as on the day he went, Each ready for its office — but he comes not. And here, hard by (where one in idleness Has stopt to scrawl a ship, an armed man ; And on the tablet on the wall we read Of shows ere long to be) a sculptor wrought, Nor meanly ; blocks, half-chiselled into life, Waiting his call. Here long, as yet attests The trodden floor, an Olive-merchant drew From many an ample jar, no more replenished ; And here from his a Vintner served his guests Largely, the stain of his o'erflowing cups Fresh on the marble. On the bench, beneath, They sate and quaffed and looked on them that passed, Gravely discussing the last news from Rome. But lo, engraven on a threshold-stone, That word of courtesy, so sacred once, Hail! At a master's greeting we may enter. And lo, a fairy-palace ! every where, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 339 As through the courts and chambers we advance. Floors of mosaic, walls of arabesque, And columns clustering in Patrician splendour. But hark, a footstep ! May we not intrude ? And now, methinks, I hear a gentle laugh, And gentle voices mingling as in converse ! — And now a harp-string as struck carelessly, And now — along the corridor it comes — I cannot err, a filling as of baths ! — Ah, no, 'tis but a mockery of the sense, Idle and vain ! We are but where we were ; Still wandering in a City of the Dead ! ROGERS. TIVOLI. Spirit] who lov'st to live unseen, By brook, or pathless dell, Where wild woods burst the rocks between, And floods, in streams of silver sheen, Gush from their flinty shell ! Or where the ivy weaves her wood, And climbs the crag alone, Haunts the cool grotto, day-light proof, Where loitering drops that wear the roof, Turn all beneath to stone ; Shield me from summer's blaze of day, From noon-tide's fiery gale, And as thy waters round me play, Beneath the o'ershadowing cavern lay, Till Twilight spreads her veil. Then guide me where the wandering moon Rests on Msecenas' wall, And echoes at Night's solemn noon In Tivoli's soft shades attune The peaceful water-fall. Again they float before my sight The bower, the wood, the glade; Again on yon romantic height The Sibyl's temple towers in light. Above the dark cascade. 340 THE BEAUTIES OF Down the steep cliff I wind my way Along the dim retreat, And 'mid the torrents' deafening bray, Dash from my brow the foam away, Where clashing cataracts meet. And now I leave the rocks below, And, issuing forth from night, View, on the flakes, that sun-ward flow, A thousand rainbows round me glow And arch my way with light. Again the myrtles o'er me breathe, Fresh flowers my path perfume, Round cliff and cave wild tendrils wreathe, And from the groves that bend beneath Low trail their purple bloom. Thou grove, thou glade of Tivoli, Dark wood, and rivulet clear, That wind, where'er you wander by, A stream of beauty on the eye, Of music on the ear : And thou, that when the wandering moon Illumed the rocky dell, Didst to my charmed ear attune The echoes of Night's solemn noon, Spirit unseen ! farewell ! Farewell ! — o'er many a realm I go. My natal isle to greet, Where summer sunbeams mildly glow, And sea-winds health and freshness blow O'er Freedom's hallowed seat. Yet, there, to thy romantic spot Shall Fancy oft retire, And hail the bower, the stream, the grot, Where Earth's sole Lord the world forgot, And Horace smote the lyre. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 341 THE DYING GLADIATOR. I see before me the Gladiator lie : He leans upon his hand — his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his drooped head sinks gradually low — And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now The arena swims around him — he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away ; He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay ; There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday — All this rushed with his blood— shall he expire And unavenged ? — Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire I THE COLISEUM. The enormous Coliseum's bulk behold, Like some lone promontory's storm-rent brow, That spreads its shadows o'er the deep below, And back repels the waves in tempest rolled ; A lonely Island, in the sea of Time, On whose deep-rooted base Ages on ages in their ceaseless race Strike, and break off, and pass in idle foam, Forgotten : thus amid the wrecks of Rome The Coliseum lifts its brow sublime; And looking down on all that moves below, — O'er all the restless range, Where War and Violence have worked their change, Towers motionless, and wide around it throws The shadow of its strength — its own sublime repose. Amid the deep arcades and winding cells Eternal Silence dwells, 342 THE BEAUTIES OF Save when tempestuous whirlwinds, as they sweep Through chasms yawning wide, huge fragments throw From the rock's crest, as from a mountain brow ; Or, mingling with the murmur of the air, O'er altars where of yore a shaft of fire Rose from the martyr's pyre, The solitary pilgrim breathes a prayer, Or grey-stoled brethren at the stated time In slow procession float, and chant the deep-toned rhyme. Not deeper felt that silence, that suspense Of being, that lay here on all around, When agony of pleasure chained each sense, In willing horror bound ; While swarm o'er swarm the gathered nations hung ; And where round circles widening circles spread, And arch outsoaring arch Bathed in the sunbeams its ambitious head, Watched, as the dying Gladiator leant On his sustaining arm, and o'er the wound, Whence the large life-drops struggled, coolly bent, And calmly looked on earth, As one who gradual sinks in still repose, His eye in death to close On the familiar spot that viewed his blissful birth. Unlike the actor on a theatre, Who feigns the wound unfelt, that Roman died : He too an actor ; and when death drew nigh, By Rome's tremendous silence glorified, Firmly sustained his part. No sound, no gesture, e'er to ear or eye Betrayed the sufferance of the pang severe, The hand that grasped his heart, Save the low pant that marked his lessening breath, And one last deep-drawn groan — the agony of death. Shout then, and bursting rapture, and the roar, Of myriads — then commingling life-streams ran, And Rome, inebriate, drank the blood of man, And swelled the human hecatomb with gore Of birds and beasts, and monsters of the main ; While death piled up the pyre — the slayers on the slain. — All, all are swept away, Who made the world a gazing theatre, The arena, thundering to their war career. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 343 But thou, enduring monument ! Though thy Cyclopean stones in Rome's dark hour isuilt up her fort and tower, And palaces, whose gloomy grandeur vast O'er her proud temples darkness cast ; Though all-destructive Time Has bowed thy crest sublime, And storms that crushed the rocks thy glory rent ; Though the unsparing earthquake, in its ire That shook the pillars of the globe below, Has rocked thee to and fro, Shattering thy mountain base ; Yet thou, amidst the wrecks of human pride, Hast heaven and earth defied — The flame-winged bolt, and War's insatiate sword ; And viewed around thee perish, race on race, The Goth, the Hun, the Norman, horde on horde, Vanish without a trace ; All, all who envied Rome in flame, The echo of her name ; While ages rolled on ages, circling by, Graved on thy forehead, " Rome's eternity." THE COLISEUM, BY MOONLIGHT. Arches on arches ■ as it were that Rome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shine As 'twere its natural torches ; for divine Should be the light which streams here, to illume This long-explored but still exhaustless mine Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume Hues which have words, and speak to ye of Heaven, Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, And shadows forth its glory. , There is given Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, 344 THE BEAUTIES OP A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power And magic in the ruined battlement, For which the palace of the present hour Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. BYRON. THE RUINS OF PJ3STUM.* They stand between the mountains and the sea; Awful memorials, but of whom we know not ! The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck. The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak, Points to the work of magic, and moves on. Time was, they stood along the crowded street, Temples of gods ! and on their ample steps What various habits, various tongues beset The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice !— How many centuries did the sun go round From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea, While, by some spell rendered invisible, Or, if approached, approached by him alone Who saw as though he saw not, they remained As in the darkness of a sepulchre, Waiting the appointed time ! All, all within Proclaims that Nature had resumed her right, And taken to herself what man renounced ; No cornice triglyph, or worn abacus, But with thick ivy hung, or branching fern, Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure ! — From my youth upward have I longed to tread This classic ground. — And am I here at last? Wandering at will through the long porticos, And catching, as through some majestic grove, Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos like, Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, half-way up, Towns like the living rock from which they grew ? A cloudy region, black and desolate, • The temples of Paestum are three in number ; and have survived nearly nine centuries, the total destruction of the city. Tradition is silent concern- ing them ; but they must have existed now between two and three thousand years. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 315 Where once a slave withstood a world in arms. The air is sweet with violets, running wild * 'Mid broken sculptures and fallen capitals ; Sweet as when Tully, writing down his thoughts, Sailed slowly by two thousand years ago, For Athens, when a ship, if north-east winds Blew from the Psestan garden, slacked her course. The birds are hushed awhile ; and nothing stirs, Save the shrill-voiced cigala flitting round On the rough pediment to sit and sing ; Or the green lizard rustling through the grass, And up the luted shaft with short quick motion, To vanish in the chinks that time has made. — In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk Seen at his setting, and a flood of light Filling the courts of these old sanctuaries, (Gigantic shadows, broken and confused, Across the innumerable columns flung) In such an hour he came, who saw and told, Led by the mighty Genius of the Place ! Walls of some capital city first appeared, Half razed, half sunk, or scattered as in scorn ; — And what within them ? what but in the midst These Three in more than their original grandeur, And, round about, no stone upon another ? As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear, And, turning, left them to the elements. ROGERS. GREECE. I. Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to. crime ? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the" flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ; * The violets of Pactum were as proverbial as the roses. Martial men tions them with the honey of Hybla. 346 THE BEAUTIES OP Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul * in her bloom ; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye ; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 'Tis the clime of the East ; 'tis the land of the Sun — Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. BYRON. GREECE. II. Fair clime ! where every season smiles Benignant o'er those blessed isles, Which seen from far Colonna's height, Make glad the heart that hails the sight, And lend to loneliness delight. There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek Reflects the tints of many a peak Caught by the laughing tides that lave These Edens of the eastern wave : And if at times a transient breeze Break the blue crystal of the seas, Or sweep one blossom from the trees, How welcome is each gentle air That wakes and wafts the odours there ! For there — the Rose o'er crag or vale, Sultana of the Nightingale, f The maid for whom his melody, His thousand songs are heard on high, Blooms blushing to her lover's tale : His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, Unbent by winds, unchilled by snows, * The Rose. f The attachment of the Nightingale to the Rose is a well-known Persian fable. The " Bulbul of a thousand tales," is ons of his appellations. MODERN BRITISH POETRV. 347 Far from the winters of the west By every breeze and season blest, Returns the sweets by Nature given In softest incense back to heaven; And grateful yields that smiling sky Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. And many a summer flower is there, And many a shade that Love might share, And many a grotto, meant for rest, That holds the pirate for a guest; Whose bark in sheltering cove below Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, Till the gay mariner's guitar * Is heard, and seen the evening star; Then stealing with the muffled oar, Far shaded by the rocky shore, Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, And turn to groans his roundelay. Strange — that where Nature loved to trace, As if for gods, a dwelling-place, And every charm and grace hath mixed Within the paradise she fixed, There man, enamoured of distress, Should mar it into wilderness, And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower That tasks not one laborious hour ; Nor claims the culture of his hand To bloom along the fairy land, But springs as to preclude his care, And sweetly woos him — but to spare ! Strange — that where all is peace beside, There Passion riots in her pride, And Lust and Rapine wildly reign To darken o'er the fair domain. It is as though the fiends prevailed Against the seraphs they assailed, And, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwell The freed inheritors of hell ; So soft the scene, so formed for joy, So curst the tyrants that destroy ! — * The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek sailor by night, with a steady fair wind, and during a calm. It is accompanied always by the voice, and often by dancing;. Y 2 318 THE BEAUTIES OF He who hath bent him o'er the dead,. Ere the first day of death is fled ; (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) And marked the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose that's there, The fixed yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, And but for that chill changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathy Appals the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; Yes, but for these and these alone, Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,, He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, The first, last look by death revealed ! Such is the aspect of this shore ; 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more I So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start, for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath ; But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb, Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Feeling passed away ! Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth ! Clime of the unforgotten brave ! Whose land from plain to mountain-cave Was Freedom's home, or Glory's grave ! Shrine of the mighty ! can it be, That this is all remains of thee? Approach, thou craven crouching slave : Say is not this Thermopylae ? These waters blue that round you lave, Oh servile offspring of the free — MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 349 Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ? The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! These scenes, their story not unknown Arise, and make again your own ; Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires ; And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of fear That Tyranny shall quake to hear, And leave his sons a hope, a fame, They too will rather die than shame : For Freedom's battle once begun, Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son, Though baffled oft is ever won. Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, Attest it, many a deathless age ! While kings, in dusty darkness hid, Have left a nameless pyramid, Thy heroes, though the general doom t Hath swept the column from their tomb, A mightier monument command, The mountains of their native land ! There points thy Muse to stranger's eye The graves of those that cannot die 1 'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace, Each step from splendour to disgrace ; Enough — no foreign foe could quell Thy soul, till from itself it fell; Yes ! Self-abasement paved the way To villain bonds and despot sway. BYRON. GREECE. III. Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great ! Who now shall lead thy scattered children forth, And long accustomed bondage uncreate ? Not such thy sons who whilome did await, The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — Oh! who that gallant spirit shall resume, Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb ? 350 THE BEAUTIES OF Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow * Thou satst with Thrasybulus and his train, Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ? Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, unmanned. In all save form alone, and changed ! and who That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, Who but would deem their bosoms burned anew With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty ! And many dream withal the hour is nigh That gives them back their fathers' heritage : For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful page. Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not Who would be free themselves must strike the blow ? By their right arms the conquest must be wrought ? Will Gaul or Muscovite red ress ye ? no ! True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ; Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of shame. When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood, When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, When Athens' children are with hearts endued, When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, Then may'st thou be restored; but not till then. A thousand years scarce serve to form a state ; An hour may lay it in the dust : and when Can man its shattered splendour renovate, Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate ? * Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, has still consider- able remains; it was seized by Thrasybulus, previous to the expulsion of the Thirty. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 351 And yet how lovely in thine age of wo, Land of lost gods and godlike men ! art thou ! Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now ; Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, Commingling slowly with heroic earth, Broke by the share of every rustic plough : So perish monuments of mortal bnih, So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth ; Save where some solitary column mourns Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ; * Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave ; Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave, Where the grey stones and unmolested grass Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, While strangers only not regardless pass, Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh " Alas ! " Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild; Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields ; There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air ; Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare ; Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair, Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground ; No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, Till the sense aches with gazing to behold The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold Defies the power which crushed thy temples gone : Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares grey Marathon. * Of Mount Pentelicus, whence the marble was dug that constructed the public edifices of Athens. The modern name is Mount Mendeli. An im- mense cave formed by the quarries still remains, and will to the end of time. 352 THE BEAUTIES OF The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde First bowed beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, As on the morn to distant Glory dear, When Marathon became a magic word ; Which uttered, to the hearer's eye appear The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career. The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow ; The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear; Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below ; Death in the front, Destruction in the rear ! Such was the scene — what now remaineth here ? What sacred trophy marks the hallowed ground, Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear ? The rifled urn, the violated mound, The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! spurns around. Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied throng; Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian blast, Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ; Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ; Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! Which sages venerate and bards adore, As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. The parted bosom clings to wonted home, If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth ; He that is lonely, hither let him roam, And gaze complacent on congenial earth. Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth ; But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide, And scarce regret the region of his birth, When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. Let such approach this consecrated land, And pass in peace along the magic waste : But spare its relics — let no busy hand Deface the scenes, already how defaced ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 353 Not for such purpose were these altars placed : Revere the remnants nations once revered : So may our country's name be undisgraced, So may'st thou prosper where thy youth was reared By every honest joy of love and life endeared ! BYRON. THERMOPYLAE. They fell devoted, but undying ; The very gale their names seemed sighing ; The waters murmured of their name ; The woods were peopled with their fame ; The silent pillar, lone and grey, Claimed kindred with their sacred clay ; Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain ; Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; The meanest rill, the mightiest river, Rolled, mingled with their fame, for ever. Despite of every yoke she bears, That land is Glory's still, and theirs ! ; Tis still a watch-word to the earth ; — When man would do a deed of worth, He points to Greece, and turns to tread, So sanctioned, on the tyrant's head; He looks to her, and rushes on, Where life is lost, or freedom won. THE PARTHENON AT ATHENS. Still be that cloud withdrawn — Oh ! mark on high, Crowning yon hill, with temples richly graced, That fane, august in perfect symmetry, The purest model of Athenian taste. Fair Parthenon ! thy Doric pillars rise In simple dignity, thy marble's hue Unsullied shines, relieved by brilliant skies, That round thee spread their deep ethereal blue ; And Art o'er all thy light proportions throws The harmony of grace, the beauty of repose. 35i THE BEAUTIES OF And lovely o'er thee sleeps the sunny glow, When Morn and Eve in tranquil splendour reign, And on thy sculptures, as the smile, bestow Hues that the pencil emulates in vain. Then the fair forms that Phidias wrought, unfold Each latent grace, developing in light, Catch from soft clouds of purple and of gold, Each tint that passes, tremulously bright ; And seem indeed whate'er devotion deems, While so suffused with heaven, so mingling with its beams. But oh ! what words the vision may portray, The form of sanctitude that guards thy shrine ? There stands thy goddess, robed in war's array, Supremely glorious, awfully divine ! With spear and helm she stands, and flowing vest, And sculptured regis to perfection wrought, And on each heavenly lineament imprest, Calmly sublime, the majesty of thought; The pure intelligence, the chaste repose, — All that a poet's dream around Minerva throws. Mark — on the storied frieze, the graceful train, The holy festival's triumphant throng, In fair procession, to Minerva's fane, With many a sacred symbol move along. There every shade of bright existence trace, The fire of youth, the dignity of age, The matron's calm austerity of grace, The ardent warrior, the benignant sage ; The nymph's light symmetry, the chief's proud mien, Each ray of beauty caught, and mingled in the scene. MRS. HEMANS. THE EVENENO STAR. A Sapphic Ode. " Clouds float around to honour thee, and Evening Lingers in heaven." southev. When from the blue sky traces of the day-light Fade, and the night-winds sigh from the ocean, Then, on thy watch-tower, beautiful thou shinest, Star of the Evening ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 355 Homewards weary man plods from his labour ; From the dim vale comes the low of the oxen ; Still are the woods, and the wings of the small birds Folded in slumber. Thou art the lover's Star ! thou to his fond heart Ecstasy bequeathest ; for, beneath thy soft ray, Underneath the green trees, down by the river, he Waits for his fair one. Thou to the sad heart beacon art of solace — Kindly the mourner turns his gaze towards thee, Past joys awakening, thou bid'st him be of comfort, Smiling in silence. Star of the Mariner ! when the dreary ocean Welters around him, and the breeze is moaning, Fondly he deems that thy bright eye is dwelling On his home afar off: On the dear cottage, where sit by the warm hearth, Thinking of the absent, his wife and his dear babes, In his ear sounding, the hum of their voices Steals like a zephyr. Farewell, thou bright Star ! when wo and anguish Hung on my heart with a heavy and sad load, When not a face on the changed earth was friendly, Changeless didst thou smile. Soon shall the day come, soon shall the night flee, Thou dost usher in darkness and day-light ; Glitter'st through the storm, and, 'mid the blaze of morning, Meltest in glory. Thus through this dark earth holds on the good man, Misfortune and malice tarnish not his glory; Soon the goal is won, and the Star of his being Mingles with Heaven. MOIR. 356 THE BEAUTIES OF THE LITTLE BIRD. Come, tell me now, sweet little Bird, Who decked thy wings with gold ? Who fashioned so thy tiny form, And bade thy wings unfold ? Who taught thee such enchanting power, To soothe this aching heart ; And, with thy note of harmony, To mock the reach of art ? Thou fly'st away ! who bade thee soar ? Who bade thee seek the sky, And wander through yon silver cloud, A speck to mortal eye ? Oh, had I but thy wings, sweet Bird ! I'd mount where angels be, And leave behind this world of sin, A little thing like thee. I'd mount where golden harps proclaim . Emmanuel's dying love, And gladly hail the eternal rest Of that pure realm above. JOHN PKINGLE. ANSWER. My wings with gold by Him were tinged, Who framed the golden spheres ; He gave me form, who works unchanged, Amidst the change of years. He taught me song, who Heaven's own lyre Has strung to sound His praise ; Who gave the seraph words of fire, And thee, still warmer lays. He bade me fly, who taught thy soul To shoot through time and space, And bound o'er all the orbs that roll, To meet the Sun of Grace. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 357 Still seek that Sun, and thou shalt mount Beyond my utmost flight; And sport and bask thee at the fount Of pure ethereal light. On earth a day, a little day, An exile thou shalt mourn ; But soon the exile, called away, Shall home in peace return. Whilst I, " a little thing," shall die, To thee shall rest be given, Soft as the music of the sky, Long as the years of Heaven. Thy golden harp shall then proclaim " Emmanuel's dying love," And dwell on the immortal theme, In songs still new, above. REV. DUNCAN GRANT. THE LIGHT OF LOVE. Fair as the first blown rose, — but, O ! as fleeting, Soft as the down upon a cygnet's breast, Sweet as the air when gales and flowers are meeting, Bright as the jewel on a sultan's crest, Dear as the infant smiling when caressed, Mild as the wind at dawn in April blowing, Calm as the innocent heart, and O ! as blest, Pure as the spring from mountain granite flowing, Gay as the tulip in its starred bed glowing, As clouds that curtain round the west at even, O'er earth a canopy of glory throwing, And heralding the radiant path to heaven. Sweet as the sound when waves, in calm retreating, Roll back in gurgling ripples from the shore, When in the curling well still waters, meeting, Clear from the spout the molten crystal pour ; Sweet as, at distance heard, the cascade's roar, Or ocean on the lone rock faintly dashing, Or dying thunders, when the storm is o'er, And dim-seen lightnings far away are flashing; 358 THE BEAUTIES OP Sweet as when spring is garlanding the trees, The birds in all the flush of life are singing, And as the light leaves twinkle in the breeze, The woods with melody and joy are ringing, When beds of mint, and flowering fields of clover, Are redolent of Nature's balmiest store ; And the cool wind from rivers hurries over, And gathers sweets that Hybla never bore. Fair as the cloudless moon, o'er night presiding, When earth, and sea, and air, are hushed and still, Along the burning dome of Nature riding, Crowning with liquid lustre rock and hill, Pencilling with her silver beam the rill That o'er the wave-worn marble falling plays, Sheeting with light the cascade at the mill, And paving ocean with her tremulous rays, Through the closed lips of dewy violets stealing, And gemming with clear drops the mead and grove; Such is the Light the native heart of feeling Throws round the stainless object of his Love. percival. (American.) WOMAN. V. Ye are stars of the night, ye are gems of the morn, Ye are dewdrops whose lustre illumines the thorn ; And rayless that night is, that morning unblest, Where no beam in your eye lights up peace in the breast ; And the sharp thorn of sorrow sinks deep in the heart, Till the sweet lip of Woman assuages the smart. 'Tis hers o'er the couch of Misfortune to bend, In fondness a lover, in firmness a friend ; And prosperity's hour, be it ever confest, From Woman receives both refinement and zest ; And adorned by the bays, or enwreathed with the willow, Her smile is our meed, and her bosom our pillow. ANONYMOUS. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 359 WOMAN. VI. Woman ! blest partner of our joys and woes ! Even in the darkest hour of earthly ill, Untarnished yet, thy fond affection glows, Throbs with each pulse, and beats with every thrill ! Bright o'er the wasted scene, thou hoverest still, Angel of comfort to the failing soul ; Undaunted by the tempest, wild and chill, That pours its restless and disastrous roll, O'er all that blooms below, with sad and hollow howl. When sorrow rends the heart, when feverish pain Wrings the hot drops of anguish from the brow, To soothe the soul, to cool the burning brain, O, who so welcome and so prompt as thou ! The battle's hurried scene and angry glow, — The death-encircled pillow of distress, — The lonely moments of secluded wo, — Alike thy care and constancy confess, Alike thy pitying hand, and fearless friendship bliss ! eastburn. (American.) A MOTHER'S GRIEF. To mark the sufferings of the babe That cannot speak its wo ; To see the infant tears gush forth, Yet know not why they flow ; To meet the meek uplifted eye, That fain would ask relief, Yet can but tell of agony — This is a Mother's grief. Through dreary days and darker nights, To trace the march of death ; To hear the faint and frequent sigh, The quick and shortened breath ; To watch the last dread strife draw near, And pray that struggle brief, Though all is ended with its close — This is a Mother's grief! 360 THE BEAUTIES OF To see in one short hour, decayed The hope of future years ; To feel how vain a father's prayers, How vain a mother's tears ; To think the cold grave now must close O'er what was once the chief Of all the treasured joys of earth — This is a Mother's grief! Yet when the first wild throb is past Of anguish and despair, To lift the eye of Faith to Heaven, And think, " my child is there ! " This best can dry the gushing tears, This yields the heart relief; Until the Christian's pious hope O'ercomes a Mother's grief. A FATHER'S GRIEF. To trace the bright rose fading fast From a fair daughter's cheek ; To read upon her pensive brow The fears she will not speak ; To mark that deep and sudden flush, So beautiful and brief, Which tells the progress of decay — This is a Father's grief. When languor, from her joyless coucb, Has scared sweet sleep away, And heaviness, that comes with night, Departs not with the day ; To meet the fond endearing smile, That seeks, with false relief, Awhile to calm his bursting heart — This is a Father's grief. To stand beside the sufferer's couch, While life is ebbing fast ; To mark that once illumined eye With death's dull film o'ercast ; — MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 3(vl To watch the struggles of the frame When earth has no relief, And hopes of Heaven are breathed in vain— This is a Father's grief. To listen where her gentle voice Its welcome music shed, And find within his lonely halls The silence of the dead ; To look, unconsciously, for her, The chosen and the chief Of earthly joys — and look in vain — This is a Father's grief ! And not when that dread hour is past, And life is pain no more — Not when the dreary tomb hath closed O'er her so loved before; Not then does kind oblivion come To lend his woes relief, But with him to the grave he bears A Father's rooted grief. For oh ! to dry a Mother's tears, Another babe may bloom ; But what remains on earth for him Whose last is in the tomb ? To think his shield is blest above — To hope their parting brief, — These, these may soothe — but death alone Can heal a Father's grief. THE LOVE OF COUNTRY. IX. (SCOTLAND.) Dear to my spirit, Scotland, thou hast been, Since infant years, in all thy glens of green ; Land of my love, where every sound and sight Comes in soft melody, or melts in light; z 3G2 THE BEAUTIES OF Land of the green wood by the silver rill, The heather and the daisy of the hill, The guardian thistle to thy foemen stern, The wild-rose, hawthorn, and the lady-fern ; Land of the lark, that like a seraph sings, Beyond the rainbow, upon quivering wings; Land of wild beauty and romantic shapes, Of sheltered valleys and of stormy capes ; Of the bright garden and the tangled brake, Of the dark mountain and the sun-light lake ; Land of my birth and of my father's grave, The eagle's home, the eyrie of the brave ; Land of affection, and of native worth ; Land where my bones shall mingle with the earth - The foot of slave thy heather never stained, Nor rocks that battlement thy sons profaned ; Unrivalled land of science and of arts, Land of fair faces and of faithful hearts ; Land where Religion paves her heavenward road, Land of the temple of the living God ! Yet dear to feeling, Scotland, as thou art, Shouldst thou that glorious temple e'er desert, I would disclaim thee, seek the distant shore Of Christian isle, and thence return no more. JAMES GRAY. HOME. IV. Home! word delightful to the heart of man, And bird, and beast ! — small word, yet not the less Significant : — comprising all ! Whatever to affection is most dear, Is all included in that little word, — Wife, children, father, mother, brother, friend. At mention of that word, the seaman, clinging Upon the dipping yard-arm, sees afar The twinkling fire, round which his children cower, And speak of him, counting the months, and weeks, That must pass dreary o'er, ere he return. He sighs to view the sea-bird's rapid wing. — O, had I but the envied power to choose MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 363 My Home, no sound of city bell should reach My ear ; not even the cannon's thundering- roar Far in a vale, be there my low abode, Embowered in woods where many a 'songster chants. GRAIIAME. THE HIGHLANDS. Stranger ! if e'er thine ardent step hath traced The northern realms of ancient Caledo», Where the proud Queen of Wilderness hath placed, By lake and cataract, her lonely throne ; Sublime but sad delight thy soul hath known, Gazing on pathless glen and mountain high, Listing where from the cliffs the torrents thrown Mingle their echoes with the eagle's cry, And with the sounding lake, and with the moaning sky. Yes ! 'twas sublime, but sad. — The loneliness Loaded thy heart, the desert tired thine eye ; And strange and awful fears began to press Thy bosom with a stern solemnity. Then hast thou wished some woodman's cottage nigh, Something that showed of life though low and mean ; Glad sight, its curling wreaths of smoke to spy, Glad sound, its cock's blithe carol would have been, Or children whooping wild beneath the willows green. Such are the scenes wheie savage grandeur wakes- An awful thrill that softens into sighs ; Such feelings rouse them by dim Rannoch's lakes; In dark Glencoe such gloomy raptures rise : Or farther, where, beneath the northern skies, Chides wild Loch-Eribol his caverns hoar — But, be the minstrel judge, they yield the prize Of desert dignity to that dread shore, That sees grim Coolin rise, and hears Corisken roar. A HIGHLAND GLEN. To whom belongs this valley fair, That sleeps beneath the filmy air, z 2 364 THE BEAUTIES OP Even like a living thing ? Silent— as infant at the breast — Save a still sound that speaks of rest, That streamlet's murmuring ! * The heavens appear to love this vale ; Here clouds with unseen motion sail, Or 'mid the silence lie ! By that blue arch this beauteous earth 'Mid evening's hour of dewy mirth Seems bound unto the sky. Oh ! that this lovely vale were mine — Then from glad youth to calm decline My years would gently glide ; Hope would rejoice in endless dreams, And Memory's oft returning gleams By peace be sanctified. There would unto my soul be given, From presence of that gracious Heaven A piety sublime ; And thoughts would come of mystic mood, To make, in this deep solitude, Eternity of Time ! And did I ask to whom belonged This vale ? — I feel that I have wronged Nature's most gracious soul ! She spreads her glories o'er the earth, And all her children from their birth Are joint heirs of the whole ! Yea ! long as Nature's humblest child Hath kept her temple undefiled By sinful sacrifice, Earth's fairest scenes are all his own, He is a monarch, and his throne Is built amid the skies. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 365 THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF. There is a tongue in every leaf, — A voice in every rill ; — A voice that speaketh every where, In flood and fire, through earth and air ! A tongue that's never still ! 'Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused Through every thing we see, That with our spirits communeth Of things mysterious — Life and Death, Time and Eternity '. I see Him in the blazing sun, And in the thunder cloud ; I hear Him in the mighty roar That rusheth through the forests hoar When winds are piping loud. I see Him, hear Him, every xohere, In all things — darkness, light, Silence, and sound ; but, most of all, When slumber's dusky curtains fall, At the dead hour of night. I feel Him in the silent dews, By grateful earth betrayed ; I feel Him in the gentle showers, The soft south wind, the breath of flowers, The sunshine, and the shade. And yet (ungrateful that I am !) I've turned in silent mood From all these things, whereof He said, When the great whole was finished, That they were ' very good.' My sadness on the loveliest things Fell like unwholesome dew ; — The darkness that encompassed me, The gloom I felt so palpably, Mine own dark spirit threw. 366 THE BEAUTIES OF Yet was he patient — slow to wrath, Though every day provoked By selfish, pining discontent, Acceptance cold or negligent, And promises revoked ; And still the same rich feast was spread For my insensate heart ! — Not always so — I woke again, To join Creation's rapturous strain, ' O Lord, how good Thou art ! ' The clouds drew up, the shadows fled, The glorious sun broke out, And love, and hope, and gratitude, Dispelled that miserable mood Of darkness and of doubt. MISS BOWLES. THE VOICE OF GOD. I heard thy voice in the garden and I was afraid." Amidst the thrilling leaves, Thy voice At evening's fall drew near : Father ! and did not man rejoice, That blessed sound to hear ? Did not his heart within him burn, Touched by the solemn tone ? Not so ! for never to return Its purity was gone. Therefore, 'midst holy stream and bower, His spirit shook with dread, And called the cedars in that hour, To veil his conscious head. Oh ! in each wind, each fountain's flow Each whisper of the shade, Grant me, my God ! Thy voice to know, And not to be afraid ! MRS. HEMANS, MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 367 AN EVENING SERVICE. The cold wind strips the yellow leaf, The stars are twinkling faintly o'er us ; All nature wears her garb of grief, While day's fair book is closed before us. The songs have ceased, — and busy men Are to their beds of silence creeping ; The pale, cold moon looks out again On the tired world so softly sleeping. O ! in an hour so still as this, From care, and toil, and tumult stealing, I'll consecrate an hour to bliss — To meek devotion's holy feeling ; And rise to Thee — to Thee, whose hand Unrolled the golden map of heaven ; Mantled with beauty all the land ; Gave light to morn, and shade to even. Being, whose all-pervading might The laws of countless worlds disposes ; Yet gives the sparkling dews their light — Their beauty to the blushing roses : Thou, Ruler of our destiny ! With million gifts hast Thou supplied us, Hidden from our view futurity, Unveiling all the past to guide us. Though dark may be earth's vale, and damp, A thousand stars shine sweetly o'er us, And immortality's pure lamp Gladdens and gilds our path before us. And in the silence of the scene Sweet tones from heaven are softly speaking, Celestial music breathes between, The slumbering soul of bliss awaking. Short is the darkest night, whose shade Wraps nature's breast in clouds of sadness ; And joy's sweet flowers, that seem to fade, Shall bloom anew in kindling gladness. 368 THE BEAUTIES OF Death's darkness is more bright to him Who looks beyond in visions holy, Than passion's fires, or splendour's dream, Or all the glare of sin and folly . The silent tear, the deep-fetched sigh, Which virtue heaves in hours of quiet, Are dearer than pomp's revelry. Or the mad laugh of frenzied riot ; Smiles from a conscience purified, Far lovelier than the fleeting glory Conferred in all a monarch's pride, Embalmed in all the light of story. This joy be ours — our weeks shall roll — And let them roll — our bark is driven Safe to its harbour — and our soul Awaking, shall awake in Heaven. BOWRJNG. THE HOUR. OF PRAYER. Child, amidst the flowers at play, While the red light fades away ; Mother, with thine earnest eye, Ever following silently ; Father, by the breeze of eve, Called thy harvest work to leave : Pray ! ere yet the dark hours be, Lift the heart and bend the knee. Traveller, in the stranger's land, Far from thine own household band Mourner, haunted by the tone Of a voice from this world gone ; Captive, in whose narrow cell Sunshine hath not leave to dwell ; Sailor, on the darkening sea — Lift the heart and bend the knee. Warrior, that from battle won, Breathest now at set of sun ; MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 369 Woman, o'er the lowly slain, Weeping on his burial plain; Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, Kindred by one holy tie ; Heaven's first star alike ye see — Lift the heart and bend the knee. MRS. HEMANS. TRUST IN THE SAVIOUR. Not seldom, clad in radiant vest, Deceitfully goes forth the Morn ; Not seldom, Evening, in the west, Sinks smilingly forsworn. The smoothest seas will sometimes prove To the confiding bark untrue ; And if she trust the stars above, They can be treacherous too. The umbrageous oak, in pomp outspread, Full oft, when storms the welkin rend, Draws lightning down upon the head It promised to defend. But Thou art true, incarnate Lord ! Who didst vouchsafe for man to die ; Thy smile is sure, Thy plighted word No change can falsify. I bent before Thy gracious throne, And asked for peace with suppliant knee ; And peace was given, — nor peace alone, But faith, and hope, and ecstasy. WORDSWORTH. THE SAVIOUR WEEPING OVER JERUSALEM. O Salem ! who, in proud disdain, My faithful prophets slew; And soon, the cup of guilt to drain, Wilt slay thy Saviour too ! 370 THE BEAUTIES OF How had my love thy children blest, Their deeds of blood forgot, And led them to eternal rest ; But they consented not. Now shall thy house be desolate, Thy glory now shall close ; Nor leave one trace of ruined state, To tell where Salem rose. Nor shalt thou thy Redeemer see, Nor hail thy crown restored, Till thou shalt say, " How blest is he Whom thou hast sent, O Lord ! " THE FLIGHT OF FAITH. The dove let loose in eastern skies, * Returning fondly home, Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where idle warblers roam ; But high she shoots through air and light, Above all low delay ; Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Nor shadow dims her way. So grant me, God, from earthly care, From pride and passion free, Aloft, through faith and love's pure air, To hold my course to Thee. No lure to tempt, no art to stay My soul, as home she springs ; Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Thy freedom on her wings. * The carrier pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch, in or- der to surmount every obstacle between her and the place for which she is destined. MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 371 THE HOUR OF DEATH. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, And stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O, Death ! Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer ; But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the Earth ! The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine ; There comes a day for Grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears — but all are thine ! Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee ! but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey ! Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, And stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O, Death ! We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain ; But who shall teach us when to look for thee ? Is it when spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ? Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? They have one season — all are ours to die 1 Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air ; Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth — and thou art there ; Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest ; Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest, 3 ?2 THE BEAUTIES OF Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, And stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O, Death ! MRS. HEMANS. SACRED SONG. Air, — Avison. Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, In life's happy morning hath hid from our eyes, Ere Sin threw a blight o'er the Spirit's young bloom, Or Earth had profaned what was born for the skies. Death chilled the fair fountain ere sorrow had stained it ; 'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course, And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has unchained it, To water that Eden where first was its source ! Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, In life's happy morning hath hid from our eyes, Ere Sin threw a blight o'er the Spirit's young bloom, Or Earth had profaned what was born for the skies. Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale, Our gayest, or loveliest, lost to us now, Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale, And the garland of love was yet fresh on her brow. Oh then was her moment, dear Spirit, for flying From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown ; And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly in dying, Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own. Weep not for her — in her spring-time she flew To that land where the wings of the Soul are unfurled ; And now, like a -Star, beyond Evening's cold dew, Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world. MOORE. I KNOW THOU HAST GONE. I know thou hast gone to the home of thy rest, — Then why should my soul be so sad ? I know thou hast gone where the weary are blest, And the mourner looks up and is glad !' MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 373 Where Love has put off, in the land of its birth, The stains it had gathered in this, And Hope, the sweet singer that gladdened the earth, Lies asleep on the bosom of bliss. I know thou hast gone where thy forehead is starred With the beauty that dwelt in thy soul, Where the light of thy loveliness cannot be marred, Nor thy heart be flung back from its goal ; I know thou hast drunk of the Lethe, that flows Through a land where they do not forget, That sheds over memory only repose, And takes from it only regret ! In thy far away dwelling, wherever it be, I believe thou hast visions of mine, And the love that made all things a music to me, I yet have not learnt to resign ; — In the hush of the night, in the waste of the sea, Or alone with the breeze on the hill, I have ever a presence that whispers of thee, And my spirit lies down and is still ! Mine eye must be dark that so long has been dimmed, Ere again it may gaze upon thine, But my heart has revealings of thee and thy home, In many a token and sign ! I never look up, with a vow, to the sky, But a light like thy beauty is there, And I hear a low murmur, like thine, in reply, When I pour out my spirit in prayer. And though like a mourner that sits by a tomb I am wrapped in a mantle of care, Yet the grief of my bosom — oh ! call it not gloom — Is not the black grief of despair. By sorrow revealed as the stars are by night, Far off a bright vision appears; And Hope, like the rainbow, a creature of light, Is born, like the rainbow, from tears ! T. K. HERVEY. 374. THE BEAUTIES OP THE HAPPIEST TIME. When are we happiest? — when the light of morn Wakes the young roses from their crimson rest ; When cheerful sounds, upon the fresh winds borne, Tell man resumes his work with blither zest, While the bright waters leap from rock to glen — Are we the happiest then ? Alas, those roses ! — they will fade away, And thunder-tempests will deform the sky ; And summer heats bid the spring buds decay, And the clear sparkling fountain may be dry ; And nothing beauteous may adorn the scene, To tell what it has been ! When are we happiest ? — in the crowded hall, When Fortune smiles, and flatterers bend the knee, How soon — how very soon, such pleasures pall ! How fast must falsehood's rainbow colouring flee ; Its poison flowerets leave the sting of care ; We are not happy there ! Are we the happiest, when the evening hearth Is circled with its crown of living flowers? When goeth round the laugh of harmless mirth, And when Affection from her bright urn showers Her richest balm on the dilating heart ? Bliss ! is it there thou art 1 Oh, no ! not there ; it would be happiness Almost like Heaven's, if it might always be, Those brows without one shading of distress, And wanting nothing but eternity ; But they are things of earth, and pass away, — They must, they must decay ! Those voices must grow tremulous with years, Those smiling brows must wear a tinge of gloom, Those sparkling eyes be quenched in bitter tears, And, at the last, close darkly in the tomb. If happiness depend on them alone, How quickly is it gone ! MODERN BRITISH POETRY. 375 When are we happiest, then ?— oh ! when resigned To whatsoe'er our cup of life may brim ; When we can know ourselves but weak and blind, Creatures of earth ! and trust alone in Him Who giveth, in His mercy, joy or pain : Oh ! we are happiest then ! MISS BROWNE. FAREWELL. I. When eyes are beaming What never tongue might tell, When tears are streaming From their crystal cell ; When hands are linked that dread to part, And heart is met by throbbing heart, Oh ! bitter, bitter is the smart Of them that bid farewell ! When hope is chidden That fain of bliss would tell, And love forbidden In the breast to dwell ; When fettered by a viewless chain, We turn and gaze, and turn again, Oh ! death were mercy to the pain Of them that bid farewell ! FAREWELL. II. Nay, shrink not from the word " Farewell ! " As if 'twere Friendship's final knell ; Such fears may prove but vain : So changeful is Life's fleeting day, Where'er we sever — Hope may say We part, to meet again ! E'en the last parting Earth can know, Brings not unutterable wo, 376 MODERN BRITISH POETRY To souls that heavenward soar ; For humble Faith, with steadfast eye, Points to a brighter world on high, Where hearts, that here at parting sigh, May meet — to part no more ! BARTON, FAREWELL. III. Farewell! — a word that must be, and hath been — A sound which makes us linger ; — yet — farewell ! Ye ! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene Which is his last, if in your memories dwell A thought which once was his, if on ye swell A single recollection, not in vain He wore his sandal-shoon, and scallop-shell ; Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain, If such there were — with you, the moral of his strain ! BYRON. .ABERDEEN : PRINTED BY*G. COKNW A h L.