iJthaca. Nero lork 
 
 WORDSWORTH COLLECTION 
 
 „NTHIA MO°rVaN ST JOHN 
 
 ITHACA, N Y. 
 
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GEM BOOK 
 
 BRITISH POETRI: 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 BY SAMUEL G. GOODRICH. 
 
 ikpntlg |ltastrat£!ij. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY E. H. BUTLER & CO. 
 
 1855. 
 

 Jl 
 
 i. -7" 
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in tlie year 1SJ4, by 
 
 E. H. BUTLER & CO, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 There is no lack of gems in the boundless mine of British 
 poetry. English literature, beyond all others ancient or 
 modern, abounds in ennobling thoughts. These glorious 
 inspirations, from the great masters of song, are a part of the 
 rich patrimony of all who speak the English tongue. They 
 are heir-looms, which have come down to us from former 
 generations, and which we delight to hold among our most 
 treasured household goods. In the present volume, we have 
 woven, as well for use as ornament, a garland of those gems of 
 perennial beauty, consisting of the choicest extracts from the 
 British poets, beginning with Milton, and coming down to 
 the present day. In making these extracts, variety has been 
 
 (5) 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 studied. Specimens will be found of almost every style, and 
 from almost every author of distinguished note. While some 
 of the extracts, also, are necessarily of world-wide notoriety, 
 others not a few, though of equal brilliancy, have been 
 taken from comparative obscurity and re-set, and, like the 
 brilliants of the lapidary, they shine all the brighter for the 
 freshness of their setting. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 MILTON: 13 
 
 l'allegro ............. 17 
 
 il penseroso ............ 23 
 
 DRYDEN: 31 
 
 ALEXANDER'S FEAST ........... 34 
 
 ADDISON: 40 
 
 ODE ............. 43 
 
 SWIFT: 45 
 
 BAUCIS AND PHILEMON ........... 49 
 
 POPE: 67 
 
 THE MESSIAH ............ 62 
 
 GAY: 67 
 
 THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS .......... 73 
 
 OLDYS: 76 
 
 TO A FLY ............. 77 
 
 WATTS: 78 
 
 THE ROSE ............. SO 
 
 A SUMMER EVENING ............ 81 
 
 FEW HAPPY MATCHES .......... 82 
 
 (7) 
 
C N T E N T S. 
 
 YOUNG : . 
 
 So 
 
 LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY .... 
 
 JOHNSON: 
 
 lOtJ 
 
 CARDINAL WOLSEY . 
 
 107 
 
 CHARLES OP SWEDEN . 
 
 109 
 
 THOMSON: . 
 
 Ill 
 
 SHOWERS IN SPRING . 
 
 115 
 
 SUMMER MORNING 
 
 ? • ■ . . 117 
 
 SUMMER EVENING ''' 
 
 ■ ns 
 
 AUTUMN EVENING SCENE . 
 
 121 
 
 GRAY : 
 
 123 ' 
 
 ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 
 
 125 
 MERRICK : 
 
 132 
 
 THE CHAMELEON . 
 
 133 
 
 COLLINS : 
 
 137 
 
 ODE ON THE PASSIONS 
 
 _•■•■••.. 139 
 
 DIRGE IN CYMBELINE . h 
 
 • 144 
 
 SMOLLETT: . 
 
 146 
 
 ODE TO INDEPENDENCE 
 
 148 
 
 GOLDSMITH : 
 
 U4 
 
 FROM THE DESERTED VILLAGE . , _ 
 
 15( 
 AKENSIDE : . 
 
 '••■.. 163 
 
 INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY— PATRIOTISM . . 
 
 164 
 COWPER : 
 
 168 
 
 WINTER EVENING ..... 
 
 BEATTIE: .... 
 
 175 
 
 THE HERMIT 
 
 176 
 
 WOLCOT: .... 
 
 179 
 
 THE APPLE DUMPLINGS AND THE KING ..... 
 
 MRS. FIOZZI: 
 
 184 
 
 THE THREE WARNINGS 
 
 . 1S5 
 
 LOWE: .... 
 
 190 
 
 Mary's dream ... 
 
 • . 191 
 
 LADY ANNE BARNARD: 
 
 193 
 
 AULD RODIN GRAY .... 
 
 194 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 CHATTERTOJNT : 190 
 
 THE minstrel's SON'J ........ . 199 
 
 CRABBE : 
 
 202 
 
 ISAAC ASHFORD ........... 204 
 
 BURNS: 208 
 
 THE COTTAR'S SATURDAY NIGHT .......... 211 
 
 TO MARY IN HEAVEN ....... . 215 
 
 ROGERS: 217 
 
 MEMORIES OP CHILDHOOD ...... . . 218 
 
 WORDSWORTH: 222 
 
 YANITY OF HUMAN GLORY •..-..... . 227 
 
 THE DEAF PEASANT ••■....... 228 
 
 A PORTRAIT ........... 229 
 
 SONNET — LONDON, 1S02 ........... 231 
 
 SCOTT: 232 
 
 THE TKOSACHS AND LOCH KATRINE ......... 285 
 
 MELROSE ABDEY ............ 239 
 
 LOVE OF COUNTRY ............ 240 
 
 YOUNG LOCHINVAR ............ 211 
 
 COLERIDGE: ... . 214 
 
 CHAMOUNI BEFORE SUNRISE ........... 251 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE ........... 255 
 
 HOGG: 258 
 
 KILMENY'S return FROM FAIRY LAND ......... 2C1 
 
 THE SKYLARK ............. 263 
 
 SOUTHEY: 265 
 
 COMPLAINT OF THE POOR .......... . 2U7 
 
 THE HOLLY TflEE ............ 269 
 
 LEYDEN: 272 
 
 ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN .......... 273 
 
 SABBATH MORN ............ 275 
 
 WHITE: 276 
 
 TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE ........... 279 
 
 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM .......... 280 
 
 LAMB: 282 
 
 HESTEE ............. 286 
 
 2 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 CAMPBELL: . 288 
 
 DOMESTIC LOVE . . . . . . . . . . . ' . 290 
 
 BATTLE OP HOHENLINDEN ....... .... 293 
 
 THE WOUNDED HUSSAR . . . . . . . . . . .1 295 
 
 THE soldier's DREAM ........... 296 
 
 BYRON: 298 
 
 TIIE OCEAN ............. 300 
 
 THE EVE OF WATERLOO ........... 303 
 
 TIIE SHIPWRECK ............ 307 
 
 MOORE: ............. .310 
 
 THE GLORY OF GOD IN NATURE . . . . . . . . . .312 
 
 OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT .......... 313 
 
 life's EARLY PROMISE . . . . . . . . . . .314 
 
 love's YOUNG DREAM ......... . . 315 
 
 SHELLEY: 317 
 
 THE CLOUD ............ 319 
 
 KEATS: 323 
 
 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE ........... 325 
 
 MAOAULAY: • 329 
 
 IVRY ............. 331 
 
 HOOD : .... 335 
 
 LONDON IN NOVEMBER .... ...... 337 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT ........... 338 
 
 MONTGOMERY : 341 
 
 NIGHT .............. 346 
 
 HOME .............. 348 
 
 l/IRS. HEMANS: 350 
 
 THE VOICE OF SPRING ........... 353 
 
 THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD . . . . . . . . . . 356 
 
 TENNYSON: 358 
 
 SILENT GRIEF ......"...... 359 
 
 CALM ............. 360 
 
 INSENSIBILITY . • .......... 361 
 
PORTRAITS. 
 
 EXECUTED IN THE FIRST STYLE OF ART. 
 
 GRAY . 
 
 KIPvKE WHITE 
 
 ROGERS 
 
 "WORDSWORTH 
 
 MOORE 
 
 CAMPBELL 
 
 SCOTT . 
 
 KEATS . 
 
 MACAULAY 
 
 IIEMANS 
 
 ENGRAVED BY ANDERTON. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY ANDERTON. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY ANDERTON. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY ANDERTON. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY WHITECIIURCH 
 
 ENGRAVED BY ANDERTON. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY ANDERTON. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY ANDERTON. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY HALPIN. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY WHITECIIURCH. 
 
 (11) 
 
MILTON. 
 
 John Miltox has been selected by Dr. Channing as the 
 highest representative of magnanimity of soul; and the critics 
 generally have regarded him as being among poets what Isaiah 
 was among the prophets — the most touching and the most 
 sublime. 
 
 This great man w\as born at London, Dec. 9, 1608. His 
 father, who had been disinherited by his family, because of his 
 having embraced Protestantism, pursued the profession of a 
 scrivener. The son was educated with great care, having been 
 sent to St. Paul's School, London, and afterwards to Christ's 
 College, Cambridge. He received from his father, who was a 
 good musician, instruction in music, and was a proficient in 
 that art. After leaving college, he lived five years with his 
 lather, then residing at Horton in Buckinghamshire. Here lie 
 
 (13) 
 
14 M I L T N. 
 
 wrote Arcades, Goiims, and Lycidas. About this period, he 
 also wrote L Allegro and // Poiseroso, which we select for this 
 volume, as among the most beautiful and pleasing of the 
 author's minor pieces. 
 
 In 1638, the poet left England, and travelled in Italy — "the 
 most accomplished Englishman," says Campbell, " that ever 
 visited her classical shores." " There," he adds, " if poetry ever 
 deigns to receive assistance from the younger art, his imagina- 
 tion may have derived at least congenial impressions from the 
 frescos of Michael Angelo, and the pictures of Raphael ; and 
 those impressions he may have possibly recalled in the forma- 
 tion of his great poem, when liis eyes were shut upon the 
 world, and when he looked inwardly for godlike shapes and 
 forms." 
 
 On his return to England, Milton engaged in the fierce reli- 
 gious and political disputes which then agitated society — always 
 taking part against prelates and royalists, and vindicating with 
 great ardour, as well as with prodigious power of eloquence and 
 argument, both liberty of thought and of speech. Some of his 
 controversial works are marked with the vehemence of style 
 and expression belonging to the age. 
 
 In 1643, he married the daughter of Richard Powell, and 
 removed to London. Disgusted with the studious habits of her 
 husband, this lady left him at the end of a month; and, -having 
 
MILTON. 15 
 
 gone to her father's house, refused to return. A year after, 
 she fell on her knees before him, and the forgiveness she sought 
 was magnanimously granted. 
 
 In 1649, Milton was appointed, unsolicited. Foreign or Latin 
 Secretary to the Council of State, with a salary of £300 a year, 
 which, however, was afterwards reduced one-half In 1G51, 
 he published his great work. Pro Popnlo Anglicano Defensio, 
 which extended his fame, and obtained for him a gift of £1000 
 from the government. In 1652, he became blind, in conse- 
 quence of intense study ; and from this " dark, dark, irrecover- 
 ably dark," he was never for a moment relieved. He however 
 continued his labours, literary and official. In 1653, Cromwell 
 became Lord Protector of England. Milton supported his 
 government, as well as that of his son and successor, Richard, 
 to the close. 
 
 Soon after the death of his first wife, he was united to Miss 
 Woodcock of Hackney ; but she died within a year. He was 
 married still a third time, in the course of a few months. On 
 the Restoration, in 1660, he secreted himself, from the idea 
 that he was in personal danger from the new government; 
 but, being included in the act of amnesty, he ventured to appear 
 abroad. 
 
 Deprived of public employment, he now occupied himself with 
 his two great poems — Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained ; 
 
16 MILTOxN. 
 
 being assisted in writing by his two aaughters. He was also 
 aided in his hterary affairs by a kind-hearted Quaker named 
 Thomas Elwood. During the Latter part of his life, he lived 
 upon narrow means and in comjDarative obscurity. For Para- 
 dise Lost he received £15, in several instalments. 
 
 The political prejudices against the author obscured the glory 
 of his works and the nobleness of his character for a time, but 
 they have since shone forth, and extorted acknowledgment and 
 admiration from the wdiole civilized world. There is probably 
 no name in British history or literature wdiich carries with it 
 loftier associations of intellectual power and moral sublimity 
 than that of John Milton. 
 
L'ALLEGRO. 
 
 Hence, loathed Melancholy, 
 
 Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born. 
 
 In Stygian cave forlorn, 
 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy ; 
 
 Find out some uncouth cell. 
 Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wmgs, 
 And the night-raven sings ; 
 
 There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks. 
 As ragged as thy locks. 
 
 In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 
 
 But come thou goddess fair and free, 
 In heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne, 
 And by men heart-easing Mirth, 
 Whom lovely Yenus at a birth, 
 With two sister Graces more. 
 To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; 
 3 ri7^ 
 

 
 
 
 
 18 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 
 
 Or wlietlier, as some sages sing, 
 
 
 
 
 The frolic wind, that breathes the spring, 
 
 
 
 
 Zephyr, with Aurora j3laying. 
 
 
 
 
 As he met her once a-maying, 
 
 
 
 
 There on beds of violets blue, 
 
 
 
 
 And fresh blown roses Avash'd in dew, 
 
 
 
 
 Filled her with thee a daughter fair, 
 
 
 
 
 So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 
 
 
 
 
 Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 
 
 
 
 
 Jest, and youthful Jollity, 
 
 
 
 
 Quips, and cranks, and wanton vales, 
 
 
 
 
 Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, 
 
 
 
 
 Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 
 
 
 
 
 And love to live in dimple sleek ; 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 Sport that wrinkled Care derides. 
 
 
 
 
 And Laughter holding both his sides. 
 
 
 
 
 Come, and trip it as you go 
 
 
 
 
 On the light fantastic toe ; 
 
 
 
 
 And in thy right hand lead with thee 
 
 
 
 
 The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty : 
 
 
 
 
 And, if I give thee honour due. 
 
 
 
 
 Mirth, admit me of thy crew. 
 
 
 
 
 To live with her, and live with thee, 
 
 
 
 • 
 
 Li unreproved pleasures free : 
 
 
L ' A L L E G R 0. 19 
 
 To hear the lark begin his fliglit, 
 And singing startle the dull night, 
 rrom his watch-tower in the skies, 
 Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
 Then to come, in spite of sorrow. 
 And at mj window bid good morrow, 
 Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, 
 Or the twisted eglantine : 
 While the cock with lively din, 
 Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 
 And to the stack, or the barn door. 
 Stoutly struts his dames before : 
 Oft listening how the hounds and horn 
 Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn. 
 From the side of some hoar hill, 
 Through the high wood echoing shrill : 
 Sometimes walking not unseen 
 By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 
 Right against the eastern gate. 
 Where the great sun begins his state, 
 Robed in flames, and amber light, 
 The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 
 While the ploughman near at hand 
 Whistles o'er the furrowed land, 
 And the milk-maid singeth bhthe, 
 And the mower whets his scythe, 
 
20 M I L T N. 
 
 And every shepherd tells his tale, 
 Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
 
 Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
 Whilst the landscape round it measures ; 
 Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 
 Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 
 Mountains on whose barren breast 
 The labouring clouds do often rest ; 
 Meadows trim with daisies pied : 
 Shallow brooks, and rivers wide : 
 Towers and battlements it sees 
 Bosomed high in tufted trees. 
 Where perhaps some beauty lies. 
 The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 
 
 Hard by a cottage chimney smokes. 
 
 From betwixt two aged oaks. 
 
 Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met, 
 
 Are at their savoury dinner set 
 
 Of herbs, and other country messes, 
 
 Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; 
 
 And then in haste her bower she leaves, 
 
 With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 
 
 Or, if the earlier season lead. 
 
 To the tanned haycock in the mead. 
 
L ' A L L E G R 0. 21 
 
 Sometimes, with secure delight, 
 
 The upland hamlets will invite, 
 
 AVhen the merry bells ring round, 
 
 And the jocund rebecks sound 
 
 To many a youth and many a maid. 
 
 Dancing in the chequered shade ; 
 
 And young and old come forth to play 
 
 On a sunshine holiday. 
 
 Till the livelong daylight fail ; 
 
 Then to the spicy nut-broAvn ale, 
 
 With stories told of many a feat. 
 
 How Fairy Mab the junkets eat ; 
 
 She Avas pinched, and pulled, she said ; 
 
 And he, by friar's lantern led, 
 
 Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 
 
 To earn his cream-bowl duly set. 
 
 When in one night, ere glimpse of morn. 
 
 His shadowy flail hath thrashed the corn, 
 
 That ten day-labourers could not end, 
 
 Then lays him down the lubber fiend, 
 
 And, stretched out all the chimney's length, 
 
 Basks at the fire his hairy strength ; 
 
 And cropful out of doors he flings, 
 
 Ere the first cock his matin rings. 
 
 Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 
 
 By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. 
 
22 M I L T N. 
 
 Towered cities please us then, 
 
 And the busy hum of men, 
 
 Where throngs of knights and barons bold, 
 
 In Aveeds of peace high triumphs hold, 
 
 With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
 
 Rain influence, and judge the prize 
 
 Of wit or arms, wdiile both contend 
 
 To wun her grace whom all commend. 
 
 There let Hymen oft appear 
 
 In saffron robe, with taper clear, 
 
 And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 
 
 With mask and antique pageantry ; 
 
 Such sights as youthful poets dream 
 
 On summer eves by haunted stream. 
 
 Then to the well-trod stage anon. 
 
 If Jonson's learned sock be on. 
 
 Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child, 
 
 Warble his native wood-notes wild. 
 
 And ever, against eating cares, 
 Lap me in soft Lydian airs, 
 JNIarried to immortal verse. 
 Such as the meeting soul may pierce, 
 In notes, with many a winding bout 
 Of linkM sweetness long drawn out, 
 
L ' A L L E G R 0. • 23 
 
 With wanton heed, and giddy cunning ; 
 
 The melting voice through mazes running, 
 
 Untwisting all the chains that tie 
 
 The hidden soul of harmony ; 
 
 That Orpheus' self may heave his licad 
 
 From golden slumbers on a bed 
 
 Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 
 
 Such strains as Avould have Avon the ear 
 
 Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
 
 His half-regained Eurydice. 
 
 These delights if thou canst give. 
 Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 
 
 IL PENSEROSO. 
 
 Hence, vain deluding Joys, 
 
 The brood of Folly, without father bred ! 
 
 Hov,^ little you bested, 
 Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! 
 
 Dwell in some idle brain. 
 And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, 
 As thick and numberless 
 
24 MILTON. 
 
 As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, 
 Or likest hovering dreams, 
 
 The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 
 
 But hail, thou goddess, sage and holv, 
 
 Hail, divinest Melancholy, 
 
 Whose saintly visage is too bright 
 
 To hit the sense of human sight ; 
 
 And therefore to our weaker view 
 
 O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue ; 
 
 Black, but such as in esteem 
 
 Prince Memnon's sister might beseem ; 
 
 Or that starred Etliiop queen that stro\ e 
 
 To set her beauty's praise above 
 
 The sea-nymphs, and their powers oifended : 
 
 Yet thou art higher far descended. 
 
 Thee, bright-haired Vesta, long of yore, 
 
 To solitary Saturn bore ; 
 
 His daughter she ; in Saturn's reign 
 
 Such mixture was not held a stain : 
 
 Oft, in glimmering bowers and glades, 
 
 He met her, and in secret shades 
 
 Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
 
 While yet there was no fear of Jove. 
 
 Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure. 
 Sober, steadfast, and demure, 
 
IL PENSEROSO. 25 
 
 All in a robe of darkest grain, 
 
 Flowing Avith majestic train. 
 
 And sable stole of cypress-lawn, 
 
 Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
 
 Come, but keep thy wonted state. 
 
 With even step, and musing gait, 
 
 And looks commercing with the skies, 
 
 Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 
 
 There held in holy passion still. 
 
 Forget thyself to marble, till. 
 
 With a sad leaden downward cast. 
 
 Thou fix them on the earth as fast ; 
 
 And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 
 
 Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 
 
 And hears the Muses in a ring. 
 
 Aye round about Jove's altar sing ; 
 
 And add to these retired Leisure, 
 
 That in trim gardens takes his pleasure. 
 
 But first, and chiefest, with thee bring 
 
 Him that yon soars on golden wing, 
 
 Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, 
 
 The cherub Contemplation : ' 
 
 And the mute silence hist along, 
 
 'Less Philomel will deign a song 
 
 In her sweetest, saddest plight. 
 
 Smoothing the rugged brow of Night ; 
 
26 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 While Cynthia checks her dragon-yoke, 
 
 Gently o'er th' accustomed oak. 
 
 Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, 
 
 Most musical, most melancholy ! 
 
 Thee, chantress, oft the woods among 
 
 I woo, to hear thy evening song : 
 
 And missing thee, I walk unseen 
 
 On the dry smooth-shaven green, 
 
 To behold the wandering moon. 
 
 Riding near her highest noon. 
 
 Like one that had been led astray 
 
 Through the heavens' wide pathless way ; 
 
 And oft, as if her head she bowed, 
 
 
 
 Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
 
 
 
 Oft on a plat of rising ground, 
 
 
 
 I hear the far-off curfew sound, 
 
 
 
 Over some wdde-watered shore. 
 
 
 
 Swinging slow with sullen roar. 
 
 
 
 Or if the air will not permit, 
 
 
 
 Some still removed place will fit, 
 
 
 
 Where glowing embers through the room 
 
 
 
 Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 
 
 
 
 Far from all resort of mirth. 
 
 
 
 Save the cricket on the hearth, 
 
 
 
 Or the bellman's drowsy charm, 
 
 
 
 To bless the doors from nightly harm. 
 
 

 
 
 I 
 
 IL PENSEROSO. 27 
 
 
 1 
 Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, ' 
 
 
 Be seen in some high lonely tower, 1 
 
 
 Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, 
 
 
 With thrice-great Hermes ; or unsphere i 
 
 
 The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
 
 
 What Avorlds, or what vast regions, hold \ 
 
 
 The immortal mind that hath forsook "'1^ 
 
 
 Her mansion in this fleshly nook : i 
 
 
 And of those demons that are found | 
 
 
 In fire, air, flood, or under ground. 
 
 
 Whose power hath a true consent 
 
 
 With planet, or with element. : j 
 
 
 Sometimes let gorgeous Tragedy ,'■ '; j 
 
 
 In sceptred pall come sweeping by, V' ' 1 
 
 
 Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, ' | 
 
 
 Or the tale of Troy divine, , i 
 
 
 Or what (though rare) of later age | 
 
 
 Ennobled hath the buskined stage. 
 
 
 But, sad virgin, that thy power ""■,:. | 
 
 
 Might raise Musgeus from his bower ; ;■ 
 
 
 Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
 
 
 Such notes as, warbled to the string. 
 
 
 Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek. 
 
 
 And made hell grant what love did seek ; 
 
 i 
 
 
 
'-^8 MIL TO NO. 
 
 Or call ujD him that left half-told 
 The story of Cambuscan bold, 
 Of Camball, and of Algarfife, 
 And who had Canace to wife, 
 That owned the virtuous ring and glass, 
 And of the wond'rous horse of brass, 
 On which the Tartar king did ride ; 
 And if aught else great bards beside 
 In sage and solemn tunes have sung, 
 Of tourneys and of trophies hung, 
 Of forests and enchantments drear, 
 Where more is meant than meets the ear. 
 
 Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, 
 
 Till civil-suited Morn appear : 
 
 Not tricked and frounced as she was wont 
 
 With the Attic boy to hunt. 
 
 But kerchiefed in a comely cloud. 
 
 While rocking winds are piping loud. 
 
 Or ushered with a shower still, 
 
 When the gust hath blown his fill. 
 
 Ending on the rustling leaves, 
 
 With minute drops from off the eaves. 
 
 And wheri the sun begins to fling 
 
 His flaring beams, me. Goddess, bring 
 
ILPENSEROSO. 29 
 
 To arched walks of tAyiliglit groves, 
 
 And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, 
 
 Of pme, or monumental oak. 
 
 Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke, 
 
 Was never heard the nymphs to daunt. 
 
 Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. 
 
 There in close covert by some brook, 
 
 Where no profaner eye may look, 
 
 Hide me from day's garish eye. 
 
 While the bee with honeyed thigh. 
 
 That at her flowery work doth sing, 
 
 And the waters murmuring. 
 
 With such concert as they keep. 
 
 Entice the dcAvy-feathered sleep : 
 
 And let some strange mysterious dream 
 
 Wave at his wings in airy stream 
 
 Of lively portraiture disj)layed, 
 
 Softly on my eyelids laid. 
 
 And, as I wake, sweet music breathe 
 
 Above, about, or underneath. 
 
 Sent by some s|)irit to inortals good, 
 
 Or the unseen Genius of the wood. 
 
 But let my due feet never fail 
 
 To walk the studious cloisters pale ; 
 
30 M I L T N. 
 
 And love the high embowed roof, 
 
 With antic pillars massy proof, 
 
 And storied windows richly dight, 
 
 Casting a dim religious light. 
 
 There let the pealing organ blow 
 
 To the full-voiced quire below, 
 
 In service high, and anthems clear, 
 
 As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 
 
 Dissolve me into ecstasies. 
 
 And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 
 
 And may at last my weary age 
 Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
 The hairy gown and mossy cell. 
 Where I may sit and rightly spell 
 Of every star that heaven doth show, 
 And every herb that sips the dew : 
 Till old experience do attain 
 To something like prophetic strain. 
 
 These pleasures. Melancholy, give. 
 And I with thee will choose to live. 
 
D R Y D E N. 
 
 John Dryden was born in 1631, at Aldwinckle, North- 
 amptonshire ; his father being a puritan, of good family, long 
 established in that county. John was the eldest of fourteen 
 children, but he received a good education, being first sent to 
 the school at Westminster, and afterwards to the university of 
 Cambridge. 
 
 His father's death in 1654, put him in possession of an estate 
 worth £60 a year. He however continued at Cambridge, until 
 three years afterwards, when he was introduced into an inferior 
 public office, under Cromwell. An eulogistic poem upon the 
 death of that great man, appears to have been his first produc- 
 tion of any importance. On the Restoration, he went over with 
 the greater part of the poets of the time, to the court, and wrote 
 flattering addresses to the King and the Lord Chancellor. He 
 
 (31) 
 
33 , DRYDEN. 
 
 subsequently abandoned paritanism and embraced the Catholic 
 religion. These departures from his early education, and the 
 course adopted at the outset of his career — as they coincided 
 with his interest — have cast over him the suspicion that selfish- 
 ness lay at the foundation of his character. 
 
 In 1669, Dryden began his dramatic career, and soon after 
 married a daughter of the first Earl of Berkshire. At one 
 period he was chiefly devoted to writing for the stage, being 
 under an engagement to supply the King's Theatre with three 
 plays a year, for the annual sum of three or four hundred 
 pounds. Afterwards, he produced satires, translations, and a 
 great variety of miscellaneous pieces. 
 
 The Revolution of 1688 deprived Dryden of the office of 
 poet laureate. He appears now to have been in narrow 
 circumstances, which stimulated him in his literary labours. 
 His translation of the -5j]neid, which was completed about this 
 time, brought him £1200. His Ode on St. Cecilia's Day — com- 
 monly called Alexander's Feast — appeared the same year. 
 Though not the most characteristic of his productions, this is 
 considered one of the finest pieces of exact lyrical poetry in the 
 English language, and we therefore include it in our collection. 
 
 A short time before his death, Dryden produced his Fables, 
 which may be regarded as his most popular work. His last 
 
DIIYDEN. 33 
 
 performance — a mask with a prologue- — was w^ritten three w^eeks 
 before his death, which occurred May 1, 1700. 
 
 Drjden is generally regarded as one of the masters of English 
 verse. Campbell speaks of him as "the Great High Priest of 
 the Nine." He was, however, chiefly distinguished for his 
 masculine satire. His genius was debased by the false taste 
 of the age, and his mind vitiated by its bad morals. He w^as a 
 stranger to the finer sensibilities of the soul, and, often depriving 
 his subject of its intrinsic delicacy or beauty, he imparted to it 
 the coarseness of his own mind. 
 
ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 
 
 'TwAS at the royal feast, for Persia Avon, 
 By Philip's warlike son : 
 Aloft in awful state 
 The godlike hero sate 
 
 On his imperial throne : 
 His valiant peers were placed around, 
 Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound ; 
 
 So should desert in arms be crowned. 
 The lovely Thais by his side 
 Sat, like a blooming Eastern bride. 
 In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
 Happy, happy, happy pair ; 
 None but the brave, 
 None but the brave, 
 None but the brave deserves the fair. 
 
 (34) 
 
ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 35 
 
 Timotheus, placed on high 
 Amid the tuneful quire, 
 With flying fingers touched the lyre : 
 The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
 And heavenly joys inspire. 
 The song began from Jove, 
 Who left his blissful seats above, 
 Such is the power of mighty Love ! 
 A dragon's fiery form belied the god : 
 Sublime on radiant spheres he rode. 
 When he to fair Olympia pressed ; 
 And Avhile he sought her snowy breast. 
 Then round her slender waist he curled. 
 And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. 
 The listening crowd admire the lofty sound ; 
 A present deity, they shout around ; 
 A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound : 
 With ravished ears 
 The monarch hears. 
 Assumes the god. 
 Affects to nod, 
 And seems to shake the spheres. 
 
 The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, 
 Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young : 
 
m 
 
 '66 DRYDEN. 
 
 The jolly god in triumph comes ; 
 Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ; 
 Flushed with a purple grace 
 He shows his honest face. 
 Now, give the hautboys breath ; he comes ! he comes ! 
 Bacchus, ever fair and young, 
 Drinking joys did first ordain : 
 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure ; 
 Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 
 Rich the treasure. 
 Sweet the pleasure ; 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 
 
 Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain : 
 Fought all his battles o'er again : 
 And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. 
 The master saw the madness rise ; 
 His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
 And, while he heaven and earth defied. 
 Changed his hand, and checked his jjride. 
 
 He chose a mournful muse, 
 
 Soft pity to infuse : 
 He sung Darius great and good, 
 
 By too severe a fate ■ 
 
 Fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, 
 
 Fall'n from his high estate, 
 And weltering in his blood ; 
 
ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 2lt 
 
 Deserted at his utmost need 
 By those his former bounty fed, 
 On the bare earth exposed he lies, 
 With not a friend to close his eyes. 
 
 With downcast look the joyless victor sate, 
 Revolving in his altered soul 
 
 The various turns of fate below ; 
 And now and then a sigh he stole, 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 The mighty master smiled to see 
 That love Avas in the next degree : 
 'Twas but a kindred sound to move ; 
 For pity melts the mind to love. 
 Softly sweet in Lydian measures. 
 Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures ; 
 War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 
 Honour but an empty bubble ; 
 
 Never ending, still beginning, 
 Fighting still, and still destroying ; 
 
 If the world be worth thy winning, 
 Think, think it worth enjoying ! 
 Lovely Tha'is sits beside thee. 
 Take the good the gods provide thee. 
 The many rend the skies with loud applause ; 
 So love was crowned, but music won the cause. 
 
38 DRY PEN. 
 
 The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
 Gazed on the fair 
 Who caused his care, 
 
 And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, 
 Sighed and looked, and sighed again. 
 At length, Avith love and wine at once oppressed, 
 The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 
 
 Now strike the golden Lyre again ; 
 A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
 Break his bands of sleep asunder. 
 And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. 
 Hark ! hark ! the horrid sound 
 Has raised up his head. 
 As awaked from the dead. 
 And, amazed, he stares around. 
 Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries ; 
 See the Furies arise ; 
 See the snakes that they rear ! 
 How they kiss in the air. 
 And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 
 Behold a ghastly band. 
 Each a torch in his hand ! 
 These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, 
 And unburied remain 
 Inglorious on the plain ; 
 
ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 39 
 
 Give the vengeance due 
 To the valiant crew : 
 Behold how they toss their torches on high ! 
 How they point to the Persian abodes, 
 And glittering temples of their hostile gods ! 
 The Princes applaud, with a furious joy ; 
 And the king seized a flambeau, with zeal to destroy ; 
 Thais led the way, 
 To light him to his prey, 
 And, like another Helen, fired another Troy, 
 
 Thus long ago, 
 Ere heaving bellows learned to blow. 
 While organs yet were mute, 
 Timotheus to his breathing flute 
 And sounding lyre. 
 Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
 The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store. 
 Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
 And added length to solemn sounds. 
 With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
 
 Or both divide the crown : 
 He raised a mortal to the skies ; 
 She drew an angel down. 
 
ADDISON. 
 
 Joseph Addison was chiefly distinguished as a prose writer. 
 He Licked both the fire and the fancy of the higher order of 
 poets. Still he has left behind him a few exquisite stanzas, 
 from which w^e desire to make a single selection. We there- 
 fore include him in our gallery ; giving to his memory a brief 
 biographical notice. 
 
 He was the son of an English dean, and born at Milston, 
 Wiltshire, in 1672. He was educated at Oxford, and soon 
 devoted himself to literature. In 1699, in consideration of a 
 poem " to Ids Most Sacred MfAJesty,'' \\q received a pension of 
 £300, to enable him to travel in Itah^ He remained abroad 
 till 1702. In 1716, being at the highest point of his fame, he 
 was united to the Dowager Countess of Warwick. But it has 
 been said of this event, that " the poet married discord in a 
 
 (40) 
 
ADDISON. 4] 
 
 noble wife." The same might have been remarked of Drjclen's 
 unhappy union with Lady Elizabeth Howard. 
 
 Addison held various public offices, and in 1717 was made 
 Secretary of State ; he however soon resigned this high station, 
 from a species of necessity, being ill suited to a discharge of its 
 duties, owing to a lack of ability as a public speaker, and from 
 slow and fastidious habits in the details of business. Affairs 
 of state were not, indeed, the true theatre of his genius, nor 
 of his taste and ambition. The real energies of his mind were 
 given to literature, in the various forms of dramatic writings, 
 essays, and light poetical pieces. 
 
 Among his plays, the tragedy of Cato, produced in 1713, 
 holds the first rank. The Spectator, which was published in 
 numbers, between March 1713 and December 1714, and in 
 which he was assisted by Steele, and others, embodies his most 
 esteemed prose works. After a lingering illness, he died at 
 Kensington, June 17, 1719. 
 
 Addison is distinguished, in his prose writings, for a lively 
 fancy, with an original and exquisite humour. He was the 
 founder of a new school of popular writing, in which he still 
 remains unsurpassed. The Tatlers, Spectators, and Guardians, 
 gave the first examples of those vehicles of general amusement 
 and instruction — being at once easy and familiar without 
 6 
 
42 ADDISON. 
 
 coarseness, animated without extravagance, and polished with- 
 out unnatural labour. 
 
 Though the tendency of Addison's writings is uniformly 
 favourable to religion and charity in their most winning and 
 diffusive forms, yet his temper was jealous and taciturn, and 
 his intercourse with his friends — even those wdio had enjoyed 
 his intimacy — was marked with displays of peevishness and 
 irritability, subsiding at last into bitter animosity. 
 
 We select from his poems one only, which will ever continue 
 to be admired for its musical sweetness and its elevating strain 
 of devotional thought and feeling. This, which harmonizes 
 with his other writings in tone and sentiment, is sufficient to 
 show that the blemishes of his social career still leave the main 
 tenor of his life, and the substance of his character, to challenge 
 our affection and respect. 
 
ODE, 
 
 The spacious firmament on high, 
 
 With all the blue ethereal sky, 
 
 And spangled heavens, a shining frame 
 
 Their great original proclaim : 
 
 The unwearied sun, from day to day, 
 
 Does his Creator's power display, 
 
 And publishes to every land 
 
 The work of an Almighty hand. 
 
 Soon as the evening shades prevail. 
 The moon takes up the wondrous tale. 
 And nightly to the listening earth 
 Repeats the story of her birth : 
 Whilst all the stars that round her burn. 
 And all the planets in their turn. 
 Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
 And spread the truth from pole to pole. . 
 
 (43) 
 
44 ~ ADDISON. 
 
 What though, in solemn silence, all 
 Move round the dark terrestrial ball ? 
 What though nor real voice nor sound 
 Amid their radiant orbs be found ? 
 In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
 And utter forth a glorious voice. 
 For ever singing as they shine. 
 The hand that made us is divine. 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 Jonathan Swift — generally known as Dean Swift — was 
 born in Dublin^ November 30, 1667. His father, who was bred 
 to the law, and held the office of steward of the King's Inns, at 
 Dublin, died a short time before the birth of the subject of our 
 sketch, leaving his widow in great poverty. 
 
 Aided by his relatives, Jonathan passed through various 
 schools, and received the degree of Bachelor of Arts, at Trinity 
 College, in 1685. Hitherto he had been marked by careless 
 and reckless habits ; but being kindly received into the family 
 of Sir William Temple, whose wife was a relative of his mother, 
 he became studious, and rendered himself useful to his patron, 
 as private secretary. At Moor Park, the residence of Sir Wil- 
 liam, he occasionally attended the King, William I., who was 
 a frequent guest at this place, in his walks in the garden. His 
 
 (45) 
 
46 SWIFT. 
 
 majesty was so much pleased with him, that he taught him 
 how to cut asparagus in the Dutch fashion, and offered to make 
 him captain of a troop of horse ; which, however, Swift dechned. 
 
 In 1G92, he obtained a degree as M. A., at Oxford. Return- 
 ing to Moor Park, he soon became dissatisfied with his patron, 
 and they parted in mutual displeasure. Soliciting a place in 
 the church, he was admitted to deacon's orders, and afterwards 
 received the prebend of Kilroot. This he gladly resigned in 
 1685, and having received a kind invitation from Sir William 
 Temple, he returned and lived on terms of intimacy with that 
 nobleman, till his death in 1698. 
 
 We cannot follow the subject of our sketch into the various 
 paths of his career, which from this point became connected 
 with the literature and politics of the day, and brought him in 
 frequent contact with the distinguished characters of the age. 
 He actively engaged in party disputes, at first as a whig, but 
 afterwards as a tory, his vigorous and satiric pen seeming 
 like a sword to cut down all that withstood or resisted it. He 
 also produced several works on religious subjects, as well as a 
 variety of poetical pieces, mostly of an occasional nature. He 
 rose to a pitch of power and celebrity, from the mere force of 
 his talents as a writer, rarely attained. 
 
 He received various rewards from the publication of his 
 books, and several places of preferment from government in 
 
SWIFT. 47 
 
 recompense of his political services. In 1713 he was made 
 Dean of St. Patrick's, in Dublin, an office which he held till his 
 death in October 1745. 
 
 The life of Dean Swift has furnished ample materials for the 
 lights and shadows of biography. He was personally handsome, 
 and he exercised his power over the op]30site sex, in such a 
 manner as to blight the life and happiness of two gifted and 
 amiable women, whose fault was that they loved " not wisely, 
 but too well." The leading feature of his character was pride ; 
 and this hardened his whole conduct throughout a Ions: and 
 active career. He may be regarded as generally honest, though 
 selfishness, such as his, often masters alike the reason and the 
 principle of the strongest minds — a truth which his life 
 abundantly illustrates. During the height of his fame, he 
 keenly excited in a wide and elevated circle of society, the 
 emotions of admiration and awe. Few loved him, and many 
 hated him. His end, however, was such as to subdue and 
 chasten, if not soften, the hearts of his enemies. He was 
 first attacked with deafness, then with giddiness, and soon his 
 memory rapidly failed. He was now subject to fits of passion, 
 and these at last terminated in furious lunacy. In 1742, he 
 sank into a state of helpless idiocy ; and during the last year 
 of his life, he never spoke an intelligible word. October 19, 
 1745, he fell quietly into the sleep of death. 
 
48 SWIFT. 
 
 Leaving liis personal character, with its virtues and vices, to 
 repose in their "dread abode," we need only remark that 
 Swift, as a writer, must ever occupy one of the highest niches 
 in the temple of fame. He was often coarse in his language and 
 in his subjects, and many of his pieces cannot be read without 
 disgust. But his purity of style, his withering irony, his pun- 
 gent wit, his matchless power of feigning reality, and his intuitive 
 knowledge of human nature, form a range and combination of 
 literary merits, almost without paralleL His most 23opular work 
 is Gulliver's Travels, which has passed into the j)rincipal lan- 
 guages and the common reading of Europe. Though its political 
 point is not now seen or comprehended, the seduction of the 
 style and the verisimilitude of the narrative, continue to capti- 
 vate the imagination of the reader. 
 
 Though Swift wrote many verses, he was not in a strict 
 sense a poet. We select the most pleasing and popular of his 
 poetical efforts, w^hich possesses the characteristic merits of the 
 author — great clearness and point of diction. 
 
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. 
 
 Imitated from OriJ. 
 
 In ancient times, as story tells, 
 The saints Avould often leave their cells. 
 And stroll about, but hide their quality. 
 To try good people's hospitality. 
 
 It happened on a winter night 
 (As authors of the legend write). 
 Two brother hermits, saints by trade, 
 Taking their tour in masquerade. 
 Disguised in tattered habits, went 
 To a small village down in Kent ; 
 Where, in the strollers' canting strain, 
 They begged from door to door in vain ; 
 Tried every tone might pity win, 
 But not a soul would let them in. 
 
 (49) 
 
50 SWIFT. 
 
 Our wandering saints in -vvoful state, 
 Treated at tliis ungodly rate, 
 Having through all the village past. 
 To a small cottage came at last, 
 Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman, 
 Called in the neighbourhood Philemon, 
 Who kindly did the saints invite 
 In his poor hut to pass the night. 
 And then the hospitable sire 
 Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire, 
 While he from out the chimney took 
 A flitch of bacon off the hook. 
 And freely from the fattest side 
 Cut out large slices to be fried ; 
 Then stepped aside to fetch them drink, 
 Filled a large jug up to the brink, 
 And saw it fairly twice go round ; 
 Yet (what was wonderful) they found 
 'Twas still replenished to the top, 
 As if they ne'er had touched a drop. 
 The good old couple were amazed. 
 And often on each other gazed : 
 For both were frighted to the heart, 
 And just began to cry — "What art?" 
 Then softly turned aside to view 
 Whether the lights were burning blue. 
 

 
 
 BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. 51 
 
 
 
 The gentle pilgrims, soon aAvare on't, 
 
 
 
 Told tliem their calling and their errant : 
 
 
 
 Good folks, you need not be afraid, 
 
 
 
 We are but saints, the hermits said ; 
 
 
 
 No hurt shall come to you or yours ; 
 
 
 
 But, for that pack of churlish boors, 
 
 
 
 Not fit to live on Christian ground, 
 
 
 
 They and their houses shall be drowned : 
 
 
 
 While you shall see your cottage rise. 
 
 
 
 And grow a church before your eyes. 
 
 
 
 They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft, 
 
 
 
 The roof began to mount aloft ; 
 
 
 
 Aloft rose every beam and rafter. 
 
 
 
 The heavy wall climbed slowly after. 
 
 
 
 The chimney widened, and grew higher, 
 
 
 
 Became a stcei^le with a spire. 
 
 
 
 The kettle to the top was hoist ; 
 
 
 
 And there stood fastened to a joist ; 
 
 
 
 But with the up-side down, to show 
 
 
 
 Its inclination for below : 
 
 
 
 In vain ; for some superior force. 
 
 
 - 
 
 Applied at bottom, stops its course ; 
 
 
 
 
m 
 
 
 52 
 
 SWIFT. 
 
 Doomed ever in sus23ense to dwell, 
 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. 
 
 A wooden jack, which had almost 
 
 Lost by disuse the art to roast, 
 
 A sudden alteration feels. 
 
 Increased by new intestine wheels : 
 
 And, what exalts the wonder more, 
 
 The number made the motion slower ; 
 
 The flier, which, though 't had leaden feet, 
 
 Turned round so quick, you scarce could see 't. 
 
 Now, slackened by some secret power. 
 
 Can hardly move an inch an hour. 
 
 The jack and chimney, near allied, 
 
 Had never left each other's side : 
 
 The chimney to a steeiole grown. 
 
 The jack would not be left alone ; 
 
 But, up against the steeple reared, 
 
 Became a clock, and still adhered : 
 
 And still its love to household cares, 
 
 By a shrill voice at noon, declares ; 
 
 Warning the cook-maid not to burn 
 
 That roast meat, which it cannot turn. ' ' 
 
 The groaning chair was seen to crawl. 
 
 
 
 
 Like a huge snail, half up the wall ; 
 
 
 
 
 
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. 
 
 53 
 
 There stuck aloft in public view, 
 
 
 And, with small change, a pulpit grew. 
 
 
 The porringers, that in a row 
 
 
 Hung high, and made a glittering show, 
 
 
 To a less noble substance changed, 
 
 
 Were now but leathern buckets ranged. 
 
 
 The ballads pasted on the Avail, 
 
 
 Of Joan of France, and English Moll, 
 
 
 Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, 
 
 
 The Little Children in the Wood, 
 
 
 Now seemed to look abundance better, 
 
 
 Improved in picture, size, and letter ; 
 
 
 And high in order placed, describe 
 
 
 The heraldry of e^rerj tribe. 
 
 
 A bedstead of the antique mode, 
 
 
 Compact of timber many a load, 
 
 
 Such as our grandsires wont to use. 
 
 
 Was metamorphosed into pews ; 
 
 
 Which still their ancient nature keep, 
 
 
 By lodging folks disposed to sleep. 
 
 r 
 
 The cottage, by such feats as these, 
 
 
 Grown to a church by just degrees ; 
 
 
54 SWIFT. 
 
 The hermits then deske theu- host 
 To ask for what he fancied most. 
 Philemon, having jDaused a while, 
 Returned them thanks in homely style ; 
 Then said, my house is grown so fine, 
 Methinks I still would call it mine : 
 I'm old, and fain would live at ease ; 
 Make me the parson, if you please. 
 He spoke, and presently he feels 
 His grazier*s coat fall down his heels : 
 He sees, yet hardly can believe, 
 About each arm a pudding sleeve : 
 His waistcoat to a cassock grew. 
 And both assumed a sable hue ; 
 But being old, continued just 
 As threadbare and as full of dust. 
 His talk was now of tithes and dues ; 
 Could smoke his pipe, and read the news ; 
 Knew how to preach old sermons next. 
 Vamped in the preface and the text ; 
 At christenings Avell could act his part. 
 And had the service all by heart ; 
 Against dissenters would repine, 
 And stood up firm for right divine ; 
 Found his head filled with many a system, 
 But classic authors — he ne'er missed 'cm. 
 
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. ^55 
 
 Thus having furbished up a parson, 
 
 Dame Baucis next they played their farce on : 
 
 Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen 
 
 Good pinners, edged Avith Colberteen : 
 
 Her petticoat, transformed apace, 
 
 Became black satin flounced with lace. 
 
 Plain Goody Avould no longer down ; 
 
 'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown. 
 
 Philemon was in great surprise. 
 
 And hardly could beheve his eyes : j 
 
 i 
 Amazed to see her look so prim ; [ 
 
 And she admired as much at him. i 
 
 Thus, happy in their change of life, 
 
 Were several years the man and wife : 
 
 When on a day, which proved their last. 
 
 Discoursing o'er old stories past. 
 
 They went by chance, amidst their talk. 
 
 To the churchyard to fetch a Avalk ; 
 
 When Baucis hastily cried out, 
 
 My dear, I see your forehead sprout ! 
 
 Sprout, quoth the man, what's this you tell us ? 
 
 I hope you don't believe me jealous ? 
 
 But yet, methinks, I feel it true ; 
 
 And really yours is budding too 
 
56 S W I F T. 
 
 Nay noAV I cannot stir my foot ; 
 
 It feels as if 'twere taking root. 
 
 Description would but tire my Muse ; 
 In short, tliey both were turned to yews. 
 
 Old Goodman Dobson, of the green, 
 Remembers he the trees hath seen ; 
 He'll talk of them from noon to night, 
 And goes with folks to shoAY the sight; 
 On Sundays, after evening prayer. 
 He gathers all the parish there ; 
 Points out the place of either yew, 
 Here Baucis, there Philemon grew. 
 'Till once a parson of our town. 
 To mend his barn, cut Baucis down ; 
 At which, 'tis hard to be believed, 
 How much the other tree was grieved ; 
 Grew scrubby, died a-top, Avas stunted ; 
 So the next parson stubbed and biu-nt it. 
 
POPE. 
 
 The transition from Swift to Pope— although they lived in 
 the same age, mingled in the same society, were drawn into 
 personal intimacy by certain affinities, and stand forth in litera- 
 ture alike distinguished as satirists — still presents us with the 
 most striking contrast. The one may be selected as furnishing 
 a high example of simple, careless vigour of style, in which the 
 language is wholly subservient to the thought; the other as an 
 accomplished artist, who unites to the utmost force of concep- 
 tion all the seductive graces of form and manner. The one 
 resembles a sculptor who strikes out rude but startling images 
 with a hammer of steel from blocks of granite ; the other gives 
 us galleries of portraits in Parian marble, elaborated with all 
 the hidden art, and endowed with all the visible and living 
 grace, of the Medicean Venus. 
 
 Alexander Pope was born in London, May 2 2d, 1G88. His 
 8 (57) 
 
58 POP E. 
 
 father was a linenrlraper, who acquired an independence, and 
 retired to Binfield, in Windsor Forest. The poet ^Yas sent 
 early to school ; but, having lampooned his teacher, he was 
 severely punished and taken home by his parents. After 
 twelve years of ao;e, he attended no school, and thenceforward 
 educated himself. 
 
 His poetical proclivities were early manifested. While yet 
 a child, he "lisped in numbers, for the numbers came." At 
 twelve years of age, he had acquired such an interest in the 
 works of Dryden, that he induced a friend to take him to a 
 coffee-house where the poet dined, so that he might have the 
 gratification of seeing him. He composed his Pastorals at the 
 age of sixteen. His Essay on Criticism, a remarkable union of 
 argument and poetry, appeared in 1711, and is said to have 
 been written two years before, at the age of twenty-one. The 
 Rape of the Loch, a mock heroic poem, which Johnson cha- 
 racterizes as " the most airy, the most ingenious, and the most 
 delightful of all his compositions," soon followed. 
 
 Our author was now at the height of his fame, and enjoyed 
 the intercourse of the prominent men of the day, both literary, 
 professional, and j^olitical. He maintained an intimacy with 
 Swift; and it is pleasant to record that both these eminent men 
 cherished a particular friendship for the easy and artless Gay. 
 Pope does justice to the subject of his verse, and to his own 
 
POPE. 59 
 
 feelings, in ca single couplet — where, celebrating Gaj's death, he 
 says : — 
 
 " Of manners gentle, of affections mild, 
 In wit a man — simplicity a cliild." 
 
 In 1713, he began his translation of Homer's Iliad, and was 
 occupied with this and the Odyssey for twelve years. For the 
 former he received, partly by the aid and interest of wealthy 
 friends, the large sum of £5320. In the latter he was largely 
 assisted by his friends Broome and Fenton. Pope received 
 £2885 for the translation, of which his assistants had £800. 
 
 Improved in his circumstances, the poet now removed from 
 the paternal mansion, in the shadows of Windsor Forest, to the 
 cheerful borders of the Thames, at Twickenham, where he had 
 leased a house. He was accompanied by his aged parents. He 
 delighted to improve his residence, which acquired the name 
 of Popes Villa; and, long after his death, was visited as a 
 species of shrine by the admiring votaries of genius. In this 
 charming retreat, where he was '• visited by ministers of state, 
 wits, poets, and beauties," he pursued his literary labours, 
 embracing an edition of Shakspeare, the Essay on Man, the 
 Epistle from Elolsa to Ahelard, &c. The two latter may be 
 placed at the head of his writings — the first for its combination 
 of metaphysical reasoning and beautiful poetic illustration ; and 
 
00 POP E. 
 
 the last from the art and delicacy with which coarse and painful 
 realities are veiled, and the " exquisite melody of the versifica- 
 tion, rising and falling like the tones of an Eolian harp." 
 
 The satires followed. Several of these appeared in three 
 volumes of miscellanies, which he published in conjunction with 
 Swift. They drew down upon the authors a torrent of invec- 
 tive. This gave rise to the Dunciad, in which Pope wreaks 
 his vengeance upon the swarm of insignificant literary insects 
 which found the means of reachino; him with their envenomed 
 
 a 
 
 stings. 
 
 The shadows of the coming nin;ht besran now to fall over the 
 poet. His friends Atterbury and Gay died in 1732, Swift 
 was already withdrawn from the world by a condition more sad 
 than death, to his friends. In 1733, his venerable mother, 
 wdiose declining steps he had watched with the most tender 
 solicitude, bad him a final adieu. The anticipated approach of 
 the Pretender caused the government to forbid any Roman 
 Catholic from appearing within ten miles of London. Pope, 
 who had remained steadfast to his education, and always pro- 
 fessed the Catholic religion, complied with the proclamation. 
 A state of continual excitement, operating on a frame naturally 
 delicate, and attenuated by study and mental labour, soon 
 brought the crisis. The mind of the poet first flickered, and 
 
POTE. 61 
 
 then the light was finally extmguished. He died at Twicken- 
 ham, May 30, 1744. 
 
 The personal character of Pope is not calculated to challenge 
 respect or inspire affection. The fierceness and petulance of 
 his satire must be ascribed to an excessive sensibility, a hasty 
 temper, and a morbid self-appreciation — all, perhaps, in some 
 degree, the results of his sickly constitution. As a poet, he must 
 be considered as possessing neither the higher powers of crea- 
 tive fancy, nor the inspired and inspiring language Avliich 
 kindle the fire of the soul : yet he was an exquisite artist, and 
 it is difficult to find another who has set so many beautiful 
 truths in frames so well suited to make them ornamental and 
 instructive mirrors of the mind. 
 
 For our specimen, we select one which must ever be admired 
 for its melody as well as its sublimity. If Pope has written 
 satires which now excite contempt, let us remember that we 
 are indebted to him for such noble and ennobling productions 
 as the Dying Christian to his Soul and the Messiah. 
 
"-] 
 
 THE MESSIAH. 
 
 Ye nymphs of Solyma ! begin the song : 
 To heavenly themes suhlimer strains belong. 
 The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades, 
 The dreams of Pindus and the Aonian maids, 
 Delight no more — Thou my voice inspire, 
 Who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire I 
 
 Rapt into future times, the bard begun : 
 
 A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a Son ! 
 
 From Jesse's root behold a branch arise. 
 
 Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies 
 
 The ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move. 
 
 And on its top descends the mystic Dove. 
 
 Ye heavens ! from high the dewy nectar pour, 
 
 And in soft silence shed the kindly shower. 
 
 The sick and wea,k the healing plant shall aid, 
 
 From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. 
 
 (62) 
 
THE MESSIAH. 03 
 
 All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall fail ; 
 Returning Justice lift aloft her scale ; 
 Peace o'er the world her olive Avand extend, 
 And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend. 
 Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn ! 
 Oh, spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born ! 
 See, nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, 
 With all the incense of the breathing spring ! 
 See lofty Lebanon his head advance ! 
 See nodding forests on the mountains dance ! 
 See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, 
 And Carmel's flowery top perfume the skies ! 
 Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers ; 
 Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears ! 
 A God, a God ! the vocal hills reply ; 
 The rocks proclaim the approaching Deity. 
 Lo ! earth receives him from the bending skies ; 
 Sink down, ye mountains ; and ye valleys rise ; 
 With heads declined, ye cedars homage pay ; 
 Be smooth, ye rocks : ye rapid floods, give way ! 
 The Saviour comes ! by ancient bards foretold : 
 Hear him, ye deaf : and all ye blind, behold ! 
 He from thick films shall purge the visual ray. 
 And on the sightless eyeball pour the day : 
 'Tis he the obstructed paths of sound shall clear, 
 And bid new music charm the unfolding ear : 
 
m 
 
 
 64 
 
 POPE. 
 
 The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, 
 And leajD exulting like the bounding roe. 
 No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear ; 
 From every face he wipes off every tear. 
 In adamantine chains shall death be bound, 
 And hell's grim tyrant feel the eternal wound. 
 As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, : 
 Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air ; 
 Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs. 
 By day o'ersees them, and by night protects ; 
 The tender lambs he raises in his arms. 
 Feeds from his hand and in his bosom warms ; 
 Thus shall mankind his guardian care eno-ao-e 
 The promised father of the future age. 
 No more shall nation against nation rise. 
 
 
 i 
 
 Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes ; 
 
 
 i 
 
 Nor fields with gleaming steel be covered o'er, 
 
 
 1 
 
 The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more : 
 
 
 
 But useless lances into scythes shall bend. 
 
 
 i 
 j 
 
 And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end. 
 
 
 i 
 
 Then palaces shall rise ; the joyful son 
 
 
 
 Shall finish what his short-lived sire beo-un : 
 
 
 
 
 Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield. 
 
 
 
 
 And the same hand that sowed, shall reap the field. 
 
 
 
 
 The swain in barren deserts with surprise 
 
 
 
 
 Sees lihes spring, and sudden verdure rise ; 
 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
THE MESSIAH. 65 
 
 And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds to hear 
 
 New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 
 
 On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes, 
 
 The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. 
 
 Waste sandy valleys, once perplexed with thorn, 
 
 The spiry fir and shapely box adorn : 
 
 To leafless shrubs the flowery palms succeed. 
 
 And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. 
 
 The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead. 
 
 And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead : 
 
 The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, 
 
 And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. £ 
 
 The smiling infant in his hand shall take 
 
 The crested basilisk and speckled snake ; 
 
 Pleased the green lustre of the scales survey. 
 
 And with their forky tongues shall innocently play. 
 
 Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise ! 
 
 Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes ! 
 
 See a long race thy spacious courts adorn ! 
 
 See future sons and daughters yet unborn, 
 
 In crowding ranks on every side arise, 
 
 Demanding life, impatient for the skies ! 
 
 See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, 
 
 Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ! 
 
 See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate kings. 
 
 And heaped with products of Sabean springs. 
 
66 POP E. 
 
 For tlice Idume's spicy forests blow, 
 And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. 
 See heaven its sparkling portals -wide display, 
 And break upon tliee in a flood of day I 
 No more the rising sun shall gild the morn. 
 Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; , 
 But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays, 
 One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze 
 O'erflow thy courts : the Light himself shall shine 
 Kevealed, and God's eternal day be thine ! 
 The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay. 
 Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; 
 But fixed his word, his saving power remains ; 
 Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns I 
 
GAY. 
 
 The easy, indolent, good-humoured John Gay, seems to have 
 been the most artless and the best-beloved of all the Pope and 
 Swift circle of wits and poets. Gay was born at Barnstaple, in 
 Devonshire, in 1688. He w^as of the ancient family of the Le 
 Gays of Oxford and Devonshire; but his father being in 
 reduced circumstances, the poet was put apprentice to a silk- 
 mercer in the Strand, London. He disliked this mercenary 
 employment, and at length obtained his discharge from his 
 master. In 1711, he made his first publication, called Rural 
 Sports, a descriptive poem, dedicated to Pope. 
 
 Next year. Gay obtained the appointment of domestic secre- 
 tary to the Duchess of Monmouth, on which he was cordially 
 congratulated by Pope, who took a warm interest in his fortunes. 
 His next work was his 81ie])lierd' s Wee\ in /Six Pastorals, 
 written to throw ridicule on those of Ambrose Philips ; but con- 
 
 (07) 
 
68 G A Y. 
 
 taining so much genuine comic humour, and such entertaining 
 pictures of country hfe, that tliey became popular, not as satires, 
 but on account of their intrinsic merits, as affording " a prospect 
 of his own country." In an address to the " courteous reader," 
 Gay says, " Thou wilt not find my shepherdesses idly piping on 
 oaten reeds, but milking the kine, tying up the sheaves; or, if 
 the hogs are astray, driving them to their styes. My shepherd 
 gathereth none other nosegays but what are the growth of our 
 own fields ; he sleepeth not under myrtle shades, but under a 
 hedge; nor doth he vigilantly defend his flock from wolves, 
 because there are none." This matter-of-fact view of rural life 
 has been admirably followed by Crabbe, with a moral aim and 
 effect to which Gay never aspired. About this time the poet 
 also produced his Trivia, or the Art of Walhing the Streets of 
 London, and The Fan, a poem in three books. The former of 
 these is in the mock-heroic style, in which he was assisted by 
 Swift, and gives a graphic account of the dangers and impedi- 
 ments then encountered in traversing the narrow, crowded, ill- 
 lighted, and vice-infested thoroughfares of the metropolis. His 
 paintings of city life are in the Dutch style, low and familiar, 
 but correctly and forcibly draw^n. 
 
 In 1713, Gay brought out a comedy entitled The Wife of 
 Bath ; but it failed of success. His friends were anxious in his 
 behalf, and next year (July 1714\ he writes -with joy to Pope 
 
G A Y. 69 
 
 — " Since you went out of the town, my Lord Clarendon was 
 appointed envoy-extraordinary to Hanover, in the room of Lord 
 Paget; and by making use of those friends, which I entirely 
 owe to you, he has accepted me for his secretary." The poet 
 accordingly quitted his situation in the Monmouth family, and 
 accompanied Lord Clarendon on his embassy. He seems, how- 
 ever, to have held it only for about two months; for on the 23d 
 of September of the same year, Pope welcomes him to his native 
 soil, and counsels him, now that the queen was dead, to write 
 something on the king, or prince, or princess. 
 
 Gay was an anxious expectant of court favour, and he com- 
 plied with Pope's request. He wrote a poem on the princess, 
 and the royal family went to see his play of What Uye Call It ? 
 produced shortly after his return from Hanover, in 1714. The 
 piece was eminently successful; and Gay was stimulated to 
 another dramatic attempt of a similar nature, entitled Three 
 Hours After Marriage. Some personal satire and indecent 
 dialogues in this piece, together with the improbability of the 
 plot, sealed its fate with the public. It soon fell into disgrace ; 
 and its author, being afraid that Pope and Arbuthnot would 
 suJGfer injury from their supposed connexion with it, took "all 
 the shame on himself." Gay was silent and dejected for some 
 time; but in 1720 he published his poems by subscription, and 
 realized a sum of £1000. He received, also, a present of South- 
 
70 GAY. 
 
 Sea stock, and was supposed to be worth £20,000, all of wdiich 
 he lost by the explosion of that famous delusion. This serious 
 calamity, to one fond of finery in dress and living, only 
 prompted to farther literary exertion. 
 
 In 1724, Gay brought out another drama. The Captives, 
 which was acted with moderate success; and in 1726 he wrote 
 a volume of fables, designed for the special improvement of the 
 Duke of Cumberland, who certainly did not learn mercy or 
 humanity from them. The accession of the prince and 23nncess 
 to the throne seemed to augur well for the fortunes of Gay ; but 
 he was only offered the situation of gentleman usher to one of 
 the young princesses, and considering this an insult, he rejected 
 it. His genius proved his best patron. In 1726, Swift came 
 to England, and resided two months with Pope at Twickenham. 
 Among other plans, the dean of St. Patrick suggested to Gay 
 the idea of a Newgate pastoral, in which the characters should 
 be thieves and highwaymen. The Beggars Opera was the 
 result. When finished, the two friends were doubtful of the 
 success of the piece, but it was received with unbounded 
 applause. The songs and music aided greatly its popularity, 
 and there was also the recommendation of political satire. The 
 spirit and variety of the piece, in which song and sentiment 
 are so happily intermixed with vice and roguery, still render 
 the " Beggar's Opera" a favourite with the public ; but as Gay 
 
GAY. 71 
 
 has succeeded in making highwaymen agreeable, and even 
 attractive, it cannot be commended for its moral tendency. Of 
 this the Epicurean author probably thought little. The opera 
 had a run of sixty-three nights, and became the rage of town 
 and country. Its success had also the effect of giving rise to 
 the English opera, a species of light comedy enlivened by songs 
 and music, which for a time supplanted the Italian opera, with 
 all its exotic and elaborate graces. Gay tried a sequel to the 
 "Beggar's Opera," under the title of Polly ; but as it was sup- 
 posed to contain sarcasms on the court, the lord chamberlain 
 prohibited its representation. The poet had recourse to publi- 
 cation ; and such was the zeal of his friends, and the effect of 
 party spirit, that while the " Beggar's Opera" realized for him 
 only about £400, " Polly" produced a profit of £1100 or £1200. 
 The Duchess of Marlborough gave £100 as her subscription for 
 a copy. 
 
 Gay had now amassed £3000 by his writings, which he 
 resolved to keep "entire and sacred." He was at the same 
 time received into the house of his kind patrons the Duke and 
 Duchess of Queensberry, with whom he spent the remainder of 
 his life. His only literary occupation was composing additional 
 flibles, and corresponding occasionally with Pope and Swift. A 
 sudden attack of inflammatory fever hurried him out of life in 
 three days. He died on the 4th of December, 1732. 
 
72 G A Y. 
 
 Gay was buried in Westminster Abbey, where a handsome 
 monument was erected to bis memory by the Duke and Duchess 
 of Queensberry. The works of this easy and loveahle son of the 
 muses have lost much of their popuhxrity. He has the hcen- 
 tiousness, without the elegance, of Prior. His fables are still, 
 however, the best we possess; and if they have not the 
 nationality or rich humour and archness of La Fontaine's, the 
 subjects of them are light and pleasing, and the versification 
 always smooth and correct. The Hare ivith Many Friends is 
 doubtless drawn from Gay's own experience. In the Court of 
 Death, he aims at a higher order of poetry, and marshals his 
 " diseases dire" with a strong and gloomy power. His song of 
 Black-Eyed Siisan, and the ballad beginning " 'Twas when the 
 seas were roaring," are full of characteristic tenderness and 
 lyrical melody. The latter is said by Cowper to have been the 
 joint production of Arbuthnot, Swift, and Gay. 
 
THE HAKE AND MANY FRIENDS. 
 
 Friendship, like love, is but a name, 
 Unl'ss to one you stint the flame. 
 The child, whom many fathers share, 
 Hath seldom known a father's care. 
 'Tis thus in friendship ; who depend 
 On many, ra.rely find a friend. 
 
 A Hare, who in a civil way 
 Comj)lied with everything, like Gay, 
 Was known by all the bestial train, 
 Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain. 
 Her care was never to offend. 
 And every creature was her friend. 
 
 As forth she went at early daAvn, 
 To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, 
 10 (73) 
 
74 GAY. 
 
 Behind she hears the hunter's cries, 
 And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies : 
 She starts, she stops, she pants for breath; 
 She hears the near advance of death ; 
 She doubles, to mislead the hound. 
 And measures back her mazy round ; 
 Till, fainting in the public way. 
 Half dead with fear she gasping lay : 
 What transport in her bosom grew 
 When first the Horse appeared in view ! 
 Let me, says she, your back ascend, 
 And owe my safety to a friend. 
 You know my feet betray my flight ; 
 To friendship every burden's light. 
 The Horse replied : Poor honest Puss, 
 It grieves my heart to see you thus ; 
 Be comforted, relief is near, 
 For all your friends are in the rear. 
 
 She next the stately Bull implored. 
 And thus replied the mighty lord : 
 Since every beast alive can tell 
 That I sincerely wish you well, 
 I may, without ofi'ence, pretend 
 To take the freedom of a friend. 
 
THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS. 75 
 
 To leave you thus might seem unkind ; 
 But see, the Goat is just behind. 
 
 The Goat remarked her pulse was high, 
 Her languid head, her heavy eye ; 
 My back, says he, may do you harm. 
 The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm. 
 
 The Sheep was feeble, and complained 
 His sides a load of wool sustained : 
 Said he was slow, confessed his fears, 
 For hounds eat sheej) as well as hares. 
 
 She now the trotting Calf addressed. 
 To save from death a friend distressed. 
 Shall I, says he, of tender age. 
 In this important care engage ? 
 Older and abler passed you by ; 
 How strong are those, how weak am I ! 
 Should I presume to bear you hence, 
 Those friends of mine may take offence. 
 Excuse me, then. You know my heart ; 
 But dearest friends, alas ! must part. 
 How shall we all lament ! Adieu ! 
 For, see, the hounds are just in view ! 
 
OLDYS. 
 
 The distinguished antiquary, William Oldys, the author of 
 various useful works, biographical and bibliographical, was born 
 hi 1G87, and died in 1761. He has left us the following exquisite 
 lines, in the half-reckless, half-melancholy vein of Anacreon. 
 They are said to have been composed, extempore, on the occasion 
 of a fly's drinking out of his cup of ale. His habitual greediness 
 of liquor, which besotted his character, might easily tolerate 
 the draughts of the insect poacher ; and, perhaps, as easily, 
 one devoted to drink might find encouragement and companion- 
 ship in the example of a fly. 
 
 (76) 
 
TO A FLY. 
 
 Busy, curious, tliirsty fly, 
 Drink with me, and drink as 1 ; 
 Freely welcome to my cup, 
 Could'st tliou sip and sip it up. 
 Make the most of life you may. 
 Life is short and wears away. 
 
 Both alike are mine and thine, 
 Hastening quick to their decline : 
 Thine's a summer, mine no more. 
 Though repeated to threescore ; 
 Threescore summers, when they're gone, 
 Will appear as short as one. 
 
 (77) 
 
WATTS. 
 
 Isaac Watts, a man whose very name inspires reverence, was 
 born at Southampton, July 17, 1674 — the eldest of nine children. 
 His father, who kept a boarding-school, was a dissenter; and, 
 being imprisoned for non-conformity, his wife sat on a stone at 
 the prison door, with little Isaac, then an infant, at her breast ! 
 
 The son inherited the eminent piety and religious principles 
 of his parents ; and, having been educated in a dissenting 
 academy at London, he devoted himself to the clerical profession, 
 and became minister of an Independent Congregation in the 
 metropolis. His health however was always feeble, and gra- 
 dually it gave way, so as to render it impossible for him, alone, 
 to discharge his parochial duties. A colleague w^as therefore 
 associated with him. 
 
 Under these circumstances. Watts was requested to take up 
 his residence at Abney Park, the seat of Sir Thomas Abney. 
 
 (78) 
 
WATTS. 79 
 
 This being near London, so as to permit him occasional!}^ to 
 supply his pulpit, he accepted the invitation ; and for thirty-six 
 years — that is, till his death — he continued to enjoy the elegant 
 hospitalities of this agreeable abode. The decease of Sir 
 Thomas, eight years after Watts went to reside at Abney Park, 
 made no change in the condition of the latter : beloved and 
 cherished by a family peculiarly suited to his taste from their 
 piety, harmony, and virtue, and enjoying without care every- 
 thing that could contribute to his happiness or promote his 
 studies, his life, with brief exceptions, seems to have passed 
 tranquilly and happily to its close, in 1748. 
 
 The w^orks of Dr. Watts, though not the product of the 
 highest genius, are among the most useful and beneficent gifts 
 of literature. His treatises on Logic, and the Improvement of 
 the Mind, are distinguished by force of argument and felicity 
 of illustration : but his devotional hymns have inspired pious 
 sentiments in millions of minds, and his various other writings, 
 breathing the spirit of freedom, toleration, and religion, have 
 bestowed an almost boundless amount of blessings upon 
 society. 
 
 From the former we make two selections, familiar to all, 
 yet always read with pleasure. We also add a poem of a dif- 
 ferent character — bordering upon the satirical, yet not deficient 
 in useful suggestions. 
 
THE ROSE. 
 
 How fair is the rose ! wliat a beautiful flower, 
 
 The glory of April and May ! 
 But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, 
 
 And they wither and die in a day. 
 
 Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, 
 
 Above all the floAvers of the field ; 
 When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colours lost. 
 
 Still how sweet a perfume it will yield ! 
 
 So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, 
 Though they bloom and look gay like the rose ; 
 
 But all our fond care to preserve them is vain, 
 Time kills them as fast as he goes. 
 
 Then I'll not be proud of my youth nor my beauty. 
 
 Since both of them wither and fade ; 
 But gain a good name by well-doing my duty ; 
 
 This will scent like a rose when I'm dead. 
 
 (80) 
 
A SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 How fine has the day been, how bright was the sun, 
 How lovely and joyful the course that he run. 
 Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun, 
 
 And there followed some droppings of rain ! 
 But now the fair traveller's come to the west, 
 His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best ; 
 He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest. 
 
 And foretells a bright rising again. 
 
 Just such is the Christian ; his course he begins. 
 Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for his sins. 
 And melts into tears ; then he breaks out and shines. 
 
 And travels his heavenly way : 
 But when he comes nearer to finish his race. 
 Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace. 
 And gives a sure hope at the end of his days, 
 
 Of rising in brighter array. 
 
 11 (SI) 
 
FEW HAPPY MATCHES. 
 
 Say, mighty Love, and teach my song, 
 To whom thy sweetest joys belong. 
 
 And who the happy pah'S 
 Whose yielding hearts and joining hands 
 Find blessings twisted with their bands. 
 
 To soften all their cares. 
 
 Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains 
 That thoughtless fly into thy chains. 
 
 As custom leads the way ; 
 If there be bliss without design. 
 Ivies and oaks may grow and twine, 
 
 And be as blest as they. 
 
 Not sordid souls of earthly mould. 
 Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold. 
 To dull embraces move ; 
 
 (82) 
 
FEW HAPPY MATCHES. 83 
 
 So two rich mountains of Peru 
 May rush to wealthy marriage too, 
 And make a world of love. 
 
 Not the mad tribe that hell inspires 
 With wanton flames ; those rao-inof fires 
 
 The purer bliss destroy ; 
 On Etna's top let furies wed, 
 And shoots of lightning dress the bed, 
 
 T' improve the burning joy. 
 
 Not the dull pairs whose marble forms 
 None of the melting passions warms. 
 
 Can mingle hearts and hands ; 
 Logs of green wood that quench the coals 
 Are married just like stoic souls, 
 
 With osiers for their bands. 
 
 Not minds of melancholy strain. 
 Still silent, or that still complain, 
 
 Can the dear bondage bless ; 
 As well may heavenly concerts spring 
 From two old lutes with ne'er a string, 
 
 Or none besides the bass. 
 
 Nor can the soft enchantments hold 
 Two jarring souls of angry mould, 
 The rugged and the keen ; 
 
84 WATTS. 
 
 Samson's young foxes might as well 
 In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell, 
 With firebrands tied between. 
 
 Nor let the cruel fetters bind 
 A gentle to a savage mind, 
 
 For Love abhors the sight ; 
 Loose the fierce tiger from the deer, 
 For native rage and native fear 
 
 Rise and forbid delight. 
 
 Two kindest souls alone must meet, 
 'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet, 
 
 And feeds their mutal loves ; 
 Bright Venus on her rolling throne 
 Is drawn by gentlest birds alone. 
 
 And Cupids yoke the doves. 
 
YOUNG. 
 
 The eminent jDoet, Edward Young, was born in the village of 
 Upham, eight miles from Winchester, in 1684. His father 
 being a clergyman, was at one time chaplain to Wilham and 
 Mary, and afterwards Dean of Salisbury. 
 
 Edward was educated at Oxford, and at an early age wrote 
 several poetical works, but the first w^as published in 1713, 
 except some lines which appeared in the Tatler in 1710. He 
 passed through various collegiate degrees, and in 1721 his 
 tragedy of Busiris was produced at Drury Lane, with some 
 success. The Revenge was brought out the same year, and at 
 the same theatre, but was less favourably received. 
 
 His satires were published in folio form in 1725 to 1728, and 
 brought him the enormous sum of £3000. In 1727 he took 
 orders and was nominated royal chaplain ; upon w^hich he with- 
 drew his tragedy of The Brothers, which was then in rehearsal. 
 
 (85) 
 
86 YOUNG. 
 
 He continued his literary labours with success : in 1730 he was 
 promoted to the rectory of Melwyn in Hertfordshire, to which 
 the lordship of the manor was attached, the place being worth 
 c£300 a year. In 1731 he married Lady Elizabeth Lee, whose 
 daughter, by a former marriage, was united to a Mr. Temple. 
 She died at Lyons, in France, while she, with her husband, her 
 mother, and probably her step-father, was on a tour for her 
 health. The authorities of that city refused to allow the 
 deceased lady to be buried in consecrated ground — a fact 
 alluded to in a well-known passage of the Night Thoughts. 
 
 Lady Young herself died in 1711 ; the poem just mentioned, 
 was begun soon after, and the publication conijoleted in 1746. 
 In 17G1, he became clerk of the closet to the Princess Dowager 
 of Wales ; a slight gratification of his ruling passion, which Avas 
 a desire of place and preferment. In 1762 he published an 
 expurgated edition of his works. His health gradually failed 
 so as to interrupt his public duties, but his mental faculties 
 continued till his death in April 1765. 
 
 Young had a son and daughter. The former, named Frede- 
 rick, by his irregular conduct, appears to have given his father 
 great anxiety and offence. 
 
 The character of Young is in singular contrast to the poems 
 which have given celebrity to his name. From the very com- 
 mencement of his career he was a courtier, never letting an 
 
YOUNG. 87 
 
 opportunity slip which offered a chance of preferment. Every 
 work he pubhshed — whether of prose or verse — even the 
 separate chapters of his " Love of Fame," and every book of the 
 Night Thoughts, was prefaced by a flattering dedication to 
 some person of distinction, including Queen Anne, George T., 
 and George II. In his manners he was marked by politeness 
 and vivacity; he was also noted for neatness of dress. He was 
 fond of walking among the tombs of the village churchyard, 
 but he provided his people with a bowling green and an 
 assembly room. 
 
 The works of Dr. Young are numerous, and all are marked 
 with genius. The Night Thoughts, however, is his greatest 
 performance. Few books have been more read, or have pro- 
 duced more lasting impressions. It is full of striking and 
 solemn truths, set forth with epigrammatic point and poetic 
 illustration. Its general tone, however, is gloomy, and its 
 general effect on the mind that of despondency. A person 
 giving himself up to its influence, is little qualified to enjoy the 
 lawful pleasures of existence, or cheerfully and efficiently to 
 discharge the most common and obvious duties of life. Such, 
 no doubt, was the effect of the poem, on a large scale, for a con- 
 siderable period of time. A better tone of public sentiment has 
 corrected this evil, and the Night Thoughts are now estimated 
 and used according to their merits — as a rich storehouse of 
 
88 YOUNG. 
 
 poetic and religious thought, instructive and elevating for occa- 
 sional use, but not fit for the daily bread of life. 
 
 The following passages are perhaps familiar to most of our 
 readers — but as they are the best, and are most characteristic of 
 the author's taste and genius, they are entitled to the place we 
 give them. 
 
LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. 
 
 Self-flattered, unexperienced, high in hope, 
 When young, with sanguine cheer and streamers gay. 
 We cut our cable, launch into the world, 
 And fondly dream each wind and star our friend ; 
 All in some darling enterprise embarked : 
 But where is he can fathom its event ? 
 Amid a multitude of artless hands, 
 Ruin's sure perquisite, her lawful prize ! 
 Some steer aright, but the black blast blows hard, 
 And puffs them wide of hope : with hearts of proof, 
 Full against wind and tide, some win their way. 
 And when strong effort has deserved the port. 
 And tugged jt into view, 'tis won ! 'tis lost ! 
 Though strong their oar, still stronger is their fate : 
 They strike ! and while they triumph, they expire. 
 In stress of weather most, some sink outright : 
 O'er them, and o'er their names the billows close ; 
 
 12 (89) 
 
90 YOUNG. 
 
 To-morrow knows not they were ever born. 
 Others a short memorial leave behind, 
 Like a flag floating Avlien the bark's ingulfed ; 
 It floats a moment, and is seen no more. 
 One Csesar lives ; a thousand are forgot. 
 How few beneath auspicious planets born 
 (Darlings of Providence ! fond Fate's elect !) 
 "With swelling sails make good the promised port, 
 With all their wishes freighted ! yet even these. 
 Freighted with all their wishes, soon complain ; 
 Free from misfortune, not from nature free, 
 They still are men, and when is man secure ? 
 As fatal time, as storm ! the rush of years 
 Beats down their strength, their numberless escapes 
 In ruin end. And now their proud success 
 But plants new terrors on the victor's brow : 
 What pain to quit the world, just made their own, 
 Their nest so deeply downed, and built so high ! 
 Too low they build, who build beneath the stars. 
 * * * * 
 
 These thoughts, Night ! are thine ; 
 From thee they came like lovers' secret sighs. 
 While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign, 
 In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere, 
 Her shepherd cheered ; of her enamoured less 
 Than I of thee. And art thou still unsung, 
 
LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. 91 
 
 Beneath whose broAY, and by whose aid, I sing ? 
 Immortal silence ! where shall I begin ? 
 Where end ? or how steal music from the spheres 
 To soothe their goddess ? 
 
 majestic Night ! 
 
 Nature's great ancestor ! Day's elder born ! 
 
 And fated to survive the transient sun ! 
 
 By mortals and immortals seen with awe ! 
 
 A starry crown thy raven brow adorns, 
 
 An azure zone thy waist ; clouds, in heaven's loom 
 
 Wrought through varieties of shape and shade, 
 
 In ample folds of drapery divine, 
 
 Thy flowing mantle form, and, heaven throughout. 
 
 Voluminously pour thy pompous train : 
 
 Thy gloomy grandeurs — Nature's most august, 
 
 Inspiring aspect ! — claim a grateful verse ; 
 
 And, like a sable curtain starred with gold, 
 
 Drawn o'er my labours past, shall clothe the scene. 
 * * * * 
 
 Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep ! 
 He, like the world, his ready visit pays 
 Where Fortune smiles ; the wretched he forsakes : 
 Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, 
 And lio-hts on lids unsullied with a tear. 
 
92 YOUNG. 
 
 From short (as usual) and disturbed repose 
 I wake : how happy they who wake no more ! 
 Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave. 
 I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams 
 Tumultuous ; where my wrecked desponding thought 
 From wave to wave of fancied misery 
 At random drove, her helm of reason lost. 
 Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain 
 (A bitter change !), severer for severe : 
 The day too short for my distress ; and night, 
 E'en in the zenith of her dark domain, 
 Is sunshine to the colour of my fate. 
 
 Eight, sable goddess ! from her ebon throne 
 In rayless majesty, now stretches forth 
 Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world. 
 Silence how dead ! and darkness how profound ! 
 Nor eye, nor listening ear an object finds ; 
 Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse 
 Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause ; 
 An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. 
 And let her prophecy be soon fulfilled : 
 Fate ! drop the curtain ; I can lose no more. 
 
 Silence and Darkness ! solemn sisters ! twins 
 From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought 
 
LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. 93 
 
 To reason, and on reason build resolve 
 
 (That column of true majesty in man), 
 
 Assist* me : I will thank you in the grave ; 
 
 The grave your kingdom : there this frame shall fall 
 
 A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. 
 
 But what are ye ? 
 
 Thou, who didst put to flight 
 Primeval Silence, when the morning stars. 
 Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball ; 
 Oh Thou ! whose word from solid darkness struck 
 That spark, the sun, strike wisdom from my soul ; 
 My soul, which flies to thee, her trust, her treasure. 
 As misers to their gold, while others rest. 
 
 Through this opaque of nature and of soul, 
 This double night, transmit one pitying ray, 
 To lighten and to cheer. Oh lead my mind 
 (A mind that fain would wander from its woe). 
 Lead it through various scenes of life and death. 
 And from each scene the noblest truths inspire. 
 Nor less inspire my conduct than my song ; 
 Teach my best^reason, reason ; my best will 
 Teach rectitude ; and fix my firm resolve 
 Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear : 
 Nor let the phial of thy vengeance, poured 
 On this devoted head, be poured in vain. * * 
 
94 YOUNG. 
 
 How poor, how ricli, how abject, how august, 
 
 How complicate, how wonderful is man ! 
 
 How passing wonder He who made him such ! 
 
 Who centered in our make such strange extremes, 
 
 From different natures marvellously mixed, 
 
 Connexion exquisite of distant worlds ! 
 
 Distinguished link in being's endless chain ! 
 
 Midway from nothing to the Deity .' 
 
 A beam ethereal, sullied and absorpt ! 
 
 Though sullied and dishonoured, still divine ! 
 
 Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! 
 
 An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust : 
 
 Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! 
 
 A worm ! a god ! I tremble at myself, 
 
 And in myself am lost. At home, a stranger, 
 
 Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, 
 
 And wondering at her own. How reason reels ! 
 
 Oh what a miracle to man is man ! 
 
 Triumphantly distressed ! what joy ! what dread ! 
 
 Alternately transported and alarmed ! 
 
 What can preserve my life ! or what destroy ! 
 
 An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave ; 
 
 Legions of angels can't confine me there. 
 
 'Tis past conjecture ; all things rise in proof: 
 While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spread. 
 
* 
 
 LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. 95 
 
 What tliougli my soul fantastic measures trod 
 O'er fairy fields ; or mourned along the gloom 
 Of silent woods ; or, down the craggy steep 
 Hurled headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool ; 
 Or scaled the cliff; or danced on hollow winds, 
 With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain ? 
 Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her nature 
 Of subtler essence than the common clod : * * 
 Even silent night proclaims my soul immortal ! * 
 
 Why, then, their loss deplore that are not lost ? 
 
 This is the desert, this the solitude : 
 
 How populous, how vital is the grave ! 
 
 This is creation's melancholy vault. 
 
 The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom ; 
 
 The land of apparitions, empty shades ! 
 
 All, all on earth, is shadow, all beyond 
 
 Is substance ; the reverse is folly's creed ; 
 
 How solid all, where change shall be no more | 
 
 This is the bud of being, the dim dawn. 
 The twilight of our day, the vestibule ; 
 Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death. 
 Strong death alone can heave the massy bar. 
 This gross impediment of clay remove, 
 And make us embryos of existence free 
 
98 YOUNG. 
 
 From real life ; but little more remote 
 Is he, not yet a candidate for light, 
 The future embryo, slumbering in his sire. 
 Embryos we must be till we burst the shell, 
 Yon ambient azure shell, and spring to life. 
 The life of gods, oh transport ! and of man. 
 
 Yet man, fool man ! here buries all his thoughts ; 
 
 Inters celestial hopes without one sigh. 
 
 Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath the moon, 
 
 Here pinions all his wishes ; winged by heaven 
 
 To fly at infinite : and reach it there 
 
 Where seraphs gather immortality. 
 
 On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God. 
 
 What golden joys ambrosial clustering gloAY 
 
 In his full beam, and ripen for the just. 
 
 Where momentary ages are no more ! 
 
 Where time, and pain, and chance, and death expire ! 
 
 And is it in the flight of threescore years 
 
 To push eternity from human thought, 
 
 And smother souls immortal in the dust ? 
 
 A soul immortal, spending all her fires. 
 
 Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness, 
 
 Thrown into tumult, raptured or alarmed, 
 
 At aught this scene can threaten or indulge, 
 
LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. 07 
 
 Resembles ocean into tempest wrought, 
 To waft a feather, or to dro-wn a fly. 
 
 ^ SfC SjC ^ 
 
 The bell strikes one. AVe take no note of time 
 
 But from its loss : to give it then a tongue 
 
 Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, * 
 
 I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright. 
 
 It is the knell of my departed hours. 
 
 Where are they ? With the years beyond the flood. 
 
 It is the signal that demands despatch : 
 
 How much is to be done ? ]\Iy hopes and fears 
 
 Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge 
 
 Look down — on Avhat ? A fathomless abyss I 
 
 A dread eternity ! hoAV surely mine ! 
 
 And can eternity belong to me, 
 
 Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour ? 
 
 Time ! than gold more sacred ; more a load 
 Than lead to fools, and fools reputed Avise. 
 What moment granted man Avithout account ? 
 What years are squandered, AA'isdom's debt unpaid ! 
 Our Tfealth in days all due to that discharge. 
 Haste, haste, he lies in Avait, he's at the door ; 
 Insidious Death ; should his strong hand arrest, 
 No composition sets the prisoner free. 
 13 
 
98 YOUNG. 
 
 Eternity's inexorable chain 
 
 Fast binds, and vengeance claims the full arrear. 
 
 Youth is not rich in time ; it may be poor ; 
 
 Part with it as Avith money, sparing ; pay 
 
 No moment, but in purchase of its worth ; 
 
 And what its worth, ask death-beds ; they can tell. 
 
 Part with it as with life, reluctant ; big 
 
 With holy hope of nobler time to come ; 
 
 Time higher aimed, still nearer the great mark 
 
 Of men and angels, virtue more divine. 
 
 On all important time, through every age, 
 
 Though much, and warm, the wise have urged, the man 
 
 Is yet unborn who duly weighs an hour. 
 
 " I've lost a day" — the prince who nobly cried. 
 
 Had been an emperor without his crown. 
 
 Of Rome ? say, rather, lord of human race : 
 
 He spoke as if deputed by mankind. 
 
 So should all speak ; so reason speaks in all : 
 
 From the soft whispers of that God in man, 
 
 Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly, 
 
 For rescue from the blessings we possess ? 
 
 Time, the supreme ! — Time is eternity ; 
 
 Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile. 
 
LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. 99 
 
 Who murders Time, lie crushes m the birth 
 A power ethereal, only not adored. 
 
 Ah ! how unjust to nature and himself 
 Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man ! 
 Like children babbling nonsense in their sports, 
 We censure Nature for a span too short ; 
 That span too short we tax as tedious too ; 
 Torture invention, all expedients tire, 
 To lash the lingering moments into speed. 
 And whirl us (happy riddance) from ourselves. 
 
 Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings. 
 And seems to creep, decrepit with his age. 
 Behold him when passed by ; what then is seen 
 But his broad pinions swifter than the Ayinds ? 
 And all mankind, in contradiction strong, 
 Rueful, aghast, cry out on his career. 
 
 We waste, not use our time ; we breathe, not live ; 
 Time wasted is existence ; used, is life : 
 And bare existence man, to live ordained. 
 Wrings and oppresses with enormous weight. 
 And why ? since time was given for use, not waste, 
 Enjoined to fly, with tempest, tide, and stars. 
 To keep his speed, nor ever wait for man. 
 
100 YOUNG. 
 
 Time's use was doomed a pleasure, waste a pain, 
 That man might feel his error if unseen, 
 And, feeling, fly to labour for his cure ; 
 Not, blundering, sjDlit on idleness for ease. 
 
 We push time from us, and we wish him back ; 
 
 Life we think long and short ; death seek and shun. 
 
 Oh the dark days of vanity ! while here 
 
 How tasteless ! and how terrible when gone ! 
 
 Gone ? they ne'er go ; when past, they haunt us still : 
 
 The spirit walks of every day deceased. 
 
 And smiles an angel, or a fury frowns. 
 
 Nor death nor life delights us. If time past. 
 
 And time possessed, both pain us, what can please ? 
 
 That which the Deity to please ordained, 
 
 Time used. The man who consecrates his hours 
 
 By vigorous effort, and an honest aim. 
 
 At once he draws the sting of life and death : 
 
 He walks with nature, and her ^^aths are peace. 
 
 'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours. 
 And ask them what report they bore to heaven. 
 And how they might have borne more v^'elcome news. 
 Their answers form what men experience call ; 
 If wisdom's friend her best, if not, worst foe. 
 
L I F E, D E A T II, A N D I M M R T A L I T Y. 101 
 
 All-sensual man, because untouclied, unseen, 
 
 He looks on time as nothing. Nothing else 
 
 Is truly man's ; 'tis fortune's. Time's a god. 
 
 Hast thou ne'er heard of Time's omnipotence ? 
 
 For, or against, what wonders can he do ! 
 
 And will : to stand blank neuter he disdains. 
 
 Not on those terms was time (heaven's stranger !) sent 
 
 On his important embassy to man. 
 
 Lorenzo ! no : on the long destined hour. 
 
 From everlasting ages growing ripe. 
 
 That memorable hour of wondrous birth. 
 
 When the Dread Sire, on emanation bent. 
 
 And big with nature, rising in his might. 
 
 Called forth creation (for then time was born) 
 
 By Godhead streaming through a thousand worlds ; 
 
 Not on those terms, from the great days of heaven, 
 
 From old eternity's mysterious orb. 
 
 Was time cut off, and cast beneath the skies ; 
 
 The skies, which watch him in his new abode, 
 
 Measuring his motions by revolving spheres, 
 
 That horologe, machinery divine. 
 
 Hours, days, and months, and years, his children, play, 
 
 Like numerous wings, around him, as he flies ; 
 
 Or rather, as unequal plumes, they shape 
 
 His ample pinions, swift as darted flame, 
 
 To gain his goal, to reach his ancient rest, 
 
102 , YOUNG. 
 
 And join anew eternity, his sire : 
 
 In his immutability to nest, 
 
 When worlds that count his circles now, unhinged, 
 
 (Fate the loud signal sounding) headlong rush 
 
 To timeless night and chaos, whence they rose. 
 
 But why on time so lavish is my song ? 
 On this great theme kind Nature keeps a school 
 To teach her sons herself. Each night we die — 
 Each morn are born anew ; each day a life ; 
 And shall we kill each day ? If trifling kills, 
 Sure vice must butcher. what heaps of slain 
 Cry out for vengeance on us ! time destroyed 
 Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt. 
 
 Throw years away ? 
 ThroAV empires, and be blameless : moments seize ; 
 Heaven's on their wing : a moment we may wish, 
 When worlds Avant wealth to buy. Bid day stand still. 
 Bid him drive back his car and reimpart 
 The period past, regive the given hour. 
 Lorenzo ! more than miracles we want. 
 Lorenzo ! for yesterdays to come ! 
 
JOHNSON. 
 
 In massive force of understanding, multifarious knowledge, 
 sagacity, and moral intrepidity, no writer of the eighteenth 
 century surpassed Dr. Samuel Johnson. His various works, 
 with their sententious morality and high-sounding sonorous 
 periods — his manly character and appearance — his great vir- 
 tues and strong prejudices — his early and severe struggles — his 
 love of argument and society, into which he poured the trea- 
 sures of a rich and full mind — his wit, repartee, and brow- 
 beating — his rough manners and kind heart — his curious 
 household, in which were congregated the lame, the blind, the 
 despised — his very looks, gesticulation, and dress — have all 
 been so vividly brought before us by his biographer, Boswell, 
 that to readers of every class Johnson is as well known as a 
 member of their own family. In literature his influence has 
 been scarcely less extensive. No prose writer of that day 
 
 (103) 
 
1 
 
 10-1 JOHNSON. 
 
 escaped the contagion of his peculiar style. He banished for a 
 long period the naked simplicity of Swift, and the idiomatic 
 graces of Addison ; he depressed the literature and poetry of 
 the imagination, while he elevated that of the understanding; 
 he based criticism on strong sense and sohd judgment, not on 
 scholastic subtleties and refinement ; and, though some of the 
 higher qualities and attributes of genius eluded his grasp and 
 observation, the withering scorn and invective with which he 
 assailed all affected sentimentalism, immorality, and licentious- 
 ness, introduced a pure and healthful and invigorating atmo- 
 sphere into the crowded walks of literature. These are solid 
 and substantial benefits, which should weigh down errors of 
 taste, or the caprices of a temperament which was constitution- 
 ally prone to melancholy and ill health, and which ^vas little 
 sweetened by prosperity or applause at that period of life when 
 the habits are formed and the manners become permanent. 
 
 Johnson was born at Lichfield, September 18, 1709. His 
 father was a bookseller, and in circumstances that enabled him 
 to give his son a good education. In his nineteenth year he was 
 placed at Pembroke College, Oxford. Misfortunes in trade hap- 
 pened to the elder Johnson, and Samuel was compelled to leave 
 the university without a degree. He was a short time usher in 
 a school at Market Bosworth; but, marrying a wddow, Mrs. 
 Porter (whose age w^as double his own), he set up a private 
 
JOHNSON. 105 
 
 academy near liis native city. He had only three pupils, one 
 of whom was David Garrick. After an unsuccessful career of 
 a year and a half, Johnson went to London, accompanied by 
 Garrick, He there commenced author by profession, contribut- 
 ing essays, reviews, &c., to the Gentleman's Magazine. In 
 1738 appeared his London, a Satire; in 1744 his Life of Savage ; 
 in 1749 The Vanity of Human Wishes, an imitation of Juvenal's 
 tenth Satire, and the tragedy of Lrene; in 1750-52 the Rainblei', 
 published in numbers; in 1755 his Dictionary of the English 
 Language, which had engaged him above seven years ; in 
 1758-60 the Idler, another series of essays j in 1759 Rasselas; 
 in 1775 the Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland ; and in 
 1781 the Lives of the Poets. The high church and tory predi- 
 lections of Johnson led him to embark on the troubled sea of 
 party politics ; and he wrote some vigorous pamphlets in defence 
 of the ministry and against the claims of the Americans. The 
 degree of LL.D. was conferred upon him first by Trinity Col- 
 lege, Dublin, and afterwards by the University of Oxford. His 
 Majesty, in 17G2, settled upon him an annuity of £300 per 
 annum. Johnson died on the 13th of December, 1784. 
 
 The poetry of Johnson forms but a small portion of the his- 
 tory of his mind or of his works. His imitations of Juvenal 
 are, however, among the best imitations of a classic author that 
 we possess ; and Gray has pronounced an opinion that '• London 
 14 
 
1 
 
 106 JOHNSON 
 
 has all the spirit and all the ease of an original." Pojoe also 
 admired the composition. In The Vanity of Human Wishes, 
 Johnson departs more from his original, and takes wider views 
 of human nature, society, and manners. His pictures of Wolsey 
 and Charles of Sweden have a strength and magnificence that 
 would do honour to Dryden, while the historical and philoso- 
 phic paintings .are contrasted by reflections on the cares, vicis- 
 situdes, and sorrows of life, so profound, so true, and touching, 
 that they may justly be denominated "mottoes of the heart." 
 
CARDINAL WOLSEY. 
 
 In full-blown dignity, see Wolsey stand, 
 
 Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand : 
 
 To him the church, the realm, their powers consign ; 
 
 Through him the rays of regal bounty shine ; 
 
 Turned by his nod the stream of honour flows. 
 
 His smile alone security bestows : 
 
 Still to new heights his restless wishes tower ; 
 
 Claim leads to claim, and power advances power ; 
 
 Till conquest unresisted ceased to please, 
 
 And rights submitted, left him none to seize. 
 
 At length his sovereign frowns — the train of state 
 
 Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate : 
 
 Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye, 
 
 His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly ; 
 
 Now drops at once the pride of awful state, 
 
 The golden canopy, the glittering plate, 
 
 (107) 
 
.1 
 
 108 JOHNSON. 
 
 The regal palace, the luxurious board, 
 The liveried army, and the menial lord. 
 With age, mth cares, with maladies oppressed, 
 He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. 
 Grief aids disease, remembered folly stings, 
 And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. 
 
 Speak thou, ■^Yhose thoughts at humble peace repine, 
 Shall Wolsey's wealth, with Wolsey's end be thine ? 
 Or livest thou now, Avith safer pride content, 
 The wisest Justice on the banks of Trent ? 
 For Avhy did Wolsey near the steeps of fate, 
 On weak foundations raise the enormous weio-lit ? 
 
 a 
 
 Why, but to sink beneath misfortune's blow, 
 With louder ruin to the gulfs below. 
 
CHARLES OF SWEDEN. 
 
 On what foundation stands the Ayarrior's pride, 
 
 How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide ; 
 
 A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, 
 
 No dangers fright him, and no labours tire ; 
 
 O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 
 
 Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain. 
 
 No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 
 
 War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ; 
 
 Behold surrounding kings their power combine, 
 
 And one capitulate, and one resign ; 
 
 Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain ; 
 
 " Think nothing gained," he cries, "till nought remain, 
 
 On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, 
 
 And all be mine beneath the polar sky." 
 
 The march begins in military state. 
 
 And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 
 
 (109) 
 
.1 
 
 110 JOHNSON. 
 
 Stern famine guards the solitary coast, 
 
 And winter barricades the realms of frost ; 
 
 He comes, nor want, nor cold, his course delay ; 
 
 Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day ! 
 
 The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, 
 
 And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 
 
 Condemned a needy suppliant to wait, 
 
 While ladies interpose and slaves debate. 
 
 But did not chance at length her error mend ? 
 
 Did no subverted empire mark his end ? 
 
 Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound, 
 
 Or hostile millions press him to the ground ? 
 
 His fall was destined to a barren strand, 
 
 A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 
 
 He left the name at which the world grew pale, 
 
 To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 
 
THOMSON. 
 
 James Thomson, designated as the Poet of the Seasons, was 
 born at Ednam, Roxburghshire, in 1700. His father was a 
 clergyman of that place, and distinguished for his piety and 
 pastoral character. The son completed his education at Edin- 
 burgh University, where he was admitted as a student of 
 divinity in 1719. 
 
 The Rev. Mr. Hamilton, who then filled the chair of 
 divinity, gave out as an exercise to the pupils, a psalm, in 
 which the majesty and power of God are described. Thomson 
 composed a paraphrase, which produced general astonishment 
 and admiration by its figurative and poetical style. Mr. 
 Hamilton complimented him upon it as a composition, and 
 even pointed out its striking merits to the class : but turning to 
 
 the author, he said that if he intended to become a minister, he 
 
 (111) 
 
112 THOMSON. 
 
 must restrain his imagination, and seek to keep himself within 
 the hniits of intelhgence belonging to common congregations. 
 
 This hint, and some vague hopes of assistance from a lady of 
 distinction in London, induced Thomson to abandon the clerical 
 profession, and to go to that metropolis with the view of pursu- 
 ing a literary career. His first adventure, on arriving in the 
 great wilderness of men, was to have his pocket handkerchief 
 stolen, containing several letters of introduction to persons of 
 consequence, who, it was supposed, might render him assistance. 
 He was speedily reduced to a state of poverty, and a melan- 
 choly sense of isolation and helplessness. " His first want was 
 a pair of shoes : his manuscript of Winter, his only property." 
 
 After great difficulty a purchaser for the poem was found, a 
 mere trifle, however, being paid for it. It attracted little atten- 
 tion at first, but after a time it became popular, and Thomson 
 soon rose into notice. His " Summer," " Spring," and 
 "Autumn," appeared in 1727, 1728, and 1730. He was now 
 ranked among the gifted authors of the day. In 1727 his 
 tragedy of Sophonisba was produced, but with equivocal success. 
 One incident of the first representation has became proverbial. 
 The weak and ludicrous line — 
 
 '' 0, Sophonisba, Sophonisba, I" 
 
 gave instant rise to the following waggish parody in the pit. 
 
THOMSON. lia 
 
 which set the house in a roar, and was afterwards echoed 
 through the town : 
 
 ' Jemmy ThomsoQ, Jemmy Thomson !" 
 
 In 1736, the ehiborate poem of " Liberty," was completed 
 and pubhshed. It is, however, Httle read at the present day. 
 The "Castle of Indolence," published in 1748, was begun as a 
 kind of playful satire on himself and some of his friends, who 
 reproached him with indolence. It, however, grew under his 
 hands, and finally became his masterpiece. This was his last 
 publication. Having caught a severe cold, which from neglect 
 became worse, he died August 27, 1748. 
 
 Thomson deserves a place by the side of Young, not from 
 similitude, but contrast ; and as furnishing, by his general love 
 of nature, and his delightful pictures of seasons, a healthful 
 balsam to the heart which has felt too keenly the lacerations 
 of the nocturnal tormentor. There is, after all, as much reality, 
 as much instruction, as much that moves to piety, in the day 
 as in the night, in beauty as in deformity, in the cheerful land- 
 scape as in the hideous cavern. If, indeed, the Night Thoughts 
 are a beneficent gift to mankind, which we do not deny, it was 
 still fortunate that they should be speedily followed by the 
 " Seasons," teaching mankind to turn from the too constant 
 and too absorbing study of the dark and scowling aspects of 
 
IH THOMSON. 
 
 human fortune, to the reflection of the glorious image of God, 
 IDresented to his children in the magnificent mirrors of nature. 
 Thomson's Hymn to the Seasons certainly contains a truer 
 vein of thought, and a more legitimate piety, than the agonizing 
 contemplations upon "Life, Death, and ImmortaHty." 
 
 The personal character of Thomson is that of a fat, easy 
 man, silent in company, but cheerful among friends. He was 
 simple, indolent, and careless, and these qualities appear in his 
 works. Yet the Seasons is one of the most popular and pleas- 
 ing poems in our language, and still holds its place as well 
 among the refined few as the unlettered million, despite the 
 lapse of time and the rivalry of subsequent works which have 
 filled the world with their fame. 
 
SHOWERS IN SPRING. 
 
 The north-east spends his rage ; he now, shut up 
 
 Within his iron cave, the effusive south. 
 
 Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven 
 
 Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent. 
 
 At first, a dusky wreath they seem to rise, 
 
 Scarce staining ether, but by swift degrees, 
 
 In heaps on heaps the doubled vapour sails 
 
 Along the loaded sky, and, mingling deep, 
 
 Sits on the horizon round, a settled gloom ; 
 
 Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed, 
 
 Oppressing life ; but lovely, gentle, kind, 
 
 And full of every hope, of every joy. 
 
 The wish of nature. Gradual sinks the breeze 
 
 Into a perfect calm, that not a breath 
 
 Is heard to quiver through the closing woods, 
 
 Or rustling turn the many twinkling leaves 
 
 (115) 
 
116 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 Of aspen tall. The uncurling floods, difiused 
 In glassy breadth, seem, through delusive lapse. 
 Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all. 
 And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks 
 Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye 
 The falling verdure. Hushed in short suspense, 
 The plumy people streak their wings with oil. 
 To throw the lucid moisture trickling ofi", 
 And wait the approaching sign, to strike at once 
 Into the general choir. Even mountains, vales, 
 And forests, seem impatient to demand 
 The promised sweetness. Man superior walks 
 Amid the glad creation, musing praise. 
 And looking lively gratitude. At last. 
 The clouds consign their treasures to the fields. 
 And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool 
 Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow 
 In large efiusion o'er the freshened world. 
 The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard 
 By such as wander through the forest walks. 
 Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves. 
 
SUMMER MORNING. 
 
 With quickened step 
 Brown night retires : young day pours in apace, 
 And opens all the lawny prospect wide. 
 The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top 
 Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn. 
 Blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents shine ; 
 And from the bladed field the fearful hare 
 Limps awkward ; while along the forest glade 
 The wild deer trip, and often turning gaze 
 At early passenger. Music awakes 
 The native voice of undissembled joy ; 
 And thick around the woodland hymns arise. 
 Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves 
 His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells ; 
 And from the crowded fold, in order, drives 
 His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn. 
 
 (117) 
 
SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 Low walks the sun, and broadens hj degrees, 
 
 Just o'er the verge of day. The shifting clouds 
 
 Assembled gay, a richly gorgeous train. 
 
 In all their pomp attend his setting throne. 
 
 Air, earth, and ocean smile immense. And now. 
 
 As if his weary chariot sought the bowers 
 
 Of Amphitrite, and her tending nymphs, 
 
 (So Grecian fable sung) he dips his orb ; 
 
 Now half immersed ; and now a golden curve 
 
 Gives one bright glance, then total disappears. "^ 
 
 Confessed from yonder slow-extinguished clouds. 
 
 All ether softening, sober evening takes 
 
 Her wonted station in the middle air ; 
 
 A thousand shadows at her beck. First this 
 
 She sends on earth ; then that of deeper dye 
 
 Steals soft behind ; and then a deeper still, 
 
 (118) 
 
S UM ME R EVENING. 119 
 
 In circle following circle, gathers round, 
 To close tlie face of things. A fresher gale 
 Begins to wave the wood, and stir the stream. 
 Sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of corn : 
 While the quail clamours for his running mate. 
 Wide o'er the thistly lawn, as swells the breeze, 
 A whitening shower of vegetable down 
 Amusive floats. The hind impartial care 
 Of nature nought disdains : thoughtful to feed 
 Her lowest sons, and clothe the coming year. 
 From field to field the feathered seeds she wings. 
 
 His folded flock secure, the shepherd home 
 Hies merry -hearted ; and by turns relieves 
 The ruddy milkmaid of her brimming pail ; 
 The beauty whom perhaps his Avitless heart — 
 Unknowing what the joy-mixed anguish means — 
 Sincerely loves, by that best language shown 
 Of cordial glances, and obliging deeds. 
 Onward they pass o'er many a panting height. 
 And valley sunk, and unfrequented ; where 
 At fall of eve the fairy people throng. 
 In various game and revelry, to pass 
 The summer night, as village stories tell. 
 But far about they wander from the grave 
 Of him whom his ungentle fortune urged 
 
^''^'^ THOMSON. 
 
 Against his own sad breast to lift the hand 
 
 Of impious violence. The lonely tower 
 
 Is also shunned ; whose mournful chambers hold — 
 
 So night-struck fancy dreams — the yelling ghost. 
 
 Among the crooked lanes, on every hedge, 
 The glowworm lights his gem ; and through the dark 
 A moving radiance twinkles. Evening yields 
 The world to night ; not in her winter robe 
 Of massy Stygian woof, but loose arrayed 
 In mantle dun. A faint erroneous ray, 
 Glanced from the imperfect surfaces of things, 
 Flings half an image on the straining eye ; 
 While wavering woods, and villages, and streams. 
 And rocks, and mountain tops, that long retained 
 The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene, 
 Uncertain if beheld. Sudden to heaven 
 Thence weary vision turns ; where, leading soft 
 The silent hours of love, with purest ray 
 Sweet Venus shines ; and from her genial rise, 
 When daylight sickens till it springs afresh, 
 Unrivalled reigns, the fairest lamp of night. 
 
AUTUMN EVENING SCENE. 
 
 But see the fading many-coloured woods, 
 Shade deepening over shade, the country round 
 Imbrown ; a crowded umbrage dusk and dun, 
 Of every hue, from wan declining green 
 To sooty dark. These now the lonesome muse, 
 Low whispering, lead into their leaf-strown walks, 
 And give the season in its latest view. 
 
 Meantime, light shadowing all, a sober calm 
 Fleeces unbounded ether : whose least wave 
 Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn 
 The gentle current : while illumined wide, 
 The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun. 
 And through their lucid veil his softened force 
 Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time. 
 For those whom virtue and whom nature charm. 
 To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, 
 
 16 (121) 
 
122 THOMSON. 
 
 And soar above tliis little scene of things : 
 To tread low-thouglited vice beneath their feet ; 
 ' To soothe the throbbing passions into peace ; 
 And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks. 
 
 Thus solitary, and in pensive guise, 
 
 Oft let me wander o'er the russet mead, 
 
 And through the saddened grove, where scarce is heard 
 
 One dying strain, to cheer the woodman's toil. 
 
 Haply some widowed songster pours his plaint, 
 
 Far, in faint warblings, through the tawny copse ; 
 
 While congregated thrushes, linnets, larks. 
 
 And each wild throat, whose artless strains so late 
 
 Swelled all the music of the swarming shades, 
 
 Robbed of their tuneful souls, now shivering sit 
 
 On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock : 
 
 With not a brightness waving o'er their j^lumes. 
 
 And nought save chattering discord in their note. 
 
 let not, aimed from some inhuman eye. 
 
 The gun the music of the coming year 
 
 Destroy ; and harmless, unsuspecting harm, 
 
 Lay the weak tribes a miserable prey 
 
 In mingled murder, fluttering on the ground ! 
 
RWlxiUehiiicK 
 
 v/^^. 
 
GRAY. 
 
 Thomas Gray was the son of a money scrivener of London, 
 where he was born Dec. 26, 1716. He was the fifth of twelve 
 children, and the only one who survived the period of infancy. 
 His father was a harsh and violent man, and his wife was 
 obliged to separate from him. To her he was chiefly indebted 
 for his education at Eton College. 
 
 Here he formed an intimacy with Horace Walpole, son of the 
 prime minister, with whom he made a tour in France and Italy. 
 After an absence of a twelvemonth, they quarrelled. Gray 
 returning to England. Walpole, however, took the blame of 
 the separation to himself. 
 
 The poet established himself at Cambridge, where he spent 
 his life in enjoying the treasures of its libraries. Occasionally 
 he made a trip to London, to revel among the boundless volumes 
 of the British Museum. In 1765 he visited Scotland, and made 
 
 (123) 
 
124 GRAY. 
 
 journeys to Wales and the Westmoreland lakes. In 17G8, he 
 was made Professor of History at Cambridge, with a salary of 
 £400 a year. In July, 1771, he was visited with a sudden 
 attack of gout in the stomach, which terminated his life on the 
 30th of that month. 
 
 Gray was a scanty writer, but what he has left is exquisite 
 in its kind. His odes are the best in the language ; and his 
 Elegy in a Churchyard, has no equal in a similar vein. As a 
 man, he was precise and reserved, having the stamp of a cold, 
 retiring, and haughty scholar. He was profoundly versed in 
 the classics, and there was something of Attic severity not only 
 in his poetry, but in his manners. His letters, however, dis- 
 played a different character, being tinged with a subdued 
 humour and a lively appreciation of the beauties of nature. 
 
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 The curfew tolls tlie knell of parting clay, 
 The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea, 
 
 The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. 
 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds. 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 
 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : 
 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain 
 
 Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
 
 (125) 
 
.1 
 
 126 GRAY. 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 
 
 Each in his narrow cell for ever laid. 
 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
 
 The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 
 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care : 
 
 No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
 
 How jocund did they drive their team a-field ! 
 
 How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 
 Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 
 
 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 127 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
 
 Await alike the inevitable hour : — 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. 
 If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
 
 Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 
 
 Can storied urn or animated bust 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
 Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 
 
 Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death ? 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
 
 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 
 
 Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed. 
 Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 
 
 But knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
 Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll ; 
 
 Chill Penury repressed their noble rage. 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
128 GRAY. 
 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 
 
 The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear : 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
 
 Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. 
 Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 
 
 The applause of listening senates to command. 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
 And read their history in a nation's eyes. 
 
 Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
 
 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 
 
 Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind : 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 
 
 Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
 With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 
 
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. ]29 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife 
 
 Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 
 Along the cool sequestered vale of life 
 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
 
 Yet even these bones from insult to protect, 
 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 
 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse. 
 
 The place of fame and elegy supply : 
 And many a holy text around she strews, 
 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 
 
 This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned. 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 
 Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 
 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 
 Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries. 
 Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
 17 
 
^ 
 
 130 GRAY. 
 
 For tliee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead, 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 
 
 If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate ; 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
 " Oft have Ave seen him at the peep of dawn 
 
 Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 
 
 There at the foot of yonder nodding beech. 
 That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
 
 His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
 And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 
 
 Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. 
 Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; 
 
 Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn. 
 
 Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 
 
 One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill. 
 Along the heath and near his favourite tree ; 
 
 Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. 
 
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 131 
 
 The next, Avith dirges clue in sad array, 
 
 Slow tlirougli the churchway path we saw him borne ; 
 Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
 
 Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 
 
 THE EPITAPH. 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, 
 A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown ; 
 
 Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 
 And Melancholy marked him for her own. 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere. 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 
 
 He gave to Misery all he had, a tear. 
 
 He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. 
 
 No farther seek his merits to disclose. 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
 
 (There they alike in trembling hope repose). 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. 
 
MERRICK. 
 
 James Merrick was an English divine, bom in 1720, and 
 deceased in 1769. His writings consist chiefly of religious and 
 critical works, with "Poems on Sacred Subjects." He also 
 made an excellent translation of the Psalms into English verse. 
 The following fable is hardly characteristic of the author, but 
 it is too amusing and instructive to be denied a place in our 
 book. 
 
 (132) 
 
THE CHAMELEOK 
 
 Oft lias it been my lot to mark 
 A proud, conceited, talking spark, 
 With eyes that hardly served at most 
 To guard their master 'gainst a post ; 
 Yet round the world the blade has been. 
 To see whatever could be seen. 
 Returning from his finished tour, 
 Grown ten times perter than before ; 
 Whatever word you chance to drop. 
 The travelled fool your mouth will stop : 
 " Sir, if my judgment you'll allow — 
 I've seen — and sure I ought to know."— 
 So begs you'd pay a due submission, 
 And acquiesce in his decision. 
 
 Two travellers of such a cast. 
 
 As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed. 
 
 (133) 
 
131 ]M E R R I C K. 
 
 And on their way, in friendly chat, 
 Now talked of this, and then of that ; 
 Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter, 
 Of the Chameleon's form and nature. 
 "A stranger animal," cries one, 
 " Sure never lived beneath the sun : 
 A lizard's body lean and long, 
 A fish's head, a serpent's tongue. 
 Its foot with triple claw disjoined ; 
 And what a length of tail behind ! 
 How slow its pace ! and then its hue — 
 Who ever saw so fine a blue ?" 
 
 " Hold there," the other quick replies, 
 '• 'Tis green, I saAV it with these eyes, 
 As late with open mouth it lay. 
 And warmed it in the sunny ray ; 
 Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed, 
 And saw it eat the air for food." 
 
 " I've seen it, sir, as well as you. 
 And must again affirm it blue ; 
 At leisure I the beast surveyed 
 Extended in the cooling shade." 
 
THE CHAMELEON. 135 
 
 " 'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye." 
 " Green !" cries tlie otlier in a fury : 
 " AVhy, sir, d'ye tliink I've lost my eyes ?" 
 " 'Twere no great loss," tlie friend replies ; 
 " For if they ahvays serve you thus, 
 You'll find them but of little use." 
 
 So high at last the contest rose, 
 From words they almost came to blows : 
 When luckily came by a third ; 
 To him the question they referred : 
 And begged he'd tell them, if he knew, 
 Whether the thing was green or blue. 
 
 " Sirs," cries the umpire, " cease your pother ; 
 
 The creature's neither one nor t'other. 
 
 I caught the animal last night. 
 
 And viewed it o'er by candle-light : 
 
 I marked it well, 'twas black as jet — 
 
 You stare — but, sirs, I've got it yet, 
 
 And can produce it." — "Pray, sir, do; 
 
 I'll lay my life the thing is blue." 
 
 " And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen 
 
 The reptile, you'll pronounce him green." 
 
ISa MERRICK. 
 
 "Well, then, at once to ease the doubt," 
 Replies the man, " I'll turn him out : 
 And when before your ejes I've set him, 
 If you don't find him black, I'll eat him." 
 
 He said ; and full before their sight 
 Produced the beast, and lo ! — 'twas white. 
 Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise- 
 "My children," the Chameleon cries, 
 (Then first the creature found a tongue) 
 " You all are right, and all are wrong : 
 When next you talk of Avhat you view, 
 Think others see as well as you : 
 Nor wonder if you find that none 
 Prefers your eyesight to his own." 
 
COLLINS. 
 
 "William Collins, the son of a hatter of Chichester, was 
 born Dec. 25, 1720. He finished his education at Oxford; and, 
 about 1744, proceeded to London as a hterary adventurer. 
 
 Here he won the cordial regard of Dr. Johnson, who was at 
 that time a needy Labourer in the same vocation as his own. 
 He projected many works, but, being infirm of purpose, or per- 
 haps interrupted by harassing necessities, he executed few^ 
 His odes were^pubhshed in 1746, but they were not popular; 
 and it is said that, in a fit of melancholy despondency, he burnt 
 the copies which, after a time, remained on his hands unsold. 
 He fell into embarrassments, from which he was relieved by a 
 legacy of £2000 from an uncle ; but he had now become 
 addicted to intoxication, which ended in insanity. He died 
 A.D. 1756. 
 
 Collins was not justly appreciated in his time, and even Dr. 
 
 18 (137) 
 
138 
 
 COLLINS. 
 
 Johnson did not do justice to his poetic powers. His odes are 
 inferior to no English lyric poet, except Gray. Mrs. Barbauld, 
 in her edition of his works, justly remarks, that " he possessed 
 imagination, sweetness, bold and figurative language. His 
 numbers dwell upon the ear, and easily fix themselves upon the 
 memory. His vein of sentiment is by turns tender and lofty, 
 and always tinged with a vein of melancholy." 
 
ODE ON THE PASSIONS. 
 
 When Music, heavenly maid ! was young, 
 While yet in early Greece she sung, 
 The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
 Thronged around her magic cell ; 
 Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
 Possessed beyond the muse's painting ; 
 By turns they felt the glowing mind 
 Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ; 
 Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
 Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, 
 From the supporting myrtles round, 
 They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
 And as they oft had heard apart 
 Sweet lessons of her forceful art. 
 Each, for madness ruled the hour. 
 Would prove his own expressive power. 
 
 (139) 
 
140 COLLINS. 
 
 First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 
 Amid the chords bewildered laid ; 
 And back recoiled, he knew not why, 
 Even at the sound himself had made. 
 
 Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire 
 In lightnings owned his secret stings ; 
 In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 
 And swept with hurried hand the strings. 
 
 With woful measures wan Despair, 
 Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled ; 
 A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 
 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 
 
 But thou, oh Hope ! with eyes so fair, 
 What was thy delighted measure ? 
 Still it whisjDcred promised pleasure, 
 And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. 
 Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
 And from the rocks, the woods, the vale. 
 She called on Echo still through all the sono- : 
 And where her sweetest theme she chose, 
 A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; 
 And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair 
 And longer had she sung, but with a frown, 
 
ODEONTHEPASSIONS. 141 
 
 Revenge impatient rose ; 
 He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, 
 
 And, with a withering look. 
 
 The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
 
 And blew a blast so loud and dread. 
 Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ; 
 
 And ever and anon he beat 
 
 The double drum with furious heat ; 
 And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, 
 
 Dejected Pity at his side 
 
 Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
 Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien. 
 While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his 
 head. 
 
 Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed ; 
 
 Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 
 Of differing themes the veering song was mixed, 
 And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate. 
 
 With eyes upraised, as one inspired. 
 Pale Melancholy sat retired. 
 And from her wild sequestered seat. 
 In notes by distance made more sweet, 
 Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul ; 
 And clashing soft from rocks around. 
 Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; 
 
142 COLLINS. 
 
 Througli glades and glooms the mingled measure stole 
 Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, 
 Hound a holy calm diffusing, 
 Love of peace and lonely musing, 
 In hollow murmurs died away. 
 
 But oh ! how altered was its sprightly tone, 
 
 When Cheerfulness, a nym23h of healthiest hue, 
 Her bow across her shoulder flung. 
 Her buskins gemmed with morning dew. 
 Blew an insj^iring air, that dale and thicket rung, 
 
 The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known ; 
 
 The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, 
 Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen 
 Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 
 Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, 
 And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. 
 
 Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 
 
 He, with viny crown advancing. 
 First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; 
 But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, 
 Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. 
 
 They would have thought, who heard the strain, 
 They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, 
 Amidst the festal sounding shades, 
 
ODE ON THE PASSIONS. 143 
 
 To some unwearied minstrel dancing : 
 Wliile, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, 
 Love framed with Mirth, a gay fantastic round, 
 Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound : 
 
 And he, amidst his frohc play. 
 As if he would the charming air repay, 
 Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. 
 
 Oh, Music ! sphere-descended maid. 
 Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid, 
 Why, goddess ! Avhy to us denied, 
 Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? 
 As in that loved Athenian bower. 
 You learn an all-commanding power ; 
 Thy mimic soul, oh nymph endeared. 
 Can well recall what then it heard. 
 Where is thy native simple heart, 
 Devote to virtue, fancy, art ? 
 Arise, as in that elder time. 
 Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime ! 
 Thy wonders in that godlike age 
 Fill thy recording sister's page ; 
 'Tis said, and I believe the tale. 
 Thy humblest reed could more prevail, 
 Had more of strength, diviner rage. 
 Than all which charms this la2;gard age ; 
 

 1 
 
 1 
 
 
 144 
 
 COLLINS. 
 
 Even all at once together found, 
 Cecilia's mingled world of sound. 
 Oil ! bid 3"our vain endeavours cease, 
 Revive the just designs of Greece ; 
 Return in all thy simple state ; 
 Confirm the tales her sons relate. 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. 
 
 
 
 
 To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 
 
 
 
 
 Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
 
 
 
 
 Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, 
 
 
 
 
 And rifle all the breathing spring. 
 
 
 
 
 No wailing ghost shall dare appear 
 
 
 
 
 To vex with shrieks this quiet grove, 
 
 
 
 
 But shepherd lads assemble here. 
 
 
 
 
 And melting virgins own their love. 
 
 
 
 
 No Avithered witch shall here be seen, 
 
 
 
 
 No goblins lead their nightly crew ; 
 
 
 
 
 The female fays shall haunt the green, 
 
 
 
 
 And dress thy grave with pearly dew ; 
 
 
 
 
 
DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. Ul 
 
 The redbreast oft at evening hours 
 
 Shall kindly lend his little aid, 
 With hoary moss, and gathered flowers, 
 
 To deck the ground where thou art laid. 
 
 When howling winds, and beating rain, 
 
 In tempests shake thy sylvan cell, 
 Or midst the chase on every plain, 
 
 The tender thought on thee shall dwell. 
 
 Each lonely scene shall thee restore, 
 
 For thee the tear be duly shed ; 
 Beloved till life can charm no more ; 
 
 And mourned till pity's self be dead. 
 
 19 
 
SMOLLETT. 
 
 Tobias George Smollett is chiefly known as a humorous 
 and entertaining novehst. Still we are indebted to him for a few 
 poems, of such excellence as to entitle him to a place in our 
 volume. 
 
 He -was born in Dumbartonshire, in 1721, and his father 
 dying early, left him to the care of his grandfather. Sir James 
 Smollett, of Bonhill. He was educated to the medical profes- 
 sion, but devoted himself to literature. His works are 
 numerous, including poems, romances, tragedies, translations, 
 and compilations ; showing not only considerable genius, but 
 great versatility. His Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, and 
 History of England, are among the living literature of our day. 
 After a life of mingled success and failure ; in wdiich he dis- 
 played the vices of peevishness and irritability, occasionally 
 darkening a temper essentially benevolent and generous, he died 
 
 (146) 
 
SMOLLETT. 147 
 
 in the neigbbourhood of Legborn, wbitber be bad gone for bis 
 bealtb, tbe 21st October, 1771. 
 
 Among bis poems are tbe welbknown " Tears of Scotband," 
 " Leven Water," and " Ode to Independence :" tbe batter we 
 give beloAV, deeming it equal to Dry den in mascubne strength, 
 and superior to bim in elevation of moral tone and feeling. 
 
ODE TO INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 Thy spirit, Independence, let me share, 
 
 Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye ; 
 Thy steps I follow, with my bosom bare, 
 
 Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky. 
 Deep in the frozen regions of the north, 
 A goddess violated brought thee forth, 
 Immortal Liberty, whose look sublime 
 Hath bleached the tyrant's cheek in every varying clime. 
 What time the iron-hearted Gaul, 
 With frantic superstition for his guide, 
 Armed with the dagger and the pall, 
 The sons of Woden to the field defied, 
 The ruthless hag, by Weser's flood, 
 In Heaven's name urged the infernal blow ; 
 And red the stream began to flow : 
 The vanquished were baptized with blood ! 
 
 (MS) 
 
ODE TO INDEPENDENCE. 149 
 
 ANTISTROPHE. 
 
 The Saxon prince in horror fled, 
 
 From altars stained with human gore, 
 And Liberty his routed legions led 
 
 In safety to the bleak Norwegian shore. 
 There in a cave asleep she lay. 
 
 Lulled by the hoarse-resounding main. 
 When a bold savage passed that way, 
 
 Lnpelled by destiny, his name Disdain. 
 Of ample front the portly chief appeared : 
 
 The hunted bear supplied a shaggy vest ; 
 The drifted snow hung on his yellow beard, 
 
 And his broad shoulders braved the furious blast. 
 He stopt, he gazed, his bosom glowed. 
 
 And deeply felt the impression of her charms : 
 He seized the advantage Fate allowed. 
 
 And straight compressed her in his vigorous arms. 
 
 STROPHE. 
 
 The curlew screamed, the tritons blcAV 
 
 Their shells to celebrate the ravished rite ; 
 Old Time exulted as he flew ; 
 
 And Independence saw the light. 
 The light he saw in Albion's happy plains. 
 
 Where under cover of a flowering thorn. 
 While Philomel renewed her warbled strains, 
 
 The auspicious fruit of stolen embrace was born — 
 
150 S M L L E T T. 
 
 The mountain Drjads seized with joy, 
 
 The smiling infant to their charge consigned ; 
 The Doric muse caressed the favourite boy ; 
 
 The hermit Wisdom stored his opening mind. 
 As rolhng years matured his age, 
 
 He flourished bokl and sinewy as his sire ; 
 While the mild passions in his breast assuage 
 
 The fiercer flames of his maternal fire. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE. 
 
 Accomplished thus, he winged his way. 
 
 And zealous roved from pole to pole, 
 The rolls of right eternal to display, 
 
 And warm with patriot thought the aspiring soul. 
 On desert isles 'twas ho that raised 
 
 Those spires that gild the Adriatic Avave, 
 ^Where Tyranny beheld amazed 
 
 Fair Freedom's temple, where he marked her grave. 
 He steeled the blunt Batavian's arms 
 
 To burst the Iberian's double chain ; 
 And cities reared, and planted farms. 
 
 Won from the skirts of Neptune's wide domain. 
 He, with the generous rustics, sat 
 
 On Uri's rocks in close divan ; 
 And winged that arrow sure as fate. 
 
 Which ascertained the sacred rights of man. 
 
ODE TO INDEPENDENCE. 151 
 
 STROPHE. 
 
 Arabia's scorclimg sands he crossed, 
 
 Where blasted nature pants supine, 
 Conductor of her tribes adust, 
 
 To Freedom's adamantine shrine ; 
 And many a Tartar horde forlorn, aghast ! 
 
 He snatched from under fell Oppression's "vving, 
 And taught amidst the dreary waste, 
 
 The all-cheering hymns of liberty to sing. 
 He virtue finds, like precious ore. 
 
 Diffused through every baser mould ; 
 Even now he stands on Calvi's rocky shore. 
 
 And turns the dross of Corsica to gold : 
 He, guardian genius, taught my youth 
 
 Pomp's tinsel livery to despise : 
 My lips by him chastised to truth, 
 
 Ne'er paid that homage which my heajt denies. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE. 
 
 Those sculptured halls my feet shall never tread, 
 Where varnished vice and vanity combined. 
 
 To dazzle and seduce, their banners spread, 
 And forge vile shackles for the free-born mind. 
 
 While Insolence his wrinkled front uproars, 
 And all the flowers of spurious fancy blow ; 
 
152 SMOLLETT, 
 
 And Title his ill-woven chaplet wears, 
 
 Full often wreathed around tlie miscreant's brow 
 
 Where ever-dimpling falsehood, pert and vain. 
 Presents her cup of stale profession's froth ; 
 
 And pale disease, with all his bloated train, 
 Torments the sons of gluttony and sloth. 
 
 STROPHE. 
 
 In Fortune's car behold that minion ride. 
 
 With either India's glittering spoils oppressed, 
 So moves the sumpter-mule in harnessed pride. 
 
 That bears the treasure which he cannot taste. 
 For him let venal bards disgrace the bay. 
 
 And hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string ; 
 Her sensual snares let faithless pleasure lay. 
 
 And jingling bells fantastic folly ring : 
 Disquiet, doubt, and dread, shall intervene ; 
 
 And nature, still to all her feelings just, 
 In vengeance hang a damp on every scene. 
 
 Shook from the baleful pinions of disgust. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE. 
 
 Nature I'll court in her sequestered haunts, 
 
 By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove or cell ; 
 
 Where the poised lark his evening ditty chaunts. 
 And health, and peace, and contemplation dwell. 
 
ODE TO INDEPENDENCE. 153 
 
 There, study shall with solitude recline, 
 
 And friendship pledge me to his fellow-swains, 
 And toil and temperance sedately twine 
 
 The slender cord that fluttering life sustains : 
 And fearless poverty shall guard the door, 
 
 And taste unspoiled the frugal table spread, 
 And industry supply the humble store, 
 
 And sleep unbribed his dews refreshing shed ; 
 AYhite-mantled Innocence, ethereal sprite, 
 Shall chase far off the goblins of the night ; 
 And Independence o'er the day preside, 
 Propitious power ! my patron and my pride. 
 
 20 
 
GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith, son of the Rev. Ch carles Goldsmith, and 
 the fifth of seven children, was born in a small place called 
 Pallas, parish of Fourney, county of Longford, Ireland, on the 
 10th November, 1728. The future poet was deemed a dull 
 child, and hence his parents proposed to bring him up for a 
 mercantile employment. 
 
 He received his first rudiments of learning from a village 
 schoolmaster; but afterwards, in consequence of unexpected 
 displays of wit and intelligence, an uncle, with other relations, 
 undertook to give him a collegiate education. After the 
 preliminary studies, he entered Trinity College, Dublin, in 
 1744. He was, however, idle, extravagant, and occasionally 
 insubordinate, and did not obtain his degree of B. A. till two 
 years after the usual time. 
 
 His ftither was now dead, and yielding to his uncle's wishes, 
 
 (154] 
 
GOLDSMITH. 155 
 
 he consented to enter tlie church, but on applying for orders, 
 he was rejected by the bishop. He now turned his attention 
 to the Law, and afterwards to medicine, studying this profession 
 first at Edinburgh and then at Leyden. After residing at the 
 Latter place for a year, he undertook a tour of travel on foot, 
 having, as it is said, only one clean shirt, and no money, relying 
 entirely upon his wits for support. It is supposed that he made 
 use of his musical talents to obtain welcome in the houses of 
 villagers as he passed along his route. By means of various 
 expedients, he walked his way through Flanders, France, 
 Germany, Switzerland, and the North of Italy. It is supposed 
 that he may have taken a medical degree at Padua, where he 
 resided six months. The Traveller was composed in Switzer- 
 land. After a year's tour, he returned to England, having heard 
 of his uncle's death, and established himself in London. 
 
 He was at first an usher, then a practising physician, and 
 finally a writer for the Monthly Review. In 1759, he pub- 
 lished his "Present State of Literature in Europe." In 1761, 
 while under arrest for debt, he M^rote the Vicar of Wakefield, 
 for which Dr. Johnson got him £60. The " Traveller" 
 appeared in 1765, and the ballad of the Hermit in the same 
 year. In the mean time he had published several compilations, 
 and written a good deal for the booksellers. 
 
156 G L D S M I T PI. 
 
 His comedy of the Good-Natured Man was produced in 1768 ; 
 the next year he pubhshed the Deserted Village, and about the 
 same time contracted for compiling the histories of Eome, 
 Greece, and England. In 1773, he produced " She Stoops to 
 Conquer," and in 1774, his "History of Animated Nature" 
 was published. In the spring of this year, he was taken ill 
 with a fever • this being augmented by mental distress, he died 
 April 4, at the early age of forty-five. 
 
 Dr. Goldsmith was a striking illustration of some of the pro- 
 minent characteristics of his nation. Full of genius, benevolence, 
 affection, and wit, he was still irresolute, changeable, and 
 utterly without that steadflxstness and persistency of purpose, 
 which are indispensable to success in life. As a writer, how- 
 ever, he has left inexhaustible treasures to mankind; few 
 authors, indeed, have contributed more, or even so much, to 
 delight, instruct, and elevate their own and succeeding genera- 
 tions, as Oliver Goldsmith. The Vicar of Wakefield, the 
 Traveller, the Deserted Village, and the minor poems, will 
 probably never cease to enjoy popularity as long as the English 
 language is spoken. 
 
FROM THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 i/ 
 
 Sayeet AulDurn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
 
 Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain ; 
 
 Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
 
 And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed ; 
 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please ; 
 
 How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 
 
 Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 
 
 How often have I paused on every charm ! 
 
 The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm ; 
 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 
 
 The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill ; 
 
 The hawthorn brush, with seats beneath the shade, 
 
 Eor talking age, and wdiispering lovers made ! 
 
 How often have I blessed the coming day. 
 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play ; 
 
 (157) 
 
158 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 And all the village train, from labour free, 
 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 
 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade. 
 
 The young contending as the old surveyed ; 
 
 And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, 
 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. 
 
 And still, as each rej)eated pleasure tired, 
 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired : 
 
 The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 
 
 By holding out to tire each other down ; 
 
 The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, 
 
 While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 
 
 The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love. 
 
 The matron's glance that would those looks reprove — 
 
 These Avere thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these. 
 
 With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please. 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close. 
 Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
 There as I passed, with careless steps and slow. 
 The mingling notes came softened from below ; 
 The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung. 
 The sober herd that lowed to meet their young ; 
 The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 
 The playful children just let loose from school ; 
 
FEOM THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 159 
 
 The ^vatclidog's voice that hayed the -whispering wind, 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
 And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled. 
 
 And still where many a garden flower grows Avild, 
 
 There, wdiere a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 
 A man he was to all the country dear. 
 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
 
 Remote from towns, he ran his godly race, 
 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place ; 
 
 Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power. 
 
 By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 
 
 Far other aims his heart had learned to prize. 
 
 More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 
 His house was knoAvn to all the vagrant train ; 
 
 He chid their wanderings, but relieved theu' pain. 
 
 The long-remembered beggar was his guest. 
 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
 
 The ruined spendthrift now no longer proud. 
 
 Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 
 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 
 
 Sat by his fire, and talked the night away ; 
 
160 G L D S M I T H. 
 
 Wept o'er his wounds, or talcs of sorrow done, 
 Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, : 
 
 And even his failings leaned to virtue's side ; 
 But, in his duty prompt at every call. 
 He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
 To tempt her new fledged offspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
 Allured to brighter Avorlds, and led the way. 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, 
 The reverend champion stood. At his control 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise. 
 And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
 His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
 
FROM THE DESERTED VILLAGE. ICl 
 
 Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway ; 
 
 And fools, ayIio came to scoff, remained to pray. 
 
 The service past, around the pious man, 
 
 With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
 
 Even children followed with endearing wile. 
 
 And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile ; 
 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed. 
 
 Their welfare pleased hun, and their cares distressed ; 
 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given. 
 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
 
 As some tall cliif that lifts its awful form. 
 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm ; 
 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. 
 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
 With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, 
 There, in his noisy mansion skilled to rule. 
 The village master taught his little school ; 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
 I knew him well, and every truant knew. 
 Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning's face ; 
 Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
 21 
 
102 ' GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Full Avell the busy wliisper circling round, 
 Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned ; 
 Yet he was kind ; or, if severe in aught, 
 The love he bore to learning Avas in fault ; 
 The village all declared how much he kneAV ; 
 'Twas certain he could write, and cijoher too ; 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage ; 
 And even the story ran that he could gauge ; 
 In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill. 
 For even though vanquished, he could argue still ; 
 While words of learned length, and thundering sound. 
 Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
 And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 
 That one small head could carry all he knew. 
 But past is all his fame : the very spot 
 Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. 
 
AKENSIDE. 
 
 Mark Akenside, the son of a butcher of Newcastle-upon- 
 Tyne, was born in 1721. He studied medicine at Edinburgh 
 and Ley den, and took the degree of M.D. in 1744. Having 
 been assisted in his education by certain English Dissenters, 
 he scrupulously paid back the amount, when success in his 
 profession enabled him to do so. 
 
 He first established himself at Northampton, whence he 
 finally removed to London, where he gained distinction as a 
 writer on medical subjects, though he did not acquire an 
 extended practice. His chief poem is entitled the " Pleasures 
 of Imagination." His genius, as displayed in this work, may 
 be characterized as lofty and elegant, chaste and classical, 
 without strong traits of originality, order, or exuberance. 
 We give a single extract from this production. He was the 
 author of other poems, besides several medical treatises. He 
 died June 23, 1770. 
 
 (163) 
 
INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY.— PATRIOTISM. 
 
 Mind, mind alone (bear witness earth and heaven !) 
 
 The living fountains in itself contains 
 
 Of beauteous and sublime : here hand in hand 
 
 Sit paramount the Graces ; here enthroned, 
 
 Celestial Venus, with divinest airs, 
 
 Invites the soul to never-fading joy. 
 
 Look, then, abroad through Nature, to the range 
 
 Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres. 
 
 Wheeling unshaken through the void immense ; 
 
 And speak, oh mto ! does this capacious scene 
 
 With half that kindling majesty dilate 
 
 Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose 
 
 Kefulo;ent from the stroke of Caesar's fate, 
 
 Amid the crowd of patriots ; and his arm 
 
 Aloft extending, like eternal Jove 
 
 When guilt brings down the thunder, called aloud 
 
 On TuUy's name, and shook his crimson steel, 
 
 (164) 
 
INTELLECTUAL BE A U T Y.— P A T R I T I S M. 1()5 
 
 And bade the father of his country, hail ! 
 
 For lo ! the tyrant prostrate on the dust, 
 
 And Rome again is free ! Is aught so fair 
 
 In all the dewy landscapes of the spring, 
 
 In the bright eye of Hesper, or the morn. 
 
 In Nature's fairest forms, is aught so fair 
 
 As virtuous friendship ? as the candid blush 
 
 Of him who strives with fortune to be just ? 
 
 The graceful tear that streams for others' woes, 
 
 Or the mild majesty of private life. 
 
 Where Peace, with ever-blooming olive, crowns 
 
 The gate ; where Honour's liberal hands effuse 
 
 Unenvied treasures, and the snowy wrings 
 
 Of Innocence and Love protect the scene ? 
 
 Once more search, undismayed, the dark profound 
 
 Where nature works in secret ; view the beds 
 
 Of mineral treasure, and the eternal vault 
 
 That bounds the hoary ocean ; trace the forms 
 
 Of atoms moving with incessant change 
 
 Their elemental round : behold the seeds ' 
 
 Of being, and the energy of life 
 
 Kindling the mass with ever-active flame : 
 
 Then to the secrets of the working mind 
 
 Attentive turn ; from dim oblivion call 
 
 Her fleet, ideal band ; and bid them, go ! 
 
 Break through time's barrier, and o'ertake the hour 
 
106 AKENSIDE. 
 
 That saw the heavens created : then declare 
 
 If aught were found in those external scenes 
 
 To move thy wonder now. For what are all 
 
 The forms which brute unconscious matter wears, 
 
 Greatness of bulk, or symmetry of parts ? 
 
 Not reaching to the heart, soon feeble grows 
 
 The superficial impulse ; dull their charms, 
 
 And satiate soon, and pall the languid eye. 
 
 Not so the moral species, nor the powers 
 
 Of genius and design : the ambitious mind 
 
 There sees herself: by these congenial forms 
 
 Touched and awakened, with intenser act 
 
 She bends each nerve, and meditates well-pleased 
 
 Her features in the mirror. For of all 
 
 The inhabitants of earth, to man alone 
 
 Creative Wisdom gave to lift his eye 
 
 To truth's eternal measures ; thence to frame 
 
 The sacred laws of action and of will. 
 
 Discerning justice from unequal deeds. 
 
 And temperance from folly. But beyond 
 
 This energy of truth, whose dictates bind 
 
 Assenting reason, the benignant Sire, 
 
 To deck the honoured paths of just and good. 
 
 Has added bright imagination's rays : 
 
 Where virtue, rising from the awful depth 
 
 Of truth's mysterious bosom, doth forsake 
 
INTELLECTUx\.L BE A U T Y.— P A T R I T I «=! M 167 
 
 The unadorned condition of lier birth ; 
 And, dressed by fancy in ten thousand hues, 
 Assumes a various feature to attract 
 With charms responsive to each gazer's eye, 
 The hearts of men. Amid his rural walk. 
 The ingenious youth, \yhom solitude inspires 
 With purest wishes, from the pensive shade 
 Beholds her moving, like a virgin muse 
 That wakes her lyre to some indulgent theme 
 Of harmony and wonder : while among 
 The herd of servile minds her strenuous form 
 Indignant flashes on the patriot's eye, 
 And through the rolls of memory appeals 
 To ancient honour, or, in act serene 
 Yet watchful, raises the majestic SAVord 
 Of public power, from dark ambition's reach, 
 To guard the sacred volume of the laws. 
 
COWPER. 
 
 There are few biographies which have laid a stronger hold 
 upon the interest and affections of general readers, and especially 
 those of moral and religious sensibilities, than that of William 
 Cowper. Our space, however, permits us to give only an outline 
 of his life and character. 
 
 He was born in Great Berkhamstead, in Hertfordshire, where 
 his father was rector, Nov. 15, o.s. 1731. He was allied to the 
 aristocracy of England, both through his father and his mother — 
 a circumstance only important as adding grace to the gentleness 
 and humility of his character. Having received a classical 
 education, he was fitted for the bar, and took up his quarters 
 in the Temple, at London. He spent his time, however, in 
 writing gay verses and associating with certain wits, who, like 
 himself, were members of the " Nonsense Club." 
 
 At the age of thirty-two, his father and mother being dead, 
 
 (168) 
 
C W P E E. 169 
 
 he found himself with narrow means and a mere nominal pro- 
 fession. At this critical period, he was presented with the office 
 of Clerk of the Journals of the House of Lords. But his 
 nervous temperament disqualified him for the discharge of its 
 duties, and he speedily relinquished it. He had, however, 
 undergone great mental anxiety in his struggles to retain the 
 place, and consequently his reason became unsettled. In this 
 unhappy condition, he attempted to commit suicide, but was 
 providentially saved from the melancholy end which he sought. 
 
 After eighteen months, the clouds passed from his mind ; and, 
 having become a cherished inmate in the family of the Rev. 
 Morley Unwin, of Huntingdon, his days flowed more smoothly 
 on. After the death of his host, his widow continued to bestow 
 upon him the tenderest care which could flow from a friendship 
 cemented by similarity of faith and mutuality of sorrows, which 
 the world could not know. Cowper spent his time in inter- 
 course with a few cherished friends, in gardening, in rearing 
 hares, drawing landscapes, and composing poetry.' 
 
 In 1782, he produced a volume of poems, "Table Talk," the 
 a Progress of Error," &c., which, however, was coldly received. 
 In 1785, the "Task" was published, and immediately became 
 popular. The translation of Homer appeared in 1791. In 
 1794, a pension of £300 a year was bestowed upon him by 
 the crown, thus putting him entirely at ease in his circum- 
 22 
 
170 C W P E R. 
 
 stances. In 1796, Mrs. Unwin, who had for some time been 
 helpless from palsy, died. The clouds of religious despondency, 
 which had occasionally darkened Cowper's life, now settled upon 
 him ; his health gradually gave way, and he was relieved from 
 his sorrows, April 25, A. d. 1800. 
 
 So strange a life has rarely been witnessed as that of Cowper. 
 Full of wit and humour in conversation, with a heart alive to 
 all tender and kindly sensibilities, his mind was still beset with 
 religious gloom and terror. Shining upon others, he was 
 melancholy and dark himself: he could write "John Gilpin," 
 and set succeeding generations in a roar of innocent mirth, yet 
 torment himself with apprehensions that he had done something 
 unseemly and unworthy of the dignity of his Christian pro- 
 fession. 
 
 Southey characterizes him as the most popular poet of his 
 day, and the best of English letter writers. He has indeed left 
 inexhaustible treasures of amusement, instruction, and ^iety 
 to mankind ; and it is but natural that those who have been 
 so largely profited by his genius should bestow U2oon his memory 
 and his misfortunes, unfailing gratitude and sympathy. 
 
WINTER EVENING. 
 
 Winter ! ruler of the inverted year, 
 
 1 love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st 
 
 And dreaded as thou art ! Thou hold'st the sun 
 A prisoner in the yet undaAvning 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, 
 Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, 
 And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
 Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours 
 Of long uninterrupted evening, know. 
 
 (171) 
 
172 COWPER. 
 
 No rattling wheels stop short before these gates ; 
 
 No powdered pert, proficient in the art 
 
 Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors 
 
 Till the street rings ; no stationary steeds 
 
 Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound, 
 
 The silent circle fan themselves, and quake : 
 
 .But here the needle plies its busy task. 
 
 The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower, 
 
 "Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn. 
 
 Unfolds its bosom : buds, and leaves, and sprigs, 
 
 And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed. 
 
 Follow the nimble finger of the fair ; 
 
 A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers, that blow 
 
 With most success when all besides decay. 
 
 The poet's or historian's page by one 
 
 Made vocal for the amusement of the rest ; 
 
 The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds 
 
 The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out ; 
 
 And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct, 
 
 And in the charming strife triumphant still, 
 
 Beguile the night, and set a keener edge 
 
 On female industry : the threaded steel 
 
 Flies SAviftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. 
 
 The volume closed, the customary rites 
 
 Of the last meal commence. A Roman meal ; 
 
WINTER EVENING. 173 
 
 Such as the mistress of the world once found 
 
 Delicious, when her patriots of high note, 
 
 Perhaps by moonlight at their humble doors, 
 
 And under an old oak's domestic shade, 
 
 Enjoyed, spare feast ! a radish and an egg. 
 
 Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, 
 
 Nor such as with a frown forbids the play 
 
 Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth : 
 
 Nor do we madly, like an impious world. 
 
 Who deem religion frenzy, and the God 
 
 That made them an intruder on their joys. 
 
 Start at his awful name, or deem his praise 
 
 A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone, 
 
 Exciting oft our gratitude and love, 
 
 While we retrace with memory's pointing wand, 
 
 That calls the past to our exact review. 
 
 The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare, 
 
 The disappointed foe, deliverance found 
 
 Unlooked for, life preserved and peace restored, 
 
 Fruits of omnipotent eternal love. 
 
 evenings worthy of the gods ! exclaimed 
 
 The Sabine bard. evenings, I reply, 
 
 More to be prized and coveted than yours ! 
 
 As more illumined, and with nobler truths. 
 
 That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy. * * 
 
174 C W P E R. 
 
 Come, Evening, once again, season of peace ; 
 
 Return, sweet Evening, and continue long ! 
 
 Metliinks 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 tAvinkling on thy brow, 
 
 Sufi&ces 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. 
 
 Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm, 
 
 Or make me so. Composure is thy gift ; 
 
 And whether I devote thy gentle hours 
 
 To books, to music, or the poet's toil ; 
 
 To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit ; 
 
 Or twining silken threads round ivory reels. 
 
 When they command whom man was born to please, 
 
 I slight thee not, but make thee Avelcome still. 
 
B E A T T I E. 
 
 James Beattie was born in Scotland, October 25, 1735. 
 His parents were of the class of farmerSj but appear to have 
 had cultivated tastes. Thej gave their son a classical educa- 
 tion, and he afterwards attained the situation of Professor of 
 Natural Philosophy, in Marischal College, Aberdeen; in this 
 office he S|)ent the greater part of his life. His closing years 
 exhibited a melancholy scene of distress, bodily and mental. 
 In 1799, he was struck with palsy, and after one or two sub- 
 sequent attacks, he expired August 18, 1803. 
 
 Dr. Beattie's works on philosophical subjects are numerous 
 and valuable. Among his poems, that of the " Minstrel" has 
 gained the highest praise. It is still a favourite ; but as it is 
 not easy to select, without injustice to what we take as well as 
 what we leave, we choose for insertion a smaller piece, which, 
 however, will ever be admired. 
 
THE HERMIT. 
 
 At the close of the day, wlien the hamlet is still, 
 
 And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, 
 When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill. 
 
 And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove : 
 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, 
 
 While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began : 
 No more with himself or with nature at war, 
 
 He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. 
 
 " Ah ! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, 
 
 Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? 
 For spring shall return, and a lover bestow. 
 
 And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthral : 
 But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay. 
 
 Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn ; 
 soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away : 
 
 Full quickly they pass — but they never return. 
 
 (ITfi) 
 
THE HERMIT. 177 
 
 " Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky, 
 
 The moon half extinguished her crescent displays : 
 But lately I marked, Avhen majestic on high 
 
 She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. 
 Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue 
 
 The path that conducts thee to splendour again ; 
 But man's faded glory what change shall renew ? 
 
 Ah fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! 
 
 " 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more ; 
 
 I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ; 
 For morn is a,pproaching, your charms to restore. 
 
 Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew : 
 Not yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ; 
 
 Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save. 
 But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn ! 
 
 when shall it dawn on the night of the grave ! 
 
 " 'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed. 
 
 That leads, to bewilder ; and dazzles, to blind ; 
 My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, 
 
 Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 
 ' pity, great Father of Light,' then I cried, 
 
 ' Thy creature, who fain would not Avander from thee ; 
 Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride : 
 
 From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free !' 
 23 
 
178 B E A T T I E. 
 
 " And darkness and doubt are now flying away, 
 
 No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. 
 So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, 
 
 The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. 
 See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending, 
 
 And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! 
 On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending, 
 
 And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." 
 
W L C T. 
 
 John Wolcot, a coarse but popular satirist, generally known 
 under the name of Peter Pindar, was born in Devonshire, in 
 1738. He was educated as a physician, and went to Jamaica 
 as medical attendant, with Sir James Trelawney, governor of 
 that island, in 1767. 
 
 Wolcot's habits were of a social and convivial character, but 
 that did not prevent his asking and obtaining from his patron 
 a church living, then vacant in the island. He was ordained 
 by the Bishop of London, and, with a clerk as graceless and 
 irreverent as himself, he appears to have performed his sacred 
 duties with a levity bordering on mockery. The congregation 
 consisted chiefly of negroes, and it sometimes happened that 
 not a person attended the Sunday service : under such circum- 
 stances the parson and his clerk were accustomed to proceed to 
 the sea side to enjoy the sport of shooting ring-tailed pigeons. 
 
 (179) 
 
180 WOLCOT. 
 
 After the death of Sir William, in 1768, Wolcot returned to 
 England, and attempted the practice of medicine at Truro, but 
 with little success. Having received a bequest of £2000 from 
 a deceased uncle, he went to London about 1778, and devoted 
 himself to the writing of satires, under the name of Peter 
 Pindar, Esq. His shafts were aimed at persons and objects of 
 the highest character, and being tipped with mingled wit and 
 venom, acquired great notoriety. Some of his most celebrated 
 and effective pieces were levelled at George III., and they no 
 doubt served to infect the popular mind with contempt for that 
 somewhat stupid and stubborn, though respectable, monarch. 
 Statesmen, ministers, celebrities of all kinds, were made to feel 
 the merciless lash. The latest public gossip was sure to be 
 versified by Peter Pindar, Esq., and to be sought after with 
 avidity. Partly by their real talent, and partly by their licen- 
 tious personalities, his works, as they were successively issued 
 from the press, were greedily devoured by the public for a 
 period of nearly forty years. 
 
 In the latter part of his life, Wolcot was afflicted with 
 asthma, deafness, and a defect of sight bordering on blindness. 
 He lived only for himself — sjoending the greater part of his 
 time in bed, writing a few verses, scraping his violin, and now 
 and then receiving a visiter who came to pay homage to the 
 
W L C T. 181 
 
 renowned Peter Pindar. He died on the 14th January, 1819, 
 leaving a considerable property. 
 
 The personal character of Wolcot is not amiable. He was 
 selfish, careless of wounding the feelings of others, and, though 
 a libertine and free thinker, did not hesitate to assume the 
 sacred functions of the desk, for their emolument alone. He 
 has the merit of having discovered and brought to notice the 
 talents of the painter, Opie — 
 
 " The Cornish boy in tin mines bred/^ 
 
 but he compensated himself by taking half the profits of his 
 labour for a year. After all his biting satires on George III. 
 and Pitt, he accepted a pension, from the latter, not to praise, 
 for that was not in his nature, but to withhold his arrows or turn 
 them in other directions. His poems are now little read : yet 
 some of them are worth perusal, either from their satirical 
 relish, or their poetic feeling and beauty. We give a few 
 passages as specimens. 
 
THE APPLE DUMPLINGS AND THE KING. 
 
 Once on a time, a monarch, tired with whooping. 
 Whipping and spurring, 
 Happy in worrying 
 A poor defenceless harmless buck 
 (The horse and rider wet as muck), 
 From his high consequence and wisdom stooping. 
 Entered through curiosity a cot, 
 Where sat a poor old woman and her pot. 
 
 The wrinkled, blear-eyed, good old granny. 
 
 In this same cot, illumed by many a cranny, 
 Had finished apple dumplings for her pot : 
 
 In tempting row the naked dumplings lay, 
 
 When lo ! the monarch, in his usual way, 
 Like lightning spoke, "What's this? what's this? what, what?' 
 
 Then taking up a dumpling in his hand, 
 His eyes Avith admiration did expand ; 
 
 (1S2) 
 
THE APPLE DUMPLINGS AND THE KING. 183 
 
 And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple : he cried 
 ''■'Tis monstrous, monstrous hard, indeed! 
 What makes it, pray, so hard !" The dame replied, 
 
 Low curtsying, "Please your majesty, the apple." 
 
 " Very astonishing indeed ! strange thing !" 
 (Turning the dumpling round) rejoined the king. 
 
 " 'Tis most extraordinary, then, all this is — 
 
 It beats Pinette's conjuring all to pieces : 
 Strange I should never of a dumpling dream ! 
 But, goody, tell me where, where, where's the seam?" 
 
 " Sir, there's no seam," quoth she ; "I never knew 
 That folks did apple dumplings sew f 
 "No !" cried the staring monarch with a grin; 
 " How, how the devil got the apple in ?" 
 
 On which the dame the curious scheme revealed 
 By which the apple lay so sly concealed. 
 
 Which made the Solomon of Britain start ; 
 Who to the palace with full speed repaired. 
 And queen and princesses so beauteous scared 
 
 All with the wonders of the dumpling art. 
 There did he labour one whole week to show 
 
 The wisdom of an apple-dumpling maker ; 
 And, lo ! so deep was majesty in dough. 
 
 The palace seemed the lodging of a baker ! 
 
MRS. PIOZZI. 
 
 This lady, originally Miss Esther Lynch Salisbury, afterwards 
 Mrs. Thrale, and finally the wife of Gabriel Piozzi the music 
 master, is best known as the host of Dr. Johnson. She pub- 
 lished a book of gossip, comprising anecdotes of the great 
 lexicographer, which gave offence alike to him and Boswell. 
 The quarrel is satirized in Dr. Wolcot's humorous poem, entitled 
 " Bozzi and Piozzi." 
 
 She published various works in prose and verse, from which 
 we select a piece so clever as to have excited the suspicion that 
 she received Johnson's assistance in its composition. She died 
 at Bristol, 1821, aged 82. 
 
 (184) 
 
THE THREE WARNINGS. 
 
 The tree of deepest root is found 
 Least willing still to quit the ground ; 
 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages, 
 
 That love of life increased with years 
 So much, that in our latter stages, 
 When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, 
 
 The greatest love of life appears. 
 This great affection to believe. 
 Which all confess, but few perceive, 
 If old assertions can't prevail. 
 Be pleased to hear a modern tale. 
 
 When sports went round, and all were gay, 
 On neighbour Dodson's Avedding-day, 
 Death called aside the jocund groom 
 With him into another room, 
 
 24 (185) 
 
186 MRS. PIOZZI. 
 
 And looking grave — " You must," says he, 
 " Quit your sweet bride, and come with me. 
 " With you ! and quit my Susan's side ? 
 With you !" the hapless husband cried ; 
 " Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard ! 
 Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared : 
 My thoughts on other matters go ; 
 This is my wedding-day, you know." 
 
 What more he urged I have not heard, 
 
 His reasons could not well be stronger ; 
 So Death the poor delinquent spared, 
 
 And left to live a little longer. 
 Yet calling up a serious look. 
 His hour-glass trembled while he spoke — 
 "Neighbour," he said, "farewell! no more 
 Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour : 
 And farther, to avoid all blame 
 Of cruelty upon my name, 
 To give you time for preparation, 
 And fit you for your future station. 
 Three several Avarnings you shall have, 
 Before you're summoned to the grave ; 
 Willing for once I'll quit my prey. 
 And grant a kind reprieve ; 
 
THE THREE WARNINGS. 187 
 
 In hopes you'll have no more to say ; 
 But, when I call again this way, 
 
 Well pleased the world will leave." 
 To these conditions both consented, 
 And parted perfectly contented. 
 
 What next the hero of our tale befell, 
 HoAV long he lived, how wise, how well, 
 How roundly he pursued his course, 
 And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse. 
 
 The willing muse shall tell : 
 He chaffered, then he bought and sold, 
 Nor once perceived his growing old, 
 
 Nor thought of Death as near : 
 His friends not false, his Avife no shrew. 
 Many his gains, his children few. 
 
 He passed his hours in peace. 
 But while he vieAved his Avealth increase, 
 While thus along life's dusty road. 
 The beaten track content he trod. 
 Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares. 
 Uncalled, unheeded, unawares, 
 
 Brought on his eightieth year. 
 And noAV, one night in musing mood, 
 
 As all alone he sate. 
 
 The unwelcome messenger of Fate 
 Once more before him stood. 
 
ISS MRS. PIOZZI. 
 
 Half killed with anger and surprise, 
 " So soon returned !" old Dodson cries, 
 " So soon d'ye call it ?" Death replies : 
 " Surely, my friend, you're but in jest ! 
 
 Since I Avas here before 
 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, 
 
 And jou are now fourscore." 
 
 " So much the worse," the cloAvn rejoined ; 
 " To spare the aged would be kind : 
 However, see your search be legal ; 
 And your authority — is't regal ? 
 Else you are come on a fool's errand. 
 With but a secretary's Avarrant. 
 Besides, you promised me Three Warnings, 
 Which I haA^e looked for nio-hts and mornino-s 
 
 O O 
 
 But for that loss of time and ease, 
 I can recoA'^er damages." 
 
 " I knoAV," cries Death, "that at the best, 
 
 I seldom am a AA^elcome a:uest ; 
 
 But don't be captious, friend, at least ; 
 
 I little thought you'd still be able 
 
 To stump about your farm and stable : 
 
 Your years haA^e run to a great length ; 
 
 I Avish you joy, though, of your strength !" 
 
THE THREE WARNINGS. 189 
 
 " Hold," says the farmer, " not so fast ! 
 
 I liave been lame these four years past." 
 
 " And no great wonder," Death replies : 
 
 " Ho^Yever, you still keep your eyes ; 
 
 And sure to see one's loves and friends, 
 
 For leffs and arms would make amends." 
 
 "Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might, 
 
 But latterly I've lost my sight." 
 
 " This is a shocking tale, 'tis true ; 
 
 But still there's comfort left for you : 
 
 Each strives your sadness to amuse ; 
 
 I warrant you hear all the news." 
 
 " There's none," cries he ; " and if there Avere, 
 
 I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." 
 
 "Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined, 
 
 " These are unjustifiable yearnings ; 
 If you are lame, and deaf, and blind. 
 
 You've had your Three sufficient Vv^arnings ; 
 So come along, no more we'll part ;" 
 He said, and touched him with his dart. 
 And now Old Dodson, turning pale. 
 Yields to his fate — so ends my tale. 
 
LOWE. 
 
 John Lowe was a native of Galloway, and son of a gardener. 
 He was born in 1750, and deceased 1798, in America. He 
 studied divinity, but gave himself up to dissipation and died 
 in great misery. He was author of the following pathetic 
 ballad, which has acquired universal circulation, partly, per- 
 haps, on account of the touching melody which has become 
 wedded to it. 
 
 (190) 
 
MARY'S D REAM. 
 
 The moon had climbed the highest hill 
 
 Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 
 And from the eastern summit shed 
 
 Her silver light on tower and tree ; 
 When Mary laid her down to sleep, 
 
 Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, 
 When, soft and low, a voice was heard, 
 
 Saying, " Mary, weep no more for me !" 
 
 She from her pillow gently raised 
 
 Her head, to ask who there might be, 
 And saw young Sandy shivering stand, 
 
 With visage pale, and hollow ee. 
 " Mary dear, cold is my clay ; 
 
 It lies beneath a stormy sea. 
 Far, far from thee I sleep in death ; 
 
 So, Mary, weep no more for me ! 
 
 (191) 
 
192 LOWE. 
 
 " Three stormy nights and stormy days 
 
 We tossed upon the raging main ; 
 And long we strove our bark to save, 
 
 But all our striving was in vain. 
 Even then, when horror chilled my blood, 
 
 My heart was filled with love for thee : 
 The storm is past, and I at rest ; 
 
 So, Mary, weep no more for me ! 
 
 " maiden dear, thyself prepare ; 
 
 We soon shall meet upon that shore, 
 Where love is free from doubt and care, 
 
 And thou and I shall part no more !" 
 Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled. 
 
 No more of Sandy could she see ; 
 But soft the passing spirit said, 
 
 " Sweet Mary, weep no more for me !" 
 
LADY ANNE BARNARD. 
 
 This person was born in Scotland in 1750, being the daughter 
 of James Lindsay, Earl of Balcarres. In 1793, she was mar- 
 ried to Sir Andrew Barnard, librarian to George III. She died 
 on the 8th May, 1825. 
 
 The ballad of "Auld Robin Gray" was composed to an 
 ancient air about 1771, and immediately became popular. She 
 kept the secret of its authorship for fifty years, when she 
 acknowledged it in a letter to Sir Walter Scott. Few, even of 
 the opposite sex, can boast so great a triumph over the vanity 
 of successful authorship. 
 
 25 (193) 
 
AULD ROBIN GRAY. 
 
 When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, 
 And a' the warld to sleep are gane ; 
 The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, 
 When my gudeman lies sound by me. 
 
 Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his bride ; 
 But saving a croun, he had naething else beside : 
 To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea ; 
 And the croun and the pund were baith for me. 
 
 He hadna been awa a week but only twa, 
 When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa 
 My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea, 
 And auld Bobin Gray cam' a-courtin' me. 
 
 My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin ; 
 I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win ; 
 
 (194) 
 
AULD ROBIN GRAY. 195 
 
 Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in bis ee, 
 Said, Jennie, for tbeir sakes, Ob, marry me ! 
 
 My beart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back ; 
 But tbe wind it blew bigb, and tbe sbip it was a wrack : 
 Tbe sbip it was a Avrack — wby didna Jamie dee ? 
 Or wby do I live to say, Wae's me ? 
 
 My fatber argued sair : my motber didna speak ; 
 But sbe lookit in my face till my beart was like to break : 
 Sae tbey gied bim my band, tbougb my beart was in tbe sea ; 
 And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me. 
 
CHATTER TON. 
 
 Thomas Chatterton, the remarkable boy-poet, was born at 
 Bristol, 20th November, 1752. At the age of six years he 
 learned his letters from an old illuminated manuscript, with 
 which he seems to have been so fascinated that it coloured his 
 whole subsequent life. 
 
 He early displayed a turn for poetry, and at the age of eleven, 
 wrote verses superior to the marvellous performances of Pope 
 at twelve, and Cowley at fifteen. At the age of fourteen he 
 was apprenticed to an attorney for seven years. While here, 
 he entered upon the extraordinary plan of writing what pre- 
 tended to be transcriptions of old manuscripts, but which were 
 in reality original compositions, in a quaint style, admirably 
 imitated from the literature of the periods to which they 
 referred. Even his copies, by the art of the fabricator, were 
 
 (196) 
 
C H A T T E R T N. 197 
 
 made to have the appearance, both in paper and chirography, 
 of the antiquity they claimed. 
 
 Succeeding in his first attempts, he enlarged his operations, 
 and among a variety of other things, he produced what assumed 
 to be specimens of the writings of Thomas Kowley, a priest of 
 the fifteenth century. Among these are the poems which have 
 been regarded as best illustrating the extraordinary genius of 
 the author. 
 
 In 1770, having been liberated from his apprenticeship, 
 Chatterton arrived in London, where he made numerous 
 literary engagements with the booksellers. He projected a 
 history of England, a history of London, &c., but from these 
 he turned aside for politics. For a time he seems to have 
 indulged flattering hopes, which were ardently set forth in his 
 letters to his mother and sister at Bristol ; but for reasons not 
 clearly explained, then suddenly gave way to despondency. 
 Pressed by want, and in a condition tending upon starvation, 
 he swallowed poison, and was found dead in his bed, August 
 25, 1770, four months after his arrival in the metropolis. 
 
 It is not possible to pass over the obliquity of mind displayed 
 by Chatterton, without reprobation : we are willing, however, 
 to adopt the verdict of Campbell, as alike considerate and just. 
 " His Rowleian forgery must indeed be pronounced improper by 
 the general law which condemns all falsifications of history, 
 
198 CHAT TE ETON. 
 
 but it deprived no man of his fame, it had no sacrilegious 
 interference with the memory of departed genius, it had no 
 mahgnant motive to rob a party or a country of a name which 
 was its pride and ornament." Admitting the stain, thus 
 alleviated, and considering that we are speaking of a youth 
 whose whole life extended to only eighteen years, we may 
 bring into favourable relief, his severe devotion to study, his 
 temperance and natural affection, and leave his frailties to the 
 bosom of his Father and his God. 
 
 The poems of Chatterton are unequal, but all are marked 
 with originality and power. In his person he was precocious, 
 and he is said to have looked like a spirit — his eyes being very 
 piercing, and one more intense than the other. It is pleasant 
 to add that his habits were domestic, and his affection for his 
 kindred unbounded. It is reasonable to believe that the good 
 fortune — so common as to be little prized — that of a wise 
 education, under the united care of a father and a mother, 
 might have saved his name from reproach, and lengthened out 
 a life, to shed blessings on mankind and honour upon human 
 nature. 
 
THE MINSTREL'S SONG. 
 
 ! SING unto my roundelay ; 
 
 ! drop tlie briny tear with me ; 
 Dance no more at holiday, 
 Like a running river be ; 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to bis deathbed, 
 All under the willow tree. 
 
 Black his hair as the winter night, 
 White his neck as summer snow, 
 Ruddy his face as the morning light, 
 Cold he lies in the grave below : 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his deathbed, 
 All under the willow tree. 
 
 (199) 
 

 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 
 200 
 
 CHATTERTON. 
 
 
 
 Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, 
 
 
 
 
 Quick in dance as thought was he ; 
 
 
 
 
 Deft his tabor, cudgel stout ; 
 
 
 
 
 ! he lies bj the willow tree. 
 
 
 
 
 My love is dead. 
 
 
 
 
 Gone to his deathbed, 
 
 
 
 
 All under the willow tree. 
 
 
 
 
 Hark ! the raven flaps his wing, 
 
 
 
 
 In the briered dell below ; 
 
 
 
 
 Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing, 
 
 
 
 
 To the nightmares as thej go. 
 
 
 
 
 My love is dead, 
 
 
 
 
 Gone to his deathbed. 
 
 
 
 
 All under the willow tree. 
 
 
 
 
 See ! the white moon shines on high ; 
 
 
 
 
 Whiter is my true-love's shroud ; 
 
 
 
 
 Whiter than the morning sky. 
 
 
 
 
 Whiter than the evening cloud. 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 My love is dead. 
 
 
 
 
 Gone to his deathbed. 
 
 
 
 
 All under the willow tree. 
 
 
 
 
 Here, upon my true-love's grave. 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 Shall the garish flowers be laid, 
 
 
THE MINSTREL'S SONG. 201 
 
 Nor one holy saint to save 
 All the sorrows of a maid. 
 
 My love is dead, 
 
 Gone to his deathbed, 
 All under the willow tree. 
 
 With my hands I'll bind the briers, 
 
 Round his holy corse to gre ; 
 Elfin-fairy, light your fires. 
 Here my body still shall be. 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his deathbed, 
 All under the willow tree. 
 
 Come with acorn cup and thorn, 
 
 Drain my heart's blood all away ; 
 Life and all its good I scorn, 
 
 Dance by night, or feast by day. 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his deathbed. 
 All under the willow tree. 
 
 Water-witches, crowned with reytes, 
 
 Bear me to your deadly tide. 
 I die — I come — my true-love waits. 
 
 Thus the damsel spake, and died. 
 
 26 
 
CR ABBE. 
 
 Geokge Crabbe was a native of Suffolk, and born on Christ- 
 mas eve in 1754. His father was poor, but gave him a good 
 education. He was trained, and, for a short period, practised 
 as a surgeon, but abandoned his profession and went to London 
 as a literary adventurer. He was kindly patronized by Burke, 
 when upon the point of committing suicide from the gloom 
 occasioned by disappointment and destitution. 
 
 Encouraged by influential friends, he published one of his 
 poems, and soon afterwards entered into orders and became 
 rector of his native parish of Oldborough. Subsequently 
 Burke procured for him the eligible position of chaplain to the 
 Duke of Rutland and Belvoir Castle. From this point, his 
 fortunes wore a smiling aspect. In 1783, appeared his poem 
 of the " Village," which attained immediate popularity. He 
 changed his pastoral relations several times, and finally settled 
 
 (202) 
 
CRAB BE. 203 
 
 a,t Trowbridge, where his amiable character gained for him the 
 love of all his parishioners. In 1785 he published "The 
 Newspaper," and after an interval of twenty-two years, the 
 " Parish Eegister," " Sir Eustace Grey," and some smaller pieces. 
 In 1819, he sold the copyright of his last work, the " Tales 
 of the Hall," and the remaining copyright of his other poems, 
 to Murray, for the liberal sum of £3000. It is said that he 
 insisted upon carrying the cash, in bank notes, to Trowbridge, 
 to show them to his son John, who as he declared would not 
 believe in the marvellous sum, but upon ocular demonstration. 
 His death took place in 1832, and his affectionate parishioners 
 erected a monument to his memory. 
 
 A complete edition of Crabbe's works, with an excellent 
 memoir by his son, was published in 1834. The moral cha- 
 racter of this author was almost a perfect model, except 
 perhaps that an excess of gentleness made him cower before 
 the roughness of more common natures. The distinguishing 
 excellencies of his poetry are simplicity, pathos, force, and 
 truth in describing characters. Those which figure in his 
 works, are all drawn from persons whom he had known and 
 seen. Hence he deserves the high praise of Byron — "Nature's 
 sternest painter, yet the best." 
 
ISAAC ASHFORD. 
 
 Next to these ladies, but in nought alHed, 
 A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. 
 Noble he was, contemning all things mean. 
 His truth unquestioned and his soul serene : 
 Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid ; 
 At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed : 
 Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace ; 
 Truth, simple truth, was written in his face ; 
 Yet while the serious thought his soul approved, 
 Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved ; 
 To bliss domestic he his heart resigned. 
 And with the firmest, had the fondest mind : 
 Were others joyful, he looked smiling on. 
 And gave allowance where he needed none ; 
 Good he refused with future ill to buy, 
 Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh ; 
 
 (204) 
 
ISAAC AS HFORD. 205 
 
 A friend to virtue, liis unclouded breast 
 
 No envy stung, no jealousy distressed ; 
 
 (Bane of the poor ! it wounds their weaker mind 
 
 To miss one favour which their neighbours find) 
 
 Yet far was he from stoic-pride removed ; 
 
 He felt humanely, and he warmly loved : 
 
 I marked his action when his infant died, 
 
 And his old neighbour for offence was tried ; 
 
 The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek. 
 
 Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak. 
 
 If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride. 
 
 Who, in their base contempt, the great deride ; 
 
 Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed. 
 
 If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed ; 
 
 Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew 
 
 None his superior, and his equals few : 
 
 But if that spirit in his soul had place, 
 
 It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace ; 
 
 A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained, 
 
 In sturdy boys to virtuous labours trained ; 
 
 Pride in the power that guards his country's coast, 
 
 And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast ; 
 
 Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied. 
 
 In fact, a noble passion, misnamed pride. 
 
 He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim 
 Christian and countryman was all with him. 
 
lOQ CRABBE. 
 
 True to his church he came ; no Sunday shower 
 Kept him at home in that important hour ; 
 Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect 
 Bj the strong glare of their new light direct ; 
 " On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze, 
 But should be blind and lose it in your blaze." 
 
 In times severe, when many a sturdy swain 
 Felt it his pride, his comfort to complain, 
 Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide, 
 And feel in that his comfort and his pride. 
 
 At length he found, when seventy years were run. 
 His strength departed and his labour done ; 
 When, save his honest fame, he kept no more ; 
 But lost his wife and saw his children poor ; 
 'Twas then a spark of — say not discontent — 
 Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent : 
 
 " Kind are your laws ('tis not to be denied). 
 That in yon house for ruined age provide. 
 And they are just ; when young, w^e give you all. 
 And then for comforts in our weakness call. 
 Why then this proud reluctance to be fed. 
 To join your poor and eat the parish bread ? 
 But yet I linger, loath with him to feed 
 Who gains his plenty by the sons of need : 
 
ISAAC ASHFORD. 207 
 
 He who, by contract, all your paupers took, 
 And gauges stomachs with an anxious look : 
 On some old master I could well depend ; 
 See him with joy and thank him as a friend ; 
 But ill on him who doles the day's supply, 
 And counts our chances who at night may die : 
 Yet help me, Heaven ! and let me not complain 
 Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain." 
 
 Such were his thoughts, and so resigned he grew ; 
 Daily he placed the workhouse in his view ! 
 But came not there, for sudden was his fate, 
 He dropt expiring at his cottage-gate. 
 
 I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, 
 And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there ) 
 I see no more those white locks thinly spread 
 Bound the bald polish of that honoured head ; 
 No more that awful glance on playful wight 
 Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight ; 
 To fold his fingers all in dread the while, 
 Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile ; 
 No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, 
 
 Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there : 
 
 But he is blest, and I lament no more 
 A wise good man contented to be poor. 
 
BURNS. 
 
 Robert Burns was born at Ayr in Scotland, January 25, 1759. 
 His father was a respectable farmer, who struggled with 
 honourable pride to better his circumstances and give his child- 
 ren a good education. Robert, however, only received instruc- 
 tions by snatches at the common schools. 
 
 In 1784 the father died, worn out with toil, disease, and 
 care, leaving his wife and seven children in embarrassed cir- 
 cumstances. Upon the two elder, Gilbert and Robert, the 
 charge of this large family fell. The youth and early manhood 
 of the future poet were therefore gloomy enough. His first 
 attempts at poetry began when he was about sixteen years of 
 age. This gave him a village fame. In 1786 he published a 
 small volume of poems at Kilmarnock, for which he received 
 £20. Involved in debt and other difficulties, he was about to 
 emigrate to Jamaica. The state of his feelings at this moment 
 
 (208) 
 
BURNS. 209 
 
 may be gathered from his touching verses — " The gloomy night 
 is gathering fast :" — written as a farewell, and which he then 
 deemed the last song he should ever write in his native country. 
 
 An opinion expressed by Dr. Blacklock, that a second edition 
 of his poems would be well received in Edinburgh, induced 
 him at once to abandon his project of emigration, and to pro- 
 ceed to that metropolis. Here he was well received by the 
 eminent literary characters of the day, and he speedily realized 
 nearly £500 from a new edition of his book. 
 
 Being now married, he took up his residence at EUisland in 
 Dumfriesshire, where he rented a small farm in 1788. He was 
 soon after appointed an officer of excise, receiving the sum of 
 £70 a year. In 1791 he gave up his farm, and retired to 
 Dumfries, where he spent the short remainder of his life. He 
 had unhappily fallen into habits of intemperance, which 
 terminated his existence, July 21, 1796. 
 
 The biography of Burns is a melancholy one. His genius 
 ranks him among the most gifted of men, and his works — despite 
 the brevity of his career and the irregularities of his life — are 
 an invaluable bequest to mankind ; yet the poet himself began 
 his career in clouds, and after a few happy and brilliant days, 
 closed it in the terrors of a self-inflicted delirium tremens. 
 While we mourn over his fate, it is grateful to the feelings 
 27 
 
210 BURNS. 
 
 to recall his many virtues ; and in reading his works, which 
 appear like inspirations, it is delightful to see how the true and 
 beautiful in nature, religion, and life, triumphed in his heart 
 over the baser temptations of humanity. His whole soul was 
 indeed full of the finest harmonies, the fruits of which are 
 henceforth the heritage of all who are competent to appreciate 
 them. 
 
THE COTTAR'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 At leogtli liis lonely cot appears in view, 
 
 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
 The expectant wee things, toddlin', stacher thro', 
 
 To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. 
 His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, 
 
 His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile. 
 The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
 
 Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
 An' make him quite forget his labour and his toil. 
 
 Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, 
 At service out, among the farmers roun' ; 
 
 Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 
 A cannie errand to a neibour town ; 
 
 Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown. 
 In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
 
 (211) 
 
212 BURNS. 
 
 Come hame perhaps to show her braw new gown, 
 Or deposite her sah'-won penny-fee, 
 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 
 
 Wi' joy unfeigned brothers and sisters meet, 
 
 An' each for other's welfare kindly speirs : 
 The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed, fleet ; 
 
 Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears : 
 The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 
 
 Anticipation forward points the view. 
 The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears. 
 
 Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
 The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 
 
 :^ :fli if: :^ i^ 
 
 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 
 
 They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
 The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 
 
 The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride : 
 His bonnet reverently is laid aside. 
 
 His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide — 
 
 He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
 And, " Let us worship God !" he says with solemn air. 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
 They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim ; 
 
THE COTTAR'S SATURDAY NIGHT. / 213 
 
 Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, 
 
 Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; 
 Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame. 
 
 The SAveetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
 Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 
 
 The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
 Nae unison ha'e they with our Creator's praise. 
 
 The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
 
 How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
 Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
 
 With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
 Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
 
 Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avengino; ire ; 
 Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
 
 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
 Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 
 
 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme — 
 
 How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
 How He, who bore in Heaven the second name. 
 
 Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
 How His first followers and servants sped : 
 
 The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
 How he, who lone in Patraos banished, 
 
 Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, 
 And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. 
 
214 BURNS. 
 
 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. 
 
TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, 
 
 That lov'st to greet the early morn. 
 Again thou usher'st in the day 
 
 My Mary from my heart was torn, 
 Mary ! dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
 That sacred hour can I forget, 
 
 Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
 Where by the winding Ayr we met, 
 
 To live one day of parting love ! 
 Eternity will not efface 
 
 Those records dear of transports past ; 
 Thy image at our last embrace ; 
 
 Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 
 
 (215) 
 
216 ^BURNS. 
 
 Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 
 
 O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green ; 
 
 The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar. 
 Twined amorous round the raptured scene ; 
 
 The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 
 • The birds sang love on every spray — 
 
 Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
 Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 
 
 Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, 
 
 And fondly broods with miser care ! 
 Time but the impression stronger makes, 
 
 As streams their channels deeper wear. 
 My Mary, dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Ilear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
1 
 
 <_^/^^7z ^ 6^ (y~^. cyi^ . 
 
ROGERS. 
 
 Samuel Rogers was born at the village of Newington Green, 
 now swallowed up in the vast expanse of London, in the year 
 1762. His ftither was a banker, and the son has followed his 
 profession. It is now more than sixty years since he has been 
 known to the world as an author : he is still living to enjoy the 
 luxuries of wealth, a refined taste, and a high reputation as a 
 gentleman and a poet. His " Pleasures of Memory" has been 
 one of the popular classics of British literature since its 
 publication in 1792 — he has also produced other poems of 
 less pretension, but not inferior in merit, which likewise enjoy 
 a large share of public favour. 
 
 28 (2ir) 
 
MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village green. 
 With magic tints to harmonize the scene. 
 Stilled is the hum that through the hamlet broke, 
 When round the ruins of their ancient oak 
 The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play, 
 And games and carols closed the busy day. 
 Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more 
 With treasured tales and legendary lore. 
 All, all are fled ; nor mirth nor music flows 
 To chase the dreams of innocent repose. 
 All, all are fled ; yet still I linger here ! 
 What secret charms this silent spot endear ? 
 
 Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees. 
 Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. 
 That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade, 
 First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed. 
 
 (218) 
 
MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. 219 
 
 The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court, 
 Once the calm scene of many a simple sport ; 
 When nature pleased, for life itself was new, 
 And the heart promised what the fancy drew. 
 
 See, through the fractured pediment revealed. 
 Where moss inlays the rudely sculptured shield, 
 The martin's old hereditary nest. 
 Long may the ruin spare its hallowed guest ! 
 
 Childhood's loved group revisits every scene, 
 The tangled wood-Avalk and the tufted green ! 
 Indulgent Memory wakes, and, lo, they live ! 
 Clothed with far softer hues than light can give. 
 Thou first, best friend that Heaven as signs below. 
 To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know ; 
 Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm. 
 When nature fades and life forgets to charm ; 
 Thee would the Muse invoke ! — to thee belong 
 The sage's jjrecept and the poet's song. 
 What softened views thy magic glass reveals, 
 When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals ! 
 As when in ocean sinks the orb of day. 
 Long on the Avave reflected lustres play ; 
 Thy tempered gleams of happiness resigned. 
 Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind. 
 

 
 ^ 
 
 
 220 
 
 ROGERS. 
 
 The scliool's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray, 
 Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. 
 Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, 
 Quickening my truant feet across the lawn : 
 Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, 
 When the slow dial gave a pause to care. 
 Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear. 
 Some little friendship formed and cherished here ; 
 And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems 
 With golden visions and romantic dreams. 
 
 Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed 
 
 The gipsy's fagot — there we stood and gazed ; 
 
 Gazed on her sun-burnt face Avith silent awe, 
 
 Her tattered mantle and her hood of straw ; 
 
 Her moving lips, her cauldron brimming o'er ; 
 
 The drowsy brood that on her back she bore. 
 
 Imps in the barn with mousing owlets bred. 
 
 From rifled roost at nightly revel fed ; 
 
 Whose dark eyes flashed through locks of blackest shade, 
 
 When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bayed : 
 
 And heroes fled the sibyl's muttered call. 
 
 Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard wall. 
 
 As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, 
 
 And traced the line of life with searching view. 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. 221 
 
 How throbbed my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears. 
 To learn the colour of my future years ! 
 
 Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed my breast ; 
 
 This truth once known — to bless is to be blest ! 
 
 We led the bending beggar on his way 
 
 (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray), 
 
 Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, 
 
 And on his tale with mute attention dwelt : 
 
 As in his scrip we dropt our little store, 
 
 And sighed to think that little Avas no more. 
 
 He breathed his prayer, "Long may such goodness live!" 
 
 'Twas all he gave — 'twas all he had to give. 
 
WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The celebrated poet and idealist, William Wordsworth, was 
 a native of Cockermouth in Cumberland, and was born April 
 7, 1770. He was educated at Cambridge, and after travelling 
 for a short period, settled down among the lakes and mountains 
 of Westmoreland, and made poetry the chief business of his 
 life. Rydal Mount was his principal residence, and here he 
 died in 1850. 
 
 Wordsworth's first work appeared in 1792; in 1798 he pub- 
 lished some Lyrical Ballads, a portion of which were written 
 by Coleridge. About this time, Wordsworth, Southey, and 
 Coleridge, all living near the Westmoreland lakes, and in 
 intimate fellowship with each other, attempted rather a violent 
 experiment upon the public taste. They had adopted the theory 
 that the art of poetry should use the simple language of com- 
 mon life, and deal with the common and vulgar elements of 
 
 (222) 
 
AVORDS WORTH. 22:J 
 
 human character. The verses they sent forth to the world in 
 a kmd of sympathetic partnership, met with general ridicule. 
 A few persons however were able, by profound meditation, to 
 discover unspeakable depths of meaning in this limpid nonsense. 
 The trio were called the " Lake Poets," and their fraternity the 
 "Lake School." 
 
 Wordsworth appears to have been the leader in this mingled 
 infatuation an^ affectation. They all lived, however, to triumph 
 over their youthful eccentricity ; and we may rank their works 
 produced after their regeneration, as among the choicest trea- 
 sures of our literature. 
 
 Wordsworth's literary career has been remarkable. Begin- 
 ning with " Harry Gill," the " Idiot Boy," and other produc- 
 tions of affected simplicity, so happily paraded and ridiculed 
 in the " Nancy Lake" of the " Rejected Addresses," he after- 
 wards shot like a comet into the opposite quarter of the heavens, 
 and lighted up the mystic depths of human thought and 
 feeling, with a blaze of genuine poetical illumination. At first, 
 he seemed a boy launching his boat upon a shallow stream, 
 and asking the world to admire ; the world smiled, and the 
 poet turned away and became the discoverer of an ocean, the 
 verges of which had only been timidly navigated by his prede- 
 cessors. He now stands at the head of English metaphysical 
 poets, and though in his best productions there is a strange 
 
224 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 mixture of tame and common elements with the finest and 
 most exalted conceptions, he may still claim the merit of 
 having elevated the art of poetry by making it the interpreter 
 of the more remote and hidden, yet exalted emotions of the 
 soul. He is sometimes obscure, and often passes into the 
 regions peopled rather with the ghosts of thought, than thought 
 itself. Upon this world of idealism, however, he sheds such a 
 glow of light thaf we often seem to see what is not perhaps to 
 be seen. His beautiful illustrations too — drawn from nature — 
 often give substance to ideas which would otherwise be too 
 shadowy for the grasp of the intellect. One instance of this 
 may be found in the following passage : 
 
 Withia the soul a faculty abides, 
 That with interpositions, which would hide 
 And darken, so can deal, that they become 
 Contingencies of pomp, and serve to exalt 
 Her native brightness. 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, 
 
WORDSWORTH. 225 
 
 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. 
 
 To persons of a mystic turn — those who only begin to see 
 clearly at that misty point where common vision ceases, 
 Wordsworth's poems have a special charm. Hence there is a 
 class, a school of readers, who are his special and ' passionate' 
 admirers. He is not and never can be a popular poet, like 
 Campbell and Goldsmith. Some cannot, and others will not, 
 understand him. Beyond a few smaller pieces, the great mass 
 are ignorant of his works, and are likely to remain so. His 
 chief poem is " The Excursion," and upon that his literary 
 character should be determined. Yet few read it, and fewer 
 still appreciate it ; nor is it desirable that it should be otherwise. 
 There is always danger that idealism will become antagonistical 
 to common sense. As the instructor of a comparatively few 
 exalted minds, Wordsworth is a great master of the poetic art 
 — as a teacher of the millions, he ranks below many others 
 
226 W R D S W R T II. 
 
 that could be named. Keflectively, he is no doubt a bene- 
 factor to all, in revealing new and pure sources of poetic 
 inspiration, in imbuing strong minds with the strong philan- 
 thropy and deathless piety of his own breast — the fruits of 
 which will ultimately be shared by society at large through 
 the common and universal literature of our language. 
 
VANITY OF HUMAN GLORY. 
 
 So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies, 
 
 All that this world is proud of. From their spheres 
 
 The stars of human glory are cast down ; 
 
 Perish the roses and the flowers of kings. 
 
 Princes, and emperors, and the crowns and palms 
 
 Of all the mighty, withered and consumed ! 
 
 Nor is power given to lowliest innocence 
 
 Long to protect her own. The man himself 
 
 Departs ; and soon is spent the line of those 
 
 Who, in the bodily image, in the mind, 
 
 In heart or soul, in station or pursuit. 
 
 Did most resemble him. Degrees and ranks. 
 
 Fraternities and orders — heaping high 
 
 New wealth upon the burthen of the old. 
 
 And placing trust in privilege confirmed 
 
 And re-confirmed — are scoffed at with a smile 
 
 (227) 
 

 1 
 
 m 
 
 228 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 
 Of greedy foretaste, from the secret stand 
 
 
 
 Of desolation aimed ; to slow decline 
 
 
 
 These yield, and these to sudden overthrow ; 
 
 
 
 Their virtue, service, happiness, and state 
 
 
 
 Expire ; and Nature's pleasant robe of green, 
 
 
 
 Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps 
 
 
 
 Their monuments and their memory. 
 
 
 
 '~ '♦"■""" 
 
 THE DEAF PEASANT. 
 
 
 
 Almost at the root 
 
 
 
 Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare 
 
 
 
 And slender stem, while here I sit at eve, 
 
 
 
 Oft stretches towards me, like a strong straight path 
 
 
 
 Traced faintly in the greensward, there, beneath 
 
 
 
 A plain blue stone, a gentle dalesman lies, 
 
 
 
 From whom in early childhood was withdrawn 
 
 
 
 The precious gift of hearing. He grew up 
 
 
 
 From year to year in loneliness of soul ; 
 
 
 
 And this deep mountain valley was to him 
 
 
 
 Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn 
 
 
 
 Did never rouse this cottager from sleep 
 
 
 
 With startling summons ; not for his delight 
 ■> 
 
 
 
THEDEAFPEASANT. ■ 229 
 
 The vernal cuckoo sliouted ; not for him 
 
 Murmured the labouring bee. When stormy winds 
 
 Were working the broad bosom of the lake 
 
 Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves, 
 
 Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud 
 
 Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags, 
 
 The agitated scene before his eye 
 
 Was silent as a picture : evermore 
 
 Were all things silent, wheresoe'er he moved. 
 
 Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts 
 
 Upheld, he duteously pursued the round 
 
 Of rural labours ; the steep mountain side 
 
 Ascended with his staff and faithful dog ; 
 
 The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed ; 
 
 And the ripe corn before his sickle fell 
 
 Among the jocund reapers. 
 
 A PORTRAIT, 
 
 She was a phantom of delight 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight 
 A lovely apparition, sent 
 To be a moment's ornament ; 
 
230 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 
 Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
 But all things else ahout her drawn 
 From May time and the cheerful dawn ; 
 A dancing shape, an image gay, 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 
 
 I saw her upon nearer view, 
 
 A spirit, yet a woman too ! 
 
 Her household motions light and free, 
 
 And steps of virgin liberty ; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
 
 A creature not too bright or good 
 
 For human nature's daily food ; 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 
 
 And now I see with eye serene 
 The very pulse of the machine ; 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A traveller betwixt life and death : 
 The reason firm, the temperate will. 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill, 
 A perfect woman, nobly planned. 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 
A rORTRAIT. 231 
 
 And yet a spirit still, and bright 
 With something of an angel light. 
 
 SONNET— LONDON, 1802. 
 
 Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour ; 
 
 England hath need of thee ; she is a fen 
 
 Of stagnant waters ; altar, sword, a.nd pen, 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
 Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
 
 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
 
 Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
 
 Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart ; 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea ; 
 Pure as the naked heavens — majestic, free. 
 So didst thou travel on life's common way 
 
 In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
 The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 
 
SCOTT. 
 
 Walter Scott was bom at Edinburgh on the loth August, 
 1771, his father being a respectable Writer to the Signet. 
 Owing to lameness, and being of a feeble constitution, young 
 Scott's early education was not profound. Afterwards he 
 passed through the University of Edinburgh, obtaining some 
 knowledge of ethics, moral philosophy, and history, with a 
 partial mastery of the Latin, German, French, and Italian 
 languages. He became an insatiable reader, and during a 
 protracted illness he devoured a vast quantity of romances, 
 ballads, and other light literature. 
 
 Pie was apprenticed to his father, and after due preparation, 
 was admitted to the bar at the age of twenty-one. His health 
 was now vigorous, and he made frequent excursions into the 
 country. His manners were easy and agreeable, and withal he 
 was an excellent story-teller, so that he was everywhere a 
 
 (232) 
 
234 SCOTT. V 
 
 the life and fortunes of the hitherto prosperous author. In 
 1825 his pubhshers failed and involved him in an almost hope- 
 ess amount of debt. Scott, however, undertook to relieve 
 himself of the burthen by his writings. With herculean courage 
 and energ}^ he betook himself to the task, and if his constitution 
 had borne him out, he would have succeeded. But in the 
 midst of his labours, his overcharged brain gave way, and 
 gradually yielding to the attack, he died September 21, 1832. 
 
 It is idle to enter here upon the estimate of a life, or the 
 criticism of works, so familiar to our readers as those of Scott. 
 We have therefore but a single remark to offer, and that in 
 respect to one of his productions — the Lady of the Lake. We 
 believe this has given more unalloyed pleasure, during the 
 period which has elapsed since its publication, than any other 
 poem whatever. 
 
THE TROSACHS AND LOCH KATRINE. 
 
 The western waves of ebbing day 
 Rolled o'er the glen their level way ; 
 Each purple peak, each flinty spire, 
 Was bathed in floods of living fire. 
 But not a setting beam could glow 
 Within the dark ravines below, 
 Where twined the path, in shadow hid. 
 Round many a rocky pyramid, 
 Shooting abruptly from the dell 
 Its thunder-splintered pinnacle ; 
 Round many an insulated mass, 
 The native bulwark of the pass. 
 Huge as the tower which builders vain 
 Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. 
 Their rocky summits, split and rent, 
 Formed turret, dome, or battlement, 
 
 (235) 
 

 
 ■ 
 
 m 
 
 
 236 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 
 
 Or seemed fantastically set 
 
 
 
 
 With cupola or minaret, 
 
 
 
 
 Wild crests as pagod ever decked, 
 
 
 
 
 Or mosque of eastern architect. 
 
 
 
 
 Nor were these earth-born castles bare, 
 
 
 
 
 Nor lacked they many a banner fair ; 
 
 
 
 
 For, from their shivered brows displayed, 
 
 
 
 
 Far o'er the unfathomable glade, 
 
 
 
 
 All twinkling with the deAY-drop sheen. 
 
 
 
 
 The briar-rose fell in streamers green, 
 
 
 
 
 And creeping shrubs of thousand dyes 
 
 
 
 
 Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs. 
 
 
 
 
 Boon nature scattered, free and wild, 
 
 
 
 
 Each plant or flower, the mountain's child. 
 
 
 
 
 Here eglantine embalmed the air. 
 
 
 
 
 Hawthorn and hazel mingled there ; 
 
 _ 
 
 
 
 The primrose pale, and violet flower. 
 
 
 
 
 Found in each clift a narrow bower ; 
 
 
 
 
 Foxglove and nightshade, side by side, 
 
 
 
 
 Emblems of punishment and pride, 
 
 
 
 
 Grouped their dark hues with every stain 
 
 
 
 
 The weather-beaten crags retain ; 
 
 - 
 
 
 
 With boughs that quaked at every breath, 
 
 
 
 
 Gray birch and aspen wept beneath ; 
 
 
 
 
 
THE TROSACHS AND LOCH KATRINE. 237 
 
 Aloft, the ash and warrior oak 
 
 Cast anchor in the rifted rock ; 
 
 And higher yet the pine tree hung 
 
 His shattered trunk, and frequent flung, 
 
 Where seemed the cliffs to meet on hiffh. 
 
 His boughs athwart the narrow sky ; 
 
 Highest of all, where white peaks glanced, 
 
 Where glistening streamers waved and danced, 
 
 The wanderer's eye could barely view 
 
 The summer heaven's delicious blue ; 
 
 So wondreus wild, the whole might seem 
 
 The scenery of a fairy dream. 
 
 Onward amid the copse 'gan peep 
 
 A narrow inlet still and deep. 
 
 Affording scarce such breadth of brim 
 
 As served the wild-duck's brood to swim ; 
 
 Lost for a space, through thickets veering, 
 
 But broader when again appearing, 
 
 Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face 
 
 Could on the dark-blue mirror trace ; 
 
 And farther as the hunter strayed. 
 
 Still broader sweeps its channel made. 
 
 The shaggy mounds no longer stood. 
 
 Emerging from entangled wood. 
 
 But, wave-encircled, seemed to float 
 
 Like castle girded with its moat ; 
 
238 SCO T T. 
 
 Yet broader floods extending Btill, 
 Divide them from their parent hill, 
 Till each, retiring, claims to be 
 An islet, in an inland sea. 
 
 And now, to issue from the glen, 
 
 No pathway meets the wanderer's ken, 
 
 Unless he climb, with footing nice, 
 
 A far projecting precipice. 
 
 The broom's tough roots his ladder made, 
 
 The hazel saplings lent their aid ; 
 
 And thus an airy point he won. 
 
 Where, gleaming with the setting sun, 
 
 One burnished sheet of livid 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 Ben-venue 
 
 Down to the lake in masses threw 
 
 Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled, 
 
 The fragments of an earlier world ; 
 
THE TROSACHS AND LOCH KATRINE. 239 
 
 A wildering forest feathered o'er 
 His ruined sides and summits hoar, 
 While on the north, through middle air, 
 Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare. 
 
 MELROSE ABBEY. 
 
 Ip thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, 
 
 Go visit it by the pale moon light ; 
 
 For the gay beams of lightsome day 
 
 Grild, but to flout, the ruins gray. 
 
 When the broken arches are black in night, 
 
 And each shafted oriel glimmers white ; 
 
 When the cold light's uncertain shower 
 
 Streams on the ruined central tower ; 
 
 When buttress and buttress, alternately, 
 
 Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; 
 
 When silver edges the imagery. 
 
 And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ; 
 
 When distant Tweed is heard to rave, 
 
 And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, 
 
 Then go — but go alone the while — 
 
 Then view St. David's ruined pile ; 
 
2 10 SCOTT. 
 
 And, home returning, soothly swear, 
 Was never scene so sad and fair ! 
 
 LOVE OF COUNTRY. 
 
 Breathes there a 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. 
 
YOUNG LOCH INVAR. 
 
 Oh, young Locliinvar is come out of the west, 
 Through all the wide border his steed was the best ; 
 Aud save his good broad-sword he weapon had none, 
 He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone ! 
 So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
 There never was knight like the young Lochinvar ! 
 
 He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone. 
 
 He swam the Esk river where ford there was none — 
 
 But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 
 
 The bride had consented, the gallant came late : 
 
 For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war. 
 
 Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 
 
 So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 
 
 'Mong bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all ! 
 
 31 (241) 
 
242 SCOTT. 
 
 Then spoke the bi'icle's father, his hand on his sword — 
 For the poor craven bridegroom soJd never a word — 
 " come ye in peace here, or come ye in Avar ? 
 Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?" 
 
 " I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied : 
 Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide I 
 And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, 
 To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine ! 
 There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far. 
 That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar I" 
 
 The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up, 
 He quaifed off the wine, and he threw down the cup I 
 She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh. 
 With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. 
 He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar — 
 "Now tread we a measure !" said young Lochinvar. 
 
 So stately his form, and so lovely her face. 
 That never a hall such a galliard did grace ! 
 While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, 
 And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, 
 And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'Twere better by far 
 To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar !" 
 
YOUNG LOCIIINVAR. 243 
 
 One toucli to her hand, and one word in her ear, 
 
 When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near, 
 
 So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 
 
 So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 
 
 " She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; 
 
 They'll have fleet steeds that follow !" quoth young Lochinvar. 
 
 There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; 
 
 Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran ; 
 
 There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea, 
 
 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see ! 
 
 So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 
 
 Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ? 
 
COLERIDGE. 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born at Ottery St. Mary, 
 Devonshire, of which parish his father was vicar, October 21, 
 1772. He was the youngest of a numerous family, and became 
 an orphan at the age of nine years. He received the principal 
 part of his education at Christ's Hospital, where Charles Lamb 
 was among his playfellows. 
 
 At fourteen he is said to have had a stock of erudition that 
 might have puzzled a doctor, and a degree of ignorance of which 
 a school boy should be ashamed. From 1791 to 1793, he was 
 at Jesus College, Cambridge, but he quitted it abruptly without 
 taking a degree, having become obnoxious to his superiors from 
 his attachment to the principles of the French revolution. Of 
 the latter he says : 
 
 (244) 
 
COLERIDGE. 245 
 
 When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared, 
 
 And with that oath which smote air, earth, and sea, 
 
 Stamped her strong foot, and said she would be free. 
 Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared ! 
 With what a joy my lofty gratulation 
 
 Uuawed I sang, amid a slavish band ; 
 And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, 
 
 Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand. 
 The monarchs marched in evil day. 
 And Britain joined the dire array; 
 
 Though dear her shores and circling ocean. 
 Though many friendships, many youthful loves 
 
 Had swollen the patriot emotion. 
 And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves. 
 Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat 
 
 To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance, I 
 
 And shame too long delayed and vain retreat ! 
 For ne'er, liberty ! with partial aim 
 I dimmed thy light, or damped thy holy flame; 
 
 But blessed the preans of delivered France, 
 And hung my head, and wept at Britain's name. 
 
 He proceeded to London, where, soon finding himself for- 
 lorn and destitute, he enlisted as a soldier in the 15th, Elliot's 
 Light Dragoons. " On his arrival at the quarters of the regi- 
 ment," says his friend and biographer Mr. Gillman, " the general 
 of the district inspected the recruits, and looking hard at Cole- 
 
246 COLERIDGE. 
 
 ridge, with ca military air, inquired, ' What's your name, sir ?' 
 'Comberbach.' (The name he had assumed.) 'What do 
 you come here for, sir ?' as if doubting whether he had any 
 business there. 'Sir,' said Coleridge, 'for what most other 
 persons come — to be made a soldier.' 'Do you think,' said 
 the general, 'you can run a Frenchman through the body?' 
 ' I do not know,' replied Coleridge, ' as I never tried ; but I'll 
 let a Frenchman run me through the body before I'll run 
 away.' 'That will do,' said the general, and Coleridge was 
 turned into the ranks." The poet made a poor dragoon, and 
 never advanced beyond the awkward squad. He wrote letters, 
 however, for his comrades, and they attended to his horse and 
 accoutrements. After four months' service, his circumstances 
 having become known, he was discharged and returned to his 
 family and friends in 1794. 
 
 In the autumn of 1795, Coleridge and Southey, on the same 
 day, married two sisters, the Misses Fickes of Bristol. Cole- 
 ridge took a cottage at Nether Stowey in Somersetshire, and in 
 1796 published a volume of poems which had been written at 
 an earlier period, interspersed with verses by Charles Lamb. 
 The next year a new edition appeared, with an addition of 
 some pieces by Charles Lloyd, who had married his wife's sister. 
 About this time his chief poems were written, including the 
 famous " Lyrical Ballads," mentioned in our notice of Words- 
 
COLERIDGE. 247 
 
 worth. The latter resided at this time at Allfoxden, two miles 
 from Stowey, and the two friends lived in the enjoyment of an 
 intercourse rendered the more agreeable by kindred feelings 
 and pursuits. 
 
 It would appear that at this period Coleridge was a Socialist 
 and SociniaUj and had a scheme of emigrating to America and 
 establishing a Pantlsocracy, a state of society in which all 
 things were to be in common — without king, priest, or magis- 
 trate to mar its felicity. The dream was never realized, for 
 the want of cash — an evidence, furnished for the thousandth 
 time, that no exaltation of imagination can elevate mankind 
 above the material tenor and necessities of our existence. 
 
 During his residence at Stowey, Coleridge officiated as Uni- 
 tarian preacher at Taunton, and afterwards at Shrewsbury. 
 Haslitt, who walked ten miles of a winter's day to hear him 
 preach, thus describes him : " When I got there," he says — 
 "the organ was playing the 100th Psalm, and when it was 
 done, Mr. Coleridge rose and gave out the text : ' He departed 
 again into a mountain himself alone.' As he gave out this 
 text, his voice rose like a stream of rich distilled perfumes ; 
 and when he came to the last two words, which he pronounced 
 loud, deep, and distinct, it seemed to me, who was then young, 
 as if the sounds had echoed from the bottom of the human 
 heart, and as if that prayer might have floated in solemn silence 
 
Q-IS COLERIDGE. 
 
 through the universe. The idea of St. John came into my 
 mind, of one crying in the wilderness, who had his loins girt 
 about, and whose food was locusts and wild honey. The 
 preacher then launched into his subject like an eagle dallying 
 with the wind. The sermon was upon peace and war — upon 
 church and state — not their alliance, but their separation — on 
 the spirit of the world and the spirit of Christianity, not as the 
 same, but as opposed to one another. He talked of those who 
 had inscribed the cross of Christ on banners dripping with 
 human gore ! He made a poetical and pastoral excursion — and 
 to show the fatal effects of war, drew a striking contrast between 
 the simple shepherd-boy driving his team a-field, or sitting 
 under the hawthorn, piping to his flock, as though he should 
 never be old, and the same poor country lad, crimped, 
 kidnapped, brought into town, made drunk at an alehouse, 
 turned into a wretched drummer-boy, with his hair sticking on 
 end with powder and pomatum, a long cue at his back, and 
 tricked out in the finery of the profession of blood : 
 
 ' Such were the notes our once loved poet sung :' 
 
 and, for myself, I could not have been more delighted if I had 
 heard the music of the spheres." 
 
 In 1798 Coleridge visited Germany, where he spent some 
 months, and imbibed the peculiar metaphysical notions which 
 
COLERIDGE. 249 
 
 afterwards distinguished some of his productions. On his 
 return, he resided at the Lakes, Southey at that time Uving at 
 Keswick, and Wordsworth at Grasmere. He soon became 
 connected with the Morning Post, and wrote both on pohtics 
 and hterature. At this time it would seem that his Social- 
 istic opinions had been abandoned, as he strenuously sup- 
 ported the government. In 1794 he was at Malta as secretary 
 to the governor, Sir Alexander Ball, on a salary of £800 a year, 
 but he disagreed with the governor at the end of nine months, 
 and returned through Italy to England, 
 
 In 1808 he delivered a course of lectures on poetry and the 
 fine arts at the Royal Institute. The '■^ Friend" appeared in 
 the course of the next year, being then published as a periodical 
 at the Lakes, Wordsworth contributing some articles to it. In 
 1810, Coleridge came to London, and resided for a time with 
 Basil Montagu ; afterwards, he went to live with Mr. Gillman 
 at Highgate, where he continued till his death, nineteen years 
 after— that is, July 25, 1834. 
 
 Coleridge having no profession, and being slothful and impru- 
 dent, was during the greater part of his life in pecuniary distress. 
 After his removal to London, he was in the habit of holding 
 conversations, at Mr. Gillman's house, in which he displayed 
 very extraordinary powers. He would often continue for hours, 
 in a kind of oration, discoursing with such eloquence upon 
 32 
 
250 COLERIDGE. 
 
 various subjects — even the most abstruse — that he exercised a 
 spell of fascination which the most dull and ignorant could not 
 resist. Two volumes of this " Table Talk" have been pub- 
 lished, but they are said to furnish no adequate idea of his 
 conversational powers. 
 
 The ridicule of the Lake Poets, to which we have already 
 alluded, was doubtless carried too far, and was unjust in its full 
 application to the " Ancient Mariner," and some other pieces 
 by Coleridge — though we conceive that even these betray traces 
 of the affectation of the exploded school. The reaction that 
 has taken place in behalf of the Lakers, since their triumph, 
 has carried many persons into an opposite furor, which may 
 account for admiration of Coleridge's poems, which it is difiicult 
 to justify by quotation. As to his philosophical writings — if 
 their end be to advance mental, moral, and political science, we 
 consider them of little value. 
 
CHAMOUNI BEFORE SUNRISE. 
 
 Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star 
 In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
 On thy bald awful head, sovran Blanc ! 
 The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
 Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form ! 
 Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
 HoAV silently ! Around thee and above, 
 Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black. 
 An ebon mass ; methinks thou piercest it. 
 As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 
 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
 Thy habitation from eternity ! 
 
 dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
 Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 
 
 Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer, 
 
 1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 
 
 (251) 
 
252 COLERIDGE. ■ 
 
 Yet like some sweet beguiling melody, 
 
 So sweet we know not we are listening to it, 
 
 Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 
 
 Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy ; 
 
 Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused. 
 
 Into the mighty vision passing — there. 
 
 As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven ! 
 
 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 sovran of the vale ! 
 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, wake, and utter praise ! 
 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
 Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
 Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 
 
CHAMOUNI BEFORE SUNRISE. 253 
 
 And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
 
 Who called you 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 fury, and your joy. 
 
 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
 
 And who commanded (and the silence came). 
 
 Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 
 
 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 blue, 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 ! 
 
254 COLERIDGE. 
 
 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 sufiused with tears, 
 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, 
 
 To rise before me — Rise, 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 Ilierarch ! tell thou the silent sky. 
 
 And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun. 
 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 
 
YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, 
 
 Where Hope clung feeding like a bee — 
 Both Avere mine ! Life went a-Maying 
 With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
 When I was young ! 
 When I was young ? Ah, woful when ! 
 Ah, for the change 'twixt now and then ! 
 This breathing house not built with hands, 
 
 This body that does me grievous wrong. 
 O'er airy cliffs and glittering sands, 
 
 How lightly then it flashed along : 
 Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 
 
 On winding lakes and rivers wide. 
 That ask no aid of sail or oar, 
 
 That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 
 Nought cared this body for wind or weather, 
 When Youth and I lived in't together. 
 
 (255) 
 
^■'w COLERIDGE. 
 
 Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; 
 FriendsMp is a sheltering tree ; 
 
 ! the joys that came down shower-like, 
 Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 
 
 Ere I was old ! 
 Ere I was old ? Ah, woful ere. 
 Which tells me Youth's no longer here ! 
 
 Youth ! for years so many and sweet, 
 'Tis known that thou and I were one ; 
 
 I'll think it but a fond conceit — 
 
 Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled. 
 It cannot be that thou art gone ! 
 
 And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
 What strange disguise hast now put on, 
 To make believe that thou art gone ? 
 I see these locks in silvery slips. 
 
 This drooping gait, this altered size ; 
 But springtide blossoms on thy lips. 
 
 And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! 
 Life is but thought ; so think I will 
 That Youth and I are housemates still. 
 
 Dewdroj)S are the gems of morning, 
 But the tears of mournful eve ! 
 
 Where no hope is, life's a warning 
 That only serves to make us grieve. 
 
YOUTH AND AGE. 257 
 
 When we are old : 
 That only serves to make us grieve, 
 With oft and tedious taking leave ; 
 Like some poor nigh-related guest, 
 That may not rudely be dismissed. 
 Yet hath outstayed his welcome while, 
 And tells the jest without the smile. 
 
 33 
 
HOGG. 
 
 James Hogo, known as the " Ettrick Shepherd," was descended 
 from a family of shepherds, and born on the 25th January, 
 1772. When a mere child he was put out to service, acting 
 first as a cow-herd, until capable of taking care of a flock of 
 sheep. He had in all about half a year's schooling. When 
 eighteen years of age he entered the service of Mr. Laidlaw, 
 Blackhouse. He was then an eager reader of poetry and 
 romances, and he subscribed to a circulating library in Peebles, 
 the miscellaneous contents of which he perused with the utmost 
 avidity. 
 
 His first literary effort was in song-writing, and in 1801 he 
 published a small volume of pieces. He was introduced to Sir 
 Walter Scott by his master's son, Mr. William Laidlaw, and 
 assisted in the collection of old ballads for the Border Minstrelsy. 
 
 (258) 
 
H G G. 259 
 
 He soon imitated the style of tliese ancient strains with great 
 felicity, and published another volume of songs and poems 
 under the title of " The Mountain Bard." He now embarked 
 in sheep-farming, and took a journey to the island of Harris on 
 a speculation of this kind; but all he had saved as a shepherd, 
 or by his publication, was lost in these attempts. He then 
 repaired to Edinburgh, and endeavoured to subsist by his pen, 
 A collection of songs, " The Forest Minstrel," was his first 
 effort: his second was a periodical called "The Spy;" but it 
 was not till the publication of the "Queen's Wake," in 1813, 
 that the shepherd established his reputation as an author. 
 
 He now produced various works, poetry and novels, all of 
 which acquired a degree of popularity. In his business affairs, 
 he was less fortunate. Though he had failed as a sheep farmer, 
 he ventured again, and took a large farm. Mount Benger, from 
 the Duke of Buccleuch. Here also he was unsuccessful ; and 
 his sole support, for the latter years of his life, was the remu- 
 neration afforded by his literary labours. He lived in a cottage 
 which he had built at Altrive, on a piece of moorland presented 
 to him by the Duchess of Buccleuch. His love of angling 
 and field-sports amounted to a passion, and when he could no 
 longer fish or hunt, he declared his belief that his death was 
 near. 
 
 In the autumn of 1835 he was attacked with a dropsical 
 
260 HOG G. 
 
 complaint ; and on the 21st November of that year, after some 
 days of insensibihty, he breathed his last, as calmly as when 
 he fell asleep in his gay plaid on the hill-side. His death was 
 deeply mourned in the vale of Ettrick, for all rejoiced in his 
 fame; and notwithstanding his personal foibles, the Shepherd 
 was generous, kind-hearted, and charitable, even beyond his 
 means. 
 
KILMENY'S RETURN FROM FAIRYLAND. 
 
 When seren lang years had come and fled, 
 
 When grief was calm and hope was dead, 
 
 When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's name, 
 
 Late, late in the gloamin Kilmeny came hame ! 
 
 And oh, her beauty was fair to see. 
 
 But still and steadfast was her ee ; 
 
 Such beauty bard may never declare. 
 
 For there was no pride nor passion there ; 
 
 And the soft desire of maiden's een, 
 
 In that mild face could never be seen. 
 
 Her seymar was the lily flower, 
 
 And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower ; 
 
 And her voice like the distant melodye, 
 
 That floats along the twilight sea. 
 
 But she loved to raike the lanely glen. 
 
 And keeped afar frae the haunts of men, 
 
 (261) 
 
n 
 
 2G2 HOGG. 
 
 Her holy hymns unheard to sing, 
 
 To suck the flowers and drink the spring, 
 
 But wherever her peaceful form appeared. 
 
 The wild beasts of the hill were cheered ; 
 
 The wolf played blithely round the field, 
 
 The lordly bison lowed and kneeled, 
 
 The dun deer wooed with manner bland, 
 
 And cowered aneath her lily hand. 
 
 And when at eve the woodlands rung. 
 
 When hymns of other worlds she sung, 
 
 In ecstasy of sweet devotion. 
 
 Oh, then the glen was all in motion ; 
 
 The wild beasts of the forest came. 
 
 Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame. 
 
 And goved around, charmed and amazed ; 
 
 Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed. 
 
 And murmured, and looked with anxious pain 
 
 For something the mystery to explain. 
 
 The buzzard came with the throstle-cock ; 
 
 The corby left her houf in the rock ; 
 
 The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew ; 
 
 The hind came tripping o'er the dew ; 
 
 The wolf and the kid their raike began, 
 
 And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran ; 
 
 The hawk and the hern attour them hung. 
 
 And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young ; 
 
KILMENY'S RETURN FROM FAIRYLAND. 263 
 
 And all in a peaceful ring were hurled : 
 It was like an eve in a sinless world ! 
 When a month and a day had come and gane, 
 Kilmeny sought the greenwood wene, 
 There laid her down on the leaves so green, 
 And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen ! 
 
 THE SKYLARK. 
 
 Bird of the wilderness, 
 
 Blithesome and cumberless, 
 Sweet he thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! 
 
 Emblem of happiness, 
 
 Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
 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 eartli. 
 
264 HOGG. 
 
 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, soar, singing, away ! 
 
 Then, when the gloaming comes. 
 
 Low in the heather blooms, 
 SAveet will thy Avelcome and bed of love be ! 
 
 Emblem of happiness, 
 
 Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
 to abide in the desert with thee ! 
 
SOUTHE Y. 
 
 The voluminous author, Robert Southey — distinguished as a 
 poet, a historian, and a critic — was the son of a Hnen-draper 
 of Bristol, and born August 12 th, 1774. He received his 
 classical education at Oxford, being designed bj his friends for 
 the church. But it seems that he early became a Jacobin and 
 Socinian, which led to an abrupt termination of his college 
 career in 1794. ^ 
 
 Soon after this he published several poems, in wdiicli he dis- 
 played the spirit and principles of the French Revolution, 
 which he had imbibed. In 1795, as we have stated in the life 
 of Coleridge, he married Miss Fickes of Bristol. Leaving his 
 bride at the portico of the church, he departed for London ; 
 the next year he returned, and entered himself of Gray's-Inn. 
 He afterwards visited Spain and Portugal, and subsequently 
 published letters descriptive of those countries, which became 
 popular. In 1801 he went to Ireland as private secretary to 
 
 34 (265) 
 
266 SOUTHEY. 
 
 Mr. Foster, Chancellor of the Exchequer. The same year the 
 irregular and tedious, but imaginative poem of " Thalaba the 
 Destroyer," was published. 
 
 Southey had now cast off his Jacobinism, and as was natural, 
 the converted fanatic of Socialism became a rather hard and 
 intolerant supporter of church and state. He devoted himself 
 wholly to literature, and for a series of years continued to fill 
 ream after ream with his writings upon morals, philosophy, 
 poetry, politics, &c. In 1813 he was made Poet Laureate, an 
 office in which he was succeeded by Wordsworth. His " Vision 
 of Judgment" — written in fulfilment of his duty as Court poet, 
 w^as terribly ridiculed by Byron's witty but profane parody, 
 under the same title. 
 
 Although Southey was not strictly speaking a popular writer, 
 yet his works had a respectable sale, and by their enormous 
 quantity, he was able to leave to his family a fortune of <£12,000, 
 besides a most valuable library. After the death of his first 
 wife he married Miss Caroline Bowles, who had distinguished 
 herself as a poetess. He pursued his labours with unremitting 
 assiduity, until his abused strength gave way, and he was seized 
 with paralysis. His mind and memory were gone, and he did 
 not even recognise his nearest and dearest friends. He gradu- 
 ally sunk under his malady, and died 21st March, 1843, at 
 Greta, near Keswick, which had long been his residence. 
 
COMPLAINT OP THE POOR. 
 
 And wherefore do the poor complain ? 
 
 The rich man asked of me, — 
 Come, walk abroad with me, I said, 
 
 And I will answer thee. 
 
 It was evening, and the frozen streets 
 
 Were cheerless to behold ; 
 And we were wrapt and coated well, 
 
 And yet we were a-cold. 
 
 We met an old bareheaded man, 
 His locks were few and white : 
 
 I asked him what he did abroad 
 In that cold winter's night. 
 
 It was bitter keen, indeed, he said, 
 But at home no fire had he, 
 
 (267) 
 
2G8 S U T H E r. 
 
 And therefore lie had come abroad 
 To ask for charity. 
 
 "We met a young barefooted child, 
 And she begged loud and bold ; 
 
 I asked her what she did abroad, 
 When the wind it blew so cold. 
 
 She said her father was at home, 
 And he lay sick in bed ; 
 
 And therefore was it she was sent 
 Abroad to beg for bread. 
 
 We saw a woman sitting down 
 
 Upon a stone to rest ; 
 She had a baby at her back, 
 
 And another at her breast. 
 
 I asked her why she loitered there, 
 When the wind it was so chill ; — 
 
 She turned her head, and bade the child 
 That screamed behind be still. 
 
 She told us that her husband served 
 A soldier far away ; 
 
COMPLAINT OF THE POOR. 269 
 
 And therefore to her parish she 
 Was begging back her way. 
 
 I turned me to the rich man then, 
 
 For silently stood he ; 
 You asked me why the poor complain, 
 
 And these have answered thee. 
 
 THE HOLLY TREE. 
 
 Reader ! hast thou ever stood to see 
 
 The holly tree ? 
 The eye that contemplates it well, perceives 
 
 Its glossy leaves, 
 Ordered by an intelligence so wise 
 As might confound the atheist's sophistries. 
 
 Below a circling fence, its leaves are seen 
 
 Wrinkled and keen ; 
 No passing cattle through their prickly round. 
 
 Can reach to wound ; 
 But as they grow where nothing is to fear. 
 Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. 
 
270 SOU THEY. 
 
 I love to view those things with curious eyes, 
 
 And moralize : 
 And in this wisdom of the holly tree 
 
 Can emblems see, 
 Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, 
 One which may profit in the after-time. 
 
 Thus, though abroad, perchance I might appear 
 
 Harsh and austere 
 To those who on my leisure would intrude ; 
 
 Reserved and rude ; 
 Gentle at home amid my friends to be. 
 Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 
 
 And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, 
 
 Some harshness show. 
 All vain asperities, I day by day 
 
 Would wear away ; 
 Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
 Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 
 
 And as, when all the summer trees are seen 
 
 So bright and green. 
 The holly leaves their fadeless lines display, 
 
 Less bright than they ; 
 
THE HOLLY TREE. 271 
 
 But when the bare and wintry woods we see, 
 What then so cheerful as the holly tree ? 
 
 So serious should my youth appear among 
 
 The thoughtless throng ; 
 So would I seem among the young and gay, 
 
 More grave than they ; 
 That in my age as cheerful I might be 
 As the green winter of the holly tree. 
 
LE YDEN. 
 
 John Leyden was born in Denholm, county of Roxborough, 
 September 8, 1775. He received his education at Edinburgh, 
 and after bein^j ordained as a minister of the Presbvterian 
 Church, became a surgeon, and in that ca^Dacity, went to Madras, 
 1803, in the service of the East India Company. He accom- 
 panied Lord Minto to Java in 1811, where he died, August 25 
 of that year. He was a man of great learning, and an ardent 
 admirer of poetry. We select one of his favourite pieces. 
 
 (272; 
 
ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. 
 
 Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! 
 
 What vanity has brought thee here ? 
 How can I love to see thee shine 
 
 So bright, whom I have bought so dear ? 
 
 The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear 
 For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 
 
 The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear 
 When mirth and music wont to cheer. 
 
 By Cherical's dark wandering streams, 
 Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, 
 
 Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams 
 Of Teviot loved while still a child, 
 Of castled rocks stupendous piled 
 
 By Esk or Eden's classic wave, 
 
 Where loves of youth and friendships smiled, 
 
 Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! 
 35 (273) 
 
274 ^ L E Y D E N. 
 
 Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade ! 
 
 The perished bliss of youth's first prime 
 That once so bright on fancy played, 
 
 Revives no more in after-time. 
 
 Far from my sacred natal clime, 
 I haste to an untimely grave ; 
 
 The daring thoughts that soared sublime 
 Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. 
 
 Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light 
 
 Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. 
 
 A gentle vision comes by night 
 
 My lonely widowed heart to cheer : 
 Her eyes are dim with many a tear. 
 
 That once were guiding stars to mine ; 
 
 Her fond heart throbs with many a fear ! 
 
 I can not bear to see thee shine. 
 
 For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 
 
 I left a heart that loved me true ! 
 I crossed the tedious oeean-wave, 
 
 To roam in climes unkind and new. 
 
 The cold wind of the stranger blew 
 Chill on my withered heart ; the grave 
 
 Dark and untimely met my view — 
 And all for thee, vile yellow slave ! 
 
SABBATH MORN. 275 
 
 Ha ! com'st thou now so late to mock 
 
 A wanderer's banished heart forlorn, 
 Now that his frame the lightning shock 
 
 Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne ? 
 
 From love, from friendship, country, torn, 
 To memory's fond regrets the prey ; 
 
 Yile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn ! 
 Go mix thee with thy kindred clay ! 
 
 SABBATH MORN. 
 
 With silent awe I hail the sacred morn, 
 That scarcely wakes while all the fields are still ; 
 A soothing calm on every breeze is borne, 
 A graver murmur echoes from the hill. 
 And softer sings the linnet from the thorn ; 
 The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. 
 Hail, light serene ! hail, sacred Sabbath morn ! 
 The sky a placid yellow lustre throws ; 
 The gales that lately sighed along the grove 
 Have hushed their drowsy wings in dead repose ; 
 The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move : 
 So soft the day when the first morn arose ! 
 
WHITE. 
 
 Henry Kirke White, a young poet, who has accomphshed 
 more by the example of his hfe than by his writings, was a 
 native of Nottingham, where he was born on the 21st of August, 
 1785. His father was a butcher — an ''ungentle craft," which, 
 however, has had the honour of giving to England one of its 
 most distinguished churchmen. Cardinal Wolsey, and the two 
 poets, Akenside and White. 
 
 Henry was a rhymer and a student from his earliest years. 
 He assisted at his father's business for some time, but was at 
 length placed in an attorney's office, and applying his leisure 
 hours to the study of languages, he was able, in the course of 
 ten months, to read Horace with tolerable facility, and had 
 made some progress in Greek. At the same time he acquired 
 a knowledge of Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese, and even 
 applied himself to the acquisition of some of the sciences. His 
 habits of study and application were unremitting. 
 
 (276) 
 
WHITE. 277 
 
 The encouragement of friends induced him to prepare a 
 volume of poems for the press, which appeared in 1803. In 
 his preface to the volume, Henry had stated that the poems 
 were the production of a youth of seventeen, published for the 
 purpose of facilitating his future studies, and enabhng him to 
 pursue those inclinations which might one day place him in an 
 honourable station in the scale of society. Such a declaration 
 should have disarmed the severity of criticism ; but the volume 
 was contemptuously noticed in the Monthly Review, and Henry 
 felt the most exquisite pain from the unjust and ungenerous 
 critique. Fortunately the volume fell into the hands of 
 Southey, who wrote to the young poet to encourage him, and 
 other friends sprung up to succour his genius and procure for 
 him what was the darling object of his ambition, admission to 
 the University of Cambridge. 
 
 Poetry was now abandoned for severer studies. He com- 
 peted for one of the University scholarships, and at the end of 
 the term was pronounced the first man of his year. Twice he 
 distinguished himself in the following year, being again pro- 
 nounced first at the great college examination, and also one of 
 the three best theme w^riters, between whom the examiners 
 could not decide. 
 
 This distinction was purchased at the sacrifice of health and 
 life. " Were I," he said, " to paint Fame crowning an under- 
 
27S WHITE. 
 
 graduate after the senate-house examination, I would represent 
 him as concealing a death's head under the mask of beauty." 
 He went to London to recruit his shattered nerves and spirits ; 
 but on his return to college, he was so completely ill that no 
 powder of medicine could save him. He died on the 19tli of 
 October, 1806. Mr. Southey continued his regard for White 
 after his untimely death. He w^rote a sketch of his life, and 
 edited his "Remains," which proved to be highly popular, 
 passing through a great number of editions. A tablet to Henry's 
 memory, with a medallion by Chantrey, was placed in All 
 Saints' Church, Cambridge, by a young American gentleman, 
 Mr. Francis Boot of Boston. 
 
TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. 
 
 Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! 
 Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 
 
 Was nursed in whirling storms, 
 
 And cradled in the winds. 
 
 Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway. 
 And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, 
 
 Thee on this bank he threw 
 
 To mark his victory. 
 
 In this low vale, the promise of the year, 
 Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, 
 
 Unnoticed and alone, 
 
 Thy tender elegance. 
 
 So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 
 Of chill adversity ; in some lone walk 
 
 (279) 
 

 
 m 
 
 ' 
 
 230 
 
 W II I T E. 
 
 Of life she rears her head, 
 Obscure and unobserved ; 
 
 While every bleaching breeze that on her blows, 
 Ohastens her spotless purity of breast, 
 
 And hardens her to bear 
 
 Serene the ills of life. 
 
 — * — 
 
 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 
 
 Whe?t 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. 
 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 
THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 281 
 
 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 dangers' tin-all, 
 
 It led me to the port of peace. 
 
 Now safely moored — my perils o'er, 
 
 I'll sing, first in night's diadem, 
 Eor ever and for evermore. 
 
 The Star— the Star of Bethlehem ! 
 
 36 
 
LAMB. 
 
 Charles Lamb, a j)oet, and a delightful essayist, of quaint 
 peculiar humour and fancy, was born in London on the 18th 
 February, 1775. His father was in humble circumstances, 
 servant and friend to one of the benchers of the Inner Temple ; 
 but Charles was presented to the school of Christ's hospital, 
 and from his seventh to his fifteenth year, he was an inmate 
 of that ancient and munificent asylum. 
 
 Li 1792 he obtained an appointment in the accountant's 
 office of the East India Company, residing with his parents ; 
 and "on their death," says Serjeant Talfourd, "he felt himself 
 called upon by duty to repay to his sister the solicitude with 
 which she had watched over his infancy, and well, indeed, he 
 performed it. To her, from the age of twenty-one, he devoted 
 his existence, seeking thenceforth no connexion which could 
 
 (282) 
 
LAMB. 2S3 
 
 interfere with her supremacy in his affections, or impair his 
 abihty to sustain and to comfort her. 
 
 The first compositions of Lamb were in verse, prompted, 
 probably, by the poetry of his friend Coleridge. A warm 
 admiration of the Elizabethan dramatists led him to imitate 
 their style and manner in a tragedy named " John Woodvil," 
 which was published in 1801, and mercilessly ridiculed in the 
 Edinburgh Review as a specimen of the rudest state of the 
 drama. There is much that is exquisite both in sentiment and 
 expression in Lamb's play, but the plot is certainly meagre, and 
 the style had then an appearance of affectation. 
 
 A second dramatic attempt was made by Lamb in 1804. 
 This was a farce entitled " Mr. H.," which was accepted by the 
 proprietors of Drury Lane Theatre, and acted for one night ; 
 but so indifferently received, that it was never brought forward 
 afterwards. " Lamb saw that his case was hopeless, and con- 
 soled his friends with a century of puns for the wreck of his 
 dramatic hopes." In 1807 he published a series of tales founded 
 on the plays of Shakspeare, which he had written in conjunc- 
 tion with his sister, and in the following year appeared his 
 " Specimens of English Dramatic Poets who lived about the 
 time of Shakspeare." 
 
 Lamb's powers were not fully displayed till the publication 
 of his essays signed " Elia," originally printed in the London 
 
284 LAMB. 
 
 Magazine. In these his curious reading, nice observation, and 
 poetical conceptions, found a genial and befitting field. " Thej 
 are all," says his biographer, Serjeant Talfourd, ''carefully 
 elaborated ; yet never were works written in a higher defiance 
 to the conventional pomp of style. A sly hit, a happy pun, a 
 humorous combination, lets the light into the intricacies of the 
 subject, and supplies the place of ponderous sentences. Seeking 
 his materials for the most part in the common paths of life — 
 often in the humblest — he gives an importance to everything, 
 and sheds a grace over all." 
 
 In 1825 Lamb was emancipated from the drudgery of his 
 situation as clerk in the India House, retiring with a handsome 
 pension, which enabled him to enjoy the comforts, and many 
 of the luxuries of life. He removed to a cottage near Islington, 
 and in the following summer, went with his fiithful sister and 
 companion on a long visit to Enfield, which ultimately led to 
 his giving up his cottage, and becoming a constant resident at 
 that "place. There he lived for about five years, delighting his 
 friends with his correspondence and occasional visits to London, 
 displaying his social racy humour and active benevolence. 
 
 In 1830 he committed to the press a small volume of poems, 
 entitled "Album Verses," the gleanings of several years, and 
 he occasionally sent a contribution to some literary periodical. 
 In September, 1835, whilst taking his daily walk on the 
 
LAMB. 285 
 
 London road, he stumbled against a stone, fell, and slightly 
 injured his flice. The accident appeared trifling, but erysipelas 
 in the fiice came on, and in a few days proved fatal. He was 
 buried in the churchyard at Edmonton, amidst the tears and 
 regrets of a circle of warmly attached friends, and his memory 
 was consecrated by a tribute from the muse of Wordsworth. 
 
^ 
 
 HESTER. 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die, 
 Their place ye may not well supply, 
 Though ye among a thousand try, 
 With vain endeavour. 
 
 A month or more she hath heen dead, 
 Yet cannot I by force be led 
 To think upon the wormy bed 
 And her together. 
 
 A springy motion in her gait, 
 A rising step, did indicate 
 Of pride and joy no common rate. 
 That flushed her spirit. 
 
 (286) 
 
HESTER. 287 
 
 I know not by wliat name beside 
 I shall it call : — if 'tAvas not pride, 
 It was a joy to that allied 
 She did inherit. 
 
 Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
 Which doth the human feeling cool ; 
 But she was trained in Nature's school ; 
 Nature had blest her. 
 
 A waking eye, a prying mind, 
 A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, 
 A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, 
 Ve could not Hester. 
 
 My sprightly neighbour ! gone before 
 To that unknown and silent shore. 
 Shall we not meet, as heretofore, 
 Some summer morning. 
 
 When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
 Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 
 A bliss that would not go away, 
 A sweet forewarning ? 
 
CAMPBELL. 
 
 The correct and classical poet, Thomas Campbell, was born 
 at Glasgow, July 27, 1777. His fetlier was an extensive mer- 
 chant, and Thomas the youngest of ten children. The latter 
 received a finished education, and having given up the practice 
 of law which he had chosen as his profession, he repaired to 
 Edinburgh, and in 1799 published his "Pleasures of Hope," 
 he being then twenty-two years of age. His success was instan- 
 taneous — the poem going through four editions in a year. 
 
 Soon after this Campbell visited the continent. From the 
 monastery of St. Jacob, he witnessed the " Battle of Hohenlin- 
 den," December 3, 1800. The impression made upon his mind, 
 is evinced in his few, but fiery lines, descriptive of the fearful 
 spectacle. On his way back, he paused at Hamburg, where 
 he wrote the " Exile of Erin," and " Ye Mariners of England." 
 
 ;2S8) 
 
CAMPBELL. 289 
 
 He returned to Edinburgh, where he composed his thriUing 
 ballad of " Lochiel's Warning." He now repaired to London, 
 and devoted himself to literature. His death took place in 
 1844. 
 
 Campbell's career may be considered, on the whole, as a 
 prosperous one. He married his cousin. Miss Sinclair, and his 
 domestic life was peculiarly happy, till the death of one son, 
 and the madness of another, followed by the death of his wife, 
 clouded his mind and led him into habits of intemperance. 
 His works, with a pension from the government, furnished him 
 ample pecuniary means for comfort and ease. His works are 
 among the favourites of all readers, being distinguished by 
 delicacy and purity of sentiment, a vivid perception of ideal 
 loveliness, striking elevation of imagery, and a concentrated 
 power of expression. 
 
 37 
 
DOMESTIC LOVE. 
 
 Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought 
 
 Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote, 
 
 Where love and lore may claim alternate hours, 
 
 With peace emhosomed in Idalian howers ! 
 
 Remote from busy life's bewildered way, 
 
 O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway ; 
 
 Free on the sunny slope or winding shore, . 
 
 With hermit-steps to wander and adore ! 
 
 There shall he love, when genial morn appears. 
 
 Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears. 
 
 To watch the brightening roses of the sky, 
 
 And muse on nature with a poet's eye ! 
 
 And when the sun's last splendour lights the deep, 
 
 The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep. 
 
 When fairy harps the Hesperian planet hail. 
 
 And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale, 
 
 (290) 
 
DOMESTIC LOVE. 291 
 
 His path shall be where streamy mountains swell 
 Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell ; 
 Where mouldering piles and forests intervene, 
 Mingling with darker tints the living green ; 
 No circling hills his ravished eye to bound, 
 Heaven, earth, and ocean blazing all around ! 
 
 The moon is up — the Avatch-tower dimly burns — 
 
 And down the vale his sober step returns 
 
 But pauses oft as winding rocks convey 
 
 The still sweet fall of music far away ; 
 
 And oft he lingers from his home awhile, 
 
 To watch the dying notes, and start, and smile ! 
 
 Let winter come ! let polar spirits sweep 
 
 The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep ; 
 
 Though boundless snows the withered heath deform, 
 
 And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm. 
 
 Yet shall the smile of social love repay. 
 
 With mental light, the melancholy day ! 
 
 And when its short and sullen noon is o'er. 
 
 The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore. 
 
 How bright the faggots in his little hall 
 
 Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall ! 
 
292 CAMPBELL. 
 
 How blest he names, in love's familiar tone, 
 The kind fair friend by nature marked his own ; 
 And, in the waveless mirror of his mind, 
 VioAYS the fleet years of pleasure left behind, 
 Since when her empire o'er his heart began — 
 Since first he called her his before the holy man ! 
 
 Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome, 
 And light the mntry paradise of home ; 
 And let the half-uncurtained window hail 
 Some wayworn man benighted in the vale ! 
 Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high, 
 As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky ; 
 While fiery hosts in heaven's wide circle play. 
 And bathe in lurid light the milky way ; 
 Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower, 
 Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour ; 
 With pathos shall command, with wit beguile 
 A generous tear of anguish, or a smile ! 
 
BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN. 
 
 On Linden, Avhen the sun was low, 
 All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
 And dark as winter was the flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 But Linden saw another sight 
 When the drum beat at dead of night, 
 Commanding fires of death to light 
 The darkness of her scenery. 
 
 By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
 Each horseman drew his battle-blade. 
 And furious every charger neighed 
 To join the dreadful revelry. 
 
 (293} 
 
294 CAMPBELL. 
 
 Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
 Then rushed the steed to battle driven, 
 And louder than the bolts of heaven 
 Far flashed the red artillery. 
 
 But redder yet that light shall glow 
 On Linden's hills of blood-stained snow, 
 And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun 
 Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
 Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
 Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 
 
 The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
 Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
 Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, 
 And charge with all thy chivalry. 
 
 Few, few shall part where many meet ! 
 The snow shall be their winding-sheet ; 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 
 
THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. 
 
 Alone to the banks of the dark rolling Danube, 
 Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er : — 
 
 " Oh whither," she cried, "hast thou wandered, my lover, 
 Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore ? 
 
 " What voice did I hear ? 'twas my Henry that sighed." 
 All mournful she hastened, nor wandered she far, 
 
 When bleeding and low on the heath she descried. 
 By the light of the moon, her poor wounded hussar. 
 
 From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming, 
 And pale was his visage, deep marked with a scar ; 
 
 And dim was that eye once expressively beaming, 
 That melted in love, and that kindled in war. 
 
 How sunk was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight ! 
 
 HoAv bitter she wept o'er the victim of war ! 
 " Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night, 
 
 To cheer the lone heart of your wounded hussar ?" 
 
 (295) 
 
296 CAMPBELL. 
 
 " Tliou shalt live," she replied, " heaven's mercy relieving 
 Each anguishing wound shall forbid me to mourn." 
 
 " Ah no, the last pang of my bosom is heaving ! 
 No light of the morn shall to Henry return ! 
 
 " Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true ! 
 
 Ye babes of my love that await me afar !" 
 His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, 
 
 When he sank in her arms, the poor w^ounded hussar. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 
 
 Our bugles sang truce, — for the night-cloud had lowered, 
 And the sentinel stars- set their watch in the sky ; 
 
 And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, 
 The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 
 
 When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
 By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, 
 
 At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
 And thrice ere the morning I dreamed it again. 
 
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 297 
 
 Metliouglit from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
 
 Far, far, I had roamed on a desolate track ; 
 'Twas autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way 
 
 To the home of my fathers, that Avelcomed me back. 
 
 I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft 
 
 In life's morning march, Avhen my bosom was young ; 
 
 I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft. 
 
 And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 
 
 Then pledged we the wdne-cup, and fondly I swore 
 
 From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; 
 
 My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er. 
 And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 
 
 " Stay, stay with us, — rest, thou art weary and worn ;" 
 And fain was their war -broken soldier to stay : 
 
 But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn. 
 And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 
 
 38 
 
BYRON. 
 
 The birth of this poet took place in London, 22d January, 
 1788. He was educated at Cambridge, and while still a student, 
 A. D. 1806, he published a small volume of poems. In 1807, 
 he published his "Idle Hours," which were mercilessly lashed 
 by the Edinburgh Reviewers. In 1809, the poet more than 
 returned the blow in his pungent satire of the " British Bards 
 and Scotch Reviewers." 
 
 In 1809, Lord Byron went abroad, and spent two years in 
 Spain, Greece, Turkey, &c. In 1812, he published the first 
 two Cantos of his " Childe Harold." His fame instantly rose 
 to the highest point. He now devoted himself to fashionable 
 dissipation and literary composition. Such was his reputation 
 that 14,000 copies of the " Corsair" were sold in a day. In 
 October, 1814, he married Miss Milbanke, who bore him a 
 
 (29S) 
 
BYRON. 2dd 
 
 dcvaghter — the Ada of his poems ; — December, 1815. Involved 
 in pecuniary embarrassments, Byron became irritable, and his 
 cold and haughty wife soon after left him, and returned with 
 her child to her father. Byron never saw either of them 
 afterwards. 
 
 In April of the same year, 1816, he bade farewell to England, 
 and spending some time in Switzerland, finally settled in Italy. 
 Here he wrote the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold, Beppo, 
 Mazeppa, and many other pieces, including the most remarkable 
 of all — Don Juan. In July, 1823, being invited by the Greeks 
 to aid them in their struggle for liberty, he left Genoa, and in 
 January of the next year reached Missolonghi. On the 9th 
 April he got wet through, and was soon after seized with fever, 
 which terminated his life on the 19th instant, at the early age 
 of thirty-six years. 
 
 We shall not here attempt a delineation of Byron's life or 
 character. It is sufficient to express the opinion that, all things 
 considered, he is the greatest of British poets. It will be diffi- 
 cult, indeed, if not impossible, to produce extracts from any 
 writer of any age, equalling even the few which Ave are able to 
 insert. 
 
THE OCEAN. 
 
 ! THAT the Desert were ray dwelling-place, 
 With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
 
 That I might all forget the human race. 
 And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
 Ye Elements ! — in whose ennobling stir 
 
 1 feel myself exalted — can ye not 
 Accord me such a being ? Do I err 
 In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
 
 Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 
 
 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 
 Erom all I may be, or have been before, 
 
 (300) 
 
THE OCEAN. 301 
 
 To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
 What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 
 
 Roll on, thon 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 
 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 thunder-strike the walk 
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
 And monarchs tremble in their capitals ; 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
 
302 BYRON. 
 
 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, Avhat 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 np realms to deserts : not so thou, 
 Unchangeable save to thy wild weaves' play — 
 Time Avrites no wrinkle on thy azure brow — 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest noAV. 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where th' 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 th' Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
 Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 
 
THE EVE OF WATERLOO. 303 
 
 And I have loved tliee, Ocean ! and my joj 
 Of youthful sports was on tliy 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 EVE OF WATERLOO. 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by night, 
 And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
 Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
 The lamps shone o'er fair Avomen and brave men ; 
 A thousand hearts beat happily ; and, when 
 Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
 Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again. 
 And all went merry as a marriage bell ; 
 But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 
 
304 BYRON. 
 
 Did ye not hear it ? — no ; 'twas but the wind, 
 Or the car rattling o'er tlie stony street ; 
 On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; 
 No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet 
 To chase the glowing hours with flying feet — 
 But, hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more. 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
 Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar ! 
 
 Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
 Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
 That sound the first amid the festival. 
 And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear ; 
 And when they smiled because he deemed it near, 
 His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
 Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, 
 And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : 
 He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 
 
 Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
 And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago. 
 Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
 And there were sudden partings ; such as press 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
 
THE EVE OF WATERLOO. - 305 
 
 Which ne'er might be repeated ; wlio coiihl guess 
 If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
 Since upon night so sweet such aAvful morn could rise ? 
 
 And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 
 The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
 . Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
 And swiftly forming in the rante of war : 
 And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
 While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb, 
 Or whispering, with white lips — " The foe ! They come ! they 
 come !" 
 
 And wild and high the " Camerons' Gathering" rose ! 
 The war-note of Lochiel, Avhich Albyn's hills 
 Have heard ; and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : — 
 How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
 Savage and shrill ! But with the breath that fills 
 Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
 With the fierce native daring which instils 
 The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
 And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears ! 
 
 And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
 Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
 89 
 
303 BYRON. 
 
 Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
 Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass, 
 Which, now beneath them, but above shall o-row 
 In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 Of living valour, rolling on the foe. 
 And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 
 
 Last noon — beheld them full of lusty life. 
 Last eve — in beauty's circle proudly gay. 
 The midnight — brought the signal-sound of strife. 
 The morn — the marshalling in arms, — the day — 
 Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent. 
 The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 
 Kider and horse — friend, foe — in one red burial blent ! 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 'TwAS twilightj and the sunless day went down 
 
 Over the waste of waters ; like a veil 
 Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown 
 
 Of one whose hate is masked but to assail. 
 Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, 
 
 And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale. 
 And the dim desolate deep : twelve days had Fear 
 Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 
 
 >!< >1< * * >!= * 
 
 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. 
 
 (307) 
 
398 ^ '^^ i'^ N. 
 
 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. 
 
 5ji ?]< ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 There were two fathers in this ghastly crew. 
 And with them their two sons, of whom the one 
 
 Was more robust and hardy to the view ; 
 But he died early ; and when he was gone. 
 
 His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 
 
 One glance on him, and said, " Heaven's will be done ! 
 
 I can do nothing;" and he saw him thrown 
 
 Into the deep without a tear or groan. 
 
 The other father had a weaklier child. 
 
 Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate ; 
 But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 
 
 And patient spirit held aloof his fate ; 
 Little he said, and now and then he smiled. 
 
 As if to win a part from off the weight 
 He saw increasing on his father's heart, 
 V/^ith the deep deadly thought that they must part. 
 
THE SHIPWRECK. yoO 
 
 And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
 His ejes from off his face, but wiped the foam 
 
 From his pale lips, and over on him gazed : 
 
 And when the wished-for shower at length was come. 
 
 And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, 
 Brightened, and for a moment seemed to roam, 
 
 He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain 
 
 Into his dying child's mouth ; but in vain ! 
 
 The boy expired — the father held the clay. 
 
 And looked upon it long ; and when at last 
 Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay 
 
 Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, 
 He watched it wistfully, until away 
 
 'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast; 
 Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering. 
 And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering. 
 
MOORE. 
 
 The best of modern lyrical poets, Thoraas Moore, was born 
 at Dublin, May 28, 1780. He manifested an early turn for 
 poetry, and in 1799, he went to London for the double purpose 
 of studying law and publishing a translation of Anacreon. In 
 1803, he went to Bermuda in an official capacity, but being 
 involved in a large pecuniary responsibility by the misconduct 
 of a deputy, he returned, and published a series of clever odes 
 and epistles, written during his fourteen months absence from 
 Europe. 
 
 These sketches were not altogether free from indelicacy, and 
 a second publication two years afterwards, under the sobriquet 
 of "Thomas Little," — a playful allusion to his diminutive 
 stature — greatly aggravated the offence of his muse. He after- 
 wards became ashamed of these productions, and did what he 
 could to retrieve his error. His subsequent career was altogether 
 
 (310) 
 

 PrurUid Jjv) 'lEB-ia-:. 
 
MOORE. 311 
 
 a literary one. His "Irish Melodies" may be regarded not 
 only as his most felicitous productions, but as the best collec- 
 tion of lyrical pieces, by any one author, in our language. 
 The poem of " Lalla Rookh" — one of the most brilliant and 
 gorgeous pieces of imagination ever penned — appeared in 1817. 
 Other works followed in verse and prose, including the volu- 
 minous " Life of Byron," which ranks the author as among 
 the best of biographers. After suffering from a gradual 
 paralysis of the brain, the witty, fanciful, and melodious 
 poet — who it would seem from the fresh and bubbling 
 fertility of his mind could never die — was gathered to his 
 fathers, A. d. 1852. 
 
THE GLORY OF GOD IN NATURE. 
 
 Thou art, 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 day'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, 
 
 (312) 
 
THEGLORYOFGODIN NATURE. 313 
 
 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 floAver the Summer wreathes, 
 
 Is born beneath that kindling eye ; 
 Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, 
 And all things fair and bright are thine. 
 
 OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. 
 
 Oft in the stilly night. 
 
 Ere slumber's chain hath bound me ; 
 Fond memory brings the light 
 
 Of other days around me. 
 The smiles, the tears, of boyhood's years, 
 
 The words of love then spoken, 
 The eyes that shone, now dimmed and gone. 
 The cheerful hearts now broken. 
 Thus in the stilly night. 
 
 Ere slumber's chain hath bound me, 
 Sad memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 40 
 
314 MOORE. 
 
 When I remember all 
 
 The friends so linked together, 
 I've seen around me fall, 
 
 Like leaves in wintry weather ; , 
 I feel like one who treads alone 
 Some banquet hall deserted, 
 Whose lights are fled, whose garlands dead, 
 And all but me departed. 
 Thus in the stilly night. 
 
 Ere slumber's chain hath bound me, 
 Sad memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 LIFE'S EARLY PROMISE. 
 
 I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining, 
 A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on : 
 
 I came, when the sun o'er that beach was declining — 
 The bark was still there, but the waters were gone. 
 
 Ah ! such is the fate of our life's early promise, 
 So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known : 
 
 Each wave that we danced on at morning ebbs from us. 
 And leaves us, at eve, on the black shore alone. 
 
L V E ' S Y U N G D R E A M. 315 
 
 Ne'er tell me of glories serenely adorning 
 
 The close of our clay, the calm eve of our night ; 
 
 Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning, 
 Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light. , 
 
 Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning. 
 When passion first waked a new life through his frame, 
 
 And his soul — like the wood that grows precious in burning — 
 Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame ! 
 
 .LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 
 
 Oh ! the days are gone, Avhen Beauty bright 
 
 My heart's chain wove ; 
 When my dream of life, from morn till night. 
 
 Was love, still love ! 
 New hope may bloom, and days may come 
 
 Of milder, calmer beam, 
 But there's nothing half so sweet in life 
 
 As love's young dream : 
 Oh ! there's nothing half so sweet in life 
 
 As love's young dream. 
 
31G MOORE. 
 
 Though the bard to purer fame may soar, 
 
 When wild youth's past ; 
 Though he win the wise, who frowned before, 
 
 To smile at last : 
 He'll never meet a joy so sweet, 
 
 In all his noon of fame. 
 As when first he sung to woman's ear 
 
 His soul-felt flame, 
 And, at every close, she blushed to hear 
 
 The one loved name. 
 
 Oh ! that hallowed form is ne'er forgot 
 
 Which first-love traced ; 
 Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 
 
 On memory's waste ! 
 'Twas odour fled as soon as shed ; 
 
 'Twas morning's winged dream ; 
 'Twas a light, that ne'er can shine again 
 
 On life's dull stream : 
 Oh ! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again 
 
 On life's dull stream. 
 
SHELLEY. 
 
 The eccentric but gifted personage, Percy Bysshe Shelley, 
 was born in Sussex, August 4, 1792, being the son of a 
 wealthy baronet. Sir Thomas Shelley. He was sent to the 
 University of Oxford, but at the early age of seventeen, he had 
 committed various acts of such eccentricity that he was expelled 
 the University, and abandoned by his father and family. 
 
 At the early age of eighteen, he published his atheistical 
 poem of " Queen Mab," and the next year married a young 
 woman of humble station. He now established himself in 
 Switzerland, where he wrote " Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude." 
 His domestic unhappiness induced him to separate from his 
 wife, bv whom he had two children, and the miserable woman 
 soon after destroyed herself. He subsequently married Mary, 
 daughter of Godwin, the author of Caleb Williams, and settled 
 in Buckinghamshire. In March, 1812, he quitted his country 
 
 (317) 
 
318 S 11 E L L E Y. 
 
 never to return. He went to Italy, and at Rome wrote his 
 drama of "Prometheus Unbound." 
 
 In this genial and classic country Shelley continued for 
 several years, and w^rote his most celebrated pieces. Among his 
 intimates was Lord Byron. He was temperate in his habits, 
 gentle, affectionate, and generous in his temper. His favourite 
 amusements were boating and sailing. On the 8th July, 1822, 
 on returning from Leghorn, where he had been to welcome his 
 friend, Leigh Hunt, the boat was capsized, and he, with two 
 other persons, went down in the Bay of Spezzia. His body 
 was recovered, and being reduced to ashes by fire, was taken 
 to Rome and deposited in the Protestant burial-ground. 
 
 A complete edition of Shelley's works, with a life of the 
 author, has been published by his accomplished widow. The 
 abstract character of his poetry will always prevent it from 
 being extensively popular — yet he had a rich imagination, a 
 passionate love of nature, and a classical and imposing diction. 
 His works abound in passages of great beauty, w^hich once 
 impressed on the heart will never leave it. 
 
THE CLOUD. 
 
 I BRiNGr fi-esh sliowers for the thirsting flowers, 
 
 From the seas and the streams ; 
 I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 
 
 In their noonday dreams. 
 From my wings are shaken the doAvs that Avaken 
 
 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. 
 
 (319) 
 
320 SHELLEY. 
 
 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, V 
 
 This pilot is guiding me, 
 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 the plains, 
 Where TOr he dream, under mountain or stream, 
 
 The Spirit he loves, remains ; 
 And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 
 
 Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 
 
 The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 
 
 And his burning plumes outspread, 
 Leaps on the back of my sailing rack 
 
 When the morning star shines dead. 
 As on the jag of a mountain crag, 
 
 Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
 An eagle alit, one moment may sit 
 
 In the light of its golden wings ; 
 And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea beneath, 
 
 Its ardours of rest and of love. 
 
THE CLOUD. 321 
 
 And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
 
 From the depth of heaven above, 
 With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, 
 
 As still as a brooding dove. 
 
 That orbed maiden with white fire laden, 
 
 Whom mortals call the moon, 
 Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 
 
 By the midnight breezes streAvn ; 
 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 river, lakes, and seas, 
 Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 
 
 Are each paved with the moon and these. 
 
 I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone. 
 
 And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
 The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, 
 
 When the Avhirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
 From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. 
 
 Over a torrent sea, 
 41 
 
322 SHELLEY. 
 
 Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, 
 
 The mountains its columns be. 
 The triumphal arch through which I march. 
 
 With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
 When the powers of the air are 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 the earth and water. 
 
 And the nursling of the sky ; 
 1 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 rise and upbuild it again. 
 
KEATS. 
 
 John Keats was born in London, October 29, 1796, in the 
 house of his grandfather, who kept a livery stable at Moorfields. 
 He received his education at Enfield, and in his fifteenth year 
 was apprenticed to a surgeon. Most of his time, however, was 
 devoted to the cultivation of his literary talents, which were 
 early conspicuous. During his apprenticeship, he made and 
 carefully wrote out a literal translation of Virgil's Ji^neid, and 
 instructed himself also in some knowledge of Greek and Italian. 
 
 In 1818 Keats published his "Endymion, a Poetic Romance," 
 defective in many parts, but evincing rich though undisciplined 
 powers of imagination. The poem was criticised, in a strain 
 of contemptuous severity, by the Quarterly Review ; and such 
 was the sensitiveness of the young poet — panting for distinc- 
 tion, and flattered by a few private friends — that the critique 
 embittered his existence, and induced a fatal disease. 
 
 (323) 
 
824 KEATS. 
 
 In 1820, he brought out his second volume, which was kindly 
 noticed by Jeffries in the Edinburgh Review. This soothed 
 the feelings of the poet, but it was too late to mend the broken 
 strings of his heart and. his constitution. He was indeed 
 wasting away with consumption, and as a last resort, proceeded 
 to Naples. Soon after his arrival he took to his bed and died, 
 December 27, 1820. 
 
 It has been the fortune of Keats to be extravagantly praised 
 by some, and unmercifully condemned by others. He was cer- 
 tainly a true poet, of creative fancy, and wonderful richness of 
 expression. If we consider his extreme youth, we shall not 
 fail to look with admiration upon many things he has left as 
 memorials of his genius. 
 
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 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 Lethe-wards had sunk : 
 '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 summer in full-throated ease. 
 
 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 sun-burnt mirth ! 
 
 for a beaker full of the warm south, 
 Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
 
 (325) 
 
326 KEATS. 
 
 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 : 
 
 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 gray 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 blooms and winding mossy ways. 
 
D E T A N I G H T I N G A L E. 327 
 
 I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 
 
 Nor wliat soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
 But, in embahiied darkness, guess each sweet 
 
 Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
 The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree Avild ; 
 White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
 East-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. 
 
 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 : 
 
328 KEATS. 
 
 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 ofttimes hath 
 Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam 
 Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 
 
 Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 
 
 To toll me hack 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 hill-stream, 
 Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
 In the next valley's glades : 
 Was it a vision or a waking dream ? 
 
 Fled is that music : — do I wake or sleep ? 
 

MACAULAY. 
 
 The brilliant writer and distinguished statesman, Thomas 
 Babington Macaulay, the son of Zachary Macaulay, a wealthy 
 African merchant of London, was born in the year 1800. He 
 was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he gained 
 some of the highest honours of the University. In 1826 he 
 was called to the bar, and the same year commenced his 
 literary career by an essay on Milton in the Edinburgh Review, 
 which attracted great attention. This was followed by other 
 articles, which placed him in the first rank of the living essayists 
 of Great Britain. 
 
 In 1832, he entered Parliament, and two years after resigned 
 his seat and proceeded to India, as member of the Supreme 
 Council of Calcutta, a lucrative post, which he held for three 
 years. In 1838, he returned to England, and was shortly after 
 elected a member for Edinburgh. He has recently published 
 
 42 (329) 
 
330 M A C A U L A Y. 
 
 several volumes of a History of England, which have had a 
 popularity beyond any similar publication of modern times. 
 
 During his collegiate days he wrote a spirited ballad, entitled 
 the "War of the League," and more recently surprised the 
 literary world by a volume entitled the "Lays of Ancient 
 Rome," founded on the heroic and romantic incidents related 
 by Livy. They are remarkable for their striking pictures of 
 life and manners, the abrujot energy of their style, and the 
 rapid progress of their narrative. 
 
I VR Y. 
 
 Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are ! 
 
 And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre ! 
 
 Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, 
 
 Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of 
 
 France ! 
 And thou Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, 
 Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. 
 As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy. 
 For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of war, 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. 
 
 Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, 
 We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array ; 
 With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, 
 And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. 
 
 (331) 
 
332 MACAULAY. 
 
 There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land ; 
 And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand : 
 And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, 
 And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood ; 
 And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, 
 To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. 
 
 The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, 
 
 And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. 
 
 He looked upon his joeople, and a tear was in his eye ; 
 
 He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. 
 
 Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, 
 
 Down all our line, a deafening shout, " God save our Lord the King." 
 
 " An if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may. 
 
 For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray. 
 
 Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war. 
 
 And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." 
 
 Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din, 
 
 Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culvei'in. 
 
 The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, 
 
 With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. 
 
 Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, 
 
 Charge for the golden lilies, — upon them with the lance. 
 
 A thousand spurs are sti-iking deep, a thousand spears in rest, 
 
 A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest ; 
 
IVRY. 333 
 
 And in tliey burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, 
 Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. 
 
 Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein. 
 
 D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain. 
 
 Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale ; 
 
 The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. 
 
 And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, 
 
 " Remember Saint Bartholomew," was passed from man to man. 
 
 But out spake gentle Henry, " No Frenchman is my foe : 
 
 Down, down, Avith every foreigner, but let your brethren go." 
 
 Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in Avar, 
 
 As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ? 
 
 Hight well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day ; 
 
 And many a lordly banner God gave them for prey. 
 
 But we of the religion have borne us best in fight ; 
 
 And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white. 
 
 Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en. 
 
 The cornet white Avith crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. 
 
 Up with it high ; unfurl it Avide ; that all the host may knoAV 
 
 How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church such 
 
 Avoe. 
 Then on the ground, Avhile trumpets sound their loudest point of war, 
 Fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for Henry of Navarre. 
 
3'34 MACAU LAY. 
 
 Ho ! maidens of Vienna ; Ho ! matrons of Lucerne ; 
 
 Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. 
 
 Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles. 
 
 That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. 
 
 Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright ; 
 
 Ho ! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. 
 
 For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, 
 
 And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave. 
 
 Then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are ; 
 
 And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre. 
 
HOOD. 
 
 Thomas Hood was born in London, in 1798, his father being 
 a bookseller. He was educated for the counting-house, but his 
 inclination for literature turned him in another direction. In 
 1821, he was installed as a regular assistant to the London 
 Magazine. Afterwards, he contributed to various periodicals, 
 being at one time editor of the " New Monthly," and at another 
 of a magazine which bore his own name. His life was one of 
 incessant exertion, embittered by ill health, and all the vexa- 
 tions incidental to authorship. 
 
 There are few men who have contributed more to the mirth 
 and merriment of mankind, than the author of " Whims and 
 Oddities," the '' Comic Annual," " Whimsicalities, &c. :" yet 
 there are few whose lives present so bleak and disheartening a 
 spectacle, as far as concerns the author's personal annals. Wit 
 
 (335) 
 
386 H ]J. 
 
 seems to have been the predominant characteristic of his genius, 
 and tlie deep, touching, and melancholy passages in his works, 
 often rendered the more startling from their proximity to mirth- 
 ful thoughts and associations, are perhaps but the darker 
 colourings suggested by his own bitter experience in life. 
 
43 
 
 LONDON IN NOVEMBER. 
 
 No sun — no moon ! 
 
 No morn — no noon — 
 No dawn — no dusk — no proper time of day — 
 
 No sky — no earthly view — 
 
 No distance looking blue — 
 No road — no street — no "t'other side the way" — 
 
 No end to any Row — 
 No indications where the Crescents go — 
 
 No top to any steeple — 
 No recognitions of familiar people — 
 
 No courtesies for showing 'em — 
 
 No knowing 'em ! 
 No travelling at all — no locomotion, 
 No inkling of the way — no notion — 
 
 "No go" — by land or ocean — 
 
 No mail — no post — 
 
 No news from any foreign coast — 
 
 (337) 
 
338 HOOD. 
 
 No Park — no Ring — no afternoon gentility — 
 No company — no nobility — 
 
 No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, 
 No comfortable feel in any member — 
 
 No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, 
 
 No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, 
 November ! 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 
 
 With fingers weary and worn, with eyelids heavy and red, 
 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread — 
 
 Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! in poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
 
 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, she sang the " Song of the Shirt !" 
 
 ' ' Work ! work ! work ! while the cock is crowing aloof ! 
 
 And work — work — work — till the stars shine through the roof! 
 
 It's oh ! to be a slave along with the barbarous Turk, 
 
 Where woman has never a soul to save, if this is Christian work. 
 
 " Work — work — work ! till the brain begins to swim ; 
 And work — work — work ! till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
 
THESONGOFTHESHIRT. 339 
 
 Seam, and gusset, and band, — band, and gusset, and seam, 
 
 Till over the buttons I fall asleep, and sew them on in my dream ! 
 
 " Oh ! men with sisters dear ! oh ! men with mothers and wives ! 
 It is not linen you're wearing out, but human creatures' lives ! 
 Stitch — stitch — stitch ! in poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
 Sewing at once, with a double thread, a shroud as well as a shirt ! 
 
 " But why do I talk of death, that phantom of grisly bone ! 
 
 I hardly fear his terrible shape, it seems so like my own — 
 
 It seems so like my own, because of the fast I keep : 
 
 Oh God ! that bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap ! 
 
 " Work — work — work ! My labour never flags ; 
 And what are its wages ? a bed of straw, a crust of bread, and rags : 
 A shattered roof — and this naked floor — a table — a broken chair — 
 A wall so bl-ank my shadow I thank for sometimes falling there ! 
 
 " Work — work — work ! from weary chime to chime ; 
 
 Work — work — work ! as prisoners work for crime ! 
 
 Band, and gusset, and seam, — seam, and gusset, and band, 
 
 Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, as well as the weary hand ! 
 
 " Work — work — work, in the dull December light ; 
 
 And work — work — work ! when the weather is warm and bright ; 
 
;>10 HOOD. 
 
 While underneath the eaves, the brooding swallows cling, 
 
 As if to show their sunny backs, and twit me with the Spring. 
 
 " Oh ! but to breathe the breath of the cowslip and primrose sweet; 
 With the sky above my head, and the grass beneath my feet : 
 For only one short hour to feel as I used to feel, 
 Before I knew the woes of want, and the work that costs a meal ! 
 
 " Oh ! but for one short hour ! a respite, however brief! 
 No blessed leisure for love or hope, but only time for grief ! 
 A little weeping would ease my head — but in their briny bed 
 My tears must stop, for every drop hinders needle and thread !" 
 
 With fingers weary and worn, with eyelids heavy and red, 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread ; 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; and still with a voice of dolorous pitch — 
 Would that its tone could reach the rich ! she sang the " Song of the 
 Shirt!" 
 
MONTGOMERY. 
 
 James Montgomery, a religious poet of deservedly liigli repu- 
 tation, was born at Irvine, in Ayrshire, in 1771. His father 
 was a Moravian missionary, who died whilst propagating 
 Christianity in the Island of Tobago. The poet was educated 
 at the Moravian school at Fulneck, near Leeds. In 1792 he 
 established himself in Sheffield, as assistant in a newspaper 
 office, and he continued to reside in that place until the time 
 of his death, in the spring of 1854. In a few years the paper 
 became his own property, and he continued to conduct it up to 
 the year 1825. 
 
 His course did not always run smooth. In January, 1794, 
 amidst the excitement of that agitated period, he was tried on 
 a charge of having printed a ballad, written by a clergyman of 
 Belfast, on the demolition of the Bastile in 1789 ; which was 
 now interpreted into a seditious hbel. The poor poet, notwith- 
 
 (341) 
 
342 MONTGOMERY. 
 
 standing the innocence of his intentions, was found guilty, and 
 sentenced to three months' imprisonment in the castle of York, 
 and to pay a fine of £20. In January, 1795, he was tried for 
 a second imputed political offence — a jDaragraph in his paper, 
 the Sheffield Iris, which reflected on the conduct of a magistrate 
 in quelling a riot at Sheffield. He was again convicted and 
 sentenced to six months' imprisonment in York Castle, to pay 
 a fine of £30, and to give security to keep the peace for two 
 years. 
 
 Mr. Montgomery's first volume of poetry (he had previously 
 written occasional pieces in his newspaper) appeared in 1806, 
 and was entitled "The Wanderer of Switzerland, and other 
 Poems." It speedily went through two editions ; and his pub- 
 lishers had just issued a third, when the Edinburgh Review of 
 January, 1807, denounced the unfortunate volume in a style 
 of such authoritative reprobation as no mortal verse could be 
 expected to survive. The critique, indeed, was insolent and 
 offensive — written in the worst style of the Review, when all 
 the sins of its youth were full-blown and unchecked. Among 
 other things, the reviewer predicted that in less than three 
 years nobody would know the name of the " Wanderer of 
 Switzerland," or of any other of the poems in the collection. 
 Within eighteen months from the utterance of this oracle, a 
 fourth impression (1500 copies) of the condemned volume was 
 
MONTGOMERY. 343 
 
 passing through the press whence the Edinburgh Review itself 
 was issued, and it has now reached thirteen editions. 
 
 The next work of the poet was " The West Indies." The 
 poem is in the heroic couplet, and possesses a vigour and free- 
 dom of description, and a power of pathetic painting, much 
 superior to anything in the first volume. Mr. Montgomery 
 afterwards published " Prison Amusements," written during his 
 nine months' confinement in York Castle in 1794 and 1795. 
 In 1813 he came forward with a more elaborate performance, 
 " The World Before the Flood," a poem in the heroic couplet, 
 and extending to ten short cantos. His pictures of the ante- 
 diluvian patriarchs in their happy valley, the invasion of Eden 
 by the descendants of Cain, the loves of Javan and Zillah, the 
 translation of Enoch, and the final deliverance of the little 
 band of patriarch families from the hand of the giants, are 
 sweet and touching, and elevated by pure and lofty feeling. 
 
 Our author next published "Thoughts on Wheels" (1817), 
 directed against state lotteries ; and " The Climbing Boy's 
 Soliloquies," published about the same time, in a work written 
 by different authors, to aid in effecting the abolition, at length 
 happily accomplished, of the cruel and unnatural practice of 
 employing boys in sweeping chimneys. 
 
 In 1819, he published " Greenland," a poem in five cantos, 
 containing a sketch of the ancient Moravian church, its revival 
 
344 MONTGOMERY. 
 
 in the eighteenth century, and the origin of the missions by 
 that people to Greenland in 1733. The poem, as published, is 
 only a part of the author's original plan, but the beauty of 
 its polar descriptions and episodes recommended it to public 
 favour. 
 
 The only other long poem by Mr. Montgomery is "The 
 Pelican Island," suggested by a passage in Captain Flinder's 
 voyage to Terra Australis, describing the existence of the 
 ancient haunts of the pelican in the small islands on the coast 
 of New Holland. The work is in blank verse, in nine short 
 cantos, and the narrative is supposed to be delivered by an 
 imaginary being who witnesses the series of events related after 
 the whole has happened. The poem abounds in minute and 
 delicate description of natural phenomena — has great felicity 
 of diction and expression — and altogether possesses more of 
 the power and fertility of the master than any other of the 
 author's works. 
 
 Besides the works we have enumerated, Mr. Montgomery 
 has thrown off a number of small effusions, published in differ- 
 ent periodicals, and short translations from Dante and Petrarch. 
 On his retirement in 1825 from the invidious station of news- 
 paper editor, which he had maintained for more than thirty 
 years, through good report and evil report, his friends and 
 neighbours of Sheffield, of every shade of political and religious 
 
MONTGOMERY. 345 
 
 distinction, in\dted him to a public entertainment, at wliich 
 Earl Fitzwilliam presided. 
 
 In 1830 and 1831 Mr. Montgomery was selected to deliver 
 a course of lectures at the Royal Institution on Poetry and 
 General Literature, which he prepared for the press, and pub- 
 lished in 1833. A pension of ^200 per annum was afterwards 
 conferred on Mr. Montgomery, which was continued until his 
 death in 1854. 
 
 44 
 
NIGHT. 
 
 Night is the time for 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 to weep ; 
 To wet with unseen tears 
 
 (346) 
 
NIGHT. ■ 347 
 
 Those graves of memory where sleep 
 
 The joys of other years ; 
 Hopes that Avere angels in their birth, 
 But perished young like things on eartli ! 
 
 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 misspent, 
 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. 
 Describes athwart the abyss of night 
 The dawn of uncreated light. 
 
34-8 MONTGOMERY. 
 
 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 the weary breath, 
 
 From sin and suffering cease : 
 Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign 
 To parting friends — such death be mine ! 
 
 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 : 
 
HOME. y49 
 
 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 grace, 
 
 The heritage of nature's noblest race, 
 
 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, brother, friend ; 
 
 Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife, 
 
 Strew 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 fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. 
 
 Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ? 
 
 Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look around ; 
 
 0, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam. 
 
 That land thy country, and that spot thy home ! 
 
MRS. HEM AN S. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans (Felicia Dorothea Browne) was born at Liver- 
 pool on the 25th September, 1793. Her father was a merchant; 
 but, experiencing some reverses, he removed with his family 
 to Wales, and there the young poetess imbibed that love of 
 nature which is displayed in all her works. 
 
 In her fifteenth year she ventured on publication. Her first 
 volume was far from successful; but she persevered, and in 
 1812 published another, entitled "The Domestic Affections, 
 and other Poems." The same year she was married to Captain 
 Hemans ; but the union does not seem to have been a happy 
 one. She continued her studies, acquiring several languages, 
 and still cultivating poetry. In 1818 Captain Hemans removed 
 to Italy for the benefit of his health. His accomplished wife 
 remained in England, and they never met again. 
 
 In 1819, she obtained a prize of £50 offered by some patriotic 
 Scotsman for the best poem on the subject of Sir William 
 
 (350) 
 
4**^° 
 
 '^''^''^Z .!a>->z,<5' 
 
 iiiiit=a bylMBlitla 
 
MRS. HE MANS. 351 
 
 Wallace. Next year she published " The Sceptic." In June, 
 1821, she obtained the prize awarded bj the Royal Society of 
 Literature for the best poem on the subject of Dartmoor. Her 
 next effort was a tragedy, the "Vespers of Palermo," which 
 was produced at Covent Garden, December 12, 1823 ; but 
 though supported by the admirable acting of Kemble and 
 Young, it was not successful. In 1826, appeared her best poem, 
 the "Forest Sanctuary," and in 1828, "Records of Woman." 
 She afterwards produced " Lays of Leisure Hours," " National 
 Lyrics," &c. In 1829, she paid a visit to Scotland, and was 
 received with great kindness by Sir Walter Scott, Jeffrey, and 
 others of the Scottish Uterati. In 1830, appeared her " Songs 
 of the Affections." The same year she visited Wordsworth, 
 and appears to have been much struck with the secluded beauty 
 of Rydal Lake and Grasmere. 
 
 On her return from the Lakes, Mrs. Hemans went to reside 
 in DubUn, where her brother. Major Browne, was settled. The 
 education of her family (five boys) occupied much of her time 
 and attention. Ill health, however, pressed heavily on her, 
 and she soon experienced a premature decay of the springs of 
 life. In 1834 appeared her Httle volume of "Hymns for 
 Childhood," and a collection of " Scenes and Hymns of Life." 
 She also published some sonnets, under the title of " Thoughts 
 during Sickness." 
 
352 MRS. HEM AN S. 
 
 This admirable woman and sweet poetess died on the 16tli 
 May, 1835, aged forty-one. Though highly popular, and in 
 many respects excellent, we do not think that much of the 
 poetry of Hrs. Hemans will descend to posterity. There are, as 
 Scott hinted, "too many flowers for the fruit;" more for the 
 ear and fancy, than for the heart and intellect. Some of her 
 shorter pieces and her lyrical productions are touching and 
 beautiful both in sentiment and expression. Her versification 
 is always melodious ; but there is an oppressive sameness in 
 her longer poems which fatigues the reader; and when the 
 volume is closed, the effect is only that of a mass of glittering 
 images and polished words, a graceful, melancholy, and feminine 
 tenderness, but no strong or permanent impression. The 
 passions are seldom stirred, however the fancy may be soothed 
 or gratified. In description, Mrs. Hemans had considerable 
 power ; she was both copious and exact ; and often, as Jeffrey 
 has observed, " a lovely picture serves as a foreground to some 
 deep or lofty emotion." Her imagination was chivalrous and 
 romantic, and delighted in picturing the woods and halls of 
 England, and the ancient martial glory of the land. The 
 purity of her mind is seen in all her works ; and her love of 
 nature, like Wordsworth's, was a delicate blending of our deep 
 inward emotions with their splendid symbols and emblems 
 without. 
 
THE VOICE OF SPKING. 
 
 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 "vvakening earth, 
 By the winds which tell of the violet's birth. 
 By the primrose stars in the shadoAvy grass, 
 By the green leaves opening as I pass. 
 
 I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-floAyers 
 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, 
 
 45 (353) 
 
354 MRS. HE MANS. 
 
 The jfislier is out on the sunny sea, 
 
 And the reindeer bounds through the pasture free, 
 
 And the pine has a fringe of softer green. 
 
 And the moss looks bright where mj step has been. 
 
 I have sent through the woodpaths a gentle sigh, 
 And called out each voice of the deep-blue skj, 
 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-bough 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, ye children of gladness, come ! 
 Where the violets lie may now be 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. 
 
THEVOICEOFSPRING. 355 
 
 Away from tlie dwellings of careworn 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 Avild-wood strains, 
 And Youth is abroad in my green domains. 
 
 The summer is hastening, on soft winds borne, 
 
 Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ; 
 
 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 ! 
 
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 They grew in beauty, side bj 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 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. 
 
 (35fi) 
 
THE GRAVES F A H U S E H L D. 357 
 
 One sleeps where southern vines are dressed 
 
 Above the noble slain : 
 He wraps 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 floAvers — 
 
 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, oh earth ! 
 
TENNYSON. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson is the son of a clergyman in Lincolnshire. 
 He was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge. His first 
 appearance as an author was in 1830, when he published a 
 small volume of poems. He has from that time continued to 
 challenge public attention, either by occasional pieces or by 
 volumes, and has gradually grown in public estimation, until 
 he has attained a position in England somewhat similar to that 
 which Longfellow enjoys in this country. On the death of 
 Wordsworth, Tennyson was made Poet-laureate. His latest 
 production of any size, " In Memoriam," is incomparably his 
 best. The extracts which follow are taken from it. 
 
 (358) 
 
SILENT GRIEF. 
 
 I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin 
 
 To put in words the grief I feel ; 
 For words, like nature, half reveal 
 
 And half conceal the Soul within. 
 
 But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
 A use in measured language lies ; 
 The sad mechanic exercise, 
 
 Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 
 
 In words, like weeds, I '11 wrap me o'er, 
 Like coarset clothes against the cold ; 
 But that large grief which these unfold 
 
 Is given in outline and no more. 
 
 (35C 
 
CALM. 
 
 Calm is tlie morn Avithout a sound, 
 Calm as to suit a calmer grief, 
 And only through the faded leaf 
 
 The chestnut pattering to the ground : 
 
 Calm and deep peace on this high wold 
 
 And on these dews that drench the furze, 
 
 And all the silvery gossamers 
 That twinkle into green and gold : 
 
 Calm and still light on yon great plain 
 
 That sweeps, with all its autumn bowers, 
 And crowded farms and lessening towers, 
 
 To mingle with the bounding main : 
 
 (360) 
 
INSENSIBILITY. 361 
 
 Calm and deep peace in this wide air, 
 
 These leaves that redden to the fall ; 
 
 And in my heart, if calm at all. 
 If any calm, a calm despair : 
 
 Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. 
 
 And waves that sway themselves in rest, 
 And dead calm in that noble breast 
 
 Which heaves but with the heaving deep. 
 
 INSENSIBILITY. 
 
 I ENVY not in any moods 
 
 The captive void of noble rage. 
 The linnet born within the cage, 
 
 That never knew the summer woods : 
 
 I envy not the beast that takes 
 
 His license in the field of time. 
 Unfettered by the sense of crime, 
 
 To whom a conscience never wakes ; 
 
 46 
 
362 TENNYSON. 
 
 Nor, what may count itself as blest, 
 
 The heart that never plighted troth, 
 But stagnates in the weeds of sloth ; 
 
 Nor any want-begotten, rest. 
 
 I hold it true, whate'er befall ; 
 
 I feel it, when I sorrow most ; 
 
 ^ Tis better to have loved and lost. 
 Than never to have loved at all. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 E. B. MEARS, STEREOTYPER. C. SHERMAX, Pltl.NTER. 
 
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 Elegantly bound in Morocco Antique, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt 
 edg«B,. 1 vol. 8vo. 
 
 f\^nB'B €nm\Mt ^pmlml S3orb, 
 
 THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SaMuEL ROGERS. 
 
 Splendidly Illustrated with thirteen line Engravings, executed expressly for this 
 
 work, and by a Portrait in " stipple" by Anderton, from a 
 
 painting by Sir Thomas Lawrence. 
 
 Elegantly bound in Morocco Antique, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt 
 edges. 1 vol. 8vo. 
 
XY. 
 
 "m^ fflmj'ff' |5ortital 'IBorb. 
 
 (new edition.) 
 THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF "EDITH MAT." 
 
 Splendidly Illustrated with ten line Engravings, executed expressly for this work, 
 from original designs by Devereux, and a Portrait from 
 an original drawing by Furness. 
 
 Bound in Morocco AnticLue,. Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt edges. 
 1 vol. 8vo. 
 
 CijomiiH Bioorf'B Mdobm 
 
 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 BY THOMAS MOOKE. 
 
 Splendidly Illustrated with a Portrait of the Author, after Lawrence, and twelve 
 splendid Engravings. 
 
 Elegantly bound in Morocco Antique, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt 
 ed.i^es. 1 vol. 8vo. 
 
 Ilnrit 1. iBiitt'H Iqrits of tfjf Ifort. 
 
 LYRICS OF THE HEART, WITH OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY ALARIC A. WATTS. 
 
 lEIeflantiD illustrates initf) tSnelbe splcnSiU lEnflraotngs. 
 
 Splendidly bound in Morocco Antique, Turkey Morocco, or muslin, gilt and gilt 
 edges. 1 vol. 8vo. 
 

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