?\ THE POETS AND POETRY OF ENGLAND, IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY BY PtUFUS W. GRISWOLD. WITH ADDITIONS BY E. H. STODDARD. A I>RAl>n>ESS SHOWER OF UGHT IS POESY : 'TIS THE SUPREME OP POWER ; 'tis IdiaiJT HALF SLUMBEKINQ ON ITS OWN RIGHT ARM. John Keats. C.\REFULLY REVISED, MUCH ENLARGED AND CONTINUED TO THE PRESENT TIME. NEW YORK: JAMES MILLER, PUBLISHER, 647 BROADWAY. 1875. t^i (k^ h ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1S44, BY CARET £ BART, IN THE OFFICE OF THE CLERK OF THE DISTRICT COURT OF THE EASTERN DISTRICT OF PENNSYLVANIA. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S74, by JAMES MILLER, la the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. Lange, LmxE & Co., PRINTERS, ELKCTROTYPERS AND STEBBOTYPEBS, :os TO 114 WoosTER Street, N. Y. TO WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, THIS COLLECTION OF The Poets axd Poetry of Englain^d IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, \%i BY ITS LATEST EDITOR. < PREFACE. The rise and progress of English poetry form one of the most delightful and instructive chapters in the intellectual history of the world. We trace its glim- mering dawn in the ballads of the early minstrels, its brilliant morning in the Canterbury Tales, and its rich and bold development in the literature of the age of Elizabeth, in which British genius reached an elevation unparalleled in the history of mankind. Bacon and Hobbes and Coke, Barrow and Taylor and Hooker, Raleigh and Selden and Sidney, Spenser and Shakspeare and Milton, breathed in the same generation the air of England, and though they did not all give a lyrical expression to thought and passion, they were nearly all poets, in the truest and highest sense of the word, and they formed with their contemporaries the most wonderful constellation of great men that ever adorned a nation or an age. It is a remark of Hume, that when arts come to perfection in a stall ; they necessarily decline, and seldom or never revive there. In England the decline of poetry, was as rapid as had been its rise, and in the long interregnum which succeeded the Restoration, scarcely a work was produced which has an actual and enduring popularity. The artificial school introduced from the Continent by the followers of Charles the Second, attained its acme at last, however, in the polished numbers of Pope, and a gradual return to nature became visible in (he productions of Thomson and Cowper and Burns, who ushered in the second great era of British literature, a general view of the poetical portion of which I have endeavoured to present in this volume. There is at the present time, it seems to me, great need of a work of this sort. The surveys and selections of English poetry from Chaucer to the close of the last century, are numerous, and some of them, especially those of Campbell and Hazlitt, are made with singular candour and discernment. But there has hitherto been no extensive review of the Poetry of the Nineteenth Century, more rich and varied than that of all other periods, excepting only the golden one of Shakspeare. From those whose entire works have been republished in this country, and of whom a knowledge may safely be presumed I have deemed it in somt ins<-ances 6 PREFACE. unnecessary to quote very largely, while I have presented comparatively numerous selections from several poets who are less familiar to American readers. It is a singular fact that while, with the exception of Talfourd, Knowles and Bulwer, so few have recently added to the stock of standard acting plays, so many fine poems have appeared in the dramatic form. From some of these I have drawn with considerable freedom, though less largely than I should have done but for the difficulty of doing justice to authors in mere extracts from works of this descrip- tion. One of -the most striking distinctions of the poetry of this century is un- doubtedly discoverable in the great number of deservedly popular lyrics which it embraces. In no other period have so many exquisite gems of feehng, thought and language been produced. To the best of my judgment I have brought together the most admirable of these, with the finest passages of longer poems which could not themselves be given entire. The merits of Byron and Wordsworth have been amply discussed by recent critics on both sides of the Atlantic, and the claims of Shelley begin to attract a share of the attention they deserve. If the author of Childe Harold excelled all others in the poetry of intense emotion, and the bard of Rydal in that of reflective sentiment, Shelley has contributed no less to what is purely imaginative in the divine art. The graphic power of Crabbe in dealing with actual and homely materials, the picturesque and romantic beauty of Scott, the wildness, sublimity and feeling of Coleridge, the gorgeous description and fine reflection of Southey, the voluptuous imagery and happy wit of Moore, the elegance and rhetorical energy of Campbell, have each in their degree influenced the popular taste ; while the classical imagery of Keats, the brilliance and tenderness of Proctor, the cheerfulness and humanity of Hunt, and the philosophic repose of Milnes, interest the warm sympathies of different readers. Thirty years have passed since Dr. Griswold completed this collection, and a new school of English poets has arisen. It may be said to have begun with Tennyson and Browning, who were beginning to be recognized as poets when he had finished his labors. He could not foresee the eminence they would attain, and he did not perceive the character and value of their poetry. He thought that Tennyson might have a permanent place in the third or fourth rank of contemporary poets, and that few would have patience to wade tlirough the marshes of Browning to cull the flowers witli which they are scattered. What he would have thought of some of the late English poets it is idle to conjecture. From the number — their name is Legion — I have selected thirty- seven, who appear to deserve a place in this collection, and whose poetiy, I think, is fairly represented in it. R. H. S. CONTENTS. GEORGE CRABBE 17 Stanzas— " I^t me not have this gloomy view" 17 Reconciliation IS Woman ,.••...•-••••• ••..••18 The Wretched Mind 19 Ttie Dream of the Condemned .19 A Sea Fog 19 •fhe Sudden Death and Funeral 20 The Death of Ruth 20 A Group of Gipsies 20 The Foor-House 21 Newspapers ••••• 21 WILLIAM SOTHEBY 22 Rome 22 Tivoli 23 The Grotto of Egeria 23 WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES 24 Discovery of Madeira 24 Dreams of Voulh 26 To Time 26 Retrospection 26 Funeral of Charles the First 27 Remembrance ,,27 On the Rhine 27 Writien at Oslend 27 Matilda 27 SAMUEL ROGERS 2S An Epis'le to a Friend 29 On the Death of a Sister ■ 30 The Pleasures of Memory 31 Loch-Long ... r. ...... .,^•..,..32 Ginevra .... « .,.,*. ,.,..,. .33 The Four Eras . . 33 Don Garzia 34 The Fountain 34 Venice 35 SIR EGERTtlN BRYDGES 36 Echo and Silence .... 37 The Approach of Cold Weather ... 37 The Winds .37 To Evening 37 To a Lady in Illness 3^ To Autumn, near her Departure 37 To Mary 38 Hastings' Sonnet 38 Sonnet on Moor Park 39 Writien August 20, 1807 39 Wri'len at Paris, May 10, 1825 39 Written at Paris, May II, 1827 39 Writien at Lee Priory, August 10, 1826 39 JOANNA BAILLIE 40 Birthday Linrs to Agnes Baillie 41 To a Child 41 Christopher Columbus 42 Patriotism and Freedom . 42 From " The Traveller by Night" 43 Constancy 43 Song—" The morning air plays on my face" 43 ROBERT BLOOMFIELD 44 The Bird-Boy 44 Address to his Native Vale •......•45 Harvest-Hnme 45 The Widow to her Hour-GIass 45 JOHN H. FRERE 46 Proem to a National Work, by William and Robert Whistlecraft . 46 Sir Gaw 47 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Inscription for a Seat in the Groves of Coleorton . A youthful Poet contemplating Nature . . . . Evening in the Mountains Skating On Revisiting the Wye WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Clouds after a Storm Man never to be Scorned Obedience and Humility A Deserted Wife Chatterton Picture of a Beggar A Lover Longing for Reunion with the Dead A Child with a Shell Apostrophe to the Deity Communion with Nature From a Poem on the Power of Sound Dion Character of the Happy Warrior The Power of Virtue Tntimations of Immortality, from Recollections of Early Childhood Evening by the Thames Scorn not the Sonnet Great Men Milton Toussaint L'Ouverture " The World is too much with us" A Nation's Power not in Armies A Vision Childhood Elegiac Stanzas Presentiments To the Daisy " She Dwell among the Untrodden Ways" Ode to Duly We are Seven An Incident at Bruges The Solitary Reaper Autumn ............ " She was a Phantom of Delight" . . . A Mountain Solitude SIR WALTER SCOTT The Trial of Constance Hunting Song The Cypress Wreath Lochinvar Filz-James and Roderick Dhn .... A Bridal The Last Minstrel The Teviot Hellvellyn A Scene in Branksome Tower .... Farewell to the Muse Melrose Abbey JAMES MONTGOMERY The Grave The Pillow . . . . , .... Friends Discovery and Conquest of AiirfDt* Touth Renewed The Common I.ot The Stranger and His Friend Incognita "• Speed the Prow Recluse The Field of the World JAMES HOGG Kilmeny The Broken Heart The Skylark Queen Mary's Return to Scotland ... SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE . . . Dejection .. ..••...,. Youth and Age Rime of the Ancient Mariner .... Love CONTENTS. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. The Pains of Sleep 92 Concealuir-bt "2 ROBERT SOL'THEY '^ Ode, wrilli-n (luring the NcgoliJtions wilh Boniparle, in Jan. 1814 . 9S The Hiilly- Iree 96 The DeaJ Friend ^ The Rilile of Blenheim 97 Remenibrance 97 RoJerick in Bittl 98 Night 98 Alaodin'i Paradise "9 Lii^tening to Slornii 99 The ChilJhioJ of Joan of Arc 99 Epitaph 99 A Sub-Marine Cily 99 An Eastern Evening 99 The Locust Cloud '"0 Evening "W Immorlaliiyof l^ove '"0 Slanus— " My days among the dead are pass'd" 100 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 101 Timar Relates to Gebir his First Encouuler wilh the Nymph . . 102 Pass^ee from Count Julian 102 Fzsulan Idyl 103 To lanihe 103 To Corinth 103 Stanzas — "Say ye. that years roll on and ne'er return ?" 104 Worship God only, from Inez de Caairo 104 The Tamed Dormouse 104 To a Drad Child 104 On the Death of Robert Southey 104 Sixieen 104 Repen'ance of King Roderigo 103 Morning 105 Clifton 103 Passage fioni Ippolito di Este . . • 105 A Calhedril Scene 105 Epitaph on a Poet in i Welsh Churchyard lOS . The Maid's Lament 106 The Brier 106 The DragonFly lOS An Arab to his Mistress *.. 106 JOHN LEYDEN 107 Ode to Jehovah 108 Ode loan Indian Quid Coin lOg Portuguese Hymn to the Virgin 109 The Memory of the Past 109 A Morning Scene 109 Changes of Home 110 Tevioldalc 110 Serenity of Childhood 110 CHARLES LAMB Ill Farewell to Tobacco 112 Hester 113 The Oil Familiar Faces 113 The Family Name 113 Sonnet — " We were two pretty babes" 1 13 THOMAS CAMPBELL 114 I^ochiel's Warning 115 The Last Man 1 16 " Ye Mariners of England" -.lie Balilc of ihe Baltic 117 Exile of Erin I|7 Valedictory Stanzas to J. P. Kemble, Esq 118 The Soldier's Dream |I3 Description of Wyoming 119 Dirgf" of Oulalissi . ... 119 The Fall of Poland 120 Hohenlindcn ...120 Caroline 120 O'Connor's Child 121 Ihe Last Scene in Gerlrude of Wyoming 123 The Beech tree's Petition 123 WILLIAM HERBERT 124 The Phantom Fieht 125 The Descent lo Heli 126 Solitude ^ ^ 129 Fulirily ". ! ! 129 • Jialousy 129 The Mother's Plea 130 The Bailie Field 131 WILLIAM HERBERT Hymn lo Dealh 132 AClius Ihe LnLeliever 133 Woman •• ............ 133 Farewell 133 Washington 134 SIR HUMPHRY DAVY 135 The leiiipesl 135 Fonlainebleau 136 Written after Recovery from a Dangerous Illness 136 On the Deaih of Lord Byron 137 Mont Blanc '3" The Sybil's Temple 137 A Fragment l''*8 The Eagles 138 The FireFlies 138 Life 138 Thought 138 JOHN HERMAN MERIVALE 139 Ode on the Deliveiance of Europe, 1814 139 From Rufinus 140 The Pursuit of Learning 140 Answer to a Charge of Inconstancy 140 HORACE SMITH 141 Hymn lo Ihe Flowers 141 The Head of Memnon 142 Moral Ruins 143 Address loan Egyptian Mummy 143 To the Alabaster Sarcophagus 144 Moral Alchemy • ... 145 THOMAS MOORE 146 The Fire-Worshippers 147 " The Harp Ihat once through Tara's Halls" 165 Eveleen's Rower 165 " All that's bright must fade" 163 "Ofi, in Ihe stilly night" 166 Sacred Song .•■......■•... 166 " Has sorrow thy young days shaded p" .......... 166 " Oh, no !— not even when first we loved" 166 CALEB C. COLTON 167 The Conflagration of Moscow 168 Life , 170 Irregular Ode, on the Death of Lord Byron 171 JOHN KENYON 172 To Ihe Moon • 172 The Broken Appointment 173 EBENEZER ELLIOTT 174 Bolhwell — A Dramatic Poem 175 On Seeing Audubon's " Birds of America" 179 The Press 1"9 The Dying Boy to the Sloe Blossom 180 Come and Gone 180 Forest Worship ISI Ribbledm, or the Christening 1S2 The Wonders of Ihe Lane 183 Hymn— "Nurse of the Pilgrim sires, who soughl" 183 Thomas 184 Sleep 184 The Pilgrim Fathers 185 A Ghost at Noon 165 Corn Law Hymn . 185 Flowers for the Heart . 185 REGINALD HEBER 186 Christmas Hymn 187 The Widow of Nain 187 " Thou art gone lo Ihe grave" 187 Song— "There is, they say, a secret well" 187 Farewell IS7 Missionary Hymn IS8 The British Bow 188 Verses to Mrs. Heber ..* • 188 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM 189 " A wel sheet and a flowing sea" IflO Gentle Hugh Herries 190 The Poet's Bridal-day Song ^ .... 190 "It's Hame and it's Hame" 191 *' The shepherd seeks his glowing hearlh" , ........ 191 "Awake, my love!" 191 " My ain countree" ..191 BERNARD BARTON 192 Spiritual Worship 19* CONTENTS. UERNARD BARTON. To the Skylark 192 Children of Light 19S To Mary 193 To a Profile 193 Faren-ell 193 LEIGH HUNT I9« Eilracts from the Legend of Florence 195 Agnlanti and his Lady 193 A Domestic Scene 195 Fancy 196 To Lord Byron, on his Departure for Italy and Greece 197 The Fatal Passion 198 Kosciusko 202 Ariadne 202 Mahmoud 203 Power and Gentleness 203 The Glove and the Lions 204 An Angel in the House 204 A Heaven upon Earth 294 The Ravenna Pine Forest 204 The Nile 205 Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel 205 Spring in Ravenna 205 To a Child, during Sickness 205 BRYAN W. PROCTOR 206 The Rising nf the North 207 Stanzas — " That was not a barren time" 207 The Return of the Admiral 208 Forbidden Love 208 A Repose 208 A Storm 209 '* I die for thy sweet love** 209 A Petition to Time 209 A Chamber Scene 209 The Lake has Burst . . '. 210 The Weaver's Song 210 A Prayer inSicbnejs .210 The Stormy Petrel 210 The Sea 211 " Softly woo away her breath" , . . 211 " A deep and a mighty shadow" 211 The Quadroon 211 An Epitaph 211 To the South Wind ~ 212 Music 212 Flowers 212 Remembered Love 212 Kii JI2 Night Thoughts 212 Happiness 212 To the Singer Pasta 213 Address to the Ocean 213 HENRY KIRKE WHITE 214 The Savcyard's Return 214 Canzonet 214 " I'm pleasetl, and yet Pm sad" 215 To Cousun}piion 213 The Star of Bethlehem 215 To an Early Primrose 215 LORD BYRON 216 The Lament of Tasso 2lS The Dream 220 The Prisoner of Chillon 221 Waterloo 225 Monody on the Death of the Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan .... 225 The Isles of Greece 226 Soliloquy of Manfred 227 Cecilia Metella 228 The Ocean 22S To Thyrza 229 Stanzas — " Away, away, ye notes of wo" 229 To Thyrza 230 "Adieu, adieu 1 my native shore" 230 The Execution of Hugo 231 Death of Lara 2'J2 The Destruction of Sennacherib 234 Evening 234 The Fate of Beauty 235 "She walks in beauty" 235 To Mary 233 ** Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom" 236 Manfred to the Sorceress 236 " On this day I complete my thirty.jiith year" 236 2 THOMAS PRINGLE 237 ** Afar in the Desert" 237 The Eechuana Buy 233 WILLIAM PETER 24O Damon and Pythias 240 Theckia 241 The Ideal 242 Christian Love ......,,.,. 242 The Penitent 243 On a Dear Child 243 Twydee 243 RANN KENNEDY 244 Domestic Bliss 244 The Merry Bells of England 244 Ambition , 244 JOHN WILSON 245 To a Sleeping Child 245 The Three Seasons of Love , 247 The Hunter 247 Signs of the Plague -....,,,,.,,,,,,, 248 The Plague in the City 243 The Ship ,,., 248 Lines written in a Lonely Burial Ground 249 Addr^s to a Wild Deer 250 Lraes written in a Highland Glen 250 JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES 251 Love's Artifice 251 Last Scene in John di Frocida 252 The Growth of Love 253 Artifice Disowned by Love. 254 Pride of Rank 254 Tell among the Mountains 254 Lost Freedom of Switeerland 254 Virginius in the Forum 254 MRS. SOUTHEY 255 The Welcome Home 255 Angling 236 Autumn Flowers 257 The Pauper's Death-be I 257 The Mariner's Hyma 257 HENRY HART .MILMAN 258 Rowena 259 Lamentation over Jerusalem 239 Hymn by the Euphrates 260 Jewish Hymn in Babylon 260 Ode, to the Saviour 261 The Merry Heart 261 Marriage Hymn 261 Evening Song of Maidens 262 Chorus— -'King of kings! and Lord of lords 1" 262 Funeral Anthem 263 1 he Usurer 263 Benina to Belshazzar , 263 JOHN KEBLE 264 Advent Sunday 264 The Flowers of the Field 265 The Nightingale 265 Forest Leaves in Autuum 266 Dimness 266 Address to Poets 267 The United States 267 Champions of the Truth 267 CHARLES WOLFE 268 The Burial of Sir John Moore 268 " Oh, my love has an eye of the softest blue" 269 "Oh, say not that my heart is cold" 269 "If I had thought thou couldst have died" 269 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 270 The Sensitive Plant 272 Love 274 The Unatlained 274 Dedication to The Revolt of Islam 273 From Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude lc76 Alastor and the Swan 276 From The Revolt of Islan 277 Hynm to Intellectual Beauty 2"T Song — Rarely, rarely, coniest thou 27S Death and Sleep 278 A Picture 279 Spring 279 From Adonais: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats 280 "The serpent is shut out from Paradise" . .*....... ,381s 10 CONTENTS. PERCT BYSSHE SHELLEY. Liberly ^81 A Umenl 282 " The «uo u warm, the skjr i» clear" 2^ The Houn, from PromelheM 2S2 To a Skylark 283 Love's Philoeophy 283 The Cloud 284 * Slanzas, written in Dejection, near Naples 284 The Fugitives 285 To the Queen of mjr Heart 285 FELICIA HEMANS 286 Joan of Arc in Rlielms 287 The American Forest Girl 287 The Stranger in Louisiana 268 " Leave me not yef 288 The Traveller at the Sourec of the Nile 289 The Palm-tree 289 The Bride's Farewell 290 The Homes of England , . 290 The Hour of Death 290 Mozart's Requiem 291 The Dyin? Improvisalore • 291 The Childe's Destiny 292 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 292 Bernardo del Carpio 293 Attraction of the East 293 Kindred Hearts 294 Hymn of the Mountain Christian 294 VVishinglon's Statue 294 The Lost Pleiad 295 The Fountain of Oblivion 295 A Parting Song 295 Thoughts During Sickness 296 Intellectual Powers 296 Sickness like Night 296 Reizsch's Design, the Angel of Dfath 296 Hemembrance of Nature 296 Flight of the Spirit 296 Flowers 296 Recovery 296 To a Family Bible 296 SIR THOMAS NOON TALFOURD 297 Verses to the Memory of a Child named after Charles Lamb . . . 298 Lines written at the Needles Hotel 298 Kmdness 299 To the Memory of the Poets 299 Ion described by Agenor 300 Ion receiving the Sncrihcial Knife from Ctesipbon ..... .300 Ion at the Entrance of a Forest 30O Fame 300 To the Thames at Westminster 300 JOHN KEATS 301 The Eve of St. Agnes 302 Hymn to Pan 305 Adonis 306 To Hope B?6 Sovereignty of Love * 307 Cle to a Nightingale 307 To Autumn 308 Ole on a Grecian Urn 308 On first Seeing Chapman's Homer 308 On the Grasshopper and Cricket 308 Regalities . . . ' 309 Adonis Sleeping 309 A Fairy Scene from Endymion 309 Sleep 309 Scenes of Boyhood 309 The Moon 310 Robin Hood 310 F^ncy 311 Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 311 THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY 312 The First Gray Hair 313 The Siildiei's fear 313 '* Wither Away" 313 "I'm saddest when I sing" 3I4 " I never was a favourile" 314 " She wore a wreath of roses" 314 " The rose that all arc praising" 315 " She never blamed him" 315 "She would not know me" 315 The Old Kirk Yard . ' 313 THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. "Grief was sent thee for Ihy good" 3IJ " I turn to thee in time of need" ....> 316 " Oh, no I we never mention her". .......... .316 " Isle of Beauty, fare thee well" 316 " I'd be a butterfly" 316 GEORGE- CROLY 317 The Angel of the World 318 A Scene from Catiline 323 Astrology 324 Jacob's Dream 325 An Aurora Borealis 325 Rebellion 325 The Alhambra 326 A Lover's Oaih 326 A Meeting of Magicians 326 The Star 326 Pericles and Aspasia 327 Leonidas 327 A Dirge 327 A Parisian Fauxbourg 328 The Grievings of a Proud Spirit 328 ESect of Oratory upon a Multitude 323 Love an Evil 328 Jewels 323 Mountaineers 328 WILLIAM MOTHERVVELL 329 "My heid is like to rend, Willie" 329 " The water ! the water I" 330 Jeanie Morrison 330 Lines given to a Friend a day or two before the Decease of the Writer 331 "O agony! keen agony i" 331 " They come ! the merry summer months" 332 " I am not sad" 332 " Beneath a placid brow" 333 The Cavalier's Song 333 " What is glory ? What is fame ?" 333 THOMAS HOOD 334 The Dream of Eugene Aram 334 The Sylvan Fairy 336 Ariel and the Suicide 336 Fair Ines 337 " Sigh on, sad heart!" 337 The Song of the Shirt 338 Silence 338 Death 338 Ode — "Oh I well may poets make a fuss" 339 From an Ode to Melancholy il39 "I remember, I remember,". ............. 340 To a Cold Beauty . . 340 Love 340 By A Lover 340 ROBERT POLLOK 311 Byron 341 The Millennium S42 The Author's Account of Himself 443 Reputation 344 Rumour and Slander. 344 Wisdom 344 LORD MACAULAY .345 Horatius 345 The Battle of Ivry 350 The Cavalier's March to landon 351 The Spanish Armada 352 A Song of the Huguenots 333 D. M. MOIR 354 A Lover to his Betrothed 354 Wee Willi • 355 Midnight 355 " Weep not for her" 366 Flodden Field 356 EDWARD MOXON 357 To the Muse 357 Love 358 A Dream 35S Life 356 Walton . 358 Scenes of Childhood 358 Sidney , 35g Solace derived from Books 35S To a Bird S5t A Mother Singing 359 Poesy .....,.•••♦. 359 EDWARD MOXON To 339 Rnuen 339 Pieiy 359 MRS. NORTON 360 Dedication o' 'hf Iream to the Duchess of Sulheriand 361 Extract from llie Dream 361 To my Books 361 Twilight P6?. The Blind Man to his Bride 363 The Sense of Beauty 364 The Miiilier's Heart 365 The Child of Earth 365 Alaraxia 366 The Widow to her Son's Betrothed 367 " Weep not for him that dieth" 367 The Arab's Farewell to his Horse 368 *' We have been friends together" 368 Recolleciious .369 " Be frank with me, and I accept my lot" , , , 369 The Fallen Leaves 369 The Careless Word 370 The Mourners , 370 *' Like an enfranchised bird" ■••••••....,,. 370 JOHN STERLING 371 To a Child 371 Prose and Song 371 Aphrodite 372 Hymns n( a Hermit 375 The De«rest 378 Joan D'Arc 379 Alfred the Harper 392 ' The Poet's Home 3^ Mirabeau 2S4 Loms XV 3S4 Daedalus ' 385 The Ages 383 The Husbandman 386 The Penitent 3S6 The Moss Rose 367 The Song of Eve to Cain 3S7 MRS. MACLEAN (L. E. L.) 388 The Factory 389 The Minstrel's Monitor 390 The Feast of Life 390 Experience 390 The Carrier-Pigeon Returned 391 Success alone seen • 391 " Oh, no ! my heart can never be" 392 Necessity 392 Memory 393 Resolves 393 '• We might have been !" ., 393 " A long while ago" 394 "Canyou f.rgel me?" 394 The Farewell 3?4 ' Calypso watching the Ocean 395 Desponlency 395 ■ The Wrongs of Love 396 The eld Times 396 Crescenlius 396 *' I pray Ihee let mc weep lo-night" 397 Weakuess ends with Love 397 Affection 397 Age and Voulh .'397 Biiter Experience 397 The Poet's Fir^t Essay 397 CHARLES SWAIN 398 The Lyre 393 " The kind old friendly feelings" ' 398 Recnlleclions _. . . . 399 "Forgive and forget" 399 " Let us love one another" 399 " If ihou hast lost a friend" 400 The first Prayer 400 The Chamois Hunters 401 The Bird of Hope 400 | EDWARD LORD LYTTON 401 Cromwell's Soliloquy over the Dead Body of Chirles 402 ! Cromwell's Reflections on "Killing no Murder" 102 I Richelieu's S.ililnquy 403 Amhltion and Glory 403 I Last Days of Queen Elizabeth 404 The Language of the Eyes 405 Euripides 406 A Spendthrift 406 Patience and Hope ....•...,,.,.,,,. 40G Love and Fame ^Qg The L^st Crusader .•...•, 407 The Sabbath 407 HENRY TAVLOR 403 The Lay of Elena •,,. 409 From Philip Van Artevelde ! ! '. 412 Repose of the Heart ,412 Approach of Morning 412 Artevelde's Love for Adriana 413 Greatness and Success ...., 413 Two Characters 4)3 Repentance and Improvement 413 Artevelde's Character of his Wife 413 Artevelde's Vision of his Wife, the Night before his Death . .414 Character of Artevelde by the Duke of Burgundy 414 Famine in a besieged City 414 From Edwin the Fair 4,4 The Voice of the Wind 414 Dunslan's Account of his Temptations 415 Calmness and Retrospection 415 A Soliloquy of Leolf 415 A Scholar 415 Dunstan on the Death of his Mother 415 T. K. HERVEY 4 16 . 416 Love Cleopatra embarking on the Cydnuj 416 The Grotto of Egeria 417 The Temple of Jupiter Olympus, at Athens 417 "Slumber lie soft on thy beautiful eye," 41s To Myra 4ig Stanzas to a Lady 413 Hope . . . ■ 419 Homes and Graves 419 A Vision of the Stars 420 The Convict Ship 421 *' I'm all alone," 421 To Mary ,, 421 WINTHROP MACKWORTH l-RAED. The Red Fisherman 422 The Vicar 4^4 School .ind School-fellows . 455 Memory 426 Josephine 426 Stanzas 427 Time's Changes 407 The Belle of the Ball '.!'.'.'. i 428 GEORGE DARLEY. A Scene from Ethelstan ^ , 499 A Son;^ from Ethelstan 430 Song*ot the Summer Winds 431 The Gambols of Children . . . . "431 A Village Blacksmith 43x Suicide 431 The Fairies 431 A Rural Retreat • . . , 432 TFIOMAS WADE. A Prophecy 433 Volition 433 The Bride . . ' 433 ThePoetry of Earth . . .433 The Sere Oak Leaves 433 The Swan Aviary 433 RICHARD HENRY HORNE. ■ The First Appearance of Orion 434 Morninj; 434 Summer Noon 435 Building of the Palace of Poseidon 435 Orion's E.ttirpation of the Beasts 435 Restoration of Orion . ,, 435 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. The Prayer of a Lonely Heart 437 On a Forget-me-not 437 On a Musical Box 438 A Wish 43g Lines ...♦ 433 Fragment ' . • . 431 The Vision of Life 43} 12 CONTENTS. KKANCES KEMBLE BUTLEK. A Promise «9 To the Niilhtinirale ^•*'' RICHARD, LORD HOUOHTON. Lonely Malurily •'•"' Th. Lay of the Humble **^ On •«*•' Prayer '"'^ Not Wholly Just •'ii The Pnlsy of the Heart *^i A Prayer 413 P.J.BAILEY. festus (le«cribes his Friend 444 Angela 445 Cilinnenj of the .Sublime 445 Faith 446 Creat Thoui;hts 44« A Letter 44ti Truth anil S..rrow 44i; The En.l of Life 44i; The Poet 440 HENRY ALFORD. A Chiirch-yar.l Colloquy 447 AcaJeine .' 44S A Memory 448 A Funeral 44S The Master i» Come 441 The Be;iuty of Nature . . • 448 A Spiritual and Well-ordered Mind 44a Hymn f.r AU-Sainis Day 449 A Doubt 149 ELIZA rOOK. The Mourners 4.'i0 The Wrejihs 451 He Led Her to the Altar 451 A Love Song 451 The Free 452 The Old Arm Chair 452 My Grave 452 B. SIMMONS. The Disinterment 453 View on the Hudso?! 454 Death Chant 455 F. W. FABER. Kinj's Bridge 45S Childhood 457 The (jlimpse 457 The Perpleiity 457 HARTLEY COLERIDGE. Address to Certain Gold-Fishes 458 Song 458 To a Friend 458 " What Was't Awaken'd First" 458 '• Long Time a Child " 459 To Shakespeare , . 459 Song 459 '• Hast Thou Not Seen an Aged " 459 Fear 459 To a Deafand Dumb Little Girl 45» JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. Persecution ' 460 The Scars of Sin 460 The Isles ottht Sirens 4fi0 Memory 4i;0 ^'"se5 4,10 The Course of Truth 4M Corcyra 4G1 Reverses 4B1 A Hermitage 401 Joseph 4f.l Is»a« • • . 461 THf)MAS LOVELL BEDDOES. Love's Last Message . 462 I>irg'< 4fi2 "The Swallow Leaves Her Nest" 462 "A Cypress Bough" 462 Song on the Water 462 A Dirge 46:t The Runaway 4f,.') A Croeodile ■ 4m A Subterranean City 463 Sweet to Die 463 RICHARD CHENEVtX TRENCH. The Banished Kings 464 The Barmecides 465 The Spilt Pearls r 466 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. / A Man's Requirements ^W The Lady's Yes 467 Perplexed Musio 467 Cowpcr's Gr.ave 468 Napcdcon's Return 469 The Cry of the Children 470 Seraph ami Poet 471 The Lay of the Rose 472 My Doves 473 Roniauntof Margaret 474 The Deserted Garden 476 Loved Once 477 The Sleep 478 A Reed 478 ALFRED TENNYSON. Lady Clara Vere de Vere 479 The Deserted House 479 LocksleyHall 480 Godiva 4«3 Recollectionsof the Arabian Nights 484 Marianna 485 Sir Galahad 486 The Ballad of Oriana 486 The Talking Oak 487 The Lady of Shalott 490 Dora 491 Circumstance 49J FREDERICK TENNYSON. First of March 493 Noon 493 To the Cicala 494 CHARLES TURNER. To the Robin 495 Bird-Nesting • 495 The Lachrymatory 495 The Charming of the East Wind 495 Morning «5 Harvest Home 49» SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE. The Return of the Guards 496 To the Memory 497 The Old Cavalier 498 Rizpah, Daughter of Aiah 498 WILLIAM BARNES. White and Blue 499 Home's a Nest 499 Walking Home at Night 500 The Fireside Chairs . . . • •. . 500 My Fore-El.lers 500 ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM. Written at Candebec 601 A Farewell to Glenarbac 501 A Scene in Summer 501 To My Mother 502 " Why Throbbest Thou, my Heart ! " .502 "A Melancholy Thought" 502 •' Lady. I Bid Thee " 505 " Speed ye, Warm Hours " 502 " When Gentle Fingers Cease " 50S " The Garden Trees are Busy " 502 uT WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. The Ballad of Bouillabaisse 503 The Mahogany Tree 503 At the Church Gate 504 The Age ofWisdom 504 The Pen and the Album 505 Lucy's Birthday 505 Ad Miuistram 506 The End of the Play ■ • f ^"^ ROBERT BROWNING. y My Last Duchess . 507 Incidentof the French Camp 507 Artemis Prologuizes 508 " How they Brought the Good News " 509 The Bishop Orders His Tomb 509 Evelyn Hope 511 Childe Roland 511 Andrea del Sarto 51J CONTENTS. 13 ROBERT BROWNING. Caliban upon Seteboa WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN. The Execution of Montrose The Heart of the Bruce ^n 623 AUBREY DE VERE. Song , 5H Stanzas 524 Lycius 524 A Character 525 The Sitters 505 " A Wayward Child, scarce Knowing " 525 CHARLES JIACKAY. Kindly Winter 626 Fallow 526 Hou 527 Carelees 527 The Last Quarrel 527 " Love will Find out the Way " 527 THOMAS W^ESTWOOD. Little Bell 528 The Moorland Child 62S Under My Window 529 Maud 529 CHARLES KINGSLEY. The Sands of Dee 530 Earl Haldan's Daughter 530 The Last Buccaneer 530 The Three Fishers 531 A Myth •. ... 531 There Sits a Bird 631 Song , .... 631 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. Qua Cursum Ventus 532 TheSongof Lamech . . . • 532 " Across the Sea " 633 " O Stream Descending " 533 " Were You with Me " 633 GEORGE ELIOT. Brother and Sister Two Lovers 535 MATTHEW ARNOLD. The Scholar Gipsy 536 Longing 53S The Sick King in BcJthara 638 COVENTRY PATMORE. Honoria 641 The Chase 541 Frost in Harvest 642 The Love-Letter 542 FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE. Reine D'Amour 643 Love's Language 543 Eutopia 643 To a Cliild 643 Fist and Present 643 A Death-Bed 544 The Sisters 544 Pro Mortuis 544 SYDNEY DOBELL. Tommy's Dead 645 How's My Boy ! 646 For Charity's Sake 546 DINAH MULOCH CRAIK. Philip My King 647 Plighted 547 Now and Afterwards , 54* Too Late 648 A Dead Baby 548 An Evening Guest • 64S WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. Lovely Mary Donnelly 549 The Fairies 649 The Sailor 650 Would I Knew! 560 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTL The Portrait 55, Nuptial Sleep 55.^ The Love-Letter 555 The Landmark 555 Lost Days 55.1 Sudden Light 552 The Honeysuckle 55*2 GERALD MASSEY, Sir Richard Grenville's Last Fight 553 Little Willie 554 Now and Then 554 GEORGE MEREDITH. Love in the Valley " We Saw the Swallows Gathermg ' " Out in the Yellow Meadows " " I Play for Seasons " GEORGE W. THORNBURY. The Three Troopers 557 The White Rose over the Water 557 La Tricoteuse 55s The Old Grenadier's Story 568 How Sir Richard Died 559 The Death of Marlborough 559 CHRISTINA ROSSETTL Love from the North 660 At Home 560 Maud Clare 660 A Peal of Bells 661 Up Hill 561 Beauty is Vain 561 Song 561 Jray 661 JEAN INGELOW. The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire 562 Sea Mews in Winter Time 663 Remonstrance 564 Song of the Going Away 564 Sailing Beyond Seas 664 ALEXANDER SMITH. Glasgow The Night Before the Wedding The Change 567 EDWIN ARNOLD. The Egyptian Princess 568 The Sirens 6611 Flowers 569 ROBERT LORD LYTTON. Aux Italiens 570 The Portrait 671 The Castle of King Macbeth 672 The Chess-Board 678 Song 672 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR. A Doubting Heart 673 A Woman's Question 673 A Shadow 57.? Recollections 574 Hush 574 1^ ■WILLIAM MORRIS. A Good Knight in Prison 675 Old Love , 576 Shameful Death 677 The Tune of Seven Towers 577 ^ ALGERNON CHARLE3 SWINBURNE. A Match 678 Rococo 578 A Ballad of Burdens 579 DAVID GRAY. In the Shadows 68« ROBERT BUCHANAN. Penelope 681 Pygmalion the Sculptor 582 I 4 i GEORGE CRABBE (Born 1751— Died 1S32). This poet was born on the twenty-fourth of December, 1754, at Aldborough, in Suffolk, where his father and grandfather were officers of the customs. At the school where he re- ceived his education he gained a prize for one of his poems ; and on leaving it he became an apprentice to a surgeon and apothecary in his native village. On the completion of his ap- prenticeship, abandoning all hope of success in his profession, he went to London to com- mence a life of authorship. Unknown and unfriended, he endeavoured in vain to induce the booksellers to publish his writings. At length, in 1780, two years after his arrival in the great metropolis, he ventured to print at his own expense a poem entitled "The Can- didate,'' which was favourably received. He was soon after introduced to Edmund Burke, who became his friend and patron, and pre- sented him ^0 Fox and other eminent con- temporaries. In 1781 he published "The Library," and was ordained a deacon. In the following year he became curate of Ald- i)orouo'h, and in 1783 he entered his name at Trinity Hall, Cambridge; but left the Uni- versity without graduating, though he was subsequently presented with the degree of B. C. L. After residing for a considerable period at Belvoir Castle, as chaplain to the Duke of Rutland, he was introduced to the Lord Chancellor Thurlow, who bestowed upon him successively the living of Frome St. Quintin, in Dorsetshire, and the rectories of Muston and West AUington in the diocese of Lincoln. In 1807 he published a com- plete edition of his works then written, which was received with general applause. Three years afterward appeared "The Borough;" in 1812, his "Tales;" and in 1819, his "Tales of the Hall." He died at Trowbridge, in Wiltshire, in February, 1832. Asa man, Crabbe was admired and loved by all who knew him. Lockhart, in describing his person, says "his noble forehead, his bright beaming eye — without any thing of old age about it, though he was then above seventy — his sweet and innocent smile, and the calm, mellow tones of his voice, all are repro- duced the moment I open any page of his poet- ry." A perfect edition of his poetical writings, with a graceful and sensible memoir by his son, has been issued by Murray, since his death. The lovers of homely truth may appeal to Crabbe in proof that its sternest utterance is dramatic. No poet has ventured to rely more entirely on fact. He paints without delicacy, but his touches are so very literal as to be striking and effective. The poor have found in him their ablest annalist. The most gloomy phases of life are described in his tales with an integrity that has rendered them almost as imposing as a traged}^ The interest awaken- ed by his pictures is often fearful, merely from their appalling truth and touching mi- nuteness. He was a mann'rist, and some of the features of his mannerism — his monoto- nous versification, and minute portraitures of worthless characters, with their rude jests and familiar moralizing — are unpleasing; but his powerful and graphic delineations of humble life, his occasional touches of deepest tender- ness, and the profoundness of his wisdom, mark not less strongly than these blemishes, all that he wrote, and will keep green his reputation while the world we live in is the scene of sin and sufferinsr. STANZAS. Let nie not have this gloomy view About my room, around my bed ; But morning roses, wet with dew, To cool my burning brows instead. As flowers that once in Eden grew, Let them their fragrant spirits shed ; And every day the sweets renew. Till I, i;i fading flower, am dead. 3 Oh ! let the herbs I loved to rear Give to my sense their perfumed breath : Let them be placed about my bier, And grace the gloomy house of death. I'll have my grave beneath a hill, Where only Lucy's self shall know ; Where runs the pure pellucid rill Upon its gravelly bed below : There violets on the borders blow, And insects their soft light disj)lay, — B 2 17 IS GEORGE CRABBE. Till, as the mnrniriff sunbeams glow, Tlic colli pliiisiihoric fires decay. That is the grave to Lucy shown, — 'I'hc soil a i)ure and silver sand, The green, cold moss above it grown, Unpluck'd of all but maiden hand : In virgin earth, till then untiini'd, There let my maiden form lie laid, Nor let my changed clay be spurn'd. Nor for new guest that bed be made. There will the lark,— the lamb, in sport, In air, — on earth, — securely play, And Lucy to my grave resort. As innocent, — but not so gay. I will not have the churchyard ground, With bones all black and ugly grown, To press my shivering body round. Or on my wasted limbs be thrown. With ribs and skulls I will not sleep, In clammy beds of cold blue clay. Through which the ringed earth-worms creep; And on the shrouded bosom prey; I will not have the bell proclaim Wiien those sad marriage rites begin, — Ar.d iioys, without regard or shame, Press the vile mouldering masses in. Say not, it is beneath my care ; I cannot these cold truths allow : — These thoughts may not afllict me there, But, oh ! they vex and tease me now. Raise not a turf, nor set a stone. That man a maiden's grave may trace ; But thou, my Lucy, come alone. And let ailection find the place. Oh ! take me from a world I hate, — Men cruel, selfish, sensual, cold : And, in some pure and blessed state. Let me my sister minds behold : From gross and sordid views refined. Our heaven of spotless love to share, — For only generous souls design'd, And not a man to meet us there. RECONCILIATION. My Damon was the first to wake The gentle flame that cannot die ; My Damon is the last to take The faithful bosom's softest sigh : The life between is nothing worth, Oh ! cast it from my thought away ; Think of the day that gave it birth. And this, its sweet returning day. Buried be all that has been done. Or say that naught is done amiss; For who the dangerous path can shun In such bewildering world as this? But love can every fault forgive. Or with a tender look reprove; ,\nd now let naught in memory live. But that we meet, and that we love. WOMAN. Place the white man on Afric's coast. Whose swarthy sons in blood delight, Who of their scorn to Europe boast. And paint their very demons white: There, while the sterner sex disdains To soothe the woes they cannot feel. Woman will strive to heal his pains. And weep for those she cannot heal. Hers is warm jiity's sacred glow, — From all her stores she bears a part; And bids the spring of hope rcflow, That languish'd in the fainting heart. " What though so pale his haggard face, So sunk and sad his looks," — she cries: " And far unlike our nobler race. With crisped locks and rolling eyes; Yet misery marks him of our kind, — We see him lost, alone, afraid ! And pangs of body, griefs in mind, Pronounce him man, and ask our aid. " Perhaps in some far distant shore There are who in these forms delight : Whose milky features please them more Than ours of jet, thus burnish'd bright ; Of such may be his weeping wife. Such children for their sire may call; And if we spare his ebbing life. Our kindness may preserve them all." Thus her compassion woman shows; Beneath the line her acts are these ; Nor the wide waste of La])Iand snows Can her warm flow of pity freeze ; — " From some sad land the stranger comes. Where joys like ours are never found ; Let 's soothe him in our happy homes. Where freedom sits, with plenty crown'd. "'Tis good the fainting soul to cheer, To see the famish'd stranger fed ; To milk for him the mother-deer. To smooth for him the furry bed. The powers above our Lapland bless With good no other people know ; T' enlarge the joys that we possess, By feeling those that we bestow !" Thus, in extremes of cold and heat, Where wandering man may trace his kind ; Wherever grief and want retreat. In woman they compassion find : She makes the female breast her seat. And dictates mercy to the mind. Man may the sterner virtues know, Deterinined justice, truth severe; But female hearts w'ith pity glow. And woman holds aflliction dear: For guiltless woes her sorrows flow, And suffering vice compels her tear, — 'Tis hers to soothe the ills below. And bid life's fairer views appear. To woman's gentle kind we owe What comforts and delights us here, They its gay hopes on youth bestow. And care they soothe — and age they c!\eer. GEORGE CRABBE. 19 THE WRETCHED MIND. Th' unhappy man was found, Tlic spirit settled, but the reason drown'd ; And all the dreadful tempest died away, 'I'o the dull stillness of the misty day ! And now his freedom he attain'd — if free The lost to reason, truth, and hope, can be ; 'J'hc playful children of the place he meets; I'layful with them he rambles through the streets; In all they need, his stronger arm he lends, And his lost mind to these approving friends. That gentle maid, whom once the youth had Is now with mild religious pity moved ; [loved, Kindly she chides his boyish flights, while he Will for a moment fix'd and pensive be ; And as she trembling speaks, his lively eyes Exjjlore her looks, he listen^ to her sighs; [vade Charm'd by her voice, the harmonious sounds in- His clouded mind, and for a time persuade : Like a pleased infant, who has newly caught. From the maternal glance, a gleam of thought ; He stands enrapt, the half-known voice to hear, And starts, half-conscious, at the falling tear! Rarelv from town, nor then unwatch'd, he goes. In darker mood, as if to hide his woes ; But, soon returning, with imjiatience seeks [speaks; His youthful friends, and shouts, and sings, and Speaks a wild speech, with action all as wild — The children's leader, and himself a child ; He spins their top, or, at their bidding, bends His hack, while o'er it leap his laughing friends; Simple and weak, he acts the boy once more, .\nd heedless children call him Silly Shore. THE DREAM OF THE CONDE.MNED. When first I came Within his view, I fancied there was shame, I judged resentment ; I mistook the air — Tliese fainter passions live not with despair ; (Jr but exist and die : — Hope, fear, and love, .Toy, doubt, and hate, may other spirits move, But touch not his, who every waking hour Has one fi.x'd dread, and always feels its power. He takes his tasteless food; and, when 'tis done, Counts up his meals, now lessen'd by that one ; For expectation is on time intent, ^V^hethcr he brings us joy or punishment. Yes : e"en in sleep th' impressions all remain ; lie hears the sentence, and he feels the chain; He seciu- the place for that sad act to see. And dr;.';i!ns the very thirst which then will be! A priest attends — it seems the one he knew In his best days, beneath whose care he grew. At this his terrors take a sudden flight — He sees his native village with delight; The house, the chamber, where he once array'd His youthful person ; where he knelt and pray'd : i'hen too the comforts he enjoy'd at home. The days of joy ; the joys themselves are come ; — The hours of innocence; the timid look Of his loved maid, when first her hand he took And told his hope ; her trembling joy appears. Her forced reserve, and his retreating fears. " Yes ! all are with him now, antl all the while Life's early prospects and his Fanny smile : Then come his sister and his village friend. And he will now the sweetest moments spend Life has to yield : — No ! never will he find Again on earth such pleasure in his mind. He goes through shrubby walks these friends among, Love in their looks and pleasure on their tongue. Pierced by no crime, and urged by no desire For more than true and honest hearts require, They feel the calm delight, and thus proceed Through the green lane, — then lingerinthe mead, — Stray o'er the heath in all its purple bloom. And pluck the blossom where the wild bees hum ; Then through the broomy bound with ease they pass, And press the sandy sheep-walk's slender grass, Where dwarfish flowers among the gorsc are spread. And Ihe lamb browses bi/ the l.'nnefs bed .' [way Then 'cross the bounding brook they make their O'er its rough bridge — and there behold the bay ' — The ocean smiling to the fervid sun — The waves that fiintly foil and slowly run — The shi])s at distance, and the boats at hand : And now they walk upon the sea-side sand. Counting the number, and what kind they be, Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea: Now arm in arm, now parted, they behold The glittering waters on the shingles roll'd : The timid girls, half-dreading their design, Dip the small foot in the retarded brine, [flow. And search for crimson weeds, which spreading Or lie like pictures on the sand below ; With all those bright red pebbles, that the sun Through the small waves so softly shines upon ; And those live-lucid jellies which the eye Delights to trace as they swim glittering by : Pearl-shells and rubied star-fish they admire, And will arrange above the parlour fire — Tokens of bliss!'' A SEA FOG. Wni;v all you see through densest fogr is seen ; When you can hear the fishers near at hand Distinctly speak, yet see not where they stand ; Or sometimes them and not their boat discern, ■ Or, half-conceal'd, some figure at the stern ; Boys who, on shore, to sea the pebble cast. Will hear it strike against the viewless mast; While thestern boatman growls his fierce disdain. At whom he knows not, whom he threats in vain, 'T is pleasant then to view the nets float past, Net after net, till you have seen the last; And as you wait till all beyond you slip, A boat comes gliding from an anchor'd ship, Breaking the silence vi'ith the dipping oar. And their own tones, as labouring for the shore ; Those measured tones with which the scene agree, And give a sadness to serenity. 20 GEORGE CKABBE. THE SL'DDEN DEATH AND FUNERAL. TiiKN- Jicd liimcntpil, ill the strength of life, A vjilucJ motlier and a faithful wife, CallM not away, when time had loosed cacti hold t)n the fond heart, and each desire grew cold; But when, to all that knit us to our kind, 8he felt fast hound as charity can hind ; — Not when the ills of age, its pain, its care, The droopin;;- spirit for its fate prepare ; And, each alli-ction failing, leaves the heart Loosed from life's charm, and willin;^ to depart; — But all her ties the slrons^ invader hroke. In all their strenirth, hy one tremendous stroke ! Sudden and swift the eager pest came on. And terror grew, till every hope was gone: Still tiiose around appeared for hoi)e to seek ! But view'd the sick, and were afraid to speak. — Slowly tliey hore, with solemn step, the dead. When grief g-ew loud and hitter tears were shed : My part began ; a crowd drew near the place. Awe in each eye, alarm in every face; So swift the ill, and of so fierce a kind. That fear with pity mingled in each mind ; Friends with the iuishaiid came theirgriefs to blend ; For good-man Fraiikford was to all a friend. The last-l)orn boy they held above the bier, He knew not grief, liut cries exprcss'd his fear; Each dilfercnt age and sex reveal'd its pain, fn now a louder, now a lower strain ; While the meek father, listening to their tones, Swell'd tiie full cadence of the grief by groans. 'J'hc elder sister strove her pangs to hide. And soothing words to younger minds applied: " Be still, be patient," oft she strove to say ; But fail'd as oft, and weeping turn'd away. ("urious and sad, upon the fresh-dug hill, The village lads stood melancholy still ; And idle children, wandering to and fro. As nature guided, took the tone of wo. THE DEATH OF RUTH.* SiiK left her infant on the Sunday morn, A creature dooni'd to shame ! in sorrow horn. She came not home to share our humble meal, — Her father thinking what his child would feel From his hard sentence! — Si ill she came not home, The night grew dark, and yet she was not come ! The east-wind roar'd, the sea return'd the sound, And the rain fell as if the world were drown'd : Tiiere were no lights without, and my .good man. To kindness frighten'd, with a groan began 'J'o talk of Ruth, and pray ! and then he took The Bible down, and read the holy book : * Riilh is hiJtrollic(l— soiiielhina iimre lliitn liclrdllunl — to a J oiniK s.'iilor, wlio, mi ilie cvo of marriage, is i arried rel(Mitle?sly off by a press-pan?, and afterward slain in l>:itlle. A ranlinp, hypocritical weaveraflerward becomes a suitor (if the widowed l)ride, and ber father urges her witli severity to wed the missioned suiter. Tlie above e.vtract is from the conclusion of the story, in the "Tales of the Hall." The heroine has promised to give her answer on Sniidaij. For he had learning : and when that was done, We sat in silence — whither could we run ! We said and then rush'd frighten'd from the door, For we could bear our own conceit no more : We call'd on neighbours — there she had not been ; We met some wanderers — ours they had not seen : We iiurried o'er the beach, both north and south, Then join'd, and wander'd to our haven's mouth : Where rush'd the falling waters wildly out, I scarcely heard the good man's fearful shout, Who .saw a something on the billow ride. And — Heaven have mercy on our sins! he cried, It is my child ! — and to the present hour So he l)elieves — and spirits have the povv-er ! And she was gone! the waters wide and deep Roll'd o'er her body as she lay asleep ! She heard no more the angry waves and wind, She heard no more the threatening of mankind ; Wrapt in dark weeds, the refuse of the storm, To the hard rock was borne her comely form ! Butoh ! what storm wasin that mind ! whatstrife, That could compel her to lay down her life ! For she was seen within the sea to wade. By one at distance, when she first had pray'd; Then to a rock within the hither shoal. Softly, and with a fearful step,. she stole; Then, when she gaiii'd it, on the top she stood A moment still — and dr^nt into the flood ! The man cried loudly, but he cried in vain, — She heard not then — she never heard again ! A GROUP OF GIPSIES. A WIDE And sandy road has banks on either side ; Where, lo ! a hollow on the left appear'd. And there a gipsy tribe their tent had rear'd ; 'Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun, And they had now their early meal begun, When two brown boys just left their grassy scat. The early traveller with their prayers to greet: 'While yet Orlando held his pence in hand, He saw their sister on her duty stand ; Some twelve years old, demure, afl'ectcd, sly, Prepared the force of early powers to try : Sudden a look of languor he descries, And well-feign'd apprehension in her eyes ; Train'd, but yet savage, in her speaking face, He mark'd the features of her vagrant race ; When a light laugh and roguish leer cxpress'd The vice implanted in her youthful breast! Within, the lather, who from fences nigh Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply, [by : Watch'd now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected On ragged rug, just borrow'd from the bed. And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed, In dirty patchwork negligently dress'd, Reclined the wife, an infant at her breast ; In her wild face some touch of grace remain'd, Of vigour palsied and of beauty stain'd ; Her blood-shot eyes on her unheeding mate Were wrathful turn'd, and seem'd her wants to state, GEORGE CRABBE. 21 Cursing' his tardy aid — her mother there With gipsy-.state engross'd the only chiiir ; Solemn and dull her look : with such she stands, And reads the milk-maid's fortune, in her hands Tracing the lines of" life ; assumed through years, F,.\rh leaturc now the steady falsehood wears ; With hard and savage eye she views the food, And grudging pinches their intruding hrood ! Last in the group, the worn-out grandsire sits, Neglected, lost, and living hut hy fits ; Useless, despised, his worthless labours done, And half-protected by the vicious son, Who half-supports him ! He, with heavy glance. Views the young ruffians who around him dance; And. by the sadness in his i'acc, appears To trace the progress of their future years; [ceit. Through what strange course of misery, vice, de- .Must wildly wander each iniijractised cheat ; What shame and grief, what punishment and pain. Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain — Ere they like him ap[>roach their latter end. Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend I THE POOR-HOUSE. Youii plan I love not: — with a number you Have placed your poor, your pitiable few ; There, in one house, for all their lives to be, 'J'he pauper-palace which they hate to see I That giant building, that high bounding wall, Tho.se bare-worn walks, that lofty thundering hall ! That large, loud clock, which tolls each dreaded liour. Those gates and locks, and all those signs of j)ower: It is a prison with a milder name. Which few inhabit without dread or shame. — Alas! their sorrows in their bosoms dwell ; They've much to suffi'r, but have naught to tell: 'J'hey have no evil in the place to state. And dare not say, it is the house they hate : They own there's granted all such place can give, But live repining, — for 'tis there tliey live! Grandsires are there, who now no more must see, No more must nurse upon the trembling knee, The lost, loved daughter's inliiut progeny I Like death's dread mansion, this allows not place For joyful meetings of a kindred race. Is not the matron there, to whom the son Was wont at each declining day to run ; He fwhen his toil was over) gave delight, By lifting up the latch, and one " Good night V Yes she is here; but nightly to her door The sou, still labouring, can return no more. Widows are here, who in their huts were left, Of husbands, children, plenty, ease, bereft; Yet all that grief within the humble shed Was soften'd, soften'd in the humble bed : But here, ii; all its force, remains the grief. And not one softening object for relief. Who can, when here, the social neighbour meet '! Who learn the story current in the street 1 Who to the long-known intimate impart Facts they have Icarn'd, or feelings of the heart ?-^ They talk, indeed ; but who can choose a friend, Or seek companions, at their journey's end 1 — What if no grievous fears their lives annoy. Is it not worse, no prospects to enjoy ] 'Tis cheerless living in such bounded view, With nothing dreadful, but with nothing new; Nothing to bring them joy, to make them weep — The day itself is, like the night, asleep ; Or on the sameness if a break be made, 'Tis by some pauper to his grave convey 'd; By smuggled news from neighbouring village told. News never true, or truth a twelvemonth old ! By some new inmate doom'd with them to dwell, Or justice come to see that all goes well; Or change of room, or hour of leave to crawl On the black footway winding with the wall. Till the stern bell forbids, or master's sterner call. Here the good pauper, losing all the praise By worthy deeds ac(]uired in better days, Breathes a few months; then, to his chamber led. Expires — while strangers jirattle round his bed. NEWSPAPERS. Now be their arts di-splay 'd, how first they choose A cause and party, as the hard his muse ; Insi)ired by these, with clamorous zeal they cry. And through the town their dreams and omens lly : So the sibylline leaves were blown about. Disjointed scraps of fate involved in doubt; So idle dreams, the journals of the night. Are right and wrong by turns, and mingle wrong with right. Some, champions for the rights that prop the crown, Some, sturdy patriots, sworn to pull them down ; Some, neutral powers, with secret forces fraught, Wishing for war, but willing to be bought: While some to every side and party go. Shift every friend, and join with every foe; Like sturdy rogues in privateers, they strike This side and that, the foes of both alike ; A traitor-crew, who thrive in troubled times, Fear'd for their force, and courted for their crimes. Chief to the prosperous side the numbers sail. Fickle and false, they veer with every gale ; As birds that migrate from a freezing shore, In search of warmer climes, come skinuning o'er. Some bold adventurers first prepare to try The doubtful sunshine of the distant sky ; But soon the growing summer's certain sun Wins more and more, till all at last are won : So, on the early prospect of disgrace. Fly in vast troops this apprehensive race ; Instinctive tribes ! their failing food they dread, And buy, with timely change, their future bn-ad. Such arc our guides : how many a peaceful hf ad, Born to be still, have they to wrangling led ! How many an honest zealot stolen from trade, And factious tools of pious pastors made ! With clews like these they tread the maze of state, These oracles explore, to learn our fate; Pleased with the guides who can so well deceive. Who cannot lie so fast as they believe. W I L L I A M S O T H E B Y. (Bnni 1757-Die(l ISXi). Mil. 80THEUV was Ijorn in London in the autumn of 1757. He was educated at Har- row, and on enterinfr his eighteenth year he IoIIowimI ilic example of bis father, a colonel in the (Jiiards, by purchasing a commission ill the Tenth Dragoons. In 1780 he qviitted tlie army, and bought a beautiful seat near Southampton, where for a considerable period he devoted his time to the study of the classics and the cultivation of poetry. On removing to Fjondon in ll'JS he was elected a member of the Hoyal Society, and soon after published his translation of VVieland's Oberon. In 181G he visited the Continent, and while abroad ROME. I SAW the a<^ps backward roH'd, TliP scpnes long past restore : Scenes that Evandcr bade his guest behold, When first the Trojan stcpt on Tiber's shore — Tlie she[ihcrds in the furuin pen their fold ; And the wild herdsman, on his untamed steed, Goads with prone spear the heifer's foaming speed, Where Rome, in second infijncy. once more Sleeps in her cradle. But — in that drear waste, In that rude desert, when the wild goat sprung From clilfto clift", and the Tarpeian rock Lour'd o'er the untended flock, And eagles on its crest their aerie hung: And when fierce gales how'd the hiiih pines, when blazed The lightning, and the savage in the storm Some unknown godhead heard, and awe-struck, gazed (In .love's imagined form: — .Vnd in that desert, when swoln Tiber's wave Went forth the twins to save. Their reedy cradle floating on his flood : While yet the infants on tlie she-wolf clung. While yet they fearless play'd her brow beneath, And mingled whh their food The sjiirit of her blood. As o'er them seen to breathe With fond reverted neck she hung. And lick'd in turn each babe, and form'd with fos- tering tongue : And when the founder of imperial Rome Fix'd on the robber bill, from earth aloof, His predatory home. And hung in triumph round his straw-thatch'd roof The wolf skin, and huge boar tusks, and the pride Of branching antlers wide: And tower'(^ in giant strength, and sent ufar His voice, that on the mountain echoes roll'd, Stern preluding the war: wrote the series of poems subse(|uently put)- lished under the general title of Italy, which is the best of his numerous productions. The last of his works was a translation of Homer, commenced after he had entered upon his seventieth year. He died in London on the thirtieth of December, 1833. Mr. SoTHEBV was a man of rare scholar- ship, deeply imbued with the spirit of classi- cal literature, and bis numerous writings, consisting of translations from the Greek, Latin, and German, and original English poems, ill deserve the neglect to which they have recently been consigned. And when the shepherds left their peaceful fold, .And from the wild wood lair, and rocky den. Round their bold chieftain rush'd strange forms of barbarous men : Then might be seen by the presageful eye The vision of a rising realm unfold, And temples roof'd with gold. And in the gloom of that remorseless time. When Rome the Sabine seized, might be foreseen In the first triumph of successful crime, The shadovyy arm of one of giant birth Forging a chain for earth : And though slow ages roll'd their course between, The form as of a Ctesar, when he led His war-worn legions on, Troubling the pastoral stream of peaceful Rubicon. Such might o'er clay-built Rome have been foretold By ward of liunian wisdom. But — what word, Save from thy lip, Jehovah's prophet! heard, When Rome was marble, and her temples gold. And the globe Ca-sar's footstool, who. when Rome Yipvv'd the incommunicalile name divine , Link a Faustina to an Antonine On their polluted temple ; who but thou, The prophet of the Lord ! what word, save thine, Rome's utter desolation had denounced 1 Yet, ere that destined time. The love-lute, and the viol, song, and mirth. Ring from her palace roofs. Hear'st thou not yet, Metropolis of earth ! \ voice borne back on everj' passing wind, Wherever man has birth. One voice, as from the lip of human kind', The echo of thy fame? — Flow they not yet, .As flow'd of yore, down each successive age The chosen of the world, on pilgrimage, To commune with thy wrecks, and works siil lime, Where genius dwells enthroned? Rome! thou artdooin'd to )>erish, and Ihy days, lyike mortal man's, are number'd : number'd all, Ere each fleet hour decays. WILLIAM SOTHEBY. 23 Though pritlc yet haunt thy palaces, though art Thy sculptured marliles animate; [gate; Thoua^li thousands and ten thousands throng thy Though kings and iiingdonis with thy idol mart Yet traffic, and thy throned priest adore : Tliy second reign shall pass, — pass like thy reign of yore. TIVOLT. SpriiiT ! who lovest to live unseen, By brook or pathless dell. Where wild woods hurst the rocks between, And floods, in streams of silver sheen, Gush from their flinty cell ! Or where the ivy waves her woof, And climbs the crag alone. Haunts the cool grotto, daylight proof, Where loitering drops that wear the roof Turn all beneath to stone. Shield me from summer's blaze of day, From noon-tide's fiery gale. And, as thy waters round me play. Beneath the o'ershadowing cavern lay, Till twilight spreads her veil. Then guide me where the wandering moon Kests on Maecenas' wall. And echoes at night's solemn noon In Tivoli's soft shades attune The peaceful waterfall. Again they float before my sight 'I'he bower, the flood, the glade ; Again on yon romantic height The Sybil's temple towers in light, Above the dark cascade. Down the steep cliff I wind my way Along the dim retreat, And, 'mid the torrents' deafening bray Dash from my brow the foam away. Where clashing cataracts meet. And now I leave the rocks below, And issuing forth from night. View on the flakes that sunward flow, A thousand rainbows round me glow, And arch my way with light. Again the myrtles o'er me breathe. Fresh flowers my path perfume. Round cliff and cave wild tendrils wreathe. And from the groves that bend beneath Low trail their purple bloom. Thou grove, tliou glade of Tivoli, Dark flood, and rivulet clear. That wind, where'er you wander by, A stream of beauty on the eye. Of music on the ear : — And thou, that, when the wandering iioon Illumed the rocky dell. Didst to my charmed ear attune The echoes of night's solemn noon — Spirit unseen! farewell! Farewell ! — o'er many a realm I go, My natal isle to greet, Where summer sutibeams mildly glow, And sea-winds health and freshness blow O'er freedom's hallow'd seat. Yet there, to thy romantic spot Shall fancy oft retire, ' And hail the bower, the stream, the grot. Where earth's sole lord the world forgot. And Horace smote the lyre. THE GROTTO OF EGERIA. Can- I forget that beauteous day. When, shelter'd from the burning beam, First in thy haunted grot I lay. And loosed my spirit to its dream, Beneath the broken arch, o'erlaid With ivy, dark with many a braid. That clasp'd its tendrils to retain The stone its roots had writhed in twain? No zephyr on the leaflet play'd. No bent grass bow'd its slender blade. The coiled snake lay slumber-bound ; All mute, all motionless around. Save, livelier, while others slept. The lizard on the sunbeam leapt; And louder, while the groves were still. The unseen cigali, sharp and shrill. As if their chirp could charm alone Tired noontide with its unison. Stranger ! that roam'st itj solitude ! Thou, too, 'mid tangling i)ushes rude. Seek in the glen, yon heights between, A rill more pvire than Hippocrene, That from a sacred fountain fed The stream that till'd its marble bed. Its marble bed long since is gone. And the stray water struggles on. Brawling througli weeds and stones its way There, when o'erpower'd at blaze of day, Nature languishes in light. Pass within the gloom of night, V^'here the cool grot's dark arch o'crshades Thy temples, and the waving braids Of many a fragment brier that weaves Its blossom through the ivy leaves. Thou, too, beneath that rocky roof, Where the moss mats its thickest woof, Shalt hear the gather'd ice-drops fail Regular, at interval, Drop after drop, one after one, Making music on the stone, While every drop, in slow decay, Wears the recumbent nymph away. Thou, too, if e'er thy youthful ear Thrill'd the Latian lay to hear, LuU'd to slumber in that cave, Shalt hail the nymph that held the wave ; A goddess, who there deigned to meet A mortal from Rome's regal seat. And, o'er the gushing of her fount. Mysterious truths divine to earthly ear recount. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. (Born 1762-Diod 1850). Wii,ma:\i Lisle Howles was born at King's SiiUon in Norlhampsliiro, a village of which his father was vicar, in .September, 1762. He took his degree of Master of Arts in 1792 at Trinity College, Oxford, where he obtained the chancellor's prize for a Latin poem on the .Siege of Gibraltar. He soon after entered into holy orders, and was appointed to a curacy in Wiltshire, from which he was promoted to the living of Dumbledon in Gloucestershire, and finally, in 1803, to a prebend in Salisbury Cathedral. Ili.s residence was changed to the rectory of Bn-niliill, Wilts, where for many years he performed the duties of his office will) industrious zeal, and was much loved and respected for his piety, amenity, and genius. The first publication of Mr. Bowlcs, was a collection of .Sonnets, printed in 1789. They were well received, and Coleridge speaks of himself as having been withdrawn from peril- ous errors by the " genial influence of a style of poetry so tender and yet so manly, so natural and real, and yet so dignified and whose sadness always soothed harmonious,' him — .,., ^ "likeihe niuriuiiritif; Of wild hfcs in tlie sunny showers of Spriii;;."' He subsequentl)"^ published " Verses to John Howard on his State of the Prisons and Lazarettos," "Hope," " Coombe Ellen,'' " St. Michael's Mount," "A Collection of Poems" in four volumes, " The Battle of the Nile," "The Sorrows of Switzerland," "The Mis- sionary," "The Grave of the Last .Saxon," "The S])irit of Discovery by Sea," (the longest and best of his works,) "The Little Villager's Verse Book," and "Scenes and Shadows of Days Departed," which appeared in 1837. He was at one time better known as a critic than as a poet, from his cele- brated controversy with Byron, and others, on the writings of Pope and the " invariable principles" of poetry. The sonnets of Mr. Bowles are doubtless superior to his other productions, but even the}^ were never generally popular. He is always elegant and chaste, and sometimes tender, but has little imasfination or earnestness. DISCOVERY OF MADEIRA. Shk left The Severn's side, and fled with hirn she loved O'lT the wide main; for he had told her tales Of iiappincss in distant lands, where care Comes not, and pointhig to the golden clouds 'I'liat slionc above the vv'aves, when evening came, Whisper'd, "Oh! are there not sweet scenes of peace, Far from the murmurs of this cloudy mart. Where gold alone bears sway, .scenes of delight, MMiere Love may lay his head upon the lap or Innocence, and smile at all the toil (IF the low-thoughted throng, that place in wealth Their only bliss ? Yes, there arc scenes like these. Leave the vain chidings of the world behind, Country, and hollow friends, and fly with me Where love and peace in distant vales invite. What wouldst thou here 1 Oh shall thy beauteous look Of maiden innocence, thy smile of youth, thine eyes Of tenderness and soft subdued desire, 'i'liy form, thy limbs — oh, madness! — be the prey Of a decrepit spoiler, and for gold? — 2J Peri.sh his treasure with him ! Haste with me, We shall find out some sylvan nook, and then If thou shouldst sometimes think upon these liills, When they are distant tar, and drop a tear, Ye.s — I will kiss it from thy cheek, and clasp Thy angel beauties closer to my breast; And while the winds blow o'er us, and the sun Goes beautifully down, and thy soft cheek Reclines on mine, I will enfold thee thus, And proudly cry. My friend — my love — my wife !" So tempted he, and soon her heart approved, Nay woo'd, the blissfid dream ; and oft at eve, When the moon shone upon the wandering stream, She paced the castle's battlements, that threw Beneath their solemn shadow, and resign'd To fancy and to tears, thought it most sweet To wander o'er the world with him she loved. Nor was his birth ignoble, for he shone Mid England's gallant youth in Edward's reign — With countenance erect, and honest eye Commanding, (yet suffused in tenderness At times,) and smiles that like the lightning play'd On his brown cheek, — so nobly stern he stood, — Accomplish'd, generous, gentle, brave, sincere, WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 25 Robert a Machiii. But the sullen pride Of haughty D'Artet sconi'd all other claim To his high heritage, save what the pomp Of amplest, wealth and loftier lineage gave. Reckless of human tenderness, that seeks One loved, one honour'd object, wealth alone He worshipp'd ; and for this he could consign His only child, his aged hope, to loathed Embraces, and a life of tears ! Nor here His hard ami>ition ended : for he sought By secret whispers of conspiracies His sovereign to abuse, bidding him lift His arm avenging, and upon a youth Of promise close the dark forgotten gates Of living sepulture, and in the gloom Inhume the slowly-wasting victim. — So He purposed, but in vain : the ardent youth Rescued her — her whom more t'nn life he loved, E'en when the horrid day of s.Tcrlfice Drew nigh. He pointed to the distant bark, And while he kiss'd a stealing tear that fell On her pale cheek, as trusting she reclined Her head upon his breast, with ardour cried, " 13e mine, be only mine ; the hour invites ; Be mine, be only mine." So won, she cast A look of List affection on the towers Where she had pass'd her inlant days, that now Shone to the setting sun — " I follow thee," Her faint voice said ; and lo ! where in the air A sail hangs tremulous, and soon her steps Ascend the vessel's side: The vessel glides Down the sm5:)th current, as the twilight fades, Till soon the woods of Severn, and the spot Where D'Arfet's solitary turrets rose. Are lost — a tear starts to her eye — she thinks Of him whose gray head to the earth shall bend, When he speaks nothing : — but be all, like death, Forgotten. Gently blows the placid breeze, And oh ! that now some fairy pinnance light Might flit along the wave, (by no seen power Directed, save when Love, a blooming boy, CJather'd or spread with tiMider hand the sail,) '("hat now some fairy pinnance, o'er the surge Silent, as in a summer's dream, might waft The passengers upon the conscious flood To scenes of undisturbed joy. 13 ut hark ! The wind is in the shrouds — the cordage sings With fitful violence — the blast now swells, Now sinks. Dread gloom invests tlie farther wave, Whose foaming toss alone is seen, beneath The veering bowsprit. retire to rest, [cheek Maiden, whose tender heart would beat, whose 'l\irn pale to see another thus exposed : — Hark ! the deep thunder louder peals — Oh save — The high mast crashes; but the faithful arm Of love is o'er thee, and thy anxious eye, '■^oon as the gray of morning peeps, shall view (Jreen Erin's hills aspiring! The sad morn C'omes forth : but Terror on the sunless wave Still, like a sea-fiend, sits, and darkly smiles Betioath the flash that through the struggling clouds 4 Bursts frequent, half-revealing his scathed front, Above the rocking of the waste that rolls Boundless around : — . No word through the long day She spoke : — Another slowly came : — No word The beauteous drooping mourner spoke. Tlic sun Twelve times had sunk beneath the sullen surge, And cheerless rose again: — Ah, where are now Thy havens, France ? But yet — resign not yet — Ye lost sea-farers — oh, resign not yet All hope — the storm is pass'd ; the drenched sail Shines in the passing beam I Look up, and say, "Heaven, thou hast heard our j)rayers I" And lo ! scarce seen, A distant dusky spot appears ; — they reach An unknown shore, and green and flowery vales, And azure hills, and silver-gushing streams, Shine forth, a Paradise, which Heaven alone, Who saw the silent anguish of despair, Could raise in the waste wilderness of waves. — They gain the haven — through untrodden scenes, Perhaps untrodden by the foot of man Since lirst the earth arose, they wind : The voice Of Nature hails them here with music, sweet, As waving woods retired, or falling streams, Can make ; most soothing to the weary heart, Doubly to those who, struggling with their fate, And wearied long with watchings and with grief, Sought but a place of safety. All things here Whisper repose and peace ; the very birds, That mid the golden fruitage glance their plumes, The songsters of the lonely valley, sing " Welcome from scenes of sorrow, live with us." — The wild wood opens, and a shady glen Appears, embower'd with mantling laurels high, That sloping shade the flowery valley's side ; A lucid stream, with gentle murmur, strays Beneath the umbrageous nmltitude of leaves, Till gaining, with soft lapse, the nether plain, It glances light along its yellow bed. The shaggy inmates of the forest lick The feet of their new guests, and gazing stand. — A beauteous tree upshoots amid the glade Its trembling top: and there upon the bank They rest them, while the heart o'erflows with joy. Now evening, breathing richer odours sweet, Came down : a softer sound the circling seas. The ancient woods resounded, while the dove, Her murmurs interposing, tenderness Awaked, yet more endearing, in the hearts Of those who, sever'd far from human kind. Woman and man, by vows sincere betrothed, Heard but the voice of Nature. The still moon Arose — they saw it not — cheek was to cheek Inclined, and unawares a stealing tear Witness'd how blissful was that hour, that seem'd Not of the hours that time could count. A kiss Stole on the listening silence ; never yet Here heard : they trembled, e'en as if the Power That made the world, that planted the first pair In Paradise, amid the garden walk'd, — This since the fairest garden that the vvorld Has witness'd, by the faliling sons of Greece Hesperian named, who feign'd the watchful guard Of the scaled Dragon, and the Golden Fruit. 26 WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. Such was this sylvan Paradise ; and here Tlie loveliest [):»ir, from a hard world remote, I 'poll e;ich otiier's neck reclined ; llieir hreath Alone was heard, when the dove ceased on high Her plaint ; and tenderly their faithful arms Enfolded each the other. Thou, dim cloud, That from the search of men, these beauteous vales Ill-it closed, oh douhly veil them! But, alas, H )w short the dream of human transport ! Here, III vain they built the leafy bower of love, Or cull'd the sweetest flowers and fairest fruit. The hours unheeded stole ; but ah ! not long — Ajjain tin? hollow tempest of the night [sound; Sounds through the leaves; the inmost woods re- Slow comes liie dawn, but neither ship nor sail Along the rocking of the windy waste Is seen : the dash of the dark-heaving wave Alone is heard. Start from your bed of bliss. Poor victims! never more shall ye behold, i'our native vales again ; and thou, sweet child ! Who. listening to the voice of love, has left Thy friends, thy country, — oh may the wan hue Of pining memory, the sunk cheek, the eye \\'iiere tenderness yet dwells, atone, (if love Atonement need, by cruelty and wrong Beset,) atone e'en now thy rash resolves. Ah, fruitless hope! Day after day thy bloom Fades, and tjie tender lustre of thy eye Is diinin'd ; thy form, amid creation, seems 'I'iic only drooping thing. Thy look was soft, And yet most animated, and thy step Light as the roe's upon the mountains. Now, 'i'bou sittest hopeless, pale, beneath the tree I'hat fann'd its joyous leaves above thy head, \Vhere love had ileck'd the blooming bower, and strew'd The sweets of summer: Death is on thy cheek, And thy chill hand the pressure scarce returns Of him, who, agonized and hopeless, hangs With tears and trembling o'er thee. Spare the sight, — She faints — she dies! — He laid her in the earth. Himself scarce living, and u])on her tomb. Beneath the beauteous tree where they reclined. Placed the last tribute of his earthly love. . . . He placed the rude inscription on her stone. Which he with faltering hands had graved, and soon Himself beside it sunk — yet ere he died, Faintly he spoke; " If ever ye shall hear, Companions of my few and evil davs. Again the convent's vesper bells, O think Of me I and if in after-times the search Of men should reach this far-removed spot, Ijct sad remembrance raise an humble shrine, And virgin choirs chant duly o'er our grave — Peace, peace." His arm u[)on the mournful stone He dropp'd — his eyes, ere yet in death they closed, Turn'd to the name till he could see no more — " AvvA." His fmle survivors, earth to earth. Weeping consign'd his poor remains, and placed Beneath the sod where all he lovi-d was laid: — Then shaping a rude vessel from the woods, They sought their country o'er the waves, and left The scenes again to deepest solitude. The beauteous Ponciana hung its head O'er the gray stone ; but never human eye Had mark'd the spot, or gazed upon the grave Of the unfortunate, but for the voice Of Enterprise, that spoke, from Sagre's tower, "Through ocean's, perils, storms, and unknown wastes. Speed we to Asia !" DREAMS OF YOUTH. Bktik.wf. me not of these delightful dreams Which charm'd my youth ; or mid her gay career Of hope, or when the faintly-paining tear Sat sad on memory's cheek ! though loftier tliemes Await the awaken'd mind, to the high prize Of wisdom hardly earn'd with toil and pain, Aspiring patient; yet on life's wide plain Cast friendless, where unheard some suHcrer cries Hourly, and oft our road is lone and long, 'T were not a crime, should we awhile delay Amid the sunny field ; and happier they. Who, as they wander, woo the charm of song To cheer their path, till they forget to weep ; And the tired sense is hush'd and sinks to sleep. TO TIME. TiMR, who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wounds, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest unpcrccived away : On thee I rest my only hopes at last ; And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear, That' flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, 1 may look back on many a sorrow y)ast, And greet life's peaceful evening with a smile. As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Sings in the sunshine of the transient shower, Forgetful, though its wings be wet the while. But ah ! what ills must that poor heart endure, Who hopes from thee, and thee alone a cure. RETROSPECTION. As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side. Much musing on the track of terror past, M'hen o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast, Pleased I look back, and view the traiKiuil tide That laves the pebbled shores ; and now the beam Of evening smiles on the grav battlement, And yon for.saken tower that time has rent : The lifted oar far off with silver glearn Is touch'd, and the hush'd billows seem to sleep. Sooth'd by the scene e'en thus on sorrow's breast A kindred stillness steals, and bids her rest; Whilst sad airs stilly sigh along the deep, Tiike melodies that mourn upon the lyre Waked by the breeze, and as they mourn, expire. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 27 FUNERAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST/ AT iVIGHT, IX ST. GEOKGE's CHAPEL, WKNDSOK. Till-: castle clock had toU'd midnight — With mattock and with spade, And silent, by the torches' light, His corse in earth we laid. 'I'he coffin bore his name, that those or other years might know. When earth its secret should disclose, Whose bones were laid below. " Peace to the dead" no children sung. Slow pacing up the nave; No prayers were read, no knell was rung. As deep we dug his grave. We only heard the winter's wind, In many a sullen gust. As o'er the open grave inclined. We murmur'd, " Dust to dust !" A moonbeam, from the arches' height, Stream'd, as we placed the stone ; The long aisles started into light, And all the windows shone. We thought we saw the banners then. That shook along the walls. While the sad shades of mailed men, Were gazing from the stalls. 'Tis gone ! again, on tombs defaced. Sits darkness more profound, And only, by the torch, we traced Our shadows on the ground. And now the chilly, freezing air. Without, blew long and loud ; Upon our knees we breathed one prayer Where he — slept in his shroud. We laid the broken marble floor — No niiiie, no trace appears — And wtten we closed the sounding door We thought of him with tears. REMEMBRANCE. I SHALL look back, when on the main, — Back to my native isle. And almost think I hear again Thy voice, and view thy smile. But many days may pass away Ere I again shall see Amid the young, the fair, the gay, — One who resembles thee. * In the riccoiint of the hiiiial nf the king in Windsor Caslle iiy Sir Tliom:>s Herbert, tlie spot wlierc the hndy was laid is desprih.Ml minutely, opposite the eleventh stall. The whole acnoniit is sinenl.irly impressive ; but it is extraordinary it should ever have been supposed that the place of interment was unknown, when this descrip- tion existed. At the late accidental disinterment, some of his hair was cut oil'. Soon after, the fidlowinu' lines were written, which I now set before the re.ader for the first time. Yet when the pensive thought shall dwell On some ideal maid. Whom fancy's pencil pictured well. And touch'd with softest shade : The imaged form I shall survey. And, pausing al the view. Recall thy gentle smile, and say, " Oh, such a maid I knew !" ON THE RHINE. 'T WAS morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow (Hung with the blu.shes of the bending vim;,) Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling Rhine We bounded, and the white waves round the prow In murmurs parted ; varying as we go, Lo ! the woods open and the rocks retire ; Some convent's ancient walls, or glistenii:g .^-pire Mid the bright landscape's tract, unfolding slov>'. Here dark with furrow'd aspect, like despair, Hangs the bleak clilf, there on the woodland's side The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; Whilst Hope, enchanted with a scene so fair, Would wish to linger many a summer's day, Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. WRITTEN AT OSTEND. How sweet the tuneful bells responsive peal ! As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, So piercing to my heart their force I feel ! And hark ! with lessening cadence now they full, And now along the white and level tide They fling their melancholy music wide. Bidding me many a tender thought recall Of summer days, and those delightful years. When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, The mournful magic of their mingling chime First waked my wondering childhood into tears ; But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, The sounds of joy, once heard and heard no more. MATILDA. If chance some pensive stranger hither led. His bosom glowing from romantic views, The gorgeous palace or proud landscape's hues. Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed ] 'T is poor Matilda ! — to the cloister'd scene A mourner beauteous, and unknown she came To shed her secret tears, and tpiench the flame Of hopeless love ! yet was her look serene As the pale moonlight in the midnigb.t aisle. Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could lend, I/ike that which spake of a departed friend : And a meek sadness sat upon her smile ! Ah, be the spot by passing pity blest, Where hush'd to long rejiose the wretched rest. SAMUEL ROGERS. (Born 17C3-Died 1853). 1\Ir. Rogers was born in London in 17G3. On the completion of his university education, lie resided a considerable period on the conti- nent, but nearly all his life has been passed in his native city, lie was a banker, and a man of liberal fortune ; and among those who knew him he was scarcely more distinguished as a poet than for the elegance and amenity of his manners, his knowledge of literature and the arts, and his brilliant conversation. In his youth lie was the companion of Wynd- HAM, Fox, and Sheridan, and in later years he has enjoyed the friendship of Byron, MooRE, SouTHEY, WoRDSwoRTH, and nearly all the great authors and other eminent persons who have been his contemporaries in England. Mr. Rogers commenced' his career as an author with an Ode to Superstition, which was written in his twenty-fifth year.- This was succeeded, in 1792, by The Pleasures of Memory, which was received with extra- ordinary favour by the critics. It had been kept the Horatian period, and revised and re- written until it could receive no further ad- vantage from labour, guided by the nicest taste and judgment. In 1778 he published An Epistle to a Friend and other Poems, in 1812 The Voyage of Columbus, in 1814 Jaqueline, in 1819 rVmian Life, and in 1822 the last, longest, and best of his productions, Italy. Lord Bacon describes poetry as " having something of divineness, because it doth raise and erect the mind, by submitting the shows of things to the desires of the mind; whereas reason doth buckle and bow the mind to the nature of things." This is perhaps the most philosophical description that has been given of true poetry. There have been some poets, as Crabbe and Elliott, whose verse has re- flected actual life ; but they only who have conformed "the shows of things to the desires of the mind," can look with much confidence for immortality. It is a long time since Rogers made his first appearance before the world as an author, yet his reputation has probably suffered less decay than that of any of his contemporaries. This is not because he pos- sesses the higher qualities of the poet in a ^8 more eminent degree than they, hut because he is more than any other the poet of taste, and is guided b}"^ the sense of beauty rather than by the convictions of reason. Poetry is in some sort an art, though Vida was forced to admit the inefficiency of all rules if the i)tge?iia were wanting. If a man be by nature a poet, he must still have much cultivation before he will be able to fulfil his mission. There has never yet been an "uneducated" verse-maker whose works were worth reading a second time. But mere education, or edu- cation joined with a philosophic mind and some degree of taste, cannot make a great poet, as one illustrious example in our times will show. Rogers has not much imagination, not much of the creative faculty, and he lacks sometimes energy and sometimes tenderness, yet he has taste and genuine simplicity : not the caricature of it for which the present lau- reate is distinguished, but such simplicity as CowpER had, and Burns. His subjects are all happily chosen ; and a true poet proves the possession of the divine faculty almost as much in the selection of his themes as in their treatment. His poetry is always pleasing; its freedom and harmon)', its refined sentiment, its purity, charm us before we are aware, and we involuntarily place it among our treasures. Though less read than The Pleasures of Memory, Italy is the best poem Mr. Rogers has produced. It was published anonymous- ly, and was so different from his previous works that its authorship was an enigma to the critics. The several cantos are descrip- tive of particular scenes and events which in- terest a traveller over the Alps and through the northern parts of Italy. Some of these cantos are remarkably spirited and beautiful, as one may see by the extracts in this volume, entitled Venice, Ginevra, and Don Garzia. The complete edition of the Poetical Works of Mr. Rogers is highly prized by the lovers of elegant books. It is in two volumes, which are profusely illustrated by the first artists of England, who have selected whatever is ])ic- turesque in his language. Art, for once, has laid a fitting tribute at the feet of Poetry. SAMUEL ROGERS, 29 AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. Whex, with a Reaumur'H skill, thy curious mind Has class'd the insect tribes of human kind, Each with its busy hum, or gilded wing, Its sul)tle web-work, or its venom'd sting; Let me, to claim a few unvalued hours, Point the green lane that leads thro' fern and flowers; The slielter'd gate that opens to my field. And the white front through mingling elmsreveal'd. In vain, alas, a village friend invites 'J"o sim])le comforts, and domestic rites, When the gay months of Carnival resume Their annual round of glitter and perfume; When London hails thee to its splendid mart, Its hives of sweets, and cabinets of art; And, lo ! majestic as thy manly song. Flows the full tide of human life along. Still must my partial pencil love to dwell On the home prospects of my hermit cell ; The mossy pales tliat skirt the orchard-green. Here hid by shrub-wood, there by glimpses seen ; And the brown pathway, that, with careless flow. Sinks, and is lost among the trees below. Still must it trace (the flattering tints forgive) Each fleeting charm that bids the landscape live. Oft o'er the mead, at pleasing distance, pass — Browsing the hedge by fits, the pannier'd ass; The idling shepherd-boy, with rude delight, Whistling his dog to mark the pebble's flight; x\n(l in her kerchief blue the cottage-maid. With hriinming pitcher from the shadowy glade. Far to the south a mountain vale retires. Rich in its groves, and glens, and village-spires ; Its upland lawns, and rlill's with foliage hung, Its wizard-stream, nor nameless nor unsung: And through the various year, the various day, What scenes of glory burst, and melt away ! When x\pril verdure springs in Grosvenor-square, And the furr'd beauty comes to winter there, She bids old Nature mar the plan no more; Yet still the seasons circle as before. Ah, still as soon the young .Aurora plays, Tho' moons and flambeaux trail their broadest blaze ; .As soou the skylark pours his matin song. Though evening lingers at the mask so long. There let her strike with momentary ray, As tapers shine their little lives away ; There let her practise from herself to steal, And look the happiness she does not feel ; The ready smile and bidden blush employ At Faro-routs, that dazzle to destroy ; Fan with aflected ease the essenced air, .And lisp of fashions with unmeaning stare. Be thine to meditate an humbler flight. When morning fills the fields with rosy light ; Be thine to blend, nor thine a vulgar aim, Repose with dignity, with quiet fame. Here no state-chambers in long line unfold. Bright with broad mirrors, rough with fretted gold ; Yet modest ornament, with use combined, Attracts the eye to exercise the mind. [quires, Small change of scene, small space his home re- Who leads a life of satisfied desires. What tho' no marble breathes, no canvas glows. From every point a ray of genius flows ! Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill, That stamps, renews, and multiplies at will ; And cheaply circulates, through distant climes. The fairest relics of the purest times. Here from the mould to conscious being start Those finer forms, the miracles of art; Here chosen gems, imprest on sulphur, shine, That slept for ages in a second mine ; And here the faithful graver dares to trace A Michael's grandeur, and a Raphael's grace ! Thy gallery, Florence, gilds my humble walls, And my low roof the Vatican recalls ! Soon as the morning dream my pillow flies. To waking sense what brighter visions rise ! Oh mark ! again the coursers of the sun. At Guido's call, their round of glory run ! .Again the rosy Hours resume their flight. Obscured and lost in floods of golden light ! But could thine erring friend so long forget (Sweet source of pensive joy and fond regret) That here its warmest hues the pencil flings, Lo ! here the lost restores, the absent brings ; And still the few best loved and most revered Rise round the board. their social smile endeai'd. Selected shelves shall claim thy studious hours ; There shall thy ranging mind be fed on flowers ! There, while the shaded lamp's mild lustre streams. Read ancient books, or dream inspiring dreams ; And, when a sage's bust arrests thee there. Pause, and his features with his thoughts compare. — .Ah, most that art my grateful rapture calls, Which breathes a soul into the silent walls; Which gathers round the wise of every tongue, All on whose words departed nations hung; Still prompt to charm with many a converse sweet ; Guides in the world, companions in retreat! Though my thatch'd bath no rich Mosaic knows, A limpid spring with unfelt current flows. Emblem of life ! which, still as we survey, Seems motionless, yet ever glides away ! The shadowy walls record, with attic art. The strength and beauty that its waves impart. Here Thetis, bending, with a mother's fears Dips her dear boy, whose pride restrains his tears. There, A^enus, rising, shrinks with sweet surprise. As her fair self, reflected, seems to rise ! Far from the joyless glare, the maddening strife, .And all " the dull impertinence of life," These eyelids open to the rising ray. And close, wdien Nature bids, at close of day. Here, at the dawn, the kindling landscape glows, There noonday levees call from faint repose. Here the flush'd wave flings back the parting light ; There glimmering lamps anticipate the night. When from his classic dreams the student steals. Amid the buzz of crowds, the whirl of wheels, To muse unnoticed — while around him press The meteor-forms of equipage and dress; Alone, in wonder lost, he seems to stand A very stranger in his native land ! And (though perchance of current coin possest, And modern phrase by living lips cxprest) Like those blest youths, forgive the fabling page, Whose blameless lives deceived a twilight age. 30 SAMUEL ROGERS. S|)iMit in sweet slumbers; till the miner's spaJe Unclosed the cavern, and the morning plav'd. Ah, what tlieir strange surprise, their wild delight ! New arts of life, new manners meet their sight ! In a new world they wake, as from the dead ; Vet douht the trance dissolved, the vision fled ! O cuMie, and, rich in intellectual wealth. Blend thought with exercise, with knowledge health! liong, in this shelter'd scene of letter'd talk. With sober stej) repeat the pensive walk ; .\or scorn, when graver trillings fail to please, Tiie chea|) amusements of a mind at ease ; Here every care in sweet oblivion cast. And many an idle hour — not idly pass'd. No tuneful echoes, ambush'd at my gate. Catch the blest accents of the wise and great. \'ain of its various page, no Album breathes The sigh that friendship or the muse bequeaths. Yet some good genii o'er my hearth preside, Oft tile far friend, with secret spell, to guide ; And there I trace, when the gray evening lours, .'\. silent chronicle of happier hours ! When Chris'mas revels in a world of snow, And bids her berries blush, her carols flow ; His spangling shower when frost the wizard flings; Or, borne in ether blue, on viewless wings. O'er the white pane his silvery foliage weaves, And gems with icicles the sheltering eaves, — Thy muflled friend his nectarine-wall pursues. What time the sun the yellow crocus wooes, Screen'd from the arrowy north ; and duly hies To meet the morning-rumour as it flics, To range tlie murmuring market-place, and view The motley groups that faithful Tcniers drew. When spring bursts forth in blossoms through the vale. And her wild music triumjihs on the gale. Oft with my book I muse from stile to stile; Oft in my porch the listless noon beguile, Framing loose numbers, till declining day Through the green trellis shoots a crimson ray; 'J'ill the west-wind leads on the twilight hours. And shakes the fragrant bells of closing flowers. Nor boast, O Choisy ! scat of soft delight. The secret charm of thy voluptuous night. Vain is the blaze of wealth, the pomp of power ! Lo, here, attendant on the shadowy hour, Thy closet-supper, served by hands unseen. Sheds, like an evening-star, its ray serene, To hail our coming. Not a step profane Dares, with rude sound, the cheerful rite restrain ; And, while the frugal banquet glows reveal'd, Pure and unbought, — the natives of my field; Whileblushing fruits through scatter'd leaves invite. Still clad in bloom, and veil'd in azure light; — With wine, as rich in years as Horace rings, With water, clear as his own fountain flings. The shifting sideboard plays its humbler part, Beyond the triumphs of a Loriot's art. Tims, in tiiis calm recess, so richly fraught With menbil iiglit, and luxury of thousht, My life steals on ; (Oh could it blend with thine !) Careless my course, yet not without design. So through the vales of Loire the bee-hives glide, The light raft dropping with the silent tide; So, till the laughing scenes are lost in night, The busy peo|)le wing their various flight, Culling uiniumber'd sweets from nameless flowers, Tliat scent the vineyard in its purple hours. Rise, eie the watch-relieving clarions play. Caught through St. James's groves a blush of day , Ere its full voice the choral anthem flings 'I'hrough tropliied tombs of heroes and of kings. Haste to the tranquil shade of learned ease, 'i'hougii skiil'd alike to dazzle and to please; Though each gay scene besearch'dwith anxiouseye, Nor thy shut door be pass'd without a sigh. If, when this roof shall know thy friend no more. Some, form'd like thee, should once, like thee, explore ; Invoke the Lares of this loved retreat. And his lone walks imprint with pilgrim-feet; Then be it said, (as, vain of better days. Some gray domestic prompts the partial praise,) " Unknown he lived, unenvied, not unblest ; Reason his guide, and happiness his guest. In the clear mirror of his moral page. We trace the manners of a purer age. His soul, with thirst of genuine glory fraught, Scorn'd the false lustre of licentious thought. — One fair asylum from the world he knew. One chosen seat, that charms with various view ! Who boasts of more (believe the serious strain) Sighs for a home, and sighs, alas ! in vain. Through each he roves, the tenant of a day. And, with the swallow, wings the year away !" ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER. Man is born to suffer. On the door Sickness has set her mark ; and now no more Laughter within we hear, or wood-notes wild As of a mother singing to her child ; All now in anguish from that room retire. Where a young cheek glows with consuming fire. And innocence breathes contagion — all but one. But she who gave it birth — from her alotie The medicine cup is taken. Through the niglit, And through the day, that with its dreary light Comes unregarded, she sits silent by. Watching the changes with her anxious eye: While they without, listening below, above, (Who but in sorrow know how much they love?) From every little noise catch hope and fear. Exchanging still, still as they turn to hear, Whispers and sighs, and smiles all tenderness That would in vain the starting tear repress. Such grief was ours^ — it seems but yesterday — When in thy prime, wishing so much to stay, 'Twas thine, Maria, thine without a sigh At midnight in a sister's arms to die ! Oh thou wcrt lovely — lovely was thy frame, •And pure thy spirit as from Heaven it came? And, when recall'd to join the blest above, Thnu died'st a victim to exceeding love. Nursing the young to health. In happier hours, When idle fancy wove luxuriant tlowers, (.)nce in thy mirth thou bad'st me write on thee; And now I write — what thou shall never see ! SAMUEL ROGERS, 31 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village-green, With magic tints to harmonize the scene. Still'd is the hum that through the hamlet broke, AVhen round the ruins of their ancient oak The peasants flock'd 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, arch'd witti ivy's brownest shade First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd. 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 yjromised what the fancy drew. Sec, through the fractured pediment revealed. Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield. The martin's old. hereditary nest. Long may the rain spare its hallow'd guest ! As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call ! Oh, haste, unfold the hospitable hall ! That hall, where once, in antiquated state, The chair of justice held the grave debate, [hung. Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; When round yon ample board, in due degree, We sweeten'd every meal with social glee. The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest : And all was sunshine in each little breast. 'T was here we chased the slipper by the sound ; And turn'd the blindfold hero round and round. 'T was here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring ; And fancy flutter'd on her wildest wing. Giants and genii chain'd each wondering ear; And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. Oft with the babes we wander'd in the wood. Or view'd the forest-feats of Robin Hood : Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour. With startling step we scaled the lonely tower ; O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, Murder'd by ruHian hands when smiling in its sleep. Ye Household Deities ! whose guardian eye Mark'd each pure thought, ere register'd on high ; Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground. And breathe the soul of inspiration round. As o'er the dusky furniture I bend. Each chair awakes the feeling of a friend. The storied arras, source of fond delight. With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight ! And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest. On the dim window glows the pictured crest. The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart. The clock still points its moral to the heart. That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear. When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near ; And has its sober hand, its simple chime. Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of Tima ? That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive thought; Those muskets, cased with venerable rust ; Those once-loved forms, still breathing through their dust. Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, Starting to life — all whisper of the past! As through the garden's desert paths I rove, What fond allusions swarm in every grove ! How oft, when purple evening tinged the west. We watch'd the emmet to her grainy nest ; Welcomed the wild-liee home on weary wing. Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring ! How oft inscribed, with friendship's votive rhyme. The bark now silver'd by the touch of Time ; Soar'd in the swing, half pleased and half afraid. Through sister elms that waved their summer-shade; Or strew'd with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat. To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat ! Childhood's loved group revisits every scene ; The tangled wood-walk, 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 assigns below To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know ; W'. ose glad suggestions still each vain alarm. When nature fiides, and life forgets to charm ; Thee would the muse invoke ! — to thee belong The sage's precept and the poet's song. What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals. When o'er thelandscapeTime's meek twilightsteals! As when in ocean sinks the orb of day. Long on the wave reflected lustres play ; Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd Glance on the darken'd mirror of the mind, [gray, 'I'he school's lone porch, with reverend mosses 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 form'd and cherish'd 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 with silent awe, Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw; Her moving lips, her caldron 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 ! fshade. Whose dark eyes flash'd through locks of blackest When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd : — And heroes fled the Sibyl's mutter'd 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. How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears. To learn the colour of my future years ! Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my breast ; Tliis truth once known — To bless is to lie blest ! SAMUEL ROGERS. We led the bending beggar on his way, (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray) Soothed the keen pangs liis aged spirit felt, And on iiis tale with mute attention dwelt. As in his scrip we dropt our little store, And sisjh'd to think that little was no more. He breath'd his prayer, " Long may such goodness live !" 'Tw.is all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. Angels, when mercy's mandate wing'd their flight. Had stopt to dwell with jileasure on the sight. But hark ! through those old firs, with sullen swell, The church-clock strikes! ye tender scenes, farewell! It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace The few fond lines that Time may soon efface. On yon gray stone, that fronts the chancel-door, Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more, Each eve we shot the marble through the ring, M'hen the heart danced, and life was in its spring; Ahi-il unconscious of the kindred cartii, That fiiutly echoed to the voice of mirth. The glow-worm loves her emerald-light to shed, Wjiere now tiie sexton rests his hoary head. Oft, as he turn'd the greensward with his spade. Me lectured every youth that round liim play'd ; And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay. Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day. Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush I while here alone I search the records of each mouldering stone. Guides of my life ! Instructors of my youth ! Wlio first unveil'd the hallow'd form of truth ; Whose every word enlighten'd and endearVi ; In age beloved, in poverty revered ; In friendship's silent register ye live, Xor ask the vain memorial art can give. But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep, When only sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep. What spells entrance my visionary mind With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined ! Ethereal Power ! who at the noon of night Recall'st the far-fled spirit of delight; From whom that musing, melancholy mood V\niicli charms the wise, and elevates tlie good ! Blest Memory, hail! Oh grant the grateful muse. Her pencil di|)t in Nature's living hues, 'J'o pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, And trace its airy precincts in the soul. Luird in the countless chambers of the brain. Our tiioughts are link'd by many a hidden chain. Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise I Each stamps its image as the other flies. Each, as the various avenues of sense Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense, Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art, Control the latent fibres of the heart. As studious Prospero's mysterious spell T)rc\v every suliject-spirit to his cell ; C;ich, at thy call, advances or retires. As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires. Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course, And through the frame invisibly convpy The subtle, quick vibrations as they play ; Man's little universe at once o'ercast. At once illumined when the cloud is past. LOCH-LOXG. Bluk was the loch, the clouds were gone, Ben-Lomond in his glory shone. When, Luss, I left thee ; when the breeze Bore me from thy silver sands, Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees. Where, gray witii age, the dial stands; That dial so well known to me ! — Though many a shadow it had shed, Beloved sister, since with thee The legend on the stone was read. The fairy isles fled far away ; That with its woods and uplands green. Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen, And songs are heard at close of day ; That too, the deer's wild covert, fled, And that, the asylum of the dead : While, as the boat went merrily. Much of Rob Roy the boatman told ; His arm that fell below his knee. His cattle-ford and mountain hold. Tarbat, thy shore I climb'd at last ; And, thy sliady region pass'd, Upon another shore I stood, And look'd upon another flood ; Great Ocean's self I ('T is Hn who fills That vast and awful depth of hills ;) Where many an elf was playing round. Who treads unshod his classic ground; And speaks, his native rocks among. As Fingal spoke, and Ossian sung. IVight fell ; and dark and darker grew That narrow sea, that narrow sky. As o'er the glimmering waves we flew ; The sea-bird rustling, wailing by. And now the grampus, half-descried, Black and huge above the tide; The dill's and promontories there. Front to front, and broad and bare ; Each beyond each, with giant feet Advancing as in haste to meet ; The shatter'd fortress, whence the Dane Blew his shrill blast, nor rush'd in vain, Tyrant of the drear domain ; All into midnight shadow sweep — When day springs upward from the deep ! Kindling the waters in its flight, The prow wakes splendour ; and the oar, That rose and fell unseen before, Flashes in a sea of light ! Glad sign and sure ! for now we hail Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale; And bright indeed the path should be, That leads to friendship and to thee ! Oh, blest retreat and sacred too ! Sacred as when the bell of prayer Toll'd duly on the desert air. And crosses deck'd thy summits blue. Oft, like some loved romantic tale, Oft shall my weary mind recall, Amid the hum and stir of men. Thy beechen grove and waterfall. Thy ferry with its gliding sail. And Her — the Lady of the Glen ! SAMUEL ROGERS. 33 GINEVRA. If ever you should come to Modena, (Where among other rehcs you may see Tassoni's bucket — but 'tis not the true one) Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gato, Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati, Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain you — but, before you go, Enter the house — forget it not, I pray you — And look awhile upon a picture there. 'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth. The last of that illustrious family ; Done by Zampieri — but by whom I care not. He who observes it — ere he passes on, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, That he may call it up, when far away. She sits, inclining forward as to speak. Her lips half open, and her finger up, As though she said " Beware !" her vest of gold Broider'd with flowers and clasp'd fr )m head to foot. An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth. The overflowings of an innocent heart — It haunts nic still, though many a year has fled. Like some wild melody ! Along it hangs Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion. An oaken-chest, half-eaten by the worm. But richly carved by Antony of Trent, With scripture-stories from the Life of Christ ; A chest that came from Venice, and had held The ducal robes of some old ancestor — That, by the way — it may be true or false — But don't forget the picture; and you will not. When you have heard the tale they told me there. She was an only child — her name Ginevra ; The joy, the pride of an indulgent father ; And in her fifteenth year became a bride. Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gayety. Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour ; Now, frowning, smiling for the hundredth time. The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd decorum ; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. Great was the joy ; but at the nuptial feast, When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting. Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried, "'Tis hut to make a trial of our love !" And fill'd his glass to all ; hut his hand shook. And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back and flying still, Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas ! she was not to be found ; Nor from that hour could any thing be guess'd. But that she was not ! 5 Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking, Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Donati lived — and long might you have seen An old man wandering as iu quest of something. Something he could not find — he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remain'd awhile Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers. Full fifty years were j)ast, and all forgotten, Vv'hen on an idle day, a day of search Mid the old lumber in the gallery, That mouldering chcsf was noticed ; and 'twas said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, " Why not remove it from its lurking-place 1" 'T was done as soon as said ; but on the way It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. All else had perish'd — save a wedding-ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy. Engraven with a name, the name of both, " Ginevra." There then had she found a grave ! Within that chest had she conceal'd herself. Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ; When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Frj--tened her down for ever I THE FOUR ERAS. The lark has sung his carol in the sky ; The bees have humin'd their noontide harmony ; Still in the vale the village-bells ring round, Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound: For now the caudle-cup is circling there. Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their pray'r. And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire The babe, the sleeping image of his sire. [hail A few short years — and then these sounds shall The day again, and gladness fill the vale; So soon the child a youth, tlie youth a man, Eager to run the race his fathers ran. Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sir-loin; The ale, now brew'd, in floods of amber shine : And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, Mid many a tale told of his boyish days. The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, " 'Twas on these knees he sate so oft and smiled." And soon again shall music swell the breeze; Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scatter'd round ; and old and young, In every cottage porch, with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene; While, her dark eyes declining, by his side Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride. And once, alas, nor in a distant hour. Another voice shall come from yonder tower; When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen. And weepings heard where only joy has been ; When by his children borne, and from his door Slowly departing to return no mm-c. He rests in holy earth with them that went before. .34 SAMUEL ROGERS. DOX GARZIA. Amonr the awful forms that stand assembled In the great square of Florence, may he seen That Cosmo, not the father of his country, Xol he so styled, hut he who play'd the tyrant. Clad in rich armour like a paladin, But with his helmet olF, in kingly state, Aloft he sits upon his horse of brass; And they who read the legend underneath Go and jironounce him happy. Yet there is A chamber at Grosseto, that, if walls Could s()rak ami tell of what is done within, Would turn your admiration into pity. Half of what pass'd died with him ; but the rest, Ail he discover'd when the fit was on. All that, by those who listen'd, could be glean'd From broken sentences, and starts in sleep, Is told, and by an honest chronicler. Two of his sons, Giovanni and Garzia, (The eldest had not seen his sixteenth summer.) Went to the chase ; but one of them, Giovanni, His best beloved, the glory of his house, Retiirn'd not; and at close of day was found loathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas, 'J'lie trembling Cosmo guess'd the deed, the doer; And, having caused the body to be borne In secret to that chamber, at an hour When all slept sound, save the disconsolate mother, Will) little thought of what was yet to conie, And lived but to be told — he bade Garzia Arise and follow him. Holding in one hand A winking lamp, and in the other a key Massive and dungeon-like, thither he led ; And, having entered in and lock'd the door, Ttie fither fix'd his eyes upon the son. And closely question'd him. No change betray 'd Or guilt or fear. Then Cosmo lifted up Tile bloody sheet. " Look there ! Look there !" he cried, " Blood calls for blood — and from a father's hand I Unless thyself wilt save him that sad olfice. " What I" he cxclaim'd, when, shuddering at the sight, The hoy breathed out, " I stood but on my guard." '• Dar'st thou then blacken one who never wrong'd thee, Who would not set his foot upon a worml Ye-J, thou must die, lest others fall by thee, And thou shouldst be the slayer of us all." 'IMien from (iarzia's side he took the dagger. Thai fatal one which spilt his brother's blood ; And, kneeling on the ground, '' Great God!" he cried, '• Grant me the strength to do an act of justice, 'i'hou knowcst what it costs me; but, alas. How can I spare myself, sparing none else ! (irant me the strength, the will. — and oh ! forgive The sinful soul of a most wretched son. ' T is a most wretched father who implores it." JiOng on Garzia's neck he hung, and wept Tenderly, long press'd him to his bosom; And then, but while he held him by the arm, Thru.stiiig him backward, turned away his face. And stabb'd him to the heart. Well might Dc Thou, When in his youth he came to Cosmo's court. Think on the past; and, as he wander'd through The ancient palace — through those ample spaces Silent, deserted — stop awhile to dwell Upon two portraits there, drawn on the vi'all Together, as of two in bonds of love, One in a cardinal's habit, one in black. Those of the unhai)py brothers, and infer From the deep silence that his questions drew, The terrible truth. Well might he heave a sigh F(jr poor humanity, when he beheld That very Cosmo shaking o'er his fire, Drowsy and deaf, and inarticulate, Wrapt in his night-gown, o'er a sick man's mess, In the last stage — death-struck and deadly pale; His wife, another, not his Eleanora, At once his nurse and his interpreter. THE FOUNTAIN. It was a well Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry ; And richly wrought with many a high relief, Greek sculpture — in some earlier day perhaps A tomlj, and honour'd with a hero's ashes. The water from the rock fiU'd, overflow'd it; Then dash'd away, playing the prodigal. And soon was lost — stealing unseen, unheard, Through the long grass and round the twisted roots Of aged trees; discovering where it ran By the fresh verdure. Overcome with heat, I threw me down; admiring, as I lay. That shady nook, a singing-place for birds, That grove so intricate, so full of flowers. More than enough to please a child a-Maying. The sun was down, a distant convent-bell Ringing the Angelas; and now apfjroach'd The hour for stir and village-gossip there, The hour Rebekah came, when from the well She drew with such alacrity to serve 'J^lic str:;nger and his camels. Soon I heard Footste|)s ; and lo. descending by a jiath Trodden for ages, many a nymph appcar'd, Appear'd and vanish'd, bearing on her head Her earthen pitcher. It call'd up the day Ulysses landed there ; and long I gazed, Like one awaking in a distant time. At length there came the loveliest of them all, Her little brother dancing down before her; And ever as he spoke, which he did ever. Turning and looking up in warmth of heart And brotherly affection. Stojipiiig there. She join'd her rosy hands, and, filling them With the pure element, gave him to drink ; And, while he quench'd his thirst, standing on lip- Look'd down upon him with a sister's smile, [toe, Nor stirr'd till he had done, fix'd as a statue. Then.hadst thou seen them as they stood, Canova, Thou liadst endowM them with immortal youth; And they had evermore lived undivided. Winning all hearts — of all thy works the fairest. '! SAMUEL ROGERS. 35 VENICE. No track of men, no footsteps to and fro, Led to her gates. The path lay o'er the sea, Invisible ; and from the land we went As to a flt)ating city — steering in, And gliding up her streets as in a dream, So smoothly, silently — by many a dome Mosque-Uke, and many a stately portico, The statues ranged along an azure sky; By many a pile in more than Eastern splendour, Of old the residence of merchant-kings; The fronts of some, though Time had shatter'd them. Still glowing with the richest hues of art. As though the wealth within them had run o'er. Thither I came, in the great passage-boat. From Padua, where the stars are. night by night, Watch'd from the top of an old dungeon-tower, Whence blood ran once, the tower of Ezzelino — Not as he watch'd them, when he read his fate And shudder'd. But of him I thought not then, Him or his horoscope ; far, far from me [there, The forms of guilt and fear; though some were Sitting among us round the cabin-l)oard, Somewhn, like him, had cried, "Spill blood enough!" And could shake long at shadows. They had play'd Their parts at Padua, and were now returning; A vagrant crew, and careless of to-morrow. Careless, and full of mirth. Who. in that quaver, Sings "Caro, Caro]" — 'T is the Prima Donna! And to her monkey, smiling in his face. Who, as transported, cries, "Bravo! Ancora!" 'T is a grave personage, an old macaw, Perch'd on her shoulder. But mark him who leaps Ashore, and with a shout urges along The lagging mules; then runs and climbs a tree That with its branches overhangs the stream, And, like an acorn, drops on deck again. 'T is he who speaks not, stirs not, hut we laugh; That child of fun and frolic, .\rlecchino. At length we leave the river for the sea. At length a voice aloft proclaims "Venezia!" And, as call'd forth, it comes. A few in fear, Plying away from him whose boast it was. That the grass grew not where his horse had trod, Gave birth to Venice. Like the water-fowl, They built their nests among the ocean-waves; And, where the sands were shifting, as the wind Blew from the north, the south; where they that came Had to make sure the ground they stood upon, Rose, like an exhalation, from the deep, A vast metropoli;play'd. Treasures from unknown climes, away he went, And, travelling slowly upward, drew ere long From the well-head, supplying all below; Making the imperial city of the East, Herself, his tributary. If we turn To the Black Forest of the Rhine, the Danube, Where o'er the narrow glen the castle hangs. And, like the wolf that hunger'd at his gate, The baron lived by rapine — there we meet. In warlike guise, the caravan from Venice; Winning its way with all that can attract, Cages, whence every wild cry of the desert. Jugglers, stage-dancers. Well might Charlemain And his brave peers, each with his visor up. On their long lances leaa and gaze awhile. When the Venetian to their eyes disclosed The wonders of the East ! Well might they then Sigh for new conquests I Thus did Venice rise. Thus flourish, till the unwelcome tidings came, That in the Tagus had arrived a fleet From India, from the region of the sun. Fragrant with spices — that a way was found, A channel open'd, and the golden stream Turn'd to enrich another. Then she felt Her strength departing, and at last she fell, Fell in an instant, blotted out and razed ; She who had stood yet longer than the longest Of the four kingdotus, — who, as in an ark. Had floated down, amid a thousand wrecks. Uninjured, from the old world to the new, From the last trace of civilized life — to where Light shone again, and with unclouded splendour. Through many an age she in the mid-sea dwelt, From her retreat calmly contemplating The chansjes of the earth, herself unchanged. Before her pass'd, as in an awful dream. The mightiest of the mighty. What are these. Clothed in their purple ! O'er the globe they fling Their monstrous shadows ; and, while yet we speak, Phantom-like, vanish with a dreadful scream ! What — but the last that styled themselves the Cfflsars 1 And who in long array (look where they come — Their gesture menacing so far and wide) Wear_the green turban and the heron's plume? Who but the caliphs? follow'd fast by shapes As new and strange — some, men of steel, steel-clad ; Others, nor long, alas, the interval, In light and gay attire, with brow serene, Wieldinsr .love's thunder, scattering sulphurous fire Mingled with darkness; and, among the rest, Lo, one by one, passing continually. Those who assume a sway beyond them all ; Men gray with age, each with a triple crown. And in his tremulous hands grasping the kcvs Tbat can alone, as he would signify, Unlock Heaven's gate. SIR EGERTON BRYDGES (Born 17C2- SiR Samuel Egerton BnyoGES was born at the manor-house of Wootton, between Can- terbury and Dover, on the 30th of Novem- ber, 17(!2. By his mother, an Egerton, he was descended from the most illustrious blood in Europe. Through his father, he claimed to be the representative of the old barony of Chandos. This pretension, which was pro- secuted unsuccessful!}' before the House of I^ords, was "the cherished madness" of Sir Egerton; it has a ludicrous prominence in nearly all his writings; and its failure deeply imbittered his spirit. The perusal of Mr. Beltz's hostile and uncandid volume leaves the impression that this claim was well founded : but the case is a mysterious one, and was involved in great doubt, even before Lord Eldon spoke upon it. In 1780, he entered Queen's College, Cam- bridge: he there devoted himself to poetry, neglected the regular studies, and left the uni- versity without a degree. He undertook the study of the law, and in 1787 was called to the bar; but never made any progress in the profession. His career as an author began by the publication of a volume of poems in 1785. In the succeeding years, he wrote the novels "Mary de Clifford," "Arthur Fitz Albini," and " Le Forester;" but was chiefly occupied with bibliographical and genealogical inves- tigations. The " Censura Literaria," and the " Restituta," are familiar to the students of literary history. His edition of "Collins' Peerage," which employed him from 1806 to 1812, is probably the most laborious of all his works. In 1812, he published a series of Essays, under the title of "The Ruminator:" Lord Byron, in one of his journals, speaks of having read them, and characterizes the author as "a strange, but able old man." "Occa- sional Poems" appeared in 1814; and "Ber- tram," a poem, in 1815. In 1814, he obtained a baronetcy. He became a member of the House of Commons in 1812, where he dis- tinguished himself by procuring some im- portant improvements in the law of copy-right. Upon the dissolution of that parliament in 1818, he witlidrew to the continent, where, with little exception, he passed the remainder 36 of his days. Pecuniary embarrassment, in- duced by the indulgence of various expensive tastes, was understood to be the cause of this voluntary exile. He resided in Paris, Italy, but mostly at or near Geneva. In literature, he sought relief froiTi the annoyances of con- tracted circumstances and disappointed hopes ; and he was constantly engaged in writing and printing books. It is impracticable to give a complete list of his works. The best of those written while on the continent are, "Res Li- terariae," 1820, 1821; "Letters from the Con- tinent," 1821 ; " Gnomica," and "Letters on the Genius of Lord Byron," perhaps the most valuable of his productions, 1824; "Recol- lections of foreign Travel," 1825 ; " Imaginary Biography," and his own Autobiography, in 1834. His edition of " Milton," with a life of that poet, has made his name better known to the public than any other of his performances. He died at Campagne Gros Jean, near Geneva, on the 8th of September, 1837. To no prose writer of our time is English literature beholden for finer passages of just thought, high sentiment, and finished elo- quence, than to Sir Egerton Brvdges. But the effect of these is sadly impaired by repeti- tions, egotism, and all the infirmities of morbid passion. A judicious selection of his best paragraphs would form a volume of singular interest and beauty. To the success of his ardent wish to take a permanent place among _ the great authors of his country, there wanted I nothing but patience, control of temper, and the prolonged concentration of his powers upon some one great work on some important subject. Unluckily for his ambition, the in- tensity of the desire paralyzed the vigour of the effort. His verse is the expression of sensitive feeling elevated and coloured by romantic fancy : it is marked by a delicate sense of the beauties of nature, and displays great com- mand of the resources of language. Under the criticisms of his friend, Lord Tenter- den, he practised the art " do faire des vers difficilement." His sonnet upon " Echo and Silence" was pronounced by Wordsworth SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. 37 the best sonnet in the language; and Mr. SouTHEY said, that he knew not any poem in any language more beautifully imaginative. The two last lines finely imitate to the ear the thronging echoes which they describe. "The Winds," and the lines " Written on the Ap- proach of cold Weather," are scarcely inferior; and the sonnets, "To Evening," and "To Autumn," are constructed with consummate skill. The sonnets on Harry Hastings are a series of cabinet pictures, which deserve careful study. They are in a style of art, to which, with the saving of a very few of Mr. Wordsworth's sonnets, the literature of this age is a stranger. In respect to finish, tone, and the magical effect by which a single image is made to flash the whole scene upon the mind, they remind us of the rural elegies of TiBULi,us. The life of the old sportsman is revived before us, Avith astonishing complete- ness. The name of the author of those son- nets will not die. ECHO AND SILENCE. [x eddying- course when leaves began to fly, And Autumn in her lap the store to strew, As mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo, Thro' glens untiod, and woods that frown'd on high, Two sleeping nymi)hs with wonder mute I spy ! And, lo, she's gone ! — In robe of dark-green hue 'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew, For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky! In shade affrighted Silence melts away. Not so her sister. — Hark ! for onward still. With far-heard step, she takes her listening way, Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill. Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill ! THE APPROACH OF COLD WEATHER. OxK morn, what time the sickle 'gan to play, The eastern gates of heaven were open laid. When forth the rosy Hours did lead a maid, From her sweet eyes who shed a soften'd ray. Blushing and fair she was ; and from the braid Of her gold locks she shook forth perfumes gay : Yet languid look'd and indolently stray'd A while, to watch the harvest borne away. But now, with sinews braced, and aspect hale, With buskin'd legs, and quiver 'cross her flung. With hounds and horn she seeks the wood and vale, And Echo listens to her forest song. At eve, she flies to hear her poet's tale, [among. And "Autumn's" name resounds his shades THE WINDS. SuijMME the pleasure, meditating song, Lull'd by the piping of the winds to lie, Wliile, ever and anon collecting, fly The choir still swelling as they haste along. And shake with full .'Eolian notes the sky. A pause ensues : tlie sprites, that lead the throng, Recall their force; and first, begin to sigh; Then howls the gathering stream the rocking domes among. Methinks I hear the shrieking spirits oft Groan in the blast, and flying tempests iead : While some aerial beings sighing soft [plead; Round once-loved maids their guardian wishes Spirits of torment shrilly speak aloft. And warn the wretch, who rolls in guilt, to heed. TO EVENING. SwF.KT Eve, of softest voice and gentlest beam, Say, since the pensive strains thou once didst hear Of him,* the bard sublime of Arun's stream, Will aught beside delight thy nicer ear ? Me wilt thou give to praise thy shadowy gleam. Thy fragrant breath, and dying murmurs dear; The mists, that o'er thee from thy valleys steam. And elfin shapes that round thy car appear ; The, music that attends thy state; the bell Of distant fold ; the gently warbling wind And watch-dog's hollow voice from cottaged delll For these to purest pleasure wake the mind ; Lull each tumultuous pa.ssion to its cell ; And leave soft, soothing images behind. TO A LADY IN ILLNESS. Nk.w to the world, when all was fairy ground, And shapes romantic stream'd before my sight. Thy beauty caught my soul, and tints as bright And fair as fancy's dreams in thee I found. In cold experience wdien my hopes were drown'd, And life's dark clouds o'er-veifd in mists of night The forms that wont to fill me with delight. Thy view again dispell'd the darkness round. Shall I forget thee, when the pallid cheek. The sighing voice, wan looks, and plaintive air. No more the roseate hue of health bespeak 1 Shall I neglect thee as no longer fair] No. lovely maid ! If in my heart I seek, Thy beauty deeply is engraven there. TO AUTUMN, NEAR HER DEPARTURE. Tnou maid of gentle light ! thy straw-wove vest, And russet cincture; thy loose pale-tinged hair; Thy melancholy voice, and languid air. As if, shut up within that pensive breast, Some ne'er-to-be-divulged grief was prest; Thy looks resign'd, that smiles of patience wear, While Winter's blasts thy scatter'd tresses tear ;- Thee, Autumn, with divinest charms have blesi ! Let blooming Spring with gaudy hopes delight That dazzling Summer shall of her be born , Let Summer blaze ; and Winter's stormy train Breathe awful music in the ear of Night; Thee will I court, sweet dying maid forlorn. And from thy glance will catch th' inspired strain. * Collins. 1) 38 SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. TO MARY. FROM THE NOVEL OF MARY DE CLIFFOnD. WiiEiiK art thou. Mary, pure as fair, And fra'j;rant as the bahiiy air, That, passing, steals upon its wing The varied perfumes of the spring? With tender l)osom, white as snow ; With auburn locks, that freely flow |j|)on thy marble neck ; with cheeks On which the blush of morning breaks; Eyes, in whose pure and heavenly beams The radiance of enchantment seems; A voice, whose melting tones would still The madness of revenge from ill ; A form of such a graceful mould. We scarce an earthly shape behold ; A mind of so divine a fire As angels only could inspire ! — Where art thou, Mary 1 For the sod Is hallow'd where thy feet have trod ; And every leaf that's touch'd by thee Is sanctified, sweet maid, to me. Where dost thou lean thy pensive head ] Thy tears what tender tale can shed ? Where dost thou stretch thy snowy arml And with thy plaintive accents charm 1 But hold ! that image through my frame Raises a wild tempestuous flame. HASTINGS' SONNETS.* Or.i) Harry Hastings! of thy forest life How whimsical, how picturesque the charms ! Yet it was sensual! With thy hounds and horn, How cheerily didst thou salute the morn ! With airy steed didst thou pursue the strife, Sounding through all the woodland glades alarms. Sunk not a dell, and not a thicket grew. But thy skill'd eye and long experience know. The herds were thy acquaintance ; antler'd deer Knew where to trust thy voice, and where to fear ; And through the shadowy oaks of giant size, Tiiy bugle could the distant sylvans hear; [rise; And wood-nymphs from theirbowery bed would And echoes dancing round repeat their ec- stacies. *" Scarce any Eii!jlisli reader of biographical anec- dotes is unacquainted with the character of Henuv Has- TiNOs. of Woodlands, in Dorsetshire, given hy Lord .SiiAFTEsneuv ; which may lie seen in the ' Connoisseur,' in Gilpin's ' New Forest,' and in the last edition of ' Col- lins' PeeraL'e,' &c. He was son of an Earl of IU'nting- DON ; he lived through the reigns of Queen Elizabeth, .Iames I., and Charles I , and died on the verge of a iiiindred years of age. Like Clal'DIAn's 'Old Man of Veroni,' he did not trouble himself with affairs of state, but enjoyed his own country-life annd the woods and fielrls. His father was GEonoE, fourth earl, who died in 10().i ; Henuv died .5th October, ItiSO, aged ninety-nine. There is soinethii\g exceedingly pictures(iue in the ac- count of this Harrv Hastings' lite ; and I am willing to delude myself with the belief, that the following sonnets not unaptly describe it." A century did not thy vigour pale, Nor war and rapine thy enjoyments cloud ; And thy halloos were gay, and clear, and loud, To thy la.st days, through covert, hill, and vale: The keepers heard it on the autumnal gale. And with responsive horns, in blasts as proud. Their labours to the cherish'd service vow'd, Delighted their old merry lord to hail. The forest girls peep'd out, and buxom wives, And in the leaf-strown glades and yellow lanes Each for the kindly salutation strives. Which to their .smiles the gladsome veteran deigns. Hark how, on courser mounted, in his vest Of green, the aged sportsman cracks his blithesome jest! III. Then comes the rude and hospitable hall : Mark how abound the trophies of the chase ! How thick they mingle on the armour'd vs'ali ! What antler'd ornaments the portals grace ! There blazon'd shields the proud remembrance call Of many a noble, many a princely race ; And many a glorious rise, and many a fall. As upward they the stream of ages trace. How glad the old man, far from civil brawl. Of a more tranquil being boasts th' embrace ! His sleeping hounds, round the hearth gather'd, wake At the gay burst of his exulting song; And all, his joyous bounty to partake. Leap to his call, and round his table throng. IV. To-mon-ow will the music of their cries Pierce through the shadowy solitudes again, As with the dawn he to the covert hies. And seeks his prey amid the sylvan reign. Behold the merry men chanting in his train, Sec how the coy stag listens with surprise ! In troops they hasten to their depths again ; And with big tears his fate the nuirlfd 07ie eyes. Groans through the forest, echoes from the hills, A mingled day of joy and grief proclaim : A tempest gathers, and the welkin fills. And for another morning saves the game. Then on the Boole of Spoiis the veteran pores, And deems it wiser spell than learning's lores. V. A hundred years to live, and live in joy ! O what a fovour'd fate ! The blessed air. In all its ])urity of leaf and flower; The woodland peace, the contemplative hour : The stillness which no city-broils annoy ; Security from envy, malice, care ; The gales that fragrance to the spirit hear; [fair; The scenes in nature's unstain'd brightness The lulling murmur of the lonely trees; The ambient bracing of the buoyant breeze ; The very health on forest-beauty's fiice ; The form robust in woodland pastures bred ; — With what a tranquil and uncumher'd pace Might thus we reach the slumbers of the dead ! SIR EGERTON BRYDGEb. But. is congenial quiet, and of frame Sound health, sufficient? Does not mind demand Food and exhilaration 1 Conscience, ever Busy within us, must fulfil its aim ! Aro'.iiid us circles an aerial band, Which tells us spiritual labours to endeavour: And not alone the senses to employ. As the pure channels of our earthly joy ! There is, v\'itlnn, a deity, whose desires We must sustain and feed by mental fires ; 'i'he insatc mind, but from without supplied, Languishes on a weak imperfect food-; If sustenance more spiritual be denied. With flame consuming on itself 'twill brood I But in this rural life, mid nature's forms Of grandeur and of beauty, why assume That Harry Hastings had no inward joy Of sentiment, and conscience-cherish'd thought] When splendour of internal structure warms The bosom's lighted mirrors, which allume The soul's recesses, spirits then employ Theirsliillin webs withmingledfigureswrought. Part from within of heavenly elements. They add to what external sense supplies ; Then mind and conscience give their pure assents. And airy shapes start up, and visions rise; And though the fancies pass unspelt away. Perchance they form the sunshine of the day ! VIII. There is exhilaration in the chase — Not bodily only ! Bursting from the woods. Or having climb'd some misty mountain's height, , When on our eyes a glorious prospect opes, With rapture we the golden view embrace : Then worshipping the sun, on silver floods And blazing towers, and spires, and cities bright With his reflected beams; and down the slopes The tumbling torrents ; from the forest-mass Of darkness issuing, we with double force Along the gayly checker'd landscape pass. And, bounding with delight, pursue our course. It is a mingled rapture, and we find The bodily spirit mounting to the mind. ON MOOR PARK, FOKMERI.y THE SEAT OF SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE. WHOSE HEARr WAS BURIED IN THE GARDEN THERE. To yonder narrow vale, whose high-sloped sides Are hung with airy oaks, and umbrage deep — Where through thick shades the lulling waters creep: And no vile noise the musing mind derides, But silence with calm solitude abides — Temple with joy retired, that he might keep A course of quiet days, and nightly sleep Beneath the covering wings of heavenly guides — Virtue and peace ! Here he in sweet repose Sigh'd his last breath! Here Swift, in youth reclined, Pass'd his smooth days. — Oh, had he longer chose Retreats so pure, perchance his nicer mind. That the world's wildering follies and its woes To madness shook, had ne'er with sorrows pined ! WRITTEN AUGUST 20, IS07. Though in my veins the blood of monarchs flow — Plantagenet and Tudor — not for these With empty boast my lifted mind I please ; But rather that my heart's emotions glow With the pure flame the muse's gifts bestow : Nor would it my aspiring soul appease. In rank, birth, wealth, to loll at sensual ease, And none but folly's stupid flattery know. But yet when upstart greatness turns an eye Of scorn and insult on my modest fame. And on descent's pretensions vain would try To build the honours of a nobler name. With pride defensive swelling, I exclaim, [vie !" " Base one, e'en there with me thou dost not WRITTEN AT PARIS, MAY 10, 1835. Stkrx, unexpecting good, unbent by wrong, I travel onward through this gloomy scene, With brow of sorrow, yet erect in mien ; Meek to the humble, in defiance strong. To folly's, envy's, hatred's, falsehood's throng: Yet knowing that the birth and grave between There ever will, as ever there have been. Be friendships fickle, warferes deep and long ! If I have taught the truths of wisdom's lore. If I have drawn the secrets of the heart, And raised the glow that mounts o'ergricf and ill — In my plain verse though bloom no single flower. And not a ray of wit its lustre dart, Its naked strength o'er death will triumph still ! WRITTEN AT PARIS, MAY 11, 1S26. HiRH name of poet ! — sought in every age By thousands — scarcely won by two or three, — As with the thorns of this sad pilgrimage My bleeding feet are doom'd their war to wage. With awful worship I have bow'd to thee ! And yet perchance it is not fate's decree. This mighty boon should be assign'd to me. My heart's consuming fever to assuage. — Fountain of Poesy ! that liest deep Within the bosom's innermost recesses, And rarely burstest forth to human ear, Break out! — and, while profoundly magic sleep With pierceless veil all outward form oppresses, Let me the music of thy murmurs hear. WRITTEN AT LEE PRIORY, AUGUST 10, I82G. Pr,\ise of the wise and good !— it is a meed For which I would lone years of toil endure ; Which many a peril, many a grief would cure ! As onward I with weary feet proceed. My swelling heart continues still to bleed ; The glittering prize holds out its distant lure, But seems, as nearer I approach, less sure, And never to my prayer to be decreed ! — With anxious ear I listen to the voice That shall pronounce the precious boon I ask ; But yet it comes not, — or it comes in doubt — Slave to the passion of my earliest choice. From youth to age I ply my daily task, And hope, e'en till the lamp of life goes out. JOANNA BAILLIE. (Born 1762-Died l-''>n. Joanna Baii.lie was born in Bothwell, in Scotland, of an lionourable family, about the year 1702. She si>cnt the greater portion of her life at Ilanipstead, a pleasant suburban place, near London. When she began to write, she tells us in the preface to a volume recently published, not one of all the eminent authors of modern times was known, and Miss Seward and Mr. Havley were the poets spoken of in society. The britjhtest stars in the poeti- cal firmament, with very few exceptions, have risen and set since then; the greatest revo- lutions in empire and in opinion have taken ])lace; but she has lived on as if no echo of the upturnintjs and overthrows w"hich filled the world reached the quiet of her home ; the freshness of her inspirations untarnished ; writinpr from the fulness of a true heart of themes belonging equally to all the ages. Personally she is scarcely known in literary society ; but from her first appearance as an author, no woman has commanded more respect and admiration by her vvorks; and the most celebrated of her contemporaries have vied with each other in doing her honour. Scott calls her the Shakspeare of her sex. " The \\\U\ harp silent hung By silver Avon's holy shore, Till twice a hundred years roli'd o'er, When SHE, the bold enchantress, came With fearless hand and heart on flame,— From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure, And swept it with a kindred measure. Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove With Montfort's hale and Bisil's love, Awakening at the inspiring strain Deeni'd their own Shakspeare lived again !" The most remarkable of her works are her " Plays of the Passions," a series in which each passion is made the subject of a tragedy and a comedy. In the comedies she failed completely ; they are pointless tales in dia- logue. Her tragedies, however, have great merit, though possessing a singular quality for vvorks of such an aim, in being without the earnestness and ahruptness of actual and pow- erful feeling. By refinement and elaboration she makes the passions sentiments. She fears to distract attention by multiplying incidents ; her catastrophes are approached by the most gentle gradations ; her dramas are therefore slow in action and deficient in interest. Her characters possess little individuality ; they are mere generalizations of intellectual attri- butes, theories personified. The very system of her plays has been the subject of critical censure. The chief object of every dramatic work is to please and interest, and this object may be arrived at as well by situation as by character. Character distinguishes one per- son from another, while by passion nearly all men are alike. A controlling passion perverts character, rather than developes it; and it is therefore in vain to attempt the delineation of a character by unfolding the progress of a passion. It has been well observed too, that unity of passion is impossible, since to give a just relief and energy to any particular pas- sion, it should be presented in opposition to one of a different sort, so as to produce a pow- erful conflict in the heart. In dignity and purity of style, Miss Baillie has not been surpassed by any of the poets of her . sex. Her dialogue is formed on the Shaksperean model, and she has succeeded perhaps better than any other dramatist in imitating the manner of the greatest poet of the world. " De 3Iontfort" we believe is the only one of Miss Baillie's tragedies which has been successfully presented in the theatres. It was performed in London by John Kemble, and in New York and Philadelphia by Edmund Kean; but no actors of inferior genius have ventured to attempt it, and it will probably never again be brought upon the stage. Birsides her plays Miss Baillie has written " A View of the General Tenor of the New Testament regarding the Nature and Dignity of Jesus Christ," "Metrical Legends of Emi- nent Characters," "Fugitive Verses," and some less important publications.' In 1827 she gave the world a new volume of" Plays on the Passions," and in 184ii Moxon pub- lished her " Fugitive Verses." 40 JOANNA BAILLIE. 41 BIRTHDAY LINES TO AGNES BAILLIE. Dear Agnes, gleam'J with joy and dasli'd with tears, O'er us liave glided ahnost sixty years Since we on Bothwell's bonny braes were seen, By those whose eyes long closed in death have been, Two tiiiy imps, who scarcely stoop'd to gather The slender hair-bell on the purple heather ; No taller than the foxglove's spiky stem, That dew of morning studs with silvery gem. Then every butterfly that cross'd our view With joyful shout was greeted as it flew, And moth and lady-bird and beetle bright In sheeny gold were each a wondrous sight. Then as we paddled barefoot, side by side. Among the sunny shallows of the Clyde, Minnows or spotted paur with twinklinff-fiii, Swimming in mazzy rings the pool within, A thrill of gladness through our bosom sent, Seen in the power of early wonderment. . . . 'Twas thou who woo'dst me first to look Upon the page of printed book. That thing by me abhorred, and with address Didst win me from my thouQ;htlcss idleness, \Vhen all too old become wiili bootless haste la fitful sports the precious time to waste. Thy love of tale and story was the stroke At wliich my dormant fancy first awoke. And ghosts and witches in my busy brain Arose in sombre show, a motley train. This new-found path attempting, proud was I, Lurking approval on thy face to .spy, Or hear thee say, as grew thy roused attention, " What ! is this story all thine own invention !'' Then, as advancing through this mortal span. Our intercourse with the mix'd world began, Thy fairer face and sprightlier courtesy, (.\ truth that from my youthful vanity Lay not concealed) did for the sisters twain. Where'er we went, the greater favour gain; While, but for thee, vex'd wiVh its tossing tide, I from the busy world had shrunk aside. And how in later years, with better grace Thou help'st me still to hold a welcome place With those whom nearer neighbourhood has made The friendly cheerers of our evening shade. With thee my humours, whether grave or gay, Or gracious or untoward, have their way. Silent, if dull — precious privilege ! I sit by thee ; or if, cuU'd from the page Of some huge, ponderous tome which, but thyself, None e'er had taken from its dusty shelf, Thou read me curious passages to speed The winter night, I take but little heed And thankless say, " I cannot listen now," 'Pis no offence; albeit, much do I owe To these, thy nightly offerings of affection, Drawn from thy ready talent for selection ; For still it seem'd in thee a natural gift The Ictter'd grain from letter'd chaff to sift. By daily use and circumstance endear'd. Things are of value now that once appear'd Of no account, and without notice past. Which o'er dull life a simple cheering cast; To hear thy morning steps the stair descending. Thy voice with other sounds domestic blending ; After each stated nightly absence, met To see thee by the morning table set, Pouring from smoky spout the amber stream Which sends from saucered cup its fragrant steam ; To see thee cheerly on the threshold stand, On summer morn, with trowel in thy hand For garden-work prepared ; in winter's gloom From thy cold noon-day walk to see thee come, In furry garment lapt, with spatter'd feet, And by the fire resume thy wonted seat; [thrown Ay, even o'er things like these, soothed age has A sober charm they did not always own, As winter hoar-frost makes minutest spray Of bush or hedge-weed sparkle to the day. In magnitude and beauty, which bereaved Of such investment, eye had ne'er perceived. TO A CHILD. Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, And curly pate, and merry eye. And arm and shoulder round and sleek. And soft and fiiir? — thou urchin sly ! What boots it who with sweet caresses First called thee his, — or squire or hind ? Since thou in every vviglu that passes, Dost now a friendly playmate find. Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning. As fringed eyelids ri.se and fall ; Thy shyness, swiftly from me running. Is infantine coquetry all. But far a field thou hast not flown ; With mocks, and threats, half-lisp'd, half-spoken, I feel thee pulling at my gown, Of right good will thy simple token. And thou must laugh and wrestle too, A mimic warfare with me waging ; To make, as wily lovers do. Thy after kindness more engaging. The wilding rose, sweet as thyself. And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure : I'd gladly part with worldly pelf To taste again thy youthful pleasure. But yet, for all thy merry look, Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming When thou shall sit in cheerless nook. The weary spell or horn-book thumbing. Well ; let it be ! — through weal and wo, Thou know'st not now thy future range ; Life is a motley, shifting show. And thou a thine of hope and change. I 42 JOANNA BAILLIE. CIIUISTOPIIER COLUMBUS. Is there a man, that, from some lofty steep, Views ill his wide survey the houridless deep, When its vast waters, lined with sun and shade, Wave heyond wave, in serried distance fade To the [lule sky ; — or views it, dimly seen, The shilling screens of drifted mist l)etwecn, As the huge cloud dilates its sable form, When grandly curtain'd by the approaching storm, Who feels not his awed soul with wonder rise 'J'o Him whose power created sea and skies. Mountains and deserts, giving to the sight 'J"he wonders of the day and of tlie night ] But let some fleet be seen in warlike pride. Whose stately ships the restless billows ride, ^\'hile each, with lofty masts and brightening sheen Of fair spread sails, moves like a vested queen ; — Or rather, be some distant bark, astray. Seen like a pilgrim on his lonely way. Holding its steady course from port and shore, A form distinct, a speck, and seen no more, — How dotii the pride, the sympathy, the flame, Of human feeling stir his thrilling frame 1 "O Thou ! vi'hose mandate dust inert obey'd, AVhat is this creature man whom thou hast made 1" On Palos' shore, whose crowded strand Bore priests and nobles of the land. And rustic hinds and townsmen trim. And harncss'd soldiers stern and grim, And lowly maids and dames of pride, And infants by their mother's side, — 'J'he boldest seaman stood that e'er Did bark or ship-through tempest steer ; And wise as bold, and good as wise; The magnet of a thousand eyes, 'i'hat, on his form and features cast, His noble mien and simple guise, In wonder secm'd to look their last. A form which conscious worth is gracing, A face where hope, the lines eflacing Of thought and care, bestow'd, in truth, To the (juick eyes' imperfect tracing, The look and air of youth. Who, in his lofty gait, and high Expression of the enlighten'd eve, Had recognised, in that bright hour. The disappointed suppliant of dull power. Who had in vain of states and kings desired The pittance for his vast emprise required 1 — The patient sage, who, by his lamp's faint light. O'er chart and map spent the long silent night? — The man who meekly fortune's buffets bore. Trusting in One alone, whom heaven and earth adore ! Another world is in his mind. Peopled with creatures of his kind. With hearts to feel, with minds to soar, Thoughts to consider and explore ; Souls who might find, from trespass shriven. Virtue on earth and joy in heaven. " That power divine, whom storms obc'y," (Whisper'd his heart,) a leading star, Will guide him on his blessed way ; Brothers to join by fate divided far. Vain thoughts ! which heaven doth but ordain In part to be, the rest, alas ! how vain ! But hath there lived of mortal mould, Whose fortunes with his thoughts could hold An even race ! Earth's greatest son That e'er earn'd fame, or empire won. Hath but fulfill'd, within a narrpvv scopt, A stinted portion of his ample hope. With heavy sigh and look dcprcss'd, The greatest men will sometime«! hear The story of their acts address'd To the young stranger's wondering ear, And check the half-swoln tear. Is it or modesty or pride Which rpay not open praise abide T No; read his inward thoughts: they IpU. His deeds of fame he prizes well. But ah ! they in his fancy stand, As relics of a blighted band. Who, lost to man's approving sight, Have perish'd in the gloom of night, Ere yet the glorious light of day Had glitter'd on their bright array. His mightiest feat had once another, Of high imagination born, — A loftier and a noble brother, From dear existence torn ; And she, for those who are not, steeps Her soul in wo, — like Rachel, weeps. PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. IssF.ysiBLE to high heroic deeds. Is there a spirit cloth'd in mortal weeds. Who at the patriot's moving story. Devoted to his country's good, Devoted to his country's glory. Shedding for freemen's rights his generous blood, — Listeneth not with deep heaved sigh, Quivering nerve, and glistening eye. Feeling within a spark of heavenly flame, That with the hero's worth n)ay humble kindred claim ] If such there be, still let him plod On the dull foggy paths of care. Nor raise his eyes from the dank sod . To view creation fair : What boots to him the wondrous works of God ? His soul with brutal things hath ta'en its earthly lair. Oh ! who so base as not to feel The pride of freedom OHce enjoy'd, Though hostile gold or hostile steel Have long that bliss destroy 'd ? The meanest drudge will sometimes vaunt Of independent sires, who bore N&mes known to fame in days of yore. Spite of tiie smiling stranger's taunt; But recent freedom lost — what heart Can bear the humbling thought — the quickening, maddening smart? JOANNA BAILLIE. 43 FROM THE "TRAVELLER BY NIGHT." CONSTANCY. — Still more pleased, through murky air, With the rough blast heaves the billow, He spies the distant bonfire's glare ; In the light air waves the willow. And, nearer to the spot advancing. Every thing of moving kind Black imps and goblins round it dancing; Varies with the veering wind ; And nearer still, distinctly traces What have I to do with thee. The featured disks of happy faces, Dull, unjoyous constancy 1 Grinning and roaring in their glory, Like Bacchants wild of ancient story, After fretted, pouting sorrow, And making murgeons to the flame. Sweet will be thy smile to-morrow ; As it were playmate in the game. Changing still, each passing thing Full well, I trow, could modern stage Fairest is upon the wing : ^^uch acting for the nonce engage. What have I to do with thee, A crowded audience every night Dull, unjoyous constancy? Would press to see the jovial sight; And this, from cost and squeezing free, Song of love, and satire witty. November's nightly travellers see. Sprightly glee and doleful ditty ; Every mood and every lay, Through village, lane, or hamlet going. Welcome all, but do not stay ; The light from cottage window, showing For what have I to do with thee, Its inmates at their evening fare, Dull, unjoyous constancy ! By rousing fire, where earthenware With pewter trenchers, on the shelf, Give some display of worldly pelf, ' * ' Is transient vision to the eye Of him our hasty passer by ; SONG. Yet much of pleasing import tells, And cherish'd in his fancy dwells, The morning air plays on my face. Where simple innocence and mirth And through the gray mist peering Encircle still the cottage hearth. The soften'd sun I sweetly trace. Across tile road a fiery glare Wood, muir, and mountain cheering. Doth now the blacksmith's forge declare, Larks aloft are singing. Where furnace-blast, and measured din Hares from covert springing. Of heavy hammers, and within And o'er the fen the wild-duck brood The brawny mates their labour plying. Their early way are winging. Froin heated bar the red sparks flying, Some idle neighbours standing by Bright every dewy hawthorn shines. With open mouth and dazzled eye : Sweet every herb is growing. The rough and sooty walls with store To him whose willing heart inclines Of chains and horse-shoes studded o'er. The way that he is going. And rusty blades and bars between. Clearly do I see now All momently are heard and seen What will shortly be now ; Yet this short scene of noisy coil But serves our traveller as a foil, I'm patting at her door poor Tray, Who fawns and welcomes me now. 1 Enhancing what succeeds, and lending A charm to pensive quiet, sending How slowly moves the rising latch ! To home and friends, left far behind. How quick my heart is beating ! The kindliest musings of his mind ; That worldly dame is on the watch Or, should they stray to thoughts of pain, To frown upon our meeting. A dimness o'er the haggard train Fly ! why should I mind her. A mood and hour like this will throw. See who stands behind her, As vex'd and burdcn'd spirits know. Night, loneliness, and motion are Whose eye upon her traveller looks The sweeter and the kinder. Agents of power to distance care; To distance, not discard ; for then Oh every bounding step I take. Withdrawn from busy haunts of men. Each hour the clock is celling, Necessity to act suspended. Bears me o'er mountain, bourn, and brake The present, past, and future blended. Still nearer to her dwelling. Like figures of a mazy dance. Day is shining brighter. Weave round the soul a dreamy trance. Limbs are moving lighter. Till jolting stone of turnpike gate While every thought to Nora's love. Arouse him from the soothing state. But binds my love the tighter. ROBERT BLOOM FIELD. (Born 1766— Died 1823). Robert Bloomfield was born of parents in luiinble circumstances, at Honington, in Suflrolk, on tlie third of December, 1766. His mother, beiniEw Frere, sometime minister in Spain and at Constantinople. He was Under-Secre- tary of Stale for Foreign Affairs in 1799 ; En- voy at Lisbon in 1800, and at Madrid in 1802. He was minister to Spain in 1808, and in the following year, the Castilian title of Marques de la Union was conferred on him by the .Junta, which the Prince Regent permitted him to accept. During' his residence in Spain, his rash and arrogant interference with the English generals greatly injured his reputa- tion. His dictation to Sir John Moore was jirofoundly absurd; and Sir Arthur Wel- LESLEY found him so impracticable that he requested he might be recalled. In 1816 Mr. Frere married the Dowager Countess of Errol. For some years past he has resided in Malta. In literature, Mr. Frere's name is associated with some of the most brilliant and successful works of his times. He was a contributor to the "Etonian;" he assisted in the composi- tion of some of the most admirable pieces in the " Anti-Jacobin ;" and was one of the founders of the " Quarterly Review." But for a long time, he seems to have valued the pleasures of study beyond the praise of au- thorship.* The work from which the extracts in this collection are made, may be regarded as the immediate original of " Don Juan." Byron, however, was anxious to have it thought that he had derived his models from a remoter source ; and translated the •' Mor- gante Maggiore" chiefly, it would seem, for the purpose of telling the world that Frere as well as himself was but a reviver of the old manner of Berni and Pulci. Byron says of PuLCi, in the preface to that translation, "He is no less the founder of a new style of poetry very lately sprung up in England ; I allude to that of the ingenious VVhistlecraft." But the merits of the two moderns are quite distinct. Frere's excellence consists, almost exclusively, in manner ,- which presents such a combination of oddity with grace, of atTec- tation with perfect good taste, as makes a very curious and agreeable study for the cul- tivated reader. Byron could not maintain the tone of this delicate and peculiar stylo; instead of interfusing the grave with the hu- morous, or keeping skilfully upon the boun- dary line between them, his method consists rather in rapid transitions from the extremes of either. But the praise of this mere artist- merit may well be foregone, in view of the rare material, the fancy, thought, passion, pathos, and all that can glorify poetry, with which Byron's pieces are crowded. PROSPECTUS AND SPECIMEN OF AN INTENDED NATIONAL WORK, BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT WHISTLECRAFT, OF STOW-MAKKET, IN SUFFOLK, HARNESS AND COLLAR-MAKERS : INTENDED TO COMPRISE THE MOST INTERESTING PARTICULARS RELATING TO KING ARTHUR AND HIS r.OUND TABLE. THE PROEM. I'vF. often vvisli'd that I coukl write a book, Such as all Eiis^hsh people might peruse; I never should regret the pains it took, That's just the sort of fame that I should chuse : I'o sail about the world like Captain Cook, I'd sling a cot up for my favourite Muse, And we'd take verses out to Demarara. To New South Wales, and up to Niagara. 46 Poets consume cxciscable commoditieSj They raise the nation's spirit when victorious. They drive an export trade in whims and oddities, Making our commerce and revenue glorious; As an industrious and pains-taking body 'tis That poets should be rcckon'd meritorious ; And therefore I submissively propose To erect one board for verse and one for prose. * Wlien very young Frere translated the old Sason poem on the victory of Athelstan at BriiiinaiilMir?h. Si; James j\Ia(lim alone among English translators." — Mackintosh's Eng- land, vol i. p. 52. JOHN H. FRERE. 47 Princes protecting sciences and art I've often seen, in copper-plate and print; I never saw them elsewhere, for my part. And therefore I conclude there's nothing in't; But ever3'body knows the Regent's heart; I trust he won't reject a well-meant hint ; Each board to have twelve members, with a seat To bring them in per ann. five hundred neat : — From princes I descend to the nobility : In former times ail persons of high stations, Lords, baronets, and persons of gentility, Paid twenty guineas for the dedications: Tliis practice was attended with utility ; The patrons lived to future generations, The poets lived by their industrious earning, — So men alive and dead could live by learning. Then, twenty guineas was a little fortune ; [mend : Now, we must starve unless the times should Our poets now-a-days are deem'd importune If their addresses are diffusely penn'd ; Most fashionable authors make a short one To their own wife, or child, or private friend, To show their independence, I suppose ; And that may do for gentlemen like those. liastly, the common people I beseech — Dear people ! if you think my verses clever, Preserve with care your noble parts of speech, And take it as a maxim to endeavour To talk as your good mothers used to teach. And then these lines of mine may last for ever ; And don't contiiund the language of the nation With long-tail'd words in osHy and ation. I think that poets (whether Whig or Tory) (Whether they go to meeting or to church) Should study to promote their country's glory With patriotic, diligent i^search ; That children yet unborn may learn the story, With grammars, dictionaries, canes, and bircii : It stands to reason — This was Homer's plan. And we must do — like him — the best we can. Madoc and Marmion, and many more, .\re out in print, and most of them are sold ; Perhaps together they may make a score ; Richard the First has had his story told, But there were lords and princes long before, That had behaved themselves like warriors bold ; Among the rest there was the great King Arthur, What hero's fame was ever carried fiirther ? King Arthur, and the Knights of his Round Table, Were reckon'd the best king, and bravest lords, Of all that flourish'd since the tower of Babel, At least of all that history records ; Tlierefore I shall endeavour, if I'm able. To paint their famous actions by my words : Heroes exert themselves in hopes of fame, And having such a strong decisive claim, It grieves me much, that names that were respected In former ages, persons of such mark, And countrymen of ours, should lie neglected. Just like old portraits lumbering in the dark : An error such as this should be corrected. And if my Muse can strike a single spark. Why then (as poets say) I'll string my lyre ; And then I '11 light a great poetic fire ; I'll air them all, and rub down the Round Table, And wash the canvas clean, and scour the frames. And put a coat of varnish on the fable. And try to puzzle out the dates and names; Then (as I said before) I'll heave my cable, And take a pilot, and drop down the Thames — — These first eleven stanzas make a proem. And now I must sit down and write my poem. SIR GAWAIN. Sir Gawain may be painted in a word — He was a perfect loyal cavalier; His courteous manners stand upon record, A stranger to the very thought of fear. The proverb says. As brave as his own sicord ; And like his weapon was that worthy peer. Of admirable temper, clear and bright, Polish'd yet keen, though pliant yet upright. On every point, in earnest or in jest, His judgment, and his prudence, and his wit, Were deem'd the very touchstone and the test Of what was proper, graceful, just, and fit ; A word from him set every thing at rest His short decisions never fail'd to hit; His silence, his reserve, his inattention, Were felt as the severest reprehension : His memory was the magazine and hoard. Where claims and grievances, from year to year, And confidences and complaints were stored, [peer: From dame and knight, from damsel, boor, and Loved by his friends, and trusted by his lord, A generous courtier, secret and sincere. Adviser-general to the whole community, He served his friend, but watch'd his opportunity. One riddle I could never understand — But his success in war was strangely various ; In executing schemes that others plann'd. He seem'd a very Csesar or a Marius ; Take his own plans,, and place him in command, Your prospect of success became precarious : His plans were good, but Launceloc succeeded And realized them better far than he did. His discipline was steadfast and austere. Unalterably fix'd, but calm and kind ; Founded on admiration, more than fear. It seem'd an emanation from his mind ; The coarsest natures that approach'd him near Grew courteous for the moment and refined ; Beneath his eye the poorest, weakest wight Felt full of point of honour, like a knight. In battle he was fearless to a fault, The foremost in the thickest of the field ; His eager valour knew no pause nor halt. And the red rampant lion in his shield Scaled towns and towers, the foremost in assault. With ready succour where the battle reel'd : At random like a thunderbolt he ran, [man. And bore down shields, and pikes, and horse, and WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. (Born 1770— Died 1850). William Wordsworth was born at Cock- eriiioiith, in Cumberland, on the seventh of April, 1770. With his brother, (the Rev. Dr. WoRDswoHTH, autiior of Greece, Historical and Picturesque,) he was sent at an early age to the Hawkshead grammar school, in Lan- cashire, whence, in his seventeenth year, he was removed to St. John's College, Cam- liridge. On leaving the university, he made the pedestrian tour through France, Switzer- land and Italy, commemorated in his De- scri])tive .Sketches in Verse, which, with an Epistle to a Yoiing Lady from the Lakes in tlie North of England, were published in 1793, He was in Paris at the commence- ment of the French Revolution, lodging in the same house with Brissot, but was driven from the city by the Reign of Terror. Re- turned to England, he passed a considerable time at Alfoxdon, in Somersetshire, where he brcame intimately acquainted with Coleridge. It was during his residence here that he com- pleted the first volume of his Lyrical Ballads, which was published in 1798. He soon after made a tour through a part of Germany, where he was joined by Coleridge, with whom, at the end of thirty years, he revisited that coun- try. In 1803 he married Mary Hutchinson, and settled at Grassmere, a home subsequently exchanged for his present beautiful residence at Rydal, inWestmoreland. In 1807 he published a second volume of the Lyrical Ballads, and in 1R09 a prose work On the Relations of Great Britain, Spain and Portugal to each other. In 1814 appeared The Excursion, "being a portion of The Reclu.se, a poem," which was followed, in 1815, by The White Doe of Rylstone; in 1819 by Peter Bell the Wag- goner; in 1820 by The River Duddon, a series of sonnets, Vaudracour and .Tulia and other pieces, and Ecclesiastical Sketches; in 18'22 by Memorials of a Tour on the Conti- nent, and A Description of the Lakes in the North of England ; in 1835 by Yarrow Re- visited and other Poems; and in 1812 by his last volume. Poems chiefly of Early and Late Years, including The Borderers, a Tragedy, written in 1785. Sir Isaac Newton is reported to have said that any man of good ability who could have paid the same long and undivided attention to mathematical pursuits that he had, would have wrought out the same results. Probably almost any thoughtful and well-educated per- son, devoting a long and quiet life to the cul- tivation of poetry, would sometimes produce passages of sublimity and beauty. Mr. Wordsworth has produced very many such; but he has written no single great poem, har- monious and sustained, unless exceptions be found in two or three of his shorter pieces. In the beginning df his career, acting upon the belief that a man of genius must "shape his own road," he aflfected an originality of style. He determined to be simple, and be- came puerile; he disdained to owe anything to the dignity of his subjects, and often selected such as were contemptible. He complained that poetry had been written in an inflated and unnatural diction, compounded of a "certain class of ideas and expressions," to the exclusion of all others, and vaunted of his courage in setting these aside. But the complaint was ill-grounded ; there was man- nerism enough, inflation enough, in the begin- ning of this century, but there was also genuine simplicity and tenderness, and inde- pendence of feeling and expression. Chaucer and vSpenser. Shakspeare and Milton, were studied as well as Pope; and Cowper and Thomson and Burns had as truly as himself written "the real language of men in a state of vivid sensation." The principles he osten- tatiously avowed were a mere repetition of what nearly every poet whose works retain a place in English literature had practically acknowledged. Sportsmen have a phrase, "running the thing into the ground," which has been applied to the racing of asses; and Mr. Wordsworth, in the White Doe of Rylstotie, Peter Bell, and other pieces, has merely applied the art to simplicity of diction. In him mannerism, an obstinate adherence to a theory, well nigh ruined a great poet; for such he has shown himself to be when the divine afflatus has obtained a mastery 4S WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 49 over the rules by which he has chosen to be fettered. The {reneral scope of his poetry is shown in the following extract from the con- clusion of the first book of The Recluse, intro- duced into the preface to The Excursion : On man, on nature, and on human life, Musing in soliluile, I oft perceive l^air trains nf imagery before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight, Pure, or wilh no unpleasing sadness mix'd; And I am conscious of affecting thoughts And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes Or el(!vates the mind, intent to weigh The good and evil of our mortal state. To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come. Whether from breath of outward circumstance, Or from the soul — an impulse to herself, — I would give utterance in numerous verse. Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love, and hope — And melancholy fear subdued by faith; Of blessed consolations in distress; Of moral strength, and intellectual power; Of joy in widest commonalty spread ; Of the individual mind that keeps her own Inviolate retirement, subject there To conscience only, and the law supreme Of that Intelligence which governs all; I sing ! — ■" fit audience let me find, though few !" So pray'd, more gaining than he aslc'd, the bard, Holiest of men — Ukania, I shall need Thy guidance, or a greater muse, if such Descend to earth or dwell in highest heaven : For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink Deep — and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. All strength, all terror, single or in bands. That ever was put forth in personal form; Jehovah — with his thunder and the choir Of shouting angels, and the empyreal thrones — I pass them unalarm'd. Not Chaos, not The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, Nor aught of blinder vacancy — scoop'd out By help of dreams — can breed such fear and awe As fill upon us often when we look Into our minds, into the mind of man, iMy haunt, and the main region of my song. Hy words Which speak of nothing more than what we are, Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep Of death, and win the vacant and the vain To noble raptures; while my voice proclaims How e.xquisitely the individual mind (And the progressive powers perhaps no less Of the whole species) to the e.xternal world Is fitted ; and how e.vquisitely, too,^ Theme this but little heard of among men, — The external world is fitted to the mind ; And the creation (by no lower name Can it he call'd) which they with blended might Accomplish : This is our high argument. Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft Must turn elsewhere — to travel near the tribes And fellowships of men, and see ill sights Of madding passions mutually inti imeii ; Must hear humanity in fields and groves Pipe solitary anguish; or must hang Brooding above the fierce confederate storm Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore Within the walls of cities; may these sounds Have their authentic conunent — that even these Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn ! — Descend, prophetic spirit; that inspirest The human soul of universal earth. Dreaming on things to come ; and dost possess A metropolitan temple in the hearts 7 Of mighty poets; upon me bestow A gift of genuine insight ; that my song Wilh star-like virtue in its place may shine; Shedding benignant influence — and secure. Itself, from all malevolent effect Of those mutations that extend their sw.iy Throughout the nether sphere ! It was for a long time the custom to treat Wordsworth with unmerited contempt. His faults were so conspicuous as to blind men to his merits. The fashion is changed, and he is now as much overpraised. The stone which the builders rejected, has by a few been placed at the head of the corner, but it cannot remain there. He has written poetry worthy of the greatest bards of all the ages, and as wretched verbiage and inanity as any with which paper was ever assoiled. Mr. Wordsworth has been an eminently happy man in his circumstances. Depressed by no poverty, worn out with no over-exer- tion, and successful in his few efforts of a private nature, nothing has disturbed the tranquillity of his life. He has realized the vision of literary ease and retirement which has mocked the ambition of so many mefn of genius. All other poets of high reputation have passed considerable portions at least of their lives in the current of society, but his days have been spent in the beautiful region of his home, and the quiet meditation of his works. Few men have been more beloved than Mr. Wordsworth in private life. Among his in- timate friends, have beenC'oLERiDGE, Southey, and many of the other eminent men of his time. On the death of Southey he was ap pointed Poet Laureate, an office which is hon- ored, when a great poet accepts it, but which reflects no additional honor 011 him. The selections from Wordsworth in this volume are in but few instances complete poems. I have chosen rather to give in de- tached passages some of his most beautiful and sublime thoughts, with enough of the characteristic to enable the reader to perceive the peculiarities of his style. No one but the author of the Lyrical Ballads would have written " We are Seven.'' A complete edition of the works of Mr. Wordsworth has been published in Philadel- phia, under the superintendence of Professor Henry Reed, of the University of Pennsyl- vania, a gentleman to whom he owes much of his reputation in America. There are, however, other editions, more or less com- plete. 50 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. INSCRIPTION FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON. Bkxkatii yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound, Rugged and high, of C'harnwood's forest ground, Stand yet — l>ut, stranger! hidden from thy view — 'I'he ivied ruins of forlorn Grace Dieu ; Erst a rehgious iiouse, which day and night V\'ith hymns resounded, and the chanted rite: And when those rites had ceased, the spot gave birth To honourable men of various worth: There, on the margin of a streamlet wild, Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager child ; Tlier", under shadow of the neighbouring rocks, i<y iiiilur.il |iii;t.. ." Til KK K was a timo when meadow, grove, and s[)ring. The earth, and every coiniiion sight, ■J\> nu- did seem Appareird in celestial Hght, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath hccn of yore; — Turn vvheresoc'er I may, By night or day, Tlie things vvliich I have seen I now can see no more. The rainhow come and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare: Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth, — But yet I know, where'er I go. That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief; ¥l timely utterance gave that thought relief. And I again ain strong; The cataracts Mow their trumpets from the steep ; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the echoes through the mountains throng. The winds come to me from the fields of sleep. And all the world is gay : Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity. And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday ; — Thou child of joy. Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy ! Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the cal' Ye to each other made ; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal. The fulness of your bliss — I feel — I feel it all. Oh. evil day ! if I were sullen. While earth herself is adorning This sweet May-morning, And the children are culling On every side. In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, And the bilie lea()s up on his mother's arm: — I iiear, I hear — with joy I hear ! But there 's a tree, of many one, A single field which I have looked upon, Beth of them speak of something that is gone: The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam ! Where is it now, the glory and the dream! Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The soul that rises with us, our life's star. Hath had elsewhere its setting, Andcometli from afar; Not in entire forgetfuluess. And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home ; Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy ; But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy : The youth, who daily farther from the cast Must travel, still is nature's priest. And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended ; At length the man perceives it die away. And fade into the light of common day. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim. The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate man. Forget the glories he hath known. And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the child among his new-born blisses, — A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! See, where 'mid work of his own hand, he lies. Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, M'ith light upon him from his father's eyes ! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly learned art: A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral ; And this hath now his heart. And unto this he frames his song : Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside. And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part, — Filling from time to time his ' humorous stage' With all the persons, down to palsied age. That life brings with her in her equipage ; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity ; Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind. That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind ; — Mighty prophet ! Seer blest ! On whom those truths do rest. Which we are toiling all our lives to find. In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy immortality WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 57 Broods like the day, — a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by ; Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ] Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! O joy ! that in our embers Is something that doth live. That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive ! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction : not indeed For that which is most worthy to be l)lest; Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast : Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise, But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things. Fallings froni us, vanishings ; Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : But for those first alfect.ions. Those shadowy recollections. Which, be they what they may. Are yet the fountain light of all our day. Are yet a master ligiit of all our seeing ; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake. To perish never ; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor man nor boy. Nor all tliat is at enmity with joy. Can utterly abolish or destroy ! Hence, in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be. Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither. Can in a moment travel thither. And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then sing, ye birds ! sing, sing a joyous song ! And let the young Iambs bound As to the tabor's sound ! We in thought will join your throng; Ye that pipe, and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-daj' Feel the gladness of the May ! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ; We will grieve not, — rather find Strength in what remains behind ; In the primal sympathy Which, having Ijeen, must ever be ; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, — In years that bring the philosophic mind. And O, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves. Forebode not any severing of our loves ! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; I only have relinquished one delight, To hve beneath your more habitual sway. I love the brooks, which down their channels fre^. Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet ; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality : Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live. Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, — To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. EVENING BY THE THAMES. How richly glove's the water's breast Before us, tinged with evening hues, While, facing thus the crimson west, The boat her silent course pursues I And see how dark the backward stream ! A little moment past so smiling ! And still, perchance, with faithless gleam. Some other loiterer beguiling. Such views the youthful bard allure ; But, heedless of the following gloom, He deems their colours shall endure Till peace go with him to the tomb. And let him nurse his fond deceit, And what if he must die in sorrow ! Who would not cherish dreams so sweet. Though grief and pain may come to-morrow] Glide gently thus, for ever glide, O Thames ! that other bards may see As lovely visions by thy side As now, fair river ! come to me. O glide, fair stream ! for ever so. Thy quiet soul on all bestowing. Till all our minds for ever flow. As thy deep waters now are flowing. Vain thought ! — Yet be as now thou art, That in thy waters may be seen The image of a poet's heart. How bright, how solemn, how serene ! Such as did once the poet bless, Who, murmuring here a later* ditty, Could find no refuge from distress But in the milder grief of pity. * Colliiis's Ode on the Death nf Thomson, tin; last written of the poems which were published during his lifetime. SCORN NOT THE SONNET. Sconx not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd, Mindless of its just honours ; with this key Shakspeare unlockM liis heart ; the melody or tiiis small lute gave case to Petrarch's wound ; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle-leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crown'd His visionary brow ; a glow-worm lamp. It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from faery land 'J'o struggle through dark ways ; and when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew Soul-animating strains, — alas, too few. GREAT MEN. Gn K AT men have been among us ; hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdojn — belter none; The latter Sydney, Marvel, Harrington, Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. These moralists could act and comprehend : They knew how genuine glory Was put on ; Taught us how rightfully a nation shone [bend In s|)lendour; what strength was, that would not But in .iiagnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange, Hntli brought forth no such souls as we had then. Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change ! No single volume paramount, no code, No master spirit, no determined road ; But equally a want of books and men ! MILTON. -Milt JN ! thou shouldst be living at this hour ; England hath need of thee ; she is a fen Of stagnant waters ; altars, sword, and pen. Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; Oh! raise us up, return to us again ; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 'J'hy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice whose sound vi'as 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. TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. ToussAixT, the most unhappy man of men ! Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough Within thy hearing, or thy head be now Pillow'd in some deep dungeon's earless den ; — O miserable chieftain ! where and when Wilt thou find patience 1 Yet die not; do thou Wear rather in tliy bonds a cheerful brow, Though fallen thyself, never to rise again. Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left liehind Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and skies ; There 's not a breathing of the common wind 'J'hat will forget thee; thou hast great allies ; Thy friends are exultations, agonies. And love, and man's unconquerable mind. THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; Little we see in nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; The winds that will be howling at all hours. And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers; For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God ! I'd rather be A pagan, suckled in a creed outworn ; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. A NATION'S POWER NOT IN ARMIES. Thk power of armies is a visible thing Formal and circumscribed in time and space ; But who the limits of that power shall trace, Which a brave people into light can bring Or hide at will, — for freedom combating By just revenge inflamed 1 No foot may chase, No eye can follow, to sl fatal place That power, that spirit, whether on the wing Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind Within its awful caves. From year to year Springs this indigenous produce for and near ; No craft this subtle element can bind. Rising like water from the soil, to find In every nook a lip that it may cheer. A VISION. Is my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud Slowly surmounting some invidious hill. Rose out of darkness : the bright Work stood still ; And might of its own beauty have been proud, But it was fashion'd and to God was vow'd By virtues that difl'used, in every part, Spirit divine through forms of human art: [loud. Faith had her arch — her arch, when winds blew Into the consciousness of safety thrill'd ; And Love her towers of dread foundation laid Under the grave of things ; Hope had her s[)ire Star-high, and pointing still to something higher; Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice — it said, " Hell-gates are powerless phantoms when u-e build." CHILDHOOD. Air sleeps-^from strife or stir the clouds are free ; The holy time is quiet as a nun. Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun Is sinking dovi'n in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven brood's o'er the sea : But list ! the mighty Being is awake. And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder — everlastingly. Dear child ! dear happy girl ! if thou appear Heedless — untouch'd with awe or serious thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine : Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; And worshippest at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with lliee when we know it not. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 59 ELEGIAC STANZAS.* Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells, Rude nature's pilgrims did we go, From the dreail summit of the Queen-j- Of mountains, through a deep ravine, Where, in her holy chapel, dwells " Our Lady of the Snow." The sky was blue, the air was mild ; Free were the streams and green the bowers ; As if, to rough assaults unknown, The genial spot had ever shown A countenance that as sweetly smiled — The face of summer hours. And we were gay, our hearts at ease ; With pleasure dancing through the frame We journeyed; all we knew of care — Our path that straggled here and there ; Of trouble — but the fluttering breeze ; Of winter — but a name. If foresight could have rent the veil Of three short days — but hush — no more ! Calm is the grave, and calmer none Than that to which thy cares are gone, Thou victim of the stormy gale ; Asleep on Zurich's shore ! Oh Goddard ! what art thou? — a name — A sunbeam followed l)y a shade ! .* The lamented youth whose iintiiiiely death gave occasion to tliese elegiac verses, was Fredericit William Godilard, from Boston in North America. He was in his tweiUielh year, and hid resided for some time with a clergyman in the neighbourhood of Oeiieva for the com- pletion of his education. Acrompanied hy a fellow-pupil, a native of Scotland, he hail just set out ou a Swiss tour, when it was his misfortune to fall in with a friend of mine who was hasteuing to join our party. The travel- lers, after spending a day together on the road from Berne and at Soleure, took leave of each other at night, the young men having intended to proceed directly to Zurich. Bui early in the morniiia my friend found his new acquaintances, who were infcUTued of the oliject of his journey, and the friends he was in pursuit of, equip- ped to accompany him. We met at Lucerne the suc- ceeding evening, and Mr. G. and his fellow-student be- came in consequence our travelline-iompanions for a coii()le of days. We asceiuled the Kiglii together; and, after contemplating tlie sunrise from that noble moun- tain, we separated at an hour and on a spot well suited to the parting of those who were to meet no more. Our party descended through the valley of our Lady of the Snow, and our late companions, to Art. We had hoped to meet in a few weeks at Geneva ; but on the third succeeding day (the 2Ist of August) Mr. Goddard pe- rished, being overset in a boat while crossing th(! lake of Zurich. His companion saved himself by swimming, and was hospitably received in the nuinsion of a Swiss gentleman (M. Keller) situated on the eastern coast of the lake. The corpse of poor Goddard was cast ashore on the estate of the same gentleman, who generously performed all the rites of hospitality which could be rendered to the dead as well as to the living. He caused a handsome mural monument to be erected in the church of Kiisnacht, which records the premature fate of the young American, and on the shores too of the lake the traveller may read an inscription pointing out the spot where the body was deposited by the waves, f Mount Riglii — llegina Montium. Nor more, for aught that time supplies. The great, the experienced, and the wise : Too much from this frail earth we claim. And therefore are betrayed. We met, while festive mirth ran wild, Where, from a deep lake's mighty urn, Forth slips, like an enfranchised slave, A sea-green river, proud to lave. With current swift and undefiled, The towers of old Lucerne. We parted upon solemn ground Far-lifted towards the unfading sky ; But all our thoughts were then of earth. That gives to common pleasures birth ; And nothing in our hearts we found That prompted even a sigh. Fetch, sympathizing powers of air. Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands, Herbs moistened by Virginian dew, A most untimely grave to strew. Whose turf may never know the care Of kindred human hands ! Beloved by every gentle muse. He left his transatlantic home : Europe, a realized romance. Had opened on his eager glance ; What present bliss! — what golden views ! What stores for years to come ! Though lodged within no vigorous frame, His soul her daily tasks renewed, Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings High poised — or as the wren that sings In shady places, to proclaim Her modest gratitude. Not vain is sadly uttered praise ; The words of truth's memorial vow Are sweet as morning fragrance shed From flowers 'mid Goldau's ruins bred ; As evening's fondly lingering rays On Righi's silent brow. Lamented youth ! to thy cold clay Fit obsequies the stranger paid ; And piety shall guard the stone Which hath not left the spot unknown Where the wild waves resigned their prey — And that which marks thy bed. And, when thy mother weeps for thee. Lost youth ! a solitary mother ; This tribute from a casual friend A not unwelcome aid may lend. To feed the tender luxury. The rising pang to smother.* * The persuasion here e.xpressed was not groundless. The first human consolation that the afflicted mother felt, was derived from this tribute to her son's memory, a fact which the author learned, at his own residence, from her daughter, who visited Europe some years af- terwards. — Goldau is one of the villages desolated by the fall of part of the Mountain Rossberg. 60 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. PPESENTIMENTS. PaF.sKSTi>rE?;TK ! thej' judge not right Who d-^em that ye from ojc.mi light ■Rnlire in fcaff of sh;inie ; All heaven-born instirids shun the touch Of vulgar sense, — and, being such, Such privilege ye claim. The tear whose source I could not guess, The deep sigh that seemed fatherless. Were mine in early days; And now, unforced l-